The proposition, p.10
The Proposition, page 10
Clemency nearly jerked to a stop. Maybe the answer was simple. Simple and despicable. William’s financial solvency meant a larger dowry for her and Honora. Turner had gone from berating her and calling her a sphinx to begging for her forgiveness, which was utterly explicable if he needed money. On Friday evening, when he treated her abominably, she had none. On Sunday evening when he wanted to whisk her off to London, she had some. Perhaps he had been planning all along to abandon her for his own amusement, when it pleased him to humiliate her, but now she had value.
“Bastard.”
“Sister?” Honora choked out. They had just reached the lane that sloped down toward the edge of Round Orchard.
Clemency tore herself away from her own jumbled thoughts. “Yes?”
“You swore.”
“Oh…” Clemency tugged at the ribbon holding her bonnet on, finding it itchy. “Forgive me, this whole business with Mr. Ferrand has me quite out of sorts.”
“I have been meaning to say…” Honora pulled in a deep breath, trying to slow their pace as they took the shaded side path that skirted the village. “As your sensible elder sister I’m afraid I must tell you, these interludes with Mr. Ferrand will not go unnoticed forever. An ignorant onlooker might draw…unfavorable conclusions, dearest,” Honora said, biting down nervously on her lower lip. “You know I would never think you changeable….”
“Maybe you should,” Clemency replied, a touch crisply. “My mind is changing all the time. I will not be ashamed of it. What good is a mind if we do not fully employ it?”
“You can still employ your mind when married,” Honora insisted.
To a possible scoundrel.
“And whatever we know the truth to be, others will form their own opinions,” she finished. “Books have done this to you, haven’t they? Put these ideas in your mind. I know you think love and marriage are fanciful but true independence is even more so. Just…think on it, Clemency.”
“I am, Nora, I assure you, I am. And all will be clearer soon,” Clemency told her. “That is why I must speak with Mr. Ferrand. In fact, today I intend to make up my mind once and for all.”
By the time they reached Courtney Lane, they had devised a plan for the striped pink silk. They would need a bit more lace, it was decided, and Honora parted ways to go retrieve just that. It would be a charming gown, fit for London assemblies, with Vandyke points at the hem and a very wide neck, with a fitted under dress in a contrasting, simpler cream cotton.
Clemency did not have a head for such things, but Honora promised it would be breathtaking. The undertaking of this sewing project filled her sister with excitement, and Clemency was glad they could part speaking of happier things. She knew that soon, all that goodness and light would be gone, for she dreaded what awaited her at Beswick.
Approaching the great house from its circular front drive certainly left an indelible impression. Clemency somewhat preferred the quirky charms of Claridge, but there was no denying the stately, imperious silhouette of Beswick, standing tall and square and symmetrical against a backdrop of deciduous grandeur. Architecture and nature in harmony, the one complementing the other. A number of laborers were out trimming the verge, and the topiaries were being reshaped while a line of carts filled the drive, carrying the Ferrands’ furnishings under thick brown blankets.
The doors were flung wide open while porters worked in a steady stream to fill the home with the trappings of a genteel family’s life.
Clemency slipped in among them almost unnoticed, but a tall, pleasant-faced man with long black hair had been striding through the foyer and stopped the moment he laid eyes on her. He bowed, then approached with his hands out to his sides, as if afraid to startle her away.
“Mr. Ferrand is not expecting me,” Clemency spoke up, pulling the note out of her bag and showing it. “He wrote, and he claims it is somewhat urgent. You may tell him Clemency Fry is calling.”
“I am afraid, miss, that the gentleman is not at home,” the man said. He had a strong accent, Welsh perhaps, and kind brown eyes. Though his face seemed gentle, he was as broad and well-muscled as Mr. Ferrand. “He is expected back soon, if you care to wait.”
“Ralston? Ralston?”
A soft, pretty voice echoed through the still, empty house. It came from above, somewhere beyond the exquisitely polished staircase curving up the left side of the foyer. It had been done in lacquered black wood and marble, matching the diamond pattern of the tiles on the floor.
“One moment, miss, please.”
“Of course.”
The man, presumably Ralston, disappeared up the stairs, leaving Clemency to shuffle awkwardly to the side, out of the way of the hardworking porters. She wondered who the lady’s voice might belong to, though Mr. Ferrand’s sister was the obvious conclusion. Would she be as infuriating and arrogant as her brother?
“Nonsense, Ralston! I am more than capable of entertaining her until Audric arrives….” The lilting, sweet voice returned, and then, a tiny, frail creature appeared at the top of the stairs. Miss Ferrand. She was dressed in dark, almost matronly blue, the wrap-style dress nearly drowning her birdlike frame as she descended the steps. Ralston hurried after her, huge by comparison, looking like a giant lumbering after a pixie.
“But Mr. Ferrand made it very clear that—”
“I am mistress of this house while he is away, Ralston, that is also very clear,” the young woman said. For her diminutive stature, she had a forceful way about her. That was not surprising. She floated over to Clemency, every bit la dame très gentille, complete with silent footsteps, that Clemency had never managed to become. She imagined a stack of books on the girl’s head, and knew they wouldn’t wobble at all. Still, when she came close, Clemency saw a darkness under her eyes and a thinness to her skin that spoke of illness.
“Men!” Miss Ferrand exclaimed, giving a divine curtsey. “How exhausting they are. You are our first neighbor to come calling, and I must thank you for it. Miss Fry, was it?”
Clemency returned the curtsey, though with far less effortless grace. She liked this young woman immediately. “Indeed, Clemency Fry. If I am at all intruding—”
“Of course not, I am consumed with doing absolutely nothing, as you can see,” the girl said with a smile, and the family resemblance was clear, even if she did not share the vivid green eyes. “Ralston and my brother will not allow me to lift so much as a book to help. Is that not so, Ralston?”
Ralston blushed to the roots of his raven hair. His eyes danced away nervously as he ducked his head. “ ’Tis so, miss.”
“And it is all very gallant of them.” She had a girlish laugh, and Clemency could not tell her age. She might have been fifteen or five-and-twenty. “Ralston, take us to the river view, please, and find someone to bring tea. You must call me Delphine, and I will call you Clemency, unless you object. Which you can! Oh, but I do not often host alone; it must be obvious…. I am so appallingly out of practice. Mon Dieu.”
“I cannot imagine being mistress of such a large place,” Clemency said, trying to put her at ease as Ralston led them through the place. “You are doing just fine.”
“It is too large,” Delphine agreed with a shrug. “Audric—Mr. Ferrand, that is—always insists upon these castles and palaces and places that we could not possibly hope to fill. Half the house will sit empty and then he will complain of a draught.”
“That does sound like him,” Clemency murmured.
Delphine turned wide brown eyes on her. “You know him well?”
“Not at all well,” she hastily replied. “We…are recent acquaintances.” Clemency fumbled for a respectable reason to call, her mind racing as Ralston navigated them through the labyrinthine halls of Beswick and to the south veranda overlooking the park. “Your brother rendered me a service the other day; I fell into the river just there,” she said, pointing. “And he fished me out of the water. I wanted to…to thank him for his assistance.”
“Indeed, that is Audric all over. Sauveur suprême de la femme! As we cannot be expected to save ourselves, mm? I am sure it was his pleasure to play the hero for you,” Delphine said, laughing again. Her amusement turned to discomfort, as she coughed raggedly for a while after, and Ralston offered her a handkerchief. Taking it, she smiled and waved away their concerned looks. “Do you know, in Paris he made me attend Don Giovanni three times. Three! Such torture. It is a wretched story, filled to the brim with murder and disguises, but he has a dramatic heart, one fit for the opera…but what am I saying? Forgive me for rambling so. You fell into the river! I hope you were not harmed.”
Delphine whirled around to face her, and Clemency calmed her with a light shake of her head. “Only a scratch on my arm. Your brother bandaged it for me.”
“The savior! Ha. That was good of him,” Delphine replied, waiting until Ralston had pulled out a wicker chair for her on the veranda. A canopy of leaves and birdsong soared over them, the shade keeping the creeping sun at bay. The chairs and table had been decorated with expensive silks from the West Indies, orange and red, as bright as the wildflowers dotting the fields below. “Bien sûr, it is also good of you to call on us, Miss Fry—Clemency—what an unusual name that is, if you do not mind my saying so.”
“My mother has a flair for the dramatic,” Clemency said, accepting the chair Ralston offered. “Do you think your brother will be long?”
“Is my company already tiresome?”
“On the contrary, Miss Ferrand, I only worry that I am trespassing on your kindness and making a nuisance of myself while you are not yet settled in your new home,” Clemency replied. She turned her face to the light breeze rolling toward them from the river. Somewhere in the distance, Claridge hid among the trees, and she wondered if at night they could see the candles in their windows blinking like distant eyes of fire.
“You must push such worries from your mind,” Delphine told her. Though the day was warming she had bundled a heavy shawl around her thin shoulders. She too seemed to enjoy the splendor of the wind off the fields. “As I said, I am glad of your coming—it is quite troublesome to make friends, as I know nobody here.”
“And what do you think of Round Orchard so far?” Clemency asked. Ralston returned, bringing their tea. It was somewhat unorthodox, but she did not comment on it. He had brought a blanket for Miss Ferrand, folded over one arm, and he placed it on her lap carefully. It struck Clemency as strangely intimate, and she stuffed her face down into her teacup to keep her eyes elsewhere.
“I have seen so little of it, I hardly know how to respond,” she said with a sigh. “I like Beswick well enough, and this view is rather striking. And so far I like you, Miss Fry, and if there are other young ladies of quality here, then I think Round Orchard will have many charms indeed.”
“If you are hungry for information and acquaintances,” Clemency said, watching Ralston retreat a safe distance away, “then I can introduce you to my sister, Mrs. Hinton, and Miss Brock, and several other amiable ladies. It is not Paris or London society, but—”
“I hope they are not!” Delphine cried, half-interrupting. She smirked and picked up her teacup with two trembling hands, steadying it, her cheeks pink, while Clemency pretended not to notice her fragility. Her accent was stronger than her brother’s, more distinctly French. “I miss the fashions of Paris and little else. Conversation is blood sport there, oh, but I do not have the stamina for it. My heart is sewn firmly to my sleeve. No, I think my constitution is better suited to a place like this.” She trailed off wistfully, then glanced toward Clemency. “I should like to meet these ladies you mention. Indeed, I should like very much to have new friends.”
“Then you shall have them.” Clemency wasn’t sure what had gotten into her. She had not meant to become so friendly with Miss Ferrand, but she could muster only pity and interest when she looked at the girl, as pale and pretty and breakable as a porcelain doll. One, it seemed, that had been locked away from society for too long. Whatever her ailments, she did not deserve to be shut up indoors all day. A woman would go mad, especially in a huge, echoing monstrosity like Beswick. An odd little bird, this girl, but friendly and clever too.
Out of the corner of her eye, Clemency noticed Ralston snap to attention. An instant later, Mr. Ferrand came charging out the door, bringing with him the crackle of a lightning storm as he strode toward them through pockets of leafy shadow to bow to them, standing a handsbreadth from his sister.
He had clearly just come from riding, his hat tucked under one arm, his dark curls pleasantly mussed, the familiar green coat that Clemency had draped over her shoulders now buttoned tightly across his chest.
“Miss Fry. Delphine.”
Before the women could speak a word, he noticed the dense mantle blanketing his sister.
“Are you chilled?” he asked, at once solicitous, hovering over his sister and adjusting the shawl higher up her shoulders.
“Do not fuss, Audric. Miss Fry and I were just discussing all that is to be found here, and she has vowed to bring me into Round Orchard society!”
Clemency would not phrase it that way exactly, but she smiled and took another sip of the very excellent tea. The cream probably came from the same cows, but somehow it tasted fresher.
“Has she? How quaint. May I steal Miss Fry for a moment, Delphine? There is a matter I wish to discuss with her.” His green eyes swept across the table to Clemency, and she felt her jaw tighten with…something. She told herself it was anxiety. A nasty little voice suggested instead it was excitement. He had been right about Boyle’s finances, and if Mr. Ferrand had been smug before, she could not imagine what he would be now.
“A matter? What matter?” Delphine looked back and forth between them, sitting up straighter. “Oh, I will not snoop in your affairs, brother, but do not detain her long. You may have saved her from the river, but she has saved me from the pain of boredom.”
Clemency stood and fought the urge to fidget. Coming around the table, Mr. Ferrand nodded subtly toward the wide promenade that ran the length of the back of the house. They walked side by side, leaving behind the tea table and Delphine, who continued to drink her tea softly, Ralston crossing to join her and bend down to whisper something in her ear.
“Mr. Ferrand—”
“Miss Fry—”
They both broke into tense laughter. Clemency pursed her lips and kept her eyes trained on the woods to her left. Feeling his presence was more than enough, looking at him would only unnerve her to the point of tongue-tied stupefaction.
“That gift of silks was not necessary,” she said softly, her voice hoarse. “But it was…generous. Thank you.”
He was quiet for a moment. “And how am I to interpret your coming here? Are you at last ready to listen to me? Are you prepared to believe?”
They had gone a polite ways from the tea table, and Clemency paused, turning slowly to face Mr. Ferrand, her back resting against the stone bannister of the promenade. “Something…” She sighed, frustrated. The speeches she had rehearsed failed her. “Something is amiss, that much I believe. He came to me last night, the picture of contriteness, I might add, and when I mentioned your name—”
His face darkened, and suddenly Mr. Ferrand was angrier than Clemency had ever seen him. None of her cheek or sass had ever made him look ready to bite his tongue in half. He reared back, then closed his eyes tightly, gesturing vaguely with his hat. “I never asked you to keep my name out of this, so I have no right to scold you…”
“Mr. Ferrand—”
“Were you testing him? Or were you testing me?” he snarled. “Am I now to assume you are working against me?”
“No!” she almost shouted, offended.
But Mr. Ferrand ignored her, pacing a tight line back and forth in front of her. “I considered you many things, Miss Fry, but never stupid.”
In his rage he had begun to perspire, and he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, taking one out and dabbing at his shiny face. Something small and soft, white and dark red, drifted out of his pocket, falling to the ground. Clemency stooped and snatched it up before he could notice, pulling the little scrap of fabric taut and recognizing it at once. It was a piece of her sleeve, torn and bloodied, and it looked as if someone had twisted it errantly, like one might twirl a lock of hair.
Mr. Ferrand froze. Clemency searched out his eyes, holding the scrap of sleeve up for him to see. Anticipating him, she jerked it away before he could grab it out of her hand.
“I considered you many things, Mr. Ferrand, but never sentimental.”
“Are you laughing at me?” he whispered, eyes burning.
“No,” Clemency replied simply. She offered the scrap back to him, and he took it with a ferocity that left her breathless. “Nor am I working against you. It was a mistake, my saying your name, I assure you it was not said with any agenda.”
He blew out a breath through his nose and nodded, his rage seemingly quelled. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. And what was his response?”
Clemency had to smile, recalling the sheer terror that crossed Boyle’s face. “Boring excuses, lies, but then he suddenly became so desperate to leave one might assume he soiled himself.”
Mr. Ferrand gave a bark of laughter, startling a few birds out of a nearby tree. “And what else? Did he say anything?”
“He tried to deny knowing the name,” Clemency told him. “Clumsily, I might add. Very clumsily. And then he suggested we leave for London. He has gone ahead on his own, and I told him I would join him soon.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Good.” Mr. Ferrand nodded, his eyes far away as he made some private calculation. “He wants to get you away from me, away from what I have already told you. And he wants to flee his debts.”
