Chapter 11
"What is the point of reading?" Lavinia snapped the book shut so hard the volume nearly bit her thumb.
Sighing, she stared at the gold-embossed title on the spine, a treatise on agricultural improvements, and contemplated throwing it into the empty library hearth.
Instead, she drummed her fingers on the leather cover.
She was meant to be preparing for Lady Sophia's next lesson, but the words swam together, refusing to cohere into anything useful.
The only thoughts permitted in her skull today were of the Duke and his infuriating need to meddle in the affairs of everyone around him.
Lavinia pressed her fingers to her forehead and let out a sigh that carried with it the resignation of a much older woman.
A soft knock at the door startled her into uprightness. She clutched the book to her chest as if it might serve as a shield.
"Come in, Mrs. Down," Lavinia called, voice sharp enough to draw blood.
The housekeeper entered. Mrs. Down was only a decade older than Lavinia, but had cultivated the air of an ageless family retainer—a trick achieved mainly through persistent stoicism and the ability to survive on boiled turnip soup.
"You have callers, my lady. Mr. Tomley and another gentleman. They're waiting in the drawing room."
Lavinia's grip on the book tightened. Mr. Tomley never brought another gentleman unless said gentleman meant business, and the only sort of business that came calling these days was the sort that involved the swift removal of property or dignity.
"Did he give his name?" she asked.
Mrs. Down hesitated, a sure sign of trouble. "He did not, but I do not believe he is a friend."
"Wonderful," Lavinia muttered, setting the treatise aside. She smoothed her skirts, drew herself to her full height, and schooled her features into a mask of mild, intellectual curiosity. "Let us not keep them waiting, then."
Mrs. Down offered a curtsey and led the way out. At the drawing room door, she paused, composed herself with a single breath, then entered.
The scene within was exactly as she expected.
Mr. Tomley, their solicitor since the dawn of time, stood near the fire, looking as though he would quite like to crawl into it and never emerge.
Beside him was a stranger of about sixty, his hair a steel brush, his face assembled from angular bones and a pair of heavy, hooded eyes.
His overcoat was not quite the latest fashion, but it was expensive, and his boots looked as though they had never seen a puddle.
The stranger held his hat at his side and swept a short, dry bow. "Lady Lavinia. How very good to make your acquaintance."
"Good afternoon," she replied, with just enough warmth to be plausible. She acknowledged Tomley with a nod. "I trust you are well, Mr. Tomley."
"As well as ever, Lady Lavinia," Tomley managed, and she noted the tic in his cheek. Nerves, or guilt.
She turned her gaze back to the stranger, who seemed content to let the silence grow as long and uncomfortable as possible.
"Mr. Tomley, you have not introduced your companion," she prompted.
"Ah. Of course." Tomley blinked, as if waking from a light doze. "This is Mr. Crawley, of Crawley & Sons. Mr. Crawley is the principal creditor for the Pembroke estate."
Mr. Crawley gave another short bow, the movement more perfunctory than polite. "I prefer to conduct these matters directly."
Lavinia’s stomach dropped, but she kept her composure. She gestured to the threadbare settee and said, "Please, do be seated."
Neither man took the seat, so she moved to her father's old armchair and sat, folding her hands in her lap. She could play this game for days.
"Shall we be frank, Lady Lavinia?" Mr. Crawley said, perched on the edge of a chaise. "Your father's obligations to my firm have grown considerably in the last year. The note for one thousand pounds is, as you are aware, quite overdue."
Tomley began rifling through his folio, eager to justify his own existence. "Lady Lavinia has made every payment possible, Mr. Crawley. She has kept the creditors at bay through her own thrift and resourcefulness, but—"
"But it is not enough," Crawley said, his mouth drawing into a grim half-smile. "Your situation is, as they say, unsustainable."
Lavinia inclined her head, refusing to offer a single unnecessary word.
Crawley surveyed the crumbling plaster and threadbare rug. "It must have once been a fine manor. I would imagine the Fairwick name carries some weight, even in reduced circumstances."
"It does," she said, then allowed herself a thin smile. "Especially with the sort of people who care about names."
Crawley looked at her with interest, the way one might regard a wolfhound at a garden party—unexpected, but not unwelcome. "I am a practical man, Lady Lavinia. I see problems, and I solve them. I believe I can solve your problem."
Lavinia’s jaw tensed. "And what, exactly, is my problem, Mr. Crawley?"
"You are in possession of a property that is worth substantially more than your debts, but you lack the means to keep it," he said. "You are, if you will pardon the frankness, a lady of title without resources."
"And you," she said, not missing a beat, "are a man of resources without a title. I see now why you are so keen to help me."
Tomley coughed, a panicked splutter. Crawley ignored him.
"I propose," Crawley said, and for the first time, a hint of pleasure crept into his voice, "to clear your debts in exchange for your hand in marriage."
Lavinia blinked. For a single, perfect moment, the world seemed to stop moving. Even the grandfather clock in the hall, usually intent on announcing every half minute, fell silent.
"I beg your pardon?" she said, certain she had misunderstood.
"You are unmarried, are you not?" Crawley pressed. "A suitable match would resolve your obligations and ensure your sister's future. In return, you would secure the preservation of your family's name and estate."
There was a noise from Mr. Tomley that sounded dangerously close to a snort. He coughed again, louder, and when Lavinia glanced at him, she saw his face had gone an alarming shade of red.
"It is an—" She searched for a word that would not be a direct insult, "—unexpected proposal, Mr. Crawley. I had not considered marriage as a solution to financial inconvenience."
That was a lie, for Lavinia had thought of it countless times. It was just that she had not imagined it might be to a man such as Mr. Crawley.
"It is a time-honored solution among the gentry," Crawley replied. "And I assure you, I am a man of means. You would want for nothing."
She was silent for a moment, studying his face for any sign of humor or malice. There was none. The man was as serious as a tomb. Suddenly, a vision of Tristan flashed in her mind, and her brows furrowed.
Why would she be thinking of her employer at a time like this? Was it to further convince her that she ought to marry a man she could bear to sit in the same room with?
Tomley’s mouth was trembling. His lips pressed together, and his cheeks puffed out as if he was suppressing some sort of internal disaster. Lavinia realized with horror that Mr. Tomley was about to laugh.
She cleared her throat, drawing herself to her full, imposing height even from her seat. "It is an absurd notion for us to marry, sir. I beg your pardon."
Crawley did not flinch. "On the contrary, Lady Lavinia, it is the most logical course. I have wealth and no pedigree. You have a name, and the determination to keep it afloat. Surely you see the efficiency of my solution."
"I see only a very direct attempt at social advancement," Lavinia said.
Tomley's laugh erupted, a snuffling, snorting explosion that caught the room off guard. He tried to transform it into a cough, but ended up wheezing into his handkerchief.
Crawley glanced at him with a look of profound disgust, then turned his gaze back to Lavinia. "You may find it unromantic, Lady Lavinia, but your alternatives are few. If you refuse, my next letter to you will be delivered by the bailiffs. I can have the manor seized by Michaelmas."
"Then I suggest you proceed with the paperwork," Lavinia said, forcing herself to remain still. "I will not marry you, sir, and I will not be bullied."
What are you doing, Lavinia? her mind’s voice warned. Would you throw away a very rare opportunity for your whims and desires?
Crawley’s face tightened. "You may wish to reconsider. If you wait for some fortune to arrive, you will find only further disappointment."
"I have never waited for fortune, Mr. Crawley," she said, rising from her chair. "I make my own." Looking at him now, Lavinia was certain she was making the right decision. The man’s character was disagreeable, and she found great difficulty in trusting him.
He stood as well, gathering his hat and gloves with brisk efficiency. "I will allow you a week to reflect. After that, I will instruct my men to begin proceedings."
"That is very generous," Lavinia said, her voice the very soul of cold courtesy. "Good day, Mr. Crawley."
Crawley bowed, not to her but to the notion of himself as a future lord, then left the room like a man who believed he had won something.
Tomley lingered behind, his face still twitching from the aftershocks of barely suppressed laughter. "Lady Lavinia," he said, approaching her in a conspiratorial half-whisper, "I have encountered some unusual proposals in my career, but this—"
She held up a hand. "Do not, Mr. Tomley. If you laugh again, I will have you thrown into the sheep pasture."
He nodded, still quivering, and did his best to compose himself. "Of course, my lady. But for what it's worth, I do not think Mr. Crawley will follow through with the foreclosure. He lacks the stomach for real confrontation."
"Then why does he threaten it?"
"Because he wants you to be desperate. Desperate people make poor decisions. But you—" Tomley shook his head in wonder, "—I have never seen a lady so absolutely unmoved by such a threat."
Lavinia tried to smile, but the effort came out brittle. "That is because you have never seen a lady so used to threats, Mr. Tomley."
He sobered, then nodded with genuine respect. "If I can be of any further service—"
"You can," she said. "Ensure that if Crawley returns, I am given warning. I should like to be out when he arrives."
"I will see to it," he said, and with a parting bow, took his leave.
The door shut behind him, and for a while, Lavinia stood in the center of the drawing room, arms folded tightly across her chest. She surveyed the dim space, the threadbare rug and the once-gleaming, now-dulled silver on the mantle.
For all of Mr. Crawley’s logic and Mr. Tomley’s amusement, the truth was as stark as the empty shelves of the library: the Pembroke fortune was gone, and her dignity had been left on the front step to be scavenged by crows.
Her hands began to shake. She clasped them together and forced them still.
A week, she thought. He’s given me a week.
She would find a way. She always had.
But even as she returned to the library and picked up the discarded book, her hands would not stop trembling.