Page 12 of The Proposition
He snorted softly and grinned. “When you are recovered, then you can attend as many balls as you like and host as many as you like. I will happily finance them all.”
“We do not have any friends here to invite,” Delphine pointed out. She shrugged and looked toward the fire, the flames bouncing in her wide, glossy eyes. “And I will never be recovered.”
Audric squeezed his eyes shut. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, searching for the right words. The cholera had nearly killed her, but what came after was somehow worse; the slow, inexorable decline of her joy, her once-bright candle dwindling to a meager suggestion of flame. He suspected now it was more a malady of the spirit than the body that ravaged her. And he did not, in truth, know if she would ever heal completely. It felt as if they had visited every doctor on the continent, and they all had plenty of answers but no cures.
A fortune had been spent in the pursuit of her well-being, and Audric would spend it another hundred times more if he must.
“Do not speak that way,” he finally said. “The house will soon be arranged and you can leave behind this drear place.That will cheer us both.” At that, Delphine brightened and Audric clung to that tiny spark. “You may furnish it however you like, or keep what is already there, or do as you please. I know how you prefer a pastoral view, and now you shall have a river of your very own.”
Delphine nodded, her melancholy forgotten. “I should like very much to read by the river, and there will be so many birds to enjoy! But not to shoot, Audric, you know how much I loathe hunting.”
“Whatever you wish, sister,” Audric said, climbing to his feet. He found himself abruptly exhausted and turned away toward his bedchamber to cover his yawn.
“Audric…”
“Yes, Delphine?” He paused outside the door, longing to fall into bed.
“I would like to hold a ball one day,” she said, sitting very still by the fire.
“Of course, and you will,poupette.”
She wrinkled her nose. “And friends. I should like to have some.”
“You will.”
“Audric…”
Turning, he leaned against the door, skewering her with his best “Now what?” older brother glare.
“What happened tonight?”
He had expected her to chide him, perhaps, or to make another small, charming demand, but this question required the complex maneuvering his tired brain struggled toprovide. The hesitation and silence, however brief, only made Delphine squint and study him more closely.
“That little muscle in your jaw has not stopped moving since you walked through the door,” she added primly. Audric touched his face, rubbing the place she meant. He hadn’t noticed, but then, he also didn’t doubt her observations; Delphine knew him too well for that.
“So?” she prompted. “What happened?”
Audric grumbled at her prodding, then muttered, “You distinctly asked me not to discuss the plans that brought us here, Delphine.”
His warning tone did not dissuade her. Delphine simply shrugged and returned her attention to the fire. The victory was written all over her face. “Then I will not ask who she is,” she said softly. “Or how beautiful she must be to provoke a response from the unflappable Mr. Ferrand.”
—
A brisk morning walk was the most reliable cure on earth, according to Clemency Fry. As she strode across the empty, wildflowered fields northeast of Claridge, she felt quite the changed woman. The cool air sweeping down from the river to the north was the final ingredient in the tonic that brought her mind and heart relief. A bit of reading and a long night’s sleep had done her immense good, and having slept on her sister’s recommendations, she found them even more sensible in the renewing light of a quiet Saturday.
The world looked brighter, and though Clemency had not found perfect clarity, she had at least left her bed to find that the world had not ended.
Mrs. Barnes, their cook, had even baked her favorite rolls, glazed with ginger butter, and served with the precious rose congou tea sent by Tansy’s family. Clemency could drink buckets of the gently floral tea with just a hint of cream, but she had savored her one allotted cup while her mother gave them an excruciatingly detailed recollection of the ball they had all attended. Her added commentary was occasionally amusing in its outlandishness, but Clemency’s mind hovered elsewhere. Nobody noted her, all attention paid to Honora’s health and general state of being after her fainting spell the night before, and Turner Boyle did not join them, leaving Clemency to linger over her breakfast in relative peace.
He was not far from her thoughts, of course, but the night’s sleep, comforting breakfast, and now galvanizing walk through the fields had somewhat dulled the urgency of the whole affair.
Sordidaffair.
No. She refused to allow Mr. Ferrand access to her mind at all. Until his “evidence” materialized, Clemency lived in a Ferrand-free universe.
The day’s sunlight had melted the frost, leaving the grass slick and cold. Clemency carried a dark shawl and rubbed it across her chilly arms. Her hem gradually became sodden as she marched through the flowers and weeds, but her pace kept her warm, and at last she pulled the bonnet off her head and held it in her gloved right hand as the land dipped, rolling down toward the thin blue ribbon of river that separated the north fields from the next property. Across that river lay a great house near triple the size of Claridge, but with so much land it could not even be seen from those fields. The house itself sat atop a high, wooded hill, the abundance ofcypress and rowan trees clustered around it lending it a private, secretive air. It could be seen clearly only from the drive and the frontal approach, it being otherwise concealed from the public like a coquettish beauty, wary of prying eyes.
Claridge, though by no means a known Sussex destination, nonetheless held a special place in her heart. It felt like the brown brick beating organ of her life, at the center of all her happiest, most cherished memories. For its size, the garden was quite large, and the envy of their neighbors. Apple, pear, and plum trees grew wild on the property, her father decreeing that they should be left untamed and not pigeonholed into an orchard. Soon the blossoms would come, and then the fresh tarts….
