Bed of Flowers Page 11

  But his rejection had wounded her. She’d been sincere; she’d offered an olive branch. And as she walked away, he’d thought: She is too good for that pig.

  That was when he’d decided to tell her about Gavin’s child. But the true answer to her question lay further in the past.

  “Do you remember what you said to me, after your father’s warehouses burned?”

  She folded her arms tight across her chest. “It was a long time ago.”

  A quelling response, but she hadn’t answered no. Which meant that yes, she remembered, but no, she didn’t want to talk about it.

  He continued anyhow. “After the fire, I sent a letter to your father. I apologized and asked if he would permit me to visit so that I could offer my regrets in person.”

  He’d sent a letter like that to every family directly affected by the fire. He’d written them himself, one after the other, on what must have been the longest day of his life.

  There hadn’t been time for blame or recriminations while the blaze raged. Everyone scrambled to contain the flames, relaying buckets of water up from the sea, helping families evacuate their homes, clearing debris from the streets. No one had died, thank God.

  The town’s anger came later, after the fire was out. And so did his guilt. He’d seen the flames up close, but writing out those letters—thirty-three in all—had brought home the appalling cost of his accident.

  He’d tripped. That was all. Tripped. And the whole town had burned.

  Mr. Reed had never responded to his letter, but Loel paid the family a visit anyhow. The Reeds had started out with more wealth than most people in New Quay could ever dream of possessing, and so they’d lost more than the rest of the townsfolk combined. It would have been cowardly to send a single letter and then wash his hands of them.

  And besides, he’d reasoned, he wouldn’t force his presence on the Reeds. A servant would answer the door, and if the Reeds didn’t want to see him, that servant could send him away.

  But the household had been in disarray, all the usual rules thrown out the window.

  “You answered the door,” Loel continued.

  Miss Reed stiffened. She clasped her hands together, fingers tightly laced.

  Most memories faded over time. A few—in Loel’s experience, never the pleasant ones—retained all their freshness and intensity. It had been eight years since his visit to the Reeds, but recalling it made the old wounds bleed as though they were new.

  For her too, apparently.

  The whole town had reeked of ash as he made his way through the streets; it stuck in his lungs. People coughed and rubbed at their noses as they swept their stoops. His horse had been frantic.

  When he’d finally arrived at his destination, Miss Reed answered the door. With her plump cheeks and solemn eyes, she might have been tailor-made to sear him with guilt.

  Guilt had felt different back then. It had been new and raw, and it stung. These days, guilt was more like a pair of lead shoes. Familiar, well-worn, and heavy enough to keep every part of him—mind, body, and soul—earthbound.

  He’d asked to speak with her father.

  She’d said no. Her voice had been firm, thick with anger, not childish at all.

  He’d said please.

  “Please.” He stood on the pavement with hat in hand. Kept his voice soft. “If you’ll just tell him I’ve come?”

  “No,” she said again—with an edge now, a hint of relish.

  He stumbled then. “Did Mr. Reed receive my letter? Did he ask you to turn me away?”

  Miss Reed’s thin chest swelled and deflated rapidly with rising emotion, but she’d tired of repeating herself, apparently. She simply glared at him.

  He didn’t know what to do. “I’d like to apologize. To you too, Miss Reed. I know it won’t change what happened—”

  “If it won’t change what happened, you can keep your apology.”

  “Will you at least let him know that if there’s anything I can do to make this right, anything at all, he has only to ask?”

  “Here’s what you can do,” she spat. “Leave. You can forget about us and New Quay and all of it—just so long as you go away and never come back.”

  Beside him, Miss Reed shuddered.

  “You told me to—”

  “I know.”

  Loel kept going, despite the interruption. She’d asked a hard question. She ought to have guessed that it would have a hard answer. “Leave and—”

  “You don’t need to repeat—”

  “Never come—”

  “Stop!”

  Loel fell silent.

  He’d decided to run away from home that very night. It had taken him a few more days to prepare—he’d packed a bag, pinched his mother’s pin money, stolen a horse blanket from the stables.

  He’d traveled on foot to Liverpool. Knowing how easy it would be to whip up the countryside in search of a young lordling, he’d avoided roads and towns whenever possible. He’d slept out in the open, with the horse blanket for a bed.

  Once he’d reached the city, it had been easy to find a berth. The seas were dangerous and the life of a sailor full of privation. Loel knew his way around a ship, and he could read; he’d been overqualified, if anything.

  Less than two weeks after Miss Reed told him to go away and never come back, he’d left England. He hadn’t returned for more than five years.

  Still stiff and tight, without looking at him, Miss Reed asked, “So this is your way of taking revenge?”

  “No.”

  She shook her head ever so slightly, refusing to believe. That stung—even now she could only think the worst of him.

  “You had every right to send me away without a word,” said Loel. “And every right to be angry, to speak passionately. I had knocked on your door for the express purpose of hearing you out.”

  “I’m sorry for what I said.” She interrupted. “I am so sorry.”

  And then she relaxed, her posture loosening, arms falling slack to her sides.

  The apology rankled. She owed him nothing.

  “Why? You said exactly what I needed to hear.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, because he’d finally come to the point. “Not what I wanted to hear, what I needed to hear.”

  He reframed his thoughts so he could explain. “My parents believed that rank conferred both privileges and responsibilities. They took their responsibilities very seriously—that’s why they stepped forward to restore the waterfront.”

  He’d spent a lot of time thinking about how he’d explained his choices to his parents. He could trace a direct line between the fire in New Quay and the decisions he’d made aboard the Incitatus. On restless nights in his swaying berth when sleep wouldn’t come, he’d searched for the right words. He’d arranged them and rearranged them like a set of puzzle pieces, certain that he’d eventually find the configuration that would make them understand.

  While he’d been thinking, they’d been dying. Another lesson he’d learned the hard way.

  “But they also saw themselves as the first victims of the fire,” Loel continued. “They weren’t angry about what I’d done to the town. They were angry about what I’d cost them. My parents always thought in terms of the family—and the first priority of every Loel is to preserve what he’s been given so it can be passed on to the next generation. When I started the fire, I failed in my first and most essential duty to my family.”

  He’d understood this so viscerally that, when he’d read his father’s will, it hadn’t surprised him at all.

  “People didn’t matter to them,” he said. “Feelings didn’t matter. You wouldn’t have mattered. And I would have thought the same, if things had gone differently.”

  “But the fire changed that.”

  “You did. You insisted that your pain was important.” He sighed. “I admit that came as a revelation.”

  Miss Reed snorted.

  Loel suppressed a smile. “It changed everything for me. In some ways—material
ways, generally—for the worse. Still, I can’t wish the words unsaid.”

  “So this is your idea of a gift?”

  “I wouldn’t presume,” he returned. “Call it repayment of a debt. One harsh truth for another.”

  “Thank you for answering my question.” Miss Reed rubbed at her face and pinched a bit of color into her cheeks. “My family is taking dinner at Mr. Gavin’s house tonight.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bonny arrived home just in time to change her clothes. For a dinner with the Gavins, she’d have to look her absolute best. Charles Gavin had inherited his love of fine tailoring from his mother. Mrs. Gavin prided herself on her fine taste. Along with her fine home and her fine son… she was a proud woman in general.

  She had a great deal of influence over her son, and she terrified Bonny.

  Bonny started with a plain dress in a saturated sky blue. She added an overlay of white broderie anglaise she’d made herself, a skirt of lacy panels in the shape of flower petals that tied at the waist, and a matching chemisette. The plain cotton for the overlay had come dear enough; embroidering it had consumed much of the previous summer.

  She crossed the corridor to peer into her sister’s mirror to make sure the colors contrasted nicely. Margot, who was already standing in front of the small, wood-framed oval hanging on her wall, leaped back with an exaggerated gasp.

  “What’s this?” she cried. “Has my sister come to engage in an act of vanity?”

  “Hush.” Bonny swatted at her sister and stood back from the mirror, rising up on tiptoes so she could see as much of the dress as possible. “I’m just checking to make sure the dress still hangs properly.”

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks horrible,” said Margot. “Doesn’t suit you at all.”

  Bonny spun, trying to see her backside. “In other words, time to give it to you?”

  Most of Margot’s clothes were hand-me-downs. Margot never complained… but every once in a while, she did try to hurry the process along. The pink silk she wore that evening had once been Bonny’s prized treasure, the fabric a gift on her eighteenth birthday. It would be still, if Margot hadn’t asked for it so persistently.

  “I’m just looking out for you,” said Margot.

  “Doing your sisterly duty,” Bonny added helpfully.

  “Who can be honest with you if not family?”

  “The answer to that question might surprise you,” Bonny murmured, pinching some color into her cheeks. Despite the fancy clothes, she looked tired and unhappy. “I think if you’re coveting the dress, it must still look well enough. Do you need help with your hair?”

  Margot pouted. “You don’t do hair very well.”

  “Do you want to help me with mine?”

  “I am but your humble servant, m’lady.” Margot gestured for Bonny to sit on the bed so that she could kneel on the mattress behind her to get a good angle.

  Margot left Bonny’s hair smooth in the front, saving her efforts for a riot of curls and braids and ringlets in the back. Bonny tried to return the favor, but Margot had not lied; she hadn’t much skill for styling hair.

  “Doesn’t she look wonderful?” Bonny asked their parents, as their father handed out lanterns on the way out the door.

  “I’m a lucky man to have two such beautiful daughters,” said Mr. Reed. He offered his arm to Margot. “Shall we lead the way?”

  Bonny fell in with their mother. They made the trip on foot, walking arm in arm through the dusk, each with a lit lantern in one hand.

  Her mother, father, and sister traded guesses about how many courses the Gavins would serve. They teased Mr. Reed for looking forward to one of Mr. Gavin’s fine cigars; they wondered if Mrs. Gavin would wear her best jewelry.

  The conversation grated at Bonny’s nerves like sandpaper on meringue. She hadn’t realized her parents so cherished the little luxuries that had ceased to be part of their lives after the fire.

  Bonny wanted her family to be happy. She wanted them to have nice things, to worry a little less and enjoy themselves a little more. But why did it have to depend on her?

  Even if she wanted to carry on as though nothing had changed, Mr. Gavin would likely sense the truth. She could try to treat him with warmth and admiration, as she had in the past, but doubted her acting skills would pass muster.

  If she set her mind to it, she could probably fool him for a very short while—until the wedding, for example. Which begged the question: Should she? It would be a shabby thing to do.

  The Gavins’ fine mansion occupied, not at all by chance, the best plot of land in town. Far enough from the quays to escape the unsavory smells, it nevertheless commanded an excellent view of the sea. Equidistant from the church and the Black Lion, it still somehow sat on a street that received very little traffic, with one of New Quay’s few public squares just around the corner.

  There had once been three great families in New Quay: the Loels, the Reeds, and the Gavins. The Loels owned huge tracts of land outside of town, quarries and dairies and rich inland pastures. The Reeds, for three generations, had controlled the local shipping trade. The Gavins had been, and remained, masters of the town. They owned all the buildings along the main streets and collected rent from the tenants—everyone from the Black Lion to the bawdy house.

  The fire had only affected a few of their properties, and the Gavins had built those back bigger and better than before. With the Loels financing the restoration of the quays, their investments had paid off. The family was more prosperous than ever, and they’d recently begun making new purchases, looking farther afield for opportunities to invest.

  The same fire that had brought the Reeds and the Loels low had propelled the Gavins to new heights of prominence. In New Quay, they now reigned alone.

  The waist-high wrought iron gate stood open. Bonny and her family crossed the narrow strip of garden surrounding the house, the shaped bushes still bare of branches.

  A footman answered their knock and took their outdoor things. Mrs. Gavin greeted them with open arms, her wispy hair in an artful tangle atop her head. She wore gray silk, the color gentle enough not to compete with the rainbow of gemstones at her neck, wrists, and throat. As always, there was an inspired elegance to her appearance.

  “Come in, come in, it’s bitter outside!” Mrs. Gavin ushered them into the receiving room with frantic little flutters of her hands. “Just standing near the door makes me shiver. I can’t believe you walked all this way! Here, we have the fires going, warm yourselves. My husband and son will be along shortly. They went out hunting this morning and came home late and empty-handed, if you can believe it. But enough of that—thank you so much for coming, we’re so glad to have you!”

  A part of Bonny sighed with pleasure as she stepped inside. Valuable knickknacks and exotic souvenirs cluttered every flat surface, and little flashes of gold foil glittered on the wallpaper, a red-and-yellow-floral print.

  Wealth wouldn’t bring her any closer to heaven—the opposite, according to the old parable about the rich man and the eye of the needle. Mr. Gavin’s treatment of his child certainly bore out the truth of the tale. Selling the contents of this one room would have been enough to send Charles Dunaway to school and see him apprenticed to a skilled tradesman. To start him off with a business of his own.

  And yet, she admitted to herself, a part of her wanted all of these lovely things. Just like her parents and her sister, gossiping on the walk. Just like anyone scheming for a better life, for more of the good things that gave them pleasure, for excess and plenty that meant—as much as anything else—freedom from fear.

  She understood greed and covetousness. It was only natural, wasn’t it? The way that Mr. Gavin’s kiss had been natural. Because something could be natural without being good. Without being right or humane—or even close.

  What was civilization if not a battle against nature? Against the weeds that threatened every garden, t
he seeping rot that crumbled castles and cottages, the indiscriminate desires that made monsters out of men?

  “Thank you for having us, Mrs. Gavin.” Mrs. Reed kissed their hostess on both cheeks before edging closer to the fire. “We’ve all been looking forward to this dinner.”

  “It’s a treat for me too, I assure you,” returned Mrs. Gavin. “It’s nice to arrange something so small and intimate for a change. Dinner en famille.”

  Mrs. Reed smiled. “Well, we’re about to be family, aren’t we? And speaking of which—the oranges that you sent were so delicious.”

  “Oh, it was my pleasure—Bonny sent a lovely note, as I’m sure you know.”

  Mrs. Reed nodded toward the west-facing wall, dominated by two large windows. “Those must be the new windows you were talking about?”

  “That’s right! I’ve wanted to make the change ever since the glass tax was lifted, but the fire made it impossible”—Mrs. Gavin pursed her lips and huffed in apparent frustration with herself—“I’m sorry, it must seem trivial to you, but it meant so much to finally see this project through.”

  “Not trivial at all,” replied Mrs. Reed, so naturally that even Bonny could hardly spot the lie. “I hadn’t realized you’d have such a wonderful sea view from the ground floor.”

  Mrs. Gavin beamed. “Isn’t it a wonderful surprise?”

  Both the Gavin men entered, the younger first. They looked a great deal alike, both tall and well formed, but Bonny noted the differences in their behavior in a way she never had before.

  Charles Gavin paused in the threshold to pose, one hand on his hip, collecting the admiring looks he both expected and received. Margot sighed so hard it was a wonder she didn’t injure her lungs. Bonny couldn’t blame her sister. The day’s awful revelations hadn’t made him any less handsome.

  Meanwhile, the elder Mr. Gavin circled the room dispensing greetings. He played a perfect host, offering each of his guests a kind word while drawing ever closer to his wife. When the elder Mr. Gavin reached her side, he touched her lightly on the shoulder, offered her a special smile. It was a subdued demonstration of affection, meant for an audience of one.