Spare Brides by Adele Parks

elderly neighbours, she read poetry. Undoubtedly she was old before her time.
    Sarah’s apathy towards outings such as this weekend party at Sir Peter Pondson-Callow’s country estate was because she firmly believed that she had already had her fill of life. She did not hope or expect to meet an equal to Arthur; everyone else was simply less. It was hard to eternally deal with less. She was prepared to creep into middle age, inaudibly and carefully. She did not want to cause anyone too much trouble and she very much hoped she could be useful to those around her. Being useful was a poor relation to being loved, yet it was some sort of solace for the broken-hearted.
    However, Beatrice’s case was quite dissimilar. Beatrice was twenty-six. She had never been kissed. It was easy to forget her relative youth because her density somehow negated any thoughts of girlishness; her surprising height and solid breadth was equated with maturity at best, masculinity at worst. Beatrice’s comely body stayed under wraps; woollen stockings and flannel petticoats had not fallen from her repertoire. It was miserable that she was still totally unaware how it felt to have someone’s lips crush down on hers, or to experience the exquisite and erotic strangeness of another tongue inside her mouth. The thought sent shards of regret through Sarah’s body. She longed for her sister, at least once, to feel what Sarah had felt in Arthur’s arms. She was a realistic woman and did not think that finding a husband, or even a regular lover, was a foregone conclusion for Beatrice; far from it. Bea’s age, weight and financial situation all conspired against her now there was such a scarcity of men; in all probability she was destined to be an old maid. Sarah, though, was a determined and hopeful woman and refused to deal in probability; she could not yet quite give up on the
possibility
that there might be a man out there who would do just perfectly for her sister. A man who would appreciate her quiet, shy manner and warm, open heart. Perhaps an older man. A widower who was looking for a wife to help with an established family; the sort of man who might not be averse to adding another baby to the nursery. Or maybe she would find a wounded soldier. There were so many men who had naturally lost their confidence and
joie de vivre
when they lost an arm or leg in France. Beatrice might turn out to be a patient nurse; if those chaps would only give her a chance, she might yet find some warmth and companionship. Sarah knew that widowers and veterans were not likely to be found in their own drawing room, or at least the ones that did visit had already been considered and found unwilling or unsuitable, so it was essential that Beatrice kept circulating. Bea had once commented that she felt like one of those ballerinas in a musical box – the ones that spun on and on in a desperate effort to entertain – but Sarah had told her that nothing was to be gained by becoming fanciful. Bea had to continue to meet new people. They must not give up. Sarah, as her big sister, felt compelled to attend the weekend party, because whilst she was not quite a chaperone, she was at least emotional backing.
    Sarah realised that Beatrice’s excitement at accepting the invitation was no doubt also marred by a level of despair about whether her wardrobe, figure and conversation were adequate for such an occasion, not to mention her concern over how much to tip the servants on a country estate. She knew that Beatrice tried not to indulge in self-doubt, but, like every woman, she was more aware than anyone of her own personal disadvantages and drawbacks. Sarah often privately thought it a huge pity that Beatrice had never managed to go up to Oxford. When their father had been alive there had been talk that such a thing was a possibility; although they couldn’t risk educating her before she joined the marriage market, it had been a recognised alternative if her season didn’t