by Betina Krahn
He relaxed back against the seat, looking as if he’d just run a long-distance race. The aggressive posture eased and the mesmerizing force of his countenance drained. Only then did she realize he had been under great pressure, even while seeming confident and appearing to enjoy the fierceness of the negotiation.
“Congratulations, your lordship,” Hallowford said, his shoulders slumping.
“Thank you, Hallowford,” Remington said, expelling a deep breath. “Now all we have to do is find the small fortune we have just promised to pay Mr. Sutton two weeks from today.”
“Find the money?” Antonia asked, frowning. “Surely you have enough money. You’re a very wealthy man.”
“And most of my wealth is in property and investments. I don’t keep hundreds of thousands of pounds just lying around, any more than you do.”
“But why would you agree to buy it if you don’t have the funds?” she asked.
He smiled ruefully. “Because it makes good business sense, believe it or not. And a great deal of business is done with borrowed money. Now all I have to do is convince the bankers that it makes good sense.” He chuckled grimly at the confusion on her face. “Welcome to the world of high finance, Antonia. I won’t ask you what you have learned from this little bit of men’s work. From the look in your eyes I don’t think I’d like the answer.”
He couldn’t have been more wrong, for the turmoil he glimpsed in her face merely reflected the upheaval occurring in her attitudes and the softening of her heart. Remington was engaged in a competition, too, she realized—one with larger prizes and more devastating consequences, but not so unlike the one faced by young Davidson. And like the clerks at the Emporium, Remington competed under the pressure of responsibilities, obligations, and expectations … from his co-owners, his employees, his backers, his bankers, and even the public at large. It suddenly struck her that to some extent, all men probably did so.
For all their apparent command and control of the world, men—even men of power and privilege like Remington—had their pressures and problems, too. If today was any example, the wielding of power and influence was not necessarily a pleasurable experience. And even in victory there were fresh obstacles and worries to contend with.
As she watched Remington relaxing back into the seat with his eyes closed, she was overcome with a great feeling of tenderness for him. She glanced at Hallowford and Evans, who seemed as drained by the experience as their employer, and realized it was a good thing they were in the carriage, too. If they hadn’t been, she would have slid across the carriage and taken him into her arms to ease the strain in his face and frame … in a very direct and female sort of way.
When they arrived at Remington’s office, it was pin-drop quiet at a time that would normally have been bustling with sound and movement. Markham was waiting in the outer office and shoved to his feet with a look of great relief when Remington and Antonia entered.
“Your lordship! Thank heaven you’ve returned.” He hurried forward, then stepped back to give them room.
“What is it, what’s happened?” Remington demanded, searching his assistant and trying to anticipate what had sent the usually unflappable Markham into such a state. The bank … his uncle … “Did you take Uncle Paddington to the bank?”
“He was not at home.” Markham clasped and unclasped his hands, looking flushed. “His butler said he left yesterday and might not return for several more days.”
“Gone?” Remington said, mildly alarmed. Uncle Paddington managed rather well in his local environs, but traveling outside London, and alone … It didn’t bear thinking about! “Did his man say where he went?”
Markham’s high color drained visibly.
“Yes, my lord. To Gretna Green.”
Remington was slow to catch the implications of it. “Gretna Green? Why on earth would he want to go there?”
Antonia was only slightly more perceptive. “Surely not the sort of place a gentleman of his age would go, even on holiday. Why it’s a marriage mill … full of shopgirls and junior clerks who have run off together … and …” Something in her description of the place made her halt uneasily and look to Remington.
“That’s all he said?” Remington demanded of Markham, shocked by the thoughts that sprang to his mind.
“That … and he left orders to have ice and champagne ready when he returned.” Markham looked pained to have to add: “And oysters.”
“Oy-sters?” Remington choked out, looking as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Gretna Green, champagne, oysters … For God’s sake—the old boy’s eloped!”
“Eloped?” Antonia’s immediate reaction was disbelief, followed closely by a flare of anger. “Why, the bounder! Aunt Hermione will be crushed!”
“Crushed?” Remington turned on her in amazement. “Good God, Antonia—who do you think he’s run away with? It can only be your aunt Hermione—he doesn’t know any other marriageable women!”
Every bit of color in her face drained, too. “Don’t be absurd. Auntie would never—” She halted, stunned. But Hermione had, at least twice before. In fact, she had something of a passion for elopements. Her last two husbands had both swept her away in the dead of night and carried her straight to …
“Dearest Lord!” She lifted her skirts and ran for her hat and gloves.
Remington grabbed his hat and was at her heels by the time she reached the stairs. “Where are you going?” When they reached the landing, he pulled her to a halt.
“I cannot believe she would do such a thing without a word to me. She’s at home right now—I’m certain of it.” But she was apparently not so certain of it that she could refrain from seeing with her own two eyes, that Hermione was safely at home.
“I’m coming with you,” he insisted, searching the anxiety in her face and sensing that what she discovered at home could have direct bearing on how she felt about him.
The ride from the City to the Piccadilly seemed to take forever. Lorries stalled in the streets and unexpectedly thick traffic delayed them. Each turn of the wheels beat like a muffled drum in Antonia’s heart. When they finally reached her house, she lurched out of the cab ahead of Remington and raced up the front steps. Throwing open the front door, she called to her aunt and headed for the drawing room, where Hermione often sat doing needlework this time of day.
“Where is she?” she demanded of Pollyanna and Prudence, who looked up from their knitting with surprise. “Aunt Hermione—where is she?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Pollyanna said. “I haven’t seen her since …” She frowned, unable to say just when she had seen Hermione last.
“I haven’t seen her either,” Prudence said. “Not since … was that yesterday morning? Why? What’s happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost—”
“She may be … m-missing,” Antonia said frantically. “I have to find her!”
She rushed out into the hall just as Remington entered through the door she had left standing open. “Is she here?” he called to her, but she didn’t seem to hear him as she rushed toward the stairs at the end of the hall. He went up the steps after her, and together they encountered Eleanor in the upstairs hall.
“Have you seen Aunt Hermione?” she demanded.
“Haven’t seen her for some time … good to see you, your lordship!” Eleanor smiled at him.
Antonia rushed into Hermione’s room, calling her name, and startled Daphne Searle and Elizabeth Woolworth, who jumped up from the bed and the settee with their mending in their hands. Antonia blinked, then stared at them.
“What are you doing in here?”
“This is where Aunt Hermione assigned us to sleep,” Elizabeth said.
“She positively insisted we use her room. She said she would be sleeping elsewhere,” Daphne added.
“When was that?” Antonia demanded furiously, going to the clothes chest and wardrobe, opening drawers and flinging doors wide.
“Well … yesterday morning, not long after I arrived,”
Daphne said, alarmed by Antonia’s rising anger. “She said she knew you wouldn’t mind my staying.”
Antonia couldn’t speak. She stood looking into a half-empty wardrobe. The truth seeped through her like the penetrating aroma of cedar that rolled from the chest. Aunt Hermione was gone.
“It can’t be,” she said, groaning. She began to pull things from the bottom of the closet and found Hermione’s leather valise missing, along with her best clothes and shoes. Most of her jewelry, her underclothing, her best corsets were missing from her drawers, and the top of her dressing table was virtually clear … a telling detail. Hermione always liked her things sitting out in view, what she called “a healthy bit of clutter.” But most devastating of all: the four miniatures that always sat on the top of her dresser, portraits of her beloved husbands, were gone.
“It can’t be,” she said, backing away from the sight of those empty drawers and hangers.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” Eleanor asked from the doorway.
“Aunt Hermione has apparently eloped to Gretna Green,” Remington answered with a broad smile. “With my Uncle Paddington.”
Eleanor gasped and disappeared out the door. The sound of her voice calling the news to the other ladies drifted back into Hermione’s room as Antonia stood looking at Remington’s grin with growing horror.
“How can you smile at a time like this?”
“Because I think it’s wonderful,” he said, reaching for her. She shrank back, her eyes widening.
“It’s not wonderful, it’s horrible! Aunt Hermione—good Lord—at her age—” She darted for the door and was down the hall and around the gallery before he caught up and snagged her by the elbow.
Chaos was erupting all around them. Women were running up the stairs, down the hall, and along the gallery, converging on Antonia. “Is it true?” “When did you hear?” “How did you find out?” “Did they really elope?”
“We have to go after them—bring them back—talk some sense into them—” Antonia insisted, frantic to free her arm from his grip.
“We’ll do no such thing,” he declared, holding her back. “They’re two mature, reasonably responsible people, and if they’ve decided to marry and live out the rest of their years together, then more power to them. Uncle Paddington has always needed someone, and I’ve never seen him happier than he is with Hermione. He’s like a young boy again.”
“No doubt he is,” she snapped. “That’s precisely the trouble. Young boys require care—lots of it—and Aunt Hermione has already provided more than her share. She worked her fingers to the bone for her precious husbands and had nothing to show for it when the last one died—not even a roof over her head.” The pleasure he took in this awful elopement struck her as callous in the extreme. “She needs the trouble of another husband about as much as a mackerel needs shoes!”
“Trouble?” he said irritably. “Well, apparently she doesn’t agree!”
“If not, it’s because she isn’t thinking clearly. She has property now, and a bit of personal freedom, and peace of mind—she doesn’t need to have to cater to a man and truckle after his needs and be his unpaid servant, ever again. She doesn’t have to put up with the annoyances and restrictions of marriage. She has me—I’m her family. I’ll take care of her in her declining years, instead of making her work and worry herself into the grave caring for some old man!”
Remington stared at her with disbelief. “Work and worry and exhaustion—is that all you believe she’ll have? Is that what you think marriage is about?” he demanded, releasing her. Then it struck him; was that what her marriage had been about—worrying over and taking care of a man more than twice her age? “If so, then it’s no wonder you avoid it like the plague yourself,” he said, running his hands back through his hair in frustration. “Has it not occurred to you that she might also find companionship and caring and laughter and warmth with my uncle? Did you never think that he’s a wealthy man who could hire hundreds of servants and nurses to ease his final years … and hers? How is it that the Maven of Matrimony, the Avenging Angel of Marriage, and the Defender of Domesticity now speaks of marriage as if it is a trap?”
“Because it is,” she declared fiercely, waving a hand toward the clustered faces of her Bentick brides. “Just ask them! I levered them into marriages with men of property and position and vigor, men who supposedly desired them … and still they found themselves ignored, deprived, overworked, and maltreated. I’ll not allow that to happen to my aunt Hermione. She deserves better. She deserves to be here with me, where I can take care of her and keep her safe and secure.”
“Ahhh, I see.” He shoved his face into hers. “She deserves to have to stay here with you for the rest of her days, does she? Could it be you’re just angry and frustrated at losing Hermione? Who is being selfish now, Antonia? I’ll tell you this—I’m glad to have had a hand in introducing your aunt to my uncle. And I’m delighted that they’ve run off together like two starry-eyed adolescents!”
“You had a hand in—?” She stared at him as if truly seeing him for the first time. “You did it on purpose.” Without giving him a chance for rebuttal, she built one conclusion on top of the other: “You deliberately introduced them, hoping to marry her off, didn’t you? What was this … another of your nasty little schemes for revenge?” She was suddenly hurting, trembling all over. “Did you plan to marry them all off? To strip me of all my family? Who was next? Eleanor? Gertrude? Or maybe Maude?”
Turmoil broke out around them, everyone talking, reasoning, chiding, and pleading at once. Some took her side; some took his. But suddenly everyone in the house was on the gallery or the stairs voicing an opinion full force. That storm of emotions unleashed the anger and frustration that her suspicions generated in him.
“No, I did not plan this, Antonia!” he roared, clenching his fists as he towered over her. “It just happened. People do meet and do fall in love sometimes, without schemes or plotting or ulterior motives. But I wouldn’t expect that you would know anything about that!”
For one stark moment her distrust of him met his anger at her.
Neither would give.
He turned on his heel and stalked down the stairs, weaving around the ladies who stood on the steps, in shock. The sound of the door slamming reverberated around the hall for a full minute. After another moment passed, in which not a breath was taken or expelled, turmoil broke out a second time.
In the midst of all that confusion, Cleo, who was near the top of the steps, grew agitated and confused, staggered, and then crumpled into a heap on the floor.
Antonia saw it happening and stood paralyzed with shock. She couldn’t get to Cleo fast enough to keep her from hitting the floor, and couldn’t free her frozen throat to cry out to another to intervene. Then time resumed its normal pace and a ripple of panic freed her voice and jolted her to action.
“Cleo!” she rushed to the old woman’s side and lifted and cradled her head. “Cleo—can you hear me?” She thought Cleo might have groaned in response, but then she was still—so very still.
Reaching deep within for control she hadn’t realized she possessed, Antonia began issuing commands, carving order out of the panic around her. She sent Hoskins for the doctor and directed others to help her carry Cleo to bed. In a short while they had Cleo in her bed and were bathing her aged face and smoothing her thin silver hair.
Moments before, rancor and frustration had driven the residents of Paxton House apart; now they were bound together by the hush of shared grief. A few of the ladies stayed in Cleo’s room, waiting for the doctor, dabbing at tears. Others went to the upstairs parlor or down to the drawing room to talk in quiet tones of shock and disbelief. All waited anxiously, for there was not a resident of Paxton House, however long or brief her stay, who had not felt old Cleo’s influence.
When the doctor arrived in a rush, Antonia met him at the top of the stairs and bustled him into Cleo’s room. He listened to Antonia’s description, examined Cleo
, and determined that she had suffered a stroke.
“How bad is it?” Antonia asked anxiously.
“Hard to say, really.” The doctor wagged his head. “But the first forty-eight hours will usually tell. I’m afraid there’s not much we can do but give it time.” He left a few instructions with Antonia and said he would check back the next day.
And the vigil began.
Through the afternoon they watched and waited, giving her water and keeping her warm. Cleo’s words of that very morning ran hauntingly through Antonia’s head: None of us has forever.
The others came and sat in her room in shifts, but Antonia never left the old lady’s side. In quiet moments she would talk to Cleo, pleading with her to get well and promising her all sorts of fanciful things if she did. As she watched Cleo lying so still, looking so frail and vulnerable, she began to feel that way herself inside. Vulnerable.
If only Hermione were here, she thought desperately. Hermione was one of those rare and special people who seemed to make wine sweeter, candles brighter, days sunnier, and hearts lighter wherever she was. Nothing ever seemed hopeless or impossible with her around. Hermione’s presence in Antonia’s life had somehow compensated for the disappointments and heartaches she had endured. Now the anguish her absence caused was so intense it caused a crushing tightness around Antonia’s heart.
She looked down at the sparrowlike woman who was so light she barely made an impression on the feather mattress beneath her. She had lost Hermione. She had lost the fragile trust that had been developing between her and Remington. And now she was losing her beloved Cleo.
She had never felt so alone in her life.
Chapter Eighteen
The bar at White’s was always noisy and crowded at nine in the evening, but it was especially so that night. Remington squared his shoulders with grim anticipation and forged into the room, meeting all eyes, both widened and narrowed, head-on. He was intent on having as many drinks, civilized or otherwise, as it took to get roaring drunk. There was a knot in his belly, a crushing weight in his chest, and several weeks’ worth of frustration twitching in his frame. And there was no better way to get rid of all that than to put his knuckles into some annoying bastard’s face. All he needed was a little Dutch courage and a few annoying bastards.
