Mary-Anne was resourceful and driven, always managing to take another step when the path seems impossible. All her life she had struggled against the everlasting chains of poverty, the cruelty of evil men, and her low lot in the hierarchy of England as a poor woman. She had faced it all, and now she stood in a private room on the shore, sitting delicately beside the man she was intending to kiss. She had struggled with this, bounced it back and forth, but in the end, her eagerness won out over her caution.
She was a survivor, a warrior, and when she wanted something, she had to take it, for no one else in the whole world would ever give it to her. That was how it always was, and how it will always be, as far as she could see, and she deserved happiness. At least a slice of it. Now she wanted this kind, lonely veteran of the Napoleonic wars, who cared deeply for his family and the well-being of others.
“Do not fret over my blunderings,” he muttered, turning his head upwards to face her. They found at that moment their faces closer together than ever before. “I am a damn fool,” he whispered, Mary-Anne’s face drifting closer and closer.
Mary-Anne kissed him then, silencing his babbling. The Duke, unable and unwilling to avoid her advance, embraced her.
They kissed and held each other close in the warmth of the sun, streaming in through the window, blasting through the mid-morning fog, and cracking open a radiance of splendor that seemed to fill them both. As the sun warmed their skin, their hearts fluttered and brought warmth to their blood. Mary-Anne felt truly happy, secure, and close to swooning.
Chapter 26
Julian Bastable thought of his life as being turned over on its hinges and cast aside in some forgotten pile of discarded material. His solicitor was speaking in front of him, but the words came out low and drowned by some strange humming that seemed to grow incessantly louder, more irritating, even causing a vibration in his earlobe that eventually caused him to snap his hand up to silence it.
“Mr. Bastable?” the solicitor asked. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Julian snapped, releasing his quivering earlobe. “I am fine. What were you saying?”
“Denied, Mr. Bastable. The claim has been denied.”
“Denied, yes,” Julian hissed. “All of it?”
“I am afraid so,” the solicitor said, flipping over a few pieces of paper. “On account of the clear evidence of arson, and there being no culprit identified, as well as the dead boy. A murder investigation will be opened regarding the source of the fire. No claim can be justly delivered when the claimant is considered a suspect,” the solicitor read.
“It is nonsense!” Julian protested. “They know it was not I that set the fire! And why would I murder my own employee! He was loyal! Hardworking! I treated him as a son!”
“Easy, Mr. Bastable,” the solicitor gestured with his hands to lower his voice. “They know you did not murder the boy, nor torch the warehouse. That is the reason you are not in prison for the rest of your days nor swinging from the London gallows. They cannot charge you with the crime. They can, however, leave an open case file sit for eternity. Since the insurance men know that this will be so, they will forever treat you as a suspect, and thus, deny your claims.”
“So, what are you truly telling me?” Julian growled. “That I am ruined? Dished up? Done? Doomed to die a groveling beggar? Nay, sir! I will fight this!”
“You cannot fight everything, Mr. Bastable.” The solicitor rolled his eyes behind his spectacles. “And most certainly not Bow Street nor the coverage houses.”
“So, I am to just roll over and die like a beast in the muck?” Julian challenged, springing from his chair. “Not I, sir, not Julian Bastable! I have clawed my way, tooth and nail, from the ruddy ports of India to the merchant wharf of London. This will not break me! I have shipments yet coming in, I will need a place to store and process the wool. I must find a new warehouse.”
“Mr. Bastable, please,” the solicitor pleaded. “Listen to me for a moment, have a seat.”
“Fine.” Julian snarled and sank his heavy frame back into the creaking chair.
“There is no vacant property along the river of this moment,” the solicitor began.
“What of the new warehouses around the corner from the old pier?”
“All of them were bought last week.”
“By whom?”
“The Setons, I believe, but that is unimportant. What is important, is for you to realize that you are in no position to start receiving shipments of raw wool from the English countryside.”
“I could load and process it on my ship,” Julian pleaded.
“Perhaps one or two at a time, but you have made plans that far exceed those quantities. May I offer you my advice? As a long-experienced solicitor and businessman?”
“Go on,” Julian grumbled, folding his sweaty hands together on his swelling belly.
“I received this purchase offer from Lawrence Seton yesterday, for all pending wool contracts,” the solicitor pushed a folded piece of paper across the table. “I find it a fair offer, all things considered.”
“I will not give them the satisfaction of examining it,” Julian pouted, flicking the paper back. “They can both hang.”
“Mr. Bastable,” the solicitor said, desperation emerging in his voice. “Whatever your quarrel with the Setons, let it lay aside. This offer will see you break even on the entire endeavor, something that would otherwise be impossible.”
“So, I would be left with nothing.”
“You would not be so far in debt to various landed nobles so that you eventually find yourself aboard a prison galley. Bow Street is involved, meaning they can find you anywhere. This is your ticket out of prison, Mr. Bastable, if in fact, you are a criminal or not. Do you understand me?”
“I do,” Julian concluded shortly after the solicitor finished. The reality of the situation had sunk in; the Setons had won. They had destroyed his attempt at a new wool monopoly, and they, themselves, would be reaping the benefits. Without storage or processing space, let alone a storefront, Julian could not hope to accept the fast approaching wool shipments. Landowners all across England were committing their autumn shearing and stacking the vast quantities of wool in bales to be delivered downriver to Julian’s warehouse.
Misfortune had struck at the perfect time, and he would soon be vastly in debt, trying like a fool to sell wool back to landowners at a terrible loss.
Julian reached out over the table and picked up the proposal, flicking it open. It was enough, alright, to keep him out of debt. Just enough to clear up any business in London, get on his ship, and relocate to another continent. Africa, perhaps. There was talk of much gold there.
The defeat was stinging in a way Julian had not felt for years. Not since he first found himself penniless in India, conned out of hard-earned cash and left with three crates of discarded, moldy textiles.
“I will pay them a visit,” he said softly, standing to leave.
“I am sorry, Mr. Bastable, about everything,” the solicitor said, matching him with a handshake. “Sometimes these things happen.”
“So, they do,” Julian sighed, tucking the paper into his breast pocket. “I will take my leave.”
Julian moved slowly from the office, and paced even slower on the street, not really minding hailing a coach until he found himself at the corner and thoroughly out of breath.
Finally, a coach picked him up, and he directed the coachman to the Setons’ trading warehouses.
Their headquarters were far nicer than his, residing in an old stone building that sported all manner of Greek-inspired pediments and columns. It was with a heavy heart that he pushed open the great wooden doors and gave his name to a clerk at the front desk. The rest of the offices were shrouded by massive glass walls, frosted between their black oak frames.
“I shall be right back to you, sir.” The clerk left to find Lawrence, presumably.
Julian slumped into one of the low oak benches that matched the dark stain of all the ot
her wooden furniture in view. The office was cold, emanating a feeling of power and intimidation. Julian hated it and was envious at the same time. The glass panels must have cost a fortune to commission.
“Mr. Bastable?” the clerk poked his head out from around a heavy door. “Mr. Seton will see you now.”
“Thank you,” Julian said, rising to follow the man. As much as he was broken by the events transpiring, he knew he had to conduct himself as a gentleman. He had to face his defeat with dignity, like the Emperor Napoleon. He would sign the papers as if they were the treaty of Paris, collected and confident.
“Ah, Mr. Bastable,” Lawrence said, sitting behind a massive mahogany desk that matched the interior design of his stark, powerful office. “Thank you for joining me. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the elegant chair in front of the desk, which had been left just askew, as if it had been waiting for Julian a long time.
“Thank you, Mr. Seton,” Julian said, sinking into the black leather armrests. “Where is your esteemed father?”
“He is away. Business, you understand.”
Julian nodded complacently and confessed, “I trust you know why I am here.”
“Is it about our offer?”
“It is.”
“Very well,” Lawrence said, the glimmer of victory shining in his eyes. Yet he did not betray this feeling in his face and voice; he remained as posed as Julian in this ceremonial moment. “I have the required papers here,” he reached down into a drawer and retrieved a stack of sorted files. “Would you like to look them over?”
“As it were,” Julian said, taking the pile and glancing through them. There was an encompassing contract, and a copy of every arrangement he had signed with landowners for the delivery of their wool. “It all seems to be in order.”
“It is,” Lawrence said. “If you wish to proceed directly, we have a notary on file.”
“That would be for the best,” Julian acknowledged, bobbing his head.
“Very well,” Lawrence rang a small bell on his desk. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Bastable?”
“A brandy, if you have it.”
“Of course,” Lawrence crossed to the drink cabinet and made up two glasses of brandy.
“You rang, sir?” the clerk stuck his head back in.
“Thank you, Carl. Mr. Bastable is in need of your services temporarily.”
“Of course, sir,” Carl brought out his seals together with some wax.
“Here you are, Mr. Bastable,” Lawrence said, handing Julian the drink.
“Thank you, Mr. Seton.”
“And sign here.” Carl pointed to numerous places on the documents. Julian signed the pages, Carl stamped them, and Lawrence watched, sipping his brandy delicately.
“Thank you, Carl, see that they are filed correctly.”
“Of course, Mr. Seton,” Carl took his exit, taking the contracts with him. Julian saw him leave, and with him went every ounce of his accomplishments in England. Inside, Julian despaired.
“Well, it is done then,” Lawrence remarked, reclining.
“Not entirely,” Julian said.
“Of course,” Lawrence went into a top drawer, withdrawing his pocketbook. “This vowel is good at any London bank, as I am sure you know.” Lawrence tore the check from the book and slid it across the desk to Julian.
Julian looked down to see a number far lower than he expected and looked fast to Lawrence with anger in his eyes.
“What is this?” he barked. “It is but a fraction of the price!”
“We have already assumed the cost of the fall deliveries,” Lawrence reassured him. “This sum reflects it perfectly. It was in the contract, on the eighth page, I believe. It is better this way, Mr. Bastable. A clean break, as it were.”
“A clean break!” Julian challenged, slipping out of his composure. His face was growing hot and his mind hotter. “Or did you wish to avoid me going around to each lord, explaining myself to them, and offering them their agreed price! You thought to brush this all away! Your hassling and tricks! As if it never happened!”
“Mr. Bastable, I implore you,” Lawrence said. “It is all done with. Leave it to the past.”
“And Randolph! The poor boy! He’s gone! I haven’t seen him since Bow street showed me a blackened body of a boy! Is that just a coincidence, Lawrence? Is it?”
“Quiet down, Julian!” Lawrence stood behind the desk, leaning forward on his knuckles. “Conduct yourself as befitting. This is an office of law and business.”
Julian stood up, facing Lawrence down, but lowered his voice a measure to reflect the environment.
“I treated him like a son, Lawrence,” Julian spat.
“A son you let sleep in a penny house?” Lawrence clearly could not contain himself any longer. “And work twelve-hour days? Do not play games, Julian, you cared nothing for him, and I had nothing to do with his death. He was an orphan from Colchester who moved to the big city,” Lawrence hit the words home with a final jab. “It is a miracle he survived even this long.”
“He was my property.” Julian snarled, foam nearly frothing from his mouth, leaning towards Lawrence with pure hatred pouring out as the feud between the two men came to its head.
“As was the warehouse, and the wool contracts, and you have taken them all from me! All of it! And why? Why? Because you are a twat, Mr. Seton, a greedy, selfish, arrogant chit who has always had everything handed to him. Everything in his life! And when one day you meet somebody that your daddy cannot buy, then, you lose your mind! You endeavor to destroy this man’s career, nay, his life, and for what? All out of narcissistic jealousy, Mr. Seton, that is what you are fueled by. You will never stand on your own feet, always in your father’s shadow, even after he cocks up his toes! So, it falls to me, the one man with the gall on this island to stand against the great Morris Seton, to be the recipient of your proxied wrath! I challenge you, Lawrence! I shall draw the square with barking irons! For you have taken my enterprise and my wealth, but I am my own man, and I will not be bound to you any longer.”
“I accept,” Lawrence answered the proclamation with two short words, drawing the room to a deathly calm stillness in the wake of Julian’s explosion. “Weapons?”
“Pistols.”
“Agreed. Location?”
“The riverbanks beyond the wharf, in that stretch of grass. Your man Carl can witness.”
“Agreed. Time?”
“Noon tomorrow.”
“Agreed. Now get out of my office immediately, Mr. Bastable.”
“Joyfully,” Julian took the rest of the brandy down in a gulp and let the fine, crystal glass, fall and shatter on the floor. Without addressing Lawrence again, he hurried from the office building in great haste.
Julian returned to his office and kicked open the door, moved by unbending rage and determination. He clomped heavily up the stairs, riffling through his desk and boxes of journals. It was all worthless now. Receipts and budget projections for ten years of business was all better used as kindling. He started to burn the pages and notebooks in the furnace while drinking brandy and worked on purging the remainder of his belongings.
It was all disposable. The only thing he would need to keep from the place was the bag of coins he kept in the safe. He burned the rest of the financial documents while he finished the bottle. He removed his emergency funds and then sought out the building owner on the third floor. He forfeited the lease, along with all the occupying furniture, for a horrible price, but Julian didn’t care. He wanted gone from London and everything it meant to him, as fast as possible, but first he had a duty to perform.
After vacating the offices, Julian headed to where his small merchantman vessel was moored, a good way down river among hundreds of others. At least I will be free of moorage fees, Julian thought, as he waddled down the dock.
“Captain Dalton! Are you aboard?” Julian called, climbing onto the ship.
“Aye, sir,” the sailor sprung up. “Good evening, this,” he po
inted to the slow sunset.
“Good it is not,” Julian said. “We should prepare to sail within the week.”
“Sail where?”
“Africa,” Julian said decidedly. “We shall try our hand down there.”
“That’s a mighty long voyage, sir, we will need certain supplies—” Julian tossed him the bag of shillings and pounds, and it jingled as he caught it in the air.
“See we have everything we need,” Julian ordered. “And I shall require your presence tomorrow as my second.”
The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 19