Living London (24 page)
They’d had so much fun together. But then Papa had died, all the horses but two had been sold, Paul had been let go, Harmony had convinced her to turn up her hair and attend to fashion, and high-society Diana had taken Paul’s place in their little trio. When Uncle David had written Paul’s reference, he’d printed
finis
to her childhood.
Without her consent, tears blurred the mounded shapes around her. She left the door on the latch for what little light it offered and slipped through the silent aisles, her wrap catching on a dressing table and raising dust that tickled her nose toward a sneeze. In the nearest corner, a large, cone-shaped bundle hung from the rafter, covered from hook to bottom with aged canvas and bound with cleverly knotted ropes. Clara slid beneath the canvas’s folded and stitched edge, twisted beneath the binding — tighter than it used to be, or was she larger? She squeezed inside anyway. Beneath the covering, rippling softness slid across her cheek and clavicle, and she settled cross-legged within the hanging chair’s satin draperies. Here, in her secret place, gently rocking, away from everyone, with no sights or stray sounds to distract her, finally she could think.
Why,
why
had Papa written that odious clause into his will? She wanted his money, of course she did — it was her inheritance by birthright. But she would only inherit if she married before her nineteenth birthday, less than half a year away, and that meant she had to marry with Uncle David’s permission and approval. Her time was running out. And the only man she’d ever want to marry was so far out of her reach, he might as well be dead.
Sobs broke through and she crumpled her handkerchief to her face. Phillippe. Captain Phillippe Levasseur, beyond elegant in his pristine white breeches and blue uniform coat trimmed with bullion and lace. Those careless auburn locks, cut short in the modern Brutus manner, had cascaded over his smooth-cream forehead and his commanding dark eyes had never left hers as he bowed over her hand when Diana’s older brother introduced them in the assembly room. She’d been weak-kneed then, oh, indeed. If he’d commanded her to wed him at that moment, she’d have taken his arm without hesitation.
Everyone in her set knew he was perfect, had said so time and again. He’d danced the first
six
with her at the Mallorys’ ball, setting tongues wagging throughout the three towns, and Uncle David had scolded her for the imprudence. Phillippe had taken to calling on the Barlows every Tuesday, when he knew she’d be there, too, and they hadn’t been able to claim their meetings at the assembly room were accidental for long. Of course his political views were odd, republican and democratic and so on, but surely his charm and delightful manners made up for all that. And the possibilities once she owned a chateau and vineyard in France!
But the peace had collapsed more than a year ago. She’d heard nothing,
nothing
from him since then. Fashion plates could cross from France, Royal Society fellows traveled back and forth as they pleased. But the tear-stained notes she wrote him could only be burned.
How could an odious viscount, or even a duke, compare with perfection? And how could Uncle David expect her to marry that brute? Uncle David had been so kind when he’d first arrived in Plymouth to care for her, sitting quietly in the music room while she’d poured out her heart through the harp and pianoforte. He’d told her stories of Papa’s years at sea, during the American war and the early days of the revolution in France. But he’d grown quieter during the brief year of peace and as she’d neared her penultimate birthday, he’d set himself to select her husband. As if he couldn’t wait to be shot of her. And as if she couldn’t be trusted to select her own husband perfectly well.
She wiped her eyes and fought the tears. Viscount Maynard was out of the question. But she did need a husband. She could pray for peace, final, blessed peace, and wait for Phillippe. But if peace took too much time, she’d lose Papa’s home, the rooms where they’d played and watched ships in the harbor, everything he’d intended for her.
Or she could marry someone less than perfect.
Hinges creaked, not nearby. A hollow boom echoed in the warehouse’s cavern. Clara gasped. Even her tears froze as footsteps approached. No one had ever interrupted before, in all the years she’d visited the warehouse. It almost seemed a sign.
“Right, that one there.” The Cheapside voice made no pretension toward being anything but mercantile. “And these. They’re to go to the
Topaze,
out in the Sound. Oh, and that hanging thing. Be careful with it, clumsy Joe.”
The chair swung, rocked, rocked again, jolted up and back. Clara grabbed the wooden frame, her heart pounding so loudly it seemed impossible they didn’t hear it.
“Heavier than it looks, mate.”
And then the hanging chair floated free, the unseen footsteps’ owners carrying it — and her — away.
It would be humiliating, but she had to say something before she wound up on board a ship. She opened her mouth.
No sound emerged. Her voice refused. She closed her mouth, rolling her lips together.
A ship. A ship could take her anywhere. Including France. Across the seven seas, in search of her perfect Phillippe.
She could vanish for more than a few hours, indeed for as long as it took. She could find him, marry him, bring him home to Uncle David, a
fait accompli.
Uncle David. Aunt Helen. They’d worry when she vanished, when they discovered she was gone. It would serve them right. How could they imagine they knew what was best for her when they refused to even consider her wishes?
It was a wild, a desperate gamble. But her situation was dire.
And she wouldn’t have to see the viscount again.
Simply as that, she had a third option.
Astraea Press
Pure. Fiction.
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