Morning. A glorious September morning in London. He should be happy, his cane swinging lightly. Instead, he felt as though heavy weights pressed down each shoulder.
He rang the bell, and a maid answered, smartly dressed in white apron and cap. She curtsied and took his cane and tall hat.
“This way, my lord,” she murmured, and led him into a book-lined study.
Meyer Goldfine rose to greet him, with a grave smile, and a bow. “Come in, my lord. You honour my house.”
“I would have preferred to come to your place of business,” said Alastair curtly, his mouth in a thin line.
“And have the world see you coming to visit a Jew-merchant?” asked Meyer snidely. “No, no, the world speculates too much on what it sees. It is better to meet privately. Pray, sit you down, my lord, and we will go over these papers.” He indicated the chair on the other side of his desk.
Alastair looked at the papers on the desk and sank into the chair. He had never felt this fear, even in battle. Those white scrolls and that ledger might hold the fate of himself and his entire family.
For the next two hours, it was worse than a battle. Meyer Goldfine showed him the papers, the ledger, and his own figures. The man had bought up most of Alastair’s outstanding debts, and those of his deceased father. The sum was enormous, more than three hundred thousand pounds. Alastair’s face grew more white; he felt drained of blood.
“So that is the picture, my lord, I am sorry to say,” said Mr Goldfine, leaning back wearily. “Your father, God rest him, went deeply into debt, and did not pay even the interest. I fear your extravagances since coming into the title have not helped.”
Alastair drew his hand over his face. His forehead was damp. “What am I to do?” he muttered, half to himself.
“You might go to a solicitor for advice,” said Meyer, watching him with half-closed eyes. “There are items you might sell — your hunting lodge, some of your horses…”
“Yes, yes, I might do that.” Alastair drew his chair closer, and began to calculate. Meyer told him figures, he wrote them down, looked again. “No, that would not even be a saving of half a hundred thousand pounds,” said Alastair, quite unable to believe it. It had been but a year since he had come into the estates and thought all his troubles would be over. His stern father, distant, more absorbed in his gambling and his light women than his family, had receded into the background of his mind. But here it was — the whole sordid picture. Gifts to women, mad bets on horses…
He held his head. “I have so many obligations,” Alastair said, half to himself. “My younger sister to bring out — the townhouse, and the place at Fairley. My God, I can’t give up Fairley! It has been in the family for five hundred years —”
“I can suggest wise investments,” said Meyer Goldfine. “If you would entrust your finances to my banking house, I might help the situation.”
“I have a solicitor and a broker,” said Alastair stiffly.
Mr Goldfine shrugged his stooped shoulders and toyed with a pen. “Of course, there is always marriage,” he suggested, as though at random.
“Marriage?” Alastair frowned. “I had not thought to marry until my younger brother and two sisters were settled. No, no, there is no one I care to marry.”
“I am speaking of a marriage that will improve your financial situation, my lord,” said Mr Goldfine. “It is not unusual, even in British society, for this to happen. Is there some heiress, some wealthy family with a marriageable daughter —?” He left the question dangling in the air.
Alastair showed his distaste. “None that I know of,” he said curtly. “I do not care for such a marriage. There must be some other way —”
Meyer Goldfine fitted the tips of the fingers of one hand carefully to the fingertips of the other and looked into space. “I am thinking of my niece, Sonia, whom you met at the ball, my lord,” he said. “Now, there is a difficult one to marry. A beautiful young lady — and I must thank you for asking her to stand up with you —”
Alastair felt as though bitten by a mosquito’s sharp sting. “I promised I would, in exchange for this meeting,” he said stiffly, drawing himself up.
“Ah — yes. You were kind to her, however, and I am grateful,” said Meyer gracefully. “Her first outing of that sort, you see. The deaths of her parents struck her hard in her young years. She is quiet, reserved, works hard at jewellery designing. She dislikes going out, she suspects me when I introduce her to some young man. I think it will be hard to arrange a marriage for her — in spite of her great wealth, her talents, her skill as a homemaker, her gentleness, and her beauty.” He paused, eyeing Alastair under his greying heavy brows.
Alastair moved restively. “I am sure she will have no trouble,” he said, without interest. “A wealthy woman, of beauty — she should marry well.”
“Ah, yes, one would think so. But always she finds some reason to refuse to meet a man a second time; he has no intellect, he has no kindness, he is a snob, and all that —” Meyer laughed gently. “She must be guided into marriage, as a young filly into harness. But — we were speaking of your problems. A marriage to an heiress might solve them all. I have most of your notes, there are some others I can obtain. Marriage might solve all.”
Alastair stood up abruptly. “I do not care for the solution, nor is it practical,” he said rudely. “I know no woman I care to offer for, none that is wealthy and amiable —”
“Come here.” Meyer beckoned to him. Alastair followed him reluctantly to the long window of the room. It overlooked a garden of some size and great beauty. Under a tree was a bench, and upon the bench sat Sonia, sketching, her dark head bent as she worked intently.
“My niece,” said Meyer, smiling contentedly. “She works all the day. Presently she will come in to see to my dinner. She keeps me very comfortable, she is a great housekeeper. She never fusses over me. Evenings she reads to me, in several languages; she is skilled in many tongues. Most intelligent woman, and a beauty also, I think you will admit?”
“Yes, yes, but how many girls like that are about?” asked Alastair. In spite of his distaste for the conversation, he remained staring at Sonia, who was unaware of them at the window. Now she raised her head to gaze after a yellow butterfly. He noted the fine round chin, the white skin, the dark curl of her hair, the broad forehead, the graceful hand, the arm where the lace had been shaken back, the slim form in the white muslin gown.
“Few, few indeed,” said Meyer. “You could marry her, I think. Yes, yes, she might marry you. She admired you at the ball.”
Alastair felt as though he had been struck over the head. He flung around, to gaze down at the slight form of the merchant. He noted the smile on his lips, the fondness of the gaze as he looked at his niece.
“Marriage — to her? You must be — mad,” he choked out. Marriage to a Jewess, when he was a firm Protestant? Marriage to an heiress for which many would mock him? To sell himself in marriage to a girl he had met once? Never!
“No, not mad. I am concerned for Sonia. She stays more and more to herself. I do not wish her to be a spinster,” sighed Meyer. “Much as I love her companionship and her concern for me, I wish her to marry, be happy, have children. She was made for marriage and children.”
Alastair put his hand to his throat, pulling at the neat neckcloth in a newly designed Waterfall. He felt as though he would choke. He must be mad. He could never marry her — he could not. Marriage — selling himself in marriage — and to a Jewess, attractive though she might be… He thought of her luminous grey eyes, shining up at him as she spoke of plays and concerts. A pretty girl — but the entire time he was with her he had been aware of who she was and what she was…
CHAPTER 3
“Well? What do you think, Lord Fairley?” persisted Meyer Goldfine, gently.
The title recalled Alastair to himself. He was Lord Fairley, a marquess, with duties and responsibilities to his family name, his estates. He could not marry a Jewess — it was out of the questi
on. For his sons to be half-Jewish! No, it would never do, it was not to be thought of.
He shook his head decidedly, turned from the old merchant, averting his gaze from the eager gentle face. “No, never,” he said, horrified. “I could never marry a Jewess. Never.”
Meyer nodded, gravely, and turned back to seat himself at his desk. “Well, no doubt there is some other solution,” he said, and began to arrange the papers neatly into a high pile, then into folders.
Alastair watched him, biting his lips. He longed to fling the entire lot into the blazing fire near them. His debts, and those of his father — how could they have grown so? And the interest would grow daily. He must do something soon!
“Well, I thank you — for your — concern,” he managed to say haltingly. Meyer glanced up. He smiled and nodded.
“Of course, of course. I will see you to the door,” he said, getting up again, holding on to the back of the chair until he had himself steady. Then he hobbled to the door and held it courteously for Alastair. “Do let me hear when you have reached some solution, my lord. I will await your word.”
“Yes — thank you.”
The maid came, and showed him out. The door clanged shut after him — like a cell door, he thought, and shuddered, remembering prisons he had seen. Some in the Peninsula were of white-washed stone, empty but for a heap of filthy straw. He had seen a prison near the coast of England where men clung to the bars and stared out hungrily from grimy bearded faces at passers-by, begging for bread. The bright sunlight of London seemed a mockery now.
Three hundred thousand pounds. And more interest due within a month. It would pile up and up until he smothered in debt. He came to his carriage and swung himself in.
“Where to, my lord?” asked the coachman, dubiously. He had never seen his lordship so down in the mouth, so hangdog. He had a shrewd guess what his master had been up to in the neighbourhood: it held homes of the Jew-merchants and money-lenders. All knew his lordship’s father had flung money right and left, and now the new lord was slow in paying wages and food bills.
Alastair gave an address curtly and sat huddled in the carriage until it drew into the quiet mews. He got out, and told the man to go home, he would hire a hack if needed. The coachman obeyed.
Alastair went up to the front door and tapped. It was opened by a maid. Unconsciously, he compared her appearance with that of the white-aproned older woman who had cared for the house he had just left. This girl was slovenly, in a cast-off white muslin dress too tight for her, showing too much of her hanging breasts.
“She’ll see you, my lord,” muttered the girl, and tramped before him up the stairs heavily, breathing thickly through her opened mouth as she went. “He’s here, madam,” she said, flinging open the door at the top of the stairs.
Alastair heard the door shut after him. As he went into the dimly lit room, Mrs Daphne Porter rose from her lounge and held out her hands to him. He took them in his, thankfully, with a feeling of coming to a refuge. He kissed them, smelled the perfume of them, touched the rings he had given her. She had a passion for emeralds and rubies. Today, she was in crimson silk which outlined her full form boldly , and rubies covered her beautiful slim white fingers.
“You are late, darling,” she pouted.
He flung himself into a chair, compressing his lips. They had been intimate for some time now, since his return from the wars and his inheritance of his father’s title and fortunes. His sensitive mind winced at thought of that fortune. How had his father managed to fling it away so quickly? When Alastair’s grandfather had died but ten years before, the fortune had been one of the more respectable ones on the island that was England. All had seemed sunny and bright, the future radiant. And now…
“You look cross, dearest,” said Mrs Porter, touching her lovely waves of blonde hair with careful fingers. She lay down again on the chaise longue, languidly arranged the folds of crimson silk. “Did you not find me the rubies I wanted? Just a slim bracelet, love. Aren’t there any in London?”
He stared at her, a little dazed. He was faced with disaster, prison, the loss of everything in the world. And she wanted rubies! He could have laughed aloud, bitterly.
“No, I have not found them. I have been occupied with business,” he said shortly. Daphne looked at him. She was wise in the ways of men; she had studied them for years, more devoutly than a priest his prayers. They were her livelihood, ever since her elderly husband had died conveniently, leaving her a small income, just enough for her to gown herself and rent a nice place to receive gentlemen. Other grateful lovers had given her more: jewels, a shooting lodge in Scotland, a small house in the country. Now, she wanted more — marriage with a gentleman, such as Alastair.
Feed the brute, and let him love her — those were her antidotes for any crossness. She rang for the maid, and watched with a slight frown as the girl slopped the tea and set out a plate of mediocre sandwiches and cakes. She would have to speak to her again. Then the girl would threaten to quit unless she was paid more, and Daphne would have to placate her with another cast-off dress.
Problems, problems, always problems, she thought .
Alastair ate some sandwiches, drank some tea, and seemed to cheer up a bit. When the maid had taken away the tray, Alastair came to sit beside Daphne and fondle her hands. Daphne watched him with a slight smile on her crimson lips.
“Business hurt your head, dearie?” she cooed, and stroked his forehead lightly. Her eyes were narrowed, those bright green eyes which had been the subject of several sonnets.
“Yes, quite,” said Alastair, thinking of the morning conference. He sighed impatiently. There had to be a way out, there must be. If only Daphne were wealthy — but she was not. He kept thinking involuntarily of the solution Meyer Goldfine had suggested. No, not that girl, not a Jewess, but someone wealthy. He turned over in his mind the names of several girls.
Even as his arm went about Daphne’s slim waist and firm white shoulders, and as he bent to press a kiss on her neck, he was thinking. There was little Betsy Challoner, she was rather sweet. But her father was not so well off, and with his two sons and four daughters to settle — no, that was out.
Lydia Palmerston — older, more sophisticated. No, her brother had gambled much, and their father was troubled about the fortune. Alastair had seen him going into a Jewish broker’s not long ago. Meyer Goldfine was right: when one was seen going to them, it was bad news.
Then there was Angela Baddersley. She was sweet, pretty, rather a goose and stupid. But her father was like that also, and still managed to hold on to his fortune. Might not be a bad match, except that Angela bored him immensely. And her father was notorious for hanging on to what was his, and disliked paying his debts. He was not apt to pay Alastair’s debts eagerly…
“You are upset, darling,” said Daphne gently, as he embraced her and laid her back on the longue. “Tell me about it.”
“Oh, nothing much,” he said evasively. “My brother is acting up, playing the clown. It is the devil to be responsible for him and my sisters.”
Daphne smiled, stroked the blond hair back from his forehead, and cleverly pressed her fingers to his temples to soothe his headache. “Poor love,” she cooed. “I could help you with your sisters. Are you trying to marry off Edwina?”
He flinched. He hated the talk of “marrying off” his sisters. He was fond of them, and eager to make good matches for them. Edwina was twenty-two, gentle, a sweet loving girl, and beautiful as well. His father had almost married her off to a widower of forty-six, and Alastair had rescued her just in time. Edwina had been so grateful, weeping on Alastair’s shoulder, vowing she would have killed herself if she had been forced to marry that horror of a man. And young Henrietta, so spirited and shrewd and gay. He would hate to have her forced into any marriage she did not like. He wanted to present her to Society this winter. She had been forced to wait a year following their father’s death.
Now — now he thought of her eager violet eyes, he
r catchy voice when she was excited. If he defaulted in his debts and had to go to prison, what would happen to the girls? Maurice could probably find some job, or buy a captaincy in some regiment. But the disgrace would tinge him also.
Oh, was there no way out for him? No solution at all?
Daphne drew him down into her embrace, and there in the dimly lit parlour, with the fire flickering comfortably, and the scarlet walls seeming to reflect their passion, and the lounge so soft in its crimson velvet…
He let himself go with a sigh, and ardently kissed her. He drew aside her skirts, fumbled with his trousers.
“Oh, don’t muss me up, darling,” murmured Daphne, smoothing his hair. “I do expect guests this afternoon, then I want to go out to Lord Baddersley’s ball tonight. It should be amusing.”
It was as though she had flung cold water in his face. He had been all prepared for a long session, ending in her bed, in comfort. He got up slowly, his face flushed, adjusted his clothes. “I beg your pardon,” he said icily. “I thought you were as ardent as I felt myself to be.”
“Oh, when you pout, you seem so very young,” sighed Daphne, a glint in her narrowed green eyes. She swung her feet to the floor, and settled her dress gracefully about herself. A slim hand smoothed the lace of her bertha. Another gesture smoothed her blonde hair. “Don’t be cross with me. I just don’t want to be interrupted when we — are involved,” and she glanced upstairs.
Sure enough, guests did drop in shortly thereafter. They remained for luncheon, and others came later in the afternoon. Alastair, fuming, remained for tea, and then went home to change for the evening.
He returned in time to escort Daphne Porter to the Baddersleys’ for the evening. She was now wearing her favourite striking black, with silver trim, the rubies on her hands and in her small beautiful ears. Glances of admiration and some bold looks followed her, as Alastair escorted her on his arm into the hallway.
Star Sapphire: Love and wild adventure in Regency England Page 3
