The black wedding veil Eol Stoltio the b l a c k W e d d i n g v e i l Eol Stoltio Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. 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It was also home to Mrs. Hortense Frobisher, a widow whose pride was as unshakeable as the finest oak tree, though, admittedly, with a slight tendency to snap when under the slightest pressure. Mrs. Frobisher, ever the society matron, believed in only one mis- sion: the marriage of her children to the most advan- tageous suitors, of course, if they could be persuaded that such decisions were their own. Her late husband, Reginald, had never been quite what one might call a “strong-willed man.” To his credit, he had been a darling of the town if you con- sidered a man who passed every opportunity to take charge “a darling.” His gravestone, much to Mrs. Fro- Eol Stoltio bisher’s dismay, had been engraved with the phrase, “Here Lies a Man Who Did What He Was Told,” which, in her estimation, was about as fitting as a cabbage in a ballroom. Mrs. Frobisher had, however, given up the ghost of mourning long ago, redirecting her considerable energies into planning the future of her children. Her son, Algernon, was of a temperament that could only be described as “the poetic sort,” which, to Mrs. Fro- bisher, translated into “a disappointment waiting to happen.” He had a peculiar love for nature, an obses- sion, really. She believed it was because he couldn’t find a real job. And don’t get her started on his rejec- tion of marriage. The idea of an heirloom ring col- lecting dust instead of being firmly pressed on some young lady’s finger had her clutching her pearls in horror. And then there was Priscilla, who was as useful as a pocket of moths in a fine coat, according to Mrs. Frobisher. Priscilla had a way of turning away suitors with a sharpness that could rival the best of the sea- son’s debutantes but without the slightest regard for the social consequences. “I’ll marry when I want to,” she would declare with a wink, “and not a moment before.” If Mrs. Frobisher had her way, that moment The black wedding veil would be dictated by the proper alliances, proper wealth, and a good dash of propriety. But alas! It appeared that the Frobisher family was destined for an improper set of consequences, as the battleground of matrimony was about to see an unex- pected shift. The carefully laid plans of Mrs. Frobish- er were about to face the fiercest of rebellions one of familial chaos and a defiance so potent it could only be rivalled by a cat swatting at a silk ribbon. “Algernon, where are you?” Mrs. Frobisher’s voice echoed through the hallways like the crack of a whip, though a far more refined crack, of course. “You have a meeting with Miss Clarissa Bangsley, and I will not have you ruin this opportunity with your ‘poetic nonsense.’” Algernon, lounging in a chair as if contemplating the meaning of the universe (or perhaps just won- dering if it was time for tea), barely lifted his gaze from his poetry book. “Clarissa Bangsley, Mother? She sounds like a type of flour. Why on earth would I want to marry someone who would prefer baking to discussing Keats?” “You will meet her,” Mrs. Frobisher snapped, as though her word was law. “I’ve seen her family’s for- Eol Stoltio tune, and you will not throw it away on some ridicu- lous daydreams. And if you mention Keats again, I’ll have a word with the vicar.” Algernon sighed in the way only a man who’d just realized he was being treated like a recalcitrant child could. “The vicar? Really, Mother. I am twenty-eight, not eight.” “Yes,” Mrs. Frobisher replied, her tone sugary-sweet but firm, “but you are acting eight, so I shall treat you accordingly.” Meanwhile, in another part of the house, Priscil- la was having her own rebellious moment, this time with the very idea of marriage itself. She had been instructed by her mother to write a letter of gratitude to Lord Marmaduke, the man Mrs. Frobisher had se- lected as a future husband, though Priscilla couldn’t quite bring herself to take him seriously. “I’m not writing to him,” Priscilla declared, stand- ing tall like a queen refusing to attend her own cor- onation. “What would I say? ‘Dearest Marmaduke, thank you for existing. Your moustache is a marvel, but I would rather marry a potato.’” Her maid, Beryl, who had seen more dramas un- The black wedding veil fold in this house than the entirety of a London the- atre season, sighed deeply. “Shall I write the letter for you, Miss Priscilla?” “Of course not,” Priscilla said, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. “I’ll make it simple. I’ll just write, ‘No thanks. Yours in perpetual mischief, Priscilla.’ That should do the trick.” “Ah, the wayward ways of youth,” Beryl muttered under her breath, fully aware that any “wayward- ness” was bound to be squashed by Mrs. Frobisher’s well-meaning tyranny. “Beryl,” Priscilla said with a sudden burst of inspi- ration, “what if I marry for love? Can you imagine the chaos?” Beryl considered this with a furrowed brow. “Love, miss? If you want chaos, try suggesting that to your mother.” Priscilla grinned. “Now, that’s the real fun.” And so, with Mrs. Frobisher’s grand designs stead- ily being undermined by her children’s disobedience and her own incapacity to predict what was coming next, the stage was set for a family drama of unprec- edented proportions. A rebellion, if you will, where Eol Stoltio the hearts and minds of two children would surely clash with their mother’s unyielding plans for their futures—and all of it played out in a symphony of sharp wit, eye rolls, and the occasional accidental proposal. It was, in short, going to be a very entertaining sea- son for the Frobishers. The black wedding veil I. “Algernon!” Mrs. Frobisher cried, her voice echo- ing through the halls of Frobisher Manor like a well- tuned bell at the stroke of midnight, and just as omi- nous. “I’ve found the perfect girl for you!” Algernon, who had been seated at the window, gazing moodily at the garden as though contemplat- ing the meaning of life or, more likely, wondering if it was too early to start drinking gin, jerked his head around with a look of someone who had just been informed that a herd of elephants was stampeding toward him. “The perfect girl? Mother, I have told you...” he be- gan, his voice a note of calm rebellion, a tone he had perfected over the years. “Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!” Mrs. Frobisher snapped, flinging herself into the seat opposite him with all the grace of a woman who had not yet dis- Eol Stoltio covered that a pile of cushions was not a sufficient substitute for emotional intelligence. “Perfect is pre- cisely what you need. I’m not having you flounder around like some fish out of water, contemplating Keats while your chances of marriage grow more dis- tant by the hour.” Algernon blinked slowly, as if this last remark re- quired careful processing. “Flounder? Mother, I am twenty-eight, not a cod. I’m perfectly content...” “Content?” Mrs. Frobisher repeated the word with an air of someone who had just discovered their pre- cious pet cat had turned into a tiger. “Content? At your age? You’ll be one of those men who sits in the corner of every social gathering muttering, ‘I have no need for love, my poetry is my solace.’” “I do no such thing,” Algernon protested, squirm- ing in his chair with a look of someone being accused of something particularly vulgar. “For one, I am not at every social gathering.” “Which,” Mrs. Frobisher continued as if he had not spoken at all, “is exactly my point. You will be the man no one knows how to speak to. The one who writes sonnets about the moon and goes to bed with the melancholy of a thousand unrequited loves.” The black wedding veil “Fine. I’m the man who is clearly doomed to a life of bachelorhood, one that I have rather thoughtfully designed for myself,” Algernon said, raising an eye- brow. “And who exactly is this ‘perfect girl’?” Mrs. Frobisher leaned forward with the air of a woman who had just discovered a rare bird’s nest in her garden, as though the revelation of Miss Clarissa Bangsley was going to solve the problems of the en- tire Frobisher family. “She’s wonderful!” Mrs. Frobisher practically chirped. “Miss Clarissa Bangsley. Delightful, re- fined, and the daughter of Sir Reginald Bangsley, the wealthiest man in the county. She has a dowry that could cover a small war, but more importantly, she has poise. Refinement. And most importantly, she is perfectly suitable for you.” Algernon’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning scepti- cal. “Miss Bangsley? You mean the one with the hair like an overbaked loaf of bread?” “Algernon!” Mrs. Frobisher said, her voice rising in horror. “That is entirely uncalled for. Miss Bangsley’s hair is of a fine, golden hue that shines like the sun in the early morning. It is not overbaked bread!” Eol Stoltio “Forgive me, Mother, but I cannot picture myself wed to a woman whose primary distinguishing fea- ture is her ability to reflect light in such an obnox- iously radiant manner.” Algernon slumped deeper into his armchair, a picture of noble defiance. “I be- lieve I shall pass on this one, thank you very much.” “Oh, don’t be absurd!” Mrs. Frobisher shot back with a vigour that would have made even the Queen herself sit up a little straighter. “I’ve arranged a meet- ing with her. Tonight. At the ball. You will attend, you will dance with her, and you will feel the chemistry.” “I suppose the chemistry will involve a very large chemical reaction, because the idea of a ‘spark’ be- tween us strikes me as one of those concoctions that would explode in your face,” Algernon replied, eyes glinting with mischievous amusement. “I don’t care for your sarcasm, Algernon. I have ar- ranged everything. You will see her tonight, and I am quite sure that in the course of one waltz, your mind will be changed.” Algernon’s face paled. “A waltz?” he repeated, as if his mother had just announced that she had ar- ranged for him to wrestle a bear. “What if I trip over my feet and send the poor girl sprawling into the punch bowl?” The black wedding veil “Then I’ll blame it on your lack of grace and de- mand you go back for lessons,” Mrs. Frobisher said airily, as though solving the problem was a matter of changing the wallpaper. “Now, Algernon, no more complaints. I’ve already taken the liberty of getting you a suit for the occasion.” Algernon’s face lit up in horror. “A suit? You’ve had my wardrobe improved?” He recoiled as though his mother had just announced she’d booked him a spa day with an angry porcupine. “Of course,” Mrs. Frobisher said. “You’re going to look dashing. You’ll sweep her off her feet, I’m sure. In fact, I might even go so far as to say that I’m ex- pecting a proposal by the end of the evening.” Algernon’s groan could have rivalled the deepest, most mournful sound ever uttered by a man facing the inevitable. “Mother, you are a friend.” Mrs. Frobisher beamed like a woman who had just won the lottery. “I know. But a very competent one.” Just then, the door swung open, and Priscilla, Al- gernon’s younger sister, strode into the room with an air of someone who had just been informed she was to inherit an entire orchard of apple trees. Her Eol Stoltio gaze flickered between her brother and their mother, a look of knowing amusement spreading across her face. “What’s this?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “More marriage talk? Should I start placing bets on how long it takes for Algernon to ruin it?” Algernon shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “I would hardly call this ‘ruining it.’ It’s more a case of surviving an attack on my dignity.” “Oh, Algernon, you’ve no dignity left,” Priscilla said with a grin, leaning against the doorframe. “The only dignity you possess is in your ability to avoid being married to any woman who would willingly set foot in this house.” “You are most unhelpful,” Algernon muttered, rub- bing his temples as though to ward off a headache. “Not unhelpful,” Priscilla replied sweetly, “just re- alistic.” Mrs. Frobisher, ever the optimist, clapped her hands together in a fashion that could only be de- scribed as absurdly cheerful. “Now, we’ll see how the evening unfolds. But I will have you know that Miss Clarissa Bangsley is about to become the next Fro- bisher.” The black wedding veil Algernon glared at her. “I have a rather different vision of my future, and it involves poetry, freedom, and the occasional cup of tea. I’d rather not have my future decided over a waltz, thank you.” Mrs. Frobisher sighed, as though her son’s opin- ions were nothing but small inconveniences to be disregarded. “A waltz, Algernon. You’ll do the waltz, and then you’ll marry her. End of discussion.” “End of discussion, indeed,” Algernon muttered darkly as his mother’s triumphant smile grew ever wider. Eol Stoltio II. Priscilla Frobisher was standing before her bed- room mirror, striking what she considered to be her finest expression of disinterest, a look so refined and subtle that it would make even the most sea- soned actor quiver with envy. She had recently come to the conclusion that being ‘disinterested’ was the key to surviving her mother’s various matchmak- ing schemes. If she could pull it off convincingly, her mother might just start to believe that Priscilla had little to no interest in marriage. The only prob- lem was, Priscilla hadn’t quite mastered the fine art of balancing indifference with rebellion, so she often looked more like a sulking schoolgirl than an ele- gantly aloof debutante. She stood back from the mirror, examining her re- flection with the critical eye of a seasoned socialite. With a tiny sigh, she tossed her curls over her shoul- The black wedding veil der and gave a haughty little sniff. “There,” she said aloud, as though confirming her own brilliance. “I look positively scandalous. No man will dare to ap- proach me.” She paused for a moment, then, with a swift flick of her hand, smoothed down the creases of her gown. Perhaps she had overshot the mark, and now she looked more like a petulant queen than a disinterest- ed woman of the world. This was a fine line, after all. Just as she was about to practice her disinterested look for the fifth time, this time, with more emphasis on her eyes, there was a knock at the door, sharp and insistent. “Enter!” Priscilla called, expecting nothing more than a bored housemaid bearing a tray of untouched tea leaves and a dozen unsolicited opinions on the state of the weather. Instead, the door swung open with all the force of a small windstorm, and in dashed Fanny Button, Pris- cilla’s best friend and the very definition of uncon- tained enthusiasm. Fanny’s arrival was like a whirl- wind made of brightly collared silk, enthusiasm, and gossip. If one had to describe her in one word, it would be “unfiltered.” Eol Stoltio “Priscilla!” Fanny squealed, her voice tinged with excitement, the kind one might expect from a lady who had just witnessed a cat play the piano. “You won’t believe what I just overheard! Your mother’s planning to marry you off to Lord Marmaduke, that tiresome brute from the estate next door!” Priscilla blinked slowly, her first instinct being to sit down and put her head between her knees. “Lord Marmaduke?” she repeated, as if the name itself were too vile to utter. “The one who wears his own face on his tie?” “The very same!” Fanny confirmed, her eyes wide as if sharing the most delicious secret in all of Lon- don. Priscilla, ever the picture of restrained horror, fur- rowed her brow in deep thought. “Does he still refer to his moustache as ‘his pet’?” Fanny nodded, leaning forward with an air of someone about to share the world’s greatest revela- tion. “Oh, it gets worse. Much worse. I overheard Mrs. Frobisher talking to Algernon about his impending marriage to some poor, unsuspecting woman, and let me tell you, your mother has a whole scheme to mar- ry you both off by Christmas!”