by Erin Satie
Almost every aspect of life at sea reminded man of his essential powerlessness. Even calm waters could kill—strong currents could send ships off course, underwater reefs and icebergs might tear the hull—and except for the new, steam-powered ships that had begun to ply the Atlantic, sailors lived and died by the wind.
Storms stole all the tools that human beings relied on to survive a crisis. Thunder deafened sailors, lashing rain blinded them, roiling waves took their balance and sense of direction. Standing still on deck during a tempest took more strength than most people would even dream of possessing—physical and mental—and yet the lowliest job aboard a seaworthy vessel required as much, and more.
When a storm rolled in, a ship’s crew united with a single goal: survive. Often it seemed impossible. But by breaking this impossible goal into a series of manageable tasks, it could be accomplished. Sometimes.
In that spirit, Loel set aside for later contemplation the injustice perpetrated by Charles Gavin, the complicity of the town that had left Loel to fend for himself, the hours he’d spent limping and ultimately crawling home. He did not concern himself with the future of his nursery. He did not think of Bonny Reed, even as he dug through the basket of food she’d left behind.
He assessed his strength and judged it meager. So he chewed at the loaf of dark bread she’d brought and drank from the reservoir she’d filled, then stumbled into the yard to collect firewood.
The fresh air set his teeth to chattering.
Biting out a curse under his breath, Loel continued into the house to dress. The sun had moved appreciably westward by the time he had a full set of fresh clothes tucked and buttoned into place.
Armed against the mild weather, he began hauling firewood into the greenhouse. He had to force himself through every step of the process. Bending and kneeling made him dizzy. Carrying an armload of two logs—when usually he managed four, at twice the speed—from the yard into the orchid house left him panting with exhaustion.
By the time he’d finished, he’d drenched himself in cold sweat and his stomach felt like it had succumbed to rot. He collapsed onto his bed, groaning as the world spun around him, and reached for Miss Reed’s basket of food.
He seized a jar full of amber-colored liquid, twisted off the cap, and drank. He recognized the flavor, bay leaf and thyme giving depth to a savory beef stock. It was equally delicious and revolting—because it had absorbed, as is the nature of broths, something of its environment, and now it tasted like weakness, like malaria.
His memories from the past days were hazy, at best. But he remembered Bonny Reed bending over him, wearing a gauzy shift, her skin dewy. He’d have believed he’d died and gone to heaven if her nipples hadn’t been visible through the cloth, rosy pink and tempting.
“Am I dreaming?” he’d asked.
“Yes,” she’d answered—without a trace of humor in her voice. “You’re dreaming.”
She’d lied. Why had she lied?
Why had she kissed him? He had not taken her for the sort of woman who made—or broke—promises lightly. But she’d kissed him while engaged to another man.
That… changed things.
He would have liked to ask her. He wasn’t sure he could trust her to answer honestly, which troubled him, but he wanted to know what she’d say. How she’d explain herself. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t have a chance. A man less thoroughly loathed could have tried an ultimatum on the Reeds: “Allow me to speak with your daughter. Depending on what she says, I might make an honest woman of her.”
That wouldn’t be an option for him.
As far as he could tell, he had two choices. He could leave her to suffer the consequences of their discovery alone. Or he could propose marriage.
If he left her to suffer the consequences alone, he’d never see her again. Charles Gavin might still marry her—some men, if put in Gavin’s place, absolutely would—but Gavin didn’t seem the type. Without her honor or a dowry, Miss Reed’s prospects for the future would be dim indeed.
If Loel proposed, he’d most likely be accepted. The Reeds hated him, but even they had to admit he was better than no one. He’d then marry a woman he didn’t entirely trust under extremely unfavorable circumstances.
Unfavorable because he kept his nursery growing by investing most of what he earned back into it. He sacrificed his comforts in the present for the sake of profits in the future. He wouldn’t feel right making the same demands of a wife, and his nursery would suffer as a result. That had been true before his most recent bout with malaria, which had caused a financial catastrophe. He’d lost thousands of pounds worth of orchids.
Under different conditions, he might have been delighted to wed a staggeringly beautiful woman he’d grown to genuinely like. He might have weighed the concrete sacrifices against the intangible benefits of a marriage and decided to take the risk.
Miss Reed’s lies shifted those calculations. A woman who’d broken her vows once was liable to do it again, and he had no desire to live the rest of his life as a beautiful woman’s long-suffering cuckold.
On the other hand, she’d saved his life. He would not have survived without her aid. If the recompense she required was marriage, he judged that fair.
Above all, she was a Reed. He had devastated the family once, by accident. They had placed all their hopes of recovery in their beautiful daughter. Now a second calamity had arrived, and he bore some responsibility for it too.
He hadn’t instigated the embrace, but he’d been a willing participant. He’d had an opportunity—however brief—to push Miss Reed away before they were discovered. Instead of taking it, he’d sucked on her tongue.
That last consideration proved decisive. Whatever his wishes, in this case he couldn’t put them first. He’d propose.
Five days passed before he felt capable of making the round trip to New Quay. He owned about two weeks’ worth of respectable clothing, for attending the London auctions, and donned his second best suit—he’d save the best for the wedding. He set out in the afternoon so that he’d arrive after Mr. Reed arrived home from work.
To his surprise, the walk invigorated him. He felt almost healthy, stronger with every step he took. The shudder that ran through his body when he set his foot on the Reeds’ crumbling doorstep had nothing to do with malaria. It was the click of a lock, the tug on a knot as it tightened—the unique sensation of having come lived long enough for one of life’s loose ends to curl around until, against all odds, it became a loop.
A woman with an unsettling, penetrating gaze answered the door. Her long nose and strong chin combined to make her handsome rather than pretty, and gray touched the medium brown hair at her temples.
“Mrs. Reed?” he asked uncertainly. She had to be, though she didn’t look much like her daughter. Neither in appearance nor attitude.
“Yes,” she answered. And said nothing further.
“I… If you’ll allow me to introduce myself?” At her nod, he continued. “I am Orson, Baron Loel… of Woodclose. An acquaintance, lately, of your daughter.”
“Come in.” She held out her hand. “I’ll take your hat.”
He obeyed, entering a narrow foyer. A riot of watercolors hung on the walls, so many that the frames jostled against one another… and cleverly hid the faded wallpaper beneath. He recognized Juliet on her balcony, Ophelia in her watery grave. Melodramatic scenes, wonderfully executed. The simple hall stand where Mrs. Reed hung his hat had a bench covered in an embroidered cushion of startling fineness and quality.
Every time he’d visited the victims of the fire, he’d confronted the same awful truth: He’d hurt good people. That was why he never blamed them for their anger, or tried to defend himself against it.
He’d hurt good people. He couldn’t undo the harm. His apologies weren’t enough.
“Not one more step,” barked a deep male voice, heralding the arrival of a man Loel assumed to be Mr. Reed—heavyset, older, with sad, watery eyes.
Mrs. Reed put
a hand on her husband’s arm.
“I don’t want him in the house.” Mr. Reed responded to whatever silent message his wife had conveyed with her touch. “He’s taken enough—”
Mrs. Reed’s gentle grip tightened to a squeeze, and her husband fell silent. She addressed Loel in a bland tone. “Perhaps we can speak here?”
“Of course.” He reviewed the speech he’d planned to make, discarding it sentence by sentence. The best thing he could do, it seemed, would be to keep the conversation short. “I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“You have it.” Mr. Reed jerked his chin at the door. “Come back when you have the license and a vicar in tow.”
Loel hesitated. “May I see her?”
“No,” answered Mrs. Reed, eyes on her husband—his lips paled to white, his neck flushed cherry red. “You may not.”
Loel’s anger rose up to answer his prospective father-in-law’s. The Reeds ought to be more accommodating—not for his benefit but for their daughter’s. If he were in their place, he’d want to see how his child interacted with her betrothed; he’d make an effort to set aside his anger in order to avoid estrangement in the future.
But he restrained himself. It wasn’t his place.
“Very well.” He nodded at his hat. “I’ll send a letter once I have the license, to advise you about the date and time.”
Mrs. Reed lifted the hat from its hook and handed it over. He tapped it onto his head and saw himself out. The whole encounter had lasted less than ten minutes.
Chapter 15
Bonny greeted her wedding day with relief. She’d cycled through self-pity, guilt, and fear. She’d fairly pickled herself in tears.
Every day at home had been worse than the last, because her family hated her. Hated her. Her father wouldn’t even look at her, as though she were a wound and the sight of her might increase the hurt. Her mother spoke to her about practical matters but cut short any real conversation—she wouldn’t hear a word of Bonny’s apologies. And Margot… Bonny had gone down on her knees for her sister, but the last thing Margot had said to her was, “I hope you’re miserable.”
Whatever came next, it had to be better than this. Living with people she loved, when they didn’t appear to love her back, was torture. She couldn’t help caring about their opinions, craving their approval, and hurting when they denied it.
By the time Loel’s letter arrived with a date and time for the wedding, she was desperate for the escape. He’d arranged for the vicar to perform the ceremony at church, right at dawn in order to avoid attracting attention from gawkers.
He arrived before her, and the sight of him stopped Bonny in her tracks. He looked… amazing. Crisp and clean in a tailored black coat with fitted gray trousers and a matching waistcoat, his collar points sharp. He wore his dark hair slicked close to the skull, the perfect frame for his angular features—starker and sharper than ever, thanks to the weight he’d lost.
His usual clothes made him look like a common laborer. They drew her attention to his body, to his size and physical strength. For once, he looked like what he was: an aristocrat born and bred, a peer of the realm.
“You can’t come home,” said Mrs. Reed. “Not even to visit.”
Bonny started. She’d been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed her mother’s approach.
“For Margot’s sake,” her mother added. “We can’t be seen to approve of your behavior. We need to distance ourselves if she’s going to have a chance.”
Bonny’s jaw dropped. Not from surprise—she’d been excruciatingly aware of her parents’ desire to be rid of her—but at the timing. These were her mother’s parting words on the day of her daughter’s wedding?
“We make the best of the choices we have.” Mrs. Reed kissed her on the cheek. “I hope you’ll do the same.”
And that was it. The vicar gestured for her to join Loel, who took her hands. She braved his piercing gaze to search his expression, afraid of what she’d find. Was he angry? Resentful? Did he hate her too? She couldn’t tell.
The reality of her situation settled on her, heavier and heavier, with every word the vicar spoke. She’d spent so much time thinking about all the paths that had closed to her that she hadn’t spent any time thinking about the ones that had opened. They all led through him.
Would Loel expect her to sleep in a cot in the greenhouse, like he did? How did he take his tea—and what if he wanted it so bitter it made her mouth pucker? Or so weak it had no flavor at all? Did he prefer crusty bread, which she hated, or—heaven forbid—take porridge instead of toast in the morning?
Her whole world could be turned on its head before she’d finished breakfast.
She said, “I do,” with numb lips. When the ceremony ended, Loel’s hand landed on the small of her back and they pivoted together, moving as one—as a married couple.
Only her mother remained in the pews. Her father and Margot had left while her back was turned.
Mrs. Reed flicked her fingers in a quick wave. The gesture, muted as it was, rocked Bonny. She saw the kindness in it, the regret. Her mother loved her. She didn’t want to be cruel. And Bonny, who loved her family so much, felt a deep throb of empathy. She mouthed I love you as she and Loel walked down the aisle and onto the sunlit porch.
One of the vicar’s sons waited in the road with the reins to a pair of horses, hitched to an antique buggy. All of Bonny’s worldly possessions had been packed into two trunks, which were now lashed to the back of the buggy with a truly excessive quantity of rope.
Loel helped her onto the bench and followed after, taking the reins from the vicar’s boy with a murmur of thanks. At his cluck the horses, placid and whiskery with age, ambled into the road. After they’d left town, Loel coaxed them—with no small effort—into a trot.
The rumbling and jouncing made conversation difficult. Bonny needed to talk with her new husband, not shout at him, so she kept quiet. Loel didn’t speak either; perhaps he’d reached the same conclusion. By the time the buggy turned up the drive to Woodclose, the long stretch of very practical silence had her feeling like she’d been peeled.
Loel handed over the reins while he circled around to free her trunks. All the knots, solid enough to hold two heavy trunks in a precarious position over an unpaved road, unraveled at the merest tug. The signature of a sailor.
“Lord Loel—”
“Just Loel now.” He glanced at her, momentarily wry. “Unless you’d like me to address you as Lady Loel?”
“No. No. Bonny, of course. My given name is Bonny.” She gathered herself. “I know you didn’t wish for this marriage. I’m sorry for… for what I did. For putting you in this position. But I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you. To be a good wife.”
Loel gently eased the top trunk into his arms, grunting as he took the weight of it. He lowered it to the ground and faced her, idly slapping clouds of dense, clay-rich road dust from his sleeves. “You might start by speaking plainly.”
“What?”
“What you did.” Loel repeated her words, transforming them into an accusation. “You kissed me. While you were engaged to marry another man.”
Bonny nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I—” Bonny foundered. “I don’t know.”
That was a lie. She did know. She’d discovered something about herself that she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. And still didn’t.
Loel snorted and reached for the second trunk. “So you’ll do ’everything you can’. A shame that doesn’t add up to much.”
“That’s not fair!” Bonny protested.
Loel ignored her, tipping the second trunk into his arms. He jogged it, shifting his grip, and carried it toward the house—turning his back on her and putting the bulk of the buggy between them.
Bonny, still holding the reins, circled in the opposite direction, around the horses’ noses. “I’d already decided to break the engagement with Charles Gavin,” she told
him. “I would have done it if I’d had the time! But I was too busy here, trying to keep you alive!”
Loel sat the trunk down beside the door. “And I’m grateful.”
He retraced his steps so Bonny did too, circling back around the horses. “And I’d long since lost all affection for Charles Gavin. I think you know that. After I saw what he’d done to you, I hated him.”
“So you feel free to break your promises to a man, without any warning, once you’ve lost affection for him?” Loel hefted the second trunk. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Loel walked away again, so she trotted around the horses for a third time. “I did something wrong and foolish, and I regret it. But just because I did it once doesn’t mean I’ll do it again.”
“Say the words. You embraced one man while promised to another. Not only that, you made me a party to it.” Loel set the second trunk down squarely atop the first. He rolled one shoulder as he stood, tipping his head in the opposite direction to enhance the stretch and then repeated the gesture on the other side. The easy physicality of the gesture struck Bonny—it was the Loel she knew, hardworking and unpretentious, not the stern aristocrat who’d greeted her in the church. “And from what I’ve seen of the world, Bonny, you’re wrong. People who stray once tend to do it twice. And thrice. And on into infinity.”
Bonny’s jaw dropped. “So that’s it? You not going to give me a chance?”
“It is tempting”—Loel’s gaze dipped to her bosom, lingered, and rose again to meet her own—“very, very tempting to believe that your principles crumble in my presence and no one else’s. But I know better.” Then, more quietly, “I ought to know better.”
“There must be something I can do,” Bonny insisted. “Some way for me to prove myself.”
“I already told you how.” Loel approached. Bonny swallowed when he came close, when he reached out, but he took the reins and shook them from her trembling fingers without touching her. “But I’ll try again. While I was sick, I saw you at my side and asked if I was dreaming. Why did you lie?”