Page 6 of The Proposition
“For God’s sake, Clemency!” Someone on the other side of the veranda gasped, and then she heard them run inside. Turner advanced on Clemency, daring her to move, but she stood her ground. She had never seen him so angry, so hysterical. “You were smothering! Youaresmothering!Noman could tolerate the intensity of your feelings.”
“Or consider,” she bit out, “that you are simply not man enough to withstand them.”
Turner reeled back as if struck. “I will not be spoken to this way; it is insupportable. I have tried, I have truly tried, but y-your behavior is insupportable. Collect yourself, madam, and endeavor to be better, or this entanglement will end, I promise you that.”
An image of Honora, sweet and shy, refusing every man at the ball because she was still not ready to dance again or give up Edwyn’s memory blazed across her vision. She could not bear to let her sister down. An invisible clamp squeezed her heart until she wanted to collapse, but Clemency pushed her shaking fists to her sides and gave a single nod.
“Very well, Turner,” she said softly. “If my passion offends you so, I will strive to be a…”Colder. Deader. Sadder…“Steadier sort of woman.”
“Good.” Turner jerked on the bottom of his jacket, then plucked at his sleeves. He ran his right hand through his hair again, the red splotches on his cheeks beginning to fade. “See that you do, the simpering and fawning must end. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.”
He was ready to go back inside, but Clemency blocked his path for a moment. She hoped he wouldn’t touch her, for she knew even a feather landing on her shoulder would shatter her like frost-brittled glass. But he had fussed so much with his hair during his infuriating speeches. It forced her to wonder if he was lying. But what about? Did he still love her, or was there something else?
“And if I make this promise to you,” she murmured. “To be a quiet woman, a…coy one, will you at least dance with me this evening?”
Turner narrowed his blue eyes, perhaps sensing that she was seeking a concession from him. For all his changeable moods, he was not stupid.
“That is agreeable.”
He pulled on his left sleeve again and arced around her, purposefully avoiding even the very edge of her skirts.
The doors closed, but the sound was muted by the storm of thoughts in her head. Still fragile, teetering between consuming fury and despair, she forced herself to walk carefully back inside, head high. There was no sign of him in the considerable crowd gathered near the door for a breath of fresh air, and so Clemency threaded her way through the guests, knowing Harrop Hall well enough to navigate to a solitary place. The library at the far end of the corridor, through the portrait gallery, that was where she might find a moment’s peace. Her hands still rigid at her sides, she hurried away from the laughter and music. All along the journey, she felt someone watching her, but Clemency simply ran faster, breezing by the sober faces of five generations of Pickfords, each portrait seemingly more judgmental of her unladylikespeed as she careened across the wooden parquet and through the doors, taking a harsh right past two fern-filled vases and into the blessedly silent east library.
It was a cozy nook of a room, not dusty but stuffed with the old mustiness of books. And it was occupied. Two wayward lovers had found their way there, nipping away for a quick grope near the map section. The chestnut-haired boy had his paramour up against a bookcase, both of them drunk enough to make their kissing sound like two pigs snorting around in a trough.
“Out!” Clemency bellowed. The lovers broke apart, red-lipped and shrieking. “Get out at once!”
They were too shocked to argue and scuttled by her, both wiping guiltily at their mouths as they went, the woman’s green satin ball gown trailing behind her, the last thing Clemency saw as they streamed out the door.
The hearth, opposite the doors, was lit, and Clemency ran toward it, outside’s chill settling in her bones. No matter how close she stood to the fire, she couldn’t get warm. The frost spreading inside her had everything to do with Turner.
How could she have been so careless? What had she done? What sort of person had she attached herself to? All of her high-minded ideals were abandoned to accept Turner’s love—and for what? Now it was only for the money, that much was clear, and it felt horribly like selling herself. Worse, she must play a part, the meek and quietly doting woman, and a greater insult she could not imagine.
What about your family ravaged by destitution? Can you imagine that?
Clemency’s hands slowly lifted, her strength fleeing her asthe weight of her predicament descended. She placed her palms on the heated mantel above the hearth, letting her head fall forward, and letting the tears spill. Her chest burned from the pain in her heart. Was she really all that Turner said? Was her love unbearable?
Was she, in the end, as she had worried and suspected, unlovable?
She had written him poems, yes, and hid them in funny places for him to find. Once, she had sweets from his favorite bakery in Heathfield sent to London to surprise him. And yes, at balls, she wanted to dance every dance with him. Was that wrong andsmothering?
A sphinx, he had called her. And that was so. She had been immovable during their courtship, for she had a brother marrying well, with William and Tansy announcing their intention to unite just before Boyle came into her life. Clemency had stood in the position to marry for love if she so desired, but even that was not entirely clear to her. In her girlhood, she had read so many fantasies of love, romances that seemed impossible in their perfection. She ached for just such a thing, but the sensible corner of her heart knew it was all just fiction, and Miss Taylor’s writing had convinced her that the indignity of marriage, the prison of it, was not worth the potential fantasy.
And like a fool, she had not listened to that part of her heart or her idol. The sphinx, as Turner put it, had become the kitten. Kittens could be adored and cooed over, but they inevitably grew up into a plain cat, no longer so fluffy or so sweet, just a nuisance, something to fling out into the barn and forget about. Clemency had learned her lesson. She would never be a kitten again, and she would never open herheart to another man. The fantasy, the romance, must be locked up tight, and she must become stone.
I will protect my family, do what I must, but I refuse to pretend it is agreeable.
The tears flowed faster, and Clemency did not stop them. She cried harder, mourning the happy, cherished person she had been for those heavenly months when all seemed right, and Turner Boyle doted on her just as she doted on him.
A floorboard creaked behind her. Clemency gasped and raised her head. For a single, stupid instant she thought it might be Turner. That he had come to find her, apologize, mend the bridges he had torched with his unkindness. Pure fantasy, of course. He had not come.
“Do not dance with him.”
Clemency turned, quickly pressing the backs of her hands to her cheeks, but there was no hiding that she had been crying. A man stood watching her from the open doorway, his face half in shadow.
“I wish to be alone,” she said, walking across the thick carpet toward him. Then she stopped, brows knitting. “Do not dance with whom?”
“Turner Boyle. Do not dance with him tonight, or ever.”
