Chapter 34
“This is not what I wanted!”
It was the day before Lavinia’s wedding, and in the drawing room, Frances stalked in a path so erratic it threatened to wear a trench in the threadbare rug. Her hands were clenched at her sides, while her cheeks grew redder with every lap.
Lavinia, for her part, sat poised on a chaise with her lips pressed so tight they might never smile again. She trimmed an invitation with a pair of scissors. The letters were perfectly aligned, the ribbon she’d selected was a blue so cold it might freeze the heart of any recipient.
“Are you listening to me?” Frances halted mid-tread and planted herself before the escritoire.
Lavinia did not look up. “I have been listening for the last half hour, darling. Your projection is admirable. Have you considered a career upon the stage?”
Frances’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut with a force that would have done a trap proud.
“This is not a jest! This is not—” She scrabbled for a word, found none, and made a strangled sound.
“You are marrying Lord Dawnford. You are sacrificing yourself, and you won’t listen to any alternative. You have gone entirely mad.”
Lavinia placed the trimmed invitation onto the growing stack and reached for another. “Sacrifice implies martyrdom. I am neither a martyr nor particularly fond of melodrama. I am a spinster, and this is the natural course for my type.”
Frances’s voice broke. “But you are not a spinster! You are only seven-and-twenty.” It sounded, in the moment, like a diagnosis.
“And you could be happy, if only—if only—” Her hands, finding no suitable object to throttle, caught up a muslin swatch from the arm of the chaise and wrung it as if it might yield an answer.
“If only what, Frances?”
Lavinia did not know where her sister’s outburst was coming from, but she had to appreciate the girl’s spirit.
“If only you would let yourself be loved! If only you could see what everyone else sees.” She whirled away and paced once more across the rug.
“You think no one notices, but I saw you at Lady Montfort’s ball.
I saw the way you and the Duke looked at each other. ”
Lavinia’s hands stilled for the first time all morning.
She let the silence draw out, then smoothed her features into a neutral mask. “You are mistaken,” she said.
Frances spun. “I am not mistaken. I have eyes. And I know what it means when two people look at each other and the whole room goes silent. You are in love with him. With the Duke. And now you have ruined everything.”
Lavinia, who had been so careful, so perfectly and suffocatingly careful, felt something in her ribcage contract.
She looked up then, meeting her sister’s gaze full-on.
“I am not in love with anyone, Frances. And even if I were, it would not matter. The Duke of Evermere is precisely what his title suggests. He is distant, unchangeable, and entirely unattainable. He does not, and he could never, love me.”
“That is a lie,” Frances shot back, face contorting. “I saw how he looked at you at the garden party. I saw—”
“What you saw,” Lavinia interrupted, “was the brief, accidental attention of a man who had run out of things to say and found himself at a loss.” She could not keep the edge out of her words.
“He is a Duke. I am this. If I am to rescue what remains of our family and protect you from…from the sort of men who circle when they smell blood, then this is the only option left to me.”
Frances’s composure crumbled. “But you do not have to! I told you I could sell my pearls and even train to become a governess or a companion to one of Aunt Petunia’s friends.”
“Aunt Petunia would rather eat a mouse than allow you to be a companion to her friends,” Lavinia allowed a bitter chuckle. “She has hopes for you.”
“Yet she never offered to help us repay our debts.”
Lavinia smiled. “People are generous in different ways, my dear. If I do not marry Dawnford, he will hound you next. Or else he will find a way to make life so unbearable that we will have no choice but to beg for charity from our nearest relation.” She spat the word as if it tasted sour.
A silence fell, and Lavinia pressed the tip of the paper knife against the next invitation, but did not cut. “I have nothing to lose,” she repeated, softer now.
Frances snorted bitterly. “You are lying again. You have everything to lose. You just think you are the only one who must do the losing.”
This time, Lavinia did not reply.
The room seemed to shrink, and Frances, tears running freely now, made for the window. She shoved it open, heedless of the damp morning air, and leaned out as if she might simply vanish.
Lavinia let her. Instead, she set down the knife, pressed her palms together, and stared at her hands until the trembling ceased. She thought of the Duke—not as he had looked at her, but as he had not looked at her; as he had shut every door, every window, every possibility.
He was gone. That was the truth.
She almost welcomed the sharp rap at the door. The sound was brisk, not in the manner of creditors who favored a relentless pounding, nor in the style of Lady Montfort, who never knocked at all, but with a certain respectful insistence.
Mrs. Down entered with a curtsy. “My Lady. Mr. Tomley to see you.”
Lavinia blinked. “Is it not rather early for business?”
Mrs. Down lowered her voice. “He says it is urgent. And private. I have put him in the blue parlor.”
“I will be there shortly,” Lavinia said.
Mrs. Down nodded and retreated. With a sigh, Lavinia stood and made for the door. As she passed, Frances caught at her sleeve. “I am coming with you. I am old enough.”
With a slight smile, Lavinia nodded. Together, they walked to the parlor.
Mr. Tomley was standing near the unlit hearth with his hat in hand and spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. At her entrance, he executed a nervous bow, clutching his hat and a folio.
“Lady Lavinia,” he began, with a tremor of the mustache, “may I offer my sincerest felicitations on your impending nuptials.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tomley,” Lavinia said coolly. “You are here to discuss business?”
He inclined his head, adjusting his spectacles.
“Indeed, my lady, though my chief purpose today is to address the status of Pembroke Manor and—ah—the accounts of the late Lord Fairwick.” He fumbled for a sheet of paper and held it before him like a shield.
“You see, I have received certain instructions, and I must confess, they were most unexpected.”
Lavinia sank into the nearest chair, smoothing her skirts as if the gesture might also flatten the pit of dread in her stomach. “Unexpected instructions are a luxury we cannot afford, Mr. Tomley. I trust you will be succinct.”
He colored, but soldiered on. “It is my duty to inform you, Lady Lavinia, that all outstanding accounts relating to the Fairwick estate have been satisfied. In full.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. “What do you mean, satisfied?”
“I mean precisely that, My Lady. All debts, including those owed to Mr. Crawley and his associates, have been paid. Here—” He pushed the papers forward, hands trembling with the effort of not dropping them. “The receipts. The settlements. The accounts. All marked and stamped.”
Lavinia reached for the top sheet. She read it, taking in the official notations and the spidery signatures of men who had haunted her dreams for the past two years. The word ‘settled’ appeared on every page, stamped in red wax or bold black ink.
Her composure threatened to give way. “Who did this?” she managed at last.
Mr. Tomley smiled. “The benefactor wishes to remain anonymous. The instructions came through a reputable London solicitor, but I was assured the benefactor’s interests are wholly aligned with your own.”
Lavinia’s mind reeled. For a split second, she saw the blue of Tristan’s eyes, but the thought was so preposterous she dismissed it instantly.
Of course, it was Dawnford. He had, after all, promised to ‘take care of everything’ when she accepted his offer.
This was simply a man exercising his property rights before they were legal. It was logical.
She pressed a palm to her brow. “You are absolutely certain?”
“Absolutely, My Lady.” Tomley’s eyes darted to the ledgers, then back to Lavinia, seeking a sign of approval. “I verified each receipt myself. I would not dare report otherwise.”
Frances, who had been standing, let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob, and threw herself onto the ottoman beside Lavinia, clutching at her arm. “You are free!” she cried. “You do not have to marry him now, Lavinia. We can be happy again!”
Lavinia, whose world had tilted so many times it now spun on a permanent axis, stared at the ledgers. “This changes nothing,” she said, but the words rang hollow. “Lord Dawnford expects a wife.”
“But you do not owe him!” Frances insisted. “You can break it off. Please, Lavinia—please.”
Lavinia turned to Tomley, who was watching the sisters with a mixture of awe and terror. “Show me the signature,” she said.
He obeyed at once, flipping to the relevant page and pointing with a shaking finger. “Here, my lady. The seal. You will see that all is in order.”
She examined the page. Crawley, the most vengeful of her creditors, was marked as paid in full. So was every other name she had come to dread.
She felt the beginnings of a tremor in her hand and clamped her fingers together to still it. “Thank you, Mr. Tomley,” she said, and he rose with unfeigned relief, leaving the documents in a neat pile between them.
When the door closed, Frances leaned in, her voice shaking when he spoke. “We can run away if you want. We can hide in the country, or—”
“Do not be absurd,” Lavinia said, though her eyes filled as she spoke. “We have nowhere to go, and Lady Montfort would hunt us to the ends of the earth.”
Frances clung tighter. “But you do not have to marry Lord Dawnford. That is the only thing that matters. We can tell him to go to the devil.”
Lavinia let out a ragged breath, and in the stillness that followed, she realized, for the first time in months, she had no idea what to do next. The future stretched out, not as a straight line, but as a fog, full of perils she could not anticipate.
“Lord Dawnford could have paid these. If that is so, then he would never let us go.”
Before she could answer, a knock came. She turned to see Mrs. Down in the doorway. “My Lady. Lord Dawnford and Lady Montfort are here.”