by Diana Davis
Brand’s mouth took on a skeptical slant. “I shall endeavor, but I can’t promise much. Once Phineas takes it in mind to do something, I’ve never seen anything deter him.”
“I feared as much. Which is why I’m asking all of you for help.”
“What if we introduced him to other eligible misses?” Beaufort asked Brand.
“I suppose anything is possible. Did you have anyone in mind?”
“Well, we have to get Constance married off sometime.”
Fischer’s heart flinched. But he had no right to voice an objection.
Brand and Carter seemed to think this was a serious idea. “Better her than Euphemia Goodwin,” Brand muttered.
Perhaps that was exactly whom Fischer should push on the man’s brother. That would be fitting: Phineas could have the woman his younger brother had nearly married, and both brothers could finally benefit from her fortune. Fischer didn’t actually know the Goodwins, however, and had no admittance to their society anyway.
Beaufort was regarding him as if he knew something Fischer didn’t, and Fischer found himself unusually discomfited. “I assume you didn’t intend for us to derogate your sister to him,” Beaufort drawled.
Fischer feigned indifference, shrugging one shoulder. “‘The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war,’” he quoted the proverb.
“We’ll keep the confidence.” His patron seemed not to notice the confusion silently communicated by Brand and Carter, but Beaufort always inspired trust, and he’d never failed Fischer yet. “What about you?” Beaufort asked.
“I have appealed to them both to no avail.”
“No, no, I meant you ought to be looking to marry, don’t you think?”
Fischer tried to laugh off the suggestion, but Beaufort didn’t join in. “I should, but I don’t think I’ll find a bride in Mr. Brand.”
Now Beaufort chuckled, but did not drop the subject. “What are you, twenty-eight?”
If the man were anyone other than his patron, Fischer would have ended this unwanted prying into his affairs decisively. Instead, he simply nodded.
Beaufort raised an eyebrow. “Tu mets toute notre civilisation en péril.”
Fischer snorted at the jest. Their entire civilization was certainly not imperiled by his failure to marry. Beaufort glanced over his shoulder — in the direction the ladies had gone? Even Beaufort couldn’t know about his former relationship with Constance, but the man had a secret lurking behind his gaze. “We’ll have to see what we can do for you, too.”
David Beaufort could likely choose better than he’d chosen for himself. Patience Hayes had never made him forget Constance for a moment, and had he married her, he would have seen Constance at every family gathering. Surely anyone else would be a better choice to help him forget Constance.
And that appeared more and more necessary.
Fischer thanked Beaufort and took his leave. If only he could solve the problem of Constance Hayes so easily.
Unless Beaufort did intend to thwart Phineas with Constance. Fischer could easily believe Phineas would fall in love with her — it wasn’t hard, as Fischer could attest — but he wasn’t sure he could bear to watch.
Better to have Phineas Brand bundled off away from Lydia and Constance Hayes married and away from Fischer. But as he made his way back to the print shop, he didn’t find the thought the slightest bit comforting.
Constance excused herself from her mother, sisters and cousins as soon as she could. Under any other circumstances, she would have wanted to be alone after enduring a dinner with Mr. Marks. Did his smile still have to be so charmingly self-depreciating and secret, as if only the two of them shared in a private jest? And did her heart still have to be so foolish as if to float away at the mere sight?
That was no matter. He’d given her a task, and she meant to complete it, even if she didn’t know quite how. She fetched her straw hat and a few novels she’d acquired since she’d last visited Lydia — Mrs. Ainsley, perhaps she should call her now — and headed straight for the Ainsley-Marks house.
The walk was long enough that Constance had plenty of time to fight the impulse to remember any of the other times she’d made this journey. Lydia was nothing more than an old friend now. This year, she would not harbor a secret hope of seeing Lydia’s brother on this visit, no matter how handsome and well dressed and elegant he still was.
But once she faced the charming cottage again, Constance found herself overcome by the memory of the first time she’d approached their house.
—
As they had last year, tendrils of ivy wound their way up the stone façade. In front, the delicate, pale yellow primroses of April had given way to May’s white lilies of the valley and azaleas beneath trees bedecked with raucous pink blossoms.
Last year, Constance had thought the cottage a home for a shepherdess, so bucolic that it belonged in a poem. But the house was so beautiful, it couldn’t be just any shepherdess — perhaps this shepherdess was rightfully a princess. And a prince from another kingdom would be the one to discover her. . . . As she’d stood before the house for the first time, Constance had hurriedly retrieved a pencil and her little journal from her pocket and jotted the idea down.
Last year, she’d hoped Mrs. Ainsley would be every bit as charming as the home. She had seemed quite friendly when Mr. Marks had introduced them at Temperance’s wedding two days prior, and none of Constance’s friends were half as devoted to reading. And perhaps Mrs. Ainsley’s brother would — be hard at work at his press. She had heard many lauds for his paper and pamphlets from Patience and David. Though she had only just been introduced to him, it had made her heart swell when Mr. Marks paid her the honor of introducing her to his sister as an authoress when they’d all met only those few days ago.
That first time Constance had visited this house, Mrs. Ainsley had welcomed her in, overjoyed at the visit from a new acquaintance. They’d fallen so deeply into their first conversation and Constance was so transfixed by Mrs. Ainsley’s skillful spinning that Constance had lost all sense of the time until the front door had flown open. Constance had leapt to her feet. The sunlight streaming in the windows, she’d realized, had traveled some distance across the floor.
“Lydia, I do hope dinner is —” Mr. Marks had stopped in the doorway, every bit as well dressed and impressive as he’d been when they’d met the day before yesterday. “Oh, good afternoon, Miss Hayes.” He bowed to her.
Already on her feet from the surprise of someone walking in, she curtsied. Was it afternoon already? Dinnertime?
“I’m so sorry, Fischer,” Mrs. Ainsley said. “I perfectly forgot myself. I’m afraid dinner will have to be cold.”
Mr. Marks smiled. “That’s all right.”
“Miss Hayes?” It was not until Mrs. Ainsley addressed Constance that she realized Mr. Marks had been smiling at her rather than his sister. “Would you care to stay for dinner?”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble,” Mr. Marks quickly assured her, as Mrs. Ainsley said, “It won’t be a proper meal.”
Mr. Marks seemed to silently prompt his sister and she added, “But we would be honored if you’d stay.”
“If you’re sure it’s no trouble,” Constance said slowly.
“None whatsoever, if you can forgive my lack of foresight.”
Constance smiled. “I would rather have spent the morning chatting and eat a cold dinner than have a hot meal and cold company.”
Mrs. Ainsley laughed and bustled off to prepare the meal — and then Constance realized she, too, had been smiling at Mr. Marks and not his sister.
She could hardly fault herself for that. He was the most impressive man she’d ever met — well, aside from her cousin-in-law David, but it was hardly fair to compare anyone to a man born into the aristocracy. But Fischer was well read, well spoken and well dressed.
And now they were alone.
“Your gown is quite becoming.”
“Thank you.” She caught herself rubbing the pale peach-colored ruffles at her elbow. She and Verity had spent many long hours embroidering its white flowers, only for Verity to wear it twice and declare herself through with it.
“It’s really a very flattering color,” Mr. Marks continued.
She hoped her cheeks weren’t trying to imitate that hue now. “Thank you again; that’s very kind, especially coming from someone who must attend to fashion.”
Mr. Marks continued to beam at her, but he seemed doubly pleased, holding the edges of his deep blue coat, which was cut in the latest style with trimmer skirts than were fashionable it seemed only a year ago. “May I ask what you and Lydia have been discussing? Not me, I hope?”
Mrs. Ainsley appeared in the doorway. “We talked of nothing else!”
Mr. Marks made a show of grimacing. “Then I am worried.”
Mrs. Ainsley cast her brother a teasing expression. “Come, dinner is ready.”
Constance followed Mrs. Ainsley to the kitchen, glancing back at Mr. Marks. He instantly caught her eyes.
Mrs. Ainsley paused, regarding the small table with its two chairs. Even if they brought a chair in from the drawing room, they’d have difficulty fitting three places at the table.
“Shall we eat in the garden?” Mrs. Ainsley suggested.
“That sounds nice,” Constance said. She looked to Mr. Marks for his approval and he nodded readily.
“I shall get the table,” Mr. Marks offered, “and then I’ll help carry the food.” And he commenced on his plan without waiting for his sister’s approval, removing his coat to maneuver the table through the door carefully.
He seemed like a very solicitous brother, very eager to help. Constance happily consented to carry dried peaches and pickled grapes — this would be a rather unusual meal, but how fortunate that they had so much in their cellar.
Mr. Marks insisted that Constance seat herself on the garden bench where he’d placed the table, and he and Mrs. Ainsley fetched the rest of the food and another chair. Constance admired the garden, flights of hyacinths and daffodils mingled with myrtles and more primroses. The garden wasn’t overly large, but it was clearly well loved.
Mr. Marks took the chair, and Mrs. Ainsley settled onto the bench next to Constance. She turned to her new seatmate. “Mrs. Ainsley —”
“Please, won’t you call me Lydia?”
“I would be honored. Will you call me Constance?”
Mrs. Ainsley — Lydia — brightened. “Certainly.”
“Well,” Mr. Marks interjected, “let us not stand on ceremony.”
Constance looked to him. “Pardon? Did you wish for us to be informal as well?”
“If I don’t make myself too forward, that is.”
She could scarcely allow herself to meet his gaze much longer for fear of the same mistake herself. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Excellent, you may call me Marks then.”
She gasped a little. Lydia was the first to burst into laughter, probably at the surprise on Constance’s face. “He’s joking,” Lydia assured her. “Call him Fischer.”
“Are you certain?” she asked Lydia as much as . . . Fischer.
“To be sure.” He smiled at her, and the laughter in his warm brown eyes felt like something they shared. “We’re very egalitarian here.”
Sitting there in his shirtsleeves only served to bolster his reassurance, putting her at ease. Constance found herself staring at him once again.
Fischer leaned forward over the table, and she again realized how small it was. “Would you permit me to call you Constance? You don’t have to —”
“I would like that very much.”
Lydia murmured something to her brother that sounded like French, and he responded the same. Before Constance could ask, Lydia took her arm. “Please excuse me, I remember we have some pickled limes that would be delicious with this dinner.”
“I do love pickled limes,” Constance said.
“Then I shall search twice as hard.”
Fischer commented to his sister in French again as she passed. “Do you speak French?” Constance asked.
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Oh, I read a little French, but I’ve never learned to speak it much.”
“Ah. Our mother was from France.”
“Really?” Constance could seldom admit to this, given the numerous wars and rivalries between Great Britain and France, but she hoped she could confide in Fischer. “I’m quite fascinated by France.”
“Vraiment?” He beamed at her. “Well, we’ve never been, but Maman missed it terribly.” His smile faded.
Constance grasped for something to change the subject away from this topic that caused him pain. She checked the dishes on the small table. “Do you have the pickled grapes?”
He held up the stone jar in his hands. “Would you like them?”
“Oh, if you’re eating them —”
Before she could finish, Fischer had risen, rounded the table and joined her on the bench.
—
The instant he came in contact with her in her memory, Constance drew in a gasp, pulling herself out of the remembrance and back to the proper year and frame of mind again. For all that he’d seemed ready to court her last year, Fischer Marks had not acted upon that intention, and she was not standing at his cottage for him now.
Firmly and fully in the present year once more, Constance squared her shoulders and hid away any other memory that might threaten. All that had ended a year ago — but it was best not to remember. If she could banish that final visit from her mind forever, she might be perfectly happy for the rest of her life, even — especially — without Fischer Marks.
But she could still be friends with Lydia now. It had been long enough. She ought to be able to bear it. Constance finally approached the door and knocked. Lydia answered after a moment, and her brown eyes lit up. Her blonde hair was tucked under her cap and her fine features broke into a smile. “Constance — I mean, Miss Hayes?” Her voice wavered in uncertainty, as if she weren’t sure whether they could be familiar after so long.
“Please,” Constance said. “I’ve missed you so.”
Lydia threw open her arms, and Constance embraced her. She couldn’t be sure if Lydia had any idea why Fischer had called off their would-be courtship or what happened afterward with Patience, but none of that need stand in the way of their friendship if Constance could bear it.
Constance seated herself beside Lydia’s spinning wheel, noting the bobbins on the three-tiered lazy Kate. She must be plying yarns together today. Constance took up changing out the bobbins on the Kate holder whenever she ran out, and she and Lydia took nearly half an hour in catching up about their lives. They passed another hour discussing books, and Constance shared the novels of her own she’d brought. Too late, she realized her mistake and sheepishly apologized for not returning Tales of Rouen and one or two other volumes, though Lydia dismissed her chagrin.
At last, Constance was ready to broach the subject which had brought her here. Perhaps Fischer was wrong about Lydia’s feelings toward Phineas Brand. “I’ve hardly seen you since Patience’s engagement party.”
For a brief moment, Constance regretted mentioning it. When Papa had surprised the attendees with the announcement of Patience’s happiness, she’d thought both Fischer and Lydia had seemed uncomfortable.
And then Fischer had met her eyes.
And she’d turned away.
“I know, I’m afraid I was quite ill during her wedding feast.” Lydia grew sad and distant, and Constance was worried she’d injured her friend anew.
“‘Twas a pity,” Constance noted, trying to keep her tone light. “You missed the elder Mr. Brand.”
This time, her smile was untinged with sadness. And that was indeed worrisome.
“Did you know he’s back?” Lydia said. “He’s been at se
a since about then.”
“I’d heard a rumor.” Constance remembered she probably shouldn’t mention Fischer — Mr. Marks — had supplied this information. “I mean, his brother is married to my sister.”
“Oh, of course, obviously.” Lydia’s grin had continued unabated all this time.
“You’ve seen him, then?” Constance asked.
“Yes, he joined us for supper last night.”
Constance found her own resolve crumbling. She’d only just reconciled with her friend, and Lydia seemed truly happy. Could Constance ask her to sacrifice her own happiness?
It would be truly cruel. She dared not do it.
But Fischer had been so worried.
Mr. Marks.
She could at least ask a few pertinent questions. “Has Mr. Brand made his intentions known?”
Lydia bit her lip and seemed to find dipping her fingers in the water bowl to spin the flax to require all her attention. “Not exactly,” she sidestepped.
Constance softened her voice further. “Does he wish to marry you?”
“I believe he may, though he hasn’t broached the subject.” And that was all it took for her to grow wistful. “I know,” she sighed. “I ought to put him off. I don’t mean to encourage him. It’s just that when I’m with him, I feel . . .” She sighed again, but this time it was as if she were floating away in happiness.
Constance had known that feeling, in this very house. And she could not forget what came after.
Fischer hadn’t told Constance very much of Lydia’s situation, but she knew enough to know that the same crushing disappointment awaited her friend. “It may be best to end things now, before the attachment grows greater.” Her voice caught on the last word, and Lydia turned to her.
“Oh, my dear.” She didn’t say if she knew the reason for Constance’s emotion — Constance wasn’t sure she knew herself, really, as it had all been over and done so long ago. She’d shed her tears — days and weeks of them — and she’d had her heartache. Really, it had gotten considerably easier over the last year.
Until she’d been faced with Fischer again. Twice in three days.