Possessing? Is that what these lads thought? That a wife was a possession? Papa did not think like that. Is that what Penning thought? She wanted to believe gentlemen did not think this way, but she knew the reality. Men controlled the world and women had to fight and claw their way for a foothold in it. She’d accompanied Papa on many a house call to visit a downtrodden wife, crushed beneath the boot of a domineering husband.

Their neighbor to the east was one such example. Mrs. Henry had five children and a brutal husband who was never satisfied with any of her wifely efforts. She was frequently “falling down.” Mama often tended to her after these mishaps—beneath the critical eye of her husband, of course. As though he feared his wife might tell Mama the true cause of her accidents.

Imogen held her breath, waiting for Penning’s response, her shoulders tightening to the point of discomfort.

Penning chuckled lightly. “One’s disposition must be considered. A wife will not stay young forever. Looks fade and then you’re left staring across the dining table at someone you can hopefully abide.”

“And you cannot abide Miss Bates?”

“Let us just say she has the disposition of a rotten lemon.”

Imogen pulled back as though struck.

Everyone laughed. Even Amos, and she had only ever been solicitous to him.

Not just a lemon . . . but a rotten one.

“No one is telling you to marry the chit, Penning. Dalliance does not require that level of commitment.”

As though dalliance with me is a given? As though I would simply fall into his lap with wild abandon?

“There are any number of females I would rather kiss than a sanctimonious vicar’s daughter who finds it diverting to discuss the weather and the latest infestation of wheat mites.”

She dropped her hands onto her quaking knees and inhaled a pained breath.

She never knew what to talk about in his exalted presence—and wheat mites could ruin a crop. Clearly he could not be bothered with topics so beneath him.

Still holding onto her knees, she rocked slightly. It was one thing to suspect he didn’t like her and another thing to hear him say it out loud—another thing to hear him talk about her with all his friends. To hear him laugh and ridicule her to his friends.

She blinked her suddenly burning eyes. Rotten lemon.

The young toffs continued talking and laughing, but she could scarcely hear the rest of their words over the buzzing in her ears.

They moved on to other subjects, but she remained crouched where she was, battling anger and nausea, breathing in the aroma of cigars and wondering how long she had to suffer in silence.