The Offer

by Sara Portman

  A man of average height but substantial build strode into the room. He was dressed as one would expect of a country gentleman, but his sun-darkened features declared him a rugged, useful type and his brawn suggested a familiarity with physical labor.

  He eyed them sternly. There was no call for false charm, Lucy thought, but basic friendliness would have been appropriate.

  His entrance was followed closely by that of a woman with attractive brown curls, not much older than Lucy, in a lemon yellow day dress. Lucy recognized the family resemblance and immediately knew this to be Annabel Maris, niece of Lady Constance, despite the difference in age between the two women. Annabelle seemed healthy and showed no outward sign of abuse, thankfully.

  “Good morning, sir, ma’am,” Bex said with a nod first to Mr. Maris and then to his wife. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Maris. I am Mr. Brantwood and this is my wife. I am dreadfully sorry for the imposition, but I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of trouble with our coach just down the lane from your house.”

  Mr. Maris’s expression remained grim. His eyes traveled the length of Lucy from bonnet to slippers and back again as though he might find some excuse to simply dismiss them without offering aid.

  Lucy disliked him immediately and felt a stab of pity for Annabelle Maris. In her sunny, ruffled dress, she looked every bit as soft and feminine as the parlor in which they all stood. She had positioned herself two paces behind her husband in obvious deference to his oversight of this matter.

  “What sort of trouble?” Mr. Maris asked, showing more skepticism than alarm.

  “With the wheel, it seems,” Bex explained, giving Lucy’s shoulder another reassuring squeeze. “My man is assessing the damage now to see if he’s able to repair it.”

  It was Bex’s turn, apparently, to receive the lengthy and unveiled measuring up from Mr. Maris. Judging by the man’s expression upon its conclusion, he was not particularly pleased with his assessment. “I find two sets of hands are often more useful than one in these situations,” he said with a speaking stare at Bex. “Of course, most gentlemen are no more able to fix a broken carriage wheel than a missing waistcoat button.”

  Lucy felt Bex stiffen at this obvious attack upon his masculinity. She, too, had assumed Bex would not have any particular skill in carriage repair, but somehow it was considerably more rude for Mr. Maris to say so.

  “Two sets of hands are undeniably better,” Bex said affably. “I would, of course, have remained to assist in the repairs, but that would have left my wife to remain waiting outdoors. I could not in good conscience allow her to wait at the roadside in her delicate condition.”

  Bex smiled congenially at Mr. Maris. Lucy grinned as well, in solidarity with her “husband,” until his words settled upon her.

  Delicate condition?

  Mrs. Maris immediately centered her gaze on Lucy’s narrow waist. Lucy gave her a tremulous smile before looking up at Bex in silent plea to…well, she wasn’t sure what exactly.

  Bex’s chest rose in emulation of an expectant father’s beaming pride and proceeded to remove any doubt as to his previous implication. “My wife and I have recently learned that we shall be welcoming our first child.”

  Lucy coughed. Somehow she managed to stay the instinct to turn and gape up at Bex. What in heaven’s name was he thinking? Uncertain she could manage a verbal response through her shock, she lay a protective hand over her conspicuously trim midsection and smiled awkwardly.

  Mr. Maris gave her another, even more thorough examination then nodded as though begrudgingly granting approval for Bex’s decision making, now that he had been presented with all the facts.

  “But you must sit down, Mrs. Brantwood,” Mrs. Maris said, stepping forward to take charge of this situation, which now clearly fell into her feminine purview. “Perhaps you should stay for luncheon,” she suggested with a solicitous smile as she took Lucy’s arm and led her to the patterned sofa. “You should not overtax yourself, dear.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said, wondering how one went about behaving in a pregnant manner. Emma seemed simply a more tired version of her normal self, aside from the bouts of nausea. Lucy was not going to feign a stomach malady in front of perfect strangers. Fatigue seemed her only possible course at this point. She allowed her shoulders to droop slightly and leaned toward her “husband.”

  “I’m sure our guests will be anxious to reach their intended destination,” Mr. Maris said to his wife, though his attention remained upon Bex. “Luncheon may be an unnecessary delay.”

  “I shall ring for tea, then,” Mrs. Maris said, not missing a beat at the dismissal of her original intent. “We cannot send you off without any refreshment.”

  Lucy smiled gratefully. “That would be lovely. Thank you ever so much for your kindness.” Then inspiration struck. “I am rather fatigued,” she added.

  Mrs. Maris smiled sweetly back at her then turned to her husband. “In the meantime, what can be done for their carriage, my dear?”

  “I’ve already sent a man to have a look.”

  Bex stepped forward. “That is most appreciated, my good man. We are grateful for your assistance. The carriage is not far down the lane,” he continued, fiercely cheerful despite the other man’s lack of cordiality. “Perhaps if Mrs. Maris would be so gracious as to keep company with my wife, you and I might venture out to inspect the progress?”

  “My man is competent. If the coach can be repaired, he’ll have it done shortly.”

  “I mean no slight to the skill of your man,” Bex insisted, “but now that my wife is safely in the care of another, I admit I would prefer to see for myself how the repair is coming along.”

  Lucy could not deny Bex was certainly the man to have as one’s coconspirator in an undertaking such as this. He managed clever maneuvering of the situation and changed tack as necessary far more quickly than she could have done. On her own, she would have been a dismal failure.

  Mr. Maris considered him for a long moment, then consented with an abbreviated nod.

  As Lucy turned to smile warmly up at Bex in reward for his deft manipulation of the circumstances, she caught his eyes widen briefly in an almost imperceptible moment of alarm.

  Then she heard it herself.

  An arriving carriage.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What is this?” Mrs. Maris asked. She hurried to a front-facing window and peered out. “Could your carriage be repaired already?”

  Lucy’s eyes sent desperate inquiry to Bex. What do we do now?

  Mrs. Maris turned back from the window. “It must be. How fortunate that the trouble could be repaired so quickly. I wonder, what was wrong with it?”

  “Indeed,” Lucy said. What else was there to say? It appeared everything at Sunningham Park ran with rapid efficiency—carriage wheel reattachments included.

  She cast another questioning glance at Bex.

  “What luck,” Bex said flatly.

  Mr. Maris simply looked annoyed.

  At that moment, the tea tray arrived and Lucy’s sigh of relief must have been audible. Mrs. Maris crossed the room to attend to the arrival of the tea, and Mr. Maris took her place at the window, looking disapprovingly at the perfectly functional carriage that had just clattered up the drive.

  Lucy looked to Bex. He mouthed something at her, but she couldn’t make it out and gave a little shake of her head. With a surreptitious glance toward their hosts, he tried again.

  “Do you think you could faint?”

  What? Faint? She could not have understood him correctly. No, she could not faint.

  She shook her head again.

  He must have mistaken her denial for continued misunderstanding because he exchanged silent words for playacting, tipping his head, rolling his eyes backward, and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth like a dog.

  She released a sound before she could
stop it and clapped a hand over her mouth. She didn’t know if it was a gasp or a laugh. Terrified, she cast a look first to Mr. Maris and then to his wife.

  Thankfully, neither were looking her way. She turned to Bex and mouthed a firm “No!”

  He lifted his shoulders as though to ask, What, then?

  So it was her turn to be clever.

  Drat.

  She was awful at this. She required time to plan and consider, but Mrs. Maris was walking toward them. There was no time to consider. There was only time to act.

  Lucy spun to face Bex, clutched both of his arms desperately, and cried, “Oh, darling, I’m so frightened. What if it happens again? How can we know it’s safe?” She put a hand to her heart. “I…I don’t think I could even get inside that hateful thing. We could have been…been”—she drove her voice up a full octave—“killed.”

  Dramatics thus delivered, Lucy leaned heavily into Bex in her best emulation of a swoon. She had never actually swooned before. To that matter, she couldn’t recall ever witnessing a swooning, either, but she was certain it required the support of another person.

  Thankfully, Bex agreed and his arms closed around her. She detested playing such a ridiculous ninny, but there were compensations, it seemed. She whimpered for effect and pressed closer—all for the cause, of course.

  “There, there, darling,” Bex said soothingly. He lay a hand on her back and patted gently. “I promise, we shall not set a foot in that carriage until I have personally ensured it is sound and perfectly safe.”

  Lucy attempted a sob and failed. It came out as more of a gurgle, which she then attempted to disguise with a sniffle as she burrowed deeper into Bex’s chest.

  He released a suspiciously ragged cough.

  She pulled her cheek from its place against his coat and looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes, fighting the urge to smile, as she knew he was. “Do you promise?” she asked, in much the same way a child might ask a parent to return with sweets.

  “I vow it, my dear,” he said passionately, mirth dancing in his gray eyes. He hugged her close, patting her back again, and spoke to the others over her head. “Perhaps, if we could impose upon you for just a bit longer, my wife could benefit from a rest and some tea while we assure ourselves of the carriage repair. Would you mind very much, Mrs. Maris, if I handed my wife into your care?”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Maris replied. Lucy could not see the woman’s face, as her own was still buried in Bex’s chest, but she heard the hesitation in the other woman’s response. Lucy would be equally uncertain as to just how to manage such a creature, were their roles reversed. The idea that she—a grown woman—would need to be handed into the care of another grown woman would be incredibly offensive but for the fact that she needed a few moments alone with Mrs. Maris.

  In an action that required no pretense whatsoever, Lucy sighed and reluctantly stepped out from the warm cocoon formed by Bex’s strong arms and solid chest.

  Mrs. Maris stepped forward and took Lucy’s arm. “Come, dear, why don’t we sit and let the gentlemen inspect the carriage, shall we?”

  Lucy followed mutely, allowing the other woman to lead her to a spot on the sofa where she sat compliantly. She accepted a cup of tea and attempted to appear both shaken and mollified by her husband’s promises.

  “Well,” Bex said, brushing his hands together. “If you will excuse me, I will go have a look at the coach. Will you join me, Mr. Maris?”

  Mr. Maris looked a long while at Lucy as she sipped her tea in as frail a manner as she could pretend. His lips pinched in disgust and Lucy knew he would love nothing better than to send his ridiculous guests away immediately. He must have decided a safe carriage was the quickest way to ensure their departure, for he eventually drawled, “Yes, let’s see to it,” and led the way from the room.

  As soon as the men had exited, it occurred to Lucy she had been left to her own wits in navigating this odd scenario. Now that she had gone to such extremes to get herself here, she wasn’t entirely certain what to do next.

  She gave Mrs. Maris a tremulous smile.

  The other woman reached forward and patted Lucy’s gloved hand. “There, there,” she said, in echo of Bex’s words. “I’m sure everything will prove shipshape and you shall be back on your way in no time at all.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said. “That’s kind of you to say.” She wasn’t sure what a complete ninny might say under the circumstances, but that seemed to suffice. She wasn’t even sure she needed to continue to play the ninny, but she hesitated to reveal just how much of their visit had been a fabrication for fear of shocking poor Annabelle Maris. Of course, she could not deliver the message without revealing some part of the fabrication, could she?

  “I…I should tell you that I have heard of you before today,” Lucy began cautiously. “I believe we may share a mutual acquaintance.”

  Mrs. Maris leaned back and gave a nervous laugh. “Well, that would be a rather unlikely coincidence, wouldn’t it? I can’t imagine whom we may know in common. I am never in London.”

  Lucy straightened her shoulders. She looked into the other woman’s eyes—hoped she conveyed her earnest desire to come to her aid. “I have lately made the friendship of the Comtesse de Beauchene, who I am told is your aunt.”

  Annabelle Maris visibly stiffened. “Well,” she said tightly. “That is unexpected.”

  “I am so very sorry to have…surprised…you in this way.” Lucy bit her lip, uncertain what to say next. She searched the other woman’s eyes for some indication of her emotion at hearing of her aunt, but could find nothing but guarded watchfulness. “I only wanted you to know that your aunt has spoken of you to me.”

  Mrs. Maris smiled, but the expression was clipped and unfriendly. “It seems unlikely to me that the Comtesse de Beauchene would mention me at all. She and I are not in contact.”

  Lucy adjusted herself awkwardly in her seat and searched for some sign of warmth in Mrs. Maris, who had chosen to refer to Lady Constance by her formal title as opposed to “my aunt.” She was sad for the bitterness the woman so clearly possessed—and so unnecessarily. Lucy knew then that Lady Constance was correct in her suspicions. Not only had her niece not received her letters, but it appeared she had grown resentful from the lack of communication.

  Lucy reached out to the other woman, with her hand and with her eyes and with her heart. “Mrs. Maris, you should know that your aunt is very concerned about you. She writes you regularly and suspects you may not be receiving her letters.”

  Porcelain clattered as Mrs. Maris clumsily set her tea aside and pushed it away. “I…well…what?” she stammered. She coughed, and sat even more erect in her seat before turning accusing eyes on Lucy. “That is a preposterous claim,” she hissed.

  Lucy wanted to cry for the sheer sadness of it. “I assure you,” she said softly, her eyes pleading with the woman to listen and understand, “your aunt has been writing to you. She is now back in England and wants very much for you to know that you may rely upon her for”—Lucy bit her lip, considering her words, then finished—“anything.”

  Mrs. Maris did not warm in the slightest upon hearing Lucy’s words. Instead her eyes grew hard and her mouth more grim. “The claim that I find preposterous,” she clarified, her enunciation tightly clipped, “is not whether that woman has written, but that I would not have received her letters. Are you accusing my husband of misdirecting correspondence addressed to me?”

  Lucy’s stomach lurched. That woman? All at once, understanding blanketed her with a heavy weight. Annabelle Maris had received all of her aunt’s letters and had chosen not to reply.

  Lucy waited a long moment before speaking, considering her words carefully. When she did speak, she adopted a cautiously soft tone. “I do apologize, Mrs. Maris, if I have inadvertently given offense. That was not my intent. I only meant to pass on a message of care and conc
ern from a family member and, I assure you, that message was kindly meant.”

  “If my aunt had any care or concern for her family, she would have paid attention to where her loyalties should lie and she would have married a respectable Englishman.”

  Lucy stared at the woman. Loyalties? This was the crime for which Lady Constance was to be estranged from her family? Disloyalty to the Crown? The idea was absurd.

  “Mrs. Maris,” Lucy began, her cordiality waning, “you must know that your aunt has returned to England permanently and taken a place in society as a proper English lady.”

  “My aunt is not a proper English lady. She became a Frenchwoman years ago,” Annabelle Maris said, her eyes flashing with indignant patriotism. “She chose her side. She may have known Napoleon himself.”

  The sharp words stung Lucy as though she were the subject of them, rather than Lady Constance. If not for the harshness of the attack on a dear friend, Lucy would have found Mrs. Maris’s position laughable. “Surely your aunt could not have wielded any influence in French diplomacy and war. No more than she could have influenced the king had she stayed in England.”

  “The French killed my husband’s own brother and many more of our fine Englishmen. It would be a disgrace to this house and to the Maris name to recognize a French comtesse as family. She represents everything that is reprehensible.”

  Well.

  Lucy was at a genuine loss for words. She could not reconcile this angry, spiteful woman with Lady Constance’s anecdotes of her sweet and affectionate niece. Lucy almost hoped that Annabelle Maris had always been hateful, for the idea that she had once been affectionate and was so transformed was truly disheartening. Lucy did her very best to see the good in all people, but she was struggling mightily to find it in this woman—particularly as she noted the yellow silk flowers that adorned the hem of the woman’s day dress.