Page 18 of The Proposition
“Well…” Honora set the brush down, standing and going to the open window, leaning out, the birdsong so clear and bright it almost sounded like high summer. “Not all to rights. You will still be marrying reluctantly.”
Clemency grimaced, standing and discarding the wet shift she had been wearing in the bath. She took the clean sheet and wrapped it around herself, mindful of her sore arm. “What matters is that his fortune will allow me to take care of all of you. I will find ways to fill my time, and we will hate each other; many such marriages exist. Only…it is never the life I imagined for myself. Spinsterhood appeals far more.”
Leaving the window, Honora crossed to the cupboards near the basin and pulled out a fresh chemise and stays for her sister, then handed them across. Their eyes met, and Clemency could see her sister was on the verge of tears. “That is not the life I would choose for you. I would choose love for you, sister, a true and lasting love.”
“The whole of England knows I am spiteful towardmatrimony,” Clemency reminded her. “My season was a disaster. No, my actions have led me to this path, and now I must walk it. At least I will hold my head high, even if every step down that road is agony.”
—
Half of the village had sweatily crammed itself into Tindall and Batt’s on that fine Saturday afternoon. Clemency had trouble navigating through the shop without constantly bumping her throbbing arm. Valiant Honora did the best she could to clear a lane, but they were at last forced to gain ground inch by inch, browsing silks and cottons and notions at a snail’s pace.
“What a lovely coincidence!” Amy Brock’s narrow, prim face materialized between two shelves. It was a modest shop, but well-stocked for the size of the village. Mr. Batt took sales while his wife made herself useful to the circulating customers. Mr. Tindall was rarely seen, making alterations and repairs in a cloistered back room.
A trio of tall windows looked out onto the dirt main street of the village and the carts of merchants who came to sell sweets and kites to strolling families.
Amy crammed her way through the crowd, joining them near the windows and a few upright displays of tempting new ribbons. She had come adorned in a pink-and-white-striped frock with a lace fichu tucked around her neck, a profusion of silk flowers decorating her moss-green bonnet. Despite her frail appearance, Amy always seemed to have an air of excitement and vigor, even on cold, cloudy days. As it was bright and fine out, she was even more energetic.
“Did you hear? You must have heard! Beswick is let! It is just as I predicted—Mr. Ferrand and his sister have taken it. Can you even believe it? You are to be neighbors! How glamorous! Ah, but you truly do have all the luck.” Amy pretended to pout, but she did not have a jealous bone in her body.
“How fortunate,” Honora said politely, inspecting a spool of periwinkle ribbon.
“We may get our ball after all, hmm?” Amy nudged Clemency, giggling.
“Indeed, we may,” Clemency muttered. She glanced around the shop for something that might grab her attention and save her from discussing Mr. Ferrand further. No doubt her dunk in the river and subsequent ride to Beswick with Mr. Ferrand would be discovered by the gossips eventually, but she intended to enjoy every minute before that came to pass. “What do you think of this for a new walking gown?”
Clemency placed a single finger on the bolt of sprigged muslin, and it was enough to draw Amy’s attention away from the new additions to Round Orchard.
“Just delightful, perfect, really!” Amy reached out to touch it for herself. “And so soft. My, but it must be rather expensive….”
Honora shifted, and Clemency simply smiled.
“I think I will have it,” Clemency declared, and as if summoned by magic, Mrs. Batt was there, sensing a potential sale like a hound sniffing out a fox.
Once the yardage was decided and Clemency had chosen accompanying buttons and a white satin ribbon, the total was tallied, and their party ushered to the back of the increasingly warm shop. Ordinarily, Clemency would simplyrequest that the fabric be added to her family’s general bill, but not this time.
“Do you think Miss Ferrand is a fashionable woman?” Amy was musing, tapping her gloved fingers on her chin as she considered it. The three young ladies lined up at the counter, where Mr. Batt busied himself bundling up the fabric and trim, folding it inside a lovely, crisp paper. “With a fortune like that, it would be a shame to have no taste…I wager she is unbearably elegant.”
“Miss Fry?” Mr. Batt prompted.
“Might you put this on Lord Boyle’s credit?” Clemency asked sweetly. Mr. Batt stared at her, his face an unreadable mask. His nose had been broken in the war, and he made it a habit to smile broadly, offsetting his intimidating look, but his salesman’s grin had vanished. “We are soon to be married,” she hurried on, realizing that perhaps this seemed like an overstepping of boundaries on her part. “And he assured me this would be a gift.”
“Right, I’m sure he did, miss,” Mr. Batt grunted. He plucked nervously at his apron, then an eyebrow, then lowered his voice. Their exchange was beginning to draw attention. “But that man’s coin is no good here, never has been, because I’ve never seen it. My apologies, miss, but after what he owes in the village, I’d be a fool to take on more.”
“Nonsense!” Amy just had to say, garnering even more unwanted attention. “You cannot meanherTurner Boyle. He is a baron, sir!”
“Amy, be silent,” Honora hissed.
The shop had gone suspiciously quiet. By tomorrow, the entire village would know that her intended did not pay his bills on time or at all. The gossips would send a plague ofwhispers to sweep through town tomorrow, making it the only topic of conversation at afternoon tea. No, the spectacle she had made of herself would be the topicdu jour.
“How…How…” Clemency bit down on her lower lip, feeling a hot flush of humiliation rush over her cheeks and neck. Someone behind her tittered. Honora and Amy stood rigid beside her, but she could imagine Amy probably had her mouth wide open in shock. “I see. My mistake, Mr. Batt. Would you please put these on the usual account, then?”
His smile returned slowly, a little sadly, his eyes warming to her as quickly as they had cooled. “A’course, Miss Fry, glad to.”
Clemency had only the vaguest memory of leaving the shop, feeling every pair of eyes boring into her as she went. Eventually she realized Honora had taken her by the arm, shielding her from some of the curious gawking until they were out in the fresh air again. Clemency sucked down a frantic breath, not realizing until that moment how close she had come to suffocating on her shame.
“I am convinced he will have an explanation,” Amy chirped, seemingly impervious to the staring and whispering. “He comes and goes so frequently, perhaps the bill simply slipped his notice.”
“Perhaps,” Honora bit out, even her politeness strained. “I think I should take my sister back home now, Amy—”
