A Debt of Dishonor

by Marek, Lillian

  His sister smiled fondly at him as she rose to depart. “I hope for far more for you but, at the very least, I hope she makes you laugh. You have not been laughing nearly as much in recent years as you should.”

  *

  Three days later, Lord Ambruster and his family arrived at a nicely judged hour of the afternoon. It allowed time for a cup of tea while their servants unpacked and then a sufficiency of time for Lady Ambruster and Miss Webster to dress for dinner.

  Their appearance at dinner was also nicely judged. Miss Webster, as an unmarried young woman, albeit one approaching her twenty-third birthday, wore white muslin with small puffed sleeves and carried a Kashmir shawl of pink and gold in case the evening proved chilly. Her golden curls were elaborately entwined with ribbons and pearls, and her rosebud of a mouth was fixed in a small smile. Lady Ambruster, a handsome woman, chose to present a subdued appearance in shades of gray, intending perhaps to serve as a foil for the springtime freshness of her daughter.

  Their jewelry was also understated. Miss Webster wore only a cameo on a ribbon about her neck, but it was a very fine, very ancient cameo. Her mother wore a simple brooch of amethysts and pearls, but they were flawless amethysts.

  Their appearance proclaimed, “We know precisely what is appropriate for a small dinner at the splendid country home of a duke.” Lady Talmadge could not help but acknowledge that they had judged it to a nicety. The duke noticed only that Miss Webster looked much like a china doll and was equally expressionless.

  Lady Talmadge had planned dinner with equally nice judgment. There were sufficient dishes, of sufficient quality, to welcome the guests without being too welcoming. After all, she had spent the fifteen years of her married life doing little but making such judgments. It was pleasant to know that those years had not been entirely wasted.

  There had been an awkward moment when the Ambrusters realized that Stephen Bancroft, who was to dine with them, was the duke’s steward. They were only slightly mollified to discover that he was also the duke’s cousin. Lady Ambruster and her daughter managed to get through dinner without ever actually directing a remark to him. Since their conversation consisted almost entirely of remarks about the weather, comments on upcoming marriages and minor scandals in the ton, and praise for what they had seen of Kelswick so far, Bancroft was more amused than offended.

  *

  By the following afternoon, Ashleigh, suffering from a surfeit of nicely judged civility, felt the need to claim a previous appointment and escaped into Lewes. He avoided the center of town, where the milliner and draper had shops across from the Crown Inn, the most likely attractions in the town should the Ambrusters decide on an excursion. Leaving his horse at the livery stable, he walked up the hill to the crooked old building that held Mr. Prufrock’s bookshop.

  A bell signaled his entrance, but he did not expect any notice to be taken of that. Prufrock spent his days ensconced in a corner, his cane next to him, surrounded by piles of books with a lamp providing just enough light to enable him to read. If any customers actually needed him or wished to make a purchase, they generally knew where to find him.

  Ashleigh paused, waiting for his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom. Once they did, he was surprised to see that he was not the only visitor to the shop. Miss Darling was standing by one of the tables with a book in one hand and a cloth in the other, staring at him with her mouth open. It appeared she had been in the process of dusting and arranging some of the books. How very odd.

  Odder still, Prufrock was standing beside her leaning on his cane.

  “Good day, Your Grace.” The old man nodded a greeting. Miss Darling said nothing but bobbed a quick curtsey.

  “Prufrock, Miss Darling.” Ashleigh nodded in return. He was not comfortable. He did not care for surprises. He did not need Miss Darling stepping out of his dreams and appearing in person. This bookshop had always been a refuge for him. He had been able to come here and browse through the stocks of books, occasionally coming across a hidden treasure. Well, perhaps not a hidden treasure. Prufrock always knew what he had and knew its value as well. But he had been able to explore these shelves in peace and quiet, with no one bothering him, no one demanding his attention, his assistance, his decision. How could he do that with Miss Darling here? How could he possibly ignore her presence?

  “You know Miss Darling, do you?” Prufrock was beaming at the young woman. “She’s been trying to convince me that I need an assistant, that I could do more business if I straighten the place up a bit, maybe have some chairs and offer tea or some such to bring more people in. What do you think, Your Grace?”

  Ashleigh frowned. He liked the shop just the way it was. “I don’t see why you would want to change at all.” Miss Darling seemed to be recovering from her surprise, but had returned to her dusting and was not looking at him. Why wouldn’t she meet his eye? She had not seemed at all diffident at their last meeting.

  “I don’t know, maybe I should make some changes. That cousin of yours was in here the other day.”

  “My cousin? Bancroft?”

  “No, no, not him. I know Mr. Bancroft well enough. The fancy one with the quizzing glass.”

  “Ah. Wilton.”

  “That’s the one.” The old man nodded, smiling.

  “I confess myself surprised. I would not have thought Wilton much of a reader.”

  “No, nor do I think he is. He wanted to know where I keep the special books. The ones that wouldn’t be out on display.” Prufrock shook his head. “I offered him Catullus, but he seemed to need pictures.”

  Miss Darling did not manage to suppress a snort of laughter. “That is not at all the sort of change I was suggesting, and you know it, Mr. Prufrock.”

  Ashleigh frowned slightly. She could at least disguise the fact that she knew who Catullus was, a most inappropriate poet for a young lady. But when she looked up with an impish smile, he had to smile back. “I don’t suppose he was interested in Ovid’s Art of Love either,” he said.

  Prufrock was happily chuckling away and did not notice that though their smiles had faded, his visitors were staring at each other.

  Miss Darling broke the spell first and returned to her dusting. “One change I was suggesting to Mr. Prufrock is that he set up a lending library. What do you think of that idea, Your Grace?”

  “A lending library?” Ashleigh frowned. “Whatever for? Why not just sell the books?”

  She looked at him in exasperation. “Because, Your Grace, not everyone can afford to buy all the books they would like. Let us say that a subscription to the lending library costs a guinea a year, and that allows the subscriber to borrow ten books. That is just over two shillings per book, and even inexpensive Minerva Press books cost at least six shillings.”

  He smiled at her. “I can see how that benefits the borrower, but how does it benefit Mr. Prufrock?”

  “Because he can lend the same book out over and over again. Suppose he has ten Minerva Press books for which he paid three pounds. They provide reading matter for ten subscribers for a year, and those subscribers have paid ten guineas for the privilege of borrowing those books. He has a clear profit of more than seven pounds.”

  Mr. Prufrock chortled. “You must admit, Your Grace, that’s a neat little profit. Very neat, indeed. I don’t say that it would work out quite that way. Some books would be more expensive, and some won’t be as popular as I expect, and people don’t always treat books with the respect they deserve. Can’t guarantee that some books won’t come back a bit worse for the wear. Still, it’s not a bad idea, is it?”

  “No, no, I don’t suppose it is a bad idea.” Ashleigh spoke slowly in an effort to give himself time to get his mind around the idea of Miss Darling proposing ideas like this at all. And it wasn’t a bad idea. He supposed it might be a very good idea if one wanted more customers. But he didn’t want more customers in Prufrock’s bookstore. He liked it just the way it was.

  His musings were interrupted when he realized that
Miss Darling was putting on her gloves and bonnet.

  “I fear I must be on my way. I will come by another day, Mr. Prufrock.”

  “Aye, do that,” he said. “It’s always a pleasure to hear you trying to convince me.”

  “You are going home?” asked Ashleigh. “Allow me to accompany you.”

  She hesitated, as if she was about to refuse him, but instead said, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  They stepped out onto the pavement. Ashleigh offered his arm, which Miss Darling took. He was pleased that she did not look so very thin as she had the first time he saw her. Though she still looked delicate, even fragile, she was definitely more sprite than waif now. It helped that her clothes were not so shabby. Her gloves may not have been of the finest French kid, but they looked new and clean. Her dress of some sort of blue stuff had little green leaves all over it and her spencer was green, too. Quite pretty. Her bonnet, though, had one of those deep rims that hid her face unless she was turned to him. Annoying.

  He cleared his throat. She turned to look at him. Those eyes of hers were truly amazing. She started to turn away, so he said the first thing that popped into his head. “Was the lending library the only change you were proposing for Prufrock? I’m not at all sure I like the idea of an increase in his business. I have always enjoyed the peace and quiet of his shop.”

  “Mr. Prufrock, however, might enjoy a little more income.” Her tone was a trifle sarcastic. “I also pointed out that if he did that, he could then hire an assistant. The increase in business would pay for the assistant and give him more leisure.”

  “More leisure?” Ashleigh smiled. “Whatever would he do with more leisure? I cannot imagine old Prufrock away from his books.”

  “Perhaps you cannot, Your Grace, but Mr. Prufrock has expressed a desire to retire, and I suggested an assistant instead.”

  “Retire? I confess I am surprised. I had never thought about it, but I suppose he must be getting on in age.” He smiled ruefully. “I suppose there is a part of oneself that expects those about one to go on forever unchanged. Yet where could he find an assistant hereabouts?”

  “I was suggesting myself.”

  “You? Really, Miss Darling!” He chuckled.

  “You think me incapable?” Her tone of voice was suddenly frosty.

  “Not at all. I was in no way mocking you.” He did not wish to sound as if he thought her foolish, though he did, so he tried to choose his words carefully. “It is only that it does not strike me as a suitable occupation for a young lady.”

  “Not suitable.” She seemed to find that amusing. “Your Grace, there are very few occupations available to a ‘young lady’ in my position. My aunt has kindly given me a home, but I cannot impose on her charity forever. I have no trade and I do not wish to be a servant, even so genteel a servant as a governess or companion. It appears to me that employment in a shop is perhaps the most honorable alternative available. It would provide me with independence.”

  “Miss Darling, I am certain that your aunt does not find you a burden. Indeed, she seems delighted to have your company.”

  “And I am very grateful to her. However, it cannot be more than a temporary arrangement, I fear.”

  She was turned away from him, and he could not see her expression. He would have to speak with Mrs. Darling to see what this was all about. Find employment as a shop assistant—it was ridiculous even if Prufrock were fool enough to agree to such a plan. Miss Darling had clearly been raised as a gentlewoman and she had been educated at a level far above that of most women of his acquaintance. He could not stomach the notion of her waiting upon her inferiors in a shop. He would not permit it. There must be something he could do for her.

  “Ah, look, the primroses are already fading. At home, they would scarce be in bloom so early.” She had halted to look at the clusters of yellow flowers growing at the edge of the hedgerow.

  He looked around him, relieved by the change of subject, and realized that they had turned into the lane leading to Mrs. Darling’s house. “Do you know, I cannot recall ever having walked along this lane before.”

  “But you have often visited my aunt’s house, have you not?”

  “Yes, but if I walked, it was across the fields to approach from the rear, and if I came this way, I was on horseback. It is easy to overlook things when one is atop a horse. I never even noticed that primroses grow here.” He smiled at her, relieved at the change of topic. “And what would be blooming at home?”

  “At this time of year, we would have ragged robin and lousewort perhaps.”

  He gave a shout of laughter. “Charming names!”

  “We are not mealy-mouthed in the north.” She smiled.

  “In the north. Northumberland?”

  “Not quite that far. Yorkshire.” Her smile faded and she began walking again. “But that is all in the past.”

  Her past was not a subject she wished to pursue, it seemed. Ah, well, there was time enough. He would sort her out sooner or later. They walked along in a companionable silence.

  As they neared the house, Miss Darling said, “It is most convenient that we have met this way. It gives me the opportunity to return your book.”

  “My book? Oh, the Antigone. You have finished? What did you think of it?”

  “It is, of course, a powerful dramatic work.”

  When she seemed disinclined to continue, he said, “What of Creon and Antigone? Which one of them did you think had the right of it—he with his insistence on the rule of law or she with her devotion to family duty?”

  “In all honesty, I thought them both fools.” He looked at her in surprise, and she continued, “Oh, the conflicting demands make for wonderful tragedy, but all quite needless. If Creon had any sense at all, he would never have felt obliged to make one brother the hero and the other the villain and order death for anyone who buried the bad brother. He should have said something like, ‘Here we can all see the results of excessive ambition. Let us take warning from their example and go on with our lives.’”

  Ashleigh could not help but laugh. She had surprised him again. She had a mind and she used it. “Indeed, such common sense would be the death of tragedy. But what of Antigone? You cannot so easily dismiss her obligation to give her brother burial, can you?”

  “Why should she feel any obligation to her brothers at all when they had clearly felt no obligation to her?”

  He was taken aback by that. “They were her brothers. Surely some family feeling is natural. The ties of blood are strong.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Think about it. There they were, plunging into a civil war. One of them was sure to be killed and, as it turned out, both of them died. Did either of them think to do so much as remove her to a place of safety before they began the fighting? To make any provision for her? No, they took no care of her and left her to survive as best she could. Should she then be expected to give her life for them? If she thought so, she was a fool.”

  He blinked. “Ah. That is a viewpoint I had not heard before. You dismiss family obligations so easily then?”

  “Not at all. But family obligations must be mutual obligations. I simply say that when one has been deserted, ignored, left to survive as best one can, one would be foolish to feel any sense of obligation to the deserters.”

  By then, they had arrived at the house, and Mrs. Darling appeared to offer tea and cakes. Under the soothing application of civility, thoughts of tragedy were smothered, and the book, neatly wrapped in brown paper to protect it, was returned to its owner.

  However, while Ashleigh walked back into Lewes to retrieve his horse and then on the ride home, he could not stop wondering how Miss Darling had been betrayed. He had no doubt that her reaction to Antigone was based on her own experience. There had been real pain in her face. Anger as well. Her words were too bitter for mere philosophical speculation.

  But it was his own pain and anger at the thought of her suffering that frightened him.

  *

>   Once the door had closed behind Ashleigh, Aunt Franny turned a worried look on Kate. “Had you planned to meet?”

  “Not at all,” said Kate, taking her aunt’s arm as they returned to the drawing room. “It was entirely accidental. He came into Mr. Prufrock’s bookshop while I was there. I promptly made to leave, but he proposed to accompany me, and I did not think I could refuse without appearing rude.”

  The older woman sat for a while, gnawing her lip, before she spoke again. “I do not know how to advise you. It would, of course, be a wonderful match for you…”

  “Don’t even think it.”

  “I can’t help but think it when I see the way he looks at you, the way he is aware of you. And I see you quite as aware of him. There are difficulties, of course.”

  Kate laughed. “To say difficulties does not begin to describe the situation, Aunt Franny. He is a duke. It would be impossible for him to marry a merchant’s niece.”

  “Not so impossible,” said Aunt Franny robustly. “You are a merchant’s niece only by my marriage. Your father was a viscount. That means your birth is quite high enough for you to be considered an acceptable match for a duke.”

  “Oh, Aunt Franny, think about it.” Kate stood up and began to pace up and down the room. “My father may have had a title, as my brother does now, but they are men of such contemptible disrepute that I do not believe Ashleigh would be willing to even admit their acquaintance no less ally himself to such as they. He takes his duties and responsibilities seriously and would sooner, I am sure, ally himself with the family of an honorable merchant like your husband. And that, we know, would never happen.”

  Aunt Franny heaved a sigh and nodded. “You may be correct. But there is the way he looks at you. It is worrisome.” She shook her head. “I have known Peter since he was a child and cannot imagine him acting dishonorably toward you. I do not think it is in him. Nonetheless, I think perhaps it would be wise for you to avoid any private encounters with him.”