Claudia sighed in relief. “Do let me know when you come, Christopher. We shall be giving a ball during the winter season, and I wouldn’t want you to miss it.” Her lips tightened at the corners as he glanced over his shoulder without answering. She was beginning to suspect that his business centered very much around the mayor’s daughter. “I must be off, Christopher, but should you have a change of plans about tonight, I’ll be home alone all evening.” A faint smile curved her lips. “Father is still in London, and is likely to be gone for some time yet.”
“I shall remember,” Christopher replied and tipped his hat. “Good day.”
Claudia inclined her bonneted head briefly in a farewell gesture, irritated that he made no effort to delay her. She consoled herself with the thought that if he had some interest in Erienne, it was a wasted effort. At least after the roup she would be someone else’s wife and well out of reach.
The carriage swung onto the road, and Christopher gave his full attention to the proceedings, casually leaning against a post while his eyes rested on Erienne.
“Gentlemen, ye’ve come here in hopes o’ finding yerself a wife, and a wife she shall be…ter one o’ ye!” Avery chortled, directing a finger toward those who were pressing in for a closer look. He took on a serious mien as he caught hold of the lapels of his coat. “Now, I gave her me word that it be marriage ye gentlemen had in mind, nothin’ less, and I’ll be expectin’ ye ter follow through accordin’ly. I’ll be a witness ter the nuptials meself and will tolerate no shenanigans. Do I make meself clear?”
A shiver of revulsion went through Erienne as her eyes found the man whom she had dubbed the gray mouse. He had moved to stand near the front, and his smug smile made her all too aware that he would be one of the serious participants. If he made the high bid, he might seek retribution for having been rejected when he first came to call, and she might never again know a peaceful day or a restful night.
Erienne cast her eyes surreptitiously over the faces in the crowd. Smedley Goodfield, at least, was not among them, but Silas Chambers was present. His modest carriage was pulled up nearby, and the old, wizened driver shivered in a threadbare coat.
For the most part, the men who had gathered around the platform seemed a wayward lot, having no obvious redeemable qualities. She had their full attention, all except a white-haired, wealthily garbed individual who had brought along a small collapsible seat on which he sat busily attending the book folded out across his knee. From all outward appearances, he was totally absorbed with the figures in the ledger.
Avery held up his arms widespread for silence and attention from the crowd. “Now, gentlemen, as ye’ve no doubt heard, I am sorely set upon by me creditors, or I’d have never considered this action. But they press ’pon me at every turn, and even this one”—he gestured briefly in the direction of Christopher Seton—“came ter me very home ter demand payment. Have pity on a man and on this young wench who has never known a man. She’s been a fair good blessin’ ter Farrell and meself these past years since her poor mother died, but she’s reached a time when she should take herself a husband and get away from this worrisome labor o’ carin’ for her kin. So I urge ye, gentlemen, ter loosen yer purse strings. Come forward, those o’ ye who’ve come ter this affair in a serious manner. Come forward. Here, let ’em gather close.”
He consulted the huge turnip-size watch he carried in his waistcoat and held the timepiece high before his audience. “The time is nigh, and now it’ll begin. What do I hear from ye gentlemen? What do I hear now? Is it a thousand pounds I hear? A thousand pounds?”
It was Silas Chambers who first responded to the prompting by tentatively raising a hand. In a rather hesitant tone he replied, “Aye…Aye, one thousand pounds.”
Standing in the background, Christopher unfolded the packet of papers and took out a pair of bills. He waved them to gain Avery’s attention and silently mouthed the words, “A mere pittance.”
Avery reddened and redoubled his efforts. “Ah, gentlemen, take a look at the prize ye’d be winnin’. Me own fair daughter, beautiful ter a fault. Intelligent. Able ter read and write. A good head with ciphers. A credit to any man she comes ter.”
“Fifteen hundred,” came a crude voice from the gathering. “Fifteen hundred for the wench.”
“A wench it be now.” Avery grew a trifle ruffled. “Do ye understand that this sale is final upon the conclusion of wedlock only? And ’twill be wedlock, I vow. So do not be thinkin’ ye’ll buy me daughter for addin’ ter some unseemly harem. ’Tis wedlock only, and wedlock I’m talking o’. There be no hanky-panky, and I will make sure o’ that. Now come ye, gentlemen. Come ye. Loosen yer purse strings, I beg ye. Ye see the man standin’ there awaitin’ and agloatin’. Be out with it now. Certainly more than a thousand pounds. Certainly more than fifteen hundred.”
The man sitting on the collapsible seat raised his quill and spoke in a flat, disinterested tone. “Two thousand.”
Avery took heart at the bid. “Two thousand! Two thousand to this gentleman. Do I hear twenty-five? Do I hear twenty-five?”
“Ah, twenty-one hundred pounds,” Silas Chambers lightly bade. “Twenty-one. Aye, twenty-one, I’ll go.”
“Twenty-one it is then! Twenty-one! Do I hear anythin’ else?”
“Twenty-three!” Harford Newton joined in, dabbing his thick lips with a handkerchief. “Twenty-three!”
“Twenty-three it is then! Twenty-three hundred! Come, gentlemen. Ye’re not even close ter me debts, and I would see a bit for meself now and me good fair son with his crippled arm. Dig deep into yer purses. Dig out the last bit o’ coin. Twenty-three it is now.”
“Twenty-four!” the same crude voice in the back shouted. “Twenty-four hundred pounds!” There was a slight blurring of syllables, as if the man had imbibed a trifle too much before attending the auction.
In a worried frenzy Silas hastened to reaffirm his own position. “Twenty-five hundred! Twenty-five hundred pounds!” He was becoming almost breathless with the risk that was involved in this bidding and with the hope that the others would stop once and for all. He was, after all, of goodly means, but not overly wealthy.
“Twenty-five hundred ’tis!” Avery chimed out. “Twenty-five! Ah, gentlemen, I implore ye. Be kind ter an old man and his crippled son. Here ye see before ye a fine example o’ womanhood. Indeed, I’ve said it before and say again, a credit ter any man. A helpmate as it were ter ease yer burdens and see ye kindly through life and bear ye many children.”
Erienne turned slightly away from her father at his last comment. She was aware of Christopher’s unrelenting stare, and when she lifted her gaze she saw he had now removed perhaps half the bills from the bulk and stood casually dangling them from his fingers, as if he too were imploring the others to bid more to make his time worthwhile. An ache grew in her chest and tightened until it restricted her breathing. He had amazed her with his offer of marriage, but now he appeared to have totally dismissed the idea, as if his first consideration had only been compensation for the debts he held.
“Twenty-five hundred! Do I hear twenty-six?” Avery urged. “Twenty-seven? Ah, come, gentlemen. Why, we’ve hardly warmed up ter the biddin’, and the man is still standin’ there with his debts. I implore ye ter reach into those purses. She’ll not go for a pittance such as this when the man is waitin’ ter collect his due. Twenty-eight hundred! Twenty-eight hundred! Do I hear twenty-eight hundred?”
“Three thousand!” the gray mouse chimed in.
A murmur went through the crowd, and Erienne’s knees began to tremble beneath her. Silas Chambers quickly sought out his purse and began to count its contents. There was a jumble of voices from the back as the tipsy contender consulted his friends. Avery’s smile broadened slightly until Christopher shook out another bill and added it to the rest.
“Three thousand!” Avery called and lifted a hand. “Who’ll make it more? Thirty-five? Thirty-five? Who’ll say thirty-five?”
Silence answered his ple
a as Silas continued to count, and the others conversed among themselves. The gleam in the eyes of the gray mouse grew brighter.
“Thirty-one? Before it’s too late, gentlemen, I beg ye consider the prize.”
The man on the folding stool slammed his book closed, placed the quill firmly into his case, and rose from the rather questionable comfort of his seat. “Five thousand pounds!” he said bluntly and coldly. “Five thousand, I say.”
A sudden silence fell over the crowd. Silas Chambers stopped counting; he could not muster another bid. The gray mouse’s face fell in disappointed defeat. Even the tippler from the back knew that the bid was well past his means. Five thousand pounds was a sum that could not be readily challenged.
Christopher’s expression was one of disbelief. He looked Erienne over carefully, as if to judge her for her worth, and appeared dubious as he crinkled his brows. At that precise moment Erienne was certain that if he had been near enough for her to reach, she would have tried clawing his eyes out.
“Five thousand it is then!” Avery declared cheerily. “Five thousand! I say it once. Yer last chance, gentlemen. Five thousand twice!” He glanced about but found no takers. “Five thousand it be then! Ter this gentleman here.” He clapped his hands together and pointed to the dapperly garbed man. “Ye’ve purchased a rare prize for yerself, sir.”
“Oh, I’m not buying her for myself,” the man explained.
Avery’s brows shot up in surprise. “Ye were biddin’ for another?” At the man’s stilted nod, he queried, “And who might that be, sir?”
“Why, Lord Saxton.”
Erienne gasped and stared at the man in surprise. Beyond a nightmarish form that flitted like a shapeless ghost through her memory she had no face, no shape to give to the man who had tended her through her illness.
Avery was not completely convinced. “Have ye some proof that ye come in his name? I did hear at one time his lordship was dead.”
The man withdrew a letter marked with a wax seal and handed it up to Avery for his consideration. “I am Thornton Jagger,” he explained. “As the letter will attest, I have been a barrister for the Saxton family a number of years. If you have doubts, I am sure there are those here who can confirm that the seal is authentic.”
A buzz of voices rose from the crowd and quickly became a confused medley of gossip, conjectures, and some truths indistinguishable one from another. Erienne caught the words, “burned,” “scarred,” “hideous” among the jargon and a slow feeling of horror began to send cold shivers of apprehension through her. She fought to remain calm as the barrister mounted the steps. The man dropped a bag of money onto a small table that served as a desk and began scratching his name across the bottom of the banns, identifying himself as agent of Lord Saxton.
Christopher pushed his way through the crowd and climbed to the platform. He waggled the packet of bills beneath Avery’s nose. “I claim it all but fifty pounds, and that I leave for your own convenience. Four thousand, nine hundred fifty pounds is my price for these. Any objections?”
Avery gaped up at the man who towered over him, wishing there were some way he could keep a larger part of the fortune for himself, but he knew with what he had left unpaid in London and the settlement of the gambling debt he had with Christopher, it added up to well over five thousand. It was at the very least a fair deal, and he could do nothing but nod and give his mute consent to the matter.
Christopher picked up the pouch, quickly counted out fifty pounds, and dropped the coins on the table. He tucked the remainder inside his coat and thumped a finger against the bundle of debts. “I never thought you would come near to matching these, but you have, and I am satisfied. From this day forth we are finished with the debts between us, Mayor.”
“A pox on you!” Erienne snarled near Christopher’s shoulder. His banal dismissal of the affair provoked her beyond the anger she felt toward her father. Before any could stop her, she jerked the packet from his hand and grabbed up several of the coins. She fled from their presence, never wanting to see any of them again.
Avery made to follow her but was delayed as he had to sidestep Christopher several times. “Get out o’ me way!” he cried. “The twit’s taken me money!”
Christopher condescended and stepped aside. As Avery departed in haste, Farrell grabbed Christopher’s sleeve and angrily accused, “Ye did that on purpose! I saw ye!”
The Yankee lifted his shoulders in a casual manner. “Your sister has a right to whatever she took and more. I only made sure she had a head start.”
The younger man could find no further argument in the face of the statement. He picked up the rest of the coins and stuffed them in his coat pocket, then holding his lame arm, sneered, “At least we’ll be free of ye.”
Christopher looked at him with the same tolerant smile until Farrell’s gaze dropped. Brushing rudely past, Farrell descended the steps and hurried after his family.
Avery chased after Erienne with coattails flying, anxious to get back the coins she had taken. By the time he reached the cottage, he was sweating and gasping for breath. Slamming the door, he found her in front of the parlor hearth, staring into the growing flames that licked greedily around the packet of bills.
“Here, girl! What do ye think ye’re doin’?” he demanded. “Those papers are important. They’re me only proof that I paid that rascal. And what have ye done with me money?”
“ ’Tis mine now,” Erienne stated coldly. “My dowry! My share of the bride money! A small pittance of worth that I’m taking from here. You would do well to see that all matters are arranged for tomorrow, because this will be the last night I spend in this house. Do you understand, Father?” She stressed the title with an acid smile of contempt. “I will never be back.”
Chapter Eight
THE rickety livery from Mawbry was hired to deliver the Fleming family to a church on the outskirts of Carlisle, for it was there that the services would be conducted. The day had dawned crisp and cold, with a bone-chilling wind buffeting the trees into a wild frenzy of motion. The aging of the hours lent no hope for a warming, for noon had passed and still the air was frigid, much like the silence that filled the coach.
The conveyance bumped and jolted along, adding greatly to Farrell’s discomfort. He held his aching head in his hand and closed his eyes, but he could find no part of that sleep he had lost during the previous night’s revelry. Avery was no better off, for it was not every day a family gained a lord into their fold, and he had spent until the wee hours of the morning drinking and boasting about their good fortune. It was the opinion of his friends that Lord Saxton was a generous soul, having wasted an extravagant sum to purchase the chit, and it was probably just as well that she was marrying him. After her stay at Saxton Hall, rumors and conjectures had been bandied about, and more than a few wondered if his lordship had taken some liberties with the girl. But if he had, at least he was correcting the matter by speaking the vows with her. Of course, the gossips were still wont to make much ado over the whole affair, and they seized and savored every tidbit that drifted their way, wringing it for whatever sweetness it might produce.
For the duration of the ride, Erienne kept her thoughts to herself, having no wish to appear amiable to her father. She held to the corner of the carriage, where she huddled in her cloak, trying to find a bit of warmth in the drafty conveyance. In preparation for the day, she had dressed herself in what had become her best gown. She had no bridal garb. In fact, she preferred a dowdy appearance, since it expressed her lack of joy. Still, it was the day of her wedding, and she had carefully bathed herself and brushed her hair to its best luster. It was the least she could do.
The carriage rattled through the narrow streets of Carlisle. Leaning out, Avery shouted up to the driver, giving directions that in a few moments took them to the small stone church on the outskirts. When they arrived, Lord Saxton’s coach was already in the lane in front. The coachman and footman, dressed out in white stockings and matching coats an
d breeches of a deep forest green trimmed with black, were waiting near the team of silky blacks. The conveyance itself was empty, and since there was no evidence of his lordship’s presence in the yard, the mayor was quick to assume that the man was awaiting his bride inside.
Avery plowed through the doors, abruptly gaining the attention of Thornton Jagger and the good parson who stood together near a tall, narrow desk at one end of the pews near the front. Just inside the front portal, a barrel-chested man dressed in a black coat and breeches had taken up a waiting stance, having braced his feet apart and folded his arms across his chest. There was no one else in the chapel. Though the man’s attire was certainly more somber than Lord Talbot’s, Avery allowed that there was no accounting for the varying tastes of the gentry. He cleared his throat.
“Er…yer lordship…” he began.
The fellow raised his brows in mild surprise. “If ye be talkin’ ter me, sir, me name’s Bundy. I be Lord Saxton’s servant…his man, sir.”
Avery blushed at his mistake and chortled to hide his embarrassment. “O’ course…ah…his man.” He glanced about the interior of the church, finding no other whom he could lay the title to. “Where is his lordship?”
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