Next month was Teddy’s birthday. He would be one and twenty. A man grown, as far as the law was concerned. Which meant that their time under Mr. Weatherwax’s power was almost at an end.
It was quite clear to her under the terms of Papa’s will. Teddy would now be responsible for what little remained of the Hayes family’s business. All that was needed was for Mr. Weatherwax to cooperate. And why shouldn’t he? After all, it was he who had set out the very rules by which they were all bound.
As she bounced along the streets of London in the ill-sprung hansom cab, Laura felt rather optimistic about the whole thing. It was Teddy who remained doubtful. He’d never cared for Mr. Weatherwax. Never trusted him.
“The law is the law,” Laura often said in response to Teddy’s predictions of doom and gloom. “Even if he is a villain, he must abide by it.”
She firmly believed that, even now.
A short time later, the cab came to a halt in front of Mr. Weatherwax’s office. It was a narrow white building with a polished brass nameplate and freshly swept steps. “Shall I wait, ma’am?” the jarvey asked.
Laura climbed out, giving her skirts a shake to dislodge the straw and other debris her hem had picked up on the floor of the cab. “That won’t be necessary.” She paid the man from the few coins in her reticule. “Thank you, sir.”
He tipped his hat to her before clucking to his horse and driving on. The rattle of the cab, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, echoed behind her as she climbed the steps to the door and firmly applied the knocker.
A young maidservant answered the summons, opening the door just a crack and peering out with wary eyes. She wore a mob cap atop her mousy hair, and an apron over a homespun gown.
“Miss Hayes to see Mr. Weatherwax,” Laura said. “I have an appointment.”
The maidservant drew back. “Best come in, then, miss. I’ll take you to him.”
Laura followed the maidservant through a narrow hall and up the stairs to Mr. Weatherwax’s office. He was just visible through his half-open door, sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, scowling over a document of some sort. When he saw Laura, he cast it away and stood, swiftly buttoning his waistcoat over the paunch of his stomach and shrugging on his frock coat.
“Miss Hayes.” He came to greet her. “Punctual as always.”
He extended his hand and she took it, ignoring the flicker of distaste that went through her when he pressed her palm a fraction of a second longer than was necessary.
“Mr. Weatherwax,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Good morning.”
“It certainly is now.” He turned to address the maidservant who remained lingering by the door. His countenance darkened. “Fetch the tea tray, Patience. And don’t dally.” And then, more sharply, “Off with you, now!”
Patience—if that was truly her name—shot out of the office with the speed of a startled hare.
“A workhouse indigent,” he said by way of explanation. “I’ve taken her on as a maid-of-all-work. Just on trial, mind. But it isn’t ideal. Not by any means. The stupid creature can scarcely brew a proper pot of tea.”
Laura felt a pang of sympathy for the frightened girl. Mr. Weatherwax could unsettle anyone. One always had the impression that he was a hair’s breadth from losing his temper. “I have no need of refreshment,” she said.
“Naturally you do. You’ve come all the way from Surrey. You must be parched as well as fatigued.” He ushered her to a chair across from his desk, standing over it as she sat down. She glanced up at him in question.
“Forgive my impudent stares, Miss Hayes. It’s been two years since last we met. I’d quite forgotten what you looked like.”
Laura folded her hands primly in her lap. She hadn’t forgotten him. He was sporting the same sparse, oily beard and mustache that he had on her previous visits. The only difference was that now the hair on his head was thinning to match. To compensate, he’d combed it across his scalp, anchoring the brown strands with a thorough application of pomade. “Yes, it’s been a very long while, sir. And I haven’t a great deal of time to spare—”
His gaze flicked to her valise. “You’re staying overnight?”
“At Mrs. Swan’s Hotel for Ladies. I’m catching the train back to Lower Hawley first thing in the morning.”
“Have you plans for dinner this evening? I expect Mrs. Swan serves an adequate meal, but it will be nothing to dining at Claridge’s. If you would join me—”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” Laura said quickly. Dine with Mr. Weatherwax? Good gracious. The mere idea of it was enough to send a tremor of revulsion through her. But she didn’t dare offend the man’s pride. “That is, perhaps some other time? The rail journey has been rather taxing.”
He frowned down at her a moment before his features softened with masculine condescension. “I forget how fragile you are.”
Her spine went rigid. Fragile, indeed! “Mr. Weatherwax, you are very civil, but if we could please address ourselves to the matter at hand—”
“Yes, yes.” He went to the great leather chair behind his desk and took a seat. The upholstery creaked beneath his weight. “You wish to discuss your father’s will.”
Laura saw no need to beat about the bush. “My brother comes of age next month. He’ll be one and twenty on the seventeenth.”
Mr. Weatherwax steepled his fingers in front of him. “And how is your brother faring? Is his health much improved?”
“It’s improving steadily.”
“But not enough for him to come here today.”
A vague sense of foreboding made her hesitate. “As to that…”
“It’s a fair question, Miss Hayes. Much as I enjoy your charming presence, by rights it should be your brother I’m dealing with, not you. Your father’s will states in no uncertain terms that if, by the age of five and twenty, you remain unmarried, the whole of the family business—interests, property, and so forth—goes to Edward Hayes on his twenty-first birthday.” Mr. Weatherwax’s mouth curled into a patronizing smile. “And you are unmarried, are you not?”
Her hands tightened in her lap. “I am.”
“And have you any intention of marrying before your twenty-fifth birthday?”
Anger rose in Laura’s breast. It took an effort to keep it from infiltrating her words. “My twenty-fifth birthday is in two weeks, sir. That’s hardly enough time—”
“Am I to take that as a no?”
“No,” she ground out. “I have no immediate plans to marry.”
He smiled again. “Then we’re at an impasse. With your brother too ill to fulfill his responsibilities—”
“He’s not too ill. Really, Mr. Weatherwax, if my brother—”
“If your brother were competent in mind and body, Miss Hayes, he would have come to meet with me himself—to settle matters and to receive an accounting of where things stand. As it is, I remain convinced that he is not competent. He’s ill, and far too frail for me to hand over control to him. Given the circumstances, I cannot believe that your father would have wished me to do so.”
She opened her mouth to object, but Mr. Weatherwax held up his hand, silencing her.
“It would be a gross dereliction of my duty,” he said. “An act verging perilously close to malpractice.”
“But my father’s will—” Laura began, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. “It couldn’t be clearer.”
“His will can be challenged. Indeed, it shall be challenged if you insist on your brother taking control. There is no judge who would remove me from my role. Not when they see how truly unfit your brother is. It’s frankly a mercy for me to remain in charge of your affairs, my dear.” He looked up at the door. “Ah. And here is Patience with our tea.”
The maidservant entered the room, the teapot and teacups rattling on the tray in her arms.
“Set
it down,” Mr. Weatherwax ordered. “Here on my desk. Don’t make a to-do out of it.”
No sooner had the maidservant set down the tray than Laura stood, prompting Mr. Weatherwax to rise from his chair. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but I must wash my hands.”
Mr. Weatherwax’s mouth tightened. “Yes, of course. Rail travel is appallingly dusty. Patience! Show Miss Hayes to the washroom. Be quick about it.”
The maidservant led Laura out of the office. “The necessary is just down the hall, miss.”
Laura’s heart beat heavily in her chest. She felt, rather suddenly, as if her corset had been laced several inches too tight. At the door to the washroom, she stopped and pressed a hand to her midriff.
“Are you ill, miss?” the maidservant asked softly. “You’ve gone all pale-like.”
“I just need a moment to catch my breath,” Laura said.
The maidservant’s face creased with sympathy. “He’s upset you, has he?”
Laura was too out of sorts to mind the impertinence. “He has, rather. He must be a dreadful gentleman to work for.”
“Oh, I don’t work for him. Not like he thinks.”
Laura glanced up. “Don’t you?” She didn’t know whether the girl was speaking the truth or not. She hardly cared. “I thought I was going to be rid of him today.”
“There are other solicitors, miss. Better ones. My own master is the best of the lot.”
Laura entered the washroom to stand in front of the porcelain basin. She needed to splash her face and wrists with cold water. And then she needed to go home. Nothing was making any sense anymore.
The maidservant came in after her. “Here, miss.” She reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a scrap of paper. Her voice sank to a whisper. “I have his card.” She offered it to Laura.
Laura took it without looking at it. “I’m obliged to you,” she said as she placed it in her reticule. “Truly.”
And she was.
But the very thought of hiring another solicitor made her feel even worse. They hadn’t any money to spare for the expense of it. And even if they had, what use would it be? It was Mr. Weatherwax her father had put in charge of things. He couldn’t simply be replaced on a whim, no matter how insufferable and overbearing he was.
“He saved me mum from being sent away,” the maidservant went on. “He’s the best solicitor in London.”
Laura managed a faint smile. She felt rather like weeping. “Well, perhaps one day I shall call upon him for help. Until then, I fear I’m quite on my own.”
Alex was just finishing breakfast when the vicar’s housekeeper, Mrs. Griffiths, ducked her head in the door of the vicarage dining room. She was a plump, older woman with a kindly face and a brutally efficient manner. The sort of female servant accustomed to ruling over a bachelor household in much the same way an unmarried sister might do.
“Miss Talbot from up at the Park is calling for young Mr. Wright, sir,” she said. “Shall I wake him? Or shall I tell her—”
“No need to wake George.” Alex downed the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood. “I’ll see Miss Talbot. If you’ll show her into the parlor?”
“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Griffiths bobbed a curtsy before disappearing back through the door.
The vicar had departed for his office at the church well before breakfast. And George was still abed, having developed an acute case of nausea after his night of heavy drinking. The slightest movement provoked another episode of retching.
For all intents and purposes, Alex was on his own.
Miss Talbot couldn’t have called at a more opportune time. Despite his misgivings about her suitability—and about her relationship with George—Alex was still resolved to have her. Country-bred heiresses were thin on the ground. He didn’t have the luxury of being picky.
Besides, Edgington Park would make up for a wealth of minor deficits on the part of its mistress. Even if Miss Talbot was besotted with George, and even if she was a bit spoiled and frivolous, it was but a small price to pay for gaining control of such an estate—and such a fortune.
When he entered the parlor, she sprang to her feet in a rustle of ruffled Indian muslin. “Mr. Archer, is it true? Is George unwell?”
“A minor stomach complaint. Nothing a day in bed won’t cure.” Alex bowed over Miss Talbot’s outstretched hand. “You look very well today, ma’am.”
“In this old gown? It’s nothing very fine, though I did have it made in Paris.” She glanced impatiently about the room. “Is George’s father not at home? Has he not summoned the doctor?”
“The vicar’s gone to the church to work on his Sunday sermon.”
“He didn’t see fit to stay with George?” Miss Talbot’s bee-stung lips pursed with disapproval as she resumed her seat. “How very unfeeling.”
“He left at dawn. George was still asleep.”
“At least you’re here. That has to be some comfort to poor George in his time of need.”
Alex doubted whether George registered his presence at all. When last he’d ventured upstairs to George’s room, he’d found George heaving into a chamber pot, his countenance a distinctly yellowish hue.
“Do you expect he’ll be recovered by Thursday?” she asked. “I’d hoped we might have a picnic on the grounds of Edgington Park. I’ve already instructed Cook on what to make. But if George won’t be well enough to join us—”
“He’ll be well enough.” Alex debated whether to join Miss Talbot on the sofa or to take the chair across from her. He chose the latter. There would be time enough to press his suit during the next month.
“Things aren’t going at all as I planned them,” Miss Talbot said. “First Laura must away to London, and now George is ill. It isn’t very much of a homecoming for him.”
“Miss Hayes is coming back tomorrow, is she not?”
“On the three o’clock train, or so she said.” Miss Talbot sighed heavily. “Oh, but it will be too late then to do anything worthwhile. And Laura will insist on reporting to her family afterward. Heaven knows how long that will take. I don’t expect we’ll be able to lure her away until Thursday.”
“Hence your picnic.”
“Precisely. It will be a treat for her—and for George.”
“For me as well,” Alex said.
Miss Talbot gave him a dimpled smile. “I shall endeavor not to bore you, Mr. Archer.”
“There’s no danger of that, ma’am.”
“Isn’t there? You strike me as being altogether more sophisticated than the rest of us. You’ve been living on the continent for such a long while. Lower Hawley must seem rather dull when compared to Paris and Marseilles.”
Alex wondered how much George had told her. Not too much, he’d wager. “Not at all. One grows tired of French casinos and supper parties with displaced aristocrats. The English countryside is a welcome change.”
“One can enjoy the countryside without learning the inner workings of a farm,” she said. “You needn’t feel obliged to accept my father’s offer of a tour. He won’t be offended if you beg off this afternoon.”
“On the contrary. I’m quite looking forward to learning more about Edgington Park. Farming is a particular interest of mine.”
“Indeed?” Her brows lifted. “Do you intend to settle in the country, sir?”
“I hope I might,” he said. “If I meet a suitable lady.”
“I can’t say I didn’t wonder. You spent a great deal of time talking with Laura yesterday.” Her smile turned brittle. “She hasn’t a bean, you know. And her brother and aunt are dependent upon her. No gentleman could ever persuade her to give them up.”
Alex regarded Miss Talbot with interest. Was she jealous of Miss Hayes? Or merely the type of lady who bristled at any perceived competition? “I haven’t any designs on Miss Hayes.”
&
nbsp; It was the truth.
Miss Talbot looked somewhat mollified. “I daresay I shouldn’t have said anything. Laura is a childhood friend, and very dear to me. But a gentleman should be made aware of such matters before he risks his heart.”
“I assure you, ma’am, my heart is in no danger.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t like anything to disrupt my arrangements for George’s homecoming. I have so many things planned for us.” Her brown eyes lit with excitement. “On Thursday we’ll picnic, and Friday we’ll drive into the village in Papa’s barouche, and then…next week…” She leaned forward on the sofa. “I’m planning a grand excursion for us all.”
“That sounds promising,” he said. “Where will this grand excursion take us?”
Miss Talbot beamed. “Just you wait and see, Mr. Archer. Just you wait and see.”
Laura disembarked from the train at the Lower Hawley station, her valise clutched in her hand. It was only a humble platform halt with a ticket office. Nothing like the railway stations in London. Indeed, at half past three in the afternoon it was all but empty.
She crossed the platform, one foot in front of the other, never knowing from one moment to the next how she was managing to hold herself upright. Her chest was tight with emotion, her traveling dress dusty and rumpled from the journey. She needed a bit of privacy. Someplace she could indulge in a brief spate of tears before returning home to share the grim news with Teddy and Aunt Charlotte.
Empty as it was, there was no such privacy to be found on the platform. She descended the wooden steps to the dirt road. A farmer was nearby, loading up his cart with goods. She didn’t notice the smaller gig on the opposite side of him until its driver called out to her.
“Miss Hayes.”
Her head jerked up at the familiar deep voice, even as her spirits sank down to her boots. She was in no mood to spar. “Mr. Archer. Good afternoon.”
A Convenient Fiction Page 6