Integrity's Choice (Sisters of the Revolution Book 5)

by Diana Davis

  Yes. And it was a little less than that that she’d sat here alone, in that refined gown the color of cherry blossoms that set off both her coloring and her figure. And he’d walked away from her. With her sister.

  She was certainly right to walk out of his shop today. It was a wonder she’d come in at all.

  She must hate him. He deserved that. Although she was as calm and placid as ever, as if seeing him did nothing to her heart.

  Perhaps . . . He tried not to think this, but every time he saw Constance, all serenity, he had to admit to the doubts needling the back of his mind. Perhaps she had never been all that much in love with him. Perhaps she’d merely been courteous to him, and he’d imagined the whole thing.

  “Fischer?”

  He didn’t turn around. He hadn’t expected Lydia to leave off her work to feed him; he was perfectly capable of fetching his own refreshment.

  His sister joined him in the waning twilight and held out a stone jar. He accepted, reaching inside to see what she’d brought.

  Pickled grapes.

  Ah. Then she knew where his mind dwelt. “That obvious, am I?”

  “We’ve lived here three years, and I know of only one reason you’ve ever brooded over this bench.”

  He made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “I wasn’t brooding.”

  “Oh, Fischer.” She shook her head. “What brings this on?”

  “She came into the shop.”

  Lydia’s eyebrows flew up. “She did? What did she say?”

  “That she misses you. And she’ll return Tales of Rouen.”

  Lydia folded her arms. “She still has your book?”

  “I suppose so.”

  He pretended not to see his sister’s skeptical look. “Surely she didn’t come into the shop to tell you she has a book.”

  “No, she was buying Common Sense.”

  Lydia muttered something that sounded suspiciously like at least one of you has it. “Fischer, we both know you’ve made a very bad mistake. Will you not simply speak to her?”

  “Do you think I haven’t tried that?” A year ago, he’d come to her house bearing an armful of the garden’s finest flowers, even prepared a speech about how the blossoms were nothing compared to her beauty — and immediately reconsidered actually giving the speech.

  That was not what one said to a woman one was decidedly not courting. Especially not when one was, in fact, formally, courting that woman’s sister.

  Not that it had mattered. She hadn’t acknowledged his simple apology, instead informing Patience he’d arrived before disappearing up the stairs.

  Constance Hayes might not have spent her nights crying herself to sleep, but she certainly wanted nothing to do with him. Clearly that was the wisest course of action for her.

  Either he’d broken her heart so badly that he never deserved another chance, or she had no great attachment to him in the first place and he’d offended her enough to make continuing their connection in any form anathema to her.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t court her in the first place,” Lydia said, but her tone did not suggest she wanted him to explain his reasons again.

  They would sound as hollow as last time: he was too carried off by his own affection, he’d overestimated her attachment, they couldn’t expect to be happy together on that basis.

  The reasons he couldn’t explain were better — but they should be obvious to his sister. She’d grown up in the same household he had. She knew how much pain love could cost. Better than Fischer did, if her own history had been at all instructive in that regard. But they did not speak of her marriage.

  “Then you will do nothing about it but stand in the garden and make faces at our poor grapes?” Lydia teased.

  “Seems safest. The grapes were very good last fall, so I expect it’s beneficial. Perhaps even necessary.”

  “Come in and eat.”

  He took another grape from the jar and popped it in his mouth. “You go in. I’ll join you shortly.”

  There was just enough light left for him to catch his sister’s worried expression before she turned away. He was so used to taking care of her that sometimes he forgot she was, in fact, the older sibling. And truth be told, she took care of him quite a bit. The grapes he was swallowing and the garden surrounding him both attested to that.

  Fischer strolled along a gravel path, trying not to remember walking this way with Constance, pointing out the flowers that were in bloom and describing the ones that were yet to come in each plot. He had not been much of a horticulturist before they’d moved in here on the generosity of his Boston patrons, but working in the soil had been the one thing that made Lydia smile then.

  The garden had made Constance smile, too, but it seemed nearly everything did. She was sweet. And probably a little too indulgent of his company. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have imagined so much that wasn’t there.

  Fischer finally directed his path into the kitchen, where Lydia was laying out a stew she must have made earlier. Yes, she cared for him better than he deserved.

  He was fetching their bowls when a knock came at the door. He looked to Lydia, whose creased brow communicated the same question he’d meant to ask her. If she didn’t know who was calling, then neither of them was expecting anyone.

  Fischer threw on his coat again and approached the door to answer. Lydia’s footsteps trailed behind him, and Fischer tried to position himself to shield her from whomever this might be, should their intentions be anything untoward.

  He opened the door. Phineas Brand stood on the front porch. Speaking of untoward intentions.

  Had Lydia not been standing right behind him, gasping audibly, Fischer would have slammed the door in the man’s smiling face.

  How dared he show that face here? Fischer had told him in no uncertain terms that no matter what Lydia said, Brand’s suit would never be successful and he was never again to darken their door.

  Lydia maneuvered past Fischer. “Mr. Brand,” she veritably gushed, “what a pleasant surprise.”

  “I’d hoped to surprise you.” He continued grinning like an idiot, and then he looked to Fischer like he expected some greeting or reaction.

  “You’re back.” Fischer didn’t try to warm his tone with welcome.

  “I am indeed, directly from the docks, in fact.”

  That was hard to credit. Fischer had never seen a sailor arrive at the docks in a clean suit of clothes and polished pumps. Surely they weren’t expected to believe his sparkling shoe buckles had just strolled onto their shores again.

  “Won’t you come in?” Lydia invited him.

  Brand tipped his hat — overly large and several years out of fashion — and then doffed it as he followed Lydia in.

  Fischer shifted to allow him passage but did not step aside. Brand met his eyes with another of his affable smiles. “I see you’ve missed me, Marks.”

  Fischer could do nothing more than purse his lips. If he’d missed Phineas Brand, he would have shot a second time. But Brand had wisely left the continent before Fischer needed to challenge him, so that had never come to pass.

  Brand picked up one of the chairs in the drawing room as he followed Lydia to the kitchen table. As if he owned the place. Neither Fischer nor Lydia actually owned the house, so the liberty was doubly insulting. The table hardly admitted three.

  “A moment, Lydia,” Fischer requested. She curtsied an excuse to Brand and followed Fischer back to the drawing room. “He cannot be here.”

  Lydia’s expression was incredulous. “Why, what has he done wrong?”

  When Fischer didn’t come up with a reason fast enough, she continued, “You told me yourself he’s a fine patriot and a good man. Why shouldn’t we entertain him?”

  He still had no way to answer — they both knew Phineas was not the problem — so Lydia turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen.

  Fischer ran through ten thousand excuses as t
o why he could not countenance eating with Brand and found none more important than making sure his sister’s honor remained as much intact as possible. Phineas Brand himself was not the problem. Fischer would have hated any man who pursued Lydia. He forced himself to fetch another bowl and help Lydia serve the stew and bread, their dishes all crowded together on the tiny table.

  Truth be told, Brand could have been quite a pleasant companion, had he not insisted on paying his addresses to Lydia. Especially after not only being warned off but also having completely abandoned her, as if his absence were supposed to make her heart grow fonder.

  If anything, it had made Fischer all the surer he was right to send him away. Phineas Brand was the last thing Lydia needed in her life. It was enough to make Fischer almost wish Patience Hayes had been a little less capable as a legal researcher on the man’s capital case the year before.

  Of course, had she been less capable, Fischer also wouldn’t have thought to court her, and perhaps some measure of pain might have been avoided. Even if Constance had no great love for him, it had to be insulting for her to watch a man so obviously in love with her only two weeks before kissing her sister.

  He was an inexcusable fool, and from Lydia’s expression, his sister was not faring better against the charms of Mr. Brand.

  Were their situation any different, Fischer might have cheered for the match. He wished for Lydia’s happiness more than even his own. But Lydia could not give her hand nor her heart to Brand.

  And every time Brand came anywhere near, she promptly seemed to forget that fine point.

  “Tell us of your latest voyage,” Lydia invited. “It must have been far to have kept you away so long.”

  Something behind Brand’s smile slipped out of place. Then he hadn’t been gone from Philadelphia the entire five months since they’d last seen him. He probably could have sailed to India and back in that time, let alone the Indies. But he started his story with a journey to Jamaica.

  A few moments into Brand’s story, Lydia kicked Fischer’s foot under the table, and Fischer startled and checked with her. She cast him the barest glance with a thin frown. But he already knew what the problem was as soon as she’d broken his fixed stare at Brand. He didn’t realize he’d been scowling at the man. It was just his natural expression when it came to men who flirted with his sister against his express wishes, not to mention any sense of propriety.

  Surely Brand already knew the reason why he couldn’t pursue Lydia? Didn’t all of Philadelphia already know? Every gossip seemed to have the story close at hand.

  If Brand didn’t, was it Fischer’s place to reveal her shame?

  Fischer contemplated his stew.

  Brand’s next stop on his recollections was the French Sugar Islands.

  “Oh, do you speak French, then, Mr. Brand?” Fischer asked, trying exceptionally hard not to sound as though he were laying a trap.

  “Only a very little,” Brand admitted. “My business there is mostly handled through my agent.”

  “Quel dommage.”

  If he possessed even a rudimentary understanding of the language, he could certainly respond to the common lamentation, but Brand remained cheerfully uncomprehending.

  Fischer carried it further then, echoing Brand’s witless grin. “Alors tu ne comprendrais pas si je t’insultais —”

  Lydia kicked him again, and Fischer struggled not to turn a scowl on her. “I call it very rude to speak in a language one’s guest has already claimed ignorance of.” The look on her face, moreover, said she also called it very rude to offer to insult that guest in that language as well.

  Fischer beamed at her as if he were not telling her to please make that guest leave. “Fais-lui partir, s’il te plaît.”

  “Dois-je mentionner Constance?”

  No, she did not need to mention Constance. Fischer gritted his teeth against a sigh.

  “Have I done something wrong?” Brand asked, glancing between them.

  “No, no, of course not,” Lydia rushed to reassure him. “Fischer was asking about the supper.” She spoke to Fischer. “No, I didn’t use pepper.”

  To his credit, Brand infused quite a bit of good humor in his smirk. “I may not speak French, but I do have a little brother, and I know what bickering looks like.”

  Bickering? Little brother? He might as well say Fischer was a peevish pup yapping at his pumps.

  Had Fischer been an animal, he would be doing quite a bit more to defend his sister than veiled insults.

  “How is the printing business?” Brand inquired.

  Fischer gave a brief answer, not wishing to share his own concerns. His Letters from the Colonies had sold well the year before, and he’d been fortunate enough to have the exclusive rights to the second edition of Common Sense until Paine repudiated the copyright and every prowler with a press started printing it.

  But while success might sit on his shoulders sometimes, it never seemed satisfied to settle there. He had to be doing something wrong.

  At length, their stew was consumed, and they had no second course to offer. “Well, we’d hate to keep you out so late,” Fischer said. “I’m sure you have much business to attend to if you’ve only just returned, and you must be up and about early.”

  Brand seemed to not know what to say. Finally, he addressed Lydia. “I had hoped to speak with you privately.”

  “That would be impossible, I’m afraid,” Fischer answered for her.

  “Your sister is above thirty years old.” Brand’s tone suddenly held fire. “She can certainly discern the company she wishes to keep.”

  “You need not make me sound so advanced in years,” Lydia drawled. “But this time, I must agree with Fischer.” She turned to him. “For now.”

  What was the woman thinking? Why encourage Brand for a moment?

  Fischer wasn’t sure which was worse: Brand’s repeated suits, against Fischer’s explicit commands, or Lydia not dismissing them.

  “Good night.” Fischer rose from the table and waited for Brand to do the same.

  “Lydia,” Brand tried.

  “I must ask you not to be so familiar with my sister.” For all his cordial words, Fischer’s request was little more than a growl. “You would do well to call her Mrs. Ainsley.”

  Lydia merely looked at her bowl, and her downcast eyes pricked Fischer’s heart.

  This was not his fault. He was doing what was right, and Lydia knew it. Perhaps she hadn’t the strength to do the same, but that was what he was here for.

  If only it didn’t hurt his sister so.

  Fischer walked Brand to the door. He knew Lydia had to be behind them, but for the moment, he didn’t care. Brand held out his hand to shake, and Fischer gripped it to draw him closer. “If you care about her at all, do not come back.”

  Brand’s brow pinched together, the first time he’d seemed truly vexed all night. “Do not presume to command your sister’s heart, Mr. Marks.” He withdrew from Fischer’s grasp and pushed past him to take Lydia’s hand, bowing deeply to kiss her knuckles. “A year’s journey would be worth it if I can return to such beauty.”

  “Perhaps that might be charming,” Fischer said loudly, “if she compelled the journey or benefitted from it in any way. Good night.” He delivered the last with absolute firmness, leaving no room for further conniving to spend time with Lydia.

  With a final kiss on her hand, Brand reluctantly backed out of the door. Fischer instantly closed it and threw the bolt.

  “Lydia,” he said, a warning rising in his voice. “Where do you think he’s been the last five months?”

  “He’s made two trips to the West Indies. Were you not listening?”

  “Without leaving word?”

  “It’s not as though we were courting. And I seem to recall you asking him to leave. Repeatedly.” Lydia lifted her chin. “Would you have any argument with him were he not courting me?”

  Fischer tried not to grumble the an
swer. “No.”

  “Then rest assured: we’re not courting.”

  “Is this what you want?” Fischer asked. He would not stand in her way even if it was wrong. She deserved to be happy.

  Lydia’s gaze fell. Rather than answer, she marched up the stairs, leaving him to clean up supper.

  He probably deserved that.

  Perhaps he should have ensured Brand knew all. Surely he would have not come back if he knew the truth about Lydia’s scoundrel husband. But that was not his place to tell, and that was one thing he truly couldn’t command from his sister.

  Then he would need help discouraging Phineas Brand. Or at least keeping him far, far away from his sister.

  Constance claimed her place with her parents, sisters and hosting cousins for dinner in the Beauforts’ dining room, papered in solid green à la mode. Almost two days had passed since Constance had been forced into the print shop, and she’d nearly been able to put Fischer Marks out of her mind.

  Even if he did still manage to fill out his fashionably cut coat very well and he was still every bit as solicitous.

  That had signified nothing the year before; there was no reason to pay him any heed now.

  Westing, the Beauforts’ butler, announced Mr. and Mrs. Randolph, and Owen and Temperance joined them. If she’d been suffering from a spell — one of Mama’s or one of melancholy — Temperance was no worse for the wear today, as well turned out as ever. Constance was never quite certain how Temperance managed to keep herself in fashion spending as little as she did on her wardrobe, but perhaps it was the way she was beaming at her husband that made her look so beautiful. Even after a year of marriage, both she and Owen behaved as though they would never believe they had found the other — when really, they’d known each other longer than practically anyone.

  Helen, Constance’s cousin, and Nathaniel, her husband, were next to arrive, his arm secured around her waist. She was always happier when he was home from the sea to be with them, and they must have left their little boy, now over a year old, in the nursery with the two Beaufort girls and their nurse.

  “Are you certain the children will eat upstairs?” Nathaniel asked David when he rose to greet his brother-in-law.