The Marriage Bargain

by Blaise Kilgallen

  Henry drew in a half breath, his glowering look at Eustace deepened. “Only havin’ fun, were ye? Humph! Not likely. I knew what other nasty things ye’d done.”

  “Nothin’ that shudda put me in gaol, old man! A slap on the wrist, mebbe, and I woulda give them snuffboxes back easy like. I took ’em only b’cuz they was pretty to look at. And I like pretty things, see?” Eustace sneered, greed showing in his squinty-eyed gaze.

  “I see yer still got the same bad blood running through yer veins, Dancy! Once it turns bad, it allus stays that way!”

  “Ya think so, d’ye? We’ll see, ain’t we?” Eustace looked around, sharp eyes scraping across the wall of bookshelves behind a desk piled with ledgers and loose papers. They next flicked to a large oil painting hanging above a stone fireplace. “Where d’ye keep yer strongbox?”

  “None of yer damn business!” the old man snapped.

  Fast as a snake striking, Eustace grabbed the front of the man’s shirt and twisted the fabric so tight around his neck that the squire gasped for breath.

  “I said, old man, where d’ye hide yer strongbox?” Eustace again demanded. “Spit it out or ye’ll see the last o’ daylight right now!”

  Henry’s gnarled fingers scrabbled frantically against the tight collar wrapping his scrawny neck and choking him, unable to breathe or speak.

  “Don’t die yet, old man,” Eustace threatened, slightly loosening his hold and roughly shaking the squire as if he were a child’s rag doll.

  Henry gagged and coughed noisily. “Lemme…go,” he choked out. “I-I’ll tell…ye.”

  Just then, the housekeeper again tapped on the oak door. “Squire Morrow? Can ye hear me? There’s a young woman come to see ye. She says she’s yer granddaughter.”

  Chapter 14

  EMILY gave the driver instructions to the squire’s manor.

  “Oh, Betsy, we’re getting close! Squire Morrow has to be my grandfather. I can feel it in my bones!”

  “Aye, Miss Emily, it sounds good to me, too.”

  The villagers of Lesser Bodem returned to what they were doing after the fancy carriage drove off, trundling along a narrow lane heading west, and lost in a cloud of red dust.

  Halting the horses on the squire’s curved driveway, Emily and Betsy hopped down from the carriage without help. The driver walked the horses around the circular drive and halted them when they were ready to leave.

  Emily smoothed her kid gloves down the front of her pelisse, and straightened the crooked bow on her bonnet. Both women gazed up at the house’s many mullioned windows half-hidden by ivy and other vines creeping across them. Large bushes grew wild against the building’s foundation. A few straggly flower stems struggled to survive in deep shade made by the untrimmed evergreens.

  Gesturing to Betsy to stay close, Emily strode up the weed-choked path to the front door. She paused on the stoop, clamped her eyes shut for a moment, and said a silent prayer. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. Would she come face to face with her mother’s father at last? Would he recognize her resemblance to her mother? Did he even know he had a granddaughter? And what would she say to him?

  Emily pulled in a second anxious breath before tapping the brass knocker against the door. Footsteps approached, several locks were disengaged, and the door was thrown open by a woman garbed in a gray gown and a crisp, white apron. She stared at them from the foyer’s dim interior.

  “Ah, good day,” Emily began. “I was…err…told this is the residence of Squire Henry Morrow. Have we come to the right place?”

  “My, my,” the housekeeper murmured, more curious than ever when additional visitors waited on the stoop. “And who might ye be?”

  “I’m Emily Dancy, and this is my friend, Betsy Swiller. We’ve come to speak with the squire.”

  “Have ye now? Well…” The housekeeper paused. Curiosity entered the housekeeper’s thoughts. The squire had more strange visitors in the past two days than he had in the past six months. How very odd. “The squire has company right now. And he normally doesn’t see anybody he doesn’t know. But if ye leave your card, I’ll tell him who called. Ye can come back an’ try to speak with him another time.”

  “Oh, heavens, I don’t have a card. And my friend and I traveled here from Surrey especially to talk with the squire. We’ll gladly wait until his current visitors leave.”

  The housekeeper’s expression turned worried, remembering the nasty gentleman who had brushed past her to gain entrance. She heard raised voices from the squire’s study, but she knew better than to interrupt. The squire had grown old and crotchety over the last decade. Most days he just asked to be left alone.

  “I’m not sure that I—”

  Emily saw the housekeeper was about to turn them away. Quickly, she begged, “Please. Unless I am mistaken, the squire is my grandfather.”

  * * * *

  In the squire’s study, Eustace overheard the housekeeper’s words; it was music to his ears. “Well, what d’ye know? Two birds in the bush are better then nothin’, as it were,” Eustace muttered. “Answer her, old man,” Eustace hissed, tightening his hold on the squire’s shirt. “Tell yer housekeeper to let yer visitor sit down someplace and wait.”

  Morrow did so, and Eustace loosened his grip on Henry. “Now, where’s the strongbox?”

  “B-bottom d-drawer in the desk.”

  Before checking the truth of it, Eustace grabbed a gold drapery cord. He bound the old man’s hands roughly with it then used his cravat as a gag to keep Morrow quiet. He accidentally knocked the metal-rimmed spectacles off the old man’s nose. They fell onto the squire’s lap, leaving his eyesight badly distorted.

  “Good thing ye wasn’t lying to me, old man, or ye’d feel the touch o’me fist,” Eustace muttered as he pulled open the desk’s drawer and lifted out a large metal strongbox. Unceremoniously, he dumped the box’s contents atop the cluttered desk. Neat stacks of English script tumbled out. Large and small coins, both gold and silver, rolled around on top of loose papers scattered across the desk’s surface.

  “Ahh…” Eustace grinned as he flipped a grimy index finger over the edges of neat wads of paper money. Gauging the value of one thick wad, silently, he shoved more stacks into his coat’s voluminous pockets. Silver and gold coins jingled when they landed in his trousers.

  Henry’s diminished eyesight could scarcely follow Eustace’s movements. Faded blue eyes blurred, a perplexed look in them. Yet, stubborn and determined, Henry tried to threaten and bluster. Nothing but garbled, muttered curses escaped from behind the improvised gag.

  “Shet up!” Eustace warned him, sneering and adding a nasty cackle. “Mebbe ye wanna git a looksee at yer granddaughter, eh?”

  Henry blinked rapidly then shook his head.

  “Ye think ye ain’t got one, huh? Well, ye might get a big surprise, old man.”

  Eustace yanked on a nearby bell pull, and went to unlock the door. He leaned into the hallway waiting for the housekeeper to appear.

  “The squire is ready for another visitor. Ye can bring her in here now.” Eustace stood half in and half out of the doorway.

  “All right. I’ll fetch the lady.” The housekeeper scurried off.

  Eustace shut the door again. “This will be fun,” he muttered, glancing at the squire who was trussed up like a Christmas turkey ready for the oven. He had loosened Henry’s gag, and let it hang around his neck and shoulders, but the man’s hands remained bound in front of him. “Don’t open yer yap old man, unless I say so,” Dancy warned, “or ye’ll be sorry.” Eustace brandished a sizeable knife in front of the squire’s face, threatening to cut his throat or the girl’s if he said the wrong thing or made a wrong move.

  Footsteps approached, and again, the housekeeper knocked.

  “Come in.” The old man was told to do.

  Eustace hid behind the door as it was pushed open.

  * * * *

  Emily saw a scrawny, elderly man seated in
a tattered wingchair. His clothes were disheveled, his shirt, waistcoat, and cravat awry. A ruffled halo of almost white hair crowned his head. His cheeks and chin bristled with silver whiskers. His feet were tucked into felt slippers. Emily focused mainly on his face, missing the fact his wrists were tied in his lap next to a pair of metal-rimmed spectacles. Did she mistake a tiny glimmer of recognition in the squinting gaze? Did he know her? She wondered as she hesitated in the doorway.

  “Betsy,” Emily spoke softly over her shoulder, “please wait outside. I wish to speak with Squire Morrow alone.”

  The maid backed away slowly. “Aye, Miss Emily. I’ll wait for ye in the back parlor.”

  Emily trained her gaze on the old man. “I’m Emily Dancy, Squire Morrow,” she said. “I believe I am your granddaughter, sir.”

  Henry’s blurred light blue eyes flew to a spot behind her.

  Emily heard the latch click and turned—now face-to-face with her nemesis, her Uncle Eustace. She couldn’t help it when a loud, surprised gasp escaped her. Her gloved fingers rose to cover her lips; her hands shook instantaneously. Nevertheless, she had courage enough to exclaim, “Uncle! How-how did you get here?”

  Eustace reached down and turned the key in the lock again.

  “No welcome hug fer me, eh, what, gel?” He closed the short distance between himself and Emily. “Ain’t ye glad to see yer old uncle what was jest released from the Tower!”

  Emily edged away from Eustace, moving closer to the old man in the wingchair.

  “I knew they couldn’t keep me there ’cause ya see, I ’tweren’t niver a traitor.” He cackled, louder this time, and added a sly smile. “I’m here to get what shudda been mine two years ago afta takin’ such good care o’ my darlin’ niece and Squire Morrow’s granddaughter.”

  Emily almost choked on renewed panic. Fear knifed through her when Eustace popped up in front of her so unexpectedly. She had prayed every night, slipping into bed, never to lay eyes on him again. And yet, here he was, in her grandfather’s house.

  “She…ain’t my…granddaughter,” the old man croaked, struggling to breathe normally. He choked on the words, his throat aching because of Eustace’s rough choke hold. “I-I can’t see…without m-my specs,” he stammered. “But I told ye…I g-got no family.” Pulling in air enough to speak, the squire managed a few more words. “Ye b-black devil, ye p-pilfered my strongbox, Dancy,” he sputtered, “and got away with it. Now l-let the gel be.”

  “Never, old man! She owes me! And more!” Eustace roared. “Her and her blasted pinch-penny family.”

  Emily ducked behind the squire’s chair.

  “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll need to be punished some, old man, if ye keep callin’ me them bad names!”

  “Take what ye stole and go, Dancy, and be damned to ye,” Morrow spat out, now breathing better.

  Eustace stared down at Squire Morrow, his venomous glare raking the ancient gent’s wrinkled countenance. “Mebbe I will let ye live, old man. I wasn’t gonna, but I got me a taste ‘o revenge outta yer bloody strongbox. And in Tunbridge Wells…well, there’s other delicate business t’be finished ’tween me and that chit there.”

  Eustace shifted his sneering attention to Emily. “Git over here and tie that gag back in the old man’s mouth. When yer done, you ‘n’ me and that little maid of yers are takin’ a drive in that fancy carriage what’s waitin’ outside. We’ll be visitin’ Percy Grafton’s office so’s I kin claim me jest desserts!”

  Eustace’s laughter rang out all the louder.

  Chapter 15

  GAVIN was almost halfway back to Four Towers when he slowed his horse and sat quietly in the saddle mulling over his brief meeting with Henry Morrow. The old man’s mien changed during their discussion. Gavin noticed visible signs of loneliness etching deep grooves on the squire’s aged countenance. He sat slumped in his wingchair, shoulders stooped, knobby knees, a scrawny physique that had finally succumbed to sadness and depression. Gavin even saw tears welling in the man’s rheumy blue eyes as they spoke. His persona was untidy and unkempt in the wrinkled clothes he wore. The ancient codger must have lived like a hermit for years with no close friends or family caring one whit if he lived or died.

  Sympathy pierced Gavin. He should have offered a few comforting words for the old man; perhaps, a bit of man-to-man solace. But he left Morrow no timely advice to reconnect him with his granddaughter. Gavin had galloped off from their meeting. Echoes from a silent, empty manor house reeked with unhappiness during the many hours, days, and years gone past. Gavin felt himself shiver. He wouldn’t want to live like that even at his age. It dawned on him quite suddenly that what he wanted was a real wife, not a convenient marriage. Was it too late to find passion and loyalty in a spouse? Or possibly, love? Would his second marriage be no better than his first—possibly, even worse? And was he currently faced with a dull and uninspiring marriage bargain?

  Hiring Lilianne’s governess, he had been attracted to Emily Dancy for unknown reasons. He realized, only a week ago, he lusted for her. Thoughts of marriage had lay dormant for almost two decades until his aunt pestered him about doing something about it.

  Suddenly, feelings for the old squire had Gavin spinning his horse around. He rode back to the squire’s manor. He would visit a bit longer, and mayhap cheer Morrow up. After he and Emily were wed, they could visit Lesser Bodem, and she could be formally introduced to her grandfather.

  First things first though. Gavin brought his horse to a halt in front of the Fallen Virgin’s Inn for a second time in two days. One of the hostlers approached him, and Gavin explained his problem. He needed a farrier. The gray stallion had thrown a shoe before they made it back to Lesser Bodem. The Inn’s hostler offered to walk the horse to a local blacksmith’s shop where the animal could be reshod.

  “Good lad,” Gavin said, tossing the horse’s reins to the young groom. “Bring him back as soon as he’s done. I want to be on my way again. By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Will, m’lord.”

  “You’ll find me in the tap, Will.” Gavin handed the hostler coins to pay the farrier. “One of these is for you if you can coax the smithy to be quick about it.”

  Gavin strode into the bar and ordered a tankard of ale while waiting for his mount’s return. Meanwhile, he listened to the taproom’s customers’ conversation between shopkeepers and businessmen discussing the day’s events.

  “I could swear I recognized that feller in here yestiddy,” one middle-aged shopkeeper said. “My eyesight ain’t so good these days, but I thought about it later. He has the same look as another black hearted devil I remember too well.”

  Another of the men responded, “Never ye mind. “’Twas good o’ him to stand us all a full tankard. A feller like that cain’t be all bad.”

  “Ye wouldn’t think so if ye was me,” Rugby Thorn snapped back. “Squire Morrow clapped one jest like him in gaol as a young lad. A real rascal, he was. Nobody here liked him. Born with bad blood deep in the marrow of his bones, he was.”

  “Who are ye talkin’ about, Rugby?” a different businessman asked. “I ain’t heard of nobody that got locked in gaol since the last decade ago or more.”

  “Humph! Mebbe so. But I don’t ferget a face. Besides, I was talkin’ about twenty years ago. Ye wouldn’t remember him, Pillbury, b’cause ye wasn’t livin’ here then. That rascal named Eustace Dancy ain’t changed much. That’s whom I’m talkin’ about. Come back to haunt us, he has. Watch yer purses, gents. He’s a sly one!”

  Gavin couldn’t believe what he overheard. Quickly, he inquired of the tap’s customers. “Did I hear you gentlemen mentioning Eustace Dancy?”

  “Aye, m’lord.” Another taproom customer spoke up. “We did. Has he flummoxed you?”

  “Nay, but I was under the impression that man is in the Tower of London accused of spying for the French. When did you see him in Tunbridge Wells?”

  Someone else piped up. “’Twas yestiddy
according to our friend, Rugby, here.”

  Gavin turned toward the gray-haired shopkeeper. “Would you know him if you saw him again, sir?”

  “Aye, that I would, m’lord.” Rugby’s forehead puckered. “So he’s a traitor to King and country now, eh? Well, that don’t surprise me one whit.” The shopkeeper winked. “I’d know him again like t’day was twenty years ago. He’s a mite taller, bulkier, mebbe, but his face ain’t changed much even with them whiskers. Dancy had a deep scar across one brow as a boy. And he’s still got it.”

  “That’s interesting,” Gavin said. “I heard he might be released because of lack of evidence, but what is he’s doing in Tunbridge Wells, I wonder?”

  “We ain’t seen him in the tap yet today, m’lord. P’haps he rode orf. I sure hope so,” the shopkeeper grunted. “He threatened to get back at me the day Squire Morrow threw him in gaol.”

  “Squire Morrow, you say?” Leathem hummed before continuing. “He was magistrate in Tunbridge Wells years ago, wasn’t he? What did he have to say about the boy then?”

  The shopkeeper took a deep swallow of ale, following it with a smug laugh. “Henry Morrow had nothing but bad things to say about him. The squire knew them Dancys ’cause they lived near him in Lesser Bodem. He felt real sorry for the Dancys, but he ordered them all out of Tunbridge Wells, the squire did. He warned them and their adopted scoundrel niver to come back.” The shopkeeper frowned. “One t’other of them Dancys defied the squire some years later. Ran orf with the squire’s daughter. Musta been two decades or so ago. And the squire couldn’t stop him.” The shop owner sighed. “The squire niver really got over that.”

  Gavin took it all in but didn’t inquire further. He’d heard some of the story already. Good thing he came back to warn the old man about Eustace though. It was nobody’s guess what the scoundrel might do if he was looking for revenge.