Chapter 4 The Gathering
Chapter Four
The Gathering
Later that afternoon, Clara was brimming with nervous energy.
Due to her ability to wield her charms against men, she considered herself an excellent judge of their character, but this?
It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
Despite Philip’s satisfactory answers for each of her questions, there was still a nagging, sour sensation in her gut that could not be shaken…
And yet, it would have to be. For Catherine’s sake. Even if she didn’t completely believe him, she needed to ensure her sister did. Philip wasn’t a danger, of that much she was certain, so it would be unkind to keep Catherine fretting and embroidering so madly that she pricked each finger.
“Kitty?” Entering the sitting room, Clara noted Catherine still stitching, and strode over to her with a sigh. “Where is Mother?” she asked.
“In the garden with her lady’s maid,” Catherine replied. Setting aside her work, she rose and moved to her sister, anxiously wringing her hands. “What of Mr. Ashby? You took a stroll with him, did you not?”
“Shh!” Clara hissed, agitation sparking across her eyes. “You must learn to keep your voice down! Only the two of us know about this suspicion. Understood?”
“But—”
“Yes,” she cut in, taking Catherine by the shoulders, “yes, I did speak with him earlier, and I learned quite a bit.”
“Oh?” Expression apprehensive, the girl chewed her lip. “What happened?”
“Nothing of immediate import,” Clara assured her, “though I did make it plain I suspect him.”
Catherine gasped. “Oh, Clara… You didn’t!”
“Take care, would you?” Lowering her hands, she continued, “My accusations were veiled at best, because I wished to see his reaction. And, though I am loath to admit as such, he remained unruffled, and dodged each one of my parries…and all with valid answers.”
Catherine softened with relief. “I say that’s wonderful news!” she declared. “Perhaps Lottie failed to properly describe Mr. Ashby, after all. Of the three of us, she is the weakest at observation.”
Clara snorted. “That’s because she needs spectacles, darling.”
“You know what I meant,” Catherine snapped. “This isn’t funny, Clara, and least especially since you were the one to act as if this is some great concern!”
“Yes, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, wouldn’t you agree?” Feigning joviality, she draped an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “With Mr. Ashby no longer an immediate concern, why don’t we discuss our gowns for the party this evening?”
Catherine blinked, incredulous. “You are trying to distract me,” she accused.
“No, I am trying to ensure that you’re an absolute vision, as usual,” Clara deflected.
Unconvinced, the blonde shook her head. “Very well, but…Father won’t wish for us to be there,” she said. “You know it’s true.”
“Yes, but suppose they call upon us to entertain? What then?” Clara challenged.
Catherine huffed. “You cannot play the harpsichord—not well, at least—and I cannot sing. Is it any wonder Father prefers to keep us hidden away?”
“Ah, yes,” Clara dryly agreed. “We merely serve as two pretty dolls. Better to look at, but never to touch. Well…” She smirked, lifting her shoulders. “Better not to touch you, anyway.”
“Clara, please.”
“What? Can I help that men enjoy their playthings? If you’re not careful, you will end up tattered and broken.” A bitterness curled the corner of her mouth, but quickly evaporated. “Come along then. I’ll fetch the servants so we can get started with our preparations.”
Catherine moved to protest, but ultimately succumbed, and as Clara escorted her sister into the hallway, her mind danced with the possibilities of what the night could bring.
Later that day, William gave his promised tour.
The house was precisely what one would expect for a Georgian style manor: elegant parquet flooring; grand, sweeping rooms; well-crafted paneled walls; expensive heirlooms that Benjamin feared even breathing around; and opulence—so, so much, that left him oddly numb and unimpressed.
After all, what was wealth when the very world was falling apart?
Who was this benefitting, beyond a pitiful echo to yesteryears’ past when halls were filled with song and dance, while now, only the most well-to-do could hold such affairs?
When William motioned him onward, Benjamin sighed and followed after.
He’d been forbidden to see the daughters’ rooms (something about impropriety), so the last place on the list was Mr. Boyd’s office.
William was reluctant to enter this room unprompted, given Jedediah’s strictness about who was allowed to do so, but after a bit of coaxing, he ultimately gave in and led the other man inside.
“You mustn’t touch anything,” William warned. “If you do, it’ll be my head.” With a wince, he amended, “Begging your pardon, sir.”
Benjamin smiled. If nothing else, at least the servant was becoming more forthright. “Worry not, William,” he replied. “You wouldn’t be of much use to me without a head.”
“Very funny, sir.”
Appraising the great room, Benjamin admired the office with a calculating eye.
The tall walls were a simple gray-green, with two large windows that let in a massive amount of natural light, and at the center of the room was an ornate, mahogany bureau plat desk.
Benjamin’s pulse quickened. Surely, something of use lay within those drawers? The only problem was getting it alone…
All at once, he feigned a swoon and stumbled in place, panting and tugging at the fabric of his cravat.
“Sir?” William asked, alarm flashing across his eyes. “Sir, are you all right?”
Gasping in response, Benjamin continued unfastening his cravat while pretending to greedily gulp in mouthfuls of air.
“I’ll fetch some brandy,” William quickly assured him. As he rushed over and grabbed the decanter off a sideboard table, Benjamin shook his head.
“No,” he croaked out, “water…I-I need…water.”
Practically dancing amidst his panic, the servant set the decanter onto its serving tray with a jarring clang, then held up his hands. “I’ll be right back,” he promised. “I’ll fetch the water. Just please, sir, do not move!”
Poor William took off in a rush, nearly tripping over the rug on his way out, and once he was safely out of sight, Benjamin straightened and raced over to the desk with jittery limbs.
Tugging on the middle drawer, he cursed once he realized it was locked.
Of bloody course it was. Heaven forbid he deal with an actual idiot loyalist.
Exhaling through his nose, Benjamin mentally filed that away for later.
He’d either have to find a key or break into the drawer by force.
Instead, he moved over to the left drawer.
Inside, he found a small leatherbound book.
Glancing toward the entryway, he noted the empty corridor and was quick to snatch the ledger, his hands shaking while he lifted the cover.
Inside, he found a list of names—all prominent Tories—and by every individual, Boyd listed a sum of money he’d paid, and what each man donated to the king’s cause.
This is good, Benjamin thought giddily. If he only offered Bishop a few new loyalists, this could still lead to many opportunities.
From down the hall, the sound of slapping shoes echoed throughout the corridor, and in a panic, Benjamin hastily shoved the ledger inside the drawer, slammed it shut, and rushed back toward the middle of the room.
He doubled over and started faking a wheezing fit, and that was when William made his flustered entrance.
Flanking his sides were two other servants.
“Don’t just stand there!” the boy snarled. “Help Mr. Ashby sit down!”
Allowing himself to be led to a scarlet wingback chair, Benjamin collapsed, and perhaps a bit too dramatically, onto the furniture while the men fussed over him.
Accepting a glass of water, he dipped his fingers into the liquid and flicked it across his face, breathing heavily while swallowing low in his throat.
“Do you have a condition, Mr. Ashby?” William asked, anxious. “Is this to happen often?”
Trying not to reflect his amusement, Benjamin shook his head, slowly calming his breath. “No, no,” he assured the younger man. “I think…I-I am nervous about tonight. I wish to impress Mr. Boyd’s friends.”
Slowly, William’s face grew awash with relief. “Oh, is that all?” he asked. “I trust you’ll do quite well, sir.”
While one of the servants dabbed his face with a cloth, Benjamin mirrored his smile. Perhaps he would do “quite well,” indeed.
Despite the last-minute preparations, there was no shortage of wine, spirits, nor desserts to be had that evening, and at least a dozen men milled around the drawing room laughing and making merry.
Benjamin stood at Jedediah’s side while the attorney bragged on his behalf, boisterously declaring the merge of their two families.
“Lucky you,” Major Markham whispered into his ear. “The Boyd girls are all quite stunning.”
“In more ways than one,” Benjamin muttered.
By this point, he’d been introduced to each guest—various businessmen and preening peacocks, naturally—but most of them were sticking to their own favored social circles, rather than speaking to him beyond perfunctory politeness.
Benjamin had always been quiet and bookish, so he was finding it difficult making conversation with these out of touch, conceited high-flyers.
At least when a book’s message agitated him, he could close it.
In his immediate vicinity was Jedediah, pompous and nettled as always; Major Adam Markham; Simon Falstaff, a middle-aged banker; Michael Collins, an agricultural merchant; and Ensign Eleazar Thomas, an ignorant boob.
“No, no, you are not listening!” the latter exclaimed. “If we ply these rebel cowards with a bunch of harlots, we won’t have to outsmart them in battle!”
“Do tell,” Adam said, hiding a smile behind his wine glass.