by Sarah Zettel
A stout man wearing a coat adorned with enough embroidery and lace ruffles for three ordinary gallants bustled into the greenhouse. Without ceasing his stream of apologies, he helped me smoothly to my feet. He turned and held out a plump hand to Sebastian.
“You may take your leave . . . sir,” growled Sebastian as he slowly straightened to tower over my stout rescuer, who, despite his high-heeled shoes, was not much taller than I. “You are not wanted here, as you can clearly see.”
“Oh, no, no, I see, I see plainly.” The man waved his gloved hand, fluttering a considerable amount of lace in the process. “I cannot apologize enough. Yes, yes.” He had begun to mince backwards from Sebastian. I gulped air. He was going to retreat. He was going to consider this an embarrassing personal matter and, in the finest manner of our English gentlemen, take himself quickly out of sight. I had to get away. I had to find the breath in my body and the strength in my shaking limbs to run.
“But”—the man turned his watery eyes toward me—“are you quite certain I cannot render some assistance?”
I knew what was expected of me. I must avoid a scene. I could not further damage my reputation or Sebastian’s pride. Such a thing was unthinkable. And may Heaven help me, part of me wanted this man to go. He might ask questions. He might blame me for luring Sebastian here. He would think I had brought this situation on myself, and he would say as much to whatever acquaintance he had back in the ballroom. Word of my being here, in such a state, would spread.
But I still felt the pain in my wrists and my arms from where Sebastian had pinned me down, and I saw the fury reflected in his blue eyes, and suddenly I did not care what anyone else had to say. I grabbed up my skirts and wrenched them, and myself, around to face the stout, ruffled man.
“Thank you, sir. I find I require an escort back to the house.”
“Oh, most certainly. Most certainly. After you, my dear young lady . . . Yes, yes.” The man bowed deeply to let me slip through the narrow passage between me and the bench, which had the very welcome effect of putting his bulk between me and Sebastian.
“You are making a mistake . . . sir.” My betrothed did far too fine a job of looming over my rescuer and me.
“I think not,” replied the gentleman. “I see we are destined to disagree on the subject, but I should be very sorry for it to become a quarrel between us.” His voice remained soft, light, and calm. His repetitions had vanished. I also noticed that, despite our cramped quarters, he had raised his ribboned walking stick to make a surprisingly steady line pointing from his hand to the center of Sebastian’s chest. This all had the effect of making him look rather less ridiculous than he had a moment ago. This impression was aided by the fact that the hand not occupied with his stick rested on the hilt of his dress sword.
Sebastian also noticed these interesting developments. In fact, he seemed quite immobilized by them. “You’re making a mistake, Margaret Fitzroy,” said my betrothed.
“Not this time,” I answered. “And not again. Not with you.”
My retreat would have demonstrated a great deal more dignity if I were not painfully aware that my wig had been knocked crooked. But I didn’t slow down, and I didn’t look back. I didn’t dare. Not even as I heard my rescuer puffing to catch up.
“If I might . . . if you would . . . if you’d care . . . to follow me.” The gentleman gestured to our right, evidently meaning the shadows below the curve of the terrace, where there was a decorative alcove in the wall, complete with tidy marble benches. But I did not want to sit. I wanted to return to the brightly lit harbor of the ballroom.
Except now that danger had passed, I had begun to shake. My hands and feet had gone numb. I gulped air, trying desperately to regain my composure, but it had fled out of reach.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I croaked.
“Not at all, my dear. Not at all. Here. Do sit down.” The stout man bustled over to one of the alcove’s benches. He drew out a lace handkerchief that had ambitions of becoming a tablecloth and spread it down for me. I sat gratefully. He also sat, at the exact opposite end of the bench. “You’ve had a shock,” he went on. “You will be quite well in a moment. I’ve seen this before. Oh, yes. You must simply take your time and try to breathe normally.” He folded both his heavily ringed hands on his walking stick and assumed an air that indicated he was prepared to wait all night if gallantry required.
Fortunately for my pride, it did not seem quite so much time would be required. As the gentleman predicted, my tremors soon eased and I was able to command body, breath, and voice once more.
“I’ve not even asked your name so I know to whom I owe my thanks.”
He seemed to take a rather long time considering this statement. “You may call me Mr. Tinderflint,” he said finally. “And you, unless I am very much mistaken, are Margaret Preston Fitzroy.”
This was the second time tonight I had been identified by someone to whom I had not been introduced. I was beginning to wonder if my particulars had been published in the Morning Gazetteer. “Do I . . . have we met?”
“No, no.” Moonlight flashed on no fewer than four rings as Mr. Tinderflint waved his hand. “But I will confess I came to this party hoping that you would be here. I wanted to speak with you about a private matter. I blush to admit that when you . . . left the house, I followed with that aim in mind.”
What on earth have I done to become so popular with highly questionable personages? My face must have betrayed something of this thought, because Mr. Tinderflint drew back so far, I feared he might fall off our bench.
“Oh, no, no. You mistake me, very much you do. I mean nothing improper. No, indeed. But I did wish to inform you of a . . . a . . . situation that could be very much to your advantage.”
“Why would you wish to speak to me at all?”
“Because I was once a friend of your mother’s.”
The whole world stopped as he spoke these words. In fact, for a long moment it seemed that motion might never return. In all the years since my mother’s death, not one relative or friend had come forward. How could it be possible that some complete and very fat stranger would appear tonight of all nights and declare himself her friend?
“You’re surprised. Yes.” Mr. Tinderflint bobbed his head several times. “Most natural. I’m sure she did not ever speak of me.”
“My mother died when I was eight years old, sir. Why would she have spoken to a child of . . . you?”
“Yes, I did hear of her death.” Mr. Tinderflint wagged his many chins. “So very, very sad. And I was deeply, yes, most deeply grieved by the news.”
“But where did you . . . how . . . Are we related?” I knew I must have relatives somewhere, but none of them had ever made themselves known to me. England was endowed with a startling multiplicity of Fitzroys—that being the surname given to the bastard descendants of kings—without there being any genuine kinship between us.
“I am not aware of any direct relationship,” Mr. Tinderflint said. “But, nonetheless, I knew her. She was a brave, intelligent, kindhearted woman, and I always had it in my mind that if I could do her daughter a good turn, I would.”
“What sort of turn?” If there was more skepticism than politeness in my inquiry, I beg my reader to show forbearance and remember I had already been subjected to a somewhat trying evening.
Mr. Tinderflint drew himself up a little straighter. “I am in the position of being able to offer you a post in the court of His Majesty, King George.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Tinderflint repeated himself. There in the darkened garden, with bruises forming on my arms and my head still swimming from my abrupt and violent encounter with my betrothed, I could not have imagined anything more fantastical being put in front of me. And yet here it was.
“The situation in this case is . . . complex,” Mr. Tinderflint continued. “But the offer, and the post, are genuine, I assure you. I do. And the post comes with a salary. Enough to render a prudent
young lady quite independent.”
This was too much. My circumstances had traveled from frightening to the shores of madness. I lurched to my feet, and my wig lurched on my head. “You have my thanks, sir, for your previous assistance. I am returning to the house now.”
“Of course. Allow me . . .” He reached toward me.
“Touch me, you overdressed pudding, and I will break your hand!”
We both froze, equally startled by the force of my outburst.
“Quite right,” Mr. Tinderflint said calmly, placing the hand in question into his coat pocket. “Very proper too, when all circumstances are duly considered. But I do beg you, should those circumstances change, you will at least write to me.” He held out a small card. “As a friend of your mother’s, you will recall. A good friend. I will just stay here and make sure you return safely to the house. You might perhaps wish to tell your cousin you fell down into the rustic grotto Lady Newbank most unwisely, most unwisely, has attempted to construct on the shore of her duck pond.”
I took the card. I tucked it into my sleeve. I curtsied. He bowed. I turned and walked the length of the terrace wall and started up the broad stairs. All the while, I felt Mr. Tinderflint’s mild eyes on me, watching and waiting for me to stumble.
Olivia—thank heavens—was on the terrace when I reached the top step. She plainly did not believe the story about a fall. Nevertheless, I stuck to it with a firmness of purpose that almost set me shaking again. Seeing my resolution, she did eventually go find her mother so we could all return home, where I was immediately put to bed with a hot water bottle on my supposedly turned ankle and a cold compress over my eyes to prevent any possibility of swelling.
Despite my exhaustion, it took a terribly long time to fall asleep. The events of the evening, from Sebastian’s rage to the mysterious Mr. Tinderflint’s assertions, played themselves over and over in my mind. Was it possible Mr. Tinderflint truly had known my mother? How? And this . . . story about a post at court, what on earth could that be? Surely nothing genuine. To send a girl like me—a poor relation without any title or special breeding—to court was as ridiculous as if he had proposed to outfit me with wings so I could fly across the channel to James the Pretender’s court in exile.
What could this Mr. Tinderflint hope to gain by saying such a ridiculous thing?
Which led me back to how he’d helped rescue me from Sebastian and all that my betrothed had been after, which caused a fresh wave of fear to run through me, only to be stopped in its turn by a new barrage of questions.
What if Mr. Tinderflint had been my mother’s friend? If the acquaintance was genuine, then surely he knew my father as well. What if . . . what if this Mr. Tinderflint knew where my father—the so thoroughly vanished Jonathan Fitzroy—was?
I suppose I must have fallen asleep eventually, because when I opened my eyes and removed my sodden compress, it was to see fresh daylight sneaking around the curtains. I was not much refreshed, but I did feel steadier in my mind, at least about one thing.
Whatever else had happened last night, I no longer needed to worry about marrying Sebastian Sandford. I had struck him. I had allowed a stranger to interpose himself into our . . . quarrel and to humiliate my betrothed by escorting me away. That, at least, was how the world and Sebastian would see the matter. That he had been attempting to force himself on me would not be taken into consideration. I had broken the rules of appropriate conduct. Therefore, a letter would arrive shortly from Lord Sandford to revoke the marriage contract. My uncle would, of course, be furious. I might even be banished to the cottage in Norwich. But Olivia would coax her mother to have me brought back as soon as she could. I just had to let matters take their natural course.
Norwich might even prove a blessing in disguise. It would remove all possibility of being tempted to find Mr. Tinderflint again. A man who would follow a young, unmarried girl about a party with an impossible proposition could not mean her any good, even if he had known her mother. Even if he might possibly know which corner of the earth her father had taken himself to.
These thoughts formed a comforting buttress against the night’s fears, allowing me to bear the ritual of being dressed with patience. The upstairs maid efficiently laced me into a plain yellow morning dress with relatively few petticoats and a relatively loose corset. A cap with a lace ruffle covered my hair, and a cream silk housecoat would keep me from any drafts. A pair of simple earrings and a quick pat of powder, and I could make my way downstairs to the breakfast room. Olivia would already be there, of that I was certain. I’d have to decide how much to tell her. I couldn’t face the possibility of actively lying to my dearest friend and cousin. I’d even tucked Mr. Tinderflint’s card into my sleeve to show her. But did I need to tell her the whole truth? Yes, yes, I did. I had to tell someone, and Olivia would take my part, even if no one else did.
But I never reached the breakfast room. The maid, Dolcy, was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
“You’re wanted in the book room, Miss Fitzroy. At once.”
Lord Sandford must have sent his letter shortly after daybreak. My brief betrothal was finished. The movement of the breakfast room door caught my eye, and I saw Olivia peering out, with at least three of the dogs struggling to escape around her skirts. I shook my head at her. It was better to get this over with. I could tell Olivia the whole story in one great lump then. I handed the maid my wrapper and proceeded down the hall to the book room. My uncle would rage and banish me to Norwich. I could bear it, and the sooner it happened, the sooner Olivia would be able to help me come back.
This was how I consoled myself as I knocked on the door. There was a grunt of acknowledgment from the other side, and I entered.
And froze in place, as stunned as if I had been slapped.
Uncle Pierpont was not behind his desk. The great ledger was closed, and the papers were scattered from their usual sturdy piles. My uncle stood at the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back and his eyes swollen near out of their sockets with rage. Neither was he alone. Another man, dressed in a coat of russet broadcloth, white velvet breeches, and silver-buckled shoes, sat in the chair by the hearth. One gloved hand lay on his knee, and a smile of cold satisfaction rested on his broad, hateful lips.
“Good morning, Miss Fitzroy,” said Sebastian Sandford.
CHAPTER SIX
THE WORST HAPPENS.
Fear hit me first, but anger followed fast on its heels. Anger cleared sight and sense and lent me the strength to turn my back and to spit out my next words to my uncle.
“What is he doing here?”
“He is waiting for your apology,” declared Sebastian from behind me.
“What?” I swung around.
Sebastian’s smile did not so much as waver. “It was with great reluctance that I felt I had to come speak to your uncle about your shocking behavior.” Sebastian gestured languidly toward Uncle Pierpont. “But as you are still young and somewhat untutored in these matters, I am willing to overlook the incident, provided I receive an apology and your promise that you’ll never behave in such a fashion again.”
As Sebastian spoke, the entire room seemed to take on a scarlet tinge. I remembered each one of his pinches and his sharp-toothed grin as he held me down. The bruises on my wrists and my legs seemed to burn with their own fury. “You’ll accept my apology, will you? When you’re the one—”
Sebastian’s eyes slid sideways. My uncle was close behind me. I could feel him there as if he were a fire burning at my back. My mouth shut tight. Sebastian settled more deeply into his chair.
“To answer your question, Miss Fitzroy, yes, I will accept your apology. I would be most grieved to have to tell my father, Lord Sanford, that you and I cannot agree.”
What he should be doing was thanking Heaven there were no sharp objects near to hand. “You tell him that! Add that you are vile, cruel, and contemptible, and I wouldn’t have you if you were the last man on earth!”
“Marg
aret Preston Fitzroy!” My name cracked over my head.
Shame and rage burned in my blood as I turned to face Uncle Pierpont. I was full ready to speak just as warmly to him, but my uncle wasn’t even looking at me. He bowed toward Sebastian.
“Perhaps you’d be so good as to give me a moment in private with my niece, Mr. Sandford?”
“Of course, Sir Oliver.” Sebastian stood and brushed past me. He took his time doing it, so I could get a good, long look at his toothy grin.
“Why are you doing this?” I demanded. “What is it you want?”
Sebastian’s sly gaze cut into me as surely as if he held a knife, and although he spoke not a word, I understood. He was doing this because I’d dared to fight back. He could have just thrown me over, but what would that gain him? He might never find another bride so helpless, or whose only protectors were so eager to be rid of her. Not one his father was willing to accept, at any rate. Far better to threaten public shame and scandal. Then he’d have me forever, because it was a threat that could be repeated, and no matter what he did to me, the world would take his word over mine, because he was a man and the honorable son of a peer of the realm. I, on the other hand, was nobody at all.
Sebastian bowed, still smirking, and closed the door.
“Not one word, miss,” said Uncle Pierpont before I could so much as open my mouth. “You will be silent until I bid you speak.”
“Uncle—”
“Silence!” He slammed his open hand against the desktop, making the ledger, and me, jump. “I knew you for an ungrateful, ill-mannered brat. I knew your mother to be both sorry and shameless. I should have realized you would grow to be at the very least her equal.”
The words, so bitter and unexpected, knocked me onto my heels as surely as if they’d been blows. “How dare you talk about my mother like that!”
“Because, my fine miss, your mother, my dearest sister, was a whore!”