Chapter 28 #2
The footman inclines precisely seventeen degrees and opens the door wider so I can step into the hall.
My eyes dart around the modest interior, so different from Mansfield’s estate.
It’s smaller, for one thing, and not as elaborately decorated, but there’s a solid sort of quality to the dark paneling, the modest candelabra, and the few pieces of artwork.
The footman gives me no time to continue my inspection. He extends a dark-gloved hand, indicating for me to precede him up a short flight of stairs. A rush-lined corridor stretches at the top, and the footman ushers me through a doorway with another of those precise bows.
The room is modest and tasteful, with a card table in the corner and a set of deep blue sofas in the middle.
I take it that I’m to wait—although it’s not my Cleverness that’s figured that out; it’s the way the footman does his seventeen-degree incline again before withdrawing as silently as he’s done everything else.
Will I look more to advantage if I’m standing or sitting? Sitting, I think. I may be a mess, but if I stand to wait for the count, it’s a tacit admission that I’m feeling out of place. And I must keep some sort of upper hand.
So I sit, spreading my torn, muddy skirt around me.
I don’t wait long before the door opens and Count Chrestowine enters, a smile underneath his mustache. He bows over my hand—naturally, I’ve risen when he stepped into the room—although he does not, I notice, kiss it. Too dirty? “My lady! What a surprise!”
But the surprise is mine, because there on his heels is Father.
The Poise sustains me outwardly, but my insides twist into a thousand knots. Father? Here? Why?
He rushes to embrace me. I don’t return it. He forced me to marry a stranger, and although I don’t mind Lem now, it was still a horrid thing to do.
“Agatha.” His voice is quivering and remorseful. “I’m so sorry—I shouldn’t have—you’ve no idea how worried we’ve been—”
I press my lips together as he keeps babbling. I’m sure he was very sorry when he woke up and realized he’d given me away for free.
“But now I’ve found you, and we can go back, and everything will be fine—”
“Fine?” I wrench out of his enfolding arms. “Fine?” I don’t point out that he didn’t even find me any more than I found him. It was luck, whether good or ill, that shuffled us back together.
Father wrings his hands. The count steps back, giving us the illusion of privacy, though his beady eyes are still trained on us. Collecting whatever information he can, I suppose, like a bird of prey.
“You must understand, Agatha—it was a mistake. And it wasn’t my idea. And—”
I want to interrupt, to tell him how despicable he is, but I restrain myself. I relax my posture and bend my head, as if accepting his apology, and retake my seat. “Since you’re here,” I say coolly, “perhaps you can be useful. Do you have my marriage license with you?”
Father looks a bit abashed. “Mansfield took it.”
I don’t let my irritation show. Well, there goes that idea. He’ll have destroyed it, certainly, which is as good as an annulment. Lem should be happy. But the duke still can’t marry me without either my or Father’s agreement, and Father had better not agree at this point.
“I swear I didn’t know.” Father wrings his hands. “I thought it was him. It was dark—and I’d had a glass or two too many—so upset by that ball—but if I’d known—”
“What are you talking about?” I have to work to keep the irritation mostly out of my words. Father should get to the point, and the count should give us privacy instead of lurking like a vampiric heron.
“I thought I was marrying you to Mansfield,” Father laments. “Instead of that nobody. You’ve no idea how distressed I’ve been.”
My heart stutters. I’ve been avoiding thinking of that ball, too embarrassed and angry to relive it, but now the memories swivel into place: the way Father was pinning all his monetary hopes on me, but married me off to Lem anyhow.
The way Mansfield said he wanted to humble me.
How drunk Father was that night, and how the last thing I’d seen when I left that ballroom was the duke refilling his wineglass …
“That complete and utter leech!” I bluster.
It was Mansfield’s idea! He must have come up with the “marry your good-for-nothing daughter off to a beggar” scheme so he could humiliate me, and probably negotiate a cheaper bride-price to boot.
But then Lem showed up and Father assumed he was the duke in disguise …
Icicles creep down my spine. I bless Melusine for turning Lem into a minstrel. Did she guess how much I needed one to appear at just that moment? If I knew what I was being spared, I would’ve never spoken to Lem the way I did. I hope … I hope I get the chance to apologize.
And Father—Father would have done that to me? Given me to a vengeful, small-minded, domineering man, simply because he had money and a title?
The same man I’d been planning on marrying, simply because he had money and a title. Oh, how foolish my ideas had been!
“But I’ve found you, unhurt”—Father wrinkles his nose—“though we’ll have to get you a clean gown, which you have, Chrestowine?—and I can return you—”
“You will not return me to Mansfield.”
Chrestowine’s expression doesn’t change, unless he smirks slightly more, but Father blusters like an injured rooster. “Agatha, you don’t know what you’re saying! Mansfield’s been frantic to rescue you, and he’s still willing to have you, despite … everything! You should be weeping with thanks!”
“As you see, I am not.” I’ve got to stop before I say anything more. I turn toward Chrestowine.
“You don’t understand.” Father pulls my attention back to himself. I’d pity his anxious expression if I weren’t so hurt by what he’s done. “You have to return to him. It’s the law—wives cannot just desert their husbands, you know—”
“Then help me find Lem,” I interrupt. “He’s the one you married me to.”
Father reddens. “I thought it was Mansfield. I—I wrote Mansfield’s name on the license.”
I have another moment of clarity, agonizing and cold. Mansfield called me wife because I am his wife. He has the document to prove our marriage. Father gave me away; Mansfield owns me now. I turn away from Father, my glassy eyes sliding over the room without seeing anything. “I can’t,” I whisper.
“You have to.” Father’s voice sounds like it’s miles away. “I’m sorry, Agatha. I didn’t think it would upset you so. You’ve always said you wanted to marry him.”
A tear slips down my cheek. I don’t look at Father. “I always said what you wanted to hear.”
His hand, clammy and soft, clasps mine. “He’s a bit, well, rough, but you can smooth him out, Agatha. You can charm anyone. I’m sure you’ll be happy—”
“I’ll be happy? No.” I swallow, tossing all my feelings behind a Melusine-made wall of Poise. My spine stiffens and I yank my hand away. “I will not.”