Chapter Twelve
The thaw came as quietly as the snow had come violently.
The air softened. Grey cloud replaced the hard blue sky, and the icicles at the eaves lengthened until they began to fall.
The white shoulders of the valley turned sodden.
The river rose and grew loud below, and the lane emerged from the drifts inch by muddy inch.
The scent of wet earth rose from the ground, and a gutter below the yard dripped steadily into the mud.
Adrian watched with a divided heart.
The thaw ended the strange peace they had found at Plas Eira. It also opened the only road by which he might help Ophelia. He could not have one without surrendering the other.
He had been thinking harder than he had ever thought about anything.
It did not come naturally. Adrian had spent his life leaving thought to stewards, agents, and men of business while he charmed and drifted.
Now he made himself sit in the small library with paper before him and arrange what he knew.
Markham intended to sue for breach of promise and to drag Josiah James’s name, credit, and business through the proceedings.
Whether the claims ultimately succeeded might matter less than the scandal and delay.
Trade rested upon confidence, and confidence could be ruined long before a court reached judgment.
Adrian knew enough of Markham’s finances to suspect there was an advantage to be found in them.
Crispin had lived upon credit for years. His creditors had remained patient because the James marriage promised money enough to satisfy them, and more, when Markham gambled and lost further. If that patience ended, Markham might be forced to bargain.
Adrian could attempt to discover who held the debts. He could employ agents to buy them quietly, place Markham under pressure, and offer relief in exchange for the abandonment of his claims against Ophelia and her father.
It was only the beginning of an idea. Adrian did not know whether it would work. He did not know the details of the marriage articles, the state of Josiah’s business, or the exact nature of Markham’s claims.
More importantly, the choice was not Adrian’s alone.
The whole Calder fortune stood ready for him to use. He had lawyers, money, influence, and the ear of men who would deny Ophelia even an audience. He could set every one of those forces in motion with a handful of letters.
He could decide everything, could manage it all.
The temptation frightened him.
He remembered Ophelia in the croft, telling him what it meant to be a thing other people decided. Her father had arranged her future for love and ambition. Markham had planned to use her for money. Adrian would not become another man who seized control of her life and called it protection.
The thaw was scarcely half a day old when the first post reached Plas Eira. A rider came up the muddy lane near noon with a leather bag swollen by weeks of accumulated letters.
Among them was a thick packet in his mother’s hand.
Adrian carried it into the small library and broke the seal by the window.
The letter began as his mother’s letters generally did; full of outrage at his fleeing London before she arrived, but graciously forgiving him since he had gone to visit his aunt, who would surely be glad of his company at Christmas.
There was news of marriages, deaths, illnesses, and social defeats disguised as triumphs.
Her Twelfth Night party had grown until it threatened to include half the fashionable world.
A soprano had offended three hostesses by accepting invitations from all of them.
Hothouse pineapples had become an outrage.
Threaded through the pages was Crispin Hale.
Adrian had always known his mother was fond of Markham.
Crispin’s mother had been a particular friend of hers, and the Marchioness had encouraged Adrian to befriend him.
She had welcomed him at Calder Hall during school and university holidays.
She indulged him, defended him, and considered his charm proof of a good heart.
Poor Crispin is much tried by this wretched business of his runaway bride, she wrote, and bears it with remarkable spirit. You must be kind to him when you return, Adrian. He has always counted upon your friendship.
Adrian stopped reading.
Opposing Markham would not cost only money.
His mother would see it as betrayal. She would demand explanations Adrian could not give without exposing Ophelia.
She would insist that Crispin had been wronged, that the James family had deceived him, and that Adrian owed loyalty to a man who had sat at their table since boyhood.
For most of his life, Adrian had avoided displeasing his mother by arranging not to be present when she wished to be obeyed.
There would be no running from this disagreement.
He read on.
Between the soprano and the pineapples, his mother delivered the news that changed the shape of everything.
Crispin tells me he is resolved to have the law on them now, not the breach of promise merely but the father’s business as well.
His lawyers assure him there are claims arising from the articles and from representations made concerning the settlement.
He means to recover every farthing the match has cost him.
I own I think it a great deal of trouble and dirty linen to wash in public, but Crispin is past listening to reason and will have his pound of flesh.
Adrian set down the letter.
So it had begun.
While they had been binding mistletoe, tending a sick child, and pretending the thaw might never come, Markham had been setting the law in motion.
Ophelia could remain hidden in Wales for years and it would not protect Josiah James.
He might well lose everything if the courts found in Markham’s favour, and Markham was a viscount, with friends who very likely would be sitting in judgement in those courts.
Ophelia would understand that immediately.
She would blame herself. And perhaps make a decision that would save her father, but doom her to a life of utter misery.
He absolutely could not allow that to happen.
Adrian went to the writing table and pulled a sheet of paper towards him.
He began a letter to his man of business, Mr. Soane.
Ascertain, with the utmost discretion, the present state of Lord Markham’s debts and the names of the principal holders of them…
Adrian stopped.
Even an inquiry carried risk. Questions could be noticed. Markham might hear that someone was looking into his affairs and move more quickly against Josiah. More than that, Adrian was taking the first step in a plan Ophelia had not seen and might not want.
He laid down the pen.
The old Adrian would have told himself that concealment was kindness. He would have spared Ophelia the news, made every choice over her head, and presented the result as a charming surprise if he succeeded.
That was what her father had done. It was what Markham had done.
Adrian folded the unfinished letter to Soane and placed it inside his coat. Then he took up his mother’s.
He found Ophelia in the great hall, seated at the long table with Mrs. Probert, sorting the household linen.
Lady Elise was directing the removal of greenery that had begun to drop dry leaves and berries onto every surface, while Bronwen swept up after it and Miss Pettibone argued that the kissing bough ought to remain until spring, or at least until the last mistletoe berry had been plucked.
Ophelia looked up when Adrian entered.
Whatever she saw in his face made her set aside the linen.
He lifted the letter slightly.
“News from London,” he said.
She went still.
He hated that stillness now. He hated every person and circumstance that had taught her to retreat from danger without moving. But he did not cross the hall and take the choice from her.
“Will you come to the library?”
Ophelia rose.
Lady Elise watched them leave but said nothing. Miss Pettibone clutched the linen to her chest and said something sentimental about a declaration.
In the library Adrian closed the door and gave Ophelia his mother’s letter.
“There is a passage marked on the third page.”
She unfolded it. He watched her read, saw her reach Markham’s name, and saw the colour retreat from her face.
“My father,” she said. “Just as Mr. Vaughan related.”
“Yes. I cannot tell from my mother’s account how strong the claim is, only that Markham means to pursue it and believes the threat itself will do damage.”
Ophelia read the passage again.
“He will not stop.”
“No.”
“If my father’s credit fails, the business could go with it. There will be cargoes pledged, loans against ships, contracts dependent upon delivery. Men who trust him today may demand payment tomorrow merely because they have heard there is a suit.”
Adrian heard the counting-house voice return. Beneath it, he heard fear.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Only the beginning of one, but I think it a viable plan.”
Her eyes lifted to his.
“Markham has debts, which he expected to be settled on his marriage. A great many debts, which are now overdue. I began a letter to my man of business asking him to discover who holds them.”
“You began it?”
“I did not send it.”
“Why?”
“Because it is your father’s business, your name, and your danger. I will not set anything in motion without your knowledge.”
Ophelia stared down at his mother’s letter.
“If we wait too long, Markham may move before us,” she said. “May have already moved. My father’s credit may already be suffering for it.”
“I know.”
“And if your inquiries are noticed, he may take fright.”
“Yes.”
“You would need go-betweens. Men with no visible connection to you.”
Something eased in Adrian’s chest, wary, that he didn’t dare call hope.
“I had thought so,” he agreed.
Ophelia folded the letter along its existing creases, a small furrow appearing between her brows as she considered.
“What do you propose?”
Adrian placed the unfinished letter to Soane beside his mother’s.
“I have money, influence, and a man in London who can make discreet inquiries. You understand the business and the articles in ways I do not. Together, we may be able to find a weakness.”
“Together,” she repeated.
“If you want my help.”