The Proposition, page 12
“You despise the French, Mother, remember?” asked Clemency, trying to concentrate on the bit of ribbon she was tacking to the puffed sleeve of the gown.
“Not when they have five thousand a year!” Mrs. Fry exclaimed, cackling in a way that suggested her daughters were to knowingly join in. They did not. “I would heartily let you marry a potato if it had five thousand a year.”
“Now there is an image,” Clemency replied lightly, though a darkness lingered in her soul. It was odd to hear a man she was coming to respect reduced to a tawdry number. She rather thought kissing a potato would not fill her with such flutterings and tremblings. “I should wonder what Father would say to a potato. Do you think it would make a pretty proposal?”
“A very down to earth one, I should think,” Honora teased.
Clemency smirked, brushing off her mother’s exasperated sighing.
“The pair of you…” Mrs. Fry set down her needle and thimble and stood, sweeping dramatically into the hall. They had been at work in the cozy little room where Clemency had gone to inspect the bundle sent from Mr. Ferrand. Despite being in the hall, she could be heard perfectly as she lamented: “My daughters. A perfectly handsome widow who is content to wither away alone, and the finest beauty in the county resigned to marry a mere baron!”
“Mother!” Clemency nearly shouted. Honora did not seem nearly as shocked or offended. “Mr. Ferrand has no title at all, you must at least be consistent in your prejudices.”
Mrs. Fry pressed her lips together tightly as if holding back tears. “I must do nothing of the sort!”
She whirled by Mariah, who had returned with hot water for the tea. The two young ladies shared a silent, furious stare. It was not until their mother had clomped out of earshot that Honora spoke up again, only in a whisper.
“It is not so bad to wither,” she said, her shoulders sloped suddenly as if she were caving in. “And I do not feel withered. Do I look it?”
“Do not listen to her,” Clemency bit out, too angry to sew a single stitch. “You have suffered enough heartbreak for two lifetimes, Nora, you have earned whatever life you prefer.”
At that, her sister slowly smiled. “My heart is mending, though it should heal faster under calmer circumstances.”
“Then you must come with me to London,” Clemency told her, swiveling to face her sister. Honora was the true seamstress of the family, able to knock together a simple muslin morning dress in just a few days. Finishing a more elaborate pattern like the ball gown she was presently sewing for Clemency required only a bit more time.
“Only one or two temptations exist for me in London, but I will think on it,” Honora said as she shrugged. “Though that reminds me, I wondered if you might call on a friend for me while in town. We were not long acquainted, but a letter hand delivered by you, dearest, would be charming indeed. Would you consider it?”
“Of course! It would be my pleasure to be your courier.”
“Ah, you say that now, but the moment you set foot in the city you will be bombarded with invitations and obligations, balls, and teas, and long afternoons in the park. If you cannot find the time to call on her I will not be offended.” Honora finally paused in her work, setting her hands in her lap and giving Clemency a long, meaningful look.
“And?” Clemency raised her brows. “Out with it, what admonishment is brewing there in that sisterly brain of yours?”
“In some ways I do wish to accompany you, dearest, but only to protect you.”
Honora knew little of what had transpired at Beswick during her last visit, and Clemency felt a guilty knot tangle up in her stomach. With her quick mind and knack for observation, Honora must have noticed that she was holding something back. Something like a brief, ill-advised but still life-altering kiss. But she couldn’t drag her sister into it, and more…Clemency’s cheeks grew shamefully hot. She was not proud of what she had agreed to—tricking Turner Boyle until he could have his comeuppance was not the sort of behavior Honora approved of. And how could she? Clemency herself hardly approved of it. A shadowed, annoying, truthful corner of her heart told her that it was wrong and that she was acting this way only because her pride had been wounded. But whenever she tried to remove herself from it all, whenever she entertained writing both Turner and Audric and cutting herself off from both of them, her mind rebelled.
Her heart knew better, her mind did not. The kiss lingered. She only wanted Turner Boyle to feel as she did when he humiliated her at the dance—small and foolish, and perhaps even afraid.
Was that so bad?
“You have nothing to fear, Nora, and nor do I,” Clemency said, taking her hand and patting it reassuringly. “After all I will be with William and Tansy, and whenever a question arises I will ask myself what you would do in my place.”
“That is a thoughtful fiction you have just told me,” Honora replied in a whisper. Her eyes grew distant, and she picked up her needle again, withdrawing from Clemency’s grasp. When she returned to her sewing, it was with less enthusiasm than before. “I wonder, sister, is it a fiction you are also telling yourself?”
10
The rear left wheel on the carriage cracked six miles north of Ide Hill, leaving William, Tansy, and Clemency stranded beside a vastly green and depressingly empty pasture. The wet mist of morning had never dissipated, trapped beneath a threatening gray canopy of clouds, the view in every direction a little muzzy, the feel of the day itself sinister, cold, and damp. They had left their lodgings at Tonbridge behind at half-past six, and while rain threatened they had made good time on the road to London until the wheel gave out, wedged into a deep, rocky hole, splintering when the horses lurched forward at the crack of the driver’s whip.
Presently, William and their driver, Mr. Dandle, stood outside in the chill fog inspecting the damage. They had managed to push the carriage off the road and onto the edge of the pasture, where it sat, the horses stamping and idle, while the men discussed what to do.
Clemency craned her neck to watch them, forehead against the glass, Tansy chewing the edge of her finger on the bench across from her.
“Mr. Dandle will need to unhitch one of the horses and go for aid,” Clemency said with a sigh. “I do not think we shall be moving again for hours and hours.”
“What an ill start.” Tansy pouted. She darted across the seats suddenly, huddling close to Clemency. “Oh dear. You do not think there are many highwaymen in Kent, do you?”
Clemency smiled and pulled off her bonnet, setting it in her lap and preparing for a protracted wait. At least Tansy was amusing company, and she had packed several books that could easily and pleasantly dissolve the hours. Somehow, she doubted Tansy shared her enthusiasm over the prospect of protracted reading time. “I think we should die of boredom, Tansy, long before we die at the hands of criminals.”
“Let us pray that you are right. I must say, I am glad we are traveling together,” Tansy said, smiling as she leaned back on the seat, rolling her eyes up to stare at the ceiling. “Otherwise I should be stranded alone in this carriage with nobody to comfort me. Sometimes I think your mother’s poor nerves have spread to me like the pox!”
The men outside had stopped talking, both of them turning north to face the road. Clemency squirmed for a better vantage but could not see what they might be observing. Her breath fogged the glass as she spoke.
“I see the bravery to set sail on adventures of commerce and fortune does not run in the blood, then,” Clemency teased.
“No! Not at all. And anyway, I have my mother’s constitution. She always hated the sea; she could never keep her feet even on a ferry.”
“I think someone is coming,” Clemency said, at last spying the object in the distance traveling swiftly down the road toward them. “Another carriage.”
“We are saved!”
“If they stop…” Clemency unlatched the door and helped herself down, while Tansy squealed with fright behind her.
“You must stay inside! What if those are the highwaymen? You mustn’t leave me all alone in here!”
“They would be very fashionable robbers, indeed,” Clemency called back. She gestured for Tansy to join her but her sister-in-law would not budge. Shrugging, Clemency shut the door and wedged her bonnet back on her head, tying it tightly against the blustering wind. Then she trudged over to where William and Mr. Dandle stood waving to get the oncoming coachman’s attention.
“Ah. Clemency. Yes, do stand there, perhaps the enticement of a damsel will encourage these folk to stop,” William said. He smirked at her, his right fist propped on his hip, holding his long, black coat open while Dandle waved his hat above his head and shouted.
“I shall prepare to swoon,” Clemency said, chuckling. “As all damsels must.”
The approaching carriage had to belong to someone genteel, for it was not so shabby as one used by the post or for paying passengers. Well-polished and trim, the carriage rattled toward them with a team of four matching black horses. As it drew closer, Clemency frowned, for it looked rather familiar….
“I’ll be damned,” William cursed, shouting happily. “That’s Jack Connors.”
Clemency went rigid. Jack Connors did not have an enviable reputation in Round Orchard. He was considered a vagabond and a drunk, only his money protecting him from real social scorn and snubbing. Her direct interactions with the man were limited, as he usually kept to himself with the gentlemen at assemblies and balls, debauching in billiards rooms where no lady dared to tread.
“Do you know him well?” Clemency asked.
The carriage slowed, the driver noting their distress and reining in the horses accordingly. A spray of gravel arced across the pebbly dirt road, and Dandle hurried out in front of the horses to direct the other driver away from the hole that had caused their misfortune.
“Not really. Well enough to ask for assistance. Jack Connors is a useless sort of man, unfit to run a house, unfit to manage tenants, fit only for drinking and gambling, but he can be amiable. Certainly he is harmless,” William replied. He took off his hat and fixed his tangle of golden curls, which had grown damp from standing in the mist. He had their father’s tall, thin frame and soft, pot-bellied middle, but his face remained handsome, and he projected a protective authority that always soothed her.
“He and Turner Boyle could be quarreling,” Clemency added in a low tone. William shot her a glance from his height, his lip curling in annoyance.
“That is hardly reason to ignore us,” William replied. “Rendering aid is the gentlemanly thing to do.”
“I’m simply warning you,” she said, also growing annoyed. “If he seems chilly, there is a reason.”
“Be quiet and pleasant, then; I do not fancy freezing to death here while Dandle rides for aid.”
Clemency scoffed and turned away, retreating a few steps behind her brother and Dandle to fidget with her gloves. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Connors’s carriage swerve to the opposite side of the lane. The driver pulled down a woolen scarf from his mouth and called to them.
“Is there trouble?”
The door swung open a moment later and Jack Connors appeared. He was dressed in a heavy green coat, an ermine draped haphazardly around his shoulders. He had a collier’s body, thick as a stump, a square head, and quick, small eyes that fixed on each thing in turn, suggesting a measured wit that Clemency sincerely doubted he possessed. His black hair was kept very short, making his big, protruding ears more noticeable.
“Trouble?” Jack Connors echoed, hurrying over to them. His eyes lingered on Clemency and he frowned, as if trying to remember where he had seen her before.
“Wheel is shot,” William said, approaching and taking the hand Connors offered in friendship.
“Well, it’s William Fry, what a chance!” Connors guffawed boyishly. Stupidly. Clemency berated herself for being so mean, but she considered him an accomplice to her intended’s deceptions. She wondered how a man with a reputation for not holding his drink had managed to remain friends with Turner Boyle without throwing a punch.
“Are you traveling alone?” William asked, stepping back while Dandle and the other driver attended to the broken wheel.
“I am, I am,” Connors replied. His gaze kept flicking to Clemency in a way that made her squirm. “Up to London. Some, um, some business there.”
She tried not to roll her eyes. How incredibly vague. And could it be a coincidence that the man who had accused Connors of stealing from him and then stormed off was also recently removed to London? She made her face into a steely mask.
“I have here my sister and my wife, and if there is room for them, I beg you take them on,” William explained, gesturing to Clemency and then the carriage. “We are also bound for London, and I would be in your debt for any assistance—”
“There’s room enough for the whole party,” Connors replied. “Your man can ride ahead for the parts, then meet us in Croydon, and there you can resume as planned, or hire a new carriage. Of course, you’re welcome to join me for the remainder, but I would not presume…”
“Thank you, sir, truly,” William said, beaming. “Let us to Croydon, and firm up our plans there. Anything, I say, to be out of this cursed damp.”
Connors nodded and swept his hand toward his own carriage. “Hear, hear.”
William leapt to open the door to his carriage and help Tansy down, and Clemency wandered a few steps away, wringing her hands and pacing. They needed the help, obviously, but the prospect of being stuck in a small box with Jack Connors for hours on end did not exactly please her. She heard the gravel behind her crunch as he came to her side, and Clemency pasted on a neutral smile, turning to regard him with a polite curtsey.
“Mr. Connors,” she said, blank. “Thank you so much for your kindness.”
“It is no trouble, Miss Fry, and lucky that I happened by.”
He offered his arm and reluctantly she took it, trying to hold herself as far away from his hip as she could. They took the walk to his carriage in silence, but she knew a man bursting to speak when she saw one. He seemed to hum with unsaid words, his jaw set and tense as he offered the flat of his palm while she hoisted herself into the carriage. It smelled like a brewery inside.
Clemency flattened herself against the opposite door while Tansy was fetched, and while William and Connors had a word with the drivers.
“How lucky,” Tansy cooed, nestled down into her heavy shawl across from Clemency.
She was about to suggest that Tansy join her on the same bench when the men returned, cutting her off, Jack Connors settling his bulk onto the seat next to her. It was suddenly very difficult to breathe. A million questions sprang to mind, but fortunately, William instantly launched into talk of what the neighboring farms could expect, and the local predictions for when the summer weather would properly begin. It afforded her the perfect opportunity to stare out the window and say nothing.
By and by, Tansy fell asleep, the afternoon whittled away by the two men conversing over the dull, serious things men of little acquaintance had to discuss. As the sun slipped to the horizon, even William succumbed to his drowsiness, his head falling onto Tansy’s shoulder while the two of them dozed, leaving Clemency and Mr. Connors in a taut, unfriendly silence.
“Time for tea, or well past it,” he said, puffing out an anxious breath and pulling a small bottle of sherry from inside his coat and uncorking it.
“You favor a potent brew, sir,” Clemency murmured, still gazing out the window. She knew then that, wedged into the seat beside him, there was no avoiding conversation. Briefly she had considered pretending to fall asleep—she did feel tired. Not just because of the long journey and the many stops on the road from Round Orchard to London, but weary in her bones. She felt tired of being caught between Boyle and Ferrand, for she was wise enough not to fully trust either of them. Even if Mr. Ferrand now sought to bring her into his scheme and pretend that they were equals in the execution of it, she did not believe for an instant that he had told her the full truth. There was something sly in his eyes, as ever present as the danger she saw lurking there.
Jack Connors chuckled and did not disagree with her.
Clemency shifted uneasily. She had lived on unsteady feet since her last interaction with Audric—a sensation like walking on constantly shifting sands. Half of her dreaded arriving in London, the other half of her eagerly awaited their next encounter. No matter how she tried to distract herself, her thoughts always returned to the pressure of his finger against her lips. It was as if with that single touch he had sewn a stitch to her skin, and it tugged and tugged, reminding her not only of his existence, but of the great distance between them. The farther he went, the more the pain of that pull seemed to be.
Something brushed her sleeve. Clemency sat up straighter, turning to find Jack Connors was offering her the bottle, the glass still shiny from his mouth.
“I did not think to find you so hospitable, sir,” Clemency said softly. She took the bottle from him, regarding it. She knew nothing about sherry, but the label looked expensive.
“Ah,” he said and fixed his small, intense eyes upon her, heaving a drastic sigh. “Because of our…shared acquaintance?”
Clemency drank quickly from the bottle, hoping that her brother was well and truly asleep. He would be scandalized to see her swigging alcohol like a pirate. But if she was to get any information at all from Jack Connors, she needed to earn his trust. God only knew what Turner Boyle had told him about her. Clemency handed him the sherry bottle and choked down the liquor; it burned and made two points of heat flare on her cheeks.
“You do not appear overly cross with him,” Clemency observed. “Strange.”
