Chapter 1
Extract from: ‘The Idiosyncratic Sex: The Educated Woman’ by Lord M. Sutherland, published in La Belle Assemblee, April 1822.
“... Give a woman her education and let forth the wrath of a proud, boorish and disobedient wife. An educated woman is not a suitable match for a man of principles among the nobility. A wife with a mind is not a suitable woman with which to procreate. It is evident that a woman who buries her nose in intellectual journals and the like will neglect the needs and wants of the children and, more importantly, her husband. A woman who thinks is prone to pleasurable domesticity.”
Response to ‘The Idiosyncratic Sex: The Educated Woman’ by Lord M. Sutherland; by Miss I.P. Bright, published in La Belle Assemblee, May 1822.
“Any rational-minded person can say with the utmost confidence that Lord Sutherland is a nonsensical idiot of the basest wit and form.”
Response to Response to ‘The Idiosyncratic Sex: The Educated Woman’ by Lord M. Sutherland; by Miss I.P. Bright; by Lord M. Sutherland, published in May, 1822.
“Miss I.P. Bright, being a woman of notable intelligence, would certainly make no gentleman a suitable wife.”
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“Blast and damnation!” Imogen Prudence Brightmore swore most vehemently as she crumpled the fine paper the article was published in and stomped her foot in a visible display of fury. "That man is insufferable! An utter cad! Simply deplorable! Why, I cannot stand him! He is the most ill, most foulest, lowest form of life to have-”
“Imogen,” tsked Oriana Harmony Brightmore, idly turning the page of the latest works by Shelley, “you’re simply causing a scene. Why don’t you go outside and throw a tantrum first?”
Imogen cast her sister a peeved look. “He said I am an unsuitable wife,” she snapped, irked. To her extreme irritation, Oriana turned another page of her book in a fashion that simply oozed of boredom. She was, Imogen knew, acting this way just to torment her. It was what the Brightmore children did.
“You did provoke him,” Oriana drawled in a femininely uninterested voice. “You’ve been provoking him for nearly two years now. You should expect such retorts by now.”
“B-but !” Imogen angrily shook the fist that had so tightly clamped the paper the article was written on that it began to resemble a well-used, flaccid dish rag. “He has stooped irreparably low this time! Oriana, he has tarnished my reputation! By God, I-”
“Were that so,” Oriana gently closed the book and peered at her sister calmly, “you would not be writing under a pseudonym. Nobody knows who the devil I.P. Bright is, Imogen.”
“Well,” Imogen huffed in a remarkable imitation of their mother when she was at a loss as to what to say to one of her many belligerent offspring. “I can’t very well believe that my own sister can sit there and take a stand against me. My points are coherent and concise, not to mention implicitly valid and convincing. His, on the other hand, are ignorant and archaic, deplorable and induce a violent percussion of nausea in the reader. But my own sister has decided that his opinion is better than my own!”
“Do try to endeavour not to become the martyr, Imogen,” Oriana stated dryly. “Lord Sutherland and yourself have been playing verbal tennis for as long as I can remember. These little explosions of yours are hardly anything to remark upon. In fact, I suspect your next step will be to pick up a quill and jot a hasty and biting response to Lord Sutherland’s argument... again.”
Imogen crossed her arms and broodingly considered her younger sister – by a mere fourteen months. Oriana feigned nonchalance and stifled a seemingly overwhelming yawn. But Imogen knew better. Her sister simply adored the battle of wits that had been ensuing between Lord Sutherland and Miss Bright. Indeed, it was Oriana who brought the article to Imogen first thing in the morning on the day of publication. Lord knew, Imogen could sleep well until midday if somebody in the Brightmore household would just let her. But no. The whole bloody lot of them were up with the birds.
“Oh, I most certainly will respond,” Imogen promised fervently. “The man will be sorry. I will make him swallow his words!”
Oriana rolled her cyan eyes towards the ceiling of the library. “The dramatics are a new enactment, I’ll grant you that much,” she muttered. “Do you think breakfast is served yet?”
“The devil with food at this hour.”
Oriana glanced out the long window of the cosy library, studying briefly the crisp morning light that filtered through the panes of glass lazily, almost sleepily. Imogen knew how it felt- she, too, was reluctant to rise in the morning.
“Well.” Oriana returned her gaze to Imogen. “Mama will be quite upset if you miss yet another breakfast.”
Imogen snorted and swiped a swab of tawny hair off her forehead. The colouring of the Brightmore Brood was remarkably similar in appearance. All of the six children bore lightly golden-brown hair that varied in thickness and length and all, except two, harboured distinctly green eyes. Imogen and her brother, Adrian, were the only Brightmores to have inherited their great grandfather’s green flecked through with brown eyes, apparently passed on from a lover that his mother had taken at the time. Although much of this was based on speculation rather than fact, it was this rumour that enticed and titillated the ton. “I’m sure I won’t be missed,” Imogen said, impatient to scribble a scathing retort to her nemesis.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Oriana informed her snootily as she tucked her book under her arm and sashayed with innate grace towards the exit of the library. “Just think of all the nasty things you can reply to Lord Sutherland on a full stomach.”
As if summoned, her stomach gave a traitorous gurgle of complaint and neglect. “Perhaps you are right,” Imogen agreed and began to follow her sister out of the library.
Breakfast at the Brightmore dining table was a sordid affair. When they were not entertaining, the Brightmores were a ghastly riot. At times, her children’s behaviour caused poor Mrs Brightmore’s nerves such assault that she was struck with the vapours. It didn’t help that old and deaf Great Aunt Beatrix was under their care until the graces of God finally decided to claim her soul. “Owen!” Mrs Brightmore was reprimanding their younger brother as Oriana and Imogen entered the dining room and took their respective seats beside the head of the table where their mother was. “Stop that at once. Oh, blast it, Amelia! Why are you encouraging him?”
Owen amiably snapped his mouth closed, which had previously been wide open and a tongue full of half-digested buttered toast and egg brandished towards Emma Brightmore, the youngest of them all. Amelia giggled into her napkin while Owen cast a boyishly handsome smile to his mother. “My sincerest apologies, mother,” he said charmingly, and Imogen threw him an unamused look. Owen Brightmore, being the oldest male Brightmore, had good looks and charm in abundance. He knew just how to utilise them and when so that he could manipulate his sisters and his mother to his own way of thinking. He was always up to mischief and Imogen’s top annoyer. His educational endeavours had sent him to Eton but that hardly served to quell his energy toward pursuing goals that could bring the family name down in tatters. Lord knew it was close enough because of the unruly brood without his help. “Morning, sisters,” he beamed beatifically at both Oriana and Imogen. “I trust you slept well.”
“EH?” boomed Great Aunt Beatrix who was, unfortunately for Imogen, seated right next to her. “WHAT’S THAT YOU SAY? WHO HAS BOILS?”
Mrs Brightmore sent a painful bemoan to the heavens and dropped her head into her hands.
“Owen, Great Aunt Beatrix,” Imogen yelled into Beatrix’s left ear. “Owen has boils!”
Owen glowered at his eldest sister before throwing a spud at her. It landed on Great Aunt Beatrix’s shoulder and resolutely stuck to the muslin shoulder of her gown. “OWEN? WHO THE DEVIL IS OWEN?”
Amelia giggled shamelessly into her napkin, her slim shoulders rocking vigorously.
Oriana and Imogen shared a smile before they began to serve themselves breakfast. Adrian, the youngest male Brightmore but only a year older than Emma, who was only just ten years, began to poke his youngest sister with a spoon full of half-eaten porridge. Emma, being more docile in nature than all her siblings, began to sulk. “Mama,” she wailed, “make him stop!”
Mrs Brightmore was still overwrought by the apparent humiliation her family was causing her.
“THE BEST CURE FOR A BACKSIDE RIDDLED WITH BOILS,” Great Aunt Beatrix hollered with great aplomb, waving her egg encrusted fork about as if she were using a stick for emphasis and, as a result, sending coagulated globs of yellow mush flying around the Brightmore table, “IS TO LANCE YOUR ARSE ON THE KITCHEN STOVE!”
Mrs Brightmore appeared to swoon. Imogen and Oriana shared a tiny glance before they succumbed to a fit of giggles and Amelia had practically fallen to the floor in a state of hysteria. “HERE NOW,” Beatrix boomed importantly, “WHAT’S SO AMUSING? BOILS IS A VERY SERIOUS AILMENT AND NO LAUGHING MATTER, AT ALL!”
Imogen felt sorry for her mother. Ophelia Brightmore was a respectable woman in her middle years. She had sired six unruly children, with the exception of Emma who it seemed would turn out quite the lady, and raised them to the best of her ability and, for the most part, without the help of a husband. Mr Brightmore was far too busy a man to spend much of his time helping his wife raise six unrepentantly wild children but that had hardly detracted from the love Ophelia spoiled her children with. Of course, she had not taken Mr Brightmore’s disinterest with his family lightly and it was rare that the brood did spend time with the man, but her aggravation was short-lived as she had to occupy much of her time with the raising of five hell bent children who were each headstrong and deliberately stubborn, par the sixth, Emma, who was positively saintly. It had been a trying experience for Ophelia and Imogen suspected she was eager to see them married off and out of her hair. No, that can’t be true... Although Mrs Brightmore expressed her woe and fear that no man in their right mind would marry the Brightmore girls, her devotion and love of her family glowed from the depths of her green eyes. There was nothing Ophelia loved more than having the Brightmore family under one roof, Mad Great Aunt Beatrix included.
“Aunt Beatrix, ,” Mrs Brightmore urged gently from her station at the head of the table, “mind your language when you are at the table.”
“EH?” Beatrix squinted at Oriana as if she were the one who had spoken to her. She scrunched up her wrinkled face and narrowed her eyes, turning her head slightly towards Imogen and cupping her right ear in the direction of Oriana. “SPEAK UP, GEL! YOU SAID SOMETHING ABOUT MABLE!”
Oriana looked at Mrs Brightmore resignedly, stuffing a fork full of eggs into her mouth to avoid having to answer Beatrix. Mrs Brightmore, on the other hand, seemed to completely wash her hands of the lot of them for the time being and focused her attention solely on procuring for herself another cup of tea.
Losing patience, Beatrix jabbed Mrs Brightmore with her half-eaten fork in the arm. “OPHELIA!” she barked sharply, “DON’T LOOK NOW BUT I THINK ONE OF YOUR GELS IS A MUTE!”
Imogen nearly choked on her food. “Tea,” she gasped at one of the footmen, who appeared suddenly at her side.
“Imogen!” Mrs Brightmore snapped. “Where are your manners?”
“Mother, please,” Imogen whined, already taking a sip of the hot black liquid appreciatively. “Allow me compensation for having to endure an hour of this every morning.”
Mrs Brightmore pursed her lips disapprovingly but said no more on the subject. The point of enacting a disagreement with one of her children was merely based on principle nowadays rather than actually really expecting a complacent result. Ophelia sighed and pinned a resolute smile to her motherly face. “Very well, I shall endeavour to make this breakfast as normal as I can,” she said firmly.
“WHERE’S ME BEANS?” Aunt Beatrix hollered, thumping her knife and fork on the table emphatically. “CAN’T HAVE BREAKFAST WITHOUT ME BEANS!”
Without pausing, Imogen reached for the platter containing the dreaded beans and served a hefty amount for Beatrix. “NOT TOO MUCH, GEL!” the old woman screeched. “OH, ALRIGHT! MAYBE A LITTLE MORE!”
“So,” Ophelia persevered, ignoring the scrambled egg that had suddenly been thrown across the table at Amelia, compliments of young Adrian, “you might be interested to know that someone has finally bought the old Rutherford place, the holding neighbouring our own.”
“Hmm,” Imogen murmured into her tea, not at all interested in the slightest and fearing she knew all too well where her mother was headed with this strand of conversation.
“Mr Southland’s his name.” Ophelia appeared thoughtful, gently gnawing her bottom lip in speculation. “Never heard of him but he appears to be a country gentleman. Isn’t that nice? Mrs Sainsbury is hosting a luncheon in his honour. You’re invited, Imogen, and so are you, Oriana. Of course, it was extended to you, Owen-”
The whelp wore an extremely mischievous smile that his mother narrowed her eyes at. “Excellent,” he purred innocently. “I’ll be there.”
“I’ve already responded in the affirmative,” Ophelia told them tartly.
“Why can’t I come?” Amelia wailed. “I’m never invited to luncheons or balls! It’s not fair!”
“When you’re of age,” Ophelia explained patiently, “then you can attend as many as you wish.”
“FISH?” Beatrix looked accusingly at her niece. “YOU NEVER SAID THERE WAS ANY FISH AT THE TABLE!”
“It’s not fair,” Amelia pouted.
“Don’t sulk, Amelia,” Oriana drawled uncaringly. “You have but another year to wait then it will be your turn to go to London and we can all stay at home and wish you well from our wonderful beds.”
“Marvellous idea, Ori!” Imogen piped enthusiastically. “Mama, can I stay here this year and send Amelia in my stead? We’ll just say she’s of age and nobody will be none the wiser-”
“Absolutely not,” sniffed Ophelia. “Out of the question. Your father allocated you each with enough allowances to accommodate however many seasons you needed to find a husband. Not that I expect any man to willingly marry any of my mulish daughters- except Emma, of course- but that doesn’t stop one from hoping.”
Beatrix suddenly began to lick the remnants off her plate before announcing to the table as a whole: “RIGHT ENOUGH WITH YOU LOT. I’M GOING FOR A WALK!”
She sashayed out the dining area with remarkable grace for an ageing old woman of close to four score years.
“That’s settled then,” Ophelia trilled happily, unaware that her two oldest daughters were both simultaneously plotting to become overwrought with the vapours on the exact day of Mrs Sainsbury’s luncheon.
