by Darcie Wilde
“You were to marry Mr. Valloy.”
“I had considered it. I changed my mind.”
“You did not tell me that, either.” Uncertainty lay beneath the statement and she knew he was trying to remember if they had spoken of it.
“No. It all happened very quickly.”
She could not tell whether he believed this. His face had settled into different lines—harder, far more bitter lines. He took up the wineglass and drank again. Leannah’s heart quailed, because she knew what was coming.
“This . . . Rayburn, I think you said his name was? He has money?”
“Yes,” whispered Leannah.
“Enough?”
Is there ever enough? But she didn’t say that. “I believe his income is quite substantial.”
She didn’t look at him. She did not want to see the calculations passing back and forth behind his eyes. First would come the pitiless, cold, and endless inventorying of all he owned or could reach. This would be quickly followed by the decisions regarding what of that could be most easily converted into money to feed into his investments.
She waited for him to ask how much she could bring him. She steeled herself for it. She could not be angry with him. Anger would accomplish nothing. But at the same time, she knew she could not fall back into the easy habit of letting Father’s words carry her away. He would talk of all the good to come if he just had a little money, just one more chance. He’d talk and talk, and keep on talking, until he believed it, along with everybody else.
She must not listen, not this time. If she yielded in the slightest when Father began talking, the whole terrible cycle would begin again. She must think of Genny and Jeremy, and herself. She must think of Harry as well. She could not fail Harry as she had failed Elias.
Where are you, Harry? What is your father saying to you? Please don’t let it be anything like this.
But Father didn’t ask for numbers. He didn’t speak at all. Slowly, in a series of sharp jerks, he lowered his face into the palm of his hand. His thin shoulders shuddered, and he began to cry.
“What have I done to you?”
Leannah slipped from her own chair and knelt in front of him. She grasped his hand tightly and pulled it away from his face.
“Father, please! I need you to try to concentrate.”
“On what?” The hand she held tightened into a fist. “On the fact that I’m the one who taught you to sell yourself for money?”
“That’s not what this is, father.” Not this time. This time it will be different.
“Can you swear to that? Can you really?”
“Yes. I can, and I do.” She said it, and she made herself mean it. But at the same time in the back of her mind, the terrible little slivers of doubt dug that much more deeply.
I must think of Harry. I must think of his arms about me, of the laughter and all we’ve shared already. That is why I have done this. For passion. For happiness, and for the hope of love to grow from all that. To protect Genny and Jeremy, and yes, Father as well. It isn’t about the money. This time it is different. It is.
“Well, if it’s done, then it’s done,” said Father. His voice was flat, defeated. The defeat touched a spark to her anger. She was trying to help in the only way she could. How could he make her efforts sound like another failure? Leannah squashed the emotion, and the question, down.
“What will happen now?” he asked.
“I’m not entirely certain. There has been very little time to plan.”
Father got to his feet. He turned, and he walked to the windows, where the drapes were closed tight. He reached out one crooked hand and grasped the edge of the hideous puce velveteen. He stayed like that for three long, deep breaths.
Then came the question she’d been dreading. “Has he settled anything on you?”
“Not yet. I don’t know that he intends to.”
Here it comes. I will not listen. No matter what he says.
Father turned his face toward her. I will not believe it this time. He is not well, and I know that. Perhaps he was never well.
“Don’t . . .” he stammered. “Don’t tell me about it, Leannah. No matter how much I ask you to. Don’t tell me. Don’t let him . . .” He swallowed. “Don’t let him give me any money. Don’t let me convince him to give me any.”
In a heartbeat, Leannah was on her feet and embracing her father. He felt so frail, but still she hugged him as close as she dared and held on. She held him for love and sorrow and for the understanding of how much strength it took for him to speak those words. Uncle might believe he’d changed, but Leannah knew better, and in this one moment, so did Father.
“I will make sure he’s careful,” she told him. “I know you’re not well yet.”
He pulled back and nodded, patting her hands. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to do, Leannah. Should I give you my blessing?”
She managed a small smile. “You don’t need to do anything.”
“Well, you have my blessing in any case. It might prove good for . . . something.” He struggled and in the end he smiled as well. “So, Mrs. Rayburn. Will you stay and take some tea? We should all do some little thing to celebrate, don’t you think? Perhaps Mrs. Falwell can make some of those scones of hers.”
Leannah thought about the grocer and their credit, but she made herself reply lightly. “That’s a lovely idea, Father. I’ll ring for her, and then tell Genny and Jeremy to come down.”
She reached for the bell, but a scratching sounded at the door, and Mrs. Falwell peeped inside.
“I beg your pardon, sir, madam, but Mr. Valloy is here.”
Twenty-Five
When the house had been built, its tiny back parlor had probably caught the afternoon sun. Since then, other houses had grown up close around it. Now, the room remained gloomy no matter what the time of day. Its single window showed the brick wall and lace curtains of the neighbor’s home. This was part of the reason the rent had come so cheap.
Terrance stood in the middle of the threadbare room, his hands folded behind his back and his face sour. Terrance Valloy was not a handsome man, but he was a striking one. His wide mouth could be expressive, his black eyes quick and penetrating. His dark hair had gone gray at the temples, which lent him a distinguished air that suited his serious nature. He was not given to wild swings of emotion, or swings of any sort. This fixedness of outlook and approach was part of what had attracted Leannah to the idea of the marriage, if not to the man himself. Terrance would not permit himself to be swayed by a plausible appeal to his heart. He would always consult facts.
“Mr. Valloy.” Leannah closed the door. It was not, strictly speaking, proper to do so, but she was not going to let the rest of the house hear any more of this particular conversation than was necessary. “I must apologize about yesterday. It was entirely . . .”
“I know.”
Terrance spoke the words so calmly and so finally, they caught Leannah quite off guard. “I’m sorry?”
“I know where you were, and I know you have married another man. One Harry Rayburn, if I recall the name correctly.”
I certainly didn’t marry several Harry Rayburns. Leannah swallowed those words. “How did you find out?”
“Mr. Dickenson called on me at my club.”
Of course he did. Mr. Dickenson would not see any reason to speak to Genny before matters were settled among those with the power to make the pertinent decisions.
Leannah rested her fingertips against the round table. She wanted to lean against it. Her knees were trembling, but now was not the time to make any sort of display. Terrance abhorred display.
“I intended to be the one to inform you of the change in my circumstances.” When she was sure she could do so smoothly, she lowered herself into the cane-bottomed chair and gestured for Mr. Valloy to take the tapestried seat. He did not move. “I have treated you in an unforgivably cavalier fashion. You have every right to be angry.”
“Yes.” Mr. Valloy’s face a
nd voice remained entirely bland as he uttered the word. She might have assumed him entirely indifferent to the whole affair, had it not been for the look in his hooded eyes.
An inexpressible weariness came over Leannah. She tried to set it aside. She had known this interview must come. It was better that it came now. The sooner matters were finished between her and Mr. Valloy, the sooner they could both return to their separate lives.
“Beyond apology, I have nothing to offer you, Mr. Valloy,” she said, striving for something like the detachment he displayed. “The thing is done. If you wish to speak to my husband, I can . . .”
Terrance waved this away impatiently. “Contrary to popular belief, Mrs. Wake . . . Mrs. Rayburn, I am not an entirely unsympathetic man. I was aware that the foundation of the marriage I proposed was not any sort of undying affection on your part.”
What on earth was one to say to that? “No, I’m afraid not.”
“You must also be aware that I have it in my power to make your life with your chosen spouse difficult indeed.”
Terrance’s tone did not change at all as he spoke these words. The matter-of-fact demeanor that masked the chill anger in his eyes set her skin crawling. I was going to marry this man. Her throat tightened. I was going to say yes.
“Why would you bother to make my life difficult?” she asked. “You cannot possibly wish to prolong the scandal.”
“No. I wish to walk away and wash my hands of you entirely. Unfortunately, there are factors at work that prevent me from following this course of action, at least in the short term.”
He did not sit down, even now. He had barely moved since she entered the room. There was nothing restless or impatient in his attitude. He would say what he had to say, and he would return to his point as often as he must until he achieved the result he wished.
I was going to say yes to him.
“What is it you want, Mr. Valloy?” She couldn’t look at him. Her guilt at having behaved so improperly, combined with her growing awareness that by her impulse she had achieved a narrow escape, made it impossible to keep her countenance.
“The Wakefield property.”
Leannah’s head snapped up.
“Sign the property over to me,” he said as coolly as if they discussed a book, or a used newspaper. “Once that is accomplished, I will leave you to pursue whatever future you can find with your Mr. Rayburn.”
Mr. Valloy’s expression had not changed. There was no sign of greed in him, no desire, no care or concern, not even any satisfaction at seeing her so disconcerted by his outrageous demand. There was nothing in him at all except that terribly controlled anger.
“I cannot do what you ask. The property is not mine to dispose of.”
“It’s in trust for your brother, yes, yes, but the executorship of a trust may be transferred. I have reviewed the list of the lawyers and bankers who complete the board. They are men who will be amenable to my management. It will only require your father’s signature on the proper documents to transfer his place on the board to me. You hold sway in this house. You will convince your father, and later, your brother, to do what is required.”
“That property is worth relatively little,” said Leannah, fighting to keep the confusion from her thoughts and her voice. “The rents are barely enough to cover the taxes. The house is in ruins. Why would you wish to burden yourself with it?”
“That, surely, is my business. The fact is I do want it, and in return, I am willing to give you what you want, namely, your freedom.” As he spoke that last word, an emotion finally leeched into Mr. Valloy’s voice—contempt.
“If you think you can frighten me with scandal . . .”
“I will do far worse than add fuel to a scandal, Mrs. Rayburn. I will make sure that your father’s past comes back to haunt him, and you, in the most direct manner possible.”
And there it was—the first, last, and greatest fear Leannah harbored.
After each of Father’s failures, there had always been a mad scramble, not only to salvage whatever money and possessions could be salvaged, but to paper over the losses enough to prevent legal action. She was not aware that her father had ever stepped so far over the line that what he did could be called criminal, but he had come close. Certainly close enough that a case could be opened, questions raised and investigations begun, especially by a man of influence. Any such inquiry would raise all the old gossip right out of its grave. It would ruin Genny’s future and it would ravage what little strength Father had left, even if it did not end with prison. Leannah’s hands shook, despite how tightly she kept them clasped. It would destroy the fragile new beginning she had made with Harry.
Right up until the moment Mr. Valloy said the words aloud, Leannah had been able to imagine he would not stoop so low. She wanted to believe there was some shred of decent feeling in him. Perhaps it was only wounded vanity, but it cut deep to be confronted by the fact that she had been so horribly mistaken in this man’s character.
“Was the property the reason you wanted to marry me?”
Terrance shrugged. “I see no reason to deny it, especially considering the turn events have taken.”
Leannah felt a kind of panic descend. Her throat tightened around her breath and her heart began to hammer against her ribs. The house, the reality of her family and her past, they were closing in, smothering her up. Harry not only wasn’t here, it seemed to her in that moment he couldn’t be possible here. Such a good, open person as Harry couldn’t live in this place where people were only seen in terms of how much money they could bring in.
She had to get out, get away into the world outside. She had to find Harry, and to wrap him in her arms. She had to love him with her body until she could be certain he was real, and never doubt it again.
Leannah closed her eyes. She must concentrate on what was in front of her. As much as she might wish it, Harry was not here. This was Mr. Valloy in front of her. If she gave him control of the land, she not only gave him a property worth thousands of pounds, but she signed away what small security her brother had. Indeed, the only security any of them had if . . . no, she would not think of anything happening to Harry.
But what would Harry do when he heard all of this? That thought sent a fresh tremor through her. Mr. Valloy’s eyes darkened.
He thinks I’m afraid of him. He thinks it’s his threat. He has no idea of the truth.
“I know you will be an ornament to any gathering, and will keep a man’s house with great economy,” Terrance went on. Perhaps he meant to salve her wounded pride, or perhaps he just meant to be sure his case had been stated fully and exactly. “These are important points, as are your personal assets of grace, poise, and refinement. These, however, are attributes that may readily be found elsewhere. The land is unique.”
Why? Why unique? The questions cut right through the tangle of thought and feeling. You have money enough to buy whatever parcel of land you wish. Why do you want ours?
“That land is my brother’s.” Her hands had stilled, as had the tremor in her voice. “It is the security for his future.”
“Surely your new husband is wealthy enough to provide for your brother as well as yourself. Indeed I would be surprised to hear that you had not already secured such promises from him, probably in writing.”
Anger burned. It engulfed her, raising her to her feet. The man in front of her was no longer an injured suitor entitled to some measure of consideration. Mr. Valloy meant to use her—like her father had used her, like even sad, kind Elias had used her. No more. She was done with it.
“You can hardly present me with such charming compliments and expect me to meekly accede to your wishes.”
“I expect, Mrs. Rayburn, that you will consult your own advantage, as you always have. No.” Mr. Valloy lifted his hand. “Do not turn righteous with me, ma’am. You were not marrying me for love, but for money and security. I must assume this Rayburn was able to tempt you with more of one or the other.”
Le
annah wanted to scream at him. She wanted to shout the truth of Harry’s love and laughter, his kindness, and his honesty. Yes, honesty, which was entirely lacking in this conversation, despite Mr. Valloy’s protestations.
But she would not bring Harry into this. Mr. Valloy would only accuse her of rubbishy sentimentality.
But the rest is real as well. The good is real. The passion is real.
“I did not have to come here,” Mr. Valloy told her. “I do, however, retain some respect for you. Your conduct, up until now, has been forthright. I admire that. Now, I have made my offer. It will not be repeated. Assign the Wakefield property to me and my management, or you and your family will suffer.”
He would do exactly as he said. Hadn’t she considered this steadfast determination one of his great merits? He was also a powerful man with a far-reaching web of connections in the city. He would use them to get what he wanted.
But why was he threatening to use them at all? If he believed her to be acting solely for her own advantage, why was he not offering to buy the land outright?
“And that is all you want from me?” Uncertainty and confusion turned her voice hoarse. “If I arrange for the land to be turned over to you, you will leave us alone?”
Mr. Valloy’s eyes flickered about the room, as if he expected the rest of her family to magically appear. “Yes.” He said.
You’re lying. The realization formed crystal clear in her mind. She had seen enough evasion in her life to know precisely what it looked like. In this moment, Mr. Valloy had descended from not telling the complete truth into deliberate falsehood.
“Will you give me some time to consider?” asked Leannah.
“No. I have seen what happens when I give you time. You will accept, or you will decline. If you accept, you will put your intentions in writing.”
Such writing would tighten his grip on her. He wanted to make sure she understood that. He believed her weak and friendless. In fact, she could feign that weakness now. She could cry or even grow faint. Such a show would throw him off his guard, and make him believe the worst of her and the best of himself. Even men who prided themselves on their hard, logical minds could be made careless by their sense of superiority. She had watched her mother when faced with such men—landlords and bailiffs and creditors. She knew what they thought of women who found themselves in straits. She could use that presumption to buy time.
