Excerpt of The Gentleman's Demand by Meg Alexander

1810

In the gathering dusk of a winter afternoon the long low parlour was filled with shadows. A few logs smouldered on the hearth, puffing out occasional gusts of acrid smoke. Neither of the occupants of the room appeared to notice. Then the man began to cough.

"For God's sake send for candles, girl!" he snapped. "And send for someone to tend this fire before we choke to death."

Such a fate might be better than further hours of argument, Sophie thought wearily. She kept that sentiment to herself as she rose to ring the bell.

"The wind must have changed direction," she said quietly. "We've always had a problem with this chimney…"

"Would that it were your only problem!" The man fell silent as a servant entered the room. It was but a momentary respite. As the door closed behind the boy he picked up the lighted candelabra and carried it over to his daughter's side, setting it on the table by her chair.

"Just look at you!" he snarled. "To think that any child of mine should be living under these conditions! I shouldn't have known you for the girl you were six years ago."

"What did you expect?" Sophie cried in desperation. "Have you no mercy, Father? It's but a month since I was widowed…"

For a moment there was silence. Then, with a visible effort to control his anger, Edward Leighton spoke in a softer tone.

"Forgive me for distressing you, my dear, but I can't see your loss as anything but a blessing. You are still young, and you have your life before you. Come home with me and make a fresh start. We shall find some way of glossing over your absence for these past years. A single mistake may be forgiven, serious though it was…"

"A serious mistake?" Sophie gave a bitter laugh. "Father, you haven't changed. How lightly you dismiss my marriage…"

His face darkened. "I never took it lightly. It was the worst blow of my life. I gave you too much freedom, Sophie. When you eloped you ruined all my hopes for you, and with such a man! You could scarce have chosen worse."

"Stop!" she cried. "You shan't disgrace Richard's memory."

"Others did so long ago. You won't pretend that he was aught but a penniless nobody, possessed of neither character nor probity?"

Sophie's eyes flashed fire. "How dare you say such things? You didn't know him."

Her father gave an ironic laugh. "I decided to forgo that honour. Others were not so fortunate. Why was he dismissed from the Revenue Service? Can you tell me that? I heard some talk of corruption."

Sophie rose to her feet and eyed him with disdain. "I never believed those lies. There was a plot against him."

"Others believed it. The evidence was strong, and the authorities were in no doubt. You knew better, I suppose?"

"I refused to listen to rumour, or to believe those trumped-up charges."

"Still as headstrong as ever, Sophie?" Edward Leighton sighed. "I must admire your loyalty, even though it is misplaced."

"You'll never understand, so there is no point in speaking of these things."

"Very well. I haven't come to quarrel with you. My dear, nothing will restore your husband to you, but life must go on. It is early to speak of it, but in time you will remarry… With rest and an easier life you will regain your looks, and then we'll see. William, you know, has never married, and he is of a forgiving disposition."

Sophie stared at him. "So that's it!" she said slowly. "I might have known that there would be some reason for your sudden change of heart. It wasn't concern for me that brought you here. Unwed, I am of use to you again."

Her father was quick to rebut the charge. "You are grown so hard," he complained. "Must you pick me up on every word? Your mother and I are thinking only of your happiness."

"And that of Sir William Curtis too, no doubt. I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. You've always coveted his fortune and his lands."

"Was it so wrong to want the best for you? I could never understand why you took against him."

"A man with the reputation of a lecher? Father, you were blinded by his wealth."

"No man is perfect, Sophie, as you must have learned by now. All this high-minded disregard for comfort and position proves to me that you are still a foolish girl. It is not the way of the world."

Sophie did not answer him. "There is no hurry for you to wed again," he said in a coaxing tone. "We shall not rush you into making a decision. William has shown great forbearance. He has forgiven you your —"

"My silly misdemeanour in marrying another man? How noble of him. I wonder, will he accept my son as well?"

Edward Leighton's face grew dark. "Don't be a fool!" he snapped. "I'm not suggesting that you bring the boy."

Sophie looked at him in disbelief. "What are you saying? You can't mean it! Christopher is your grandson."

"No!" he cried. "I'll have no whelp of Firle's beneath my roof. You must send him for adoption…"

It was enough. Sophie rose to her feet. "I always thought you hard," she said. "But this is unbelievable!"

"You may believe it, my girl. Was I ever hard with you? I gave you everything —"

"Everything but understanding, Father —" 'Pah! A child should be dutiful and obedient to the wishes of its parents. You had no experience of the world. At seventeen, how could you decide where your best interests lay?"

"Not with Sir William, certainly…" 'Firle was a better choice? In my view he was lucky not to be transported." A bitter laugh preceded his next words. "You don't agree? Tell me, then, where did he find the money to buy this place? It is a well-known hostelry. Have you any idea how much it must have cost?"

Sophie shook her head and turned away. It was a subject which had often troubled her. "He had friends…" she whispered.

"That, at least, is true, but who were they? Did you ever meet them?"

Her silence gave him his answer. "I see that you did not. You didn't think to ask? Well, after all, it was not a woman's place to do so. I don't blame you for your ignorance, but you must face the truth. The man you married was a handsome weak-ling, seduced by the opportunity to make easy money." Squire Leighton looked at his daughter and sighed. "You aren't the first woman to be deceived by such a creature, and you won't be the last, more's the pity."

Sophie began to tremble, but she faced him squarely. "You shan't say those things of Richard —" She could not go on.

"Stuff! What do you know of men and their desires? Firle was on the make, my dear. His prayers were answered when an heiress fell into his lap. He must have thought that I'd forgive you once you were safely wed."

"I know better!" Sophie was on her feet, her cheeks aflame. "He wouldn't have touched a farthing of your money, and nor would I, even had you offered it." 'There was no danger of that." 'No, you made that all too clear. You cut me off completely, Father. In these last six years I haven't heard a word from you. I wrote to Mama, but I had no reply. Did you forbid her to answer me?"

"I did." Edward Leighton looked about him in disgust. "Would you have had her visit you here, in a common alehouse? How pleasant it would have been for her to see her daughter mixing with all and sundry!"

"I'm not ashamed of it. It is an honest living." 'Bought with the proceeds of corruption?" Sophie controlled her anger with an effort. Then, as the gusting wind sent rain lashing against the window-panes, she changed the subject.

"The storm grows worse," she observed quietly. "Will you stay here tonight?"

"I must leave within the hour. Sophie, you haven't answered me. Come home to us. One mistake may be forgiven. It will soon be forgotten —"

"As I must forget my son?" 'I meant what I said." Her father's lips tightened. "I won't house that reminder of your folly."

"Then there's no more to be said. I thank you, Father, but I can't accept your offer." Sophie glanced through the window. "Won't you stay?" she asked again. "You won't wish to travel in this weather."

"I'll be the judge of that. I may tell you that nothing would persuade me to remain beneath your roof. Of all the wicked, ungrateful girls…"

"I'm sorry you feel like that." 'I do, and I wash my hands of you. You've made your bed. Now you must lie in it. It will break your mother's heart, but you must make no attempt to get in touch with her. From now on I have no daughter, and nor has she." He pushed past her and stormed out of the room, calling for his carriage as he did so.

Sophie stood by the fire, listening to the bustle as his horses were put to. She felt sick at heart as the carriage rolled away, but he was asking the impossible. Nothing would have persuaded her to part with her son. Christopher was her life.

There had been no question of her falling in with his demands, but the stormy interview had shaken her to the core. The shock of seeing her father had unnerved her, but a feeling of desolation was soon followed by anger. Then that too faded, giving way to despair. What was she to do?

On the day that Richard died she'd closed the inn, wanting only to be left alone. A dreadful lethargy had possessed her, and when her servants began to drift away she'd made no effort to stop them, knowing that she could not find their wages. Richard had left her penniless. It was but one more blow to add to those she had already suffered.

She felt very cold. Shivering, she moved closer to the glowing fire, standing before it with a hand on either side of the mantelshelf. At least her father's visit had succeeded in shaking her out of the apathy which seemed to have paralysed her will.

On the day of the tragedy she'd felt that she could not go on, struggling against the fates which seemed to delight in dealing her so many cruel blows. Had it not been for Kit…

Her lips curved in a faint smile. Thank God he was so young. He, at least, had been untouched by what had happened.

She glanced at the clock. Kit had been sleeping for an hour. He wouldn't wake just yet. Meantime, she must try to think of some solution to her problems.

Perhaps she could sell the inn. Then she'd be able to move from this isolated spot and make a new life for herself and her son in one of the larger coastal towns.

Absorbed in planning for the future she stood on tiptoe, studying her reflection in the mirror above the mantelshelf.