Chapter 15 #2
“Have you discovered any fascinating insects lately?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I haven’t had much time for research. I’ve been attending to Mr. Hawke.”
That made me perk up. “Mr. Hawke? Have you seen him? How is he? Terribly ill, I presume? Perhaps bedridden?”
“He received several stitches, and his shoulder is a bit sore from the relocation.”
“But is he able to walk? Can he speak?” Could he, perhaps, call upon someone if he wanted to?
The baron’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “He is much recovered. He wears a sling, so he cannot write. I’ve been playing scribe for him, helping him keep his mining operations afloat in his absence.”
“I see,” I breathed. But—if Edmond could walk and talk, then there was no excuse for his absence.
“It’s thanks to you that his recovery is going so well,” Lord Cranford said, finally meeting my eyes. “The doctor said that if you hadn’t wrapped the wound, Mr. Hawke could have faced serious complications from blood loss.”
“Mhmm.” Surely Edmond isn’t embarrassed that I saved him, is he? I thought. He didn’t strike me as the type to be wounded by a woman’s competence.
The baron continued. “I am impressed with your quick thinking, Miss Weston. It reminds me of what I saw during my days in the navy. Some of the bravest soldiers I knew were the ones who leapt into action when a man was in danger.”
“How nice of them.” Could it be that Edmond is simply avoiding me?
“Men like your uncle.”
I blinked. “My uncle?”
“Your mother’s youngest brother was an officer under my command.”
“You mean Uncle Robert?”
I never knew much of my mother’s family. Father was never keen on visitors. But Mother had told me stories about a brother who died at war.
“He served on the Malta with me. A fine officer.” The baron stared at the cane on his lap. “I lost him at Finisterre.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, Miss Weston. I am sorry. His well-being was my responsibility, which is why I wish to repay the debt owed his family. Miss Weston, I must ask you—”
The door opened, and a maid set the tea tray in front of us.
“Care for a biscuit?” I asked as I put one on my plate. “Or some tea? No sugar, of course. I remember your preference.”
“Miss Weston,” the baron wiped his brow, “if I may be so bold, I can tell you are the type of person who protects others, just like your uncle. It’s a trait I value highly.”
I nodded with a smile, unable to speak, for I was chewing on the driest biscuit I had ever eaten in my life.
“Which leads me to wonder—” He cleared his throat. “What traits in a man do you prize most?”
The biscuit caught in my throat, and I choked. I held up a finger while I grabbed the tea and gulped it down as gracefully as I could. When I had recovered myself, all I could ask was, “What?”
The baron took a cup of tea and stared at it. “What I’m trying to ask is, well… what exactly are you looking for in a husband, Miss Weston?”
Oh.
A small cough sounded from the corner, and I glanced over to see Mrs. Sweete hunched over her work, focused on pulling a thread.
“My, what a question.” I poured myself another cup of tea to buy time.
I should be elated. This was exactly the kind of question I wanted from my candidates.
I should answer in a way he’d wish to hear.
Which traits, you ask? Why, I value a man who can tell the difference between a stag beetle and a rose beetle.
But I found I could not lie to the baron. I respected him far too much for that.
I took a sip of tea before answering. “I want someone who would never turn me away, even if I misstep. Someone forgiving and… well, kind.”
The truth of the words surprised me. I hadn’t ever voiced them until now.
I took a breath and looked up at the baron in the eye. He nodded slowly, as if considering my answer. Then he stood and reached for my hand. I let him take it, and to my surprise, he gently kissed my knuckles.
It was not a romantic gesture. It felt more cordial, like a doting uncle.
“Thank you, Miss Weston,” he said, sounding relieved. “I believe I understand.”
“You do?” In truth, I wasn’t sure I understood entirely what I had said. My heart seemed to have spoken before my mind. Though, I was grateful it did. I couldn’t very well say the most essential trait I was looking for in a husband was being enormously wealthy.
The baron released my hand and bowed. “I shall call on you again soon.”
“Are you leaving? You haven’t even tried the biscuits yet.”
But he was already limping toward the door. “I have some business with your father.”
Business? My heart skipped. Surely he wasn’t already going to—
I glanced over at Mrs. Sweete, who was staring at her needlework with a focus that could melt iron. Why was she being so unhelpful?
By the time I turned around, he was gone. I sat down, feeling dazed. The Baron of Cranford was in the next room, asking my father for my hand in marriage.
Mrs. Sweete sat down in the chair next to mine. “Are you well, Miss Weston?”
“I should be, shouldn’t I? I should be… happy.”
Mrs. Sweete’s brows knit together. “But you aren’t.”
“I—I’m not sure.” I picked up my embroidery sampler and traced the pattern with my finger. Like the other samplers I had completed these past six days, this one was of a garden, with little knotted flowers and trailing vines—rather like the ones at Stonehill House.
“You’re right. Lord Cranford would be a good husband. So what if he is two decades my senior? He’s still healthy and strong and—oh my, he’d be in his sixties when our children came of age. But that is no matter. He is honorable, and I would learn so much about insects.”
Mrs. Sweete placed a hand on my arm. “What do you intend to do?”
That made me pause. Her question made it seem like I had a choice in the matter.
Did I?
Sun Tzu taught that rapidity was the essence of war. But I found myself unable to make this decision quickly. If Lord Cranford accepted Father’s terms for marriage, then our family would be saved. I’d be a fool to reject his offer and hold out hope for another proposal from—
No, I told myself. Edmond still hadn’t explained who Mr. Fletcher really was, so I had no way of knowing whether or not Edmond was still a feasible option.
I couldn’t help but hold onto the childish hope that there was another explanation, that the awful man in the foyer was not his father, that it was all a misunderstanding.
Until I knew for sure, how could I possibly decide?
The parlor door swung open again. I stiffened, worried that the baron had decided to propose immediately. But it was just my father.
“You did it, Helena,” he boomed, barreling into the room with open arms and a wide smile. “Two offers within a single hour. Hah! Take that, Pratt!”
I swallowed. “I take it Lord Cranford spoke with you.”
“Cranford did more than speak with me. He paid for you, Helena. At least, he will when the contracts are drawn up.”
“Oh.” I tried my best to hide my distaste at his phrasing. “How—um—nice.”
“The man didn’t even bat an eye when I told him there was no dowry, that you were a prize to be earned not awarded.” He barked out a hearty laugh. “He’s nearly as blind in business as that Hawke fellow. I have them both wrapped around my finger.”
I tilted my head. “As in Edmond Hawke? What business did you possibly have with him?”
Father looked rather pleased with himself.
“He approached me with a proposal to invest in the marshlands on my property—for farming, of all things. Even better, he said that if the project failed, he would take the full brunt of the cost!” Father slapped his knee.
“I’m surprised the man has a single pence to his name with that sort of business sense. ”
A terrible thought roiled inside me. “When exactly did he make this deal with you, Father? Was it four weeks ago?”
“Yes, yes. That sounds right.”
Dear heavens, I thought with a dreadful, sinking feeling in my chest. Edmond had paid for my new wardrobe, whether he knew it or not. I desperately hoped he didn’t, but Edmond didn’t seem the type to make such a bad business deal purposefully. He was much smarter than that.
Or was he? He did pay a ridiculous amount for my watercolor. So either he was as dimwitted as Father said, or—
Oh dear.
“I’m not feeling well.” I caught myself on the chair. “I need some air.”
Father waved his hand. “Go off and walk, or whatever it is you women do when you’re feeling faint. Oh, and I’ll be gone again for dinner. I can’t wait to see the look on Pratt’s face when I tell him my daughter has two offers on the table!”
He gave me one last proud look, then left me and Mrs. Sweete alone in the parlor.
“Miss Weston,” she said, “are you feeling—”
“I’m fine.” I grabbed my shawl. “At least, I will be when we knock down Stonehill’s door and demand a confession. We must call upon Edmond immediately.”
Mrs. Sweete raised an eyebrow at my use of Mr. Hawke’s Christian name, then nodded and stood as well. “I’ll ask the cook to bring us an apple.”
“An apple?”
“For the pretense of you showing up with concern over his health.”
“Good thinking,” I said. “But why an apple? Are they good for one’s constitution when ill?”
“I suppose they are. But they’re also Mr. Hawke’s favorite.”
“How on earth do you know that?” I waved her off. “Never mind. Tell the cook to pack an entire basket of apples. We must ensure Edmond is healthy enough for me to castigate him thoroughly.”