by Corwin, Amy
“Truly? Do you truly think it is all right?” Helen turned with agitation to the mirror and pulled at the bodice of her blue sprigged muslin gown. The rich blue silk sash and matching riband threaded through her golden locks perfectly matched her clear blue eyes. She looked like a worried angel.
“I don't want him to think you owe him. It would put you at his mercy!”
Oriana laughed. “At his mercy? Heavens, have you been reading my books again? He would never behave so poorly.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Oriana replied. Although now that she thought about it, she wasn’t entirely confident in her assessment of Mr. Dacy's manners.
“Then I can keep the bonnet?”
“Yes, didn't I say so?” Oriana caught her sister’s cold hands. “What is wrong, Helen—really?”
“I am just so worried, Oriana. Why, you spent three entire Seasons in London. And you had only that awful Lord Willowby to show for it, and you are so pretty and nice! I'm not at all nice. So what shall I do? I'll fail miserably, and then what will happen? We cannot afford more than one Season unless Grandmama—”
“But you are beautiful, puss! You will have proposals by the dozens, and you are very pretty tempered. No one is sweeter. Why do you think you aren't?”
“I know I'm not. I'm flippant and quite rude when I become nervous, and I'm so afraid I'll fail us all horribly. We'll get into debt paying for clothes and dinners, and it'll bring us all to utter ruin.”
“You won't! Honestly, you're truly beautiful.” Oriana turned her sister to the mirror and stood behind her. “See how pretty you are? How can you doubt it? You're a diamond of the first water!”
Helen shook her head, her eyes showing the sad glimmerings of the intelligence she usually hid. “No. I'm not pretty. My clothes are pretty. The ribbons, laces and silks are lovely. They distract you from seeing me as I truly am. Take away my beautiful clothes, and there is just another pale, insipid English girl who says the most dreadful things.” She laughed. “You see why I must buy these silly fripperies and hide behind my velvets and satins and stay very quiet?”
“But Helen, this is nonsense!”
“No! It's not. You don't understand. No one does.”
However, Oriana understood only too well. She knew Helen’s compulsive need to buy one more ribbon or hat merely covered her lack of confidence. Such anxiety was something with which she was very familiar. One couldn’t spend three Seasons in London without having one’s every fault itemized and catalogued in excruciating detail by other women ‘only trying to help.’
“Helen, truly, you'll enjoy your Season. And the most handsome man in London shall fall dreadfully in love with you and sweep you off your feet. I promise.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes. I do. And I also think I must see Cook before she burns our dinner again.”
***
After a simple dinner of roasted mutton only slightly overdone, new peas, and a potato casserole with a remove of fruit and cheese, the ladies adjourned to the sitting room. Chilton watched them depart before turning to John Archer.
His host sipped his brandy and appeared content to sit in silence. Chilton couldn’t put his finger on it, but it seemed to him as if Miss Archer was slowly adopting the role of a poor, unwanted relation. She seemed content to remain in the background and let her uncle and younger sister monopolize the conversation.
He had hardly been able to get Miss Archer to look at him or speak.
When the door closed behind the women, he studied Archer. Archer sipped his brandy and stared at the bowl of fruit left in the center of the table.
“Well?” Chilton asked finally.
Archer’s brows rose. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and eyed him. “Yes, my boy?”
“How long do you plan to stay here?” He tried to think of a way to bring up the subject of vowels, and his stepmother’s note, in particular. He had failed to find a way or opportunity to investigate the slim man’s pockets that afternoon. And he couldn’t see Archer leaving the vowel lying around somewhere in his room. Archer was too cagey for that.
“There’s the rub. I am afraid my wife has left strict orders with the girls. I doubt I shall be able to leave The Orchards for at least a week. Perhaps more. However, if you are feeling up to it, we might find some small diversions.”
“Diversions?”
“Yes,” Archer replied thoughtfully. “Something a little later in the evening perhaps, after the girls have retired.”
The last time he had joined Archer for an adventure, he had been shot. His leg ached at the thought of a repeat performance. He rubbed it thoughtfully.
“Perhaps.” He downed the last of his brandy to wash away the memory and ease the pain. He wished morosely that he didn’t like the Archers so much. It made the situation damnably difficult.
“It’s the only way to obtain a modest sum, you know,” Archer stated, referring obliquely to his occasional employment as a highwayman. “Just enough to pay off any debts one might have accrued.”
“Umm.” He massaged his thigh again. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. And he could simply buy Edward a new farm. “We'll see.”
“Are you ready to join the ladies?”
“Absolutely.”
When they joined the women in the drawing room, Miss Archer was just smoothing a white linen cloth over a small table situated in the center of the room. Miss Helen had several packs of cards in her hands. She watched Miss Archer fixedly, offering advice when her sister didn't arrange things precisely to her liking.
Archer pulled at his lapels, straightening his black jacket as he advanced into the room. He eyed his nieces with a deadly serious expression, creating the hushed, slightly tense atmosphere of a church.
While Miss Archer took the cards from Miss Helen and placed them on the table, Archer pulled up straight-backed chairs, two at a time. Then Miss Helen dug a pile of chips out of a drawer. She spilled them into the center of the table.
“Helen!” Miss Archer exclaimed.
Archer frowned.
Miss Helen blushed and quickly stacked the chips into small, neat piles.
Standing in the doorway, he leaned heavily on his cane and wondered if he should excuse himself. All the Archers wore such intense looks on their faces that it created an almost palpable air of excitement. From all appearances, John Archer wasn’t the only family member plagued by the vice of gambling.
Now would be the perfect opportunity to search John Archer’s room.
“You sit here, my boy,” Archer said, grabbing his elbow. He firmly seated him in one of the chairs. “Whist or Commerce?”
“Commerce,” Miss Archer replied. “Whist is very slow.”
Archer nodded. “Commerce it is, my dear.”
He held the chair for Miss Helen and then seated Miss Archer opposite Chilton. Archer finally settled himself across from Miss Helen. He split up the chips and put small, even piles in front of each of them.
Then he took a deck of cards with a flourish, flicking back his old fashioned lace cuffs. He shuffled and dealt three cards to each player. There was a moment of silence while everyone peeked at their cards and made their discards.
“Have you visited Hawkin’s shop yet?” Helen asked after discarding two cards.
Archer smiled benignly at his niece and discarded one card.
“Many times,” Miss Archer said, discarding two.
“Then you've seen that lovely bolt of blue silk?” Miss Helen asked.
Miss Archer smiled. “Yes, dear.”
Miss Helen sighed, obviously imagining herself bedecked in blue silk. Her fingertips played over the square neckline of her pale rose gown.
Irritated by Miss Helen's vanity, Chilton concentrated on his cards. When Miss Archer spoke again, he couldn’t help comparing the two women. Miss Helen was dressed in the height of fashion, in a beautiful—and costly—silk gown. He didn’t know what the sheer white material was floa
ting over the pink dress, but it looked expensive.
In contrast, Miss Archer was dressed in an old-fashioned gown in dark brown silk with black velvet piping around the neckline. She almost looked like a dowd until she glanced up at him.
Then he noticed that the silk was shot through with strands of gold that reflected the smiling lights in Miss Archer’s brown eyes, subtly reflecting her warmth and beauty. The rich colors and smooth, ivory tones of her skin reminded him of a fine oil painting glowing with inner luminance and life.
Distracted, he barely remembered to discard and add his chips to the pot. He rested his arms against the edge of the table and shifted in his chair to ease the pressure on his wound.
The table thrummed lightly against his wrist. He glanced over at Miss Helen, but her face was bland. Archer caught his eye and winked. A few minutes later, she won the hand. She flushed pink with pleasure as she scooped up all the chips from the center of the table.
The cards were duly collected by Archer. He realigned the cards to square up the edges and handed the deck to Miss Archer. She shuffled them with a surprisingly expert flick of her wrists, exposing the soft inner skin of her forearms.
Shifting his weight again, his breeches tightened uncomfortably, pulling tautly over his wound and groin. He rotated his tense shoulders. Then he stuck his fingers in his cravat, hoping to loosen the starched folds that some straw-haired fellow named Joshua had tied for him in what he claimed was the Waterfall. He had no idea who Joshua was, or if the neckcloth was a proper Waterfall. Regardless, the wretched thing was hideously uncomfortable.
When he glanced up, he found Archer’s eyes on him. He hurriedly dropped his hand, wondering if that was one of the nervous gestures Archer had disclosed to his nieces. If so, they were in for a surprise because it had nothing whatsoever to do with the cards in his hand. And he resolutely refused to glance at Miss Archer, although he was intensely aware of her graceful, deft movements.
“Why do you think the squire has invited us for dinner this Friday?” Miss Helen asked, staring at her cards.
Miss Archer laughed. “His son, Eric.”
“Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so. I believe he’s already in London,” Miss Helen said.
“Surely not yet? Didn’t he offer to escort you?” Miss Archer asked.
Miss Helen sorted the cards in her hand. “Yes. But when I told him Uncle John would be with me, he was quite put out.”
“So I should imagine, since he has been in love with you since you were four,” Miss Archer said.
Miss Helen giggled. “He has been in love with every female in the area in turn since he was sixteen. I believe he rotates us like crops—to—stay healthy!”
“I protest, then! He has never written an ode to me or thrown roses at my window,” Miss Archer said.
“No, because you have too much sense and would simply have tossed them back to him with the advice to make jam from the petals while they were still fresh.”
“I would never do such a thing, Helen!”
“Oh, wouldn’t you just?” Archer interrupted. “Remember when Mr. Clarkton tried to catch your attention with the gift of a fruit basket? I believe you advised him to take his fruit basket and deliver it to some poor household in need of his charity, instead.”
Miss Archer blushed. “Perhaps I did. However you must admit it was in dreadful taste when he had been given that very basket the day before, just a few hours after his wife’s funeral!”
As they made their discards, the women laughed and gossiped. Archer interrupted with an ironic comment or two and seemed content.
Chilton soon began to notice a certain rhythm to their play. There was utter silence directly after the cards were dealt. Then there would be a surge of chatter until someone claimed the pot.
The second hand was won by Archer. His expressionless face never altered as he systematically collected the chips and arranged them in neat piles in front of him.
The next round went to Helen. She squealed with delight and leaned over the table to kiss Miss Archer’s dimpled cheek. Chilton watched, frustrated that he couldn’t do the same when he won a rare hand. Miss Archer’s cheek looked as scrumptious and rosy as a fresh peach, and he felt as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.
During the next round, he caught Miss Archer rubbing the side of her nose. When she glanced into his eyes, her gaze darkened with something akin to desire. His breathing grew ragged in response until she looked away, flustered. In a rush, he realized he desired her more than any woman he had known. He craved the warmth she radiated, and the sense of belonging.
The Orchards was a true home instead of a cold house. Or bleak set of apartments. And he was tired of his isolated, secretive life.
Still blushing, Miss Archer flashed a brief smile at him. Then she hurriedly cast her eyes back down to the cards in her hand and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She didn’t raise her glance again until after the round was completed.
She won and as she collected the chips, she risked a small, fleeting peek in his direction. He couldn’t help smiling at her. Her eyes widened before focusing hastily back on the table.
Taking a sip of brandy to keep from chuckling, he leaned back only to find Archer’s sharp gaze studying him. It seemed more was going on in the room than a mere card game, but he wasn’t quite sure what.
Once more, Archer won the middle hand of the three in the set. But this time, Miss Archer won the final hand and the round. By then, Chilton suspected Archer was cheating and obliquely lending credence to Lord Chichester’s story. The thought depressed him until he realized Archer was throwing the games to the women. After a brief consideration, he decided he couldn’t complain, since his host wasn’t trying to win the pots himself.
But it did leave the question of Violet’s vowel on delicate ground. He couldn't quite eliminate the notion that Violet, perhaps, deserved to lose.
And his shoulders grew taut with tension when Archer won the next round, and then the next. By this time, all innocent chatter had stopped. The players all grimly focused on their cards.
Miss Archer’s right hand fluttered to her hair. She touched her nose and studied her cards with deep concentration.
A few minutes later, however, the table started vibrating. Miss Helen won the hand.
That’s outside of enough, he decided, irritated beyond reason. “I understand you are coming out this year, Miss Helen.”
She glanced up at him in consternation, nearly dropping her hand. “Oh, yes.” She dropped her gaze back to her cards and frowned in concentration.
“We have great hopes for Helen,” Miss Archer said as she made her discard. She glanced at her sister with fondness. “She’s so pretty. She is sure to capture all the gentlemen’s hearts this year.”
“Ah.” He made his discard and leaned back. “Do you plan to marry for love, then, Miss Helen, or for duty?”
The two sisters exchanged glances before Miss Helen spoke in a rather prim voice, “I hope I could do both. One always wishes to find both affection and duty wrapped in one handsome package.”
Miss Archer patted Miss Helen’s hand with approval. When she glanced at Chilton, a clear warning flashed in her brown eyes.
He shook his head grimly, feeling angry for no clear reason. “Don’t count on it. I expect duty and the necessity to make a good match will win. You shall be shackled to some drooling earl before the year is out. But never fear, you’ll be sending off your brats to school so you’ll be free to take a lover before you are thirty.”
“Mr. Dacy!” Miss Archer said in an appalled voice.
“Isn’t that the fashion? In fact, I believe it is one of England’s finest traditions. One must place duty above all else, until or unless death conveniently intercedes.” He thought of his mother’s disastrous marriage and her hasty burial. And then in the midst of all the grief, his father’s precipitous marriage to Violet.
A sharp sob came from Miss Helen. Her blue eyes were wide and fluttering with tear
s.
Miss Archer caught his glance and held it, her own eyes hardening with antagonism. She gripped her sister’s wrist and held her in her chair, willing her to control her emotions. Miss Helen pressed her balled fist to her mouth and choked when she tried to catch her breath.
“Mr. Dacy,” Miss Archer said in a cold voice. “We all try our best to do our duty, but we do it out of love. Perhaps one of your station—”
He cut her off with a harsh chuckle. “My station? What do you know of my station?”
“Your obvious station,” she amended relentlessly. “Perhaps you cannot understand or even resent others more high—um, around you. Perhaps in doing your duty, you have been terribly hurt.” Her eyes flickered to the scar on his brow. “I do not pretend to know your background or why your anger eats away at you so. However, do not assume we do what we do for no reason other than harsh duty. We won’t sacrifice Helen needlessly. Of course, we hope for a good match for her. We would be foolish not to. But we hope she finds affection and respect, as well.”
“That’s enough, children,” Archer said finally, making his own discard and waving a hand sharply as if to cut off the conversation. “Let us enjoy this game. Find some other topic of conversation. Surely even the weather, appalling though it has been the last two days, would suffice?”
Miss Archer frowned at Chilton one last time before she turned to her uncle. She appeared to consider his words before a puzzled look crossed her face. “Why it has been perfectly sunny and clear the last two days and nights.”
“Precisely,” Archer replied with a heavy sigh.
Chilton couldn’t help a low chuckle although Miss Archer continued to stare at the two men in puzzlement. Her expression gradually transformed into concern, but neither man enlightened her.
Apparently, her uncle hadn’t shared the information that he preferred misty nights. The fog granted him cover when he practiced one of his more adventurous games—highway robbery.
Nonetheless, Miss Archer held her sister’s hand beneath the table and ignored her cards. Chilton couldn’t help but notice that it was several more minutes before Miss Helen fully recovered. Finally, Miss Helen glanced up at her uncle and smiled tremulously.
