Author's Note: With apologies to Miss Austen.

CHAPTER ONE

In which the Myerscough home is disrupted

oOo

Mai Myerscough, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and strainless routine, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence, save her unhappy disposition, as had persisted unabated since childhood; and in the grip of which she had lived nearly twenty years in the world with very little that did not vex her.

The comfortable home, the country estate of Lanyon situated just east of the town of Westmacott, was that of her father. Mr. Myerscough worked more often than he did aught else, though this was owed less to a high degree of industriousness than to a certain lack of wit which rendered his every occupation more difficult than it might otherwise have been. Though there existed no malice, his interest in his daughter had always been limited, and Mai reciprocated this apathy, unmoved to strive for that affection which she deemed both remote and of dubious usefulness. It was a decision made just prior to her becoming too old to be dandled upon his knee, and, after that time had passed, there was simply no reason to reconsider it. Indeed, even the rare moments when Mai began to reflect upon it at all were immediately set aside, forced from her mind entirely by the excess of interest that her mother displayed.

Mrs. Myerscough shared all of her daughter's appeal and none of her faults, having ones unique to herself instead, and concerned herself absolutely with Mai's every action, fancy, and thought; all in the interest of guiding each of these things towards a standard of perfection long ago established in her mind. When very young, Mai was suitably malleable, but with age and agency came a flat disinterest and accompanying dismissiveness that comprised a frustrating state, hovering indecisively between rebellion and obeisance.

Numerous and sundry topics were the focus of these domestic battles of attrition between mother and daughter, but by the time that Mai was 19 only a single issue remained both unresolved and unsurrendered. The late arrival of Mai's younger brother, soon after she turned 15, had provided Mai with nearly two years of peace while her mother doted on the infant. However, the subsequent two years, after he had been relinquished to the care of his nurses, saw the topic return with amplified focus. This owed to the fact, her mother insisted, that it was the most important topic of all.

"Ah, to be sure, I should love a wedding," Mrs. Myerscough sighed without provocation, her soup cooling in front of her. Mai ignored this lamentation, as was her wont, but Mr. Myerscough, at best only marginally aware of the struggle between wife and daughter, could always be depended upon to be easily led.

"Miss Olmsted recently married, did she not?" he asked, only briefly looking up from his dinner. "Though, I suppose she is that no longer. What was the fellow's name?"

"Mr. Harold Langtry," Mrs. Myerscough offered instantly, her mental catalogue of every unattached young man in all of Westmacott and neighboring counties positively infallible. "It was a passable ceremony, inasmuch as the quality of such a thing is often determined by the quality of the bride. You'll remember, Mrs. Langtry is sweet, but very plain. Nuptials can only do so much to overcome such natural inadequacies. Of course, I might envy Mrs. Olmsted, when all is said. Who could really argue that charge of a plain bride is inferior to charge of an appealing girl stubbornly insistent upon maidenhood? Not one such as I, who longs to oversee bridespeople and their goings-on, that's certain." Mrs. Myerscough eyed her daughter pointedly, challenge clear in her posture.

Mai met this challenge, as always, direct and unflinching. "How lucky then, Mother, that you, yourself, are married and as such have already had the great fortune of being the primary agent in a wedding."

"Be that as it may, that was only the highlight of my life as a girl." Mrs. Myerscough's fortitude was no less than that of her daughter's. "It is a wife and mother's dearest desire, you know, to marry her children."

"Well, you have only a few decades to wait for Thom. You are hale and hearty and have a very good chance of surviving that long." Mai paused, as if in consideration, brows knit together. "Less so for you, Father," she said after a moment.

Mr. Myerscough spared only a look askance at his daughter. Humor of any kind had never been something to which he was inclined, and it had long since become apparent that Mai's particular sort of wit was just as lost on him as any other, if not moreso.

Mrs. Myerscough set down her silverware with a raucous clatter. "Is it just that you take joy in the suffering of others? No! Not the suffering of any other, but particularly that of those most deeply attached to you?" Mai sighed and cast her eyes towards the far corner of the room, staring at the emptiness in hope of some respite from yet another rendition of this same discussion. "It is not just your own mother that you torment, she who cares more for you and your well-being than her own life, but scores of the brightest, loveliest young men in all of Westmacott. Each utterly besotted with you, each desolated by your indifference. I am often left to wonder if there has ever been a creature so wantonly cruel as you."

"She's but a young girl," Mr. Myerscough said ponderously, largely to himself. "There must have been at least a few."

Both Mrs. and Miss Myerscough ignored their lord. "It has hardly been scores of men, a dozen at best, and it is likely that you attribute far more distress to each of them than experienced by the entire collective," Mai responded, her boredom clear in her voice.

"Twelve or two hundred rejected, soon it will not matter. Eventually, the bloom is off every rose, my dear. You are nearly twenty; you had best accept an offer before they cease entirely."

Mai scoffed, an indelicate sound. "I shall never want for suitors so long as there are 20,000 pounds a year in my name."

Mrs. Myerscough scowled in displeasure, the expression making her resemblance to her daughter even more pronounced. In times prior, the removal of that very inheritance had been threatened as incentive towards matrimony, but Mr. Myerscough, for all his faults, weighed the safety and protection of each of his family members far too heavily to approve of such measures, and Mai was far too clever to be unaware of the emptiness of the threat.

"Do you really find them all so repulsive?" Mrs. Myerscough asked voice suddenly bright and conversational once more, unrelenting in her attack. "What about the Appletons' houseguest, Mr. Bosanquet? Mrs. Appleton tells me that he has asked after you no fewer than half a dozen times since our visit and while, of course, she would not openly say as much, that is far more interest than he's shown in either of her daughters, both in the house with him!"

"Oh, Mother, really. He's mustachioed like a Spanish bandit."

Mrs. Myerscough huffed violently in frustration and Mai's pert mouth shifted from its default neutrality, curving into a deep frown.

"That is always your way: no suggestions, only disapproval! My question would be then, Mai, if they are all so equally uninteresting, so overwhelmingly unmoving to you, and my insistence so deeply vexing, why not just marry any one of them and relieve yourself of this final annoyance?"

Mai crossed her arms, aware that her posture was petulant, but entirely unconcerned. "Do you believe it is just these men that I find uninteresting? That I am unmoved only by their careful, calm declarations of affection? It is this place, this life, as absent of vitality as it is, drab, mundane, and unexciting. Why should I marry any of them in all of their painful inoffensiveness if it will do nothing but bind me further to that which I already find intolerable?"

They were more words and more serious than Mai had ever spoken on the subject before and perhaps it was that which brought Mrs. Myerscough away from her hysteria. When she spoke again, her own words were as calm and serious as Mai's had been.

"A restless spirit never did a single woman in all of history any good." She held Mai's gaze for a long moment before turning in her chair to eye the dining room entryway, abruptly ending the conflict.

"Whereever is Emmaline?" Mrs. Myerscough rose and bustled towards the kitchen in one swift motion, her voice still carrying back to the dining hall. "Emmaline, must I be required to seek you out and set you on your chores at the end of every meal?"

That should not have been the end of it; indeed, Mai did not expect anything of the sort, and yet, magnificently somehow it seemed, at least, an intermission. Days passed, then weeks, and not a single word from her mother about marriage. For all her attempts, Mai could not even catch her mother's appraising eye on any promising young men during their journeys into town. She was not foolish enough to think the subject permanently closed, particularly since there had been no formal concession from her mother, but she had been lulled into complacency by the time it was to be resolved.

As it happened, there was no ending at all, but rather a beginning that was equally appealing to both Mrs. and Miss Myerscough and was delivered into the former's grasping hands one clear April morning. Mrs. Meyerscough immediately summoned Mai from the corner of the library where the girl often wiled away the hours, half-reading and half-fantasizing about lives more engaging than her own, and informed her daughter of the reason before both feet had passed the threshold.

"A letter!" Mrs. Myerscough exclaimed, presenting the object to Mai with a flourish. "A letter, my dear, such a lovely letter in a lovely hand from a lovely girl."

"As it seems you've already taken both the reading and reaction upon yourself, is my presence really required?"

"Always so droll, my dearest daughter, but it shall not affect me on this wonderful day. Read it! Read it!" she insisted, but despite pressing the letter into Mai's hands, continued on relating its contents. "Your dear, old friend Miss Breckenridge has invited you to visit her!"

At this, interest finally took hold, and Mai's eyes scanned the neat penmanship frantically, attempting to discern whether this was a request actually stated or one merely inferred by her mother's perception. Upon reaching the bottom of the first page, she had determined that it truly was an invitation.

Mai had not seen Azula Breckenridge in nearly five years, and had not heard from her for more than two. Her mother's hand could not be more obvious.

"You wrote to her?" Mai accused.

"I did no such thing," Mrs. Myerscough claimed proudly. "I simply encouraged your father to mention your...situation in one of his regular missives to her father, Lord Breckenridge. I can only assume that he duly reported it to his daughter, who was immediately reminded of her love for you -- you were so close as children -- and inspired to seek your company."

"In London," Mai breathed. It was a rare thing for her to be excited, much less regarding something also pleasing to her mother, and though Mai was well aware that these similar feelings were aroused by entirely different ideas of her likely occupations in the city, she felt a kinship nonetheless. Mai smiled. Her mother grasped her hands.

"London. For the entire season. I daresay there cannot be a city in the world that holds more dashing and thrilling young men than London."

So buoyed was Mai's mood by the prospect of escape -- by months away from the bland tedium of Westmacott, by the promise of London and its quick society and unpredictable company -- she did not even bother to form a retort.

"I will write back at once," she declared, as genuinely as she had ever said anything.