The Affectionate Adversary (9 page)
“I am altered,” Sarah said, as the two women returned to their seats. “But I am not changed in the way you might assume. I have learned so very much about the world. About life. About myself. We are blessed indeed, sisters. Do you know that parents in China pierce out the eyes of their young daughters in order to make them more successful beggars? In the town of Ningpo, an Englishwoman named Mary Ann Aldersey runs a school for these poor blind girls.”
“Good heavens, Sarah.” Mary picked up her fork and knife. “Must you speak of such things as we are trying to eat our dinner?”
Sarah studied her sister in dismay. “If you cannot bear to hear this, Mary, how will you fare when I tell you of the widows who burn to death on their husbands’ funeral pyres in India? Or the children who grovel—”
“Please, Sarah! I beg you. I can hardly swallow.”
“Do I err in giving you and Prudence such an allowance?” Sarah retorted. “While I speak of the world and its many needs, the two of you think only of yourselves. Neither of you can bear to hear of the suffering of others.”
“We can hear of it,” Prudence protested. “But why bother? There are wars in France and America. Starving people in India. Poor blind girls in China. Certainly all of that exists, yet there is nothing we can do about it now. Not at dinner. Not ever. We are only young ladies, after all. Even if we gave away our ten thousand pounds and more—as you mean to do—one woman cannot make any real difference to the world, can she, Sarah? Not even you.”
Staring down at her plate laden with rich beef tenderloin, fresh vegetables stewed in butter, and a thick slice of white bread, Sarah reflected on her sister’s words. If she gave away every last penny of her father’s legacy, would the world be changed in any material way? Probably not.
Despite all her silly and frivolous ways, Prudence had spoken the truth. Yet the rich young ruler of Scripture had not been instructed to surrender his wealth in order to save the poor. No, it was to save himself that he must do it.
“You are right to settle ten thousand on Mary and me,” Prudence spoke up as she blotted her lips on a napkin. “I mean to purchase a country house with my money. I want to have horses.”
“In Burma,” Sarah informed her, “some people are so hungry they would eat your horses.”
“Well, that is quite enough!” Mary tossed down her napkin. “By chance you were born first of the three of us, Sarah, and we all know that Father chose to use you very ill. Neither Pru nor I can deny your suffering, and certainly you have earned the right to do as you like with his money. But I should appreciate it if you would keep your miserable tales to yourself. Moreover, if you have half a heart, you would remember that Father worked very hard to build his fortune, and if he knew you were giving it all away, he would be most unhappy. By all that is sensible, he ought to have settled it upon the one of us who could be bothered to find herself a decent husband.”
At this, Prudence audibly caught her breath. “Mary,” she said in a hushed voice. “Sarah had nothing to do with marrying Lord Delacroix. You know that.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed. “You could have refused him, Sarah. Everyone knew what sort of man he was.”
“I did not know,” Sarah said in a low voice. “Father did not know. The baron said he wanted an heir. He assured Father he would see to it that the title passed to a son. How could anyone doubt him?”
“I doubted him and so did my friends. Delacroix had no interest in women. He spent his days at the gaming tables and his nights at taverns in the worst parts of London. The baron was a sot. I never saw him sober. Not once. He was drunk the day you married him and drunk the day he ran his carriage off the road and into the river. Honestly, Sarah, you are so blind.”
“And now the barony has gone to his nephew,” Prudence put in, her eyes wide. “He is fearfully handsome, Henry Carlyle, the new Lord Delacroix. Have you seen him lately, Mary? His hair is as gold as anything and all in curls. He might be thought feminine but for his chin. Oh, the cleft! Right in the center, exactly as it should be, and such a jaw. He is certainly man enough for my taste, and I have been honored to sit beside him several times at dinners. Although he was known as a roué in years past, he is now thought to be one of the most elegant gentlemen in his society, and this naturally makes him desirable to the ladies—as does his eligible status. But, dear me, he is no wealthier than his uncle before him. He has only Delacroix House and the country manor at Bamberfield to his name. Sarah, will you not settle something on him, poor man, for he ought to get himself a good wife.”
Still unnerved at the memory of the baron to whom she had been married, Sarah could hardly concentrate on Prudence’s chatter. Her sisters had not changed in the least since she left them two years before. Mary was selfish and absorbed in her own affairs. Pru cared for little but the attentions of men and her own fascination with riding, boating, picnicking, and everything else that could be done out of doors. Neither would hear of the world beyond the small realm in which they reigned supreme.
“I should think two thousand a year would do Lord Delacroix rather nicely,” Prudence was saying. “He cannot object to that.”
“Two thousand pounds
a year
?” Mary scowled. “That is absurd. He would live like a king, and he deserves no such luxury. His father, his uncle, and all those Delacroixes before them were wastrels, as you said yourself. Better to give the baron a lump sum and be done with it, Sarah. What do you think? Would he be happy with five thousand?”
“I think—” Sarah blinked, trying to force herself back to reality—“I think that the subject of money brings out the worst in everyone I know.”
“Well.” Mary sat back in her chair and glared at her sister. “If Pru and I refuse to discuss your beggars and you will not talk about money, then what subject is left to us?”
“I should like to know more about the man on the ship,” Pru spoke up. “Sarah, did you really reject a suitor because he would not abandon everything for you?”
“Not for me. For God.”
“But it was
you
who made the demand of him, was it not?”
Sarah had to nod. “I thought it important.”
“Was he handsome, sister?”
The blue eyes that had so entranced Sarah now swam before her. “Yes, he was,” she said softly. “Most handsome indeed.”
“And he fought pirates? That is utterly dashing of him! I should never be able to reject a handsome man who could fight pirates and who loved me with such a passion as to beg for my hand in marriage. And wounded, too. Oh, Sarah, that is so romantic!”
“His wounds were not romantic in the least. A ball broke his leg and tore the muscle—”
“That does it for me,” Mary exclaimed, pushing back from the table. “I shall never be able to finish my dinner now. Would that you had married your crippled pauper and gone back to India with him.”
The silence in the dining room was broken only by the arrival of the pudding. As the servants circled the table taking away plates and silver, setting out bowls, and serving the steaming custard, Sarah reflected on all that had gone before her. Her childhood, her marriage, her widowhood, her journey to Asia. Charles Locke. And now London and her sisters again. If she could, might she alter anything in her past?
Truly, Sarah had not heard of her husband’s reputation for drink and gaming. Although she barely knew the baron, she had been ordered to wed him. Conditioned to obedience and believing the marriage would bring contentment to her father and sisters, she had entered into the union in the hope that bearing children would fulfill her. But despite his promises to Sarah’s father, Lord Delacroix had made no effort to consummate their union. Sarah was as much a maiden as she had been on her wedding night.
The marriage had been a mistake. Had she made as great an error in not accepting Charles’s proposal?
“Where does he live?” Prudence asked as the servants left the room. Her voice was softer now, kinder. “Perhaps Mr. Locke will call on you, Sarah. You might at least continue your friendship.”
“He cannot live anywhere near Belgravia,” Mary said. “If Mr. Locke’s father was a steward and they have lost all their savings, they can have little to call their own.”
“They live on Threadneedle Street.” Sarah eyed Mary. “Very near to our old house in Cheapside. We are no better than the Locke family for our fine address. Our father was a merchant, and nothing can undo that. Or should. Rank matters very little in the grand scheme. Nor do riches.”
“You will soon see to that, will you not? Sarah, how can you think of giving away all that Father worked so hard to earn?” Mary asked.
“And how could you turn down a man who loved you so deeply?” Prudence heaved a sigh. “Do you know … this sounds very like a dilemma that might be set out in a letter to Miss Pickworth in
The Tattler
. A poor but handsome suitor in love with a wealthy widow who wishes to give away her fortune. You ought to write to Miss Pickworth, Sarah, for she gives good counsel.”
“Miss Pickworth does not exist, Pru,” Mary admonished. “That is a fictitious name for a frivolous advice columnist, and I cannot think why all of London is so enraptured by it.”
“She is a real woman, no matter what her true name,” Prudence argued, “and she is very wise. Miss Pickworth knows everything that is happening in the
ton
, for it appears she attends every ball and reception, though no one has any idea who she is! And people write letters to her, listing all the details of their terrible circumstances and begging her for help. And she pens the most humorous and yet brilliant answers ever heard! She would tell you exactly what to do about your dear Mr. Locke, Sarah, for she knows everything about love. Miss Pickworth would understand the importance of true devotion. I have thought of writing to her myself. I am not loved for anything that matters.”
“Never discount beauty,” Mary said. “Now you are beautiful and wealthy as well, Pru. What more could you want?”
“I could wish for a man to love me for who I am and not for what I look like or how much income I can bring to the marriage. That would be true love indeed.”
A lump rose in Sarah’s throat as she remembered Charles Locke’s shoulder pressed against hers, his ardent avowal of love, his presentation of a plan to offer her security and contentment the rest of her life.
But what of her commitment to God? What of her certainty that only poverty could lead to true joy?
“I do not believe love can bring happiness, Prudence,” Sarah said. “Not even true love.”
“Really? But there is nothing I should like better than to meet a man who would love me truly and eternally.”
“For myself,” Mary put in, “I believe wealth is the real measure of one’s potential for happiness. Love hardly matters in the end, Pru, I assure you. Passion is fleeting, as you must sadly learn when you find a husband. No, sister, I should much rather have money. If one is rich enough, nothing can stand in the way of making life the best it can possibly be. And therein lies the true source of pleasure.”
Sarah lifted her dessert spoon and slipped it into her custard. “You are for wealth, then, Mary. And Pru is for love. But I have decided that only God can bring real purpose and joy to life.”
“Aye, by giving me a handsome husband!” Prudence quipped. “What can be wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Sarah replied, “and perhaps He will. But I can see the possibility of peace and joy only if I divest myself of all earthly bonds. That is why I shall give the greater part of Father’s legacy to the needy. And that is why I turned down Mr. Locke’s proposal.”
Prudence tossed her head. “And that is why—as I am certain Miss Pickworth would warn—you are doomed to roam the world on a creaky old ship, dodging pirates and sleeping with beggars until you are old and alone and eaten up with some awful disease. Then my darling husband and I shall whisk you back to England, where Mary will have to spend her money on a good doctor to make you well again. Never mind that if you would come to your senses in the first place, we could be spared such rigors altogether. There!”
As Prudence waved her spoon in the air in a final flourish to her recitation, both Sarah and Mary burst out laughing. With a giggle, Pru returned to her dessert. Upon her last visit to St. James’s, she declared, she had met the most fascinating gentleman of her acquaintance, and she insisted on telling her sisters all about him at once.
