A Study of Courtship-Chapter 33: The Summit of Matriarchs

Huntington London Townhouse, Morning

A stiff, anticipatory hush lingered in the Huntington drawing room, disturbed only by the crackle of the hearth and the rustle of silk as Duchess Arabella Huntington adjusted her seat with the practiced grace of a woman who had steered society for four decades.

Around her, an assembly of unusually grim faces formed a semicircle—Her Majesty Queen Charlotte herself presiding with cool, imperious calm; Lady Jersey perched with the poise of a falcon watching prey; Marquess Reginald and Marchioness Josephine quietly bracing for divine retribution; Duke Cecil and Duchess Eleanor Montgomery settling onto the settee as if attending a board meeting for a ship that had just crashed.

Duke Theodore only sighed—deeply, heavily, the sigh of a man who had raised daughters, survived Parliament, and believed he had seen everything... until Sophia Fiennes punched a sitting Earl in White’s.

Arabella began first. "Let us begin before my granddaughter does something else ill-advised—such as joining the Royal Navy."

Eleanor winced. "Well, she did try to go to Russia several days ago."

Cecil muttered, "And somehow nearly dragged my son’s courtship into vodka-based diplomacy."

Her Majesty lifted a delicate brow. "Your granddaughter even declared a duel in defense of Lady Margaret Seymour. In White’s Arabella."

Lady Jersey folded her fan. "Pity she struck the correct man. An inconvenient triumph."

Reginald cleared his throat. "My Sapphire acted rashly, yes, but she acted in loyalty—"

"Yes, yes, loyalty," Arabella cut in. "But loyalty does not repair reputations. Or knuckles."

Josephine placed a gentle hand over her brow. "Her Majesty, ladies... what do you suggest we do? My daughter believes she has ruined her prospects. She even mentioned Benedict may withdraw—"

Eleanor straightened. "That is the one point I will confidently clarify: my son is not withdrawing from anything. Including sense."

Cecil nodded firmly. "Indeed. Benedict is... invested."

Her Majesty gave a soft, amused hum. "Even I noticed that. The young Lord Montgomery looks at Lady Sophia as though she is a comet he fully intends to chase, no matter how many gentlemen she knocks from the heavens."

Arabella exhaled. "Then we must decide how to preserve both reputations—and the courtship."

Lady Jersey leaned forward, speaking with the authority of a battlefield general. "A united front. Nothing is more effective. Society must hear from us—not whispers from anxious mamas."

Her Majesty nodded. "I shall issue a statement to the Patronesses: Lady Sophia acted in defense of a vulnerable young woman, and while her methods were..."

A meaningful pause. "...spirited... her intentions were noble. I will remind them Earl Lockhart’s behavior is under observation."

"That will calm the gossip," Theodore added.

"For a day," Reginald muttered.

Arabella clasped her hands. "Then we restore order. Eleanor, your son should continue his visits. Visibly. And Josephine, Sophia must be guided—subtly—into comportment befitting a future Lady Montgomery or a duchess."

Josephine blinked. "A duchess?"

Eleanor smiled like a woman who very much enjoyed the sound of it. "Well, eventually."

Cecil coughed. "Let us all walk before we gallop."

Arabella ignored him entirely. "The important thing," she declared, "is that this courtship advances under our supervision. Sophia cannot be left to her own devices. The moment no one looks, she reappears in White’s, suggesting mutiny."

The room collectively nodded.

Reginald sighed as if surrendering decades of parental control. "Then we are agreed. Guidance, visibility, united front."

Her Majesty rose, signaling the end of the discussion. "Very well. Let us shepherd these two young fools toward the altar with as little destruction as possible."

Lady Jersey murmured dryly, "Perhaps we begin by forbidding White’s from admitting Lady Sophia through a chimney."

Arabella closed her eyes. "One disaster at a time."

Montgomery Townhouse, Berkeley Square

The carriage had barely rolled to a stop before Benedict and Edward were already standing in the foyer, waiting like two schoolboys summoned by the headmaster. Edward folded his arms with the solemnity of a man preparing to witness his younger brother’s life unravel. Benedict ran a hand through his hair, then did it again, then once more for good measure.

"Ben," Edward murmured, "did Mother tell you where they were going earlier?"

Benedict exhaled through his nose. "No. But I am perfectly aware it concerns what happened at White’s yesterday. And," he paused, bracing himself, "how it will affect my courtship with Lady Sophia."

Edward nodded. "Well... good luck."

Before Benedict could reply, the front door swung open.

Duke Cecil and Duchess Eleanor stepped inside with the air of people who had just returned from negotiating a treaty between warring nations — which, in a sense, they had.

Eleanor removed her gloves with a snap. Cecil cleared his throat.

"Boys," he said, his voice dipping into that paternal register that meant do not argue. "We will have a family meeting."

Edward winced.

Benedict felt his stomach drop.

Eleanor swept forward, chin high.

"Come to the drawing room," she announced. "We have much to discuss — and very little time before the ton writes an entire opera about yesterday."

Benedict followed, heart thudding, knowing fully well this meeting would determine the future of his pursuit of Sophia.

Edward muttered under his breath as he trailed after him, "Well, little brother... at least your courtship is not dull."

The drawing room door had barely closed when Duchess Eleanor swept inside, the plume on her hat trembling with leftover irritation. Duke Cecil followed with the dragging weariness of a man who had been forced to witness four dowagers and a queen come to a unanimous decision. Lord Edward and Benedict rose from their seats.

"Well?" Edward asked cautiously. "Did Her Majesty exile Sophia to Scotland? Or was it Kent?"

Eleanor levelled him with a stare so razor-sharp he straightened at once. "Sit down, Edward."

Both sons obeyed.

Cecil cleared his throat. "Your mother will explain. She has... the greater grasp of the situation."

Eleanor clasped her hands before her, eyes bright with determination. "The courtship between Benedict and Lady Sophia will continue."

Benedict exhaled sharply—half-relief, half terror.

Edward blinked. "Continue? After she punched Lord Lockhart in White’s?"

"Especially after that," Eleanor replied. "Duchess Arabella described it as ’spirited defence of another young lady.’ Her Majesty called it ’unfortunate, but expected of that child.’ Lady Jersey said, and I quote—’At least she did not bring a sword.’"

Benedict buried his face in one hand.

Eleanor went on, undeterred. "And since the ton now sees your courtship as very serious, Benedict, Sophia must be guided into comportment befitting a future Lady Montgomery."

Edward frowned. "Future Duchess Montgomery of Manchester? He is the second son. That would be me."

Eleanor looked at her firstborn with a sigh that carried four years of accumulated disappointment.

"Yes, Edward. Under normal circumstances." Her voice softened... dangerously. "But you have not—how shall I put this delicately?—secured a bride in four seasons, despite being presented with numerous excellent candidates."

Edward sputtered. "Mother, I am trying."

"Trying does not produce heirs," Eleanor replied crisply.

Cecil muttered, "He has a point."

Eleanor ignored him.

Meanwhile, Benedict sat frozen, unsure whether to feel flattered, horrified, or very, very faint.

"So," Eleanor concluded, "until Edward takes his role seriously, I shall treat Benedict’s courtship as the most promising union for our house. Lady Sophia will be coached, instructed, refined, and prevented from entering White’s for at least a month."

Benedict whispered, "One month is optimistic."

Edward groaned. "This is absurd. I am looking for a wife."

Eleanor raised a brow. "Do you know the first names of even three debutantes from this season?"

Edward opened his mouth. Closed it. Scratched the back of his neck. "...They all wear white?"

Cecil let out a low whistle. "Hopeless."

Eleanor pressed a hand to her forehead. "Benedict, at least your affections are clearly placed. Your brother is going to drive me into an early grave."

Benedict rubbed his temple. "Mother... Sophia barely realizes she’s courting me at all."

"Yes," Eleanor said, "and that is why we must help her. She is brilliant, charming, and adored—but she sincerely believes she is not participating in romance. Which means, Benedict, that you must be patient."

Edward smirked. "You hear that? Mother is giving you romance lessons."

Benedict shot him a look. "At least my marriage prospects exist."

Edward folded his arms. "I’m selective."

Eleanor groaned softly into her gloves.

Cecil patted her shoulder. "There, there. I survived Parliament. You can survive our sons."

Benedict leaned back in his chair, exhaling. "Lady Sophia is being mentored by four matriarchs; The Queen and my mother. Heaven help me."

Eleanor gave a prim nod. "Heaven need not help you, my dear. We will."

The meeting was adjourned after that.

The heavy door clicked shut behind them, muffling the fading echoes of Duchess Eleanor’s determined footsteps. The study, warm with the scent of leather and old oak, seemed suddenly very small as Benedict collapsed into one of the armchairs, exhaling as though he had just survived battle.

Edward lingered near the window, arms folded, staring out into the quiet street with the brooding dignity of a man facing an existential crisis.

At length, he turned to his younger brother.

"Ben," he began, voice pitched between disbelief and despair, "how did you do it?"

Benedict blinked, taken off guard. "Do what?"

Edward gestured wildly — a rare display of un-ducal agitation. "This! Courtship!" he exclaimed. "You are nineteen. Nineteen! And you are courting one of the most eligible young ladies in the kingdom. Meanwhile, I—" he pressed a frustrated hand against his chest, "—am two-and-twenty, four seasons in, and I cannot find a single suitable match who doesn’t run the moment Mother looks at her."

Benedict fought the twitch tugging at his lips.

Edward continued, warming to his misery. "You walk in, you say one poetic sentence, and suddenly every suitor Sophia has flees the premises as though chased by wolves. She listens to you talk about horses, Locke, and gunpowder — GUNPOWDER —, and she still blushes at you. And I..." He sagged dramatically. "I cannot even keep a conversation alive for more than five minutes without someone’s mother fainting from imagined possibilities."

Benedict coughed once. A poorly disguised laugh.

Edward narrowed his eyes. "Don’t you dare."

Benedict’s composure was shattered. A grin — slow, wicked, and elder-brother-infuriating — curled onto his mouth.

"Well, Eddie," he said lightly, stretching out in the chair like a man at ease with destiny, "perhaps the key is simply that Sophia likes me."

Edward groaned loudly into his hands.

Benedict wasn’t done. "And," he added with unhelpful elegance, "I’m rather charming."

Edward dropped into the opposite chair with all the grace of a wounded soldier. "Utter nonsense. I refuse to accept that."

Benedict’s grin widened into something unbearably smug. "Mother seems to accept it quite readily."

"Mother," Edward muttered, "accepts too many things."

"Oh, Eddie," Benedict said cheerfully, "don’t be discouraged. When you least expect it, someone will look at you the way Sophia looks at... well—" He paused, smirk sharpening. "Vodka."

Edward threw a nearby cushion at him.

Benedict dodged it, laughing.

For the first time that day, Edward laughed too — albeit reluctantly.

And upstairs, Duchess Eleanor paused mid-step, smiling with deep maternal satisfaction at the sound of her sons’ voices emerging, for once, in harmony.