Chapter 15
“The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.”
Six days had passed since my eventful visit at Stonehill House. Six. I finally understood how the Creator managed to form the world in that time—because six days was, in fact, an eternity.
Edmond had not yet fulfilled his promise to call on me and explain things.
Instead, he had left me waiting in my parlor, desperate for any sign of his arrival.
In between the dull and uneventful visits from the Swarm, I had stitched and completed eight embroidery samplers, and the ninth sat on my lap, mocking me.
Who ever said I was a gentleman?
Edmond’s words from the spring soirée caused a dreadful chill to course through me. Was he some sort of con artist? A scoundrel from the streets who had swindled Mr. MacMillan’s fortune? Mr. Fletcher had said Edmond owed him money. Had Mr. Fletcher taken part in the scheme as well?
“Pull yourself together, Helena,” I muttered to myself.
Edmond wasn’t a rogue. There was concrete evidence that he inherited his fortune legally.
Besides that, he’d attended the University of Edinburgh and received top grades, a feat no con man could pull off.
Most importantly, Mrs. Sweete hadn’t observed anything unsavory about Edmond—and Mrs. Sweete was never wrong.
No, he was not a criminal. But he was clearly not a well-bred gentleman either.
So what was he exactly?
“You could call upon him, you know,” Mrs. Sweete said, pulling a thread from her own needlework.
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t stoop so low as to show up uninvited at his home. I’d look ridiculous.”
Mrs. Sweete sighed. “Heaven forbid he learns you actually like him.”
“Exactly.” I sat up straight. “Wait, what do you mean like him? He’s just a candidate, Mrs. Sweete. Nothing more.”
“Hmm.”
I jabbed my needle into the sampler. I had reluctantly informed Mrs. Sweete that Edmond was now a serious candidate, but I had not told her of my growing feelings for him.
I still didn’t entirely understand them myself.
Thankfully, she hadn’t pressed me for details of that day, but it was evident she suspected something was afoot.
“Mr. Hawke promised he would call on me,” I said.
“He promised? You’re sure?”
I tried to recall exactly what he said. He had promised, hadn’t he? I wished I had Edmond’s annoying ability to remember every spoken word.
“His recovery is probably taking longer than planned,” I said. “It was a frightful injury, after all. He’s likely begging to visit me, but his doctor ordered him to remain in bed. It’s the only explanation.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Sweete said again, and I shot her a threatening glare.
I couldn’t explain to Mrs. Sweete why I was so desperate for Edmond to visit me. It had taken every ounce of my willpower not to tell her everything about the horrible Mr. Fletcher. But I was intent on staying true to my promise—unlike a certain gentleman I knew.
The parlor door opened, and the butler entered with a calling card in his hand.
I jumped out of my chair, my needlework falling to the floor. “Is Mr. Hawke here? Send him in.”
“No, miss. It is a…” he squinted at the card. “Forgive me, but I cannot decipher the writing.”
“Give it to me.”
The butler handed me the card. The scrawl was unintelligible, as if someone wrote it while jumping atop a moving carriage.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Sweete said, peering over my shoulder.
“You can read it?”
She looked at me with concern. “It’s Lord Lichtenstein. Your father invited him to pay you a visit.”
My stomach flipped. “Is now an acceptable time for a lady to curse, Mrs. Sweete?”
She turned to the butler. “Miss Weston will host him here, thank you.”
He nodded, then swiftly departed.
“I don’t want to see him,” I pleaded. “He’s already gone through three wives!”
“I don’t think you have a choice,” Mrs. Sweete said softly.
“But what if he perishes while down on one knee?”
“Then you won’t have to say yes.”
The door opened, and in shuffled the smallest, feeblest man I had ever seen.
Lord Lichtenstein had to be at least ninety years old, with a back so hunched I thought he was bending over.
He had three tufts of white hair wisping from his forehead and lips so thin, I could easily make out all of his missing teeth.
“Where is she?” the count demanded. He had a thick German accent that was almost as indecipherable as his writing. “Where’s the girl?”
“I’m here, Lord Lichtenstein,” I said with a forced smile and a curtsy. “How do you do?”
“Don’t bother me with pleasantries, girl. I’m here for one task alone: to evaluate you.”
I blinked. “Evaluate me?”
He shuffled closer, squinting his clouded eyes as he took every inch of me in. “Do you speak German?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
I glanced at Mrs. Sweete, who nodded.
My fingers clenched my skirt as I recited, “Ein guter Mensch in seinem dunklen Drange, ist sich des rechten Weges wohl bewu?t.”
Lord Lichtenstein scowled. “I’ll have none of that frivolous poetry in my home, girl! Goethe is a fool, and I do not tolerate fools! My third wife was obsessed with the filth. I believe it affected her mind, which led to her demise, of course.”
“Poetry… killed your wife?”
“Don’t be daft. Bad poetry killed my wife.” He then hacked up the wettest cough I’d ever heard. I stood frozen, wondering how on earth Father thought this would be an ideal match.
“Next question,” he said, a glob of spittle stuck on his thin lips. “How many teeth have you lost? Be honest—I will check.”
My jaw fell open.
“My first wife had to have all but three removed,” he grumbled. “She died of the rot, you see.”
The count stepped closer to inspect me, and I stumbled backward. But he managed to grab my arm with surprising strength. He pulled it to his nose and sniffed.
“How often do you bathe, girl?”
“I beg your pardon!” I yanked my arm away. “I am the daughter of a viscount, not a pig you’re buying for slaughter.”
“At least pigs don’t talk back.” He gave me one last look over, his gaze leaving a sticky residue across my skin. “You seem to be in good enough health to provide children. As long as you can whip up my tinctures, I suppose you’ll do.”
He turned to leave, and a hot rage boiled inside me. I lurched forward, ready to barrage the count with a few choice words, but Mrs. Sweete stopped me and shook her head.
“I leave for Austria on the morrow,” he called over his shoulder, “but I shall send for you soon. Don’t trouble yourself with packing any gowns or frippery. I never attend balls anymore. My second wife’s heart gave out from dancing.”
He shuffled out without so much as a bow or a tip of his head.
I stood motionless. Had I truly experienced that, or was I suffering some horrible nightmare? No man had ever treated me with such disdain. No one would dare to.
Mrs. Sweete brought me out of my haze by patting my arm. “At least he was brief.”
“He had to be, considering he could die any second.” I plopped down on the couch with a frustrated huff. “I cannot marry that awful man. I’d rather be a miserable spinster for the rest of my life!”
Mrs. Sweete didn’t respond, and I immediately regretted my words.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” she said with a soft smile. “It’s all right.”
The butler opened the door again, and I jumped to my feet. “Another caller? Is it Mr. Hawke?”
“No,” the butler said. “It’s the baron.”
“Lord Cranford?” Mrs. Sweete asked.
I let out a heavy sigh. At least Lord Cranford was better company than the count.
“Send him in. Oh, and please arrange a tray of biscuits. The plain ones, no jam or honey.” I glanced at Mrs. Sweete. “That’s how the baron likes them.”
“I know.”
Of course she does, I thought fondly. Mrs. Sweete knew everything.
The butler nodded and left once more.
I smoothed my skirt and ensured the diamond charm on my bracelet was visible. “How do I look?”
Mrs. Sweete studied me thoroughly. “Brilliant, as always.”
“Good. This may not be the candidate I expected, but I will make the best of his visit as I can. After all, one always needs a backup plan.”
Mrs. Sweete kept her eyes on her needlework. “Lord Cranford would make a suitable husband. I think you would be content with him.”
“You really think so?” It was unlike Mrs. Sweete to make such a direct judgment. Usually she remained in the realm of mere observation. But, she’d been married herself once, and perhaps she was speaking from experience.
“What was Mr. Sweete like?” I said. “If I may ask, that is.”
“You may.” Mrs. Sweete set down her needlework and let out a small sigh. “He was a clergyman, a quiet man who lived a quiet life. We were married only a year before—” Her voice broke, and her lips pressed together tightly. “He enjoyed walking along the river and feeding the ducks.”
“He sounds lovely.”
“He was.”
“Have you… ever thought about remarrying?”
She fiddled with a frayed thread. “Oh, I don’t think that sort of thing is meant for me.”
I frowned at her answer just as the door opened, and I quickly rearranged my face into one of pleasant greeting.
“What an honor to have you in my home, Lord Cranford.” I curtsied. “Please, sit. A tea tray will arrive shortly with some refreshments.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Weston,” the baron said with a bow. He turned to my chaperone and offered her a polite nod as well. She curtsied, then sat in the far corner of the parlor, granting us as much privacy as propriety allowed.
Lord Cranford glanced between the available seats, as if unsure where to sit. I motioned to the chair adjacent to mine, and he limped over and sat down, his back stiff as a rod.
“How are you today, Lord Cranford?”
He set his cane on his lap. “I’m well, thank you.”
I waited for him to elaborate further, but he offered nothing more. I prayed the tea tray would arrive soon. We sat in silence for a moment, his eyes not quite meeting mine. That was normal for the baron. I didn’t interpret it as a slight in the least.