An Arrangement of Sorts

by Rebecca Connolly

  They walked to a small park and sat down on a bench, but had yet to speak again. Charles looked anxious, rubbing his hands together and sitting on the very edge of the bench. Moira’s anxiety was entirely internal, and she wondered faintly if there was any way that the butterflies currently residing in her stomach would be migrating throughout the rest of her.

  “I think I ought to speak first,” Charles said finally, his words rushed.

  Well, if he really thought so, then she was more than content to let him do so. The more time she had to consider her own words the better. “If you would like, you may.”

  “You know I love you, Moira,” he began, taking her hand in his, and rubbing it softly. “You were the brightest part of my youth, the only thing I had to keep me going. I will always love you for that.”

  She smiled, but said nothing, feeling as though her heart was quivering in her chest.

  He inhaled softly, then let it out in one rough exhalation. “I told you that the reason I headed for Preston was because I received word that Peter might still be alive. I found him and started working with him, determined to make a living for us. I didn’t write you about that because I thought, at the time, it was something to keep to myself until I knew how it would end. It was a ridiculous excuse for not writing, but there it is.”

  Moira knew all of this, but sensed there was something else that Charles was working up to, and she was in no state of mind to rush him.

  “But there is another reason why I didn’t write to you. Why I haven’t spoken of marriage since you’ve been here.” He took a deep breath, and it sounded very much like he was bracing for some sort of impact. “I met someone. About a year and a half ago. Her name is Maggie, and she works down by the merchant office for her parents, who run an inn. She also does some of the mending and occasional stitch work for one of the seamstresses in town. We met when she nearly dropped a bit of laundry as I was walking by. I just happened to walk by every day I could around the same time, and…”

  “Charles,” Moira interrupted with a gentle hand on his arm. “Have you… have you fallen in love with Maggie?”

  He met her eyes, and she was stunned to see fear and apprehension in his normally so steady gaze. “Yes,” he said in a low voice, his hold on her hand clenching. “Yes, I have. She may be just a scullery maid at the inn, and a seamstress’s helper, but she is the most wonderful, patient, kind, delightful woman in the entire world, and unequal match or not, I want to marry her.” The light in his eyes died a little and he sighed. “I wish I could, but I cannot. I have enough to live comfortably, but taking her away from her family and their business would put them in a terrible lurch, and no wife of mine will work in an inn. So… tell me what you think.”

  Moira couldn’t even remember how to breathe, let alone how to form a concise thought. But she licked her lips and tried. “So… you don’t want to marry me anymore?”

  “Did I forget to say that?” he asked, looking surprised. “Good heavens, I sounded like a miserable cad if that is the case.” He shifted on the bench and took both of her hands in his now. “I love you, Moira. At one point, that love was romantic, but since then, it has become… well, don’t hate me for this, but now I think of you as a sister. So no, I do not want to marry you anymore.”

  All of the breath vanished from Moira’s lungs as she digested his words. She probably ought to feel a little upset about this, but all she felt at the moment was relief. She wanted to laugh out loud, but that hardly seemed appropriate.

  “I’m so sorry, Moira,” Charles said, sounding anguished. “I couldn’t write to you, knowing that I was falling in love with Maggie. I didn’t know what to say, or how to tell you, and you were all alone, and I could never take away the promise that I had made, knowing what alternatives awaited you if I abandoned you like that, and I cannot…”

  Moira stopped him with a hand to his mouth, allowing herself to smile. “Charles, do let me speak, please.”

  He nodded once, still looking worried.

  “I’m not upset with you,” she assured him, smiling for effect. “I’m relieved, actually. You see, I love you, I do, but you are quite right, it has become more of a brother and sisterly affection now.” She shrugged, feeling lighter than she had in ages. “I did not want to break my promise to you, knowing you were working so hard for our future. But as much as I care for you, and always will, I don’t want to marry you either.”

  “Are you serious, Moira?” Charles asked, his eyes still as anxious as before, but with a light of hope in them.

  She nodded, determined to be serious. “I would not lie or joke about something like this, Charles. I mean it.”

  “It would have been a wonderful marriage, you know, you and me,” Charles said, still looking at her closely.

  “Yes, it would have. We would have been very happy.” She shrugged and allowed herself to grin. “But as it is, I think it would be best if we remain only close friends.”

  Charles’ grin matched her own and suddenly he was laughing, and Moira gave in to her own, and it was quite some time before they were calm again.

  “Oh, you have no idea how long I’ve been in agony over this,” Charles said on a sigh, still holding one of her hands in his.

  “I think I have some idea,” she assured him, smiling. “I want to meet Maggie, very much.”

  “You do?” he asked with obvious surprise. “I would have thought…”

  “Oh, please,” she scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “We are friends, Charles, one time the very best of friends. I want to meet the woman you love.”

  “You don’t care that she’s a…” He trailed off, looking uncertain.

  “Not a bit, and you shouldn’t think it is such a major obstacle if you don’t want others to think so,” she quipped, rapping him on the knee. “So, when can I meet her?”

  He jumped up and offered her his arm. “How about right now?”

  Moira laughed at his eagerness. “Well, all right then, if you insist,” she drawled, standing and taking his arm.

  In rather short order, Moira met the girl that had captured Charles’ heart, and she approved of her at once. Maggie was sweet, shy, and adored Charles with the innocent sort of abandon good girls always seemed to achieve. And Moira thought up a rather ingenious plan to remove all obstacles to their future. More than that, she interfered and insisted they become engaged despite circumstances, and Charles, being a rather intelligent fellow, took care of the matter at once.

  After seeing to a new wedding gown for Maggie, Moira left the new couple to their own devices, and slowly wandered Preston alone, heart and mind rather far away indeed.

  Later that evening, Moira and Charles broke the news to Peter and Gwen, who were surprised by the sudden change, but not unhappy. They were quick to ask to be officially introduced to Maggie, which made Charles exceedingly pleased. It took some discussion, but eventually, they agreed that they would not help Charles financially, understanding his desire to provide for his family himself. They couldn’t offer help to Maggie’s family, for it was too much of a burden for even them to assist in.

  Moira, for her part, could do so, as part of the plan she had devised earlier. She could be an anonymous donor of some considerable amount to the Younge’s inn and family. She would never confess to Charles that she had done so, and there was no reason for him to ever think of her when it was done. She had no intention of revealing just how extensive her fortune was, now all knew she had inherited a little. What would be the point of it? He cared little for fortune, and only wanted happiness.

  She would gladly have traded the two as well.

  Now she stood in the front room of the Allenford’s home, her thoughts awhirl. Not engaged any more. It seemed so strange to think that she was a free woman. She had not been able to claim that in her life. She and Charles had always planned on marrying.

  Had she ever loved him with the passion that she seemed to for Nathan? It seemed horrible to admit, but she did not think so
. The Charles from memory was so attentive, so charming and handsome, and the Charles in reality was still all of that, but it didn’t stir her imagination as it once had. He didn’t make her heart flit about like a caged bird. She didn’t feel feverish when he smiled at her. Never once had she had trouble breathing in his presence.

  Not that those things were all that mattered, but she could not deny that those sensations, when combined with the deeper, more profound emotions, made for a far more pleasant experience.

  Her thoughts turned to Nathan and she sighed. If only she was aware of his feelings. She was free to marry whomever she chose now, and she would choose him faster than a heart could beat, if she knew he would have her.

  But she didn’t know.

  There were times when it seemed possible, but then the moments were gone so quickly, and he was back to being either her friend, or some cold stranger she didn’t know. How could she possibly throw herself at a man without knowing his feelings?

  Was she a fool for thinking it? Or was she a fool for remaining?

  “So,” came a soft voice from the hall behind her. “You are a single woman again.”

  She smiled and turned to face Gwen, who came up beside her. “I am, and it’s the strangest feeling in the world.”

  “What will you do?” Gwen asked, watching her with interest.

  “I don’t know,” Moira admitted. “I was just thinking about that.”

  “Will you go after Nathan?”

  She smiled sadly. “No, I don’t think so. I love him, but I cannot be assured of his feelings. We didn’t part well, and I dare not hope that… Well, regardless, I need some time to think about things. Rushing off into another man’s arms would only look desperate. A woman does not throw herself at a man, no matter how in love she is.”

  Gwen started to protest, but Moira shook her head, silencing her. “Please, Gwen. I’m trying to regain some balance in my life. If I am meant to be with Nathan, then a way will open up, but I have no intention of making a fool out of myself for a man who may have already forgotten me.”

  Without waiting for a response, Moira walked out of the room, ignoring the way Gwen stared at her as she collected her things, and further ignoring the protesting of her heart. She really would love to run back to Nathan, to tell him that her hand was now as free for his taking as her heart had been. But how could she without knowing how she would be received? Looming over them the entire time they had known each other had been her engagement.

  How could he love a woman who loved someone else, even if her feelings had changed? It was as if she were an indecisive bird, flitting from one man to the other, and perhaps another, should one so well suited yet come along.

  She knew herself better than that. There would never be another she could love as intensely as she did him. Had things been different, perhaps he could have loved her as well.

  As she entered the boarding house, Mrs. Farrow trotted over excitedly, waving a card. “Miss Dennison, you have received a notice from Madame Guilford’s! They want you to come in for your fittings!”

  “My fittings?” Moira asked in confusion as she took the card and read over it. “I don’t understand, I haven’t requested anything.”

  “You will be so pleased with Madame Guilford’s work,” Mrs. Farrow gushed, having either ignored or simply not heard Moira’s words. “She has the most excellent taste. She is French, you know, and fell in love with an Englishman who brought her over. He is quite dead now, but she has kept the shop going, and gets all of the finest fabric and patterns, and och! Miss Dennison, you will positively expire with joy at her work!”

  “I’m sure I shall,” Moira murmured, still looking at the card. “Thank you, Mrs. Farrow.”

  Mrs. Farrow headed back to the other patrons, still fluttering about Madame Guilford, and Moira ascended the stairs to her room. This was quite an odd mistake, but she would certainly correct it in the morning.

  After looking around a bit, of course.

  Chapter Twenty

  Moira entered the rather elaborate-looking establishment known as Madame Guilford’s, and the sound of a bell over her head signaled to a girl sticking pins into a skirt on a manikin that she had arrived. The girl pushed some hair out of her face and smiled pleasantly. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” she said, reaching into her reticule and pulling out the card. “I am Miss Dennison, and I fear there has been some mist…”

  The girl shrieked a sort of gasping squeal and turned around, running towards the back of the shop. “Madame! Miss Dennison is here!”

  Moira had no idea what prompted that reaction, but the next was even more disturbing as another three girls came racing towards the front as if to get a look at her, and they were followed, at a much more leisurely pace by a tall, rather thin woman with a few wrinkles and very dark hair, which was pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck. All of the women were smiling as if Moira were a heavenly gift they had been blessed to receive.

  “Miss Dennison,” the tall woman said in a pleasant voice, the French accent still heavily present. “It is such an honor to have you in our establishment. I am Madame Angelique Guilford. Welcome.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, to be sure,” she responded, still very wary of the sheer number of eyes fixed so intently on her. “As I was saying, Madame, I am afraid there has been some mistake. I received a card to come in for a fitting, but I have not as yet ordered anything from you. I would be happy to do so, but I hardly…”

  A collection of giggles stopped her again, and Madame shushed her girls firmly. “Forgive the girls, Miss Dennison, they are overly excited to begin working with you. Now, if you would please step over here, we will begin measuring you.”

  “But I have just told you…” Moira began protesting as two of the girls rushed behind her and began pushing her, taking her bonnet and coat off in the process.

  “Never you mind, Miss Dennison, it has all been taken care of. We are to prepare your trousseau for your wedding, and the payment is already received,” Madame called as she followed her girls and Moira.

  “I’m not getting married,” Moira tried as the girls began to measure her.

  Madame shrugged. “That is your concern, not mine. I have already been well paid to set you up with a full wardrobe, plus a few additional things, so that is what we will do. What you use it for is your choice. Mes filles, le tissu, s’il vous plait!”

  In an instant, the three younger girls vanished and came back with yards and yards of the most exquisite fabric Moira had ever laid eyes on. Bolt after bolt was brought out and Madame gave swift responses, all the while the one remaining girl pinned and cut and measured alongside Madame with such precise skill and speed that Moira had a hard time believing that only two were doing it.

  Before she knew it, they had piled, measured, and cut material for what had to be twenty gowns, and now the assembling began, and Moira found herself stuck with more pins than she thought existed in the world, and more were coming.

  “You said all of this is paid for already?” she asked the girl currently working on the hem of the deep midnight blue gown she was now being fitted for.

  The girl looked up at her and grinned. “Oh, yes, ma’am! The gentleman was most insistent, and generous. He requested we send a card to you about week hence, and paid for all of the finest we could offer. Madame had to send off to France for this very material, which was a color the gentleman himself selected.”

  “Gentleman? What gentleman?” Moira asked, fingering the material carefully, which was the most delicate and beautiful she had ever seen or felt.

  “Marguerite, hush!” hissed Madame, who reentered the room right at that moment.

  Moira looked at her in surprise, and Madame looked only slightly embarrassed. “Pardonnez-moi, Miss Dennison, but we were also paid not to say anything,” she said, emphasizing the last words very firmly as she cast a warning glance at the girl. She looked back to Moira and smiled fondly. “It
is really no matter, my dear. Just let the gift be a gift, eh?”

  Moira thought about it for only the briefest of moments, then said, musing aloud, “I don’t know any gentleman well enough, or one wealthy enough, for that matter, to be receiving a gift such as this from him. I wonder who it could be.”

  “Oh, but you must know him, Miss Dennison!” one of the younger girls cried out, then clapped her hands over her mouth in horror as Madame spun around to look at her.

  “Sophie, se taire!”

  “Who, Madame?” Moira begged, no longer contriving to get the girls in trouble. “I will not ask any more questions, but I cannot be so ungrateful as to accept something so generous from someone I do not know.”

  Madame looked at her, obviously suffering an internal torment at her earnest words. Finally, she heaved a sigh. “You must swear that I never told you.”

  “I swear,” she replied immediately.

  Madame looked around as if to be sure no one was listening, then leaned in. “It was the Earl of Beverton.”

  All four of the other girls sighed and giggled, only to be silenced by Madame’s rather intimidating glare.

  Moira’s brow furrowed and she shifted on the stool, much to the frustration of Marguerite, who was still pinning. “I don’t know the Earl of Beverton. I have never even met the man.”

  “Well, he certainly knows you!” cried one of the girls from the back, who ducked her head back down instantly.

  “Yes, he loves you!” chimed another.

  Madame hissed rather like a cat, and the three younger girls scurried away, looking half-terrified, half-amused.

  “He loves me?” Moira asked, completely lost now. “How can a man I have never met love me?”

  A heavy sigh came tumbling out of Madame as she approached Moira and began adjusting the bodice herself. “I do not know, Miss Dennison. Perhaps it is a man you do know, but do not know well. Perhaps he merely fell in love with you from a distance. My girls should not have spoken so.”