The Wolf's Pursuit (29 page)

The anger broke her restraint, floodwaters
rushing from a collapsing dam. "I am no entitlement. And Aunt
Helen, could you marry without love?"

"Oh, Clara—" Aunt Helen tucked the fallen
curls behind her ears. "Not that again. We've had this discussion
over and over—"

"You will never convince me."

"—and while it's a wonderful, romantic notion
to marry for love rather than for stability, fortune, or position,
it's simply not practical. You must have a husband—"

"An encumbrance I know only too well."

"—and it will not be the Frenchman."

That was a new voice, a masculine, booming
one, coming from the stairs behind her. Clara whirled. Uncle David
had approached to within two steps, and she hadn't heard his
footfall through her temper tantrum and their raised voices. His
blue eyes, usually warm despite their cool deep color, now burned
like chips of Arctic glacial ice.

"Uncle—"

"We are at war with France," Uncle David
said, "a fact you seem able to forget but which torments my every
hour, waking or sleeping. Your father's ships — your fading
inheritance — are being taken, sunk, burned, destroyed, and your
father's sailors are dying and wasting away in Napoleon's prison
hulks." He stepped closer, and while he wasn't a tall man, in this
tempestuous state he seemed twice as large as life, and she seemed
smaller. "I will see you unmarried and disinherited before I allow
you to wed a Frenchman."

His declaration rang through the stairwell
and entry. Aunt Helen stepped back, hand to her throat. Clara
gripped the banister. He would not make her cry. And she would not
allow him to win.

"Viscount Maynard has been so good as to
accept my invitation to supper and cards." Uncle David's voice,
while quieter, surrendered none of its authoritative ice. "We both
agreed that not every immediate refusal equates to an absolute
no."

Again her knees threatened to deposit her,
this time onto the white marble. And this time was far worse. She
would not cry, no matter what he said.

"You will go to your room and consider the
viscount's proposal in greater depth." He turned and clattered down
the stairs, the tails of his claret-colored coat fluttering with
each step.

No tears. And he would not win.

* * * *

Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress
onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. "Take that
rag away, Nan, please."

The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands
folding and refolding it. "Shall I have it cleaned, miss?"

"No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse.
Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I'll never wear it
again."

Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of
those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and
again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he'd leered at
her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be
checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best
symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual
set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she'd met during the
too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd
manner. It was not to be borne.

The marriage market. That was Diana Mallory's
term for it, this desperate seeking for a powerful, rich,
fashionable husband, and Diana had seen enough of it in London to
not complain when her parents moved her to Plymouth. So long as
they returned to London for the season, of course. And oh, the
horrifying stories she'd told; poor Harmony Barlow's jaw had hung
open like a fly trap. It had seemed so hilarious from that safe
distance. Now, her giggles were quite gone.

Hands trembling still, Clara pulled on a
clean shift — Nan could have the old one, as well as the dress —
short stays that tied in front, and a petticoat. When she reached
into the wardrobe, it wasn't to her other morning gowns, on the
left, but to the walking gowns, in the center. She crushed her
favorite grey sarsnet to her bodice. Uncle David had told her to go
to her room and think. He hadn't told her to stay there. And she
was finished thinking, at least as far as the viscount was
concerned. Yes, she'd vanish for a while, until the household's
broiling emotions cooled and soothed. Too bad she couldn't simply
vanish and return, happily married to the perfect man, on the day
before her nineteenth birthday, five months hence.

She tugged on the round dress, the colorless
color of diffused shadows and trimmed with light dove crepe, added
the matching bonnet, silk wrap, and kid gloves, grabbed her
lace-making kit for luck, and snuck down the back stairs. The
housekeeper and Nan bustled past in the hallway, gossiping in such
low tones that all Clara could hear was her name; indeed the
blasted woman had listened outside the drawing room door for quite
long enough. Once the horizon was clear, Clara slipped out the back
window, guilt and smug naughtiness fighting for dominance. She
hurried across Ker Street in the face of an oncoming hackney coach
and joined the pedestrian flow toward Plymouth Dock.

The fresh breeze tried to snatch her shawl
away, billowing the silk behind her, and she tightened it about her
arms. The bonnet's brim shaded her eyes from the noonday light, but
welcome summer warmth reached her face when she tilted up her chin.
Behind her, the assembly hall and shops tempted, a promising source
of news and fun. Perhaps the latest fashion plates had arrived from
Paris, and if so, Harmony and Diana would have something droll to
say about them. But it was likely the viscount had discussed his
intended marriage with his friend, Colonel Durbin, who would of
course tell Mrs. Durbin, which meant Miss Dersingham and therefore
everyone else in town knew about it, too. Better to avoid the
popular places until she felt more capable of speaking rationally
on the subject; Harmony and Diana would consider her scrape just as
worthy of their wit. While there was a ridiculous side to the
affair, she wasn't yet prepared to discuss it.

It was impossible to think on private woes
while walking a public street. She hurried on, determinedly keeping
her mind and features a composed, sociable blank. As she neared the
Dock, the ocean's scent counterbalanced the horses and coal-smoke.
The houses crowded together and the streets narrowed. But before
respectability deteriorated too far, a mews opened to the side.
Clara ducked inside, away from the lane. Halfway down the long, low
building stood a faded yellow door, locked, of course. But Paul,
Papa's stable boy, had taught Harmony and her how to open it during
their long-ago hoyden days. A shake of her wrist while turning, one
hard push, and the door clacked open in defeat.

Inside was dark as the darkest night, quieter
than the streets, and the slice of brilliant sunshine cutting
through the open door revealed dust cloth-covered lumps — long
sofas and loungers, high-backed, old-fashioned wingchairs, stubby
little tables for teas long gone. She and Paul used to peer beneath
the white sheets at the fine old furniture, giggling and sneezing
as dust flew about them, Harmony worrying her fingernails and
hanging on her heel in the doorjamb, ready to run at the first hint
of trouble and adamant no dust would touch her white gossamer gown.
No one had ever come near, though.

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

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