"The Perfect Wife" (review) Chapter One

An excerpt of the book I'm writing - mostly up for reviews and critique! This is the story of Margaret Altham, a young woman in the 1860's, falling in love with a dream, turning into a nightmare...

There was a certain kind of elegance to his stride and person as he and my father strolled towards our party located at the far end of the garden underneath a large blossoming cherry tree. It was a warm early evening in April, everyone was content with the company and weather and it was a truly delightful day. I turned away to pinch my cheeks a rosy pink colour before my father introduced me. 

“My sweet daughter, may I introduce you to my trusted colleague, Sir Alan Pensworth?” he exclaimed, and gestured with his arm for the gentleman to approach me.
“How do you do, Sir?” I said and curtsied with lowered eyes.
“Absolutely delighted, miss Altham.”
He removed his hat, reached for my extended hand and placed a gentle kiss upon it. I looked up and met his gaze, only to be searching for my breath.
Sir Alan Pensworth was a handsome, mature gentleman at least twice my age, with intense dark eyes and a large, but fitting nose. His black hair was combed back and extended into a pair of nicely kept sideburns, framing his face and finely shaped lips. We shared a long gaze, nearing the impolite before I lowered my eyes. Unsure of what to say, we stood for a moment in silence before I uttered: “The weather is absolutely pleasant, do you not think?”
I could have slapped myself - what a dull and boring conversation to start! But as I looked up to meet his eyes, I found him with a light smile on his thin lips.
“Yes, very pleasant indeed! I have not witnessed such a lovely spring afternoon in quite a while now.”
As he turned to look over the garden and the party and I saw my chance to examine his physique further: He was truly a gentleman; tall, fit and with a dominant, but elegant posture. A gentleman of such fine looks and personality was a rarity these days.

The garden party was the first of the year, and one of the few I’d attended so far. In the spring of ’66 I had just turned 21, and thus only been active in the social life for a few years. Three, to be exact. Sir Anthony’s party was the first I went to not closely observed by my mother and it was most exciting because it meant I could walk more freely, without her eyes on me at all times. She kept in the background, only to escort me across the garden when needed. Garden parties - and parties in general - were my absolute favourites, because they meant good company, delicious food and many dances. As a somewhat well-off young woman, my place in society was clear: Be accomplished, gentle, beautiful and most of all, be the perfect possible wife for a (rich) gentleman. And that was exactly what Sir Pensworth was, and my father knew it. He had mentioned the Pensworth name earlier that week, and told us the tragic story of how this fine man had lost his wife and firstborn son in childbirth many years ago. I couldn’t help but be moved by such a heart-breaking story, and felt sorry for the tall, handsome man whom now stood before me, observing the surroundings with a furrowed brow.

“Now!” my father said suddenly, “I must leave you two. I just spotted Sir Anthony, and must compliment him on the party!” He then sent me a look that said impress him! and left us surprisingly fast for such a little, heavy man.

Sir Pensworth started the polite first conversation: “Your father is a very talented banker.”
“Indeed, though I do not know much about what a banker spends his time on, but he is a very busy and clever man,” I answered, perfecting the role of a young, un-opinionated woman. As girls, we were always told to be interested, but without knowledge or opinion on men’s occupations, and I prided myself on being the example of a correct and pleasant female.

“Yes, your father knows his business very well.”
“I’m glad. And I suppose you excel in banking as well, sir?”
He gave me a pleasant look and another slight, gentlemanly smile, tilted his head a bit but said nothing. Some men didn’t like talking about how well they excelled in their occupation so I understood his sign and didn’t ask any further. I couldn’t help but imagine that he was very rich indeed.

“Miss Altham, would you care for some punch?” he broke the silence after a few moments of politely looking at the surroundings and greet anyone known.
I accepted happily and we strolled through the garden, Sir Pensworth gently holding my arm as expected by a true gentleman. He served us punch and we chatted on matters both loose and important and every time I met his gaze I couldn’t help but care more and more for this unfortunate and kind man. My father had certainly been right in the fact that he was a man worth impressing.

When the time came for dancing, I wrote him up for several dances on my dance card and it came as no surprise what a natural he was at both waltz and the quadrille and everything in between. We danced underneath the full moon, lighting up the garden, it’s silver rays bouncing off my ivory silk dress and onto his face, both stern and elegant at the same time. 

I feared I might have fallen very much in love with this man, and as time came for us to part ways later that evening, he bowed deeply and kissed my hand for so long that he almost embarrassed himself.