The Proposition, page 5
“Mr. Ferrand?” Honora asked. “The one Amy seemed so excited about?”
“The very same.” Drawing in a shaky breath, Clemency collected her thoughts before continuing. She felt nervous and tender, as if her entire body had become one big bruise. “He has had some previous dealings with Turner Boyle, though he did not elaborate, but the implications are grave.”
“How are they acquainted?”
Clemency shook her head, rustling the scraps of fabric tied into her red-gold hair. “I am not certain, but Turner must have done something despicable to the man, for Mr. Ferrand is determined to see him destroyed.”
“Destroyed!” Honora tucked her feet up onto the bed and turned toward her fully, taking Clemency’s hands in hers. “Yet he gave you no reasons?”
“One,” she whispered. Her throat was closing up around it, around the ugly allegation. She didn’t want to speak it aloud. “He claims…He claims that Turner Boyle is not the man we know, or purport to know, that he is not even a baron. But I looked into the man’s eyes, and I suspect he would accuse Turner of far greater evils.”
Honora was struck speechless. Her mouth hung open as she squeezed Clemency’s hands. Then she frowned and exhaled through her nose, taking back the brush and running it swiftly, anxiously through her tumble of dark hair. “No. That cannot be. Papa gave your match his blessing, and Papa is an excellent judge of character.”
“But would he know?” Clemency replied. “If everything we know about Turner is a fiction, then he must have taken great pains to make the story believable. I doubt Papa actually investigated the Boyle lineage. No, Nora, think. We have all taken him at his word. We had no reason not to.”
“Then you believe Mr. Ferrand?” her sister asked, cocking her head to the side. “Lord, he must have been persuasive.”
“I do not believe him,” Clemency hurriedly assured her. “Before we were interrupted I demanded proof, of course. I shall wait to receive it and then make up my mind.”
“Sensible of you,” Honora said with a laugh. “I for one cannot counsel you to believe a man of such short acquaintance, or one with such a dark agenda. After all you have spent adequate time in Boyle’s company, surely you would have noticed if something was awry?”
Clemency picked at the lace hem of her nightgown and sucked in her cheeks, ashamed. “You should have heard the way he spoke to me tonight, Nora. You might think differently if you had.”
“Men lose their tempers,” Honora told her, sounding more like a mother than an older sister. “I should know; I was married to one for nearly two years. Edwyn never raised his voice, but he had his moments. They were always troubling, those moments. Once, I dropped a necklace that belonged to his mother; there was not even a scratch upon it after inspection, but Edwyn did not speak to me for days. It seemed a cruel punishment for such a small crime. When such things happened, I always wondered to myself: Do I know this man or have I committed myself to a pleasant image?” She sighed and looked momentarily lost. “Perhaps it is the pressure of your impending nuptials, the confines of marriage might frighten Boyle.”
It was becoming plain that Honora would remain firmly on Turner Boyle’s side. And that might be for the best. Clemency had come seeking her sister’s opinion, and now she had it. It was wise, she concluded, to wait until she knew more; rushing to judgment would cause only heartache. And Honora was correct—surely Boyle could not construct a title out of whole cloth?
“My sweet Nora.” Clemency crawled off the bed, then leaned over and kissed the top of Honora’s head. “Your weakness is that you see the good in absolutely everyone.”
“There are worse faults,” Honora replied, setting the brush on the bedside table and beginning to braid her hair into a plait for sleeping. “See the good in yourself, dearest, and trust it. In your heart you know the truth, with or without Mr. Ferrand’s proof.”
“I assure you I do not,” Clemency said, then sighed as she let herself through the short door joining their rooms. “My heart is all puzzlement.”
When the door was latched and her own room lit with only a single candle, Clemency climbed under the thick blankets of her four-post bed. She traced the shapes on the tapestried canopy, her mind as jumbled as her heart. Honora had never given her bad advice before, and truly, it was absurd that Mr. Ferrand should be believed when Clemency had no guarantee of his credibility. He wanted her help and her trust, but he had done nothing to earn it. By contrast, Turner had, at least for a while, shown her courtesy and favor, and loved her well before her own loudly felt feelings imperiled their marriage. By that alone, Turner had the advantage. He would keep it, she decided, closing her eyes, unless undeniable proof of lies came to light.
There. That settled it. Clemency pretended to be satisfied and told herself it would probably all come to nothing. She vowed to go to bed thinking of ways to be a calmer, more contained woman, a proper English wife for Turner. Perhaps she might take up the pen and continue where Miss Taylor left off. Yes, she could be quiet and tolerable behind a desk, head bent over the page, lips sealed as she churned out warnings more urgent and convicted than Miss Taylor’s. She would find ways to be disobedient where she could.
Clemency realized sleep would not be swift in coming. Going to the window, she opened the curtains and ushered in the moon and starlight, then sank down against the cool glass, picking up a book left there in a pile with several others. It was her copy of Evelina, by Fanny Burney, read and loved almost to tatters. She opened to the marked place and read.
It seldom happens that a man, though extolled as a saint, is really without blemish; or that another, though reviled as a devil, is really without humanity.
What would Boyle prove to be? Saint or devil? She shook her head and decided not to think of him for the rest of the night.
And further, she would not, she promised herself, think of Mr. Ferrand’s cutting green eyes.
5
“Audric! You have returned so soon! And here I expected you to dance until dawn, brother.”
Delphine roused herself from her chair by the fire at his entrance. Their room in the Heathfield boardinghouse was the most luxurious on offer, with two bedrooms adjoining a spacious enough central chamber, with the amenities for dining and sitting. The most handsome feature in the room was the large stone fireplace behind his sister. At the dining table, his valet, Ralston, had been playing cards against himself. Ralston also stood, rigid and blank-faced, with raven black hair pulled into a tail, his coat simple and clean, and his boots immaculate.
Audric couldn’t help but feel a hitch in his heart when he saw his sister. Leaving her always pained him, for her health was so variable, and he constantly feared that he would walk out the door and return to find her lifeless in her bed.
But Delphine was alive, of course, and watching him with a pretty, bemused smile. He laughed and crossed toward her, shucking his greatcoat and handing it to Ralston as he passed. “Ah, you know me so well, poupette. Sit now, do not trouble yourself.”
“Please. I despise that name.” She did as he asked, and Ralston brought a second chair to face hers.
“Thank you, Ralston. We will not need you just now.” Dismissed, Ralston saw to Audric’s coat and then bowed, leaving them alone with the crackle of the fire and the muted voices coming from the dining hall below. It was good to give him a little time off, to enjoy himself at cards or to indulge in a pint with the other men of his class patronizing the inn.
Dropping down into the cushioned seat across from Delphine, Audric sighed and rubbed his temples. “Forgive me, Delphine, I have had a difficult evening.”
“Indeed. On one of your quests. The others I have tolerated, but you know I do not like this. Do not say another word about it, please, it gives me a headache. Instead tell me of the gowns and sweets. Tell me about the lovely things, brother, I cannot bear any darkness tonight. Shall I have tea brought up?”
“No, no.” He waved her off. “I should soon be abed.” As if to taunt him, the noise seeping through the floorboards grew louder. The punters were raucous indeed that night. “Curse it. We must get out of this infernal place. Do you not find it drafty? Our new accommodations will be ready tomorrow. It sounds tolerable enough. Beswick allegedly has a serviceable view of the river.”
Tolerable, serviceable, but nothing compared to their country home, Fox Ridge, in Reims. Its equal was not to be found in Round Orchard, or indeed in all of England. He spent less and less time at Fox Ridge, feeling it was too full of ghosts. No matter where he went, or what portrait he passed, he felt the unswerving, disapproving gaze of his dead father. Yet Delphine always looked so at ease there, in her natural element, surrounded by the elegant furnishings chosen by their mother. Both of their parents were gone now, and it fell to Audric to care for his younger sister.
He grimaced. Lord, but he had done a terrible job of it. He had not protected her as he should, but that was all different now. His aim—his only aim—was to make her life as comfortable and safe as possible. Finding the right place to wait out their stay in Round Orchard was a start.
How long that would be, he could not say, but he planned for the worst and hoped for the best. It all depended on how quickly he could bring Miss Fry around to his way of seeing things. He rubbed his temples harder, disliking the way her gray eyes danced in front of his vision, as if burned there.
“Brother?”
He snapped his eyes open, staring into his sister’s comely face. Five years of convalescence had not been enough to heal the traces of sickly paleness that still clung to her like morning mist. She had their mother’s doe-like brown eyes and the thick, lustrous black lashes that they both shared. Her hair matched his, dark and full. While a measure of vigor danced there in her gaze, she was a frail girl, with twig-thin shoulders. No matter how often her dresser came, she seemed constantly to swim in her frocks, sinking into them as if wasting away before his very eyes.
“Lovely things,” he murmured, hoarse. Delphine nudged his foot with hers. “There were many fine white dresses, with the long trains and large sleeves. I think that is the fashion now, yes?”
“It is,” she said, sounding disappointed. “But I so prefer colors.”
There was one extraordinary sapphire-blue gown, but Audric avoided telling her of it. After all she had demanded that he not bring up his schemes, and the woman wearing that frock was part of the plot. He didn’t trust himself to describe the gown without somehow giving himself away.
“Harrop Hall is quite grand. I might compare it to the Baudins’ estate.”
“Oh, but I adore their home. I so wish I could have come with you, Audric. You must realize it is terribly unfair to leave me behind all the time,” she said, pouting. “I would have worn a crimson gown, just to shock them all!”
He snorted softly and grinned. “When you are recovered, then you can attend as many balls as you like and host as many as you like. I will happily finance them all.”
“We do not have any friends here to invite,” Delphine pointed out. She shrugged and looked toward the fire, the flames bouncing in her wide, glossy eyes. “And I will never be recovered.”
Audric squeezed his eyes shut. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, searching for the right words. The cholera had nearly killed her, but what came after was somehow worse; the slow, inexorable decline of her joy, her once-bright candle dwindling to a meager suggestion of flame. He suspected now it was more a malady of the spirit than the body that ravaged her. And he did not, in truth, know if she would ever heal completely. It felt as if they had visited every doctor on the continent, and they all had plenty of answers but no cures.
A fortune had been spent in the pursuit of her well-being, and Audric would spend it another hundred times more if he must.
“Do not speak that way,” he finally said. “The house will soon be arranged and you can leave behind this drear place.That will cheer us both.” At that, Delphine brightened and Audric clung to that tiny spark. “You may furnish it however you like, or keep what is already there, or do as you please. I know how you prefer a pastoral view, and now you shall have a river of your very own.”
Delphine nodded, her melancholy forgotten. “I should like very much to read by the river, and there will be so many birds to enjoy! But not to shoot, Audric, you know how much I loathe hunting.”
“Whatever you wish, sister,” Audric said, climbing to his feet. He found himself abruptly exhausted and turned away toward his bedchamber to cover his yawn.
“Audric…”
“Yes, Delphine?” He paused outside the door, longing to fall into bed.
“I would like to hold a ball one day,” she said, sitting very still by the fire.
“Of course, and you will, poupette.”
She wrinkled her nose. “And friends. I should like to have some.”
“You will.”
“Audric…”
Turning, he leaned against the door, skewering her with his best “Now what?” older brother glare.
“What happened tonight?”
He had expected her to chide him, perhaps, or to make another small, charming demand, but this question required the complex maneuvering his tired brain struggled to provide. The hesitation and silence, however brief, only made Delphine squint and study him more closely.
“That little muscle in your jaw has not stopped moving since you walked through the door,” she added primly. Audric touched his face, rubbing the place she meant. He hadn’t noticed, but then, he also didn’t doubt her observations; Delphine knew him too well for that.
“So?” she prompted. “What happened?”
Audric grumbled at her prodding, then muttered, “You distinctly asked me not to discuss the plans that brought us here, Delphine.”
His warning tone did not dissuade her. Delphine simply shrugged and returned her attention to the fire. The victory was written all over her face. “Then I will not ask who she is,” she said softly. “Or how beautiful she must be to provoke a response from the unflappable Mr. Ferrand.”
* * *
—
A brisk morning walk was the most reliable cure on earth, according to Clemency Fry. As she strode across the empty, wildflowered fields northeast of Claridge, she felt quite the changed woman. The cool air sweeping down from the river to the north was the final ingredient in the tonic that brought her mind and heart relief. A bit of reading and a long night’s sleep had done her immense good, and having slept on her sister’s recommendations, she found them even more sensible in the renewing light of a quiet Saturday.
The world looked brighter, and though Clemency had not found perfect clarity, she had at least left her bed to find that the world had not ended.
Mrs. Barnes, their cook, had even baked her favorite rolls, glazed with ginger butter, and served with the precious rose congou tea sent by Tansy’s family. Clemency could drink buckets of the gently floral tea with just a hint of cream, but she had savored her one allotted cup while her mother gave them an excruciatingly detailed recollection of the ball they had all attended. Her added commentary was occasionally amusing in its outlandishness, but Clemency’s mind hovered elsewhere. Nobody noted her, all attention paid to Honora’s health and general state of being after her fainting spell the night before, and Turner Boyle did not join them, leaving Clemency to linger over her breakfast in relative peace.
He was not far from her thoughts, of course, but the night’s sleep, comforting breakfast, and now galvanizing walk through the fields had somewhat dulled the urgency of the whole affair.
Sordid affair.
No. She refused to allow Mr. Ferrand access to her mind at all. Until his “evidence” materialized, Clemency lived in a Ferrand-free universe.
The day’s sunlight had melted the frost, leaving the grass slick and cold. Clemency carried a dark shawl and rubbed it across her chilly arms. Her hem gradually became sodden as she marched through the flowers and weeds, but her pace kept her warm, and at last she pulled the bonnet off her head and held it in her gloved right hand as the land dipped, rolling down toward the thin blue ribbon of river that separated the north fields from the next property. Across that river lay a great house near triple the size of Claridge, but with so much land it could not even be seen from those fields. The house itself sat atop a high, wooded hill, the abundance of cypress and rowan trees clustered around it lending it a private, secretive air. It could be seen clearly only from the drive and the frontal approach, it being otherwise concealed from the public like a coquettish beauty, wary of prying eyes.
Claridge, though by no means a known Sussex destination, nonetheless held a special place in her heart. It felt like the brown brick beating organ of her life, at the center of all her happiest, most cherished memories. For its size, the garden was quite large, and the envy of their neighbors. Apple, pear, and plum trees grew wild on the property, her father decreeing that they should be left untamed and not pigeonholed into an orchard. Soon the blossoms would come, and then the fresh tarts….
Mrs. Barnes would have ample fruit to make compote for their morning rolls, and then, later, when the apples were ready for harvest, William might visit of a Sunday and fetch out the old presses and make them all a spiced cider to drink over cards. Clemency smiled but then worried the brim of her bonnet with both hands. By the time those apples were picked and squashed, she would be married.
“Oh dear,” she murmured, stunned at the realization that her wedding was swiftly approaching, and that she would be locked into a life of ill-suppressed passion and anger, protecting her family’s future by giving up her own. Soon she would be Boyle’s entirely, unless this Ferrand character provided ample proof of villainy. Then she might make a choice…No, her mind was already made up! Of course it was. Only…
