Since their marriage, most of their energies had been concentrated on Henley Park, not the town residence, which remained dank and drafty. In summer, it was bearable. But now, late in the year, he fancied himself growing arthritic in the frigid temperatures.
At night it was so frosty in his room that he’d given serious consideration to knocking on her door and asking to climb in bed with her—not to break their pact, but for warmth.
“You play beautifully.” Sometimes, when his sisters or Hastings visited Henley Park, they asked her to play for them.
“I play well. Beautifully is another matter altogether. You need musicality to play beautifully. I can only press the keys and make sounds.”
“I can’t tell the difference.”
“Many people can’t—all those hours of practice.”
“Good. By the time we are done here with all our hours of practice, your father’s managers won’t be able to tell that we’ve maneuvered them.”
“You really think so?”
“I do,” he said. “You are very convincing. And surprisingly wily. You’ll have them eating out of your hand.”
Her eyes crinkled again. He wondered once more whether she’d let him hold her at night—just for warmth. But of course he’d never ask. A pact was a pact.
She pulled her scarf more snug around her face. “Should we practice some more with you as Mr. Hawkes?”
“No, I think I’ll be Mr. Mortimer this time.”
“Oh, good, you do a very fine Mr. Mortimer.” She looked at him, her eyes bright and clear. “I know the stakes are terribly high, but this is actually fun.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “It is.”
T he meeting was set to take place in January, a day after Lord Fitzhugh’s twenty-first birthday. It was important that he come into his majority, so that they no longer needed Colonel Clements’s permission—or forgiveness—for any decisions. And so that they were not two children dealing with men who’d been in business for decades.
The night before, after dinner, she’d given him his birthday present, a signet ring with the Fitzhugh coat of arms. And inscribed inside, the family motto, Audentes fortuna iuvat.
“Fortune favors the bold,” he translated. “Highly applicable to the occasion. I will wear it tomorrow.”
“Oh, good,” she said, trying not to sound breathlessly gratified—which she was.
He gauged the size of the ring and put it on the index finger of his right hand. “A perfect fit.”
Now she was only breathless. His hand looked different with the square, heavy ring upon it. Or perhaps the ring only emphasized the qualities he’d acquired since their wedding, the cool dedication and the calm authority.
She wanted him to touch her with the ring on his hand. Badly.
“I hope it will bring us good luck,” she said.
“I hope so, too. But should things go ill, at least we will know it is only because of the capriciousness of luck, that we have done everything in our power to seize the opportunity.” He placed his hand on her arm. “And whatever the outcome tomorrow, I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in this endeavor—or any other, for that matter.”
It was not a declaration of love, but one of friendship. Her heart ached—yet at the same time, filled with sweetness. She closed her hand over his, the one bearing the ring.
“It will happen,” she said. “If not tomorrow, then another day. Sooner or later the prize will be ours.”
T he meeting was a theatrical production.
In the five weeks leading up to it, they had discussed and prepared for every last aspect of the encounter, including their personal appearances. Her mourning dress, especially commissioned, was cut large to make her look smaller and younger in it. He’d let his hair grow long in order to look less serious. They both shook hands rather limply.
Once inside her father’s old office, he did not take one of the chairs arranged in two semicircles before Mr. Grave’s desk, but stood in a corner at the back of the room, looking slightly bored, to give the impression he’d come solely to accompany his wife and was little interested in the goings-on himself.
Lady Fitzhugh, she of the most impeccable posture, hunched forward in her chair and looked as if she had trouble raising her eyes to the assembly, let alone addressing them.
Her voice quivered slightly. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming this morning. It is a pleasure to have all of you in the same room. I am sure you are as grieved as I am that it is no longer my father occupying this chair, but such is the will of God and we must cope as best as we can.
“He has, as you know, left Cresswell & Graves to me as a going concern. I am young and inexperienced, therefore I have called you together and hope you may advise and guide me as to how I may best proceed.”
It was vitally important that she, though the rightful owner, did not appear to be a usurper, given that she was a woman and her husband a toff who presumably knew nothing beyond polo and shooting.
Mr. Hawkes, a wizened old man who had been a trusted lieutenant to the senior Mr. Graves, Lady Fitzhugh’s grandfather, and who no longer participated in the day-to-day operation of the business, said, “Perhaps it would be best, Lady Fitzhugh, for you to remain removed from the running of the business. A woman’s place is at home.”
Helena would have demanded whether the man had heard of Queen Elizabeth, who ran the business of England better than any man before or since. But Fitz’s wife only nodded timidly.
“Indeed you have read my heart, sir. It is a difficult task, the direction of an enterprise such as ours, requiring much perspicacity and expertise. I would have dearly loved to remain in the comfort and insularity of my home. Alas, I am the last of the Graves, and as such, it would be a complete dereliction of duty were I to turn my back on Cresswell & Graves.”
She said it with a steely resignation, a young martyr facing her doom with serenity and courage, because she knew she was doing the right thing.
From their weeks of practice Fitz already knew her to be a good actress. However, not all actors excelled as much onstage as they did in rehearsal—he’d witnessed classmates seize with stage fright during school performances, sweating and butchering their lines. But he need not have worried. She was outdoing herself.
Mr. Hawkes looked taken aback. It was all very well for him to put a woman in her place, but before such dutiful femininity he certainly could not suggest her father had made a mistake by bequeathing the firm to his only child.
Mr. Hawkes’s former protégé and current rival for influence Mr. Mortimer, a balding, thickening man in his late forties, said, “I do believe, Lady Fitzhugh, that the best manner going forward would be for you to continue to devote yourself to your home and your charitable work. And we will keep you informed of our decisions—say, annually.”
“It is most kind of you, Mr. Mortimer. I always knew I could rely on the gentlemen in this room to watch out for my best interest. Since you are so generous, there is no reason I cannot find a few days every quarter to dedicate to the business of Cresswell & Graves. I am slightly ashamed, however, of the inadequacy of my dedication—I’m sure my father would have wanted me to keep an even closer eye on things. Monthly briefings, perhaps.”
“Oh, I dare say quarterly briefings would stand you in good stead,” Mr. Mortimer hastened to say.
The other men around the table echoed his sentiment. Fitz suppressed a smile. From annual to quarterly, with no resistance whatsoever. His wife was slowly and gently sliding them into her pocket—without giving the least indication what she was up to.
“I am so grateful for your reassurance, gentlemen. You make me feel very well taken care of and I thank you. However, there is one thing that is still on my mind and that is the matter of choosing a first among equals. When my father was alive, he was that person. Now we have a dozen colleagues, but no leader. I have led a sheltered life, but even I know that an unled group, no matter how individually brilliant the members, would disi
ntegrate into factions along lines of disagreement.”
The men around the table look at one another, some at their allies, some at their rivals. Fitz had informed her closely of his observations. Her father’s lieutenants were split between those who were content to do Mr. Graves’s bidding, and those who itched to branch out and grow.
“And yet we face challenging times ahead and it is important that we preserve comity and unity. Whomever we choose to head the enterprise should be someone fair and honest, with both the stature and the experience to lead us across troubled waters.”
Fitz’s pulse picked up. This was where they’d find out whether his strategy would work. By forcing them to choose a leader before her, without time for behind-closed-doors deal-making and compromises, he hoped that they would select the most neutral person in the room, someone whom both sides had good reason to believe they could influence.
Him.
So far she had performed beautifully, but one could never account for all the variables that might come into play. It was always possible that the men had met beforehand and already decided on the one they’d choose to lead them. And if that were the case, it was more likely than not one of the old guards.
And that would make his intended course of action incalculably more arduous. Rightful owners they might be, but they would have a difficult time getting their ideas implemented, let alone implemented well.
“Perhaps I could invite some names to be put forward?” she prompted them. “Perhaps this is the time to look around the room and see if there is a man acceptable to everyone?”
He’d written most of the script for her speech. But the last question was her own. As if on cue, the men seated in the first row of seats, the leaders of the two factions, turned around. And whom should they see but the untried youth loitering at the back of the room.
Eaglelike eyes assessed him. He did his very best to appear a blank canvas for other men’s ideas, or perhaps a clump of clay for someone else to shape.
“I’d have liked to volunteer myself for the honor—were I thirty years younger,” said Mr. Hawkes. “But now that I am an old fuddy-duddy, let it not be said that I do not value the valor and enthusiasm of youth. I move that we invite Lord Fitzhugh to lead us.”
Fitz did not need to pretend. He was as astonished as the other men in the room. The best-case scenario—the one for which they’d schemed, plotted, strategized—had come to pass.
“Me? But—but I haven’t the faintest idea what to do with a passel of tinneries.”
Lady Fitzhugh also protested. “I thought we needed a man of experience. I’m sure Lord Fitzhugh is full of fine qualities but his only experience is in cricket.”
“And did not the Duke of Wellington himself say that the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton?”
Now Mr. Hawkes was going all out, pushing Fitz’s candidacy, no doubt believing he’d enjoy a particular influence over Fitz should he succeed.
The men of the reforming faction looked at one another. Mr. Mortimer, realizing that he would not be elected to lead the company, hastened to put in his own approval of Fitz’s fitness for the office. “Experience can be earned. Lord Fitzhugh is a bright, winsome young man and I am sure he will lead us most capably.”
“Hear, hear,” somebody said.
M illie excused herself once her husband had been installed at the head of the company. But the rest of the day she could do nothing except anxiously pace about the house, waiting for him to come back.
He did, late in the afternoon. As soon as they’d closed the study door behind themselves, he enfolded her in a bear hug.
She had not expected it at all—or the swift current of warmth that instantly surged through her. God, he smelled wonderful. And his body was lean and angular—and strong, for presently he lifted her and spun her around.
“Well done, old gal. Well done!”
She squealed with laughter and banged at his shoulders to be put down. “What happened after I left? Tell me. I’m dying to know.”
“The meeting was adjourned an hour after you left. Mr. Hawkes pulled me aside to give me a word of caution on making too many changes too fast. But even men who don’t want to make too many changes too fast have an occasional idea or two. So I told him about his bottling plant.”
“What bottling plant?”
“Twelve years ago, he had wanted your father to expand to bottled beverages and had prepared a thorough dossier for the construction of a new manufacturing plant dedicated to these bottled beverages. The site, the blueprint for the building, the designs for the machinery were all there. He even had a book of recipes and several prototype designs of the bottles that would be used.
“One could only imagine how disappointed he was to have his proposal rejected. So I told him that with me in charge, he will have his bottling plant—and soon. Norwich & Sons went belly-up during the construction of a bottling plant. I let him know that I’d be quite happy to buy it with my own funds and sign the deed over to the company—a coming-aboard present, so to speak.”
“He didn’t become suspicious, did he?”
“No, he looked at me as if I were an old friend—the only one in the world who understood him. He was quite helpful the rest of the day and now we’ve a list of ideas as long as I’m tall to consider. And there will be a number of new products to be taste tested the next time you meet with them.”
He hugged her again. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that everything went off so well. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She was happily proud—of both of them. “You did very well yourself.”
A knock came at the door. It was their butler, with the coffee service.
“Shall we open a bottle of champagne for you?” asked Lord Fitzhugh.
“No,” she said, “coffee is more than good enough.”
Water would have been more than good enough.
She poured the coffee. He raised his in a toast. “To a future of our own making.”
They clinked their cups. “A future of our own making,” she echoed.
And wished fervently that it would be so.
CHAPTER 10
1896
T he invitation—summons, rather—came at the last minute, on the morning of the ball.
Millie was about to look in on Helena’s final fitting when a footman presented a silver salver. She recognized the envelope by its embossed stem of a rose at the lower right-hand corner: Mrs. Englewood.
She ducked into an empty room to read.
Dear Lady Fitzhugh,
Let me be the first one to admit that it is terrible form to request a meeting, given that we have never been introduced. But as we are well aware of each other’s existence, let us dispense with needless formalities, shall we?
Please let me know if I may wait on you this afternoon at two.
Yours,
Mrs. John Englewood
This was not entirely unexpected. She and Mrs. Englewood were not two bitches tussling over a bone. At some point it behooved them to sit down and hold a civilized conversation concerning the Arrangement. But for Millie that point hadn’t come yet and shouldn’t come for at least another five months.
Mrs. Englewood obviously believed otherwise.
Millie had the perfect excuse in the ball of course—she was much too busy—but she would not decline the meeting. She’d learned her lesson about putting off till eight years later what she should do today. If the meeting must happen at some point, then let it happen today.
Even if today was the day Fitz became her husband in truth.
Especially if.
W ere Mrs. Englewood and Fitz a pair of bookends, they could not be better matched physically. Like him, her build was tall, slender, and tight. Like him, she had dark hair and blue eyes. And like him, she moved with a nonchalant grace.
Millie was neither overly short nor overly pudgy. Before Mrs. Englewood’s stately figure, however, it was difficult not to feel sq
uat—even a little dumpy. But it was not as if she was ever going to feel anything but inferior before Isabelle Englewood.
“You are different from how I remember you,” said Mrs. Englewood, sipping her tea. “Taller and prettier.”
Just like that, no other preliminaries.
Millie took a deep breath. “It’s nice to know that I look better now than I did at my wedding.”
“The dress swallowed you.”
Millie had to agree. “Yes, in hindsight the dress was quite atrocious. Instead of the best money could buy, we went for the most money could buy.”
Her acknowledgment of the parvenu tastes of her wedding gown garnered her a surprised glance from Mrs. Englewood.
“All the same,” she said, her voice turning wistful, “I’d have gladly worn that gown—or one ten times as hideous—if I could have walked down the aisle to him.”
Millie ate her biscuit and said nothing.
“I loved him. I’d planned my entire future around becoming Mrs. Fitzhugh. And when he married you, all my hopes and dreams collapsed. For two months, all I did was sit on my bed, dawn till dusk, dusk till dawn. I barely ate. Slept maybe once every three days. I’ve never looked the same since.”
She did look different, like a broken vase that had been put back together: still beautiful, all the pieces accounted for, but the damage showed. Millie’s heart flinched, as if someone had brought a burning match too near.
“My mother and my sister eventually coaxed me out of my exile. They convinced me that it was better for me to go to London and find a husband, instead of fade away at home. So that was what I did the next Season.”
“He was there that day at your wedding. He said you looked beautiful—and happy,” Millie said, in a futile attempt to remind Mrs. Englewood that not all had gone awry in her life.
“I suppose I was happy enough. But it was not the same—an imitation. Nothing could approach that perfect, unmarred happiness I’d once known.”
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