Page 15 of The Proposition
As she followed Mr. Ferrand through the house, navigating toward that single comfortable room, Clemency imagined the curtains, carpets, statues, portraits, and tiny comforts that would turn the austere, mausoleum-like estate into a proper home. Utterly desolate, it was hard to imagine the place could ever be cheerful or warm, and normally a family would have their furnishings sent ahead to populate the house and make it fit for living before the owners ever arrived. When they reached the east salon on the first floor,Clemency assumed the scant furnishings had been provided by whomever had come to rent the place to the Ferrands.
“Oh.” Clemency faltered to a stop just inside the salon. There was nobody there, and Mr. Ferrand strode ahead. It had just occurred to Clemency that she had never inquired after his family at all. Amy Brock had mentioned his potential hunt for a wife, but Amy was not known for having perfect information.
“Oh?” he prompted. He was looking for something, or someone, walking diagonally to another door leading south.
“May I ask who will be joining you here at Beswick?” she asked.
Mr. Ferrand’s brow furrowed as he stared out the open door. “My sister.” Then he bellowed, “Hello? Hello there?” and the sound threaded its way around the empty galleries of the house.
Clemency pressed farther into the room, drawn by the enticing warmth of the fire. “No wife?” she asked, adopting a breezy tone. “No children?”
Footsteps could be heard clapping toward them at a rapid rate.
Mr. Ferrand propped his knuckles on his waist and swiveled toward her. “No,” he said shortly. His face had gone red with frustration.
“Your sister, then,” she said, warming her hands. The cut along her forearm throbbed, aching terribly whenever she moved her right arm. “I see.”
“I daresay that is hope I hear in your voice, Miss Fry.”
She rolled her eyes at the flames. “You are mistaken, sir, and forgetful. I may soon be married, remember?”
“For now.”
Before Clemency could reply, a footman arrived through the door where Mr. Ferrand waited. He was an older gentleman and dressed for labor in a plain mustard-colored jacket and dark trousers, no doubt already hard at work turning over the house in preparation for its new inhabitants. A dusty white wig sat slightly askew on his head, and he corrected it as he hurried into the sitting room.
“Might there be bandages and clean water about? This lady has injured herself in the river, and the wound must be tended to at once.”
The footman bowed and turned around without a word, off on his mission.
“Efficient,” Mr. Ferrand said wryly, tucking one hand under his chin and watching the man go. “Perhaps I should hire him on permanently.”
“I have often wondered what these great homes look like when unoccupied, and who maintains them,” Clemency mused. Soon, she thought, she would be mistress of her own fine house and the details would matter. Though of course, it would fall to her husband to make the more important decisions, and it would be right for her to simply trust in his judgment and live wherever he chose. Likely London before they found a suitable place in the country when the season was out. And given their last interaction, it seemed clear that Turner Boyle wanted to be the one to make those choices, and have Clemency at his side, obedient and submissive.
Clemency wrinkled her nose.
“There is a small staff that lives on the grounds and tends to Beswick, though now that I have taken it, my own staffwill begin the transition. So far I find that the previous staff have done a more than adequate job, perhaps the most qualified will agree to stay on with us. Mr. Ferrand told her, wandering to the fire, where she made room for him. They stood side by side, both of them holding out their damp hands.
“Will you give up your previous home entirely?” Clemency wondered aloud.
Mr. Ferrand shook his head. “The staff from my place in London will come here, the family seat in Reims will go unchanged.”
“So many houses…”
He smirked down at her, proud as ever. “We have not even touched upon my properties in Paris and Marseille, shall I give a full accounting?”
“You shall not,” Clemency said, glancing up at him. In the bright light of day, absent the romantic glow of the ball, he appeared different to her, more severe, less refined, the shadow of a beard already threatening to darken his jaw, despite the morning shave. His nose was somewhat too large and hawkish, dominating his face, nearly obliterating the effect of his emerald eyes. The breadth of his smile and jaw balanced everything, and Clemency was noticing that he had a tendency to hold his lips to the side in a tight half-smile that might mean anything or nothing at all.
A puzzle box of a man. His coat smelled strongly of juniper and leather, though that same perfume clung to him too as they stood closely side by side.
Not altogether unpleasant, she allowed, and a combination, like his unusual features, she would not easily forget.
The footman reappeared, crossing to them stiffly, eyes wide and wary, showing concern that he might haveinterrupted something private. Mr. Ferrand broke away from the hearth and intercepted the servant, taking a roll of linen bandages, a small hand towel, and a bowl of steaming hot water from him. The footman dismissed himself, again silently, and again to the seeming satisfaction of Mr. Ferrand, who smiled and gestured to the chairs not far from the hearth.
Clemency indulged him, retrieving the chairs one by one, a job better left to the footman with her injured arm, but she did not call him back, using her left hand to drag the chairs to the lovely glow behind her.
“You are scratching my floors, Miss Fry.”
She dropped the second chair unceremoniously, loudly, and flopped down onto it. “Had I the use of both arms, I should have made a gentler job of it.”
