The Proposition, page 16
Clemency’s eyes shifted slowly to Arabella and Adeline, and her only feeling toward the girls became abject pity. Well. They had traced the source of the girls’ lifelessness, and it was their mother’s doing. Mystery solved. She wondered what the sisters might become, how they might change, if let loose in a well-stocked library for a few months. Their only relationship with books, Clemency thought, was balancing them on their heads to refine their posture.
Sensing Tansy’s growing nervousness, Clemency held her tongue, deciding that it was not the time to defend her love of Bethany Taylor, Maria Edgeworth, Samuel Richardson, Fanny Burney, and Ann Radcliffe. What good would it do? Women of Lady Veitch’s age were set in their ways, and it was not worth aggravating her simply to prove a point.
A belief in one’s own cleverness indeed.
“What sound advice,” Clemency murmured, feeling Tansy exhale with gratitude beside her.
Lady Margaret nodded, adamant, and continued, “Knowledge is bitter, it robs the face of a round and feminine sweetness. It produces a rigid aspect to the face. I do not think you have read too much just yet, Miss Fry, for your beauty is not in question.”
“Is that so?” Clemency fought to keep her voice from straining. “And what, if a woman did overstep and indulge too much in reading, could be done to restore this…sweetness?”
She expected Lady Margaret to entertain them all with another speech, but Turner Boyle chose that moment to join them. He strode to the space between Clemency’s chair and the widow, propping the back of his left hand on one hip.
“If music be the food of love,” Boyle quoted irritatingly, “perhaps it is also the restorative one might seek.”
At his arrival, Lady Margaret and her daughters brightened. “There is Lord Boyle, our songbird. What a gallant voice you have. All gentlemen should sing as you do, with the clarity of heaven’s own trumpets.”
He gave a polite little bow and pursed his lips in a shy way. “That is too much praise for me, Your Ladyship. It was only the fineness of the room, its shape and size, that made the performance gallant, as you say. And some credit must go to Lord Ede. I have had the pleasure of accompanying him to hear Haydn and Mozart, and he has contributed greatly to my education on that score.”
There was that name again. It was like a glass of cool wine, bringing a vibrating smile to Lady Veitch’s mouth the moment he said it.
And Tansy’s lovely playing, she added for him silently.
“It is a very fine little room,” Lady Veitch preened.
“It is perfect,” Lord Boyle insisted. “I should rather hear a small, intimate performance here than attend a grand production at the Théâtre des Arts.”
Lady Veitch clapped her fan lightly against her palm and tossed her head, charmed. “Oh, but what do the French know about opera?” She laughed and laughed, and Lord Boyle and Tansy joined in. William wandered over, standing stiff and awkward behind Tansy. He looked frightfully out of place, a gentleman, surely, but not one made for the endless exchange of escalating compliments and deflections that made up an afternoon tea with the excessively coddled. They traded a trapped, sullen look over Tansy’s shoulder.
“In fact, what do the French know about anything?” Lord Boyle asked, drawing a scream of laughter from Lady Veitch.
Clemency boiled. She could not lash out at Lord Boyle in any meaningful way, not there, and certainly not while she was meant to be playing the dutiful wife-to-be. And so she smiled primly and squinted up at him. “The Théâtre des Arts…Pray, when were you last in Paris?”
Was it before or after you destroyed, perhaps indefinitely, an innocent young girl’s heart?
It was briefly satisfying to watch him struggle to answer. “Of course…Well, it was…” He finally shrugged and gave up searching for an accurate answer. “It hardly matters…Journeys abroad so tend to run together. One is always a bit blurry from the weariness and travel.”
“Well stated,” Lady Veitch said, unfurling her fan again and fluffing it near her chin. “I myself have never been to Paris, but I am sure there are superior amusements to be found here in town.”
“And if one is in France, then one must inevitably put up with Frenchmen, and who could possibly abide that?”
That went over even better, and a snide little chuckle chased around the room.
“Pray,” Clemency began, her voice pinched, “who is Denning Ede? You both seem to think highly of the man.”
“Who is…” Lady Veitch nearly collapsed. “He is the keeper of polite society, the arbiter of all good company, a bosom companion of King George himself!”
Clemency could only imagine what Turner could be doing with the arbiter of all good company. Boyle was suddenly quiet and steady, watching her.
“Influential in Parliament,” Turner added. It seemed only for her benefit, and a threat.
“Influential everywhere,” said Lady Veitch. “In a town rife with scandal, he is true north, how fortunate Lord Boyle is to be so frequently at his side.”
The man sounded like a veritable bulldog, yet Boyle had him fooled. How, she wondered, was such a thing possible? The enemy of my enemy, she thought, realizing that Ede’s spotless reputation was now masking Boyle’s treachery. Audric would certainly know more, and so would she. Soon. Clemency painted on an unwavering smile and stood, Stevens dodging closer to take the cup of unfinished tonic from her. Her movement stifled the laughter, and Lady Margaret glared at her as if punishing her for ruining their fun.
“Miss Fry?” she asked.
“I am suddenly so hot,” Clemency murmured. “The view from your balcony looks exquisite, Lady Veitch, might I see it?”
“Let me escort you, here,” Boyle said, solicitous, jumping to take her arm.
“Stevens? Show them,” Lady Veitch commanded, gesturing them away with her fan. Before they had taken a single step, she had already returned to discussing the layout of the room with Tansy, and describing the Indian mural she wanted to place above the fireplace in that room, all of it in glass tiles, the glazing would be exorbitant but so worth it….
“She is terrible,” Boyle breathed when they had walked from the sofas to the other side of the room, out two tall French doors and onto a balcony decorated with a profusion of ferns in white clay pots.
Clemency closed her eyes. The breeze rolling in from the park smelled lightly of violets. Common dog-violets were probably blooming all over Mayfair, lending their delicate perfume to the neighborhood. She had always found it curious that something that smelled so charming came with such an unfortunate name.
“You seem to be enjoying her company. And anyway, she is rich,” Clemency corrected him. “She is exactly how one would expect her to be.”
“That’s harsh. I am sure there are many people with more wealth and better sense,” Boyle replied. His tone was not argumentative; it had not been, not for a single moment, since they reunited in London. Clemency glanced over at him, to maintain her façade of friendliness, and for a moment, she could forget all that he was. When he was not lying to her or berating her or snubbing her, he was effortlessly pleasant. It had been that way between them before he proposed, and she had imagined herself passing many years in his company, the two of them the rare and special love match.
“Surely not all of the very wealthy are so ridiculous,” he stated with some finality.
“Like you, for example,” she replied. “You are not ridiculous.”
Or rich.
“There,” Boyle said, beaming. “You have settled it. So clever you are, undoubtedly from all that ill-advised reading.”
A joke! How sweet. Clemency nodded absently. His statement was true enough. Audric, though not of the nobility, had a fortune to rival Lady Veitch’s, and he was not ridiculous. No, he was something special. Someone special.
Now her imagination presented her with a more tantalizing possibility—passing many years in Audric’s company, the two of them giggling at the Veitches of the world, never taking themselves too seriously or letting his money rob them of compassion and humility. Perhaps they could do some real good with it, open an orphanage or a home for unfortunate mothers, something to address the unfair stipulations of society that had caused Delphine her pain. They could be the rare and special love match…
She blinked, hard, and felt her breath come quicker at the mere thought of Audric. Four nights was hardly an age, but she already looked forward to, and perhaps pined for, the next time their paths would cross.
“You look so beautiful just now,” Lord Boyle whispered. Her skin ignited, not with passion but with revulsion. Still, she let him take her hand, lift it to his lips, and brush a kiss across her knuckles. To withstand it, to keep from striking him, she imagined Audric’s lips there instead. Or where his lips had been before, tightly pressed to hers. “This light,” he added, “this gown, whatever womanly secret is making your eyes sparkle like that…”
At that, she smiled genuinely. “Alas, a lady never tells.”
He kissed her hand again. Clemency noticed the edge of a bruise near his shirt collar, the remnant of some brawl over a woman or a debt, no doubt. What would the angelic Denning Ede have to say about that? She stared at the well-formed lips that had just kissed her hand twice and imagined honeyed lies pouring out of them, fooling Delphine, and Ede, and Lady Veitch. Fooling her.
Fooling the world.
Her hand curled up in his grasp like a dead spider. Before he could notice, she jerked it away and went to place her palms on the bannister.
“A dressmaker is coming to the house tomorrow,” she said, adopting a lighthearted tone. “I am to choose the fabrics and lace for the wedding gown. Honora was planning to help me sew it, but Tansy says none of the ladies in London do that. They all go to this dressmaker. It is the fashionable thing to do.”
“Then, you should do it. I want you to have the best things.”
Clemency smirked into the wind. She had agreed to make Boyle feel secure in his finances. “I can make do, Turner, there is no need to strain your resources.”
He gave a low, rumbling chuckle and sidled up next to her, his hip brushing hers. It was an agony to stay still and let him touch her lower back, but an agony she endured for the sake of the plan. None of it would hurt as it should if he was not fully, truly in love with her. It was no small feat to make a career swindler recommit his heart, but Clemency would find a way.
“It is the least I can do,” he murmured. “After the way I acted, the things I said to you…giving you a wedding that will be the envy of the ton is a little, little thing.”
“Nothing too extravagant,” Clemency murmured. “But it will be nice to meet this dressmaker.”
“Of course it will be. Shame I cannot be there for an introduction,” he said with a sigh. As he always did when nervous, Turner Boyle pushed his hand through his mop of red curls. “There are a number of debts I need to attend to, now, of course, before we begin our life together. I do not want another incident like the one in Round Orchard. I will never forget the embarrassment.”
Clemency played the sad maiden and bit down on her lower lip. It was a mystery to her how he intended to keep the charade going. Would he really find a way to pay for her wedding gown? For a house? Just how influential was this Denning Ede person? When did he intend to make it clear that something had gone awry and their only funds would be her dowry and whatever they could beg off her father and the Bagshots?
His first night with them at the Bagshots’, William had naturally brought up the help Jack Connors had given them in getting safely to London. She had watched, intrigued, as a fascinating array of emotions played across Turner’s face. As her brother spoke, she could all but see Turner calculating what to say and how, though in the end he simply stated that he and Mr. Connors were no longer associated with each other, but he was pleased that they had all arrived in town without a scratch.
Clemency wondered if that was really true, if he was avoiding Mr. Connors even after the poor, strange man had gone out of his way to defend Turner. Lies on top of lies. When, she wondered, would the house of brittle kindling collapse and burn?
“Miss Fry! Miss Fry…” Lady Veitch’s screech pierced the peaceful quiet of the balcony. “Stevens? Stevens! Bring her in at once. All that cold air will undo the tonic’s effects completely! I say, Stevens, fetch them here to me at once!”
“Back into the fray?” Boyle asked, offering her his arm with a sly, exasperated smile.
Clemency was silent, and nodded, and forced her arm to obey and touch him. This is not the fray, Lord Boyle, she thought. You will know when the fray truly comes, when we bring it to you. There will be no mistaking it.
13
She had written to her sister twice already while in London, but on the fifth day of her visit she couldn’t help it, she wrote Honora again.
My dearest Nora,
Words cannot express how much I miss and need you. I know I begged you to join me here in the last letter, but I will beg you again. Oh, Nora, though it seems like all is calmness and tranquility, inside me it is chaos. Today I chose the fabric and lace and ribbon for my wedding gown. A gown for a wedding that must not be! Tansy was consumed with delight, and soon I must break her heart, and Mother’s heart, and tell them that it is all a great farce. What I have learned about my intended is so unspeakably terrible that I dare not write it down here. It concerns another woman and a matter of utmost privacy, and I may never be able to tell you the details of what occurred. Suffice it to say that you must imagine he has done the worst possible thing, and then think of something even graver.
In a fortnight it will all come crashing down around my ears. There is an assembly at Almack’s and that will be the night when he is unmasked before the whole of society as a liar and a scoundrel. Until then, I must make him believe that I am more in love and more devoted than ever. I should hate to do it, but sometimes, Nora, I confess it gives me pleasure. It has become a little game to see how much I can grow his attachment to me before it is severed altogether. Now he wants our money, but perhaps I can coax true feeling from him.
How do you fare? And how is father? I so worry about him when I am not there. It must be miserable indeed to spend each day alone with our mother. I am sure she is all talk of London, and I am all talk of London, and now you are attacked from all sides. Selfishly, I hope it convinces you to come to me. But if it is not too terrible there, then you must stay and be happy, and keep yourself in good cheer and health. I have not yet delivered your letter because I am a lacking sister, but I promise to see it safely to its destination tomorrow. It has rained all morning, and I fear it will persist until evening.
Please be well, and do not worry about me at all. I am not suffering, and I feel quite safe and happy with Tansy and William. You will be very proud of me that Mr. Ferrand is not mentioned at all in this letter. I hardly think of him when he is not near.
Very well, I occasionally think of him. But only the right amount.
I remain your loving sister,
C
Clemency carried the sealed letter down to the front hall and found Mr. Bagshot’s long-suffering valet, Langston, who greeted her with a swallowed sigh. That was fine. She could hardly begrudge him his frustrations, with her sending letters almost constantly, and to the same recipient.
“Yes,” she said with a shy smile. “Another letter.”
“Of course, Miss Fry,” he said, taking the letter and the coin she had brought for the posting.
“Last one,” Clemency murmured. “I promise.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Langston pivoted on his foot and strode swiftly toward the front door. He was already through it when Clemency noticed that he had dropped a small sealed letter in his wake. Hurrying after him, she scooped up the message, adjusting the veil under her bonnet, for she had been readying herself to join Tansy on a walk through the neighborhood. That would have to wait, she realized, finding that fate had just intervened in her plans.
The letter had come for Turner Boyle, but it had not been opened and was marked to be returned to the original sender. It had come from Mr. Connors, and his London address was listed there too.
Voices echoed from the hall near the kitchen, and Clemency shoved the little square of parchment into the neck of her dress and pretended to rebutton her gloves just as Tansy arrived, dismissing her maid as she swept into the foyer.
“Shall we go?” asked Tansy. Lady Veitch had clearly sent over gifts of friendship, dressing Tansy like her own doll in Indian silks. The vivid magenta frock did suit her, Clemency thought with a sigh.
“Might it wait? My stomach is unsettled from breakfast.”
“Nonsense!” Tansy hooked their arms together and marched toward the front door. There was no sign of Langston as the girls left, and he had apparently failed to notice the dropped letter. “A turn about the neighborhood is exactly what you need. There is the most darling park not far from here, with a willow tree and a bench; it is where William proposed to me.”
Clemency shifted, trying to urge the letter deeper into her muslin gown, concerned that the shape of it wedged against her corset would be noticeable. Nodding, she used her left hand to untuck her fichu and then drape it awkwardly across her bosom, hoping for better concealment. How in heaven was she supposed to concentrate on what Tansy was saying when that thing was burning a hole through her undergarments?
“I should like to see the spot,” Clemency said, finding that it was now a fine day, though a bank of clouds to the south looked to threaten rain again. “I hope I can be as happy as you and my brother, as happy as Honora was with Edwyn.”
