by Erin Satie
“I think my chances are good. I was amazed to discover that even in London everyone thinks I’m really very”—Bonny lowered her voice to an embarrassed whisper—“beautiful.”
Margot rolled her eyes. “That’s hardly news.”
“I have to agree with Margot. The only person who could be surprised by this news is you, Bonny.” Her mother pinned her with a heavy, penetrating look. “When a man chooses a wife, he shows the world what he most values in a woman—be that intelligence, industry, a nurturing temperament. What sort of man chooses beauty?”
“I…” Bonny floundered. “I don’t know. What kind?”
“A shallow one,” answered Mrs. Reed. “A shallow—”
“Agatha,” interrupted Mr. Reed. “That’s enough.”
“Is it?” Mrs. Reed raised her eyebrows, holding her husband’s stare. “Am I wrong?”
“Does it matter what catches a man’s eye first? If it convinces him to take a second look and see into her heart…” Mr. Reed gestured to Margot. “Don’t get the wrong idea. Most men are good.”
“They are,” Mrs. Reed agreed. “But Bonny, so long as you’re baiting a trap with beauty, you’ll keep attracting men like Charles Gavin.”
“You sound like you don’t like him very much,” observed Margot. “If you don’t like him, and Bonny doesn’t like him, why do you want her to marry him?”
“It’s my dearest wish to see both of you happy. If I could give you the world on a string, I would.” Her mother sighed. “But I can’t. And I know you don’t want to hear it, either of you, but the hard truth is that every time you ask for more, you risk ending up with nothing.”
“Give it some time,” urged her father. “Take a few days to think—there’s no harm in that. Be sure. The Gavins are proud. If you break the engagement, there won’t be any going back.”
That was certainly true. And though her parents had offered harsh advice, it seemed they would leave the final decision up to her. She could choose how to proceed. She appreciated that—and she could show them just how much by acceding to her father’s request.
“All right. I’ll think about it.”
Her parents were right. And she was grateful for their harsh words because they’d offered advice. Instead of telling her what to do, they’d trusted her to make her own decision.
And yet the conversation inspired at least one small act of rebellion. She would, as her parents asked, spend the next few days weighing her decision. But in the meanwhile, she decided she would pay a visit to the Woodclose greenhouse. To check on her Odontoglossum crispum.
She had responsibilities, after all. To her family… and also to the ugliest orchid she’d ever seen. And she took her responsibilities very seriously.
Didn’t she?
Bonny heaved open the door to the greenhouse late the next morning. She stepped right into a puddle and let out an undignified squeak. The greenhouse had flooded.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose. It was midday. Gloomy, admittedly, sullen and overcast with rain threatening. But Lord Loel would never drench his orchid house with the sun so high in the sky.
“Lord Loel?”
The more she looked, the more she worried. Flowers that had been flourishing on her last visit drooped listlessly. Petals had begun to brown. Something had gone very, very wrong.
Her heart thumped against her rib cage. “Don’t be a goose,” she scolded herself—out loud for the comfort of her own voice—before removing her boots and peeling off her stockings. She’d already ruined her best boots in London, diving into that canal. She couldn’t afford to lose another pair.
She paused automatically at the Odontoglossum crispum. It was fine; no different from the last time she’d seen it more than two weeks ago.
She followed the winding path through the orchid house and found Lord Loel flat on his back by the water tank, soaked, shivering, and sporting a pair of vivid purple black eyes.
“Lord Loel?” Bonny crouched low. She smoothed the tangled hair from his brow, only to snatch her hand back in shock.
He was burning up.
“Lord Loel.” Her voice trembled. “Can you hear me?”
No response.
“What happened to you?”
A closer look revealed other injuries. He was bleeding from his nose, from a cut on his brow. His eyes were so swollen she doubted he could open them even if he wanted. And he was breathing so shallowly.
He looked—she shuddered—like a man who would not live to see the next dawn.
“I’m going to help,” she promised. “I’ll do everything I can.”
She needed supplies. She could go home, but that would take hours she didn’t have. She’d start by searching the great house. With a little luck, she’d find a cupboard or shelf somewhere stocked with infirmary items.
Quickly now. Minutes and hours might matter. She hurried to the door and snatched her shoes so she could put them back on outside and paused with her fingers on the handle.
The drenched floor made sense now. Lord Loel had known he was too ill for his usual round of chores. He’d faced an unpleasant choice: let his flowers dry out or let the sun burn them. He’d wagered that the gloomy weather would hold, and he’d overflowed the water tank on purpose. Gallons and gallons had spilled, and now, hours later, the air remained saturated with moisture.
The effort must have so exhausted him that, once he’d accomplished his task, he’d collapsed on the spot.
She could have laughed—he’d put his health in jeopardy for a few flowers! Except that he’d invested months and perhaps years of effort into these orchids. He stood in danger of losing his livelihood.
The door to the great house was unlocked. Bonny entered and found herself in a large room with a checkered marble floor that must have been grand—a music room, perhaps, or a summer dining room—before it had been converted into a shed. Sheets pinned to the walls protected them from the piles of firewood stacked almost to the ceiling. Crates and cabinets overflowed with an incredible assortment of tools and accoutrements, everything from wrenches to shoe polish.
Farther in, the situation changed. Instead of clutter she saw dust and neglect, sheet-wrapped furniture and eerie quiet. She peeked upstairs too. The bedroom that ought to have been Loel’s consisted of a massive suite with a sitting room and dressing room flanking the bedroom, but no one had used it in years. The carpets had been rolled up and stacked against the wall, the mattress on the huge bed was bare, sheets draped all the furniture. Dust coated everything.
The wardrobes were full of fine clothes, all tailored for a man shorter and thicker around the middle than Loel.
It wasn’t that the rooms lacked personality. Not Loel’s suite or any other. Bonny found a veritable museum of taxidermied rodents in a bedroom down the hall, voles and beavers and porcupines arranged in lifelike poses on wooden stands, all mangy from neglect. There were porcelain dolls in tiny, eighteenth-century finery, swords and medals from soldier ancestors hanging on the walls, a fireplace full of split geodes.
But aside from the sunny salon-turned-shed, Bonny only found one other room that showed any sign of use. A bedroom, not the biggest, but the bed had been clumsily made up with fresh linen. The few keepsakes scattered about the room had a marine flavor; pride of place, over the mantle, had been given to a beautifully embroidered cloth. Bonny had never seen anything like it; the patterns and colors were utterly foreign to her, though she appreciated the fine needlework as only someone who took pride in her own fine stitching could.
And yet she didn’t think that Loel used this bedroom as his own. There was no clutter, none of the paraphernalia of everyday life—no hair tonics or shoe polish or brushes. Those things had all been downstairs in the salon-turned-shed.
The room was a mystery. The whole house was a mystery. Loel had a large and comfortable home that, as far as she could tell, he rarely entered. No one person could care for a house of this size alone… but Loel had grown up here. This was
his home. He treated it like a tomb.
She found the stairs leading to the basement and hurried down them. She only had a glancing familiarity with great houses, but at a guess, the practical things would all be kept within easy reach of the staff.
The spacious kitchen stood at the center of a mazelike warren of connected rooms. The first door she tried was locked. Swallowing her frustration, she tracked down the key hanging from a peg in the kitchen. She searched the scullery, the laundry, the pantry, and finally struck gold in the housekeeper’s room.
The cupboards contained all the supplies she could wish for. She filled a basket with rolls of gauze, a bottle of witch hazel, scissors and tweezers, needle and thread. She wasn’t sure what she’d do with most of it, but she’d have it near to hand if inspiration struck.
She hurried back to the greenhouse, where Loel hadn’t stirred. Even with his bed so close, she doubted she could drag him to it, let alone lift him onto the mattress. But neither could she leave him lying on the ground in wet clothes.
After a few minutes of anxious thought, she decided to remove some of his clothes. She tugged his boots free and peeled his stockings from his feet, then dipped a rough cloth into the tank and washed his feet to cool them. She couldn’t lift him to remove his coat and knew from experience how expensive it would be to replace, so she took the fine scissors and carefully snipped the threads attaching the sleeves to the body of the garment, then along the shoulder seams so she could remove the coat in pieces. She’d dry out the cloth, wash it, and sew it all back together later, good as new.
She soaked a pad of gauze in witch hazel and wiped Loel’s face clean. Matter-of-factly, with all her expertise as a seamstress, she stitched closed his cuts. The fever was the real danger, she knew that. But she would fix what she could, first, and worry about the rest later.
She swiped damp cloths over his forehead and neck to cool it. She dragged him just far enough to feel the breeze generated by his ingenious fans. She dribbled water over his lips, watching to see if he swallowed.
Loel began to shiver. Had she overdone it, trying to cool him? She chewed her lip. Even though the temperature had fallen as the stoves ran low on fuel, his skin remained hot and dry to the touch.
If only she knew what she was doing.
She lifted her eyes to the glass panels overhead, but whatever prayer she’d been ready to direct heavenward died on her lips. Hours had passed since she arrived. Even if she left now, she’d be lucky to get home before sunset.
But she couldn’t leave. Not yet.
Bonny returned to the kitchens. She found the meat cellar and managed to carve a bit of bone and flesh from a deer carcass. Emma did all the cooking at home, but Bonny had helped out on occasion, enough that she thought she could manage a broth.
She dropped the meat in a small pot, filled it with water, added salt, and built up a fire in the cast-iron kitchen stove. While the soup simmered, she stoked the greenhouse stoves with wood from the piles that Loel had stacked everywhere. At last she filled a small cup and brought it to her patient.
Loel roused a bit when she lifted his head onto her lap. She didn’t waste any time talking—she fed him the broth sip by sip, coaxing him on with, “That’s right,” and “Just a little more,” until it was gone.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she promised. “Try to hold on.”
Chapter 13
It was nearly midnight when she finally stepped through the door to her own home. Her mother must have been waiting up because she flew at Bonny, sweeping her into her arms. “Bonny! Where have you been? Why were you gone for so long? I’ve been sick with worry.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.” Bonny hugged her mother back, hungry for a comforting embrace. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Her mother pulled away, holding her at arm’s length and examining her closely. “You look like you’ve been to the source of the Nile and back. What happened?”
“To me? Nothing.” Bonny steeled herself. “I was at Woodclose.”
Her mother’s worried expression hardened. “Why on earth—”
Bonny barreled ahead. “Something terrible has happened to Lord Loel. I think he’s been beaten!”
“All the more reason for you to stay away.”
“But…” Her mother didn’t sound surprised. At all. “You knew?”
Her mother didn’t answer.
“What happened?” Bonny put her hands to her heart. “Was it one of those strange men who visit New Quay? The ones that have everyone so worried?”
Her mother scowled. But her eyes dropped… and slid guiltily away.
“What’s this?” Mr. Reed rubbed his eyes as he lurched into the hallway. “Bonny? Is that you? Where have you been?”
Bonny turned on her father. “What happened to Lord Loel?”
“Nothing he didn’t deserve.”
“What happened?”
Her father’s expression turned mulish.
“Can’t you guess?” asked her mother. “Charles Gavin happened.”
Bonny grabbed the banister of the staircase to steady herself, swaying as shock and exhaustion combined to weaken her knees. “But why?”
“I should think that would be obvious.”
“Because he told me about Mr. Gavin’s child? And so he deserves…” Bonny couldn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t believe her parents could countenance such brutality. “Cordelia had a theory that Charles Gavin had been scaring my other suitors away. Is this how he did it? With his fists?”
“Loel’s a man grown,” said her father. “He’ll live.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Bonny retorted. “He’s taken a fever. I was with him all day, caring for him as best I could. He’s all alone at Woodclose, with no one to watch over him. He may not survive the night.”
“Bonny.” Her mother rubbed the heels of her palm into her eyes, sighing. “It’s a lovely impulse, and I love you for having it. I do. But you know better.”
“You think I should hold my own reputation at dearer than another man’s life?”
“Don’t exaggerate,” snapped her father.
“I’m not sure how else to understand you,” said Bonny. “Lord Loel helped me—”
Her mother interrupted, her voice smooth and conciliating. “So he did. But will you consider the possibility that his motives are not all that they should be? When you have a good heart—and, Bonny, you have such a good heart—it can be hard to see ill intentions when they wear a benevolent disguise.”
“So if he helped me for the wrong reasons, then it wasn’t really help?”
“No, that’s not—”
“Or maybe, if he wasn’t really helping, then it’s not really my fault that Mr. Gavin had him beaten?”
“Keep your voice down!” her mother hissed.
“Because bad people deserve whatever they get, no matter how cruel or unprovoked?”
“What’s gotten into you?” her father shouted.
“What’s gotten into you?” Bonny shook with rage. “He’s sick and alone, and you hate him so much that you’d leave him to die? No. No. That is wrong and you know it.”
Both her parents fell silent.
“I’m not marrying Charles Gavin,” she said. “I’m done thinking. I won’t marry a brute. I’m going to bed and”—she stuttered, then gathered her courage—“and when I wake up tomorrow, I’m returning to Woodclose. Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Bonny was drifting off when the mattress dipped and her sister climbed into bed beside her.
“Are you okay?” asked Margot.
“No,” Bonny admitted. “I’m not.”
Margot gave her a hug. “Everything will be fine. I promise.”
Finally an optimist. They’d been so scarce on the ground lately. Bonny tried to thank her sister, but she was asleep before she could form the words.
Bonny dressed for war the next morning. Or, to be more precise, she donned an ancient dress with a stain on the bo
dice, a pair of old boots with salt damage to the leather, thanks to a few too many walks along the shore, and twisted her hair into a plain bun.
Every imperfection meant war. Because while her parents would never permit her to be seen in public like this, she’d chosen the perfect outfit for nursing an invalid.
She would return to Woodclose. If her parents objected, she would insist. If words failed, she would rush the door. Or climb out a window. Whatever it took.
She marched down the stairs with her chin pugnaciously high. Wrote a letter to Charles Gavin, requesting that he visit, and left it prominently on a table by the front door for Emma to post.
No one tried to stop her.
The floorboards creaked overhead as her father shuffled about his bedroom. He usually woke before dawn to prepare for work. He could have intervened or sent her mother downstairs to object. Why didn’t he?
A vague uneasiness followed her as she gathered a few necessities from the kitchen and stepped into the fresh air. A thick marine fog blanketed the streets, pearly in the predawn, thinning gradually as she turned inland.
The cocks began to crow at about the halfway point of her journey. She reached Woodclose before the sun had fully separated from the horizon and found Loel exactly where she’d left him: lying on the damp flagstones, flat on his back. Dead to the world but still breathing.
She stripped down to her chemise, because she didn’t want to ruin her clothes doing Loel’s rough work, and started with the stoves. The fires she’d stoked the night before had burned down to embers. She stirred them with tongs and fed them wood.
She lifted Loel’s head onto her lap, cradling it in one arm while she coaxed him to swallow a few sips of water. Just a little to tide him over while she tended the orchids.
They were fading fast. Spikes decked with flowers had begun to droop and brown. Petals littered the floor. She followed Loel’s rules as best as she could, she didn’t skip a single plant, and she’d hardly reached half of them before the rising sun called a halt to her efforts.
She finally had time for her patient. She prepared another pot of broth, returned to Loel, and coaxed a full cup of it into his belly. She daubed his lips with a napkin when she spilled and massaged his throat to make him swallow. She skimmed her knuckles across his stubbled cheeks, petting him, and murmured encouragement.