As You Are

by Eden, Sarah M.

  Clara gently shushed her.

  “She looks a great deal like you,” Mr. Finley observed. “A beautiful child.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Clara made no move to sit or to offer him a chair. Where was Suzie?

  “Come now, Mrs. Bentford.” Mr. Finley smiled artfully at her. “Can we not sit and enjoy a cup of tea? Perhaps we might discuss the fine weather we have been enjoying.”

  “I do not entertain callers on Fridays, Mr. Finley.” She allowed a reprimand to tint her words.

  “You must grow lonely”—Mr. Finley moved closer still—“without a single soul coming to call all the day long.”

  His observation felt like a threat, as if he meant to remind her of her isolated and unprotected state.

  “Your concern is appreciated,” Clara lied, “but I assure you I am quite content.”

  “My dear,” Mr. Finley said, moving forward. Little more than a foot remained between them. “I would have you more than content. I would wish for you to be joyously happy.”

  Even his joyously happy sounded ominous. Clara was pressed against the back of the sofa with no way to maneuver around Mr. Finley. He stood too close and appeared far too satisfied with the arrangement.

  The door opened. Clara’s heart thudded ever harder. Edmund took a single step inside, clutching Mr. Jonquil’s sleeve, his countenance tight and worried.

  “Mr. Jonquil.” Clara hoped she sounded welcoming. She attempted to slip around Mr. Finley, who was quite effectively blocking her path. Mr. Jonquil was far preferable to Mr. Finley, even if he looked as disapproving as ever. “Do come in.”

  “I was—I have a book. For Edmund.” Mr. Jonquil’s eyes darted between her and Mr. Finley.

  “He promised to bring it,” Edmund quietly explained.

  Clara glanced quickly at the book in Edmund’s hand.

  “Mister!” Alice recognized their visitor quite suddenly. She bolted from Clara’s side and threw her arms around Mr. Jonquil’s right leg.

  “Alice,” Mr. Jonquil quietly greeted, gently patting Alice’s head.

  “Will you not come sit for a while?” Clara offered. Please stay, she silently pleaded. She was willing to fight for herself and the children but knew Mr. Jonquil’s presence would make that far easier. Mr. Finley was already less discomforting.

  “I cannot stay.” Mr. Jonquil’s eyes settled on Mr. Finley, his expression unreadable.

  “A moment at least?” she pressed. Please.

  Mr. Jonquil shook his head, his mouth set in a tight line.

  “Havenworth,” Clara blurted. “Mr. Finley was only just saying he has business at Havenworth. Indeed, he told me that was the very reason he was in the neighborhood.”

  Mr. Finley finally turned to Mr. Jonquil. They offered curt bows.

  “Finley,” Mr. Jonquil acknowledged the other man.

  “Jonquil,” was the equally ungallant reply.

  Clara slipped out of reach while Mr. Finley was distracted.

  “What business do you have at Havenworth?” Mr. Jonquil asked quietly.

  “Rumor has it Lord Cavratt will be descending on you shortly,” Mr. Finley said, with something like a smirk on his face. “Coming to look over the animals to be auctioned in a few months’ time.”

  Mr. Jonquil’s nod seemed reluctant.

  “I understand a brother or two will also be arriving,” Mr. Finley added. “As I am considering purchasing a pair for my phaeton, I thought I should have a peek myself.”

  “You can look,” Mr. Jonquil replied calmly. “But . . . but I decide who buys.”

  “Still harboring a little resentment, Jonquil?” Mr. Finley chuckled menacingly as he made his way closer to the doorway. He turned, a foot or two from Mr. Jonquil, and looked back at Clara. “Good day, my dear,” he offered with a sweeping bow.

  The two gentleman bumped shoulders as Mr. Finley passed through the doorway. Mr. Jonquil did not budge. He looked angry. Outside, horse’s hooves clattered away from the cottage. Clara breathed easier. Mr. Finley was gone.

  Mr. Jonquil, however, was not. He watched her quite closely, his gaze never wavering. She could think of nothing to say. Why did he look disappointed beneath his stern expression? And why did she feel guilty being the recipient of such a look? She’d done nothing wrong. Indeed, she’d defended herself against an ill-meaning man. She’d stood her ground. She had effectively sent Mr. Finley off.

  After a moment, Mr. Jonquil bowed quite properly, though not as elegantly as Mr. Finley had. Clara thought she heard a “Good day.”

  “And to you, Mr. Jonquil,” Clara managed, fighting a sudden urge to tear up. It was a completely illogical reaction but was forceful enough that she could not ignore it.

  What was happening to her? She had always been levelheaded. She never cried without reason, never found her emotions rising to the surface without warning. The past six months she had been stronger than in all the twenty-two years before that. Why was she crumbling now?

  “I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Jonquil,” Edmund said anxiously. Mr. Jonquil nodded at him and ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “Mister!” Alice called out to him, arms outstretched.

  He paused long enough to hunch down and kiss the top of her head before turning and walking away. The kindness of that gesture momentarily captured Clara’s entire attention.

  Mr. Finley’s exit had brought immediate, palpable relief. For reasons Clara could not begin to understand, seeing Mr. Jonquil go—Mr. Jonquil, who seemed to perpetually disapprove of her, who seemed ever eager to be out of her company—did not bring any relief, only a growing sense of confusion.

  Chapter Nine

  Finley. Why was it always Finley?

  The only scuffle Corbin had had at Eton had been with Finley. Stanley, Corbin’s younger brother, now a captain with the Thirteenth Light Dragoons, had been in his first year at school and was suffering through a severe bout of homesickness. Finley and a few other boys several years older than Corbin had found Stanley’s dejection quite humorous and had joined forces to make him as miserable as possible.

  In the end, Corbin probably wouldn’t have been sent down over the fight that had ensued if he hadn’t dropped four of them, including Finley, who’d come out of the ordeal with a bloodied but not-quite-broken nose. Corbin had made a mess of the entire group of bullies, a use of force the headmaster had deemed “a bit excessive.”

  Corbin had expected a severe dressing down from Father. “You must have been severely provoked,” Father had said as they’d walked along the River Trent during Corbin’s fortnight of banishment at home. “What did they do?”

  “They hurt Stanley.”

  “Stanley needs to learn to fight his own battles,” Father said.

  Corbin clamped down his disappointment and nodded.

  “So give him a few pointers when you get back, will you?”

  Corbin looked up at Father then and saw him grinning. He smiled back.

  “Dropped four of them, did you?” Father nodded his head in a way that spoke of pride.

  “It felt good,” Corbin answered.

  Father laughed out loud and ruffled his hair. They spent the next half hour talking over the skirmish. Father offered some advice and taught Corbin a few of the finer points of pugilism. It was one of Corbin’s fondest memories. Father lived only another four years.

  Finley kept his distance from Corbin for some time after their skirmish, though he taunted him ceaselessly. Anytime Corbin found himself in an embarrassing situation, Finley seemed to be there.

  Philip and Layton, the two oldest Jonquils, and Crispin Handle, who’d been like another Jonquil from the time he and Philip had met at Eton, had realized Finley’s personal vendetta against Corbin, and a year almost to the day after that bloody fistfight, they’d somehow managed to remove every pair of trousers and underclothes from Finley’s room. Seeing George Finley roaring mad, his chicken-thin legs exposed beneath his barely long-enough shirt, had been one of the finer moments of C
orbin’s educational experience.

  From that point on, Finley and the Jonquils, including Crispin, had been rivals.

  Now Finley was after Clara. If the scene Corbin had stumbled on at Ivy Cottage the evening before was any indication, Finley was making far more progress than he was.

  My dear. He’d called her my dear. And she hadn’t corrected him.

  Clara couldn’t possibly know what Finley was truly like. Her late husband—if Edmund’s account was accurate, and Corbin felt certain it was—had been boorish and unkind and, though Edmund hadn’t said as much, Corbin suspected the man had been abusive as well, with his words and his hands.

  Finley would be no better. He was arrogant to the point of being dangerous. So sure was he that he deserved to be given anything he demanded that he lashed out when denied. Women were his targets more often than not. Perhaps because they were inherently more vulnerable. The law, society, the indifference of far too many men, all conspired to leave too many women unprotected and undervalued.

  Corbin didn’t know what to do. Even if Clara had no interest in him, she deserved far better than Finley.

  “Vis’tors.” Jim interrupted Corbin’s thoughts.

  Corbin looked up. Two coaches sat under the portico. He’d been expecting Crispin and Catherine and recognized the Cavratt crest emblazoned on the side of one of the coaches. The other coach was one of the unmarked carriages from the Lampton stables—Corbin had spent so much time in those stables he recognized each of the equipages on sight.

  Had Mater come as well? If she had, Charlie, the youngest Jonquil at only seventeen, would be with her, as would Caroline, Corbin’s little niece. If Mater had traveled from the Park, it could only mean one thing: Charlie had managed to get himself in trouble. Philip had left Corbin in charge for just that reason. Charlie was always in trouble.

  Simmons looked pleased when Corbin reached the front doors of Havenworth. They seldom had visitors—having people around made Corbin nervous. His unease was a little less pronounced with his family. And, he realized with a smile, with Edmund. He enjoyed the boy tremendously.

  “The Dowager Lady Lampton, Lord and Lady Cavratt, Mr. Jason Jonquil, Mr. Harold Jonquil, Mr. Charles Jonquil, and Miss Caroline Jonquil.” Simmons quickly rattled off the list of arrivals. Ever since coming to Havenworth, Simmons had made a practice of warning Corbin of any and all visitors. Corbin hadn’t needed to ask him to; Simmons simply seemed to understand.

  It was something of a family reunion. Even Harry had come. Corbin nodded to Simmons and swiftly walked to the sitting room.

  “Good day, dear.” Mater greeted him with an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “Forgive us for descending on you without warning, but if we had remained at the Park one day longer, I would probably have killed your brother.”

  She smiled as if sincere. Corbin glanced across at Charlie, who sat slouched in a chair at the far end of the room. Corbin looked back at Mater, allowing a question to enter his eyes.

  Mater seemed to understand the unspoken “What did Charlie do this time?”

  “He took Philip’s phaeton at an unnatural pace down the lane outside Squire Hampton’s home,” she explained. “Only by some miracle, he managed not to run Arabella Hampton down, though he positively ruined her gown.”

  “I didn’t know it was muddy,” Corbin thought he heard Charlie grumble.

  “And last week he wasted an entire afternoon strutting like a peacock around Collingham,” Mater continued. “I have not yet stopped hearing how ridiculous he was.”

  Charlie always seemed to be in some scrape or another when at home. He’d been nearly perfectly behaved during their Christmas holiday in Suffolk. Corbin had never heard a word about trouble at school. But at home, it was an entirely different story. Why was that?

  “I had hoped we might remain until the workers finished remodeling the dower house,” Mater said. “That might mean a fortnight or more.”

  “Of course.” Corbin always enjoyed having his mother visit.

  “Harold is only here for the day,” Mater volunteered. “He has a sermon in the morning.”

  Harold nodded quite seriously, wearing the pious look on his face that always indicated he was pondering something of deep, doctrinal significance. If not for the fact that he wore that look most of the time, Corbin might have found it a reliable measure of Harold’s thoughts.

  “Uncle Corbo?” A little voice captured his attention.

  He looked down into the face of a golden-haired angel, her bright blue eyes wide and inquiring and, to his instant dismay, teary. He scooped his little niece into his arms.

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “When is my papa coming home?”

  Her father and his new wife were on an extended wedding trip. “In another week, Caroline,” Corbin answered.

  Mater smiled at the two of them and crossed the room to sit on a sofa. She was probably quite worn out with the energetic five-year-old at the house, not to mention enduring Charlie’s often-embarrassing escapades.

  “And Mary will come back too?” Caroline inquired after her new stepmother, whose name was actually Marion.

  She will come home with your papa. Corbin nodded.

  “If we write them a letter, will they come home sooner?”

  Corbin smiled. “Are . . . are you unhappy? Grammy and Uncle Charming aren’t . . . aren’t keeping you company?” Caroline had rather amusing names for all of her relatives. Philip’s wife, Sorrel, had become “Swirl.” Corbin wondered what name Caroline would craft for Clara, given the chance.

  “Charming is never at home, and Grammy gets tired.”

  A bolt of inspiration hit at that moment. “Two of my neighbors are children,” Corbin whispered to Caroline. “Would you like to meet them?”

  “Oh, Uncle Corbo!” She squeezed his neck tighter. “No one plays with me anymore. Mary just wants to be with Papa. And I want to have friends to play with.”

  “I will write to”—Clara—“their mother.”

  “Thank you.” Caroline grinned. “You’re the best uncle in the whole world!”

  “That is a rather bold declaration for a young lady with seven uncles,” Corbin’s twin, Jason, said from nearby, a chuckle in his tone. Seven included Crispin, Lord Cavratt. “Aren’t I your favorite uncle?” Jason smiled at Caroline.

  “You’re my favorite uncle in London,” Caroline clarified quite matter-of-factly.

  “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with that.” Jason shrugged. “How are you, Corbin?”

  Corbin nodded, his usual response to most questions.

  “What did you do to earn the title of favorite uncle?” Jason asked when Caroline abandoned them and skipped across the room to where Crispin and his wife, Catherine, were engaged in a private conversation.

  “Invited children.”

  “For her to play with,” Jason finished the thought. They’d been able to do that all their lives, communicate without actually speaking to each other. It had been convenient for Corbin, who preferred not talking. “Genius. The only thing I brought from London was a bag of toffee and a monumental headache.”

  Corbin looked at his twin. They weren’t identical but, as Jonquils, looked alike. The headache, Corbin knew instinctively, was not illness-induced but was brought on by tension. “Difficult case?” he asked. Jason was a barrister.

  “A difficult client,” Jason muttered, obvious disapproval and annoyance on his face. But in his eyes, there was also frustration of a different type.

  “Is she?” Corbin asked.

  “Despite the fact that I am her legal counsel, Miss Thornton is convinced she knows better than I do on every matter. She descends on my office unannounced and expects immediate and undivided attention. She is a harpy of the first order, but my secretary as well as every other barrister in the entire building is practically falling at her feet. And—” Jason stopped abruptly. “How did you know this client was a she?”

  Corbin just smiled.

  “Are y
ou dealing with a difficult woman too, Corbin?” Jason asked, a little amusement sneaking across his face.

  “Not difficult. Just—”

  “Elusive,” Jason finished for him.

  Corbin nodded.

  “Is she a harpy?” Jason asked as if warning him.

  Corbin shook his head no.

  “Does she order you around?”

  Corbin chuckled and shook his head again.

  Jason nodded his approval. “You’re having trouble winning her over?”

  “She doesn’t notice me.” At all.

  Jason’s look became quite knowing. “That’s your problem. You have to make an impression.”

  Corbin sighed. “Philip said . . .” He finished with a nod, knowing Jason would understand what he meant to say.

  “You haven’t been listening to Philip, have you? He probably told you to dress like a fop and simper about.” Jason shook his head. “No lady is interested in a gentleman who wears brighter colors than she does.”

  It hadn’t gone well, that was for sure and certain. Corbin had yet to determine a better approach for capturing Clara’s attention. He’d summoned the courage to go to Ivy Cottage the day before, hoping he could at least manage a somewhat sensible conversation. But Finley had already been there.

  “I will tell you what you need to do,” Jason began, but Crispin interrupted in the next moment.

  “Is there time to go down to the stables today, Corbin?” he asked, an eagerness in his tone that Corbin had never heard.

  “Crispin,” Catherine lightly scolded.

  Corbin nodded. “The mare you asked about is there.”

  “Good. Good. And I need to look over your ponies as well.”

  Ponies? What need did Crispin have for a pony?

  “Crispin.” Catherine repeated her plea. This time her face had pinked with obvious embarrassment.

  “Catherine.” Crispin turned back to her. “We will have to have a pony.”

  “But not immediately,” she whispered, her color intensifying.

  “How soon do you need it? The pony?”

  “In the fall,” Crispin answered without hesitation.

  “Crispin.” The plea had turned almost frantic.