“How kind. Thank you.” Bertie shot her a smile that aimed for soppiness but veered astray into mischief.
The older man poured a generous measure of brandy into a glass. “I should have expected something like this.” He sounded amused rather than surprised.
This was, strangely, similar to what Mrs. Clotworthy had said. But since this was the end of Greenleaf’s statement, Polite Bertie filled the silence. “Of course. It was inevitable that I should be reminded of Miss Greenleaf’s charms once I had the opportunity to spend time with her.”
Now that he thought about it, Polite Bertie was saying no more than the truth.
“It’s because of the timing,” Greenleaf said.
“Father, that’s really not the reason I—”
“She’s about to be thirty, you know,” he continued above Eliza’s interjection.
“Ah…yes.” Bertie tried to shift to a comfortable posture, but there was really no way on this hard-cushioned sofa with a lapful of ledgers. “I know Miss Greenleaf’s age. Since it is less than my own by five years, I can hardly twit her about it.”
“If she’s a spinster at age thirty, her dowry reverts to her parents. Parent, I should say. Me.” A cracked laugh. “Part of her mother’s marriage settlements. Didn’t want to have all that money going to waste when I could put it to good use.”
“I do not understand.” God, it was hot in here. Perspiration dampened the nape of his neck. The open window looked like a paradise.
Greenleaf extended his feet, shod in patent-leather, and settled against the back of his chair. “She had to make a play for you before she had the fatal birthday. Otherwise, she’d be penniless. But if she wed you—or anyone, really—she’d bring the money with her.”
At Bertie’s side, Eliza seemed to shrink. “It isn’t like that at all. Bertie—Mr. Gage—your sister invited me—”
“Miss Gage fancies herself a matchmaker.” Greenleaf sipped at his brandy. “She was willing enough to play into your hands.”
“I do not understand,” Bertie said again. This time, he looked at Eliza. “Please…explain.”
He’d thought her honest, scrupulously so. And indeed, the way she moistened dry lips looked like genuine distress.
“I didn’t do it for the money,” she said. “Please believe that. I wanted to see you again. Everything I felt for you—it was as true as ever.”
Was? How quickly they slipped to past tense. “And it’s not anymore?” Polite Bertie said mildly. Behind the mask, everything was crumbling and falling.
“It is. Of course it is.” Her gloved hands twisted in her lap. She pitched her voice low, for his ears alone. “The Greenleaf fortune is gone, gambled away by my brothers and father. My dowry will go the same way if it falls into my father’s hands.”
“Ah, you think of family honor.” Bertie paused. “Again. As usual.”
“And what is so wrong about that?”
Greenleaf’s voice broke in. “You didn't know she had a dowry, did you?”
Bertie shook himself, turning away from Eliza to her father. “No. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think of—that is, I didn’t care.”
Eliza laid a beseeching hand on his arm. “If you don’t care, then surely it doesn’t matter.”
But her tone fell, as though she already knew it did.
Why was it so hot in here? Surely he was in hell.
Ignoring her touch, Bertie said, “You told me you came to the Friar’s House to make things right between us. You also admitted that you were visiting in your family’s interests. At least it was half true.”
Her fingers gripped the wool of his coat sleeve. “It was all true.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Don’t you? If you weren’t so surprised, maybe you would see something noble in the fact that I never wed because of you. That the only man I ever wanted was you.”
Yes, but on her own terms. In her own time. When it was convenient, or to her benefit. His jaw clenched. “At what cost?”
“I am sorry to interrupt a whispered conversation that is no doubt heartrending,” said Greenleaf from his throne by the window. “But I need my rest and must invite you to continue your speech elsewhere. Leave the ledgers with me, will you? I’ll look through them at my leisure.”
“No,” said Bertie and Eliza at once.
“No,” she repeated. “They stay with the Friar’s House.”
Her father raised his brows. “Do they? And what of you, daughter?”
“I’ll…” She turned her gaze from Greenleaf to Bertie. Polite Bertie saw to the removal of all expression from his face. “If you wish, I’ll go.”
Whether she was speaking to her father or to him, Bertie was not sure. He rose to his feet, and she did too—then hesitated, as though waiting for him to take her arm or stop her.
“The coachman will take you back,” was all he said. “And the ledgers as well. I will return by foot.”
The only sounds were the topple of coal in the grate; the slurp as Greenleaf sipped at his brandy. With fragile stiffness, Eliza curtseyed a farewell to her father, then held out her hands to Bertie.
At first he thought she was entreating him again. Then he realized she meant to take the ledgers from him. “I will carry them down,” he said. “They are heavy.”
He made his own bow to Greenleaf, understanding now the expression of triumph the older man had worn since their arrival. Suspecting he understood too why Eliza had wanted to pay this call alone.
There seemed far more stairs descending from Greenleaf’s lodging than there had been rising to it. At last, however, they were free on the front stoop. Bertie’s carriage still waited at the foot of the steps.
Eliza tied the strings of her bonnet, turning as she did to face Bertie. “Please. Come back with me. Please, listen. The money—”
“If you had simply told me about the money at once, I would have understood.” Maybe. Possibly. It was easy to say so when he had not been given the opportunity, when his anger was righteous and his sense of betrayal founded on old bedrock. “I cannot wed only to enrich you, just as you could not wed me when you thought it would make you isolated and miserable.”
Her lips parted. “You could never make me miserable.”
“Could I not? You have made me so more than once.”
Though true, the words were harsh, too harsh on his lips. Harsh as a slap, it seemed, for Eliza’s face went pale, then suffused with a blush.
“You gave a home to displaced French people. You stood up for Caro Martin when she became a public scandal, before she wed your friend Lochley. Why can you believe the best of everyone but me?”
“Because I know you better,” he said, though the old words of pique were hollow.
She drew herself up very straight. “I see. So you can forgive only where you haven’t been hurt. Bertie, you don’t know me at all. I wonder if you ever did.”
Before he could reply, she took the ledgers from his arms, holding them close against her breast, and turned to descend the steps.
He watched her take each one, elegant and sure. Each time she planted her foot, it seemed like another mile between them.
When the carriage rolled away, he set out in the direction of home.
No. Not home. The Friar’s House.
He was a rough cavalryman of indifferent birth. He had been wounded, and he had no purpose.
He should never have hoped to hold any piece of the Greenleaf family for more than a little while.
Chapter 8
“Bah, it’s far too stuffy in here. Let me open the window for you.”
Bertie strode across the drawing room and flung up the window sash, ignoring the startled expressions of his sister and her companion.
“There. Fresh air. Isn’t that better?” He turned to face them, attempting a genial smile. “It’s a beautiful autumn day. No reason we should all be cooped up indoors, sweating like racehorses.”
Georgie laid aside her book. “I thought you liked having me cooped up.”
“What? No—of course not.” He reached into a pocket. “As a matter of fact, I brought you a gift. I’ve just walked back from Tunbridge Wells, and on the way I stopped at that bakery you liked so much. I bought some of your favorite almond biscuits.”
“That sounds very nice.” From her chair, Mrs. Clotworthy smiled up at him, knitting needles clicking ceaselessly.
Georgie took the package of biscuits, but set it beside her on the sofa, unopened. “What happened in Tunbridge Wells this morning? You walked home alone—”
“Back to the Friar’s House,” Bertie corrected.
“—and Eliza returned in the carriage only to bid us farewell. She has left, and a maid is packing her trunks to follow after.”
“She’s returning to her father’s lodgings, I expect. Or to London to stay with one of her brothers.” He fairly spat the words. This was the human equivalent of watching a ceiling crumble and fall and knowing one had been right, had always been right. Even though he had wanted to be wrong.
Georgie shot him a startled expression. “You knew she was planning to leave?”
“I forgot for a while. That’s all.” The only surprising thing ought to be that she stayed as long as she had before she became more Greenleaf than Eliza.
“But you were to be married. Are to be married?”
“There are…some things I didn’t know. It’s not going to happen as I had planned.”
Georgie muttered some words under her breath that she ought not to have known. “Well, you’re wrong in one respect. She’s not staying with her family. She’s returning to Sturridge Manor.”
“Sturridge…Manor. Huh.” He looked out the window, as though he might see his friend Sturridge marching up the footpath—or see Eliza walking away.
But she had already left, of course. She had left long ago.
He tried on another smile, smoothing it to fit a face that did not seem to want to smile, then turned toward his sister again. “That’s all right. She must like it there. And it will be good having her gone, won’t it? We’ll be a nice family circle again. I’ll devote myself to being the best brother imaginable, Georgie, and you’ll want for nothing.”
She blinked at him with solemn dark eyes.
“Er…try a biscuit, won’t you?” he tried. “If you like them, we can take the carriage into Tunbridge Wells again this afternoon, and you can buy as many as your heart desires.”
Georgie sighed, tracing a finger over the embossed letters on the spine of her book. “My heart does not desire biscuits, Bertie. I’m not a child any longer.”
“I thought you—”
“You thought you knew what I liked. You thought you knew what I wanted. I know, I know. You always have. But there’s something I want very much, and you haven’t allowed it.”
“Just say the word,” he said eagerly.
She spread her hands. “Freedom. Air. Trust. I want you to stop coddling me.”
“But your health—”
“I regained it months ago. If I’m still thin, it’s because I’m thin by nature. If I’m pale, it’s because my mother wasn’t Spanish like yours. By harping on everything wrong with me, Bertie, you might as well be telling me I’m not the sister you want. Not as I am.”
“Of course you are.” Stung, he crossed the room to sit on the sofa beside her.
“Mind the biscuits,” said Mrs. Clotworthy.
Just in time, Bertie rescued them from being squashed. He leaned forward to hand the package to the older woman, then settled back to regard Georgie again.
“Georgie, you’re a marvelous sister. I have been glad to know you every day since you were born. Since our parents died, and since I was shot, and you fell ill—all of that made you even more dear to me. I just…want to keep you safe. I want what’s best for you.”
“And how will you know when you’ve done enough for me? Because, in my opinion, you did enough long ago.”
“I see. Fine. Wonderful.” He flung his hands up. “My wife-to-be has begged off for the second time, and now my sister doesn’t need a thing from me. This is a day when everything turns the wrong way ‘round. Why don’t I ask a Frenchman to come shoot me again?”
“Why don’t you? There are plenty of them about,” Georgie retorted. “Florian!”
The butler appeared almost at once in response to this bellow. “Mademoiselle?”
“My brother wants to be shot. Probably because he is in love with Eliza Greenleaf and said something horrid to her and she left.”
Bertie rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant at—”
“Monsieur, I will defend against the shooting of you. Still, you are un con.” Florian wagged his grizzled head. “Not always. But now, yes.”
“How generous.” Bertie folded his arms. “And why am I”—he struggled for the translation of con—“an idiot?”
“Because you make Miss Greenleaf think how she must leave. But you want to marry Miss Greenleaf. And she wants to marry you.” His pursed lips and shrug were so completely French, it was a wonder a tricolor flag didn't snap into being over his head.
“She wants to marry me so she can get her dowry.” Briefly, Bertie explained what he’d learned that morning.
“All right. So what?” Georgie said, sounding mulish.
“So, she was deceiving me. All of us. She cares for her family’s reputation and doesn’t care how many times she hurts me to maintain it.”
“Spoken like un con,” Georgie said. “You could choose to look at it that way. Or you could choose to believe that she genuinely wants to marry you. She wants to marry you now so she can keep her family from wasting their remaining fortune. And what is the harm in that? Wed is wed. If you could rescue thousands of pounds from a gambler by doing something you wanted to a bit sooner than you otherwise would, then…”
“C’est juste,” said Florian.
Georgie acknowledged this agreement with a gracious bow of the head. “You see? It’s perfectly logical. Which makes sense, for she’s good with numbers. She told me so herself.”
“Stand up, dear, and let me see if this is long enough,” said Mrs. Clotworthy, stretching out her knitting. “Tut! Not nearly.”
As the butler offered his opinion and Georgie chimed in, Bertie sank back against the horrid chintz sofa and let his mind fall into wrack and ruin.
Two ways of seeing the matter. Two sides to family loyalty.
He had let his heart grow hard, hadn’t he? He had never softened entirely toward Eliza since her return. He loved her, but he was not surprised when she rejected him. He expected it, in a way. Expected it with a certainty so deep that he shoved her away as soon as he learned something he hadn’t anticipated.
A preemptive attack was highly effective during war, for it devastated people who had no chance to prepare themselves. This morning, he had carried out just such an attack on Eliza.
He had sworn he would not want her to choose between him and her family—yet faced with the slightest inkling of divided loyalty, he turned on her. With the same small, unworthy part that had felt triumph to see the Friar’s House crumbling, he felt righteous in his anger.
But why? It wasn’t as though she wanted the dowry for her own gambling debts. She wanted it for…
For them. For herself and Bertie. For a life together.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, interrupting the chatter about the knitting. “You’re right. All of you. You’re right. Except you, Mrs. Clotworthy. It is dragging on the floor already, whatever you’re knitting.”
“That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” said that lady mildly. “You must trust that others besides you know what they’re doing, Bertram.”
Florian nodded. “She is très intelligente, that one.”
“I know, I know. It’s true. None of you need me in the slightest.”
“Maybe not,” said Geo
rgie. “But we like having you about. Usually. So maybe it’s time to think about what you need.”
“He needs French lessons to help him with that terrible accent,” said Florian. “Maybe he can have them from Miss Greenleaf, eh?”
Georgie shushed the butler. “Bertie. There’s just one thing to decide. Do you want Eliza, or do you want to score off the people who once hurt you?”
The question struck to his heart.
And the answer was clear at once. “There can be no triumph if there’s no Eliza.”
“Then you’d better try to persuade her to tolerate you.”
He rose to his feet, chuckling. “When did you get to be smarter than I am?”
“It’s been coming on for years,” she said. “You just didn’t notice.”
“There’s a lot I haven’t noticed.” He kissed her on the top of her head, then crossed to the doorway. “Thank you, Georgie. And never mind about the biscuits. I shouldn’t have brought them.”
“More lunatic speech,” she said. “You absolutely should have brought them. You should always bring biscuits. You’re right, they really are my favorite treat. Please hand me the package, Mrs. Clotworthy, if there are any left.”
* * *
Before settling matters with Eliza, Bertie had to settle them with himself.
And that required paying another call on Greenleaf.
The older man had exchanged one silk banyan for another, but other than that, he seemed not to have moved from the spot he had occupied earlier in the day. The flush of his cheeks betrayed how he’d spent his time—as did the lower levels in the bottles of spirits at his side.
“You are no gentleman, speaking to my daughter harshly before me as you did,” said Greenleaf.
Polite Bertie waved a farewell. He would not be present on this call. “I wasn’t aware,” Bertie said, settling himself again on the sofa opposite the window, “that you ever considered me a gentleman. I probably ought to be honored that you entertained the possibility at all.”
He stretched forth his feet: one boot, then the second, planted solidly on the heavy carpet. “Look to yourself, Mr. Greenleaf. If men are judged by their actions, you will come up very short. You have neglected your ancestral home and overseen the squandering of your family’s fortune.”
A Novella Collection Page 32