Fashionable, Ladylike Boredom

Henrietta stood by her window and looked out across the rolling green hills that met the sky with a bright blue brilliance that was almost blinding. The day was warm and bright and cheerful, and she knew Frederick was right--it was a day for being outside. But Henrietta did not feel like it. She had not really felt enthusiastic about walking--about anything--in a long while.

The problem was, she told herself as she sat on the bed, that she was bored. It was ladylike, she knew, to be bored. Her mother had told her so often. But it hardly set her in a good mood. Besides, she was something more than bored. She was lonely. Few ladies of any sort, fashionably bored or not, had as little company as she did.

It was very ironic, she realized. Last spring--when she had come out--had been the farest thing from boring. It had been exciting and new, even if it had also made her anxious and flustered sometimes. But the entire point of coming out was to find a husband, and Henrietta had. And then she had discovered that being married provided far less entertainment than searching for someone to marry.

She was just considering whether she perhaps was fashionably bored enough to try to hang the drapes in the spare room when someone knocked on the door.
It was only Jean.
"There's a visitor downstairs to see you, my lady." she said.
"A visitor?"
"Yes, a splendid gentleman."

"I'll go right down."
Strange, she thought. Who could it be?