by Maggie Hoyt
My foot had almost tapped out the drum section of an entire symphony when the first noblewomen drifted onto the field. Then slowly but surely the crowd grew. There were young women, some snickering at the tower, others stealing glances at Fan. I saw mothers watching the tower with hands clasped earnestly. The men seemed split—some were disgruntled at being dragged out of bed while others waited with curious anticipation. This was actually going to work, I thought. I had the crowd, Clarrie had the gold, and we had the perfect leverage over the Piminders.
At least, we would as soon as Mr. Sherman got here. Where was he? I scanned the crowd. Was his wife here?
“I’ll be back,” I told Fan, and I stepped away to search for Mrs. Sherman.
Although I was quite pleased I had a crowd to weave through, it didn’t make it particularly easy to locate either of the Shermans. I swept through the first few rows, making my way deeper into the gathering. I had just turned around to make another pass through when I caught a glimpse of Master Relish approaching Fan. He was saying something with a nervous grin, but I couldn’t hear him. I pressed forward just in time to see him take a step back and bellow:
“But lo! What strange behavior doth my mistress evince,
When I but from her chamber walkéd thence.”
He started marching in place, raising his knees high. After a few steps, he threw himself forward, pretending to trip. It was obviously planned—first, he fell as though time had suddenly slowed, and second, he turned toward Fan with a big grin on his face. When she proved a tougher audience than he’d hoped, he continued.
“She spoke in starts, betimes her brow bedewed,
Crosswise, atimes her back she shewed.”
He slowly spun around, turning his back to Fan. I sighed. Herb was reciting Dwerryhouse, a monologue from one of his comedies. And from his overstated pantomimes to his wooden delivery, Herb was awful. It seemed to me he’d put a lot of faith in that slow-motion sprawl—his backup material wasn’t as good, and Fan showed no signs of laughing.
Now, having illustrated what it meant to show one’s back, Herb spun back around to face Fan.
“Thus she, born under such a merry star,
And though true reason ’twould seem to mar,
I’d say perhaps ’twas me she loved …”
At this point, he made an attempt at a double take and ended up looking straight at Fan with his already round eyes practically bulging and his mouth gaping in an exaggerated O. He inhaled deeply, and I cringed in anticipation of the punch line.
“But—um—but that—oh, sorry, that’s not it.”
The onlookers started to titter at his fumbling of the lines, but that actually seemed to embolden Herb. I suppose he thought his plan was working and that Fan was bound to crack soon, but that didn’t help him remember his lines.
“I’d say perhaps ’twas me she loved,” he repeated, “but—oh, dash it all! But something, something … I’m so sorry. It’ll come to me any second.”
Herb covered his eyes and racked his memory, and just as he did so, I saw Justice slip up behind him, hand in armpit. Herb opened his mouth to speak, Justice flapped his elbow, and Herb’s monologue was interrupted by the loud frap of flatulence. Herb’s eyes looked like saucers.
“That wasn’t me! I swear that wasn’t me!” He turned around and saw Justice slipping back into the crowd. “Damn it, Justice! I know it was you! You can’t hide!”
Although the entire crowd was guffawing at this point, Fan hadn’t budged. I wasn’t inclined to crack a smile either. Butchering Dwerryhouse like that was just embarrassing.
“Madam Radcliffe?” said a voice behind me.
I turned around to face a breathless Mr. Sherman. He’d made a hasty effort to tidy up but had missed a few streaks of mud on his face and hands, and several strands of hair had broken free from his comb-over.
“Mr. Sherman! There you are! What happened?”
“So sorry, Madam Radcliffe. I’ve been trying to get a hold of that fellow at the Goose, but all the banging in the world won’t rouse him, apparently.”
“You don’t think Terence ever gave him the key.”
Mr. Sherman shook his head. “I was hoping to get a statement from him before the Piminders got to him.”
“That’s unfortunate. We’ll just have to work with what you got last night.”
Mr. Sherman cringed; his whole expression looked almost sick. “I followed Terence to the river,” he said. “He must have thought he’d lost me, as I don’t think he knew I was watching when he chucked his hammer into the muck.”
He opened a pocket of his briefcase and pulled out the hammer, wrapped in a dishcloth. “Luckily, he’s got a lousy arm. It landed in the mud instead of the water, so I retrieved it.”
“Mr. Sherman, that’s excellent!”
His face crumpled. “But there’s no distinguishing marks! Nothing to say this belongs to the Piminders. It’s still my word against his.”
I pursed my lips. He was right, of course. A convenient set of initials would have been lovely. The word of the tavern owner would have been the nail in the coffin. Instead, it would all come down to how persuasive I could be, and I’d made some awfully foolish mistakes recently. Should I have given Clarrie a fairy message about the gold?
“We can still work with this,” I told Mr. Sherman. “Keep that hidden. I’ll signal you when—hold on just a moment.” I’d been keeping an eye out for the Piminders, but instead, a glance told me Herb had finished his monologue and Damian was moving in.
There is a voice in my head that tells me not to meddle, but I can’t remember ever listening to it. I hustled over toward Fan. I would not let Fan marry a replica of her father. I’d hinder Damian’s advances as long as possible.
“Well, I imagine the Piminders will be here any minute now,” I said. “Hello, Damian. How are you?”
He stammered a hello, my sudden appearance having apparently taken him by surprise. “I’m doing well, Madam Radcliffe,” he recovered. He stood there awkwardly. That was all right with me. As long as he didn’t start telling jokes.
Fan finally broke the silence. “I do hope Clarrie’s fairy godmother came.”
“I almost hope she didn’t,” Damian said. “Imagine all these people when Clarrie comes out empty-handed. So gullible, they’re standing out in a field at dawn waiting to see if a fairy has brought gifts. Like children waiting for Old Man Winter.” He chuckled.
That certainly wasn’t the way to win Fan over. Not even the queen could make her think that was funny. Didn’t he know about the frogs?
“Well, you’re here,” she said crossly.
“Yes, but I’m not here to see Clarrie, am I? What did—” he began, but I cut him off.
“Has your sister been enjoying herself, Damian?”
“Yes, I think so,” he replied but kept his eyes on Fan. “How—”
“Good. I was thinking of her just the other day when I saw a group of younger girls,” I lied. I figured talking about his sister was a sure way to put him off his game. “They were all gathered outside a tea shop. I hope she’s been able to enjoy the lovely markets and shops here in Strachey.”
Damian gave me a patronizing smile. Fan’s expression was inscrutable. I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or grateful.
I took a breath to continue my inane monologue, a far cry from Dwerryhouse, although I wasn’t quite sure what I’d babble about next, when I heard a hush flutter through the crowd. I turned, and sure enough, the Piminders had arrived.
“Oh, here we go,” Damian said with a smug grin.
“Wish me luck,” I muttered to Fan. She nodded and squeezed my hand.
I gave a pointed glance toward Damian. “Don’t laugh,” I mouthed as I walked away. She scrunched her mouth into a tight-lipped frown.
I intercepted the Piminders as they cut across the field.
“Madam Radcliffe. Are we ready?” Lord Piminder asked. He took a quick glance over the crowd and smiled, probably ple
ased that Clarrie would embarrass herself in front of so many people.
I opened my pocket watch and checked the time. “Right on time. We’re ready. I assume you retrieved the key from the Goose?” I said, looking directly at Terence. He pulled the key out of a pocket and held it out but wouldn’t meet my eyes for more than a few seconds.
“Why don’t we let her parents open the door,” I said.
Lord Piminder nodded his agreement. I gave the key to Lord Babcock and rejoined the Piminders.
Patrick Babcock knocked on the door. “Clarrie?” he said as he removed the padlock. “You can open the door now, love.”
Immediately the door flung open and Clarrie stepped out of the tower, the sack in her arms and a joyous smile on her face. “Look,” she cried. “Gold!” She opened the sack and removed a handful of the wire.
Pure pandemonium erupted. Lilla Babcock screamed and fainted. Patrick rushed to catch her, which gave the crowd a perfect view of Clarrie holding gleaming gold straw. It was an hour after dawn, after all, and the sunlight hitting the metal made it sparkle. There were gasps. There were shouts of amazement. There were cheers. And of course, there was one very angry gentleman.
“That can’t be real gold!” Lord Piminder barked and moved as if he would confront Clarrie. I stepped in front of him.
“That’s immaterial,” I said, putting a hand up to stop his advance.
“Are you saying you won’t let me inspect the gold?”
“Lord Piminder, you may not believe me, but I’m giving you an opportunity to save face. You’re going to congratulate Clarrie on her efforts and cancel her parents’ debt.”
“Are you insane, woman?”
“Not in the least. You’re going to do this because you want to avoid a court battle you will lose.”
“That’s preposterous. The Babcocks owe me money. Any court would order them to pay it. On what possible grounds could the contract possibly be voided?”
Mr. Sherman suddenly appeared at my elbow. “On grounds that you and your son have established a clear pattern of sabotaging the defendant’s ability to reasonably pay back the loan, sir.”
“Who is this?”
“Chadwick Sherman, sir, a solicitor in the employ of the Babcocks.”
“And what, pray, is this alleged pattern?”
“Point the first: neither at the death of the initial debtor nor at any point afterward did you provide the inheritor of said debt with a copy of the contract he was inheriting. At minimum, a court would cancel all interest accrued since the death of the initial debtor. Point the second: when you verbally informed the debtor of the contract, you resisted any attempt to draw up a schedule of repayment, which is required by law for any debt exceeding a sum of seven hundred sovereigns. Point the third: last night, your son directly attempted to sabotage Clarrie’s attempt to fulfill the contract you and she had made.”
“What?” Lord Piminder had turned purple. “Think carefully, little man, before you falsely accuse my son.”
Mr. Sherman acted as though he had heard neither threat nor insult. “Not falsely, my lord. I witnessed your son open the back door of the tower and smash Clarrie’s spinning wheel to pieces. Using this.” He displayed the hammer.
“That proves nothing,” Lord Piminder said. “That hammer could belong to anyone. You have no way of proving you saw my son.”
“Unless Terence recognizes the hammer, of course,” I said, smiling sweetly at Terence. He squirmed.
“He does not,” Lord Piminder said.
“And are you certain he will continue to assert that under the scrutiny of a court?” I said, not taking my eyes off Terence.
Lord Piminder finally looked at Terence as well, which only made the young man shrink further. “Of course,” Piminder maintained with a tense smile. “I cannot believe my son would take such foolish, senseless action.” Terence looked like he wanted to cry.
I pressed my point. “And when your tavern owner verifies that Terence never brought him the key?”
“Lonzo is—”
“A friend, I know. Are you sure you’re paying him enough to lie to a magistrate?”
A spasm of rage flitted across his face, and he stepped suddenly toward me and leaned over me, his face mere inches from mine. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching. I wasn’t afraid of him, but it was a reflex, I suppose, conditioned by Husband #1.
“Are you threatening me? You, an untitled, middle-class housewife? You have the gall to think you can intimidate me? You’re an amateur, Evelyn. It is my son’s word against your solicitor’s, and I quite like my chances. Why on earth would I concede now?”
“Just listen for a moment,” I said, stepping aside so that he could see Clarrie and the crowd.
People had gathered around the Babcocks to see the gold, and they listened to Clarrie’s story with rapt attention. Those in the back of the crowd were marveling to one another. Some women were even crying.
“The little man did come,” we heard Clarrie say. “But he wasn’t my, well, godfather, I guess. I heard him, and he kept asking me to hand it over, but I didn’t have any jewelry, and I told him I didn’t want to give up my firstborn child, so he got really angry! I could hear him stomping his foot and jumping around. He even destroyed my spinning wheel! But then all of a sudden, I remembered his name! It was Mumblewitskin! Then he vanished, and my real fairy godmother dropped this whole sack of gold down the chimney! She saved me and my parents!” The crowd cheered.
I turned back to Lord Piminder. “See, you’ve never understood that you’re the villain. All your wealth won’t make you more popular than a sweet young woman with a fairy godmother. You’re an obscenely wealthy nobleman trying to turn a charming woman and her parents out on the streets, and if you take this to court, everyone is going to know. You’ve got one chance to redeem yourself, and that’s to forgive the debt right now.”
“What is this, some kind of elaborate blackmail?”
I sighed. “Sir, the Babcocks should have taken you to court weeks ago. If I’d simply hired a solicitor at the beginning, we could have avoided all of this. So it’s ironic that the one person this fuss really benefits is you. If you force us into court, we’ll win at least a reduction and a payment schedule, and what does that tell your other debtors? Your colleagues will jump out of the woodwork to take advantage of you. I’m offering you a chance.”
I held my breath. That was my best argument. If this didn’t convince him to concede, things were going to get messy. I could see in his eyes he had more fight in him, so I challenged his gaze. He was practically quivering with rage, and I waited for the firestorm of abuse and denial. He sneered at me, his mouth half-open with a defiant response on his lips, but to my surprise, he held his tongue.
“This is what you’re going to do,” I said. “Consider it some free PR. You’re going to approach Clarrie. Not her parents. You’re going to congratulate her and offer her Terence’s hand, as you agreed upon.”
Terence’s eyes widened, and Piminder immediately opened his mouth to protest. I waved off their objections.
“Which she will refuse,” I said. “Turns out, girls don’t particularly like it when you tell them to give up. Then you’ll agree to forgive the debt. Make a fancy speech, show that you’ve seen the error of your ways, and I bet you’ll get applause.”
With pursed lips, Lord Piminder walked stiffly over to Clarrie, Terence in tow. Silence fell over the crowd. I took the gold from Clarrie, tucked it inside the tower, and removed myself from the scene.
“Congratulations, Miss Babcock,” Piminder began. “Your father was correct—you do have a knack for working with gold. As per our agreement, I … give my blessing to a marriage between you and my son.”
Clarrie glanced at Terence, who couldn’t quite stop himself from shaking his head a fraction of an inch. “With all due respect, my lord, Terence should marry someone he is truly in love with. I did this only to help my family.”
“In that case, it is on
ly right that I put your mind at ease. I … regret,” he said, nearly spitting the word out of the side of his mouth, “making such harsh demands from such an obviously virtuous family. I hereby declare the loan given to your grandfather from my father forgiven.”
Cheers burst forth from the crowd. There was applause. There were shouts of “Hip, hip, hooray!” I swear I even heard some stranger say, “We did it!” For a moment, Lord Piminder looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected that to work; bolstered by the attention, he then put on a gracious smile and used the spotlight to bow generously to Clarrie and shake her hand, all to thunderous applause.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I felt like I’d aged an extra five years this summer, although I wasn’t sure how much of that was Roompilda and how much was Hugo Piminder. Sixty-forty in Roompilda’s favor, definitely. Maybe even seventy-thirty? The high of defeating the Piminders had probably made me forget how nerve-racking it had been.
Lord Piminder and Terence left Clarrie to her admirers and walked away. Spotting me on the sidelines, Lord Piminder motioned for Terence to continue home and approached me.
“I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” he said.
“I’m pleased for the Babcocks,” I replied.
He snorted. “Yes, now you’ll get paid. Still, I must confess your skill at public relations. For a woman, you are quite astute at crowd control. In fact, I’ll make a deal with you,” he said, with an air of sudden benevolence, as if whatever he was about to offer would be a gift I could never truly repay. “Come work for me. I’ll pay you more than someone like Patrick Babcock ever could, you could expand your portfolio, and you can keep me from turning into a villain again. Discuss it with me over dinner?”
I was incredulously speechless for a few seconds, but I certainly didn’t want him taking my silence for assent. “You know, Hugo, there was a brief moment—a very, very brief moment—where I actually, genuinely liked you. But I gave up a long time ago on men who refuse to see my true self.”
As I turned away and left him standing there, I was, in fact, rather pleased with myself. And then I remembered Fan.