Page 50 of The Proposition
Clemency liked Mrs. Chilvers at once. It was no mystery why she and Honora corresponded—Clemency sensed in them the same painfully raw sensitivity, an openness to feeling and sentiment that made Mrs. Chilvers appear almost fragile to the touch. Her open, good face was lined from smiling, her eyes weary and muted with the burdens of the world.
“You have no idea how much this means,” Mrs. Chilvers was saying, pouring a small measure of brandy into a glass for Clemency. They stood in a close, beloved study, filled with manuscripts and half-finished needlework. A sofa, desk, and chair crowded the one large rug. As she handed Clemency the brandy, she noticed Mrs. Chilvers’s fingertips were hard and ink-stained, evidence of a woman long at her needle and pen.
“A toast to you, my dear courier,” the widow added. “Honora writes so sweetly of you, and I am ever so pleased to finally compare you to the heroine of her letters!”
“She flatters me,” Clemency assured her, sipping. “And exaggerates.”
Mrs. Chilvers laughed and fondly placed her hand over Honora’s letter, which she had set on the desk.
“My sister is the gentlest creature in the whole world, she never has a cross word for anyone. Whatever saintly description she gave you is pure generosity, nothing else.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Chilvers with a wistful sigh. “And that is what makes her my favorite correspondent. With her good nature, she cannot help but brighten my days, and a widow must take her ease where she can. There are diversions, of course, music and writing, but there is no replacement for the conversation of a like-minded woman.”
“My condolences, Mrs. Chilvers, until this evening I was not aware that you are also a widow.”
“My great loss is what led me to knowing your sister better,” Mrs. Chilvers told her. She did not look sad, perhaps, but thoughtful. “When dear Edwyn passed, I found myself penning a letter of consolation, one that, then, led to many more of ardent friendship.”
“Speaking of Honora makes me long for her to be here.” And it was true. But even just being in the presence of a woman her sister so admired brought Clemency a measure of comfort. One that was dashed when she remembered her purpose in coming. This widow, in her dowdy dress and handmade shawl, did not strike Clemency as the type of person to associate with Denning Ede, the golden man of London’s nobility and high society.
“If we both beseech her, then she has no choice but to agree!” Mrs. Chilvers grinned and drank from her glass. Clemency found it astonishing that she should host a salon with such elevated guests while her fingers were stained almost to the knuckles with ink.
“You are so prolific,” Clemency observed, gesturing to the mountain of half-finished letters and manuscripts piledon the woman’s desk. “I should endeavor to write more, though my words are always clumsy on paper.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Chilvers tugged at her earlobe, spreading some of the ink from her fingers. It was fresh, then. “You must share Honora’s gift for expression.”
“Oh, not at all.”
Mrs. Chilvers glided away from her desk, standing awkwardly beside it. Over her shoulder, Clemency noted a small doorway next to the bookcase on the west wall. She was about to thank Mrs. Chilvers for her generosity in extending an invitation when there was a sharp knock at the door. Through the window above the desk, Clemency heard raised voices.
“One moment,” Mrs. Chilvers called. She swept past Clemency to the door, exchanging a few quick words with a serving girl there. “If you will excuse me, Miss Fry, I shall give you something for Honora, and I will not be but a moment.”
“I am at your disposal.”
As soon as Mrs. Chilvers was gone, Clemency launched herself at the desk. There had to be something of interest there. She worked quickly but discovered only abandoned drafts of letters to friends and distant family, attempts at sonnets, and a few chapters on a biography of Jane Seymour. Her penmanship was confident, bold, almost masculine.
Clemency was short of breath by the time she remembered the weird little door in the corner. There on the small blue knob was a spray of fresh ink. Minding the stain, Clemency nudged the door open, saying a silent prayer that she should not be caught poking around a kind widow’s study for no good reason.
Through the door, she found a dimly lit room, hardly more than a storage cupboard. It had been converted into another study, a writing room, this one oddly orderly. The chaos of the outer study made this look straight and neat as a Buckingham soldier. Clotheslines hung between the walls, drying papers pinched there, aching to be read and investigated.
Clemency huffed, fanning her face, the guilt of this trespass climbing up her face like a spreading flame. She dodged toward the closest drying paper and read.
To the esteemed Lord Boyle—
Holy God.
You will find enclosed the birth record of one Olivier Ghrist, born March 19, 1815, to unknown parents, and subsequently adopted by James Ghrist and family. They have confirmed in private correspondence that some years after the birth they were quietly paid a sum by one A. Ferrand, the money to be used as a trust for the child’s education. Mr. Ghrist has agreed to the transfer of the child, along with the money set aside for the boy’s future. He asks only that he be compensated for all solicitor’s fees regarding this matter.
Clemency clasped both hands over her mouth, eyes sliding to the next page down the clothesline. It was the birth record in question, and what she knew to be a completely fabricated event. Turner was attempting to claim the childDelphine gave birth to, while wiping her name off the entire affair, and removing the boy from his new parents.
The other documents were no better. They were not for Boyle, but they were all legal in nature, and all done in Mrs. Chilvers’s tidy hand.
Forgeries. The quiet, maudlin widow was producing forgeries.
Why would Turner want to raise the boy himself? Just to torment the Ferrands? Whatever the reason, Clemency knew she could not allow it. She ripped the two documents from the line and folded them sloppily, shoving them down the front of her dress and tossing herself out the door, closing it swiftly behind her.
Waiting just inside the study, Mrs. Chilvers pressed her hands together and hung her head. Clemency’s heart plummeted to her slippers.
“Now you know what I am,” the widow whispered. “I wonder if you will listen when I tell you how it came to this.”
