Chapter 2
The study fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire. Their father sank into his armchair, his head in his hands as he groaned in despair. Camelia and her sisters surrounded and embraced him.
“What have I brought upon us?” he mumbled. “My folly has doomed you all.”
Camelia took his hand. “Papa, we cannot yield to him. Margaret is too young, too innocent for such a fate. We will find a way to pay him back.”
“My dear, the—” He choked as he tried to still his shaking hands. “The debt… it is insurmountable. Thousands of pounds, and we cannot raise such a sum by tomorrow. I am ruined, and I dragged you all with me. I am sorry, my girls. I failed you, and I failed your dear mother.”
Camelia’s heart ached as she wondered how her father had fallen into such crippling debt. It was unlike him, yet she could not fault him. Grief over her mother’s passing had clouded his judgment over the years.
Her mind raced for solutions, but only one possibility presented itself, and it chilled her to consider it.
“We will be all right, Papa. We will find another way,” Iris insisted gently.
Camelia looked up at her older sister with a rush of gratitude. Iris was not one to lie, but in the moment, a small untruth offered the comfort they all needed.
“And I refuse to marry that man!” Margaret scoffed.
As she sat on the edge of the armchair and stroked their father’s greying hair, tears spilled from his sunken eyes. Camelia squeezed his hand, and Iris rubbed his shoulders gently.
“What of your friends, Father? They have wealth and influence. Could we not ask for their help?” Camelia asked.
“My only trusted friend is abroad,” their father replied, shaking his head. “And even if he were here, he owes me no favors. The sum is too great, Camelia. No one will lend money to a man already drowning in debt.”
“We cannot let Margaret go to that… that monster,” Iris said quietly, her tears spilling over, too. “His intentions are not those of a gentleman. He spoke of breaking her spirit. Camelia, you heard him!”
“I did,” Camelia said fiercely. “And I will not allow it. Margaret, you must understand that he does not simply seek a wife. I do not believe he will offer you any freedom. He is not a good man.”
“I am not afraid of him,” Margaret declared, crossing her arms over her chest stubbornly. “I could face him. I could make him honor my terms. Why do you all treat me as a child? I am nineteen, not helpless!”
“Margaret, you do not understand!” Camelia snapped, her patience fraying. “He does not seek a wife! He seeks to make you a pawn in his cruel designs. A form of payment. You heard him—he wants to ‘tame’ you and ‘break’ you. Do you not see the danger?”
“Then what do you propose, Camelia?” Margaret asked sharply, her voice rising. “Shall we all be cast into ruin? I am not witless. If I can save us, why should I not try?”
“Because you simply cannot,” Iris interjected. “Camelia, tell her! Men like Montague are not swayed by courage; they thrive on destroying it. He will ruin you, Margaret, and laugh while doing it!”
Margaret’s eyes flashed. “And what would you have me do, Iris? Hide behind Camelia’s skirts all my life? If we do nothing, we lose everything. Our home, our name, and our future!”
“Enough! We will not lose anything or anyone.” Camelia rose, her hand still holding their father’s hand. “We will not tear ourselves apart. Margaret, your bravery is admirable, but it is our job to protect you from men like him. We will find another path. I will find another path.”
“But what path, my dear daughter?” their father asked so quietly that she almost missed it. His eyes were weary, and he looked older than usual. “We have no allies near enough, no funds to draw upon. Lord Montague has us ensnared like foxes in a trap.”
Camelia let go of his hand gently and paced the room, her mind racing with ideas.
Her father sighed loudly, and the sound made her stop and gently step towards him.
“Papa,” she began softly. “May I ask you something?”
He nodded slowly, uncertainty etched on his features. “Anything, my dear,” he murmured.
“How did it come to this?” She searched his face.
His shoulders sagged. “I… I misjudged a simple card game, Camelia. I thought I could manage… I believed I could handle the debts, but I did not foresee…” His words faltered.
“I only ever wanted to provide for you all, to keep you safe. And yet—” His voice broke.
“I would never allow Margaret to be taken from us. Never.”
“We believe you, Papa.” Margaret put her head on his shoulder to ease his trembling.
Camelia’s heart clenched at the desperation in his eyes. She reached out and gently placed her hand on his arm.
“Papa, I know you would never willingly give her up,” she said soothingly. “But we must face the facts. Lord Montague does not bargain, nor does he care for what is just or right. He will act as he pleases, and if we cannot find a way to meet his demands… we are in grave danger.”
Her father swallowed hard. “Then what would you have me do? I am an earl, yet I am powerless!”
“You are not powerless,” Camelia corrected firmly. “But we must be realistic. Courage alone will not save us. We must be calculated, careful, and, above all, united.”
He smiled at her, the weight of shame and fear heavy upon him, yet a flicker of trust softened his expression.
Camelia wished that she believed her own words.
She drew a deep breath and turned to face her sisters, letting her voice carry reassurance. “We must remain calm, together. Fear will serve us no good here. I will protect you all, as best as I can. But we must face this with courage and care.”
Her sisters and father exchanged looks.
“What of Mr. Ellison, the solicitor? He has connections in London. Could he not negotiate a delay, or find a creditor willing to help us?” Iris asked.
“Ellison cannot work miracles,” their father replied, rubbing his temples. “And any creditor would demand terms as ruinous as Montague’s.”
“Then we must think beyond coin,” Camelia said, stopping abruptly.
Her father lifted his head, bewildered. “Beyond coin? My dear, debts are not paid with dreams. Montague will have his due, and I would rather face disgrace than see Margaret married to him.”
Margaret stood up and placed her hands on her hips. “Then let him ruin us. I would sooner live in poverty than in that man’s house. At least poverty does not leer and laugh in one’s face.”
“You speak rashly, Margaret. Ruin is not so simple. Poverty would strip us of everything—our name, our prospects, even the roof over our heads. We cannot invite it so easily,” Iris cautioned softly.
Camelia admired her elder sister’s quiet strength. Iris, more than any of them, understood the weight of ruin in Society when her husband had died on their wedding night, leaving her to bear the cruel judgment of the ton alone.
“Better to be ruined than to be bartered like cattle!” Margaret shot back.
“Peace, both of you,” their father murmured, raising a hand to silence them.
Camelia turned to her family, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “We cannot ignore the truth. Our family will be ruined if we cannot find a solution in a conventional way.” A heavy silence enveloped them before she continued, “We must look elsewhere.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, Father, but I cannot bear this helplessness,” Camelia whispered to herself, her hands trembling under her cloak as she crept down the dark hall.
The house was silent. Her father and sisters had retired to their beds, but sleep eluded her, as Lord Montague’s visit plagued her mind. Her heart pounded beneath her corset, each beat a reminder of his vile ultimatum: Margaret, or ruin by tomorrow evening.
I will repay him, no matter the cost. He will not have her, and he will not ruin us.
Without thinking any further about it, Camelia slipped out the side door and hailed a hackney in the shadowed street.
“Whitechapel,” she told the horseman as placidly as she could.
The destination was foreign and dangerous, but desperation drove her. She had resolved to find money the only way a woman of her station could in such dire straits.
I must have some worth.
The thought made her stomach churn.
But what choice is left? Papa cannot pay, and Margaret cannot suffer. I must do this.
The hackney rattled through London’s cobbled streets, the respectable facades of Mayfair giving way to the grimy alleys of Whitechapel. Camelia’s hands twisted nervously in her lap, and her curls escaped her hood and fell around her face.
What am I doing?
Her mind screamed at her, but she shoved the thought aside.
There is no time for doubt. I must be strong.
The carriage stopped, and Camelia stepped into a dark alley. The air was thick with the stench of refuse and cheap gin. Her good sense urged her to flee, but desperation held her fast.
“You can do this, Camelia. You must do this,” she commanded herself.
Her heart thudded as she stood at the mouth of the alley, her eyes drawn to the brothel across the street. The flickering lanterns cast a warm, deceptive glow over its facade, and the muffled sounds of women’s laughter and soft moans spilled through the cracked windows.
Camelia sucked in a sharp breath.
Who should I talk to? What should I say?
The uncertainty gnawed at her.
What awaits in such a place? And what would be expected of me?
Across the cobbled street, a woman in a burgundy dress sauntered towards a gentleman lingering near a lamppost. Her hips swayed with practiced ease, and her voice carried a low, honeyed tone.
“I’ve been waiting for you, darling,” she purred as her fingers brushed the man’s arm.
Camelia’s eyes widened, noting the confident tilt of the woman’s head, the way her words seemed to wrap around the man like a spell. Moments later, the woman led him to a waiting carriage, her laughter trailing as they climbed inside and the door snapped shut.
Camelia swallowed hard, her palms clammy.
I’ve been waiting for you.
The phrase echoed in her mind, a script she might need to learn.
She pressed herself against the damp brick wall, steadying her nerves until she could no longer stand still. She began to pace as regret curled into her gut.
I cannot do this.
She turned to escape the alley and its frightening opportunities, but stopped short when she spotted a figure looming ahead, half-hidden in the shadows. It was undoubtedly a man.
The figure stood tall and broad-shouldered, but his face remained obscured by the shadows.
Despite every instinct, Camelia ran towards him, her voice breaking as she blurted, “My lord, I… I am for sale!”