by Erin Satie
“I know.” Bonny sighed. “I know. But the fire was an accident. Hasn’t he been punished enough?”
“Oh, perhaps if he’d been living the life of a model citizen—but you know the gossip. He brings odd people to town, and they exchange mysterious boxes.”
“Full of orchids,” Bonny said.
“But where does he get the money for them? Have you answered that question yet?”
“You’ve got it backward,” said Bonny. “The orchids aren’t an expensive hobby, they’re the source of his income—he raises and sells them to make ends meet.”
“And what’s more—” Cordelia paused as Bonny’s answer sunk in. “Really?”
Bonny nodded.
Cordelia leaned back in her chair, her fine eyes going wide. “I knew he was out-of-pockets, but…”
“During one of my visits, Lord Loel told me that Mr. Gavin had fathered a natural child. I decided to investigate those claims, and the truth is worse than I could have ever imagined. The boy is seven years old, and he’s already been put out to work. Charles Gavin doesn’t support him in any way.”
“My God,” Cordelia whispered. “Does the man have no heart at all?”
“I’m beginning to wonder,” said Bonny. “I discovered the truth yesterday, and Lord Loel happened to see me passing by in the street. I looked distraught, which I was, and we spoke about what I’d discovered… At the time, I wasn’t thinking of the consequences. Of course we were seen, and of course the news was passed on to the Gavins.”
“Shall I guess what they had to say?” Cordelia asked.
“Guess?” Bonny raised her eyebrows. ”Go right ahead, if you’d find it amusing. I didn’t.”
“Something on the order of—” Cordelia paused. “Oh, I can’t. It’s too awful.”
“It was.”
“So the Gavins were furious,” Cordelia prompted.
“They scolded me. It wasn’t until they found out that I’d discovered the child that they were furious.”
Cordelia tipped her head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”
“They accused me of disloyalty. Of—conspiring against them almost.”
“Because you spoke the truth?”
Bonny’s mouth twisted. “I ought to have defended Mr. Gavin. He is blameless. The mother of his child, however, is a scheming harlot, and so neither she—nor the boy—deserve a single penny from the Gavins.”
Cordelia, after a short silence, spoke in a voice as hard as diamond. “You can’t marry him.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple,” Cordelia said firmly. “Bad men make bad husbands, and bad husbands slowly drain their wives of energy and spirit. Unless you want to be a sad, empty shell of a human being by the time you’re forty, you’ll break the engagement. Simple.”
“My family needs this marriage—seeing the Gavins so angry scared them. Really scared them.”
“Did you hear me say ‘sad, empty shell of a human being’?”
“He’s no worse than most men.”
Cordelia gave her a long, contemptuous look.
“That’s what my mother said.”
“Your mother is wrong.”
“She’d call herself realistic.”
“If your mother is right, then so am I—every time I say that women shouldn’t submit to marriage under the current laws,” said Cordelia. “Generally, people tell me that women are the weaker sex and we survive only through our dependence on the stronger. If that were true—which it isn’t—then the institution of marriage would at least make some sense. But if sensible matrons are offering their daughters to cruel men of limited intellect, then the institution itself ought to be rejected.”
“I want to get married, Cordelia,” said Bonny. “I want a husband and family of my own.”
“More women need to put principle first if we’re going to change anything.”
“Women who put principle first need married friends whose children they can influence,” Bonny replied tartly.
“Oh, very well.” Cordelia gave up with a sigh. “If you insist on finding a husband, I can help.”
Bonny grinned. “Oh?”
“My mother’s been dying to send me to London. She thinks if I meet enough young men, one of them will turn my head.” Cordelia grimaced. “Sometimes I wonder if she knows me at all.”
“How can you be sure one won’t?” Bonny asked.
“I can’t be sure,” said Cordelia. “Though I believe the probability is extremely low.”
“It won’t be improved by my presence.” Bonny didn’t like to be rude, but when she and Cordelia were together, men tended to fawn over her and ignore Cordelia.
“That’s the idea,” said Cordelia. “I’ll make my mother happy by going, you’ll make me happy by keeping the men away, and hopefully by the time we’re through, you’ll decide that you’ve no further need of Charles Gavin.”
Bonny blinked.
“It’s an excellent plan,” concluded Cordelia. “Let’s put it into action.”
Loel had very nearly finished his morning rounds in the greenhouse when the door rattled. It was the right time for Miss Reed to arrive, but he hadn’t seen her in more than a week and didn’t expect her now.
But there she was, a tendril of honey-colored hair slipping loose from where it had been tucked behind her ear as she bent over a Phalaenopsis sporting a pair of blooming spikes—the commonest of all exotic orchids, but he always kept at least a hundred on hand. They only sold for twenty or thirty pence apiece but they sold reliably, which anyone operating a business independently could appreciate. Especially pretty hybrids could fetch a good price too—and he had plans for the specimen Miss Reed had begun to reach for.
“Don’t touch,” he snapped.
Miss Reed squeaked and straightened.
“Touching flowers before they’re fertilized shortens the bloom,” he explained, once he was close enough to speak at a normal tone. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you’d given up on the Odontoglossum crispum.”
“I’m not sure how to answer that.” Miss Reed smiled sadly. “The Odontoglossum crispum was just a safe way for us to carry on an argument about Charles Gavin. But the argument has been settled, and… well. Perhaps you ought to keep it.”
“Because I’ve won, you mean?”
Miss Reed shrugged.
“What happened at your dinner?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing. I was made to feel like a villain, that’s all.” She traced patterns on the table with her fingertips. “Hardly worth mentioning.”
“A villain? What could you possibly have done to give offense?”
“Paraded right through the center of town with you, for one.”
Loel went cold. She’d been punished, as predictably as summer follows spring. If he’d really been concerned with Miss Reed’s well-being, he wouldn’t have intercepted her. He’d have left her alone.
He ought to have learned this lesson by now. He ought to have learned it several times over.
“Don’t pull faces. All’s not lost. I going to London with my friend Cordelia Kelly—have I told you about her?”
“No.”
“She’s… amazing. Fierce and uncompromising.” Just thinking of her friend sent a quick, warm smile flitting across Miss Reed’s lips. Loel had never been so jealous of a stranger in his life. “She thinks I’ll break my engagement to Mr. Gavin once I’ve seen the city, where I am certain to find an endless supply of superior candidates.”
So she was going to London in search of a husband. Good. That was just what she ought to do. He didn’t want or expect anything else from her.
“You doubt her wisdom?” he asked.
“It’s a large city, and Mr. Gavin has set a low bar, so she’ll be right enough.” Miss Reed shrugged. “But how am I to identify him? I can’t just wander about demanding that every man kiss my hand to see if they measure up—” Miss Reed clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide.<
br />
Loel, despite himself, smiled.
Miss Reed blushed red as a beet and began to babble. “I didn’t think my parents would permit me to go. I couldn’t have convinced them myself, but Cordelia managed it in less than an hour. She sat down across from my mother and announced the trip as though it were already decided. My mother explained why it was impossible, and Cordelia didn’t say anything. So my mother explained again. She explained and explained, a little more frantic each time until she gave up and said I could leave.”
“I’d have liked to see that.”
“I’m not sure how Cordelia does it.”
“You have a good friend.”
“The best.” That smile made another appearance. “So we’ve been making arrangements. Mrs. Henley has agreed to look after the library, so long as we give her the books in advance and a list of who should receive what. And I was finally able to sneak away from my family for long enough to reach Woodclose…”
Loel interrupted. “Sneak?”
“My parents would be horrified if they knew I’d come.” She winced. “That’s part of the reason why I’d hoped to give the orchid back to you. I’ll miss these visits, truly I will, but with things so strained right now, I’d… like to have a clean conscience.”
The answer he’d expected. If she’d been punished for taking his arm in New Quay, all her visits to Woodclose must have been made in secret. But he’d needed to hear her say it—in a sick, self-loathing way. He didn’t like to think of himself as a villain, of visits to his home as a vice.
The truth hurt.
“The orchid belongs to you,” he said abruptly.
“I know, but—”
He cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. “I’ll care for it in your stead, for as long as you need. But I won’t take it back. If you abandon the orchid, I’ll let it die.”
Her face scrunched up in confusion. “But why? You said it’s valuable.”
Why? Because orchids could live a long time. Years after she’d said her vows with her London husband—she’d have no trouble finding one—he’d still have something of hers. He could adopt her silly quest; he could teach it to thrive.
And if Miss Reed insisted on returning the Odontoglossum crispum… well. It wouldn’t take an Oxford don to puzzle out why he’d let the thing wither.
“Only if it blooms.” He collected the rose and the bowl. “Enjoy your trip, Miss Reed. Good luck.”
Chapter 11
Bonny made the whole trip to London in a daze. She hardly absorbed any of the sights and sounds because her mind was so wholly and inappropriately focused on Lord Loel.
He’d been so angry.
And yet it was a kind of anger that warmed her. She wanted to go back for more. She wanted to huddle up to it like a fire, at just the right distance to feel the heat without getting burned.
The impulse baffled her. She’d never been drawn to conflict or strife or discontent. And yet all day Cordelia would say something (for example: “You seem distracted. What’s on your mind?”), and Bonny would mumble an unsatisfying answer and squirm because the memory of his furrowed brow and hard mouth and bright green eyes crowded out everything else.
She tried to shake herself out of her stupor when the train pulled into the station, if only so that she didn’t embarrass Cordelia in front of her aunt and uncle.
Mrs. Gainsway was Cordelia’s aunt, related on her father’s side, and she had the family look: tall and lean and towheaded. But she lacked the hard edge that animated both Cordelia and her father. Mr. Gainsway seemed even softer than his wife, pink-faced and smiling and thick around the middle. Both embraced Cordelia warmly, and after they got a good look at Bonny, cast skeptical glances at their niece—all pointedly ignored.
Mrs. Gainsway was a social butterfly, and soon she was ferrying Bonny and Cordelia from luncheons to parties, from dinners to fetes. As expected, the bachelors flocked to Bonny—often ignoring Cordelia, even while they stood side by side on a dance floor.
Bonny had never doubted her ability to draw a man’s attention, but only Mr. Gavin had ever seriously courted her. She feared the men in London would behave like the men in New Quay—full of hot looks and flattery but little more.
And she was right.
The bouquets started arriving the day after Bonny and Cordelia arrived in London. Huge clusters of roses, tulips, lilies, and peonies. Bonny paid special note to the orchids, looking for flowers that she recognized and wondering if any of them had originated in Loel’s greenhouse.
When she attended a dance, her card filled immediately. Despite her best attempts at modesty, she found herself holding court at garden parties and luncheons, surrounded at all times by a half dozen or so young men eager to fetch her lemonade, help her over puddles, or render any other small service.
They did not, however, introduce her to their mothers. Nor did said mothers show up for Mrs. Gainsway’s at-home hours.
Bonny was beautiful enough to enchant men for an afternoon. She was not beautiful enough to make them forget that she had neither dowry nor connections to offer.
Her spirits fell, day by day. By the end of a week, she simply hadn’t the heart for another round of getting her hopes up and having them dashed. But that didn’t stop Mrs. Gainsway from making plans, so she found herself bundled into a carriage and on her way to a garden party in the “country,” hosted by Sir and Lady Carmichael.
Their destination was only an hour or so from Mayfair in a coach and four. A short distance, as the crow flies, but far enough to exchange the bustle of the city for a more pastoral atmosphere, with stretches of field and pasture as cushions between the burgeoning villages.
They arrived at a fine estate built in the Palladian style, small but exquisite, with well-tended grounds. Bonny disembarked, took in the idyllic scene, and wished that she were anywhere else. She would rather have spent the afternoon darning socks. At least she usually had Margot’s company for the darning and a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day.
London was proving far less productive.
Mrs. Gainsway kept Cordelia close to her side, determined to introduce her to as many young men as possible. For once, Bonny left her friend to face her fate alone. She needed time to herself, to the extent allowed by courtesy.
She wandered exquisite gardens and shaded paths, a canal glittering in the distance. Birds chattered, and well-tended roses released their intoxicating scents, heavy and vulgar to a nose accustomed to the delicate perfumes of hothouse orchids. The scene reminded her of Woodclose in the days before the fire, when it had boasted a similar artificial prettiness.
While she floated idly about London, Lord Loel would be usefully employed. She didn’t approve of the way he ran himself ragged, but Bonny had been poor for too long to see idleness as a virtue.
She was surprised to realize that she missed him. That she looked forward to telling him about her time in London. She could trust him to listen. If she described the young bachelors she’d met, told him her hopes and fears, he would give her his opinion in plain words.
A scream knocked her out of her reverie.
A trio of partygoers clustered around the canal had raised the alarm. A gentleman stooped and reached toward the water while two women in summer silks faced the house. They raised their arms high and waved them back and forth.
“Help!” cried one of the women. “Help!”
Bonny wondered what exactly had gone wrong, but standing around and guessing wouldn’t help anyone. So she fisted her skirts and ran toward the trio.
Her lungs protested, but once she caught a glimpse of small arms thrashing in the water, Bonny picked up her pace. She was grateful, for once, for her good figure—because she wore very light stays, cinched just tight enough to smooth the lines of her dress and not enough to constrict her breathing.
She threw her shawl and bonnet aside when she reached the water. The canal, though scenic, was man-made. Instead of a gently sloping shore, the channel had
been dug to a uniform depth between stone embankments on either side.
Two children had fallen into the water. Both boys small and skinny, struggling mightily to keep their heads above water. One of them had been taught to swim or at least to float. He kicked against the slow current, hollering himself hoarse, and tried to help his companion—though every time he reached for the other boy, their combined flailing caused both to sink.
“The water is so murky I can’t see the bottom,” complained one of the women.
“My skirts would drown me,” whined the other.
“I can’t swim!” cried the man.
Later Bonny might have a few choice words for the three adults bombarding her with excuses. Right now all that mattered was saving the children. She jumped before she, too, found an excuse to stay on dry land. The cold stole her breath away, despite the fair weather. She spat out a mouthful of water with a shudder. It tasted of pond scum and sewage, impossibly foul.
She used her arms to keep steady. Kicking would only entangle her in her skirts, which billowed around her in the water. They caught in the current and, like sails, began to drag her downstream.
She paddled toward the boy who couldn’t swim. He grabbed hold as soon as she got close, clinging with all four sturdy limbs. The chubby arm around her neck choked her, the little legs pinioned her thighs, and Bonny began to sink.
The boy screamed and tried to climb her, shoving her under for the chance at another breath. It didn’t matter that he was dooming himself along with her; he wanted to escape, he wanted to get out of the water, and he wasn’t capable of thinking it through logically.
Bonny held her breath and swept her arms through the water in quick, hard strokes. It was such a short distance; a strong swimmer would have made it in a single breath, as though it were nothing. But Bonny struggled. She fought for every inch. Her lungs burned to the point of pain.
But she was a country girl. She’d grown up by the sea. She had strength and determination to spare. She feared the ocean, like anyone with sense. But she would not let a man-made canal defeat her.