A Convenient Fiction

by Mimi Matthews

  Alex was across the room in two strides, his hand twisted in George’s cravat. He lifted him nearly off his feet. “If you go near her—if you even think of it—”

  “You’ll what?” George choked out. “Kill me?” His mouth twisted. “Go ahead.”

  Alex released him, stepping back as George fell to the floor, coughing. Rage surged through his veins, raw and primitive. He could have easily torn George apart. Part of him still wanted to. And for what? For merely mentioning Laura’s name?

  What in blazes was wrong with him?

  He didn’t lose control. Not ever. And certainly not over a woman.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “And I’m not going to permit you to kill yourself.”

  George’s face crumpled. He put his head in his hands and began to cry.

  Alex had met drunkards before. The kind of men who couldn’t go a day without a bottle of whiskey or gin. He hadn’t thought George was as far gone as that. In France, George had often been foxed, but he’d loved gambling as much as drinking. As for the opium he’d begun taking…

  Oblivion or excitement, wasn’t that what he’d said?

  As if he was trying to blot out reality. To erase all traces of natural thought or emotion.

  Laura had accused Alex of doing the same. Of suppressing his feelings. Of never risking anything for fear of being hurt.

  But he wasn’t the same as George, surely.

  “It was a mistake to allow you to drink, even in small amounts. From now on, you’ll take no wine with dinner. No spirits of any kind.”

  George looked up at him bleakly. “You’re a monster.”

  “Rather the opposite,” Alex said. “This is me at my least monstrous. This is me trying to save your life.”

  Two hours later, when the vicar finally returned from visiting sick parishioners in the village, George was in bed asleep.

  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” The vicar asked. “I can sense when the household’s been in an uproar, even if my servants don’t see fit to inform me of it. The expression on Mrs. Griffiths’s face… It can only be because of George.” He looked at Alex with weary eyes. “Will you join me in the parlor?”

  Alex sat down with him in the same chairs they’d occupied the night of Alex’s arrival in Lower Hawley. Beeswax candles were lit on the mantel, casting the room in flickering shadows.

  “Is it drink?” the vicar enquired. “Or something stronger this time?”

  “Three bottles of sherry,” Alex said. “And a dose of laudanum.”

  The vicar glanced to his drinks table, where the decanter that usually held his sherry now stood empty. “Is this how he comports himself when he’s away from home? Or is it worse?”

  Alex didn’t answer.

  “Worse, then.” The vicar sighed. “I’ve suspected for some time, but I did pray that my suspicions were unfounded. People are capable of change, Mr. Archer, with the Lord’s help.”

  “I doubt that God has much to do with George’s proclivities.”

  “How wrong you are, sir. God has everything to do with it. From the day George reached his majority, he’s been determined to throw all of the Lord’s teachings back in my face. It’s my fault. I’ve been a poor messenger. Too strict and unforgiving. A failure as both a vicar and a father.”

  Alex didn’t know quite what to say. “I believe all children rebel against their parents at some time or another,” he managed at last. “Young men, especially.”

  “Do they? I suppose I must take comfort from the fact.” The vicar removed his spectacles to massage the bridge of his nose. “Did you rebel against your godfather when you were a young man?”

  Alex hesitated. He wasn’t deeply religious. Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to lie outright to a man of God. He’d already lied so much, merely by omission. “My godfather and I have a unique relationship. More akin to business acquaintances than father and son.”

  “Unlike George and I. I’ve been every inch the father to him. Too much so, he’d say. Always meddling in his affairs.” The vicar settled his spectacles back on his face. “You’ll watch over him, won’t you? He’s destructive, my boy. Bound to hurt himself, or some other person. I feel responsible—”

  “I’m keeping a close eye on George, sir. You need have no concerns on that score.”

  “I’m obliged to you, Mr. Archer. Don’t think I don’t realize the sacrifice you make. It’s a thankless task, looking after my son. One that will require you to postpone your pleasure on occasion. With George in his present condition…he won’t be in any fit state to accompany you to the seaside, I fear.”

  The hell he wouldn’t.

  Alex intended George to be up and ready to depart at half past seven, even if he had to dress him, drag him out of the house, and bodily throw him into the carriage.

  “I trust his absence won’t upset all of Miss Talbot’s plans,” the vicar said. “Nor yours.”

  “George will be fit enough to accompany us,” Alex assured him. “You may rely on it.”

  Sure enough, George sauntered into the breakfast room in the morning, looking only a little worse for wear. He made no mention of his drunken episode the night before. And when Miss Talbot and her father arrived in their barouche, he bounded down the steps and greeted them with genuine enthusiasm.

  “There’s a second carriage for Laura’s family,” Henrietta said. She was seated across from Alex, looking as stylish as a fashion plate in her white linen seaside ensemble. “We’ve only room for one more in the barouche.”

  “A great deal of fuss,” Squire Talbot muttered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with fuss, Papa,” she replied. “Not if the end result is pleasure.”

  George grinned. “Hear, hear!”

  The barouche rolled along the now familiar country road that led past Talbot’s Wood to Bramble Cottage. Alex’s stomach tensed with anticipation as they approached.

  Since parting from Laura at the pond, he’d tried very hard not to think of her proposal. And even harder not to think of the words that had preceded it.

  You don’t want land. What you’re looking for is a family.

  A family.

  She’d never know the seismic jolt those words had delivered. Would never know how much he’d been tempted.

  He couldn’t marry her. Couldn’t love her. But he could be a friend to her. A friend to her brother, and her aunt. There was nothing dangerous in that, surely.

  Unless one could call a rapid pulse and a swiftly beating heart a danger.

  He experienced both the moment he set eyes on her.

  She came down the garden path to meet them as the carriage pulled up to the cottage gate. Like Henrietta, she was garbed in linen—a cream-colored skirt and loose-fitting jacket trimmed in black braiding. There was a wide-brimmed straw hat in her hand. “Good morning,” she said, smiling.

  As they all exchanged greetings, a footman opened the door of the barouche to hand down Henrietta. “You’ll be wanting Alex to help with your brother,” she said, “but I may as well come, too, in case your aunt requires any assistance.”

  Alex jumped down from the barouche to follow the two ladies into the cottage. He wondered who Henrietta thought she was fooling. Her penchant for petty jealousies was plain for all to see.

  She linked her arm through Laura’s as they entered the hall. “I’ve brought you one of my bathing dresses. Pray it fits.”

  Laura laughed. “I shall swim, even if I must leap into the sea with all of my clothes on.”

  “Ladies don’t swim, Laura,” Henrietta retorted. “They bathe.”

  Mrs. Bainbridge came down the stairs to meet them, her plump face aglow with pleasure. “Oh, Miss Talbot! How good of you to come and fetch us. So generous. And Mr. Archer! So very obliging of you to help with my nephew.”

 
Laura met Alex’s eyes. The conversation between Henrietta and Mrs. Bainbridge seemed to fade into the background. He was certain he could hear his heart pounding.

  At that moment, he’d have given anything for a private word with her. Just a brief second or two alone so he could put her at her ease.

  Not that Laura appeared particularly uncomfortable in his presence.

  Indeed, one would never know by looking at her that she’d proposed marriage to him only a few days before.

  As for Alex, he could think of little else.

  Good God, he’d told her about the orphanage. He’d laid himself bare. And in response she’d offered him her family. She’d offered him herself.

  It would be the ruination of him. To reach out and take what he wanted, absent the cold calculation that had guided his life since leaving North Devon. He couldn’t do it. A lifetime of gambling, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to take the risk.

  A life with Laura would be too honest. Too real. She had the uncanny ability to strip away his defenses. To see right through him. He was bound to disappoint her in the end. To hurt her, or to be hurt in turn.

  And he’d been hurt enough in his life.

  “My brother is waiting upstairs,” she said. “If you wouldn’t mind helping him to the carriage? Yardley will carry out his chair.”

  Alex gazed down at her. Was that a faint blush in her cheeks? Or merely a product of the excessive heat? The former, he suspected.

  Which meant that she was thinking of him just as he was thinking of her.

  The realization should have pleased him. He didn’t want to be easily dismissed or forgotten. Not by her. But he didn’t want her to suffer, either. To be uncomfortable or embarrassed because of something he’d done.

  “Of course,” he said.

  He left the ladies talking in the hall. Upstairs, Teddy was seated by the window in his wheeled chair. John Yardley, the Hayeses’ grizzled old manservant, stood nearby

  “You’re here,” Teddy remarked as Alex entered his room. “I wondered if you’d keep your word.”

  “That’s not a very flattering admission.”

  “Why? Do you always keep your promises?”

  “No,” Alex said. “But I mean to keep this one.” He looked about Teddy’s room. “Is there anything else you require? Paint pots? Brushes? An easel and canvas? A cat?”

  “Magpie is in the kitchen with Mrs. Crabtree. She’s going to look after him while we’re gone. As for the rest, it’s already packed.” Teddy gestured in the direction of his bed. Two large bundles lay atop it. “Yardley is going to carry them down.”

  Alex’s mouth quirked. “I wasn’t serious.”

  “I am. Laura said I may sit on the shore and paint. She said you promised to stay with me in case I needed help, which I won’t. But if the tide should come in and my chair gets stuck—”

  “I’ll remain beside you, whatever happens. Unless,” Alex added gravely, “you begin to bore me.”

  “I’m only going for Laura’s sake.”

  “As am I. If you’re quite ready?” Alex bent down to him.

  Teddy put his arm around Alex’s neck, his hand gripping tight to Alex’s shoulder. “Go ahead.”

  Alex lifted him easily out of his chair, and with one arm around his waist, helped him down the stairs and out to the closed carriage that waited behind the barouche.

  Mrs. Bainbridge was already inside. Alex assisted Teddy into the velvet-cushioned seat across from her. “Put this over your legs, my dear,” she said, draping him with a carriage blanket.

  “It’s baking hot,” Teddy protested.

  Laura came up behind Alex. She held out her gloved hand. “Would you mind very much?”

  “Not at all.” He helped her into the carriage, trying not to inhale the intoxicating scent of her. Roses, and lavender, and freshly pressed linen. Trying not to think of how wonderfully her hand fit into his, or to feel the feminine swirl of her skirts against his legs.

  She was halfway inside before Henrietta cried out in objection.

  “You’re riding in the barouche with us, Laura!”

  Laura glanced back. “I’m riding with my family, Hen. It’s only to the rail station.”

  Henrietta’s face tightened, but she didn’t argue. Only when she and Alex had resumed their seats in the barouche did she voice her irritation. “It was a mistake to invite Laura’s family.”

  “Rubbish,” Squire Talbot said. “It will do the boy good.”

  “Much that I care,” Henrietta retorted under her breath. “Laura is supposed to be keeping company with me. Now she’ll give all her spare time to her brother and her aunt. It’s excessively tedious, and much of the reason we don’t socialize any longer.”

  George caught Alex’s eye. And then he laughed. “What an entertaining holiday this promises to be.”

  Henrietta glared at him. “I don’t know what you find so funny.” She turned her glittering gaze on Alex. “And you, sir. I can’t believe you’ve resigned yourself to sitting on the sand with Laura’s brother. What’s the point of visiting the seaside if you won’t go into the water?” Her voice took on a wheedling note. “Perhaps if my father were to sit with Teddy—”

  “I’d refrain from swimming whether Teddy was present or not,” Alex said. “It’s no reflection on you.”

  “But if I were to insist—”

  Alex smiled at her efforts, even as he felt a faint twinge of regret. She would never truly know him. Never understand what it was that had made him the man he was today. “You may save yourself the trouble, Miss Talbot. There’s nothing on this earth that could compel me to go into the sea. Not even you.”

  Margate, England

  August, 1860

  With the inevitable train delays, and various confusion regarding the changing of platforms as they traveled through London, they didn’t arrive in Margate until Friday evening. By then it was far too late to venture out onto the beach.

  After checking them into the York Hotel on Margate’s Marine Parade, Squire Talbot recommended dinner, and then bed—a suggestion seconded by Aunt Charlotte.

  Laura didn’t argue. She was dusty and tired, and desperately in need of a bath. She and Aunt Charlotte withdrew to their shared room, where Henrietta’s lady’s maid assisted in making them both fit for the public dining room.

  Dinner was a subdued affair, concluded rapidly. Following that, a good night’s sleep was all that stood between Laura and the sea.

  That, and the growing multitudes of tourists that greeted them when they emerged from their hotel on Saturday morning.

  Margate was one of the most popular seaside resorts in England. A relatively easy distance from the hustle and bustle of London, it drew crowds of people every summer—even more so now that it was accessible by railway.

  “It’s cheapened the place.” Aunt Charlotte walked out along the jetty with Laura. “Just look at them. You’d never see such vulgar behavior at Brighton.”

  Laura didn’t know what behavior her aunt was speaking of. As she looked out at the crowded beach, bookended with its imposing white cliffs, she didn’t feel scandalized. She felt giddy. Euphoric.

  It was beautiful.

  The dark turquoise sea was calm as glass near the shore, rolling up on the clean, even sand in frothy waves. Circling seabirds squawked in the sky above, while men garbed in striped waistcoats and trousers and women in fashionable cotton and linen seaside costumes adorned the beaches below. It was a chaos of top hats, straw bonnets, and ruffled parasols.

  And in the distance stood the bathing machines—the women’s at one end of the beach and the men’s at the other. They were nothing more than wheeled, wooden dressing rooms, really, with doors at each end. Some were still up on the shore. Others had been drawn out into the water by horses. A tentlike canvas covering was attached to the exit door of t
he machine, allowing bathers to descend into the sea without exposing themselves.

  “Telescopes,” Aunt Charlotte said with a huff. “And promiscuous bathing. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Where, Aunt?” Laura craned her neck.

  Several older ladies, both on the public promenade and seated on the beach, were employing telescopes and other magnifying mediums to look out at the water. Laura supposed they might be ogling the bathers, but it was difficult to tell. As for promiscuous bathing…

  There did appear to be one gentleman splashing about with a group of ladies not far from the shore. Mixed—or promiscuous—bathing wasn’t permitted at Margate, or any respectable watering place, but no one seemed to be objecting to the breach.

  No one, save Aunt Charlotte.

  “Unseemly,” she said under her breath.

  Henrietta came to join them, her hand pressed to the floppy straw hat on her head to prevent the wind from taking it. “Is he even wearing a costume?”

  “What?” Aunt Charlotte’s head jerked back. “Do you mean to suggest—?”

  “I read about it in Papa’s newspaper,” Henrietta said. “Gentlemen visiting Margate often go into the water in a primitive state. The authorities haven’t had any luck forcing them to wear bathing costumes.” She looked to Laura with a grin. “Shall we go down?”

  Laura touched her aunt’s arm. “Why don’t you join Squire Talbot?”

  “Oh, but Laura—if one of these primitive fellows should approach you in the water—”

  “I shall laugh at him,” Laura promised.

  It was what the ladies in the water were currently doing with the gentleman in their midst—laughing at him, and with him, as they splashed him with water.

  “I don’t mind a gentleman bathing with us,” Henrietta confided as she and Laura walked off together to the bathing machines. “It’s silly for the town council to forbid it. Why, what if the gentleman was your brother? Or your husband?”

  “True enough,” Laura said absently.

  She gazed out past the sand and to the rolling waves beyond. Farther from the shore, fewer people were in the water. The sea wasn’t as calm there. It was vast and wild. Limitless.