Chapter Sixteen A Respectable Marriage
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Respectable Marriage
By Thursday morning, Mary Beth had discovered that outrage was expensive.
The local bank manager did not say so. He spoke instead of caution, temporary uncertainty, adverse talk in York, and the unfortunate effect of public speculation upon short-term credit.
His office smelled of sealing wax and coal smoke.
A brass clock ticked above the mantel while he explained, with professional sorrow, why Blackthorn’s seasonal line could no longer be treated as routine.
Mary Beth sat opposite him with her gloves folded in her lap.
“Blackthorn has never missed an interest payment.”
“No, Mrs. Blackthorn.”
“Nor a wage.”
“No.”
“Nor a supplier’s account.”
“Certainly not.”
“And the estate’s rents are sufficient to cover the borrowing you are now concerned about.”
He adjusted a paper on the blotter. “The figures themselves are sound.”
“Then we have reached the interesting part.”
The manager’s mouth tightened. He had known Mary Beth since before her marriage, though not well enough to enjoy being cornered by her. “There have been questions about future management.”
“From whom?”
“I cannot discuss another client’s correspondence.”
“I did not ask you to discuss a client. I asked who has been discussing mine.”
He was silent long enough to answer her.
Mary Beth leaned back. “Lord Sablehurst.”
The manager did not confirm it. He did, however, reach for his spectacles and remove them, which was almost as useful.
She had expected Benedict’s name. Expecting it did not make the answer pleasant.
“What precisely was said?”
“I am not at liberty—”
“You are at liberty to tell me why a bank that was satisfied with Blackthorn three weeks ago now considers the same land, the same rents, and the same borrower suddenly questionable.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There was an inquiry concerning the possibility of changes in the estate’s management should your circumstances alter.”
“My circumstances.”
“Marriage, Mrs. Blackthorn.”
The word sat between them with the dull weight of something placed deliberately on a table.
Mary Beth kept her voice even. “I am not engaged.”
“I understand.”
“Then why would a possible marriage affect a current facility secured against property I own outright?”
“It should not, in itself.”
“In itself.”
Another pause.
The manager finally said, “The inquiry suggested that certain recent expenditures might not have been made under conventional advice.”
Mary Beth thought of Ambrose’s invoice, the copied estimate, the broadsheet describing engineering work as a reward for a lover. “Did the inquiry mention Mr. Tavener?”
The man’s discomfort became unmistakable.
Mary Beth stood. “Thank you.”
“Mrs. Blackthorn, I would prefer that you not leave believing the bank has made any accusation.”
“I do not believe the bank has made one. I believe someone has been kind enough to make it for you.”
He rose too. “The present restriction need not be permanent.”
“No. I imagine a suitable marriage would cure it.”
He said nothing.
That silence followed her all the way back to Blackthorn.
Rain had stopped during the drive, leaving the hedges black and shining and the road furrowed with brown water.
Mary Beth sat alone in the carriage with one hand resting on the leather strap beside the window.
She had slept badly. Every time she woke, she expected anger to have cooled into something more sensible.
By dawn it was no more sensible than before.
Ambrose had been gone less than two days.
His absence had already acquired habits.
She noticed the empty place at breakfast. She turned toward the carriage room when crossing the courtyard.
The blue-room key remained on her desk because she had not yet decided whether throwing it at him would be more satisfying than making him ask for it back.
She had sent a note to his Leeds office the previous evening.
It contained six words.
Come back to Blackthorn. We are not finished.
She had received no answer before leaving for the bank.
At the manor, the footman met her in the hall.
“Lord Sablehurst is in the drawing room, ma’am.”
Of course he was.
Mary Beth removed her gloves one finger at a time. “How long?”
“Perhaps twenty minutes.”
“Has he been given tea?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I would hate for the destruction of my reputation to interfere with hospitality.”
The footman’s face remained professionally blank, but she caught the smallest movement at the corner of his mouth.
Mary Beth went upstairs first.
She changed nothing except her hat.
For some reason, that felt important.
Benedict stood when she entered the drawing room.
He wore dark gray and a silver waistcoat, perfectly chosen for a morning call that wished to appear serious without suggesting mourning.
His fair hair was touched with silver at the temples.
He had placed his gloves beside his tea cup and had not drunk more than half of what had been poured.
“Mary Beth.”
“Lord Sablehurst.”
The formality registered. He did not object to it.
“I heard you were at the bank this morning.”
She closed the door behind her. “News travels efficiently when it concerns me.”
“I made no arrangement to be told of your movements.”
“No? I am relieved there is still one corner of Yorkshire beyond your management.”
His expression hardened briefly. Then courtesy returned. “I came because this has gone too far.”
“What has?”
“The newspaper filth. The letters. The talk about Tavener. The pressure on Blackthorn.”
Mary Beth crossed to the chair opposite him but did not sit. “You know about the letters.”
“Everyone knows there are letters.”
“Everyone knows there were letters from the gamekeeper. Fewer people know someone copied them and sent them to me in anonymous envelopes.”
Benedict held her eyes. “You told me enough when we last spoke to make the danger obvious.”
She had told him nothing about anonymous envelopes.
Mary Beth sat.
Benedict seemed to recognize the mistake a second too late.
He recovered smoothly. “Mary Beth, I have made inquiries. I did not intend to alarm you by describing every detail.”
“What inquiries?”
“The kind required when a woman I care for is being publicly humiliated.”
“How thoughtful.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
That was the difficulty. Benedict often meant the things he said. He simply believed sincerity made his conclusions correct.
He came around the low table and remained standing near the fire.
“I asked you to marry me on Saturday. You refused. I told you the county could become less forgiving. I did not expect this.”
Mary Beth studied him. “Didn’t you?”
“No.”
The answer was quick enough to sound offended.
He continued. “You may despise my methods of thinking, but I have no desire to see Blackthorn injured. Nor you.”
“What do you propose?”
His shoulders eased slightly, as though they had finally reached the conversation he had prepared.
“Marry me.”
Mary Beth almost laughed. She did not, because there was nothing amusing in his face.
Benedict moved closer. “I am not asking you to decide this minute from fear. I am asking you to consider what I can do immediately. I can stop the credit difficulty. I can speak to the York houses that are tightening your terms. My solicitors can pursue the newspaper. I can acquire whatever private correspondence is being offered for sale and destroy it.”
“Acquire it from whom?”
“We can discover that.”
“You said your solicitors can acquire it. That sounds as if you already know where it is.”
His jaw shifted.
Mary Beth felt something cold settle beneath her ribs.
Benedict reached for patience. “Old servants sell papers. Widows sell papers. Men who once believed themselves loved discover that recollection has value. The world is full of people willing to profit from a woman’s mistakes.”
“My former lover is alive.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
A beat passed.
Benedict turned toward the fire. “I know he married after leaving Blackthorn. Durham, I believe.”
Mary Beth had never told Benedict Durham.
She rose slowly.
He heard the movement and faced her again.
“Who found him?”
“Mary Beth—”
“Who found him?”
“My solicitor made inquiries months ago.”
“Months.”
“When I began considering marriage, yes.”
The room became extraordinarily quiet.
Benedict spread one hand. “You cannot be surprised that I wanted to understand what I was taking on.”
The phrase was almost worse than the admission.
“What you were taking on.”
“I am not insulting you.”
“You sent men to investigate a lover I had before you began courting me.”
“I verified gossip. There is a difference.”
“Did you buy his letters?”
Benedict did not answer.
Mary Beth’s pulse slowed instead of quickening. Anger had passed through heat and come out the other side.
“Did you buy them?”
“Copies.”
The word was nearly inaudible.
She sat again because her knees had gone curiously light.
Benedict took a step toward her. “Listen to me. I learned that some correspondence still existed. I paid to secure access before it reached a newspaper.”
“And then it reached me.”
“I did not send those envelopes.”
“That was not my question.”
“You did not ask one.”
Mary Beth almost admired the precision.
She folded her hands. “Who made the copies?”
“An intermediary.”
“Working for you.”
“Working for my solicitor.”
“Paid by you.”
“Ultimately, yes.”
She thought of the copied gamekeeper page. The underlined sentences. The anonymous line about indulgence becoming character.
“What did you tell your intermediary to do with them?”
“To preserve them until I decided how best to protect you.”
“Protect me.”
“Yes.”
“Did protecting me include the York broadsheet?”
Benedict’s eyes flicked away, a tiny evasion that answered her more clearly than words. Mary Beth stood so abruptly that her chair scraped the carpet.
“You fed them the gardener story.”
“I did not invent the gardener story.”
“It is false.”
“I know.”
That stopped her.
Benedict’s face had lost its polish. “I know it is probably false.”
“Probably?”
“You denied it.”
“I told you it was false.”