by Kelly Bowen
“Well, multiple patriarchal marriages amongst our families has its privileges such as allowing me to lord over my nieces and nephews, even those close in age.” She laughed, but her eyes still held concern. “Dear August, you do look terrible. Have you finally caught the cold you fear?”
He pulled at his cheeks and touched his brow. No fever. Things couldn’t be so bad. “Not yet, but the day is young.”
“August?”
Kitty was his only relation outside of his sisters that cared. His elder brother had turned his back to Sarah’s plight or what her ruin would mean to the youngest girls.
August closed his eyes again and slouched further upon the bench. “I was awake into the wee hours staring at my collections of watercolors then at my ledger books. Which do you suppose brought me comfort?”
“Do you need to borrow money? I can—”
“No, Kitty. The estate manages the household expenses, and I’ve leased some land to the balloonists. But after what I paid for Sarah, there’s not enough for things to come— all the balls, and gowns, and dowries—the necessary trappings for young ladies to do well for a season. Your two youngest nieces, my poor sisters, have nothing.”
Kitty’s shoulders drooped, her face, her eyes growing dour, more settled.
“I think I prefer you cheery than sad, Aunt. All will work out. Just you wait and see.”
“How, August, unless you are going to marry an heiress like your brother or do the benefactor’s challenge?”
“The earl? My brother, Haverthon, is engaged?”
Kitty’s face appeared even more unhappy—even her eyes seemed sad. “Not formally, but soon. August, did you not know he’s made his selection? A duke’s youngest daughter.”
“No, Kitty. I did not know.” He let his gaze fall upon the floorboards, foolish beliefs about brothers and dust mites. “You’d think a brother, even a half-brother would announce such a thing to me.”
“Don’t mind Haverthon. What about the benefactor’s challenge you told me about? Is that how you are going to gain dowries? You’ll meet the challenge and save my nieces? Eliza and Louisa need you.”
The twenty-thousand pound challenge. Salvation for his young sisters’ futures. The money for completing the crazed challenge would pay for everything, even leave enough for investments. “I think I’m disqualified before I can even begin.“
Her brow scrunched, and she leaned in as if she expected a secret, a naughty secret. “Do tell.”
Did he trust Kitty enough to tell the whole of it? He gazed at her and remembered how much help she’d been with Sarah’s debacle. He sat up straight, planted his feet flat in front of him. “I’m to sell five thousand pounds’ worth of my art and belongings then invest that sum in a modiste, a woman who hates me. Miss Mary-Anne Nettles.”
“What? Hate? What? The woman who designed your sister’s dress, that Miss Nettles?”
There was only one.
And Miss Nettles’ face and the look of empathy she offered his poor sister refused to leave his head. “Yes, that Miss Nettles, the one who made Sarah’s gown.”
“Didn’t she end up gifting the gown to her?”
Every night, every time August opened his ledger book and saw the open credit, the unpaid debt for his sister's dress, he thought of the generous designer, the woman passionate about other women in need and how low a person she must think he was. “Yes, she did. How could she walk away from what was owed to her? I merely wanted to negotiate a better price. Not free. I must look like a cheat to her.”
“I was there, August. I knew what you were doing, but Sarah, your own sister, thought you’d have her wed in rags haggling over a hundred pounds. You can be very cheap on things, nephew.”
“I’m frugal. I hate to waste money, and I definitely want to know if I have the best price. But this unknown benefactor requires me to sell my Turners and God knows what else. Then give the money to Miss Nettles. She won’t even take a bank note for thirteen hundred pounds on a debt owed. How will I ever get her to accept five thousand?”
“Your paintings by J.M. Turner? They are your favorites.”
“The shadowing of Turner’s hand in The Boatmen is superb. The isolation and foreboding shows so much growth in his talent from the lightness of the house in The Shaladon. How am I to give them up when they give me such pleasure?”
Wide-eyed, frowning, Kitty shrugged. “That’s a great sacrifice, but it will save your sisters. There are other pleasures you may gain like learning generosity.”
Generous like his father? The man who let others take advantage of his kindness, who let others abuse his civility as if he were weak.
Perhaps August had gone too far in trying to avoid comparisons. He didn’t want to be known as weak, but his constitution often betrayed him. He clapped his hands warming them. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do the challenge. The girls, they are good girls, I’d do it for them.”
“But you’d not be able to buy Turners again. You're rather too cheap for that. And didn’t you win them in a card game?”
“No. Those are Haverthon’s lies. They were willed to my mother by her first husband. She made sure the paintings and his land fell to me to provide for her children. If Father had made proper arrangements for the girls’ dowries rather than trusting he’d live to see them wed, they’d be secure.”
August shoved his fisting hand into his coat. “I should have sympathy. No one expects to die early. Winter colds.”
“I’ll have words with Haverthon…again.”
“No. It will be of no use. I’m the only brother to care for the girls. We are full blooded relations. The earl…”
Watching her features sink further into sadness, he unclenched his hands. “Sorry, Kitty. I’ll figure this out.”
“You can do this, August.”
“Selling my art is difficult, but if I did, I don’t know how to convince Miss Nettles to even talk to me, let alone accept an investment. This doesn’t seem to be a workable deal even for an optimist such as you.”
“August, is your disagreement over the price of the dress the only problem? I saw how she looked at you at the first fitting. You were flirting. And I remember how you looked when she left without payment. Is this a tale of second tries on love? How romantic.”
He dropped his face into his palm. Slap. “No, Kitty. Not romantic. We’re not even amicable strangers. I may not be as popular with the opposite sex as my older brothers, but I can discern when a woman is loath to spend five minutes with me. I highly doubt disgust makes the best business arrangements.”
“It’s a misunderstanding. You’re a dear. It can be cleared up.”
No, he understood clearly. The prim and proper modiste hated him. He folded his arms and rested his head along the wall. “Miss Nettles will have nothing to do with me.”
Kitty pulled out her fan and whipped air across cheeks that had fevered. “Well, Miss Nettles made an incredible dress. My niece was happy. Your mother would be proud of how you handled the scandal. So would the late earl.”
Mama would be pleased that her oldest daughter looked well, but Papa… who knows. He probably wouldn’t focus on August’s many failures—allowing the music teacher to seduce his sister, the inability to negotiate a lower settlement with the scoundrel. But his father would be disappointed in his treatment of the modiste and not charming her into accepting an apology, for not lightening her burdens even for a day. “Kitty, if Papa weren’t gone, I’d think him the benefactor. Who else would choose Miss Nettles to redouble my efforts to make things right betwixt us and to leave things better than he’d found it as Papa said? Unless this benefactor wanted to abuse and humiliate me.”
Kitty shrugged her shoulders. “Mr. Carruthers knows, but the solicitor will never tell. He’s a very honorable gentleman, perhaps too honorable. But you are charming and diligent, August, when you are not being so thrifty. Set your mind to being sweet and making amends with Miss Nettles. Then you can win the money. It would be almost a
new start.”
Twenty thousand pounds was a large sum. It would do a great deal to secure his sisters’ futures. August clasped the palm Kitty had placed upon his elbow. “This is just so strange. Why not a charity or a widow? They’d take my money and not make me feel so low.”
“You are your father’s son. He was very kind, but he liked challenges.”
Yes, he did.
And Miss Nettles was a challenge, a beautiful challenge that never left his mind, not as long as he owed her money.
Closing out that ledger entry would solve all ills and afford another look into those sparkling eyes. If only they could gaze upon him and find a work ethic and passion that matched hers.
“Don't do the challenge. You could always appeal to your brother. He’s the earl and should have the means to provide dowries for the younger girls.”
August slammed his head against the chestnut frame above the bench. It held a watercolor painting of wild poppies. The imagery was peaceful, so different from the desperate stew of his insides. “It’s a sanctuary up there. Sanctuary.”
“What, August?”
“The painting. Looks like a sanctuary. Miss Nettles searches for one; I should send her here… if she’d listen.”
Kitty put a finger to her lips motioning for quiet. “Come here.”
“What?”
She hushed August.
Then he heard low purring.
The sound came from under the bench.
Something scratched on his heel, and it wasn't a floorboard or dust mite. “Well, what do we have here?”
On the floor near his dark Hessians was an orange tabby. The cat bounced onto his boot and batted the loopy tassel at his shin. Heavy little thing with surprising strength to her paws. “I suppose something other than my aunt wished my company.”
“August,” said Kitty in a tone that sounded like she’d box his ears. “You are fun when you want to be. I think the benefactor’s challenge is an opportunity. Perhaps it will help you take risks. You’re far too settled for a man not married.”
“No, can’t say that I am. My brother and I have one thing in common. Well, until he marries his duke’s daughter.”
Kitty scooped up the cat and sat it on his knee. “Forget about Haverthon. You need to become absorbed with Marigold. She has a calming effect.”
That she did. The scruffy citrus ball of orange contrasted his buff breeches. Smelling of sweet pine, the cat meowed, her mouth puckering. “Is it mocking me with its peaceful cuteness?”
“Oh, August.”
He stroked Marigold’s oversized head. She was nice in an odd way, with her pink tongue flicking. Oh lord, he’d spent too much time guarding his youngest sisters to notice such things. He shook his head. “A female who’s not related likes me. At least I haven’t said the wrong thing…yet.”
“Marigold is a good judge of character.”
“No. Marigold must think I’m a new hire. I’ve been to Carruthers’ too many times this past year.” His parents’ wills, his sister’s horrid marriage contract—all brought him here. “This purring is not good judgment but familiarity. Doesn’t it breed contempt?”
“Marigold purrs for people of good character. And, August, you’re a decent fellow, even if you tend to say the first thing that comes to mind and are a tiny miserly.”
“Please, don’t stop at my good points.”
Kitty pulled his hat free from underneath his elbow and began blocking it back into shape. “This challenge may bring out your finer qualities.”
What of his qualities would interest Miss Nettles? He stroked Marigold’s ear, fingering the velvet of her soft fur. “Kitty, you may be my aunt, but you’re young. Some battles aren’t meant to be won.”
He blew out a deep breath and swapped the air in his chest for the fragrance of expensive beeswax candles. “As often as I’ve had to come here this past year, I should be grateful that this place doesn’t reek of fishy tallow candles. That would make me sneeze.”
Kitty took Marigold and snuggled her as if the cat were a babe. “No, Mr. Carruthers likes an easy fragrance. Beeswax and Marigold are his only indulgence.”
“I should ask him how he came to such a name. A man should have a bolder name for his pets.”
“She’s a stray whose coloring reminded him of his mother’s favorite flowers.”
A little startled at the depths of knowledge of the solicitor, August studied Kitty’s blue eyes looking for signs of a crush or anything troubling—something that he’d missed with Sarah’s eloping.
But Kitty, as always, looked perfect and at peace with her fresh face and daintily coiffed auburn hair.
“A flower cat, a hard bench, and a sympathetic aunt. Well, this is —”
The door to Carruthers’s office opened. A blonde woman, someone he’d seen before, scooted past, her face pained. A neighbor? One of the wives of the balloonists near his property?
August had sympathy for anyone who’s luck changed by hearing from Carruthers.
Kitty popped up and smoothed her butter-colored skirts. “It’s your turn now, August. And don’t be so staid in your thinking. You’re not your father or your eldest brother. You’re young enough for new ideas.” She tugged on her ivory gloves. “I have a few errands before a friend’s wedding tomorrow. I shall enjoy the spirited gelding you chose for me every mile of my adventure.”
Another wedding? “Would it happen to be anyone in need of a special wedding dress?”
“Not this one, but the one next Friday might have that need. That would be one to visit if you wanted to get a moment with Mrs. Nettles.”
Seeing the modiste again? He pushed thoughts of the woman out of his head, for the moment. “You like the gray gelding? He has a good spirit like you. One of the best ones I’ve bred.”
She laughed, stroked Marigold, then slipped out of the solicitor’s establishment before Carruthers stepped near.
The tall solicitor’s gaze appeared pinned to the entry before turning to August. “Ready to start your challenge, Mr. Sedgewick?”
That was the question, but August didn’t have an answer. “I need to know how you will account for selling my art, in case I am able to invest in Miss Nettles.”
“Of course, follow me into my private office, sir.”
August wouldn’t quit the challenge until he’d tried one more time.
But how to do so and make things less awkward?
What if she sought him out? He’d send her a note to see if she was inclined to meet rather than August showing up at drafty St. George’s for another rebuke. Putting pursuit into her hands, showing he respected her need for control, shouldn’t that make it easier for her to want to form an alliance?
5
One Pound Down
August yawned and checked his brow for fever. He was surely coming down with something. He’d spent too many late nights cutting pieces of foolscap drafting and rewriting a note for Miss Nettles. Finally getting things perfect, he suffered the expense and sent it by groom to her warehouse.
Nothing. No response. No hint that she cared until this Friday morning.
A full piece of stationery, expensive paper arrived at his residence. Miss Nettles accepted his apology. A thrill blast through him like a winter chill as he studied her hand, the prim curl of her lettering. But there was no jot of an offer of a meeting. None.
He argued, rationalized, but found himself seated in the last pew of drafty St. George’s. Ten o’clock sharp.
It was a gray day with clouds, a slight breeze, even hints of rain. But inside the church, he found it the same, cold and drafty.
Peering over hats, peeking through gaps between guests, he searched for Miss Nettles. Would she show?
He waited to see. Hopefully, he hadn’t borne the expense of coming into town for a failed chance meeting.
Five more minutes passed. The pews ahead of him filled.
About to put on his hat and head for fresh air, he spied her coming down the hall into
the sanctuary.
A carriage dress of light rose, straw hat, gloves—Miss Nettles.
Had she seen him staring? He prepared to stand, to give chase, but her features softened to a smile, one that grew when he lifted a finger and waved.
Would she come to him or pass by and flee out the door?
More guests walked in filling up the space between him and the modiste, obscuring his view.
Forgetting his need to remain aloof, he lifted from the pew to give chase, but a miracle happened, a church miracle. Miss Nettles stood next to him.
They sat together.
His world looked brighter in the sparkle of her lenses. “Morning.”
It was all he could muster and keep his tone respectful and not the giddy fool he knew he would become if her smile widened for him.
It didn't, but a man could dream.
She looked straight ahead with delicate metal frames balancing on her nose. “Good morning, Mr. Sedgewick.”
His pulse sped up, but that could be a chill from the opening church doors.
Folding his arms, he stole another glance. Her thick auburn hair held the slightest curl, but it had been painfully twisted into a tight chignon. She seemed studious like a governess or tutor, not an enigma that would slip away if he blinked. “May I walk with you to the mews, Miss Nettles? I’d like a moment of your time.”
Her head turned slightly in his direction. It was barely an inch, not even a full movement of her neck, but it was enough to warm him through.
“Yes, Mr. Sedgewick.”
Her eyes became hidden again as her attention returned to the minister and the young couple exchanging vows beneath the painting of the last supper.
From memory, he could paint her long lashes and irises, a blend of claret sopped bread, dark, dark brown with rose hints. Delicious, a communion of a different sort.
The congregation rose, and August stood too, but the dress designer tugged on his sleeve and used the excitement of the minister’s proclamation of man and wife to flee.
