As You Are (7 page)

Edmund looked up to Johnny, spoke of him almost as often as he spoke of Mr. Jonquil. Clara saw no need to discredit a young man who was, in all other respects, a good example to Edmund.

“Jim says Mr. Jonquil doesn’t allow any of them to ‘mistreat females.’” Edmund spoke the last two words as if quoting verbatim. “And that if he hears they have, he’s ‘like to tan their hide.’”

“For mistreating a woman?” Clara asked in stunned disbelief.

Edmund shrugged and made a face that indicated he didn’t understand the odd behavior either.

“Mr. Jonquil says that being mean to a girl is worse than being mean to a boy.” Edmund dropped into a chair in the sitting room. He always returned from Havenworth physically spent. “He said that I should always be kind to you and Alice. He said I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I wasn’t.”

She sat near him, attempting to formulate a reply.

“I told him Mr. Bentford wasn’t nice to you and Alice,” Edmund said.

“You told him that?” she blurted, inexplicably embarrassed that Mr. Jonquil should know such details about her history.

“So I asked him if Mr. Bentford was a gentleman,” Edmund continued, oblivious to her discomfort. “And Mr. Jonquil said if he wasn’t nice to you and Alice, then he was ‘no kind of a gentleman at all.’”

Clara leaned back in her chair. She didn’t know what to make of Mr. Jonquil at all. He seemed too good to be true.

“I think he’s right,” Edmund said after a silent moment had passed. “I like Mr. Jonquil better than I liked Mr. Bentford.”

Clara surprised even herself by saying, “So do I.” She realized with a start that she meant it. Granted, there were few people she didn’t like better than Mr. Bentford. Mr. Jonquil was kind to Edmund, a point decidedly in his favor.

“Aunt Clara?” Edmund moved to stand beside her chair.

She knew what he wanted. He’d sat on her lap regularly in the three years since he’d come to live with her. Edmund seemed to need the reassurance. Clara held her arms out to him, and Edmund climbed onto her lap.

Suzie brought Alice into the sitting room in the next moment, still sleepy and rubbing her eyes.

Alice spotted Edmund cuddled on Clara’s lap. “Me too, Mama?”

Clara nodded, grateful the chair was a sturdy one. Alice toddled to Clara’s knee and made a valiant effort to climb onto her lap but found her legs unequal to the height. Before Clara had a chance to so much as adjust her position, Edmund reached his hand down to Alice and helped her climb up.

Edmund had always been a good boy, but Clara had never seen him offer Alice his assistance without being prompted.

“I’m a gentleman,” Edmund softly declared, leaning against Clara once more.

“Yes, you are.” Clara silently thanked the heavens for Mr. Jonquil’s influence on the boy. She couldn’t approve of the man himself, knowing he so wholeheartedly disapproved of her. But he at least seemed to be a good influence. She would give him credit for that much.

Clara heard the sound of approaching horse hooves. Edmund obviously did as well.

“It’s Mr. Jonquil!” he declared, scrambling down.

Alice wasn’t so quick, so Clara swung her into her arms. “Edmund, we don’t know who it is,” she warned, trying to stop him from opening the door. What if Mr. Bentford had found them? What if
he
was standing on the other side? That question plagued her every single time they had a visitor.

But she wasn’t fast enough to prevent Edmund from pulling the door open. His face fell, and Clara’s heart dropped to her feet. She reached for Edmund. But the man who stepped inside was not the man she’d feared to find there. It was Mr. Finley.

He was in the sitting room in the next moment, slipping inside the house as smoothly as a snake. “Mrs. Bentford,” he greeted and bowed.

She did not like Mr. Finley, didn’t remotely trust him. She stood as firmly and calmly as she could manage, setting Alice on the floor beside her. Edmund took Alice by the hand. Did he feel as uneasy with Mr. Finley as she did? She gently nudged the children behind her.

“Is there a particular reason for your visit, Mr. Finley?” Clara used the tone of neutrality she had perfected in response to Mr. Bentford’s repeated attacks.

“I happened to be riding past and wished to offer you good day,” Mr. Finley said. His drawl had grated on her from their very first meeting. He made her feel like an object he was assessing rather than a person he was speaking with.

But she was no longer intimidated by such behavior. Life had taught her to stand up for herself and to defend her children. “Finley Grange is on the other side of Grompton, at least three-quarters of an hour by horseback,” she said confidently. “I daresay most of your business is conducted in Collingham.”

“Ah, but I had business at Havenworth, my dear Mrs. Bentford. In order to reach there, I must pass by here.”

“On the contrary, you must pass Havenworth to reach Ivy Cottage.” Clara kept perfectly calm despite the worrisome situation. She had only ever faced down Mr. Finley while in the company of other people. He felt more threatening when she was so alone. She refused to break down, refused to once again be a victim too afraid to defend herself.

“But it was near enough that I simply could not allow the opportunity to slip by.” He was clearly losing patience with her. Though his smile didn’t slip, something hardened in his eyes. He obviously expected her to be flattered that a man of his standing had noticed a woman of her poverty.

Clara was instantly on alert. She had not a single servant at hand, no male relative to force Mr. Finley from the property. She was vulnerable, and she suspected Mr. Finley knew that. Her only course of action was to counteract that appearance.

“Well, you have offered your good day, so do not let me detain you from your pressing business,” Clara said forcefully. She would show no weakness.

“I have a few moments.” Mr. Finley stepped closer to her. He reached out his hand, clearly meaning to touch her.

She stepped backward. She needed the presence of another person, one over the age of seven. “Edmund, go get Suzie,” she whispered to Edmund. He obediently hurried from the room.

“Mama,” Alice whimpered, tugging on Clara’s hand.

Clara gently shushed her.

“She looks a great deal like you,” Mr. Finley observed. “A beautiful child.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clara made no move to sit or to offer him a chair. Where was Suzie?

“Come now, Mrs. Bentford.” Mr. Finley smiled artfully at her. “Can we not sit and enjoy a cup of tea? Perhaps we might discuss the fine weather we have been enjoying.”

“I do not entertain callers on Fridays, Mr. Finley.” She allowed a reprimand to tint her words.

“You must grow lonely”—Mr. Finley moved closer still—“without a single soul coming to call all the day long.”

His observation felt like a threat, as if he meant to remind her of her isolated and unprotected state.

“Your concern is appreciated,” Clara lied, “but I assure you I am quite content.”

“My dear,” Mr. Finley said, moving forward. Little more than a foot remained between them. “I would have you more than content. I would wish for you to be joyously happy.”

Even his
joyously happy
sounded ominous. Clara was pressed against the back of the sofa with no way to maneuver around Mr. Finley. He stood too close and appeared far too satisfied with the arrangement.

The door opened. Clara’s heart thudded ever harder. Edmund took a single step inside, clutching Mr. Jonquil’s sleeve, his countenance tight and worried.

“Mr. Jonquil.” Clara hoped she sounded welcoming. She attempted to slip around Mr. Finley, who was quite effectively blocking her path. Mr. Jonquil was far preferable to Mr. Finley, even if he looked as disapproving as ever. “Do come in.”

“I was—I have a book. For Edmund.” Mr. Jonquil’s eyes darted between her and Mr. Finley.

“He promised to bring it,” Edmund quietly explained.

Clara glanced quickly at the book in Edmund’s hand.

“Mister!” Alice recognized their visitor quite suddenly. She bolted from Clara’s side and threw her arms around Mr. Jonquil’s right leg.

“Alice,” Mr. Jonquil quietly greeted, gently patting Alice’s head.

“Will you not come sit for a while?” Clara offered.
Please stay
, she silently pleaded. She was willing to fight for herself and the children but knew Mr. Jonquil’s presence would make that far easier. Mr. Finley was already less discomforting.

“I cannot stay.” Mr. Jonquil’s eyes settled on Mr. Finley, his expression unreadable.

“A moment at least?” she pressed.
Please.

Mr. Jonquil shook his head, his mouth set in a tight line.

“Havenworth,” Clara blurted. “Mr. Finley was only just saying he has business at Havenworth. Indeed, he told me that was the very reason he was in the neighborhood.”

Mr. Finley finally turned to Mr. Jonquil. They offered curt bows.

“Finley,” Mr. Jonquil acknowledged the other man.

“Jonquil,” was the equally ungallant reply.

Clara slipped out of reach while Mr. Finley was distracted.

“What business do you have at Havenworth?” Mr. Jonquil asked quietly.

“Rumor has it Lord Cavratt will be descending on you shortly,” Mr. Finley said, with something like a smirk on his face. “Coming to look over the animals to be auctioned in a few months’ time.”

Mr. Jonquil’s nod seemed reluctant.

“I understand a brother or two will also be arriving,” Mr. Finley added. “As I am considering purchasing a pair for my phaeton, I thought I should have a peek myself.”

“You can look,” Mr. Jonquil replied calmly. “But . . . but I decide who buys.”

“Still harboring a little resentment, Jonquil?” Mr. Finley chuckled menacingly as he made his way closer to the doorway. He turned, a foot or two from Mr. Jonquil, and looked back at Clara. “Good day, my dear,” he offered with a sweeping bow.

The two gentleman bumped shoulders as Mr. Finley passed through the doorway. Mr. Jonquil did not budge. He looked angry. Outside, horse’s hooves clattered away from the cottage. Clara breathed easier. Mr. Finley was gone.

Mr. Jonquil, however, was not. He watched her quite closely, his gaze never wavering. She could think of nothing to say. Why did he look disappointed beneath his stern expression? And why did she feel guilty being the recipient of such a look? She’d done nothing wrong. Indeed, she’d defended herself against an ill-meaning man. She’d stood her ground. She had effectively sent Mr. Finley off.

After a moment, Mr. Jonquil bowed quite properly, though not as elegantly as Mr. Finley had. Clara thought she heard a “Good day.”

“And to you, Mr. Jonquil,” Clara managed, fighting a sudden urge to tear up. It was a completely illogical reaction but was forceful enough that she could not ignore it.

What was happening to her? She had always been levelheaded. She never cried without reason, never found her emotions rising to the surface without warning. The past six months she had been stronger than in all the twenty-two years before that. Why was she crumbling now?

“I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Jonquil,” Edmund said anxiously. Mr. Jonquil nodded at him and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Mister!” Alice called out to him, arms outstretched.

He paused long enough to hunch down and kiss the top of her head before turning and walking away. The kindness of that gesture momentarily captured Clara’s entire attention.

Mr. Finley’s exit had brought immediate, palpable relief. For reasons Clara could not begin to understand, seeing Mr. Jonquil go—Mr. Jonquil, who seemed to perpetually disapprove of her, who seemed ever eager to be out of her company—did not bring any relief, only a growing sense of confusion.

Finley. Why was it always Finley?

The only scuffle Corbin had had at Eton had been with Finley. Stanley, Corbin’s younger brother, now a captain with the Thirteenth Light Dragoons, had been in his first year at school and was suffering through a severe bout of homesickness. Finley and a few other boys several years older than Corbin had found Stanley’s dejection quite humorous and had joined forces to make him as miserable as possible.

In the end, Corbin probably wouldn’t have been sent down over the fight that had ensued if he hadn’t dropped four of them, including Finley, who’d come out of the ordeal with a bloodied but not-quite-broken nose. Corbin had made a mess of the entire group of bullies, a use of force the headmaster had deemed “a bit excessive.”

Corbin had expected a severe dressing down from Father. “You must have been severely provoked,” Father had said as they’d walked along the River Trent during Corbin’s fortnight of banishment at home. “What did they do?”

“They hurt Stanley.”

“Stanley needs to learn to fight his own battles,” Father said.

Corbin clamped down his disappointment and nodded.

“So give him a few pointers when you get back, will you?”

Corbin looked up at Father then and saw him grinning. He smiled back.

“Dropped four of them, did you?” Father nodded his head in a way that spoke of pride.

“It felt good,” Corbin answered.

Father laughed out loud and ruffled his hair. They spent the next half hour talking over the skirmish. Father offered some advice and taught Corbin a few of the finer points of pugilism. It was one of Corbin’s fondest memories. Father lived only another four years.

Finley kept his distance from Corbin for some time after their skirmish, though he taunted him ceaselessly. Anytime Corbin found himself in an embarrassing situation, Finley seemed to be there.

Philip and Layton, the two oldest Jonquils, and Crispin Handle, who’d been like another Jonquil from the time he and Philip had met at Eton, had realized Finley’s personal vendetta against Corbin, and a year almost to the day after that bloody fistfight, they’d somehow managed to remove every pair of trousers and underclothes from Finley’s room. Seeing George Finley roaring mad, his chicken-thin legs exposed beneath his barely long-enough shirt, had been one of the finer moments of Corbin’s educational experience.

From that point on, Finley and the Jonquils, including Crispin, had been rivals.