The Arrangement (9 page)

Self-pity was something he had taken ruthlessly in hand a number of years ago, but occasionally it could still seep through his defenses.

“I am sorry,” Miss Fry said. “It was an impertinent question.”

“Even though I asked it of you?” he said. “I was thinking, considering my answer. We are speaking of dreams, not reality. We are speaking of what we would like our lives to be if we had the freedom to live them as we chose. No, then. No wife. No women at all. Not that I despise your sex, Miss Fry. Quite the contrary. But women are tenderhearted—at least, almost all the women in my life are. They feel sorry for me. They want to help me. They want to smother me. No, in my dream I am free and on my own—apart, I suppose, from an army of servants. In my dream, I have proved to myself and the world that I can do this living business on my own, that I neither need nor permit any pity.”

“Particularly from women,” she said.

“Particularly from women.” He grinned at her and moved back a little farther. “You will think me an ungrateful wretch, Miss Fry. I
do
love my mother and my grandmother and my sisters. Very dearly.”

“We are talking of dreams,” she said. “We may be as ungrateful as we wish in our dreams.”

He laughed softly and then felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You must be hungry, my lord,” the hearty voice of the vicar said.

He was about to deny it. But he had taken enough of Miss Fry’s time. Already she had missed dancing this set and probably the one before it when she came to rescue him—or her cousin. Besides, he did not wish to cause her any embarrassment by monopolizing too much of her time. He did not doubt there was not a person in the assembly room who was unaware of the two of them sitting here tête-à-tête.

“Yes, indeed.” He got to his feet, smiling. “Good night, Miss Fry. It has been a pleasure talking with you.”

“Good night, my lord.”

And he was borne away to the refreshment table.

V
incent started his morning with an hour of vigorous exercise in the drawing room. He was feeling the enervating effects of a few days of merely sitting or standing—and eating far too much of Mrs. Fisk’s fine baking.

After breakfast he went outside into the back garden, using only his cane for guidance. He knew the garden and was unlikely either to get lost or to come to great grief. He smelled the absence of the vegetable garden immediately. Not that he had been very aware of the smells when he was a boy, but he noticed them now when they were not there, especially the mint and sage and other herbs.

There were no flowers either. At Middlebury he had been trying to differentiate among the smells of different flowers and the texture and shape of their petals and leaves and stems.

The garden had not been completely neglected, though. The gardeners he paid to come in twice a month had swept the path that ran between the former flower beds. The stone bench that encircled the copper urn in which his mother had used to set a great pot of flowers each year was free of rubble. Martin had told him that the grass on the lawns had been scythed short and the hedges had been trimmed.

Vincent sat down on the bench and propped his cane beside him. He lifted his face to the sky. It must be cloudy, though there was no dampness in the air. And it was not a cold day.

If he decided to remain here for another day—and he was not at all sure he would—he would get Martin to come for a long walk in the country with him this afternoon. No matter how strenuously he exercised various muscles in the house, he always craved fresh air and the feeling of his legs moving under him, preferably in a lengthy stride. Ah, how he would love to run!

He wanted to stay a little longer. The last two days had been surprisingly enjoyable. In all the upheavals of the past six years, he had forgotten how very fond he was of the people of Barton Coombs. He had forgotten how many friends he had here, or he had assumed that for various reasons they could be his friends no longer. Several of them had promised last night at the assembly that they would call upon him here.

Yet a part of him wanted to leave without further ado. For his blindness was more apparent to him here than it was elsewhere. This was a place and these were people he had known with his eyes. Penderris Hall and his more recent friends of the Survivors’ Club, as well as Middlebury Park and his neighbors there, were places and people he had come to know only through his other senses. They were in some ways easier to deal with, easier emotionally, anyway.

Here he found himself repeatedly fighting panic. He had thought those days were past or at least receding.

And he was not sure if his desire to stay here was a genuine need to reconnect with old friends and old haunts while he made definite plans for the future or just procrastination, the knowledge that when he went home to Middlebury he must not fall into the old pattern of passive dependence. He had asserted himself in some ways—his music, his physical exercises, his ability to find his way about familiar places with just a cane or sometimes without even that. But they were just a drop in the ocean to what his life ought to be like and could be.

He sometimes wished he did not love his mother so much. She had been hurt enough as it was. He desperately did not want to hurt her more. Perhaps the answer
was
a wife, perish the thought, but one of his own careful choosing. Very careful.

The clouds must not be in a solid mass, after all. A ray of sunshine had just found him. He could feel its warmth and tipped his face to it, closing his eyes as he did so. He did not want to damage them with direct light from the sun, after all, did he? He smiled at the absurd thought and even chuckled to himself. That was what Flavian had said to him once at Penderris on a particularly sunny day—Flavian Arnott, Viscount Ponsonby, one of the members of the Survivors’ Club.

He missed them with a sudden ache of longing for them all to be back, safely cocooned, in Cornwall, himself included. He wondered if Hugo had gone in pursuit of Lady Muir, who had spent a week at Penderris earlier this spring after spraining her ankle down on the beach. Hugo Emes, Lord Trentham, was the one who had found her and carried her up to the house. He had then proceeded to fall head over ears in love with her—
that
had been obvious even to a blind man—and then, in typical Hugo fashion, he had convinced himself that the social gulf that separated them was far too wide to be breached. Hugo was a military hero and as rich as Croesus, but because he was of middle-class origin and proud of it, he was one of the most insecure men Vincent had ever known.

He would be willing to wager Lady Muir had fallen for Hugo too.

Had
Hugo gone after her?

The ray of sun had already been swallowed up by cloud again. There was a coolness against his face where there had been warmth. Well, it had felt good while it lasted.

And the thought of a wife, a carefully chosen wife, reminded him of another reason why he really needed to get away. He had almost fallen into a neat trap last evening. It had been foolish and naïve of him, especially as he had known the Marches were out to net him. And even if he had not known it himself, Martin had warned him. When he had stepped out of the inn with Miss March because she complained of the stuffy heat of the assembly room, he had reacted as she must have known he would, like a puppet on a string. He had been desperately thankful for the arrival of Miss Fry in that deserted alley.

Miss Fry. Sophia Fry. A small lady with a light touch. And a soft, slightly husky voice. And a strangely appealing conversation that had replayed itself in his mind when he lay down after returning home. An exchange of dreams, which in many ways were not dissimilar, though their circumstances were as different as they could be. According to Martin, who had danced all night, she had not danced at all and had disappeared early, soon after talking with him.

Without her intervention, he might be in danger today of finding himself a betrothed man. Betrothed to Henrietta March, of all people. He had not liked her as a girl. He did not like her now. She had spoken last evening of nothing but her well-born friends and her beaux and her connections with the highest echelon of the
ton,
and she was the star of every anecdote and had had the last, witty word in every remembered altercation. Sir Clarence March he abhorred as much as he ever had. Lady March was enough to raise the short hairs along the back of his neck.

He had had a narrow escape. Was he now safe? Now that he was fully on his guard? But he had been on his guard before.

He could hear footsteps approaching along the path from the house—the firm tread of Martin’s boots, and someone else’s. Male, almost definitely. Ah, and a third tread, lighter, more feminine.

“Here are Sam and Edna Hamilton to see you, sir,” Martin said.

“Sam!” Vincent got to his feet, a smile on his face, his right hand outstretched. “And Edna. How good of you to come. Do sit down. But is it warm enough out here for you? Should we go into the parlor instead?”

“Vince!” His old friend and partner in crime gripped his hand and pumped it up and down. “We hardly had a chance for a word last evening. You were swaddled about by Miss Waddell’s ladies.”

“Vincent,” Edna Hamilton, the former Edna Biggs, said, and she stepped forward to hug him and set her cheek against his for a moment. “I might have waited for you if I had known just how handsome a man you were going to grow into.”

“Hey, hey,” Sam protested as Vincent laughed. “None of that. I am not so bad looking myself.”

“Do let us sit out here,” Edna said. “The clouds are about to move off entirely, and it is beautifully warm in the sunshine. My feet are sore from last evening. I very nearly danced them off the ends of my legs.”

“Vince will think you very ungenteel, Ed,” her husband commented. “Ladies are not supposed to admit that they even
have
legs.”

They talked of the assembly as they settled on the bench, and they reminisced about the childhood they had all shared. They laughed a great deal. And then Edna changed the subject.

“Oh, Vince,” she said, “have you heard what has happened to that little mouse of a woman who lives with the Marches?”

“Miss Fry?” Vincent said, frowning.

“Is that her name?” she asked. “You took pity on her last evening and spoke with her for a few minutes, did you not? No one even knew for a long time whether she was a servant at Barton Hall or a poor relation, but the servants disowned her when asked. We should have known, of course, for she is always far more poorly dressed than any of them. Anyway, she has been turned out. The Reverend Parsons found her in the church this morning, sitting pale and silent in one of the pews, a pathetically small bag beside her. He took her into the vicarage, and Mrs. Parsons gave her breakfast and a room to lie down in—she was turned out last night, apparently, and spent what was left of it in the church pew. But no one knows what will become of her, poor thing. No other servants are needed at the vicarage—and she is not a servant anyway. I suppose
someone
will help her somehow.”

“She is better off away from the Marches, if you were to ask me,” Samuel said. “Anyone would be. We came to invite you to our house this evening, Vince. We will try to gather more of the old crowd there too and have a rollicking good time. We will even get Martin to come, if we may. What do you say?”

It took Vincent a few moments to comprehend what had just been said to him.

“What?” he said. “Oh, yes. Certainly. My thanks to both of you. That would be splendid. What time?”

They went on their way a short while later, and Vincent sat where he was a few minutes longer before going in search of Martin. He found him in the kitchen. He was about to warm up the remains of yesterday’s stew and butter some bread. Luncheon would be ready in a quarter of an hour or so, Martin told him.

Vincent had no appetite.

“I need to go to the vicarage,” he said. “The sooner, the better. Will the food spoil?”

“I haven’t actually started getting it yet,” Martin said. “I did not know how long you would be. Sam was always a talker. So was Edna.”

“I need to go now,” Vincent said. “Lend me your arm, Martin. It will be faster than tapping my way along the street with my cane.”

“Confessing your sins will not wait, will it?” Martin asked him.

S
urprisingly, Sophia had slept, though she had no idea for how long. She sat on the edge of the bed after waking, not knowing what else to do. Mrs. Parsons found her there and took her down to the parlor, where they sat drinking coffee and eating freshly baked biscuits until the vicar came in from his study, beaming and rubbing his hands together and looking awkward.

She would take the stagecoach to London, Sophia assured them when they asked if she had any plans. Sir Clarence March had given her money to get there. And yes, she would be fine, and yes, she knew people there. They would help her find employment. They must not worry about her. They had been very kind.

Her mind had been numb all night as she sat in the church. Now it was a great tumble and jumble of thoughts and anxieties and blank terror, all of which she must hide from these kindly people. She had no intention of becoming a burden to them.