Page 63 of The Proposition
Robbed. Robbed of his moment of vengeance, robbed of love, robbed of…
Her. Happiness.
Audric squeezed his eyes shut. He had never been a graceful loser, and now, in this moment of greatest humiliation, when his temper ought to flare beyond reason or fathoming, he could only muster concern for Clemency and Delphine.
Something must have happened. The phrase—no, the truth—repeated in his head, a maddening refrain.
Something must have happened. She loved me. She loved me. Something must have happened.
But what? Butwhat? He knew, in his bones he knew, that Turner Boyle was somehow to blame, that he had outmaneuvered them in the last, most important moment. Not just because he had been there, holding on to a ghastly pale Clemency with a gloating sneer. He had made some kind of threat, or perhaps concocted an elaborate lie about Audric and his sister that convinced Clemency to quit their acquaintance.
Yet she was a smart woman and wise to Boyle’s ways. They had all the evidence, so why abandon their plans? It was risky, naturally, but they had worked so hard. And what could make her withdraw her affection so abruptly? He would not sleep nor know peace until he had answers, and he had learned through the observations of Lee Stanhope that William and Tansy Bagshot, accompanied by Honora and Clemency Fry, had unexpectedly quit their London house and returned to Round Orchard.
Turner Boyle had gone with them, departing in the same carriage as Clemency.
“Ralston? Prepare the house. We will be leaving for the country at once.” He ran a trembling hand over his face from forehead to chin. “I find suddenly that I despise London.”
“Sir, if your intention is to nurse the sting of Miss Fry’s—”
“Leaving,” Audric declared. “At once.Par Dieu,I will pick at this scab to my heart’s content, Ralston. No man or god may stop me. I will have answers, and after that? Satisfaction.”
24
One day bled into another while Clemency found that the lonely house of her heart did not wish to remain so. Visitors tried to come and go, and each attempted entry proved harder and harder to withstand. She had to keep herself locked tight, but even a gentle knock on the door hurt and hurt deeply.
Five days after the doomed assembly, she stood at the garden door of her family’s home, watching spring jut its way through the soft earth, daffodils unfolding tentatively despite the lingering spring chill. Those innocent shoots poked above the gleaming mud hoping for the tenderness of sun and finding more mercy than Clemency. She had wanted to find solace and reprieve in that old house and in the changing season, but it served to remind her of what she could not have—early morning walks with Audric across the sprawl of his grounds, long rides through the country, a spontaneous trip to Dover to wander the cliffs in warming weather. Now none of it would happen, and she could not feel the spring, only that stubborn winter chill.
A few slants of sunlight climbed their way across the stone path, over the well spigot, gaining ground toward the house,and toward her slippers, positioned just against the threshold.
She clung with both hands to the frame, nervous that even a slight breeze might tip her one way or the other. That day would be her wedding day, and while the house woke up around her and began to descend into matrimonial preparation and chaos, Clemency stood empty-stomached and empty-hearted, faced toward the house Audric still possessed but did not inhabit, her eyes becoming fixed on the narrow stream that she had tumbled into and that he had pulled her from. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the sure strength of his hands as he gathered her up and out of the muddy water.
Before she could command her body to behave, she had taken six steps out the door, striding across the garden and toward the border of their properties. There it was, that peaceful river, now an unmistakable Rubicon. There had been a flurry of activity at his house in recent days, but Clemency knew it could signal only one thing—he was preparing to abandon that estate, the last tie between them slashed away. But she went anyway, suddenly possessed, eyes filling with tears as she picked up speed along the stone path.
Go to him, go to him, go to him. It is not too late….
“Dearest? Where are you going? Mother is frantic; it’s time to depart for the church.”
Clemency froze. A moment later Honora’s hand landed lightly on her elbow. “Clemency? Are you well?”
Too late.
“Certainly.”
Her sister sighed, turning her carefully back toward thehouse. “There have never been any secrets between us. It hurts so that you should choose to keep some from me now.”
Clemency shook her head, her slipper crunching one of the bold-faced dandelions, its yellow head smeared across the stones. “I am keeping no secrets, sister. You know everything there is to know.”
And that was true. For Honora knew of Delphine’s tragedy and of her own relationship with Mrs. Chilvers, the two knife points upon which Boyle kept Clemency balanced.
“But you seem so unhappy,” Nora said, stroking her hair. “You should be all joy and lightness on your wedding day, dearest.”
“Whoever is? When marriage is the man’s game.”
“Surely it is not so bad,” Honora murmured. Her sister stepped ahead of her and into the house.
“It’s worse,” whispered Clemency. If Honora heard her, she made no indication of it. She had always assumed that if she married, it would bring her and Honora closer together. It would be a shared experience, one that, though Honora’s ended in tragedy, would bond them, and Clemency might go to her for advice and comfort, but now what could she say of her marriage? Keeping secrets, even for a noble reason, might only tear them apart. Honora’s wisdom lay in her heart, in her intuition, and for one as sensitive as her sister, there would be no mistaking the pain radiating from the open wound of Clemency’s spirit.
“I was nervous too,” Honora said softly, coaxing Clemency into the house, through the kitchen, and through the salon toward the winding staircase. Holding Clemency’s hand, she patted her like a fretting child. “Who would I be? Iwondered. Would I feel not myself? Like I had given my whole being away? In the end, it was just a few words spoken in a church. Even if I felt the presence of God there, or if my happiness increased, afterward I was the same person.”
