by Maggie Hoyt
“Plus, you might want to ask him first.”
Fan made a flat, tight-lipped pout and had her hands on her hips, and she looked like she had just enough self-control not to stomp her foot.
“I’m not saying it’s a bad idea. I’m just saying it’s probably polite to talk to him.”
“Oh, fine. But if he needs my help, I am going to solve this for him!”
I pursed my lips to avoid grinning, but I’m fairly sure my eyes were dancing. I remembered back when—what did she call him? A weenie? Well, it’s remarkable how you change when you really need people to be nice to you.
“Good for you,” I said.
She nodded firmly and started to leave.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you—I’m not going to be home tonight,” I said.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve been asked to dinner by Lord Piminder,” I said, trying not to sound as tense as I felt and undoubtedly failing.
Fan raised her eyebrows in surprise. She opened her mouth to reply, but instead stood for a few seconds weighing her options. Apparently, she thought better of all of them. “Okay,” she said.
“Yep.”
“Right then.” She nodded and hurried off.
I sighed. This is work, Evelyn. Remember all those parties you went to with Fan’s father, and how many dull conversations you had just to make a charming impression on his superiors? This is that. You’re just going to work.
CHAPTER SIX
HE SENT A carriage for me. It had plush velvet cushions and embroidered curtains to pull across the glass. I pulled them. I didn’t particularly want word to get around.
It was obviously an exceptionally nice carriage, and I’m sure I was supposed to be impressed by it. The carriage brought me through his front gates and right up to his front door, where a servant met me to usher me into the house.
I should have insisted on hiring my own carriage, I thought. Then I’d be free to leave early.
If it’s that bad, Evelyn, you can walk, I told myself. It’s summer. You’ll be fine.
The Piminder mansion was … well, an architectural marvel. The servant led me into the sitting room, where one wall seemed to be made entirely of panes of glass, offering a view of a garden in full bloom. While the windows were reminiscent of an atrium, the ceiling reminded one of a church. It had those semitriangular things that I thought were called vaults and that, if I wasn’t careful, Piminder would explain to me.
Lord Piminder stood when I entered the room and bowed gracefully. “Good evening, Madam Radcliffe. I am glad you came,” he said, “particularly given the haste of my invitation.”
“I’m afraid haste is how I run things these days. I am entirely at the mercy of my daughter’s social schedule. And naturally I’m always the last informed.”
He chuckled. “Dinner will be ready momentarily. Would you care to see the grounds?”
“I would love to.”
The door to the courtyard led out onto a deck. We walked down the steps to a cobblestone path, which led into the garden.
“How charming,” I said. A marble young lady poured water from her urn into a fountain surrounded by terraced flower beds, which contained only the very brightest flowers. They were, I thought, all bulbs—which, based on the gardening budgets I’ve approved, were by far the most expensive.
“Yes, you might be surprised to know that this has always been my pet project. My late wife insisted on a yew garden. But I always thought it was much more relaxing to sit among the flowers. Here.”
He beckoned me to follow down the path along the side of the mansion.
“How old is this place?” I asked.
“About two hundred years, I should think. My great-grandfather built it, I am told. Much of this is the original masonry, with some repairs, of course.”
“Is that a gargoyle?” I said, looking up at the roof.
He laughed. “Ah, you’ve found Bruno!”
“Bruno?”
“Yes, my father and his brothers named him. He’s kept four generations of Piminder children tucked quietly in bed all night.”
“Were you a rambunctious lot?”
“Our nurses latched onto the symbol of Bruno the Child-Eating Gargoyle with singular desperation. Or so I’m told.”
I couldn’t help laughing. We continued along the path to his wife’s yew garden, an arrangement of bright green trees pruned into boxes, spheres, and ellipses, all popping their heads up above a manicured hedge. In the center of the garden stood a gazebo. I followed him through the gate in the hedge and into the gazebo. He gestured to me to sit.
“It’s very … nice,” I finally said after we’d stared at the trees for a while.
“It puts me on edge,” he said. “Did even when she was alive. Could never put my finger on why.”
“Well, I can’t say it’s my favorite garden ever. I think it would get to me not being able to see out.”
“Yes, I’ve always assumed that was the problem. Seems like a waste of a good gazebo to be hedged in here.”
“Although there’s something about the geometric shapes. It’s almost too perfect.”
“You know, I believe you’ve hit on something. But how else would you shape the trees?”
“Well, I’d be sorely tempted to turn some of those bushes into lions.”
He chuckled—I couldn’t tell if he thought I was joking. I wasn’t.
“I’m sure dinner is ready by now,” he said. “Shall we?”
He rose and offered me his arm. I took it without thinking.
“Perhaps I’ll tell the landscaper to leave a few stray leaves,” he said.
To my surprise, we ate at a small table in a little nook off the kitchen. I was certain he’d try to impress me with the grandeur of the great dining hall, but we didn’t even walk through it. He pulled out my chair for me and apologized just in case the meal wasn’t to my liking—and then apologized for it being too boring, since he’d gone with standard fare because he didn’t know my tastes. He seemed genuinely worried, as though my approval of him hinged on this one detail. I reassured him as profusely as he apologized, amused at how suddenly I was the one putting him at ease.
He told me stories, of his apparently wild youth and not at all about interior decor. He’d outsmarted an angry horse merchant abroad, making off with a horse for a third of its value in a ruse that involved not one but two chase scenes. He once made his way across the border of Gelgravitz disguised as a washerwoman in order to smuggle out a ruby the size of his fist. He was a charming storyteller, and before long I found myself telling him about business school—a topic I rarely bring up, as men find it so off-putting, but he seemed only intrigued.
It wasn’t until dessert that I realized I hadn’t got what I came for.
“Oh!” I said, in what I hoped was a smooth transition. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What was that young woman on about at the Courtenays? I missed most of the scene while I was looking for my daughter, but it’s all anyone will talk about.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Just a stupid girl. Her father owes me money, and he thinks everything will be solved if she marries my son.”
“How much does he owe you? Sorry, that was rude. But surely it’s easier to just pay you back!”
“He does owe me some twelve thousand crowns,” he said. “I imagine that’s as much as his estate is worth.”
More, I thought as I choked just a little on my strawberries. I wouldn’t have valued the Babcock land at anywhere near that.
“Good Lord,” I said. “What will you do if he cannot pay you?”
“I shall have to take him to the courts. The loan has been overdue since my father was alive. We have been lenient for a very long time.”
Because you didn’t even know about the loan, I wanted to shout. My distress must have shown on my face because he continued to rationalize.
“As a businesswoman, surely you understand—I must be consistent. I loan large sums to many
individuals. If I were to relieve Patrick Babcock of his debt—or even to restructure it—how many of my business partners would expect the same leniency? And if I did it for everyone, I would be ruined very quickly.”
He said it so calmly, so coolly. Not even a hint of empathy for the Babcocks, who he was about to chuck out on the streets.
“And your son … doesn’t want to marry her?”
Piminder shrugged. “He is infatuated and thinks he is in love. In a year he will see he was foolish and that he could do better. You don’t care for my reasoning,” he said, responding to my pursed lips.
“I’m too far on the side of true love, I suppose.” Which didn’t really cover my position accurately at all. I was for people making their own choices and for generally not being an ass.
“If I thought this were true love, I might see it differently.”
“Hmm. Well, that is a much less interesting story than I’d been led to believe. By the time it got to me, that young woman was supposed to be spinning straw into gold.”
He laughed. “No, that part is true. Well.” He waved his hand, acknowledging that we both knew Clarrie Babcock couldn’t really spin straw into gold. “Her father said she could. God only knows what came over him. I offered to let her spin gold to cover the debt. Hopeless child.”
“You’re kidding. How does a person think his daughter can do that?”
“I have no idea!”
“When is her deadline?”
“Oh, I just said the end of the summer.”
“No, you have to have a date! Everyone’s going to want to see this. You have to let the anticipation build!”
“But surely, everyone knows she can’t do it.”
“She might have a fairy godmother,” I said.
“Ah yes, just like your Ella.”
“And now everyone in Strachey thinks that way. You’ve got to give the people what they want. Call Patrick Babcock’s bluff.”
“Hmm.” He sat back and grinned, hands crossed in his lap. “Set a final date. At which point the girl will fail. Or cheat, which would make them look even worse. I won’t be the villain of the story because I gave the girl a chance. And if the Babcocks thoroughly embarrass themselves, who will care if I take them to court?”
Wrong! I wanted to shout. The correct answer is “Oh no, I don’t want to make a public spectacle out of completely ruining them.”
Instead, I just said, “You might even lower the value she has to spin. She won’t really be able to, so why not say you’ll accept just five thousand crowns’ worth?” Particularly because I might actually be able to pull that off.
“Oh, a magnanimous gesture! I will have to consider that,” he said, chuckling. “You have quite the devious mind, madam. I suspect your husbands did not fully appreciate it.”
I felt a surge of pride, a tingle of pleasure at the compliment, and immediately hated myself for it.
“I suppose I should be getting home,” I said. “My daughter …”
“Of course. Although I will be sorry to see you go. Let me summon my carriage.”
I almost said I’d walk, but I shook it off. Don’t be ridiculous, Evelyn. It’s dark, just take the carriage.
He walked me to the front door, and we waited for the carriage. As it pulled up, he turned to me and swiftly and gracefully took my hand.
“Thank you ever so much for coming … may I call you Evelyn?”
I nodded. “No, thank you,” I murmured.
“Good night,” he said, and gently kissed my hand.
With a wobble, I climbed into the carriage as quickly as I could, narrowly avoiding hitting my head. My entire arm felt like it was on fire, and the space just behind my ears throbbed. As the carriage took off, I couldn’t help rubbing my hand on my skirt, over and over.
That was awful, I thought.
No, it wasn’t, I replied. You actually enjoyed yourself, Evelyn, right up until you remembered he was a self-serving bloodsucker.
I really wanted to apologize, but to whom? Henry? I’m sorry, I thought. I’m so sorry for enjoying myself. But it didn’t help. Was it really so bad to have fun? To make a connection with someone? I mean, in this case, obviously, Hugo Piminder had questionable morals at best, but in general, in theory, wasn’t it good that I could feel things? Now my head was just generally starting to ache. Maybe I’d had too much to drink.
The carriage stopped, and I stepped out in front of our house, a dignified one-story with a bay window and a cheery paint job and gardens tended lovingly but without much precision. The roof had shingles now, but I still pictured it with thatching, because that’s how it looked when I imagined Henry coming home. I burst into tears. I’d definitely had too much to drink.
I entered the house quietly, assuming Fan was asleep. I started a little when I saw her lying on the couch, trying to read with her book inadvisably close to her candle.
“Hi, Mom,” she said.
“Hi, sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t think you’d be awake.”
“I waited for you. Are you all right?” she asked as I heaved a little sobbing breath.
“Hmm? Yes, I’m fine …”
“Mom, are you crying?”
“What? No, it’s just …” I was obviously crying, I realized. My voice was all choked, and I couldn’t stop sniffling.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Sit down.” She made room for me on the couch.
“Oh, don’t worry—”
“Mom, I have never seen you cry in my entire life.”
I sat down next to her and dug a handkerchief out of my purse. Fan looked at me like I’d grown a second head.
“Mmm, I’m just tired, and …”
“Did it not go well? Mom, you don’t have to see him again.”
“I just miss Henry,” I said, knowing full well I was dodging the issue.
“Mom, that’s okay. You can tell people, ‘Sorry, my husband died, and I don’t want to do this.’ You’re allowed.”
“You know if Ella hadn’t married the prince, and—and all that, I was this close to marrying some slobbering, ancient museum relic. He’d have turned you two into scullery maids, but he’d have kept you fed.”
Fan flinched a little. “Yeah, well, none of that’s a problem anymore. You don’t have to save anyone, because I’m taking care of you. If Lord Piminder gives you the creeps, or if he’s rude, or if it isn’t enjoyable, Mom, you get to say no.”
“I didn’t hate him,” I said, wiping my eyes. “It wasn’t unenjoyable.”
Fan watched me blow my nose. “Do you feel guilty?” she said finally.
Did I? Honestly, I didn’t know a thing at this point. I sort of shrugged in hopelessness.
“Because I know I didn’t know Henry that well, but I’m like one hundred percent sure he would say you should be happy.”
Well, if he were here to say it, it’d be a moot point, wouldn’t it? I thought crossly. But Fan was right, of course. You’d say I should be happy—wouldn’t you, Henry? If I wanted—if I liked Hugo Piminder—
But I don’t, I thought. He’s loathsome. And charming. And I genuinely, genuinely liked him, and he’s a horrible person.
I don’t think this is about me, love, I could hear Henry say.
“I can’t trust myself,” I said, sobbing. “I don’t trust that I’ll make a good choice.”
“What?” Fan said.
“You have no idea how much I loved your father when we got married,” I blurted out.
Oh, idiot, I thought. Couldn’t a fairy drop a load of frogs on me before I said stupid things?
Fan sort of cringed, her hand hovering near my back where she knew she probably ought to keep patting me though she mostly just wanted to run away.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you don’t—it’s not your job to solve my problems.”
“No, if you need—” she started, knowing the right thing to say but not at all sure she wanted to say it.
“No. I’ll feel better in the morning. You’re right
. I didn’t like it that much, and I don’t have to see him again. It’s that simple.”
She nodded, then leaned over and put her arms around me. I kissed her on the head.
“Get a good night’s sleep, sweetheart.”
She stood up, taking her book and candle.
“And be careful with that candle.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I THOUGHT WE would get a little break from the Season, after a week of both Roompilda’s morning lessons and afternoon callers. I don’t know how I got this impression—wishful thinking, probably. I was so very wrong. The next day, Roompilda arrived to chew the two of us out.
“Well, I hope the two of you are happy. Having received the reports, I can now decisively say last week was an unmitigated disaster. You,” she said to Fan, “have either learned nothing from me or possess a severe deficiency in self-control.”
“I know!” Fan wailed. “I’m sorry! I was nervous and those visits got so weird!”
“Wait, how are you receiving reports on us?” I said.
Roompilda just ignored me. “Those were peers of the realm, and you have the audacity to consider them bizarre?”
“In Fan’s defense, one of those boys didn’t speak. He silently leered at Fan for the better part of an hour.”
“And the others? The one you accused of not paying taxes? The one you mercilessly mocked, for God knows what reason?” Roompilda’s questions were the very epitome of pointed. She never broke eye contact, glaring at Fan over her cat-eye spectacles until I thought Fan would melt. She didn’t even raise her voice.
“I didn’t say he didn’t pay taxes!”
“Are you asking them exactly what Fan said?”
“And you.” She turned to me. “How on earth did you think you could refuse Lady Corbyn?”
I should have pressed her on how she knew all this, but now that the cat eyes had turned on me, I was compelled to defend myself.
“First, I tried to reschedule her. It’s not my fault she couldn’t find any other morning to come. Second, I’d also received a card from Lady Kingsley. I couldn’t refuse the Kingsleys.”
Roompilda sniffed in disgust. “No Strachey noble is as important as one from the Capital.”
