Lie With Me

by Patricia Spencer

  “I need help. And you need to provide for your children. This could benefit us both.”

  “Why me, D’Avenant? I have no financial education, no—”

  “You have steadfastly refused to take advantage of me, even in your own desperation. I need someone I can trust.”

  He gave her a moment. Seeing she had nothing to say yet, he got up and started gathering the plates and bottles from the picnic and stowing them back in the picnic basket. After, he re-hitched the horses to the phaeton.

  Lady Maryam took a few minutes to collect herself, then picked up the blanket, shook it out, folded it neatly and came up alongside him. “What I don’t understand is… Why bother doing all this if Skylark won’t even be rejoined with Edgemere until after you die?”

  D’Avenant pulled a strap across the back of the mares. “Surely you must have noticed by now that everything I do about Edgemere is pointless.”

  “What? Why?”

  He tugged the last strap through its buckle. “I have no heirs. I am the last D’Avenant.”

  “But surely—”

  “Marriage is out of the question.”

  Two days later, after breakfast was over Lady Maryam sought D’Avenant out. He was sitting at his desk in the library with a bowl of café crème steaming beside him.

  She tapped on the door before entering, just to let him know she was there.

  He looked up.

  “I was wondering if we might schedule a time to sit with paper and pencil to review your proposition in more detail. I’ve been thinking about what you suggested but I have some questions.”

  “So you haven’t rejected it out of hand. Good. How about now? Let’s sit at the table where we can spread out papers. I’ll bring my coffee over.”

  She pulled out a chair and sat down. He took the seat on the corner so they could face each other but both still be near enough to share papers between them.

  “So what are your questions?”

  “I’d like to see the math,” she said. “The honest math, D’Avenant, showing the relationship between the value of Skylark and the prospective income from the use of its resources as compared to the cost of repairing the property, and how that relates to my… wages... and subsequent rental costs.”

  D’Avenant’s eyes met hers directly, and held her gaze. A grin broke out across his face. “This, My Lady, is why I have confidence in you!” He took a sip from his bowl and set it down. “Now,” he said, “I have not ‘done the math,’ only come up with the concept. Don’t give me that look. What you are asking for is hours of work—hours I could not afford to invest if you were not interested.”

  “I am interested. Do you have… hours… now, or shall we—”

  He pulled a paper off the pile, took a pencil, and gave her one from the cup holding them.

  They started working through scenarios, refining the estimates as they progressed. D’Avenant pulled out old ledgers from the repairs at Edgemere so he could get closer approximations. Maryam hadn’t realized how much there was to factor in. Nor did she realize how fluid a project could be. Skylark’s timber, for example, could be harvested gradually over time to yield longer term steady income, versus being taken faster in larger quantities to help immediately finance other aspects of the reconstruction, versus simply using it on Skylark’s roof, for example, with no cash outlay, but no direct income, either.

  “It seems there are a million decisions,” she commented.

  He nodded. “And some of them, taken badly, can cause problems a long way down the road.”

  “It’s little wonder you’re exhausted.”

  At midday, Sophie sent the twins in with food trays. Maryam and D’Avenant continued the exploration of how the restoration of Skylark could be structured. D’Avenant’s ‘numbers’ often included stories, sometimes humorously acted out, about his trials and errors. He drew diagrams, added columns, changed percentages, showed her every number she wanted to see, and backed it up with figures from Edgemere, where available.

  The one piece of the puzzle that kept stumping them was Grenville. Legally, as her executor, Grenville had Maryam, and therefore Skylark, in a chokehold. D’Avenant’s idea of a 35 year lease would thwart Grenville’s gaining a sales commission, but it would not wrest Skylark from his fist.

  Maryam growled with frustration. “However can I rid myself of this damnable man?”

  D’Avenant got up from the table, went to his long sofa, and stretched out with his hands tucked behind his head, looking up at the high ceiling, thinking.

  She turned her chair to face him across the Persian rug.

  “We need a powerful male,” he said. “Powerful enough to convince Grenville to resign as your executor. How’s your relationship with your cousin the Duke of Kent? Would he be willing to take over as your executor?”

  “I’d just be trading one male controlling me for another one,” Maryam moaned. She blinked, suddenly realizing she was talking to D’Avenant with the candour she enjoyed with Clarissa. She had to remind herself that D’Avenant himself, if he became her employer, would also wield economic power over her. She would still be at the mercy of a controlling male.

  “Yes, but the Duke loves you. Grenville does not. Maybe… maybe His Grace could hint at a knighthood for Grenville, you know, provided that Grenville help him out with one small thing. Something like that. Whatever means, so long as it worked. And once you got rid of Grenville then maybe you could convince your cousin to let you manage your own estate.”

  “Well, if I achieved that, Skylark would be mine to sell outright, wouldn’t it?”

  D’Avenant sat up, brought his feet to the floor, and looked at her, taking in what she had said. “That’s true,” he said, looking suddenly deflated. “Now that we work it through, you wouldn’t need to work with me at all.”

  She sat back, thinking, her lips pressed against the backs of her fingers. Ernest probably could and would free her of Grenville, especially if she explained how Grenville had looted her inheritance. It would mean divulging her poverty to him, which she was loath to do, but it would also open her path to reversing it. Ernest, of all people, would give her great latitude to manage her own affairs. He knew she was a clear thinker. Maybe, because she lacked experience in finances, he’d ask that she discuss her intentions with him before taking steps. But she wouldn’t mind his expert guidance. And he wasn’t a man to wield power for the sake of power. He had enough real responsibilities that he did not grasp for unnecessary ones.

  She took a deep breath, then sighed. Her day’s work had brought her to a different juncture than she expected when she embarked on it.

  She looked over at D’Avenant. He was resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He probably felt as drained as she did after these intense discussions, all for naught. His day’s work still lay ahead of him and it was already nearly the dinner hour.

  Of course, if she sold Skylark outright, it tied her irrevocably to money lenders for income from interest, and made her prey to inflation especially during war, which seemed England’s favourite foreign policy. She tapped her fingers on her knee, considering the lessons in economics she had learned from D’Avenant today. What she needed was a tangible asset that could generate continuing income, shelter, and the basic necessities for her family. “D’Avenant,” she said, “I have a question.”

  He gave her a tired smile. “The last time you said that the answer took six hours.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve used up your day, and I know your work still awaits. But here’s my question: Where do you get your operating funds? I mean, the money to buy and repair Skylark? Do you have it or would you have to borrow it?”

  “My Lady, that’s…” He drew his palm down his face. “Some cash reserves, some loans.”

  “So you’d reduce your reserves and simultaneously have the liability of debt. You’d be losing money for some time before Skylark became productive?”

  �
�Hemorrhaging money,” he said.

  Maryam continued on her train of thought. “The cost of purchase—that money would not be advancing the restoration per se but basically just buying you the right to work on the property, correct?”

  “Essentially.”

  “Well, how about a partner? What if you had a partner, who as part of her investment, provided the asset without your having to incur the debt? I would need an income, modest, and shelter at Edgemere in the short term, but I want a life-long share in Skylark’s revenues. And I’m willing to work for them.”

  D’Avenant sat up, cocking his head. “How would that be structured?”

  “I’m not sure of the details,” she said, smiling. “I just have the concept. But, maybe another six hours of maths might reveal how it could be equitably done.”

  He dropped his head again. “Hallelujah,” he said.

  6. Exemplary

  Lady Maryam fell into bed, dead tired, her mind racing so fast she knew that sleep would be elusive. Just after daybreak, she and Lord D’Avenant would start their trip to London and she would leave the children alone for the first time in their lives. She’d spent the day going over her list of last-minute tasks, spent the evening packing for London, and now, expecting to hear the rooster crow at any moment, she was finally getting between the sheets, if only to rest her aching body. Maybe she could nap in the coach on the way.

  Instead of going back home after the fortnight she had expected to be at Edgemere, she had stayed on, caught up in a whirl of work. After many drafts she had composed a dignified letter to her cousin Ernest, the Duke of Kent, asking for his help with Grenville. His Grace was incensed at how she had been treated and under threat of disbarment forced Grenville to hand over the executorship of her estate. The transition would be finalized while she was in London for his and Clarissa’s wedding.

  After many hours of ‘maths,’ and many returns to the drafts as they dwelt on the particulars in detail, she and D’Avenant had hammered out a partnership. They had prepared, and sent ahead, drafts for Ernest and the Abercrombies’ review, such that when they got to London the finalized documents could be signed and registered.

  Meanwhile, poor D’Avenant was logging long daytime—and night-time—hours, getting ready for Midsummer Quarter on the estate, which he closed today. Just minutes ago, she had heard him come upstairs for his customary goodnight visit to Maman’s room. Like her, he would be lucky to close his eyes before the wakeup call in the morning.

  In London, he would attend to his banking and legal affairs, engage a reputable agent to sell the village women’s lace, purchase a violin for Sarena, and oversee the procurement of supplies for Edgemere. (Sophie had lists.) He had been invited to the ball at Medway House, the Duke’s city mansion, and would attend.

  She would stay at St. James with Clarissa, oversee the packing of her and the children’s things for the move to Edgemere, serve as bridemaid for the marriage, and hostess-aide-de-camp for the final ball of the season that Ernest and Clarissa were hosting.

  The arrangement was that Ernest and Clarissa would marry by special license at St. James, and a breakfast would follow for the small gathering. That same evening, the Duke and Duchess would host their ball. Parliament was recessing a week later and the ton would migrate to their summer homes in the country. Ernest and Clarissa, like them, would spend their summer in the country, but then go on to Scotland for Fall hunting season before returning to winter in London.

  After the wedding, Maryam and D’Avenant would travel home together. And then the work would begin. Maryam pressed her palms against her face.

  La Comtesse’s days of leisure were over.

  The Duke of Kent’s city mansion, Medway House, was lit up. Carriages and coaches rolled to a stop under the portico, and dropped off London’s elite one after another. Members of Parliament, government ministers, members of the ton, and selected gentry were all streaming in to the crowded ballroom with their wives and sons and daughters. The Duke and Duchess of Kent, newly wed this morning, were closing the season in style.

  Above the music and the din of conversation, the crier called out: “The Most Honourable The Marquess of D’Avenant.”

  Lady Maryam, standing in a reception line greeting the Duke and Duchess’ guests, looked up. She had been listening for his name all evening. There he was, standing at the top of the marble stairs, so tall, so bold, so different. It made her breath catch.

  Maryam had wanted to ask D’Avenant to be her escort this night and had even imagined herself dancing with him, but in the end it seemed too complicated given the hostessing duties she had accepted and her impending financial relationship with him, so she had not.

  “Wouldn’t you agree, my dear?” She brought her attention back to His Grace Chichester Dumaresq, who had her hand captured between his. He was holding up the line waiting to regain Maryam’s attention.

  “You’re very kind, Your Grace, but I’m afraid my duties tonight prevent me from accepting more than one offer to dance.”

  “A shame, my dear,” he said. “But I shall be back for my quadrille.”

  Some minutes later, D’Avenant made his way down the line and stood before her.

  “My Lady.”

  His appearance shocked her. There was no spark in his eyes, no animation in his face, no sign of the man she had gotten to know at Edgemere. “Lord D’Avenant. Welcome. How lovely to see you tonight.”

  “A splendid occasion,” he said, and moved down the line to greet his hosts, the newly-wed bride and groom.

  Maryam wanted to go after him, catch his elbow, and ask if he was feeling ill. But the press of well-wishers gathering around The Duke and Duchess was unrelenting. Clarissa had made Maryam promise to stay near, to help extricate her if she got cornered by any of Ernest’s political “bores,” and Maryam had given her word to do so.

  She followed D’Avenant with her eyes as he crossed the room and stationed himself by the terrace doors. He stayed there, making no effort to mingle. He plucked a drink from every tray that was passed before him, greeted acquaintances cordially, but engaged no one. At one point Maryam saw several men whom she knew loved cards come as a group to him, apparently trying to get him into a game. He raised his half-empty glass and shook his head.

  As the evening progressed each time she glanced his way he seemed to be relying more and more heavily on the support of the doorway. Maryam's heart sank.

  “He’s not doing very well, is he?” Clarissa’s voice penetrated her thoughts.

  Maryam startled. She did not realize that her vigil had been observed. It was so characteristic of Clarissa to survey a teeming social landscape and see every detail, every connection. “This is not what I see at Edgemere,” Maryam said, feeling a need to apologize on his behalf.

  “Makes you think twice about being stuck out there with him though, doesn’t it?”

  “He doesn’t usually drink like this,” she said. But he did, didn’t he? Not to this extent, but he was a good friend to the cognac bottle. “Besides, I’ll be at Skylark in no time.” As soon as there was a roof on it.

  Clarissa greeted another guest and introduced Maryam. A moment later, Clarissa tipped her head in D’Avenant’s direction. “Look.”

  An older couple was approaching D’Avenant. Immediately, he straightened, smoothed his vest, and rid himself of his empty glass. When they reached him, he bowed respectfully, and accepted an embrace and kisses from the matron. To Maryam’s surprise, the elderly man also embraced him, as a father might a son. The elders did most of the talking. D’Avenant kept his gaze down, nodding, absently tracing the scar on his forehead as he listened. Suddenly, the matron pulled a kerchief from her sleeve and started dabbing at her eyes. The old man put an arm around his wife, said goodbye to D’Avenant and led her away.

  D’Avenant turned his head in their direction after they passed him. And then Maryam saw it, his one emotion of the evening, revealed for the briefest i
nstant. Grief.

  Or was it… shame. She wasn’t sure. It happened too fast.

  “Who are they?” she asked Clarissa.

  “Lord and Lady Huntingdon. Lovely couple. Quite reclusive, after—”

  “There you are!” Dumaresq called out to Maryam. “I’ve come to claim my dance.”

  Maryam took his elbow and let him lead her to the dance floor. Over the old man’s shoulder she saw a servant bring D’Avenant a bottle of cognac and a snifter. The next time she turned and was able to see the terrace door, D’Avenant was gone.

  After their dance ended Dumaresq escorted Maryam back to Clarissa and left.

  Clarissa touched Maryam’s elbow. “Why don’t you go see how your D’Avenant is faring?”

  “I’m not sure it would do much good.”

  “Go anyway.”

  Lord D’Avenant sat alone on a bench under an old pine tree and refilled his snifter. A woman came out of the ball and stood silhouetted at the top of the terrace steps. Lady Maryam. He recognized her figure and the way she moved. She scanned the grounds, saw him, descended the steps, and came to a stop in front of him.

  “Is there enough space for two? I’ve been on my feet all night.”

  “Bien sûr,” he said, and slid over.

  She sat down and shared the silence with him for some minutes. “You don’t seem yourself tonight. Is something the matter?”

  The matter? He was grossly drunk. “I hope I haven’t been so indiscreet as to make a spectacle of myself.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “You have been an exemplary drunk.”

  Her unspoken reproof broke a wall of grief in him. Grief about Emma and the Huntingdons. Grief that he was disappointing Maryam. Grief that he was so deeply lost in deceit he had no choice but to be dishonest with her. Grief that he had feelings for her and could say nothing.

  “D’Avenant?” she said, shaking her head gently. “This harms you.”

  He stood up unsteadily, clutching the bottle. He didn’t mean to stand, but now he was. He didn’t want to leave her but he had best do so before he made an even bigger mess of things. Because what could he say, of all the things that he wanted to say?