Page 66 of The Proposition
Someone had brought her wedding gown and laid it among a table of flowers in her room. Someone, presumably her mother and sister, had seen to it all—the gown, the invitations, the breakfast that would follow, the flowers spilling out of the church and lining the pathway that would take her and Boyle to the open-air carriage and, afterward, their marriage.
Someone had taken care of it all as Clemency drifted through what felt like another person’s life. The gown was sewn to her size and the flowers were what she preferred, all of it evidence that this was indeed her wedding day, despite what her heart insisted. Round Orchard was a very small, very close place, and it was not uncommon for most of the town to attend a wedding, and if not to sit in the church during the ceremony, then to celebrate afterward as a general sentiment of joy and future bliss swelled through the village, into the tavern, down the roads, like a sweet colorful mist perfumed with wildflowers and promise.
And every moment, Clemency expected another woman to walk through her own bedroom door and take her place. She trod to the table with her dress, past the vanity where she brushed her hair, and touched the delicate lace of the skirt.This was hers and it was not, and when her skin brushed the fabric it felt hot to the touch. Never mind it had been sitting under the sunshiny window, Clemency was sure it would burn her up, incinerate her until there was nothing left but ash, the ash of a dream once had and now impossible.
It might have been a gown meant for a different day, for a wedding to a different man, for the joy of real love deeply felt.
“I cannot do this,” Clemency whispered. She imagined, all at once, Boyle’s touch as his fingers skimmed her face, the sickness she would feel sitting beside him at every church service or walking out with him at a dance, the horror of expectation, of the children that it would be her duty and burden to bear him. The fake heirs she would bear for a fake baron. Clemency could only resolve to be the best mother possible, and believe that somehow she could mother and nurture away any of Boyle’s vile influence.
And each time she glanced at the boy, she would remember Delphine’s pain.
“No,” she said, closing her eyes. “No, no, no…”
Clemency backed quickly away from the gown and turned, fleeing out the door and into the back garden of Claridge. Down the lane in the church townsfolk and extended members of the family waited, and terrifyingly, Turner Boyle.
She walked to the big tree with a dilapidated swing, where she would spend hours and hours reading as a girl. When she sat down on the crooked wood, it threatened to buckle. Facing the valley and the river and Beswick, she tried to conjure Miss Taylor and wondered what her favorite writer would have to say.
“You were right,” Clemency whispered. “All along, you were right. The scholar, the poet, and the philosopher can all agree that love is an ungovernable mystery,” she recited. “And yet we seek to govern it.”
“Govern, Miss Fry, or preserve?”
It was the last voice in the whole of England she expected to hear. As far as she knew, Lady Veitch was not even aware of her specific wedding day. Clemency shifted, swiveling to look back at Lady Veitch as she stood in the shade of a poplar and a scalloped-edge pink parasol. The frothy concoction of her gown sparkled, glowing from the sunlight shining behind her.
“Lady Veitch…” Clemency whispered, dumbstruck. “Forgive me for asking, but what are you doing in my garden?”
She noticed an elaborately enameled barouche waiting on the graveled drive to the left of the house. The old woman tilted her head to the side, imperiling the silk and feather bonnet pinned to her gray curls. “You may think me a very old, very traditional woman, and I am that, something of a relic from a bygone era that you now sneer at, but I also cannot abide injustice when I see it unfold before me.” Lady Veitch closed her parasol and stabbed the pointed end into the dirt with a flourish. Behind her, Clemency saw both Arabella and Adeline peering out at her from the waiting barouche. “Mr. Boyle is a snake and a liar, a rude pretender who is not a baron’s heir, and indeed hardly a man. The insult cannot be supported.”
Clemency gradually stood, clinging to one rope of the swing for support. She opened her mouth to speak but Lady Veitch would not allow it.
“I find myself in the difficult position of thinking you hopelessly misguided, Miss Fry, but loathing Mr. Boyle, and as life is a series of lesser evils chosen, I have decided to intervene on your behalf. Tansy is a darling girl, and dear to me, and she assures me that you are worth the effort, though indeed I remain dubious.”
“Lady Veitch, I am already quite at my wits’ end and—”
The old woman chuckled and stabbed the ground with her parasol again. “By and by your wits may be spared, young lady. Mr. Boyle will not be arriving to marry you today, and unless I have gravely misunderstood the situation, I should think you will be very happy indeed to hear that.”
It was shock and not relief that almost brought Clemency back to her knees. “N-No, whatever you have done you must undo it. You do not understand how dangerous Mr. Boyle can be!”
“Oh, I am quite aware.” Lady Veitch snaked through the rosebushes toward her. She pursed her lips and then glanced through squinting eyes at Clemency. “Miss Fry, it was brought to my attention that a suitor of dubious means had become…unduly attached to my daughter. As I became aware of this, I also became aware of your role in steering her away from this unsavory character. Through my own means I discovered that the rogue in question was none other than our mutual acquaintance Mr. Turner Boyle.”
Clemency covered her face with both hands. “That is hardly surprising, yet he is in possession of such damaging secrets, such ruinous information, that I cannot risk angering him. Please, Lady Veitch, I beg you—”
“There is no need for begging, Miss Fry. He is already apprehended and, I should think by now, on his way to FleetPrison. Worry not about his pernicious ways, I have already put about to every corner of London society that his lies are not to be believed. And do not worry about Denning Ede.” She reached down and picked a bit of leaf off Clemency’s sleeve and flicked it away. With a sniff, she turned her face toward the church. At Clemency’s gasp of surprise, she said, “Oh, yes, I am aware of his involvement now. If it is his wish to remain free of scandal and advance his promising career, then he will not debate me. I hardly think King George would look fondly on his dear friend elevating an upstart bastard to be the heir of a disgraced, extinct family. The Boyle line is well and truly dead; they have no legitimate son. Lord and Lady Boyle fled London when Ede discovered the boy’s true parentage, but America is not far enough. They will hear of this.”
Clemency opened and closed her mouth, speechless. That Lady Veitch would intervene on her behalf in such a spectacular way, she could not fathom. She wondered if it could all be attributed to her conversation with Adeline over that suitor’s letter, or if indeed Lady Veitch’s pride did not allow her to be befuddled by someone like Boyle. Perhaps knowing she might have lost her daughter to such a man had inspired her to this extreme action.
“We must not let such men win,” Lady Veitch said in closing, offering Clemency a broad smile topped with twinkling eyes. “Even your Miss Taylor would agree with me there, I think.”
“Most ardently,” Clemency whispered, astonished. “Most ardently. But I can never repay this kindness, Lady Veitch, and certainly the cost of besting Boyle was great indeed.”
“ ’Twas money well spent,” the old woman replied lightly.She unfurled her parasol again and made a long arc to return to the gravel path and her daughters. “And the most adventure I have experienced in an age. I suspect, Miss Fry, there is another man somewhere more deserving of your affection?”
Lady Veitch grinned as she continued her grand, deliberate parade through the garden. Distantly, from the direction of the church, bells rang out.
“There is, y-yes,” Clemency stammered.
“There now.” Lady Veitch chuckled and waved off a spray of dust and grass as Clemency raced by. “All is not well, but all is well enough.”
26
