by Rose Lerner
Tony was in his element. He’d just finished whisking a middle-aged woman across the dance floor and was now surrounded by voters, who were all laughing at something he’d said. True, he’d been here for nearly two months getting to know all of them, but Nick suspected it would have been exactly the same in a room of strangers.
He shoved a stuffed egg in his mouth just as the tipsy voter beside him said, “Honored to meet the Hero of Badajoz, sir. Did you kill a lot of Frenchmen?”
Oh God, not this Hero of Badajoz nonsense again. Yes, he had killed a lot of Frenchmen. Did that really make him a hero? And why could Englishmen never pronounce Badajoz properly? Nick smiled, shook his hand, and pointed apologetically at his full mouth, chewing until the man lost interest. But as he turned to gather more conversation stoppers, a little girl no higher than his waist asked, “Can you still ride a horse?”
He almost choked on the egg. “Not very well, I’m afraid. Maybe when I’ve healed more…”
“That’s terribly sad,” she said earnestly. “I love horses.”
So did Nick. He smothered another sigh.
“Can you dance? What about climbing trees?”
Looking around for a likely parent, he spotted Mrs. Sparks in the doorway. His sigh turned into a smile. She had worn something pretty after all, a dark blue dress edged with white lace that showed off her ample curves, and a bright, rich Turkish shawl that clung to them. It brought out the drama of her creamy complexion and dark eyes and hair. “Excuse me,” he told the girl, and turned to Moon. “There she is. Wait here, I’ll bring her over and introduce you.” He wanted to warn her not to be too sharp with the poor confectioner.
She forced a friendly smile when she saw him coming towards her. It threw him; she’d made very little effort to please when he met her. But he smiled back anyway, saying, “Good evening, Mrs. Sparks. You look very pretty.” She looked even prettier close up. Her thick hair was coming loose from its pins, the orange-and-purple rosette half-dangling above her ear. It would be improper to reach out and push it back in, but he imagined doing it. He imagined tracing the delicate curve of her ear, running his finger down the line of her neck. She’d shiver and blush…
Her face grew tight at the mild compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Dymond. You’re too kind.”
“Is everything all right?”
She opened her mouth, then shut it, shaking her head. “No. I—may I talk to you for a moment? Privately?”
“Of course,” he said at once, making a wait a moment gesture to Moon. “Will the porch do?”
The Orange-and-Purples wanted to install gas lighting in the town’s main streets, but the Pink-and-Whites were bitterly against it. Very little light from the flickering street-lamp or the candles inside reached the steps of the assembly rooms. It was cold, and he couldn’t see her face. She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders and didn’t speak.
“Please, if I can help—” He should have said we, speaking for the Party, but he didn’t.
“You can, sir,” she said in a small, tense voice that was somehow also trying to placate him. “I—well, they say pride comes before a fall, don’t they? I’m that sorry if I was rude earlier. I’ve reconsidered your very generous offer and I find—it isn’t too late to meet that man who wants to marry me, is it?” As she spoke, her Sussex burr grew thicker with agitation.
A few days ago, she had recoiled at the very idea of marriage. Something was terribly wrong. “Of course not. Are you—”
More words spilled anxiously from her mouth before he could finish the sentence. “I hope if I marry him, I may count on—that is—”
“The Dymonds always stand by those who have stood by them,” Nick said gently, borrowing the words from his mother. “What sort of trouble are you in?”
“I—you must promise me you’ll keep what I’m about to tell you a secret. Will you promise me? Can I trust you?” She huffed out a breath. “Lord, how stupid to ask a man if he can be trusted, but—can you?”
Tony or his mother would have told him to say yes at once. “I like to think I’m an honorable man,” Nick said at last. “I wouldn’t break a confidence without an overwhelming reason. But if what you have to say concerns electoral fraud or other wrongdoing by the Tories, I might have a responsibility—”
Her death grip on her shawl relaxed. “It doesn’t. It’s entirely personal.”
“Then I believe I can be trusted.” Keeping a secret, at least, he could manage.
She half-laughed, not sounding very amused. “Let’s hope you’re right.” She looked about. “My sister—” She stopped again, took a deep breath. “My younger sister is in the family way. If I marry your man, I need you to help her have the child in secret and find a family to raise it.”
When Lady Tassell had given him this task, it had sounded a joke. The favors his mother traded in had always seemed so small: an apprenticeship here, a new roof there. But suddenly Mrs. Sparks was offering a great price for a great favor. He had won his bet already, and he couldn’t be glad.
His mind raced, but he saw no way out. Paying to raise a child would be expensive. His mother would only do it for a vote. He couldn’t afford it himself, especially if his parents stopped his allowance. “I’m sorry.”
She half turned away, a sharp movement in the gloom. “No, you’re not.”
I’m not my brother, I don’t care about your votes, he wanted to say, or I know what it’s like to watch the life I planned vanish like a mirage in the desert. But his feelings wouldn’t help her. “Can’t your sister marry?”
“She doesn’t wish to.”
“Neither do you.”
The white lace dipped as she shrugged. “I’ve done it before,” she said lightly. “I can do it again.”
Would he sacrifice so much for Tony? “Have you spoken to her about aborting the child?”
Her face turned towards him. “She doesn’t want to. I won’t ask her to. I…”
“Yes?”
“I lost a pregnancy once. Not on purpose. It just happened. I won’t ask her to do that for me.”
He knew she wouldn’t thank him for saying it. “Surely a few days of her pain for a lifetime of your freedom is not—”
“It’s a lifetime for her child.” Her voice was flat. “Can you help her?”
“My mother can.”
Mrs. Sparks nodded. “Don’t—don’t tell her yet. I hope you don’t mind if I see who the Pink-and-Whites have picked out for me. I’m an Orange-and-Purple born and bred, but—”
“Of course not.”
There was silence for long moments.
“Who do you have picked out for me?”
“Mr. Moon, the confectioner.” He tried to sound enthusiastic. “Do you like sweets?”
There was another pause. “Oh yes,” she said unconvincingly.
“You don’t like sweets?” Mr. Moon sounded stunned. “But—”
Phoebe shifted uncomfortably. “That’s how I look when people tell me they don’t like reading,” she said, trying for a friendly laugh. Mr. Moon’s eyes widened anxiously. “…You don’t like reading.”
“I’ve naught against it, but it’s really for women, isn’t it? Novels and magazines and all that?”
She blinked, confounded. Who on earth had picked this man for her? He was handsome enough if you didn’t mind big ears, but…
Behind him, Mr. Dymond’s dark brows drew together like a blackbird settling its wings huffily into place after being shooed to a new perch on the roof. He liked reading. She shouldn’t have wanted to laugh, not when her future hung in the balance.
Mr. Moon glanced over his shoulder and caught Mr. Dymond’s frown. “I’m agreeable to your reading, though. I know you write stories. I’d not begrudge you…” He trailed off. “Well, it’s extra income, isn’t it?”
Had Mr. Dymond impressed on him that she wasn’t to be stopped writing? She felt warm for a moment before realizing that he’d been coaching Mr. Moon on how to win her over so his
brother could get her vote. “Yes. It is.”
Mr. Moon nodded, looking as desperate as she felt. He didn’t want this either; he must need something from the Dymonds, although she didn’t know what just yet.
She didn’t have to have a husband who read. “Here, how’s this? I’ll come round every day or so this next fortnight and bring you something to read, and you can give me a sweet, and perhaps we’ll convert each other in the end.”
“I’ll have you by the end of the week, that’s smack!” Moon had a sweet smile.
But if this were a story, you’d describe it as “gormless”, she thought.
Behind him, Mr. Dymond was smiling at her too, admiration and sympathy and encouragement and a few other things all intermixed. She couldn’t think of one word that would sum that smile up.
You can’t rate men on how difficult they are to write about. Or on how charitably you would describe their smile, either. At least Mr. Moon seemed mild-mannered enough, unlikely to become a petty domestic tyrant or berate her for trifles.
“What sorts of flavors do you like?” Mr. Moon asked, and she jolted her gaze back to him.
“Um…”
“Citrus, brandy, rum, anise…?”
She grimaced before she could stop herself. “I don’t like anise.” His shoulders sagged a little. “Citrus. I like citrus.” He smiled gratefully, and Phoebe tried to resign herself to a lifetime of lemon cake.
Chapter Five
“Ships, you can’t wear the same dress for the rest of your life,” Phoebe said. And I can’t afford to buy you new ones, either. Besides, there was already enough gossip about why Helen had suddenly fled her home to live with her sister; a new wardrobe would only make it worse. Most people seemed to have settled on Their mother is impossible to live with as an explanation for now, but there was no guarantee that would last. “I’ll go with you.”
Helen had two shifts. Every night she took one off and washed it, then wore the other until morning when the first one was dry, when she put it back on and washed the second one. She hadn’t been able to do that last night, and she was far too fastidious to sleep naked. She had been wearing the same shift for a day, a night and a morning, and her discomfort showed in every movement. But she said, “I can’t go home. I can’t face her.”
Helen didn’t even seem able to face Phoebe; she kept her eyes carefully on her own face in the mirror as she slowly rebraided her hair. The tender skin around her eyes was dark from lack of sleep, almost bruised looking. It only made her great dark eyes look greater, and very deep.
Phoebe hugged her around the waist, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You can face anyone. You’re my beautiful sister.”
Helen’s eyes met hers in the mirror for a brief second, so uncertain it broke Phoebe’s heart. “What if I go back and she—what if the neighbors hear?”
If this news got out, Helen would never get over it. Was he worth it? Phoebe wanted to demand. “All right. I’ll go before my appointment with Mr. Moon.”
The loose left side of Helen’s hair danced as she nodded quickly. “Thank you, Fee.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take Sukey with me to help carry.”
“A whacking crate of books is the only thing heavier than a washtub,” Sukey grumbled good-naturedly.
“It’s not a crate. It’s a hamper with six books in the bottom. And I only brought the first volume of each.”
“Ooh, you separated the volumes?” Sukey put on a wide-eyed expression. “It must be love.”
Separating volumes offered too much chance that one would be lost and all three would be useless. As a rule, Phoebe never lent books at all. If someone was going to spill coffee on one of her precious books, she wanted it to be herself. But this was important, so she steeled herself. “It isn’t love,” she said. “But it might be marriage.”
Sukey gave her a remorseful look. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I hadn’t ought to have teased.”
Phoebe shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Maybe it won’t be too bad. You’ll never go hungry, anyway.”
Phoebe nodded glumly.
“Have you spoken to that Mr. Gilchrist yet?”
“I’ve been putting it off.”
Sukey nodded. “He’s a tricky one. But he wants your vote more than Mr. Dymond.”
“I think you’re right.”
Sukey laughed. “No need to sound surprised.”
“Sorry,” Phoebe said, abashed.
“Do you think you might get an advance bribe from him? The grocer won’t let you go on tick much longer.”
Phoebe sighed. “It’s not a bribe,” she said halfheartedly. “It’s—patronage or something.”
“Or you could send Miss Helen to talk to the grocer. I’m sure he’d extend your credit then.”
“Absolutely not!”
Sukey shrugged. “You can’t do everything for her. Bad enough you let her talk you into fetching her clothes.”
Phoebe glared. “If I could do everything for her, I would.”
“Yes, and she knows it.”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, and I’m her older sister. She ought to know it.” Poor Helen had nobody else; it was up to Phoebe to be a whole family to her. “It isn’t as if she can count on Mama.”
“Could be worse. My mother would beat me black and blue if I got myself in trouble like that.”
“And if she did, no doubt you’d come to me for help as well,” Phoebe snapped, wishing for the millionth time that Helen hadn’t chosen to confide in Sukey. She thought the maid could be trusted, but thinking wasn’t the same as knowing.
“I suppose I would, at that,” Sukey said good-naturedly.
Everybody came to Phoebe for help, because they knew she’d give it to them. She didn’t mind, most of the time. The shameful truth was that it made her feel important. But today she couldn’t help wishing there was someone to help her.
Helen would always do anything she could, of course. When Phoebe had needed nursing and cheering after her miscarriage, Helen at thirteen had done more than her share. But it wasn’t the same as having a father, or a husband, or a best friend her own age. Someone who could make her feel safe. How long had it been since she’d really confided in Martha Honeysett, her closest friend as a girl? What had happened?
“Well,” Phoebe said cheerlessly. “Here we are.” Even after five years, even though she did it at least once a week, she hated walking down this street to this door knowing that her father wouldn’t be there to open it.
It seemed unfair that it should still be the same street, the same house with the same spindle tree crowding the upper story, covered in the same distinctive pink-and-orange berries. That tree ought to pick a party and stick to it, her father used to say, and laugh heartily at his own weak joke.
She squared her shoulders and rapped on the door. She squared them even further as the doorknob turned and the door opened. She pasted a smile on her face. “Good morning, Mama.”
Sukey curtseyed behind her. “Ma’am.”
“Good morning, Phoebe, darling.” Her mother looked her up and down in that way that made Phoebe feel angry and ugly all at once. Mrs. Knight reached out to straighten Phoebe’s kerchief. She tried not to flinch away. “What a colorful dress.”
Phoebe’s dress was a practical dark lavender. But she knew what her mother meant. Five years after her husband’s death, Mrs. Knight still wore black. “Thank you.” She tried to say it blandly, but it came out defiant anyway. “We’ve come for Helen’s things.”
Mrs. Knight sighed heavily. “You’re taking her side?”
Phoebe’s hands clenched into fists. She hid them in her skirts. “Why won’t you?”
“Because I value her happiness over her approval. Her behavior is unfeminine and selfish”—two of Mrs. Knight’s favorite words—“and I won’t encourage it. She has to marry the father of that baby before her child is born a bastard.”
“The father of that baby, whoever h
e is, doesn’t deserve to touch the bottom of Helen’s boot.”
“Helen didn’t seem to think so, if she was thinking at all. But you girls never think, you only do what feels good.”
Phoebe could feel every muscle in her body tightening at the injustice of this. She’d heard it from her mother her whole life. Even reading by herself had been a selfish pleasure; it was read aloud to the family or nothing. If she broke a plate while washing the dishes, it was because she was careless and didn’t think of how hard her father worked to buy those plates.
Sukey shifted awkwardly beside her, and Phoebe just managed to hold on to her temper. “I’ve come for Helen’s things.”
“Those are my things,” Mrs. Knight said. “I paid for them and since Helen has decided to no longer be part of this family, I’ll have to sell them to make up for the lost income.”
No one, not even Will, had ever been able to make Phoebe so angry with so few words. “You don’t decide who is and isn’t part of this family,” she said tightly.
“‘Family’, not ‘famirly’, dearest,” Mrs. Knight corrected her, even though her own speech was rarely more genteel. She wiped away tears. “This would have broken your father’s heart.”
“Yes. It would have.” Mr. Knight would never have allowed her to put Helen in the street. Never. “You haven’t told anyone about Helen, have you?”
“I’m too ashamed,” Mrs. Knight said, in a throbbingly tormented voice worthy of Mrs. Siddons. “Besides, I still expect her to come to her senses and post the banns.”
“May we discuss this inside?”
For one unreal moment, Phoebe thought her mother would deny her the house as well. But Mrs. Knight stepped reluctantly back, and Phoebe and Sukey went past her into the parlor.
