The Proposition, page 8
“How awful! Let me help you both home—”
“No,” the sisters said in unison. Honora swiftly cleared her throat and patted Amy fondly on the hand. “That will not be necessary. I am quite capable of taking her on my own.”
Amy frowned, squinting at them, the sunshine falling directly into her eyes as she watched them shuffle away. “Oh! But you will not have to! Is that not your family’s carriage now? And there is William!”
And so there he was. The carriage came charging up the road toward them, their brother hanging out the window, whipping a hat around in a circle. The dust flared and then settled, and once they had stopped, William and Tansy spilled out, red-faced and shining as if they were immensely drunk.
“Girls. Girls! There you are! It is the most remarkable thing!” He scooped them into an embrace, Clemency sore and disoriented, inhaling through her teeth as he squished his arm against her cut. Tansy’s bonnet had almost fallen off completely. She righted it, laughing uproariously, joining their little circle of family merriment. In her left hand she clutched an opened letter, waving it around like a flag.
“Do not keep us in suspense, William,” Honora chided, searching between him and his wife for answers. Even Amy came to see what had happened, lured by the commotion.
“It’s the Villefort!” Tansy shrieked.
When nobody responded with the correct amount of enthusiasm, Tansy rolled her eyes and tossed her head, then thrust the letter toward Honora. “My father’s ship! It has returned safely from the West Indies, and her sister ship is expected to arrive in good condition!”
Honora had already flattened out the letter, reading and mouthing the words at speed. Her voice rose when she reached the relevant passage. “It is with all the joy in my heart that I write to you, daughter, for with this bounty of silks and spices, our good name and fortune are restored.” She looked up from the letter in a daze. “Tansy…Oh my dear, what news! What glorious news!”
“Felicitations,” Clemency stammered, stunned. “This is…How wonderful for you both.”
“And so we must celebrate,” William roared, taking Honora by the arm and swinging her around for a jig right there in the street. “You must come too, Miss Brock, and your family. We shall have you all tomorrow to Claridge, after church, and we will toast the changing winds of fate!”
Clemency still felt the hot sting of shame prickling at her throat, but news of this caliber could certainly be a balm. Her eyes drifted to Honora, who had stopped spinning around with William. Clemency’s mind raced to keep pace with reality—Tansy’s fortune belonged primarily to William, and now he might finally have the means to keep Claridge in the family, and even provide larger, more enticing dowries for her and Honora. More than that, it freed her from the financial chains binding her to Boyle.
Freedom.
The relief of that victory did not last long enough to be savored, for she could not forget the bitterness buried beneath the sweet. The man she had loved, that she had joined herself to, that she had nearly married, had been keeping secrets from her. And if Mr. Ferrand was to be believed, and now perhaps he should be, those secrets were crucial indeed. Clemency did not share Miss Brock’s charitable view of the situation; there was no good excuse for a man of Boyle’s alleged means to have established such a low reputation at a village modiste. Perhaps this explained why he had never purchased a home of his own in Round Orchard; it was not, as he’d stated, that he preferred to stay with Mr. Connors, but that his debt prevented a purchase of any significance.
Dark secrets. How could she ever trust her judgment again? Indeed, she could not. And that was all right; she could now, perhaps, safely swear off men forever.
While her siblings herded her toward the carriage, Clemency glanced back at the shop, feeling as if the girl who had walked through those doors to buy fabric no longer existed. The Clemency who emerged back into daylight was someone different. Something different. A woman of stronger stuff, meaner stuff, who would not be fooled again.
7
A crisp, cold gale followed Audric into the village. Darkness had only just fallen, the Sunday evening church bells tolling their last as he moved with the bluster down the empty cobbled street. Eventually it dissolved into more of a dirt path that ran the length of a mile through the center of commerce. It was a tiny place, roughly half the size of Heathfield, with the standard English country provisions—cheesemonger, church, cobbler, stable, modiste, miller, bakery, tavern, and vegetable stands. Its most attractive feature was the surprisingly spacious assembly hall built directly across from the charming square with a round stone well and felt bunting hanging from the posts of an outdoor stage.
A few candles burned in the windows as Audric strode by, though only the tavern did any business at that time of night. The echo of the church bells faded as Audric reached Tindall and Batt’s. Distant male laughter leaked from the nearby tavern, a film of fiddle music washing over the chilly silence, carried along on that sharp wind.
As he rode the distance from Beswick to Round Orchard, he worried a strip of fabric in his pocket. He had kept the bit of bloodied sleeve that had once served as a bandage, it having fallen by the wayside while he dressed Miss Fry’s cut with a fresh wrapping. It was morbid to keep it, and unhygienic, but something compelled him to stash it. It seemed to soothe his anxious mind to fiddle with it between thumb and forefinger as he rode, a little unseen ritual in the pocket of his coat.
While his mind ought to be occupied with the innumerable details of letting a new house, instead he thought constantly of her. No woman outside his family had ever dared speak to him the way she did, with so much cheek and so little fear. He frightened most people, which usually he found an advantage, but it also meant that women found him unapproachable. His father had cultivated an earned reputation for severity and stoicism, a reputation he imparted to his son. Happy memories of his father were vanishingly scant, their only shared passion the hunt. What would his father say now if he knew Audric spent his time helping the spurned, insulted, and abandoned women of France find the men that left them in ruin? He had become an instrument of revenge, a man to be feared by liars and cheats. Perhaps his father would be proud, though the far more likely alternative was that his father would find the pursuit ridiculous—men had appetites that women did not, in his father’s opinion; that women suffered the indignities of those indiscretions and not the instigators was simply the way of the world.
No, he was not his father. The elder Ferrand hunted for the kill; Audric hunted—beast and man alike—for the temporary ease it gave his soul. He could sink his mind into something else for a little while, distract himself from his sister’s pain.
Away from his loneliness.
Given his silent, ferocious nature, few mothers targeted him for their daughters, a mercy most other men of his four-and-thirty years would not be given. Delphine had once overheard a pair of girls whispering about him at an assembly in Paris, describing him as un peu satanique.
Delphine thought it hilarious, of course, but it bothered Audric more than he cared to admit. Did women really find him vaguely satanic? If so, that made Miss Fry’s behavior all the more intriguing. He never had the impression that she found him scary, only—perhaps rightly—exasperating.
More than that, he sensed in her a fellow hunter. Huntress. She enjoyed their verbal spars and delighted in outwitting him, that much was clear.
Again and again he returned to a single thought: The so-called Lord Boyle did not deserve a woman as brash, handsome, and infuriating as Clemency Fry. Their entanglement had begun to sincerely rankle him, an offense to the very idea of marriage as an institution and love as a broader concept. This wrong would be corrected, and while Miss Fry was almost certainly too much for any sensible man to want or handle, Ferrand included, she did not deserve the infamy of being connected to someone like Boyle.
What an apt name the scoundrel had chosen, for he was exactly like a boil—unsightly, exigent, a thing to be lanced and popped, nothing more than an oozing carbuncle on the arse of society.
At last, he reached his destination and dismounted.
The two-story shop no doubt housed apartments on the second story, which meant Tindall or Batt was guaranteed to be somewhere within. He hoped they weren’t part of the clamor coming from the tavern, as this business was best conducted in private.
Audric smiled as he lifted his leather-clad hand and rapped three times on the door. Just as he had expected, Miss Fry had come to shop for new fabric and discovered that her husband-to-be was a well run dry. He had only to send his man Ralston into town to get a whiff of the day’s gossip, and sure enough, Miss Fry’s name was on the lips of every busybody. Ralston had a talent for fitting in anywhere and was paid handsomely not just for his valet services, but for his frequent forays into espionage on Audric’s behalf. The other intriguing story involved Miss Fry’s sister by marriage, Tansy Bagshot, and news of some windfall. That served Audric too, a stroke of luck that would benefit them both.
“We’re closed!” A gruff voice boomed from inside.
Audric knocked again, and again. He had waited years to put his plans into motion, he could be patient awhile longer. At last, the door flew open, revealing a red-faced short man with a healthy beer gut and thinning hair.
Before the man could shoo him off, Audric bowed and swept off his hat, giving the full gallant treatment. “I beg your pardon, sir, I know the hour is inopportune. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Batt or Mr. Tindall?”
“You can speak to the door, sir. We are closed.”
Audric wedged his boot in the door subtly and offered the man a slow smile. “How disappointing. Ten minutes of your time would be worth as many pounds, but if you insist…”
“Just a moment, there. Slow down.” The man’s eyes glittered as he held the door open wider. “What sort of business have you come on, Mr….”
“Ferrand. Audric Ferrand, at your service, sir. I am here to discuss a debt and to clear it. It has come to my attention that a Lord Boyle has accrued a sizeable bill and failed to pay it.” Audric withdrew a billfold from his greatcoat and let the man see just how many pound notes waited within.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Ferrand.” The man gestured, suddenly all smiles. “Mr. Tindall is at the tavern, as is his custom, but I deal with the books, anyway. Come now inside and be quick about it, that wind’s as harsh as an ill omen. Fanny!” he cried to some unseen woman within the shadowy shop. “Have tea brought down, bring it to my desk!”
Mr. Ferrand tucked his hat under his arm and followed the man inside and to the right, where the darkened shop was lit with only a few dwindling candles.
“Thank you, Mr. Batt. Again, I apologize for calling so late.”
Mr. Batt waved him off, bustling through the shop and to a large desk in the back right corner of the store. A small chain guarded the way behind it, and Mr. Batt unhooked that and then disappeared for a moment, squatting down to find something, the sound of paper rustling rising from behind the desk.
“We don’t stand on ceremony here, Mr. Ferrand, not when a hefty debt can be paid. And it is hefty….”
“I do not doubt it.”
Fanny appeared, a birdlike woman with a lace cap and iron-gray curls, a pair of spectacles as wiry as her arms perched on the end of her nose. The tea tray rattled a little as she carried it, and he noticed Fanny holding her thin lips together tightly in frustration. Audric retrieved the tray from her and placed it on the desk.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” she murmured, glancing away shyly. “Sewed night and day for thirty years, now these hands struggle to hold a pin.”
“It is no trouble, madam. I hope we did not disturb you overmuch,” Audric replied.
“Not at all.” With care, she poured the tea, gave a curtsey, and turned to go, her husband giving her a muffled thanks from behind the desk. Audric had no intention of taking tea, but he picked up one of the cups and held it to appear accommodating.
“Well now.” Mr. Batt stood again, slamming down a leather-bound ledger. “This gentleman is a popular subject today.”
Audric nodded gravely and heaved a sigh for added effect. “My friend has expensive taste and shallow pockets. I suppose those habits are now known to the whole of Round Orchard; it will deeply embarrass him.”
Mr. Batt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Aye. He’s been a thorn in our sides long enough, ’tis time we were paid what we’re due.”
Setting down his teacup, Audric leaned onto the desk, then produced his billfold again. “I could not agree more, Mr. Batt. Indeed, it is just such a reckoning I have come to propose. You see, I am willing to wipe out his debt at this shop, but I believe my good friend should be taught a lesson.”
His eyes roamed subtly to the ledger. It was not hard to divine which line in the books belonged to Boyle, for many times it had been circled as if in a panic. He calculated a rough estimate, pretended to wince, and slid forty pounds across the desk.
“This is more than is owed,” Mr. Batt murmured, beady eyes widening at the sight of the money.
“I understand his intended suffered some shame on his behalf this afternoon, and I should like to make a gift of her purchases. Perhaps you could also include whatever is currently most fashionable? I don’t know, fabric and bits and bobs, whatever pleases your professional eye? Audric couldn’t tell if he was listening or if he had been struck dumb by the stack of pound notes.
“O-Of course, sir. Anything you like, sir.” Mr. Batt bowed awkwardly behind the desk.
“Excellent,” Audric said, taking a small card from his pocket and adding it to the stack of money. “Please include this note with the gift.”
“No trouble at all, sir.” He paused, eyes flicking from the pound notes to Audric’s face and back again. “How is it that you know the man, if I may ask?”
Shrewd, Audric thought, but not shrewd enough.
“We shared the same society in Paris, though it seems a lifetime ago now,” Audric explained, hoping it sounded wistful. “We both have a passion for horses and the more…unmentionable delights Paris has to offer.”
He winked.
Mr. Batt tapped his nose and gave a knowing chortle. “Right, right. Gentlemen about town, eh? But you mentioned a proposal?” Mr. Batt carefully took the money and stuffed it behind the desk quickly, as if afraid Audric might change his generous mind.
Greedy, greedy…
“There could be ten pound more for you in it,” he continued, watching Mr. Batt flush with excitement. “I ask only that you confer with the other merchants in the village. As I said, my friend must be taught a lesson in responsibility, and I think it’s time his debts were called up. All of them.”
“Ha!” Mr. Batt gave a short, uproarious laugh. “Are you trying to give the man an episode, Mr. Ferrand?”
“Me?” Audric slid his billfold back into his coat with a casual shrug. “Surely not, there simply comes a time when a man must confront his place in the world. I assure you, Mr. Batt, I would never dream of giving the estimable Lord Boyle more than he deserves.”
* * *
—
As Clemency stood at the window, a light rain had begun to fall outside. The scent of woodsmoke and damp filled the house, remnants of a day spent with the windows and doors flung wide open. They had all assembled in the Painted Salon, named for the attached corridor where portraits of and collected by the Fry family were displayed. Sherry and port had been poured, and Honora sat at the pianoforte, playing through her many memorized études while everyone digested and bathed in Tansy Bagshot’s enthusiastic glow.
She looked like a candle, slender and bright, illuminating the entire room with her smile while she bobbed her head a little drunkenly to Honora’s music.
Clemency gazed around at her family, feeling as if she were somehow apart, set behind a thick screen, there but translucent, a gossamer figment of a person. Nobody had brought up the awkward moment at Tindall and Batt’s during supper, for Tansy’s news was far better conversation material. Naturally, it interested Clemency too, as a financial turn for William could free both her and Honora from the burden of marriage. Clemency had begun to suspect that Honora’s disinterest in courtship might be permanent, and that she would rather remain Mrs. Hinton forever, even if her husband was no more than a ghost.
Honora’s husband had been struck by a carriage and killed over a year ago, not long after Christmas. She had more than exceeded the appropriate period of morning, yet she never so much as glanced at a man when they attended church or parties.
Her sister had always been a quiet, solitary creature, and more and more, Clemency liked the idea of growing old with her, just the two of them confined to Claridge, happy, forgotten women. She smiled to herself, imagining Honora’s probable horror at the idea—no, Nora would insist she go out into the world, try for love, even if all the men Clemency had the displeasure of meeting were trouble in one way or another.
Holding her full glass of sherry, Clemency wandered into the shadowy corridor housing the paintings. It was a wide, airy space, and the recipient of many of her mother’s overwrought floral arrangements. Still, it made for a pretty combination—the riotous explosions of blooms juxtaposed with the statelier, subdued oil paintings of men and women stiffly posed in their finery. Honora began wandering the melodious paths of Handel while Clemency came to stand in front of a portrait of her grandmother. Margaret Fry was not by any means a beautiful woman, but the artist had captured her spirit, a mischievous gleam in her eye that had been passed down to Clemency’s father and, she had been told, to Clemency herself.
She tapped the nail of her forefinger restlessly against the sherry glass. They had expected Turner Boyle at dinner, but he never appeared, his chair sitting conspicuously empty, everyone else ignoring it while it seemed constantly to mock Clemency. Perhaps word of their humiliating experience in Tindall and Batt’s had reached him and he was refusing to attend out of spite. She had spent all afternoon preparing her speech, rehearsing the sharp words she intended to use, slicing him to ribbons once they had a private moment to speak.
