THE front door closed gently but with the same effect as a sudden crack of thunder. The unexpected sound startled Avery from his tirade, and he faced the hallway with sagging jaw, realizing that not only had Christopher Seton left, but also that Silas Chambers had gone with him. With a groan of despair, Avery turned to his daughter again and threw up his hands.
“Ye see what ye’ve done! We’ve lost another one because o’ yer blamed foolishness! Dammit, girl! Ye’d best tell me why ye let that rascal in me house, or I’ll set me whip to yer back.”
Erienne rubbed the still stinging spot above her elbow where her father had held her arm. She could see the empty pegs beside the door and experienced a sense of elation that she had at least ordered that overbearing knave from the cottage. She was also abundantly relieved that Silas had seen fit to leave with him. Yet she felt a strange sense of loss too, as if something briefly seen and delightfully pleasant was forever gone from her life. She spoke with careful emphasis as she again tried to explain. “I had never met Christopher Seton before, Father, and whenever either you or Farrell described him, it was in less than accurate terms. You told me a Silas Chambers was on his way here, and when a man arrived, I assumed it was he.” Turning away, she fumed silently to herself. And a vile beast he was too, leading me on like that and letting me believe he was another man!
Avery spoke in a half-weeping tone. “Me daughter escorts me blood enemy ter the bedchambers o’ me own house, and only the good saints know what went on. And she tells me ’twas a mistake. A mere mistake.”
Erienne stamped her foot in frustration. “ ’Twas Farrell, Father! He stumbled in here drunk and passed out on the floor. Right there where you stand! And Mr. Cham…I mean Mr. Seton was kind enough to carry him upstairs to his bed.”
Avery fairly roared, and his eyes flared, “You let ’at blighter lay hands on poor helpless Farrell again?”
“He didn’t hurt him.” Erienne scuffed her foot against the threadbare carpet in embarrassment, mumbling to herself, “ ’Twas me he abused.”
Her reply did not soften Avery’s rage. “Me lord! Ye make him sound like a bloody saint! He didn’t hurt him,” he mimed in a squeaky voice and thrust an accusing finger toward the door. “ ’Twas ’at devil who laid me poor Farrell down in the first place. The very same one ye was consortin’ with!”
Erienne gasped at the slur. “Consorting! Father! We put Farrell to bed, and when I started down the stairs, I stumbled. He caught me! He saved me from a fall! And that, Father, was all that happened.”
“ ’Twas enough!” Avery threw up his hands again, then folding them behind his back, began to pace in front of the hearth. “ ’Twas enough,” he repeated over his shoulder, “ter give ’at fine Mr. Chambers a clear view o’ his own intended a-twistin’ in the arms of another man. Why, he’s probably halfway back ter York by now.”
Erienne sighed in frustration. “Father, Silas Chambers was never my intended. He was only another one of your precious prospects.”
Avery shook his head sadly and groaned. “Only another one. And they’re gettin’ fewer by the day. Without a dowry ’tis nigh impossible ter convince ’em ye’ll be a fittin’ bride.” His anger found new fuel. “What with yer highfalutin ideas on marriage an’ all. Gotta respect and like the bloke ye marry, ye say. Bah! ’Tis only an excuse ter reject ’em all. I’ve brought ye the best, and still ye turn ’em away.”
“The best?” Erienne scoffed. “You brought the best, you say? You brought a wheezing, fat glutton; a stumbling, half-blind old man; a bone-thin pinchpenny with hairy warts on his cheeks. And you say you’ve brought me the best?”
Avery halted and stared at her in hurt reproof. “They were all single men, o’ good report, o’ good lineage, and each and every one was the bearer o’ a wealthy purse.”
“Father,” Erienne took on a pleading tone, “bring me a young and handsome gentleman, one with a good purse, and I will love you and tend your needs and wants till your dying day.”
He fixed her with a jaundiced eye and drew himself up, assuming his best lecturing posture. “Now, daughter, it becomes apparent ter me ’at ye’ve an error in yer way o’ thinkin’.”
Had Erienne been near a chair, she might have sank into it in sheer despair. As it was, she could only favor her father with a blank stare.
“Now mind ye, girl. I’m givin’ ye a bit o’ pure wisdom.” He waggled a finger at her to emphasize his point. “ ’Ere be more ter a man than a handsome face or a pair o’ broad, square shoulders. Look at yer precious Mr. Seton, for instance.”
Erienne flinched at the sound of the name and ground her teeth to keep back a flood of heated verbiage. The cad! He had deliberately tricked her!
“Now, ’ere’s a cagey one for ye. Always schemin’ ter get the upper hand.”
Erienne almost nodded before she caught herself. The man had played upon her confusion for his own amusement, and her pride stung beneath the suspicion that he had been a step ahead of her all the time.
“Him being such a rich dandy, I s’pose those doxies on the waterfront would be proud to be on his arm, but no decent lady better take up with his sort. He’d fill their bellies with babes without so much as a promise o’ marriage. And even if ye did get him ter say the vows with ye, which I doubt, he’d leave ye for one reason or another when he grew tired o’ ye. ’Tis the way o’ those handsome cocks. They seem just as proud o’ what’s in their britches as their own fine fair looks.”
Blushing to the roots of her hair, Erienne recalled where her own gaze had briefly dwelt, with just as much curiosity perhaps as any other smitten virgin.
“ ’Tis true enough ’at Seton’s a handsome one, if ye go for ’em hard, bony jowls.” Avery rubbed his knuckles against his own sagging dewlaps. “But ter those who know, he’s a cold one, he is. A man can see it in his eyes.”
Erienne remembered the warmth of those crystal-clear orbs and doubted the truth of her father’s observation. There was a vibrant life and an intensity in those green eyes that no one could deny.
Avery ranted on, “With his arrogant and deceitful ways, I pity the wench who weds him.”
Even if she detested the man, Erienne had to disagree again with her sire. Surely the wife of Christopher Seton would be far more envied than pitied.
“You needn’t be concerned, Father.” She smiled somewhat ruefully. “I shall never again be taken in by Mr. Seton’s wiles.”
Excusing herself, Erienne made her way up the stairs and paused briefly outside Farrell’s door. The snores continued undisturbed. No doubt he would sleep the day away, then come the night rouse himself for another drinking bout.
She frowned slightly and glanced around. There was a faint scent in the hall, of a mild, manly cologne, and for an elusive moment the green eyes highlighted with light gray flicked through her mind and hinted at what the strong, straight lips had not been wont to speak. She shook her head to banish the vision, and the top step caught her eye. The memory of the way he had lifted her back and held her to him sent a dizzying thrill through her. She could almost feel the rock-hard arms clasped about her, and the smooth, sleek firmness of his well-muscled chest pressed against her bosom.
Erienne’s face flamed at the meanderings of her mind, and she ran to her room, where she fell across the bed and lay staring out a rain-spattered window. His silken jibes echoed through her mind.
Cast down! Cross over! Bovine!
Suddenly her eyes flew wide as she realized the full import of what he had said. She could not find the slightest pleasure in being informed that he would not step over her to get to a cow. She cursed his glib tongue and herself for not seeing his meaning immediately. With an agonized groan, she rolled onto her back to stare at the cracked plaster of the ceiling, which gave her mind no gentler balm than the water-streaked glass had.
Downstairs in the parlor, Avery continued to pace in distraught agitation. Trying to find a wealthy husband for his daughter was proving to be the most difficult ta
sk he had ever set himself upon. It was true irony that just when Silas Chambers was getting into a heated froth at the idea of having a young and beauteous maid for a wife, that rapscallion Seton appeared to disrupt the whole affair, as if he had not done enough harm to the Fleming family.
“Damn!” Avery struck his fist into his palm, then sought a strong draught to assuage the pain of both hand and spirit. Restlessly he began to roam the room again, cursing his luck. “Hell and damnation!”
He had been well on his way in His Majesty’s service when he had inadvertently saved one Baron Rothsman from certain capture during a confrontation with Irish rebels. The baron had proved effusive in his gratitude and urged the aging captain to retire and join his entourage in the London Court. Sheltered by the influence of the baron, he had progressed rapidly through several levels of the politico.
Avery’s eyes grew distant, and he sampled a second share of the fiery brew.
It was a blissful time in his memory, an endless whirl of high-minded conferences and meetings and, in the evenings, the balls and social affairs. There had come into it all a pale-haired, newly widowed beauty of exceptional breeding, and though her eyes were always sad, she had not rejected the attention of the slightly graying Fleming. Avery discovered that her first husband had been an Irish rebel and that his final act had been to test a length of rope on one of His Majesty’s prison barges shortly after the wedding. By then, Avery was well infatuated and cared naught that she had loved such a hated foe, but pressed her into marriage with him.
A child was born, a girl with locks as dark as her mother was fair, then two years later a son of the same mouse-brown hair and ruddy complexion as his father. A year after the boy arrived, Avery Fleming was elevated in position again. This one carried responsibilities far beyond his level of competence, but it introduced Avery to the private clubs of the London elite and to the high-stakes games of chance that flourished within the velvet walls. An awestruck Fleming took to the latter like a duck is gorged for the roasting platter, oblivious of the end that awaited him. Despite the worried warnings of his wife, he wagered heavily and even invested in a horse that seemed addicted to the sight of many other horses clearing the way well ahead of him.
His debauchery at play and ineptitude at work caused so much embarrassment for Rothsman that the baron soon refused to accept his calls. Angela Fleming suffered in her own way. She had to watch her personal fortune dwindle until the only dowry she could give her daughter was one which could never be taken from her, an education and as much preparation as possible for life as a wife on whatever level the girl would seek.
“Damn ’at foolishness!” Avery growled. “With the coin ’at woman wasted on ’at simple twit…Why, I could’ve still been livin’ in London.”
Dismissed from his position in that city a thrice of years ago, he had been banished to the North of England, where he was appointed mayor of Mawbry and carefully directed through his simple and limited duties by Lord Talbot. On leaving London he had left his debts unpaid, seeing no need to worry about debtors’ prison, for in the northern climes he would be reasonably safe from discovery. It was a chance to start over again with a clean slate and prove himself to be a man of high intelligence.
Then Angela died, and he went through a brief period of mourning. A lively game of cards seemed to help him over his loss, and shortly thereafter it became his habit to take weekend jaunts with Farrell to Wirkinton or meet with the cronies at the Mawbry Inn for a game or two during the week. In his unquenchable quest for games of chance he often visited the waterfront, where he could be assured of finding a fresh face and a full purse. A few tars might have suspected that his skill with cards was more through the dexterity of his fingers than with luck, but a common seaman dared not speak out against an official. As it was, he had enlisted his talents only when the stakes were high or when he needed the purse. He was not so selfish that he was against sharing portions of the prize money by buying a round or two of ale or rum, but seamen were generally poor losers, especially that brawling, treacherous breed of Yankees, and he suspected that more than a few complained to their captains. He cursed himself for not being more cautious when Christopher Seton had asked to join his game, but sea captains were usually easy to spot, and Seton had not been of that ilk. Rather, he had given the appearance of being a gentleman of leisure or a nattily dressed dandy. His speech had been as precise and refined as any lord at court and his manners impeccable. There had been little evidence to indicate the man owned the vessel in port and a whole bloody fleet of others.
The size of the Yankee’s purse had astounded him, and Avery had purposed to take him for a substantial sum. His blood had rushed with the excitement and the challenge of besting a moneyed gentleman. Whatever the outcome, it had promised to be an exciting game even for those who watched. Sailors and their doxies had gathered close about the table. For a time Avery had played the cards straight, letting fate ply its erratic favor where it would, then as the stakes mounted he began to lay out his ploy, holding back the cards he needed. Across the table from him those hooded eyes never flickered even once, nor had the bland smile wavered far from that bronze visage. Thus, when Seton had reached across the table to flick open his coat, spilling the carefully hoarded cards in front of everyone, Avery was taken completely by surprise. Trying to think of how best to deny the accusation, he had gawked and sputtered. His blustering denials had placated no one, and though he could recall glancing about for reinforcement, there had been none until Farrell entered and rushed forward to defend his sire’s honor. Never being one to indulge in good judgment, the younger Fleming had hotly issued a challenge to the stranger.
Avery’s features grew grim. His carelessness had been the direct cause of his son losing the use of his arm, but how could he admit that to anyone but himself? He had hoped that Farrell would kill the fellow, thereby canceling the debt. Two thousand pounds he owed the blighter! Why couldn’t things have gone his way just once? Why couldn’t Farrell have killed him? Even if Seton owned a fleet of ships, no one in England would have mourned his loss. The man was a foreigner. A worthless Yankee!
A snarl transformed Avery’s face as he remembered the sailors from the Yankee ship, Cristina, chortling after the game and patting the man on the back while they respectfully called him Mr. Seton. Why, they had rejoiced so heartily over his victory, Avery was of the firm belief they would have been ready to start a brawl in his defense. Everything had gone well for the Yankee, but nothing was left for the Flemings to be proud of. Word had spread faster than the plague that he had been called out as a cheat, and with that, creditors had started to hound him for their money and to close his accounts.
Avery’s thick, rounded shoulders slumped wearily. “What’s a poor beleaguered father ter do now? A crippled son! An arrogantly selective daughter! How will we make ends meet?”
His mind slowly churned as he debated his next course of action in getting his daughter married. A rich merchant near Wirkinton had seemed eager to meet Erienne after hearing him boast of her beauty and many talents. Though quite ancient himself, Smedley Goodfield was deeply appreciative of the young ladies and was sure to find the girl to his liking. The one fault Avery saw in him was that he was extremely tight with a coin, only parting with a shilling when he was forced to. However, with a sweet young thing to warm his blood and his bed, Smedley might prove to be a lot more generous. And, of course, as old as he was, he couldn’t live much longer. Avery held a vision of Erienne widowed and wealthy. Were such an event to occur, he could enjoy life’s abundant treasures once again.
Avery scratched a bristled jowl as a leering smile spread over his lips. He would do it! Come morning he would travel to Wirkinton and set the proposition to the aging merchant. Avery was certain the old man would accept. Then he would announce the news to his daughter, and the pair of them would be off to see Smedley Goodfield. Of course, Avery knew Erienne would not be pleased with his selection, but she would have to bear up und
er her disappointment. After all, her mother had.
His spirits much brightened by the prospect, Avery quaffed another brew to celebrate his decision, then he rose and settled his hat firmly on his broad brow. A bunch of his friends were wagering on the droves of stock that would soon be coming to market at Mawbry, whether the first would be sheep, geese, or the like. With the anticipation of Smedley Goodfield being in the family, he could now afford to lay odds on his preference.
A casual meeting ground for traveler and villager alike, the common room of the Boar’s Inn at Mawbry was rarely without at least a patron or two. Huge, rough-hewn wooden columns supported the upper floors of the establishment and provided a meager semblance of privacy for those who entered the lower room. The acrid odor of strong ale and the appetizing aroma of the roasting meats pervaded even the darkest corner. Kegs of rum and ale lined one wall, and in front of these the innkeeper swabbed his well-worn planks with a damp cloth. He cast an occasional eye toward a souse who dozed in the shadows at the end of the bar, while a serving wench bustled about to slide trenchers of food and tankards of ale before a pair of men who bent their heads close together across a trestle table near the hearth.
Seated at a table in front of the window, Christopher Seton tossed several coins onto the pitted surface to pay for the fare he and Silas Chambers had shared, then leaned back in the chair to sip the remainder of his ale leisurely. The barking of dogs on the street outside announced the hasty departure of Mr. Chambers and his rather nondescript carriage. Christopher smiled in amusement as he watched through the glass panes. The man had obviously been disturbed by the argument that had ensued between the Flemings, and with another to buy him a libation, he had readily confessed that he was somewhat hesitant about taking the maid to wife. It seemed the mayor had boasted of his daughter being as meek as she was comely, and though her beauty had certainly been proven, Mr. Chambers confided that the quality of meekness was most heartily strained. The girl had displayed a bit more fire than he thought he could handle. He was a most peaceable man, painstakingly cautious, and rather set in his ways. To be able to feast on such loveliness and to think of her as his own would no doubt be joy without peer, but her display of temper sorely worried him.
A Rose in Winter Page 4