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Two days later, the carriage came up the drive.
They weren’t expecting visitors. They were, in fact, so far from expecting visitors that Guy was in their bedroom, braced against a table, legs wide, with Philip’s oiled fingers sliding and probing inexorably against his backside. He’d been kissed into delirium and stripped naked with agonising slowness, and he was anticipating this with a combination of some nerves—last time had been the most overwhelming experience of his life—and mounting pleasure. Philip was going to bend him over the table and fuck him in broad daylight, the window uncurtained because they were too high up to be seen, and Guy was lost in delicious anticipation when he heard the sound of horses and the crunch of wheels on gravel.
“Who the hell is that?” Philip muttered.
Guy looked up and saw the coach, a vividly memorable shade of blue. It was coming up to the house and it swept out of his line of sight after a second, but that was quite long enough.
“Oh God. Oh my God. Philip!”
“What? Guy?”
“It’s my aunt,” Guy said, lips numb. “Lady Paul Cavendish. My aunt, here!”
“Christ’s balls,” Philip said. “All right, don’t panic. Dress, quickly, remembering that you have done nothing wrong. Calm, Guy. I will be with you.”
Guy grabbed for his clothes, hoping they could be rendered decent. His stand had wilted, not surprisingly, but Philip had been thorough in his caresses, and Guy knew he must look a dreadful, criminal mess. “I’m sticky. Oh God, my face!”
Philip rang the bell then returned to dressing himself, which he was doing very quickly. “Right. Do what I say. Get your drawers on, taking deep breaths as you do it. Do not try to speak.”
Guy heard noises from below. The door, the tortured vowels of an extremely well-bred voice that he’d heard dispensing measured denunciation all too often. “It’s her. What’s she doing here?”
“We’ll find out.”
There was a quiet knock, and Sinclair slid in. Guy, not even half-dressed, froze in horror. The valet did not. “You rang, sir?”
“Get Mr. Frisby dressed and groomed,” Philip said shortly. “I want him downstairs in five minutes looking like the perfect gentleman.”
Sinclair gave Guy a swift but gloomy once-over. “Five minutes. You don’t ask much, do you?”
“If you were bad at your job I shouldn’t pay you. I certainly don’t have you around for your personal graces.”
“Yeah, well, same,” Sinclair assured his master. “All right, Mr. Frisby, why don’t you stand up?”
“Do what Sinclair says,” Philip told Guy. “He is competent if you can look past the manner.” He hadn’t stopped dressing throughout. Guy wondered, in a dizzy sort of way, if he was used to this urgency. By the time Sinclair had Guy’s waistcoat buttoned, Philip had shrugged himself into his coat, tied an adequate knot to his cravat, wrenched his boots on, and run a comb through his hair. “Right. I’m going down. You have been, uh, out for a walk. Get him out the back, Sinclair, without anyone seeing him. Hold fast, beloved.”
He departed with a long stride. Sinclair shook his head. “Always something, ain’t there? One thing after another with this lot. Well, never mind, it’ll all be the same in a hundred years. This neckerchief won’t do at all, sir, let me fetch a fresh one.”
Guy followed Sinclair downstairs and was whisked out of the Hall unseen. He strolled round the side of the house, attempting to keep his countenance, and entered by the main door, where Sinclair met him.
“Mr. Frisby, sir,” the valet said with a solemn bow. “Lord and Lady Paul Cavendish have arrived and request your presence in the Yellow Drawing-Room.”
“Good heavens, really?” Guy tried, which was met with a ludicrous wink. “Um, thank you.”
Sinclair preceded him to the door, announcing “Mr. Guy Frisby” with great seriousness, bowed, and departed. Guy stepped in and found himself faced with his relatives.
Aunt Beatrice had been the older sister and the prettier of the two. Coming from a family of some wealth but no particular distinction, she had done extremely well to secure the younger son of a marquess in wedlock. She had adopted a haughty manner even before their mother’s flight, or so Guy’s father had complained; afterwards, her efforts to distance herself from the disgrace had led her to become correct to the point of striking fear into all hearts.
Guy had always been terrified of her; he remembered her thunderous denunciations of Amanda’s criminal misbehaviour with wincing horror. He couldn’t blame her. Lord Paul was every bit as much a stickler as his wife, and they had three daughters, none of whom deserved to be associated with scandal, but the charity Guy and Amanda had had from the Cavendishes had not been given with love or understanding, and he didn’t see that on their faces now.
Both sat bolt upright on the edges of chairs, as though preferring not to touch the furniture. There was no sign of tea things. Philip sat in another chair in a frankly slovenly posture, chin resting on his hand, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, with a hard light in his eyes that boded extremely ill. Amanda was on the sofa, leg propped on a footstool, face and lips very white.
“Aunt Beatrice,” Guy said. “Lord Paul. I’m very pleased to see you. I had no idea you were going to visit.”
“This is not a visit,” Lord Paul said in arctic tones, handling the noun as though with tongs. “We do not visit this gentleman and his associates.”
“Please,” Philip said. “Make yourself free of the house.”
“You uh, you have been introduced to Sir Philip Rookwood?” Guy said desperately.
Aunt Beatrice looked the other way. It was as close to a cut direct as could be administered, in Philip’s own house. Guy didn’t dare look at him. “I’m afraid I didn’t expect you. May I ask—”
“Guy Frisby,” Aunt Beatrice said, rolling the r. “The carriage waits. You and your sister will return to your home with us, as you should have done at once.”
“But Amanda has a broken leg. That’s why we’re here. She can’t travel, her leg is too precarious.”
Amanda winced. Philip was casually tracing a finger in a line across his throat. Guy understood as Aunt Beatrice swelled. “Your sister was walking—hopping—on the arm of a male individual when we arrived. She is quite evidently able to return home. I cannot understand how you should have so lowered yourself as to spend one hour—one minute!—longer than medically necessary in this house. You have behaved with gross irresponsibility and your sister has shamed herself, her family, and, what I cannot forgive, my family with her immoral and disgusting behaviour—”
“Now wait a minute!” Guy hadn’t meant to shout, and it came out more of a squeak. “Wait. Amanda has done absolutely nothing wrong. Her bone broke so badly she nearly died of blood loss and fever. She would have died if Sir Philip hadn’t allowed us to stay, and she lived thanks to Dr. Martelo, who I’m very sure is the gentleman who was helping her walk. And Sir Philip has—has provided female attendance for her day and night, and I’ve been here the whole time, and—and—”
“And the party which has, sadly, just broken up included a young matron of the utmost respectability who acted as chaperone,” Philip said, to Guy’s astonishment. Amanda didn’t even blink. “A Mrs. Salcombe, I will be happy to put you in touch with her. I must say in my defence that I have never in my life made such stringent efforts to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”
“Then you have failed, sir.”
“He has not.” Amanda’s voice was tear-stifled. “Sir Philip and his friends have been—the utmost consideration—”
“‘Sir’ Philip,” Lord Paul said, the quotation marks almost audible, “has exposed you not only to the presence of an individual whose notoriety is such that I must decline to name him—”
“Lord Corvin,” Philip said helpfully. “You must know him; Wrayton Harcourt is not far from Easterbury’s seat. Why, he’s all but your brother’s neighbour, Lord Paul.”
“But also,” Lord Paul went on as if Philip hadn’t spoken, while his wife ruffled like a chicken with outrage, “to the contempt and disdain of any decent individual.”
“Why?” Amanda almost shrieked. “All I did was break my leg!”
“You have been staying in Rookwood Hall for weeks,” Aunt Beatrice said, voice like doom. “You must realise the interpretation that has been put on events.”
“What interpretation?” Guy demanded.
“Let me guess: London is ablaze with the news that Miss Frisby has become my mistress, as her mother was my brother’s,” Philip said. “It is untrue, and I am surprised to see people of sense or decency stoop to such sordid chatter. If I were Mr. Frisby I should gravely resent it on my sister’s account. Having not that right, I shall resent it on my own. You will oblige me by not repeating any further lies in my house.”
That went down as well as Guy could have predicted. Lord Paul stood and denounced, waving his finger as though lecturing a schoolboy. Philip leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, an ugly sneer twisting his lip, replying with contemptuous scorn. Guy wished he’d be quiet. He slid over to Amanda and sat by her, grabbing her cold hand.
“It’s all right,” he whispered.
“It’s not.”
It wasn’t. Aunt Beatrice cleared her throat loudly, putting an end to Lord Paul and Philip’s exchange of compliments. “Excuse me. I will have silence, Sir Philip. Your denials and assertions notwithstanding, the fact is that my unfortunate niece’s whereabouts for this period are common knowledge. Her reputation has been entirely marred, her name, already tarnished by her mother’s reprehensible actions, brought to contempt. This is the result of her sojourn in your house, sir, and there is only one means of redress available.”
Guy thought for a blank moment that Lord Paul was going to challenge Philip to a duel, and then he realised. Amanda said, loudly, “No,” and Philip’s lips curved in a smile as nasty as any Guy had seen on him.
“And now I grasp the game. Yes, that would be a convenient means by which to rid yourself of both an unwanted niece and a financial obligation. Never mind that you have denounced me as a disgrace whose chairs are not fit to be sat upon by the decent: you would hand over Miss Frisby’s person and future to my notorious and disgusting self to maintain your family respectability. I wish I were surprised by that. No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No,” Philip said again. “No, I will not offer my hand to a lady who neither needs nor wants it for the sake of your propriety. Not a chance.”
“Sir, you are no gentleman,” Lord Paul said furiously.
“I believe that fact is also notorious.”
“Perhaps you will do us the favour of allowing my family private conversation,” Aunt Beatrice said, each word dripping ice.
“Certainly.” Philip rose. “Mr. Frisby, Miss Frisby. Should you wish for me, or indeed footmen to escort anyone out, you know where the bell is. And allow me to reiterate that you are welcome to remain my guests as long as you care to do so.”
He strolled out, shutting the door. Amanda gripped Guy’s fingers convulsively.
“Well,” Aunt Beatrice said. “I had heard the worst, but that—”
“He is a very kind and generous man,” Guy said, voice shaking.
“How can you say such a thing in the face of that appalling rudeness?”
“I think you were rude to him first,” Amanda said. “And it was not kind to—to attempt to force— How could you? What a dreadful thing to say!”
“You may not speak to your aunt in that manner,” Lord Paul said. “The disgrace you have brought on our family— Lord Perivale himself heard the rumours!”
“Who?” Guy asked.
Amanda gave his hand a punitive squeeze, too late. Aunt Beatrice looked sabres at him. “Lord Perivale, whose eldest son is to marry Anne, your cousin. I am disappointed you have so little interest in the well-being of your only family.”
“I’m sorry, I just forgot,” Guy said. “And I’m sure, uh—” He couldn’t for the life of him remember the fiancé’s name. “—Lord Perivale and his son won’t hold silly rumours against Anne. If you tell everyone it’s not true, surely you’ll be believed.”
“I hardly think we can argue any such thing, having cancelled several important engagements to come here to rescue you from your folly.”
“Well, that’s not our fault,” Amanda said. “It’s a shame you didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“You have lost that,” Aunt Beatrice said, voice dreadfully measured. Amanda sucked in a breath as though she’d been struck. “You will now do precisely as I tell you or I shall wash my hands of you both, once and for all. You will leave this place at once. You will return to your own home, where I shall remain with you to discuss the future. Let me remind you, you live by my charity. If you disobey me, you will not hang upon my husband’s sleeve one more day. Not one!”
Amanda was breathing through her teeth. Guy could barely breathe at all. He forced the words out.
“Yes, Aunt. We’ll come at once.”
––––––––
PHILIP KICKED THE DOOR open as Guy was packing. It was proving quite difficult to do that and not cry at the same time.
“Guy? What the hell?”
“Well, we’re going home. That’s all. We would always have had to.”
“You can’t let that pair of sanctimonious bullies dictate your movements.”
“We don’t have any choice.”
“I’ve offered you a choice,” Philip said. “And if Amanda’s already being talked about as my mistress—”
“I can’t stop the world thinking my sister is your kept woman, but I damned well won’t give them more reasons to think it!” Guy wiped furiously at his eyes. “And if you hadn’t spent your entire life in this perverse effort to have everyone think the worst of you—”
“Are you seriously blaming me for this debacle?”
“You and Lord Corvin and the Murder want to be talked about! Can you not imagine how dreadful this is for Amanda?”
“I’m afraid I’m rather busy imagining how dreadful it is for you, while you throw your youth on the fire as a sacrifice to the domestic gods,” Philip snapped. “How will you and I see each other again? What are you going to do, sit at home with Amanda till you both dry up and blow away?”
“What else should I do? Abandon her? You said you understood!”
“I don’t understand why you’re clinging to the proprieties when they’re pulling you down!” Philip almost shouted. “That’s not a life-preserver, it’s a sodding anchor, a metal weight, and you will drown if you don’t let go!”
“It’s not my choice! I am trying to do my best for my sister—”
“Do you even know what she wants? Did she ask you to give up your life, happiness, the man who loves you, for her?”
“She doesn’t have to!” Guy shouted, and they stared at each other, the words ringing off the walls. “She doesn’t have to,” he said again, more quietly. “Because she comes first, I told you that, and—and first among equals doesn’t mean anything at all.”
“No,” Philip said. “I see that it doesn’t. And you did indeed tell me that. So, since I have always promised to take no for an answer, there is nothing left but to bid you good day.”
“What? No, wait. Philip—”
“You’ve made a decision,” Philip said through his teeth. “I am trying to respect it, and myself, and indeed you. That will be a great deal more easily done from a distance.”
***
THE RETURN TO DRYSDALE House was accomplished in a miserable silence, at least on the Frisbys’ part; Aunt Beatrice and Lord Paul talked more or less continually. David Martelo was nowhere in evidence as they left, and Guy had to help manoeuvre a white-faced, silent Amanda into the carriage unaided, and then out at the end of the journey.
The house smelled stuffy and unused. It had to be aired, and Mrs. Harbottle summoned, and bedrooms made up, and a bed for Amanda in the parlour since she could not safely manage the stairs, and the kitchen fire lit, and all of that kept Guy sufficiently busy that he had no time to think. Then there was dinner, which was awful, and a solid hour of prayers for repentance and improvement, which Guy thought Amanda might have walked out of, were it not for her leg. He didn’t seek Amanda out for private speech that night. He didn’t want to leave her alone in her misery, but he was too afraid he’d break down himself, and have no way to explain why.
The next day was much the same. Guy spent it out in the vegetable garden, pulling weeds and repairing the ravages of a month of inattention. Amanda made her way up and down the path on crutches, face drawn and set with determination.
“Ought you not be resting?” Guy asked her.
“Dr. Martelo advised me to place weight on it.”
No ‘David’, Guy noted, and didn’t dare ask.
There were more prayers, more lectures. Guy had hidden the copies of Darkdown in a cupboard, unable to bear it if Amanda was rebuked for reading novels. He extracted one and took it upstairs in secret to read, but the first mention of the cruel Sir Peter Falconwood left him curled on his bed in agonising misery, because all he could think about was Philip’s teasing voice, the touch of his hand, the warmth in his eyes.
He’d done the right thing. He knew he had, and he was sure that Philip would see that when he wasn’t so frighteningly angry, but the knowledge did absolutely nothing to soothe the jagged hole in his chest, where he’d ripped out his heart and left it behind at Rookwood Hall.
There wasn’t even anyone there, as they learned from Jane. Sir Philip had left the very same day as them, setting off back to London on horseback with his household coming after in conveyances. He hadn’t wasted any time in going back where he belonged.
On the third day, their misery was slightly alleviated by the announcement that Lord Paul would be leaving them.
“I shall return to London in order to make arrangements to establish my daughters at the house in Bath,” he pronounced. Naturally, there was no offer to let Amanda convalesce in a pleasant location where the waters would do her good. “Lady Paul has most generously agreed to remain with you in order to give you her countenance. I hope you will demonstrate your gratitude.”
Guy managed some polite murmur. Amanda didn’t speak, but when Aunt Beatrice and Lord Paul were busy with the apparently complex arrangements for his departure, she jerked her head at the garden, and Guy followed.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said without preamble as they sat on the bench at the far end. “Please stop or I’ll go mad.”
“Sorry. It’s just so awful.”
“Isn’t it. I am so tired of living under these people’s thumb, Guy. So tired of it.”
“So am I, but what are we going to do?”
“Sir Philip said we could stay with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know what everyone would think.”
“They already think it,” Amanda said. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. Nobody will ever marry me, no decent man, I’ve seen to that. So why shouldn’t we? I could be very shocking and scarlet and write books, and Sir Philip wouldn’t care in the slightest, and Aunt Beatrice would have a stroke, if we’re lucky, and—and you’d be happy, darling. Shouldn’t one of us be happy?”
Guy could feel the blood draining from his face. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, Guy. I have watched you, and I’m not entirely ignorant, and I talked to Sherry—in confidence, you know—because I needed to understand, and he was awfully helpful and explained all sorts of things that nobody ever tells one. Do you love him? Sir Philip, I mean. Not Sherry.”
Guy put his face in his hands. Amanda put her arm round his shoulders, giving comfort in the way that should have been his job. “Dearest, you know I don’t mind in the slightest, don’t you? If you were happy. I’ve never seen you so happy in my whole life as you were at the Hall, or even just when Sir Philip walked into a room. You looked—you looked right with him and Sherry said exactly the same about Sir Philip with you, and we both think it’s marvellous, actually.”
“But it isn’t,” Guy said, muffled. “I doubt I’ll ever see him again.”
“Then you’re stupid. You can’t just sit here in Yarlcote forever. Write to him. Please, Guy. It’s such a mess, but you could be happy.”
“No, I couldn’t be. Not if I left you behind, and not at the price of everyone thinking the worst of you. I couldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t it make a difference if we knew it wasn’t true? Didn’t you tell me that once?”
“Then I was wrong. The way Aunt Beatrice spoke to you—she had no right. And the way they both spoke to Philip, sneering at him, insulting him in his own house. It isn’t tolerable. I’m not surprised he’s turned his back on society, I’d like to do the same, but... I can’t just ask Philip to keep us, Manda. You must see that. Look, Aunt Beatrice will go away eventually. Things will settle down.”
“If you think you’ll ever be allowed to see him again, you’re wrong,” Amanda said. “Can you imagine if she found out you’d visited the Hall? And she’d find out, she probably has spies all over this horrid place. Someone here wrote letters about me, didn’t they? A nice juicy piece of gossip to people in London who were probably so thrilled by the latest on-dit that they couldn’t wait to share it. It’s hateful. I wish I hadn’t put the Murder in my book. They’re about the only people I can think of who don’t deserve it.”
“No, they don’t. Manda, what about David?”
Amanda’s mouth tightened. “What about him?”
“I thought—well. That you were getting on.”
“So did I. Only, then Lord Paul arrived shouting imprecations at him as though he were a stable-boy for presuming to take my arm, while Aunt Beatrice harangued me as a common stale, and I dare say that put him off. He—he didn’t even say goodbye, Guy. He just went away, and we left and—and—”
Guy twisted to get his arm round her. Amanda leaned into him and cried, and he held her, whispering promises of everything being all right that he knew very well weren’t true.
Two more days passed with no sign of Aunt Beatrice leaving. She had spent much of her stay writing and receiving letters, to whom Guy didn’t know or care. He wanted to write to Philip and didn’t dare to. That was contemptible, in his own house. But he didn’t know Philip’s direction in London, and if he’d found it out he couldn’t have borne the possibility that someone might report back, and anyway he didn’t know what he’d say. I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you. There’s nothing I can do about it, but I love you. I hope you’ll be happy. I don’t think I will be ever again.
We get better. He reminded himself of that again and again. Philip had promised him that he’d get better from a doomed love affair and Philip had never lied to him or let him down. Only Guy had done that.
On the Friday night, Aunt Beatrice announced that they would be accommodating another guest.
“My chaplain, Mr. Dent. A man of the highest moral standards and a tower of strength to the repentant sinner. There is a living in Easterbury’s possession which will fall vacant imminently—it is a post for a married man, requiring a woman’s aid, and the incumbent, a widower, has no daughter. The Marquess has most generously consented to let Lord Paul put forth Mr. Dent as a candidate. He will arrive tomorrow. A room must be prepared; kindly see to it.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Guy managed. Amanda kept her mouth shut, but her eyes were snapping, and she broke into violent speech as soon as they were alone in the garden the next day. Guy thanked heaven for the sun, which kept Aunt Beatrice indoors for the sake of her complexion.
“Are we really going to let her invite people here willy-nilly? To our house?”
“It may be ours but she’s been paying for its upkeep for years,” Guy said. “Yes, it sticks in my craw too, but she cannot possibly be meaning to stay much longer. She’ll want to go to Bath. I can’t imagine why she’s invited her chaplain here, except that I suppose we can expect more sermonising—”
“Can’t you?” Amanda asked. “I can. A post for a married man? A bribe of a living? A man of the highest moral standards who stoops to pick sinners out of the gutter?”
“Oh,” Guy said. “Oh, no.”
“I will not marry some ghastly oleaginous toad mouthing Bible verses to make other people miserable. I will not.”
“He might be young and handsome and kind-hearted?” Guy offered.
“But he’s Aunt Beatrice’s chaplain, so he’ll be just like her. Bowing to those above and treading on those below. I shan’t, Guy. I won’t.”
“No, you won’t. But—” He bit back What are we going to do? It was time to stop asking that and start deciding it. “Right. We have your ten pounds, Manda. That’s enough to rent a cottage somewhere near a school, say, if I could get a job as a schoolmaster. And I don’t know how long it would take you to write another book—”
“I’ll be quicker next time,” Amanda said with a firm nod. “And they might even give me more than ten pounds, if the first one has sold. I wish I knew if people were buying it. Lord Corvin said he was going to write to people and say how shockingly rude it was about him. But that would work, wouldn’t it?”
“If I found a job before too long. We couldn’t afford a maid, but—”
“I can do without.”
“I can sell my books,” Guy said, needing to match her sacrifice. “And some of the furniture, maybe? That’s ours. We could make probably another fifteen pounds that way, and that will buy your paper and keep us afloat till I find work. And if—if we weren’t dependent on Aunt Beatrice, and we weren’t here, and nobody knew us, I could see Philip. He could visit, if he didn’t mind a cottage. In school holidays and so on.” If Philip even wanted to see him again, but since Guy was building a castle in the air anyway, he might as well include its king. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course I wouldn’t. That would work beautifully,” Amanda said stoutly. “I could cook and clean when I’m not writing. Guy, please can we? I know it’s an awful lot and most of it will fall on you, but I can’t go on like this. It’s not bearable.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ll look at newspaper advertisements tomorrow, and write to schools. And I could write to my old tutor as well, couldn’t I? I’m sure I’ll find something, Manda. Everyone needs Greek and Latin.”
“And you know so much. I’m sure you could do it.”
Six weeks ago, Guy would have doubted that. He’d been quite happy in Amanda’s company, keeping well away from the world’s eyes. He didn’t love the idea of seeking positions and the inevitable rejections, let alone the prospect of unruly boys and the drudgery of teaching. It would be long hours, poorly paid, unrewarding at best. But it would be self-sufficiency, even freedom, and he was not going to hide from the world any more. He’d taken a far worse leap into the dark and risked far more for Philip and he was blasted—no, he was bloody well going to do this.
“Then we’re agreed,” he said. “If Aunt Beatrice is arranging a marriage, we say no. Unless this chaplain is charming and eligible and you want to reconsider. Scratch your nose if you decide you’d like to get married after all.”
Amanda sniffed. “I had better not catch a cold.”
***
MR. DENT ARRIVED IN the early afternoon. He was not charming at all. Amanda hissed, “He’s a walking sepulchre!” and Guy found he couldn’t improve on that description. The man couldn’t be more than thirty-five but bore himself as though he were fifty. He had a face like a gravestone, long and angular and severe, and a voice to match. There was no humour in his expression, no warmth, and he nodded with funereal gravity as Aunt Beatrice introduced her unfortunate niece.
He couldn’t want a wife with a reputation, Guy thought, unless he was truly desperate for a living. There were a lot of curates waiting their chance, and if this living was in the Marquess of Easterbury’s gift, it might be a plum. Or perhaps he wanted someone to chastise, a fallen woman who would always be obliged to him for his condescension in stooping to pick her up. Guy balled his fists behind his back and practised courteous refusals in his head.
They endured prayers and a sermon on the subject of Redemption and Good Works, through which Amanda sat with narrowed eyes, and then Aunt Beatrice ordered tea for them all in the parlour. Mr. Dent assisted Amanda with a hand on her arm, and Guy composed a refusal that was significantly less courteous.
“Well,” Aunt Beatrice said. “I dare say you may have realised that I invited Mr. Dent here for a reason beyond the care of souls. He is my chaplain of three years’ standing, and he is prepared, as his vocation directs, to extend forgiveness to a sinner.”
“That’s very kind of him,” Guy said. “But, Aunt Beatrice, I think we’ve had enough forgiving.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Amanda isn’t to blame for the gossip about Sir Philip. Before that—it was years ago. I think if you’re going to forgive someone, you should do it, and not keep dragging things up afterwards, or it isn’t really forgiveness, is it? And I’m afraid I don’t see what Mr. Dent here has to forgive us for at all.”
Amanda was looking at him with an expression of glowing adoration he hadn’t seen since he had mended her favourite doll at the age of ten. “Thank you, Guy. Well said.”
“You interrupted me,” Aunt Beatrice said icily. “Mr. Dent, in the spirit of his ministry, has agreed to take Amanda’s hand in marriage. He will give her the protection of his name, and as his wife she will learn discretion and good conduct. There is an excellent living available, which—”
“No,” Amanda said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t want to hear about the living. It’s very kind of Mr. Dent to offer and I’m sorry he had a wasted journey, but I would have said if you’d consulted me. No.”
“You will kindly hear me out, young lady!”
“No, she won’t,” Guy said.
Mr. Dent raised a hand. His features were somewhat tense, but his voice remained controlled. “Perhaps I may speak. Lady Paul intends that the proposed arrangement would suit both parties. Miss Frisby is in need of shelter and masculine guidance”—Amanda made a strangled noise—“and I require a helpmeet who is ready and willing to fulfil the many duties of a minister’s wife. I have no doubt such a marriage would suit us both.” He got that out with every appearance of sincerity, although Guy noticed he didn’t look at his proposed helpmeet when he said it. “However, Lady Paul, I’m sure as a mother you understand that any young lady wishes to be sought for herself. Perhaps I might have a few moments alone with Miss Frisby to put my case in person.”
“Your case is that you’ll take a living with me thrown in,” Amanda said. “No, thank you.”
“Permit me a little time to speak,” Mr. Dent repeated with a fixed smile. “I hope we can reach an understanding.”
“Certainly,” Aunt Beatrice said, rising. “Guy, with me please.”
“Certainly not,” Amanda said, grabbing his hand. “Considering all the fuss about me when I was constantly chaperoned in Rookwood Hall, I’m surprised you would suggest such a thing, Aunt.”
“Guy,” Aunt Beatrice repeated.
“I am a man of the cloth, Mr. Frisby,” Mr. Dent said. “I assure you, there can be no impropriety in my holding private conversation with your sister.”
“But she has told you no, twice,” Guy said. “I think you should take it for an answer.”
“I will not have this ingratitude,” Aunt Beatrice said. “I cannot and I will not tolerate any further indiscretions from this side of the family. Lord Paul has borne enough at the hands of my sister and her family. I will not see my daughters suffer because of your indiscriminate intercourse with the worst elements of society. Amanda will marry, and learn to behave as a wife should.”
“I am not yours to dispose of,” Amanda said through her teeth. “And I can’t get up and walk out of this horrid conversation because of my stupid leg, but if I could, I would be leaving the room now.”
“Mr. Dent,” Guy said, meeting the man’s eyes. “You’ve heard Amanda’s wishes. I think you’ve been misinformed about her availability, and suitability. I’m very sorry you’ve found yourself in this position, which I’m sure is as uncomfortable for you as anyone, but it would be right to withdraw your suit now.”
Aunt Beatrice was going purple. “He will do no such thing if he wishes my continued patronage. You have been living on my charity for years. I have funded this worthless family out of kindness to the children of one whose career I can only regard with horror and disgust, I exerted myself to educate you and to give Amanda a Season, for which I was repaid with nothing but insult and humiliation, and now you reject the last hope your sister has of regaining her character. I will not have it. She will make this marriage or I shall cut you both off without a penny.”
Guy squeezed Amanda’s hand. “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to do that. I’m sorry, Aunt, but I will not see Amanda forced into a match she finds repellent. Er, no offence, Mr. Dent.”
Aunt Beatrice snorted. “And how do you propose to live?”
“Guy will find work,” Amanda said. “We’ll go far away. You needn’t worry that I’ll come to London or take up a career as a courtesan, Aunt; I should hate to cause you any more unhappiness by my existence. But I won’t marry on your say-so, and that’s all.”
“All,” Aunt Beatrice repeated. “All. After everything I have done for you, all the efforts I made to rescue you from the shame of your mother and the depredations of that contemptible sot your father. I bought the mortgages myself to preserve your home when your own father was prepared to see you thrown into the streets on his death. I have never charged one penny of interest. I have always striven to do right by this branch of the family despite the gross instability of character you display. And now when I have been humiliated once more, when my own child’s marriage is put at risk by your wild behaviour, when I have arranged not just a means to hide yourselves but a way to restore Amanda’s soiled name, you refuse my offer of Mr. Dent’s hand.” Her voice was rising and wobbling slightly. Guy wondered for an improbable second if she might cry. “I have had enough of you both. Too much. I shall not give you one penny more, not if you beg me. How you can be so wicked and so ungrateful— I wish I had left you to rot as your parents did! You will do as I say or I shall call in the mortgages immediately!”
Guy felt a stab of panic. He’d feared this, tried to steel himself, but the reality was still terrifying. Amanda gave a cry of protest. Mr. Dent held up his hands, speaking firmly. “Lady Paul, Mr. and Miss Frisby, please. Let us seek reconciliation if any such is possible. I think, if we all take some time for prayer and reflection—”
There was a knock at the door, so loud it resounded. Guy hadn’t heard anyone approaching; he hadn’t been listening. He hoped Mrs. Harbottle would get rid of whoever it was.
“We’ve had plenty of prayer and reflection,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. This was how it would be; there was no choice. “I don’t think more will help. You must do as you choose, Aunt Beatrice, but we’ve made our decision. And I am sorry to say this, but when Amanda has been so clear she doesn’t want to marry Mr. Dent, threatening her into it is not worthy of you.”
Aunt Beatrice reddened. “You will both starve in the streets. How can you possibly support yourselves? You have no more common sense than a pair of babies. And who would ever trust Guy with employment?”
Amanda drew herself upright, a martial look in her eyes, but at that moment Mrs. Harbottle shrieked, a cry of pure domestic outrage. Swift footsteps sounded in the hall, the door opened with some force—slammed, almost—and Philip walked in.