An Innocent Proposal

“You’ll have to. There’s nothing else for it.”

Louisa fell silent. James was becoming irritable and soon he would become more angry. How well she knew his moods, she thought miserably. An inexplicable weariness and pain lay heavy on her heart, the deepest, cruellest pain she would ever know. Despite James’s willingness to sell Bierlow Hall, it would tear her apart if she had to leave her beloved home. She would fight tooth and nail to hold onto it. Ever since their father had died, leaving them in dire straits, she had come up against so many obstacles, just managing to surmount them, and almost wearing herself out into the bargain, but this seemed to be just one obstacle too many.

No greater crisis had ever confronted her.

With his head pounding with a frightful hangover, after having spent most of the night trying to obliterate what he had done in a bottle of brandy, James Fraser rose the following morning from the bed in which he had fallen into a dissolute, drunken slumber in the certain knowledge that ruination was staring him in the face, unable to see how he could survive it. He surveyed bleakly what the remainder of his life would be like and it was not pleasant. It was not only himself who would suffer as a consequence of his recklessness at the card tables, but his sister also, and in that he could not defend himself.

When he entered the breakfast room Louisa was there already, looking unnaturally calm, her face pale through worry and lack of sleep. There was only a slight resemblance between brother and sister. Both were fair, but there the resemblance ended. Louisa was like a piece of thistledown with a finely structured face, whereas James was six feet and stockily built, with a strong square chin and grey-blue eyes.

Louisa was shocked by her brother’s appearance. Last night had aged him ten years. He looked thoroughly broken, his handsome face creased with deep lines of anxiety, his clothes and hair dishevelled.

“Dear God, Louisa! How could I have done it? We are in the devil of a fix. We are ruined. Quite ruined.” He threw himself down in a chair, staring with a stricken look out of bloodshot eyes at his sister. “What’s to be done? How are we to be saved?” he cried, looking at Louisa as if she knew the answer.

The appeal in his voice went straight to her heart. Without thinking of how they could save themselves, she went to her brother and put her arms round him. Her eyes were soft and tender and she spoke impulsively, lowering her cheek to his.

“We’ll think of a way, James. Something will come up, you’ll see.” she said, but she knew in that moment that there was not even the suspicion of a hope that something would happen to save them.

Later Louisa left the house to walk the short distance to Fleet Street to pay a visit to Mr Brewster’s second-hand bookshop, in the hope of obtaining for a few pence a book by William Collins of sentimental lyric poetry, a style that Mr Collins and others had first made fashionable in the 1740s. She was also glad of the opportunity to be out in the fresh air and to be alone for a while so that she might think.

She wanted nothing more than to return home to Bierlow and forget she had ever come up to London. But she couldn’t leave now. She did not trust her brother not to make matters worse—if they could be worse—and she was dreadfully afraid that he would become suicidal. Their situation was quite desperate, and, not possessing a plethora of relations they could turn to in order to bail them out, she knew that it would require all their brains and ingenuity if they were to survive.

After the death of their parents, James had selfishly taken himself off to London, preferring to live there rather than bury himself in the country, where he bemoaned the fact that there was nothing to do other than fish and hunt—which he could no longer do anyway, having sold all but three of his father’s horses. Two of these he had taken to London to pull his carriage and the other, an ageing mare, Louisa kept for domestic purposes.

She had soon learned that where James was concerned her own wishes were not to be consulted, and she had been forced by circumstances to live in genteel poverty, to be the keeper of Bierlow Hall and to put all her youthful energies and her loneliness into their home, where she was responsible for all the household matters and the staff—of which only two old retainers and a housemaid remained, the only three they could afford.

Mrs Marsh had taken over the duty of cook as well as housekeeper. Her husband, whose health was ailing, managed the stabling of the one horse and the kitchen garden and did odd repair jobs about the house, anything else being too much for him.

Over the years, as the money had dwindled, the old house had fallen into a sorry state of neglect. The curtains were faded and chairs and carpets threadbare. Windows were broken and the roof needed mending, and the garden was overgrown with a wild tangle of weeds. Life was a constant struggle and Louisa fought a never-ending battle with tradesmen and shopkeepers alike, stripping the house of several valuables which were not of sentimental worth and pieces of furniture to pay them.

All this had caused something to harden inside Louisa, to die, even. The lessons since her parents’ demise had been hard and she had learned them well, knowing she could expect little support from James as he went on his merry way unhindered. She had learned to deal with relentless adversity, to hide her disappointment in her brother and her fear for the future, and to hold her head high. And because of the time she spent alone at Bierlow Hall, making decisions and being responsible for others, she had acquired an independence of attitude and spirit.

But, despite James’s neglect of duty, Louisa understood him and loved him well, and would forgive him almost anything. Whenever he came down to Bierlow Hall to placate her, he would leave her a little money he had won at the tables, promising her that the day would soon come when he would make his fortune and bring her to London and find her a husband who would be worthy of her, before rushing off back to town.

Louisa would listen calmly, knowing this would never happen, and was resigned to remain at Bierlow Hall in semi-isolation for ever. The only luxury she permitted herself was her books, for it was only in these that she could find solace and escape from the daily concern of money.

Fleet Street, with its bookshops, printing establishments and coffee-houses, was a popular area for writers and poets. As always, it was crowded with journalists and salesmen, with newsboys running up and down carrying the latest broadsheets. Louisa kept close to the wall, for often it was difficult to walk in the streets, congested with draymen, hackneys and other hazards, without fear of injury.

She had come here once before when she had been in London and she remembered how she had loved the bustle of the busy street. Finding herself in front of Mr Brewster’s shop, the familiar sign above the door framed in iron and hanging out on a long bracket, vying with all the others along the street—and it was not unheard of for any one of them to fall down, to the danger of pedestrians—she entered the shop, where the smell of ink, paper and leather-bound books assailing her nostrils was surprisingly pleasant.

Like many other establishments, Mr Brewster’s shop stocked items other than books; book-selling alone was rarely sufficient to make a prosperous living. His shop was much frequented by scholars, who were able to afford the wide range of cheap, second-hand books he had on sale.

Several gentlemen in flamboyant wigs and brightly coloured frock coats were examining the books lining the shelves and paid her scant attention. Journals and pamphlets were stacked in piles on the floor, while books ranging from classics, educational, drama, romance, prose and many more filled the shelves.

Mr Brewster was unpacking some pamphlets and looked up when she entered, smiling brightly. She told him which book she wanted by William Collins and he frowned, evidently thinking hard as he rubbed his whiskery chin with ink-stained fingers.

“Let me see—I should have a copy somewhere. You browse, my dear, while I have a look in the back.”

Louisa did as he told her as he disappeared into the back of the shop, happy to wander among the narrow aisles crammed with books on dusty shelves. She examined books by Fielding and Defoe with avid interest, having read all of them, then took Clarissa, a book written by Samuel Richardson that was a particular favourite of hers, from the shelf. She had read it several times and agonised over poor Clarissa Harlowe’s fate on finding herself in the clutches of her abominable persecutor, Lovelace.

So lost was she in the print as she flicked through the well-thumbed pages that she was not aware that someone had come to stand beside her until he spoke.

“Why, Miss Divine. This is a surprise.”

Louisa looked up, amazed to find herself looking into a pair of familiar, vivid blue eyes. So abrupt was his appearance, and so unexpected, that her heart lurched, disbelief mingled with surprise holding her immobilised for a split second. Her first instinct was to turn on her heels and run, but her feet were firmly rooted to the spot, and, besides, he blocked her one way of escape. Immediately there was a resurgence in her of that frightening awareness of his vitality and magnetism that had affected her at Bricknell House when their eyes had met for the first time. He seemed to have set the whole atmosphere inside Mr Brewster’s bookshop vibrating.

“L-Lord Dunstan! Do forgive me—you startled me,” she stammered, her cheeks overspread with a deep flush, unable to prevent a picture of him and the unpleasantness of the previous evening from flashing through her mind. She felt overwhelmed by his close presence and he seemed to invade every part of her, but somehow she kept her head. She observed that he was as immaculately dressed as he had been at Lady Bricknell’s party, and she could not help noticing how black became him and how his pristine white cravat had been tied with a master’s hand.

“I apologise. I did not mean to,” he said, having recognised her instantly, even though she did not remotely resemble the young woman he had encountered at Lady Bricknell’s the previous evening.

He looked at her intently, startled once more by her beauty, finding himself looking into two warm and wonderfully expressive amber eyes flecked with yellow, opened wide in her heart-shaped, strikingly lovely face, her skin creamy, flawless and glowing with health, with an aureole of strawberry-blonde hair falling in a luxurious, shining tumble over her shoulders. Ever since he had first seen her he had wanted her, and meant to have her, her face never drifting from his mind’s eye.

“Mr Fraser is suffering no ill effects after last night, I hope?” he enquired in a bored, matter-of-fact way, as if it were of no consequence that James had lost his entire fortune to him.

Anger seared through Louisa like a hot knife at the lightness with which he spoke, but her pride forbade her to tell him of the devastation his game of cards with James had brought them. With a superhuman effort she managed to smile sweetly up at him.

“It is not the first time James has lost at cards, Lord Dunstan, and I am quite certain it will not be the last.”

“You have known each other long, Miss Divine—you and Mr Fraser?”

Louisa cringed when he addressed her as Miss Divine, thinking it a silly name and quite ridiculous, but a peculiar instinct born and bred in her told her not to let him know she was James’s sister. Let him continue to think she was his paramour; it was of no concern to her.

“Yes—quite some time,” she answered.

“And Sir Charles Meredith? It would appear you have an admirer in that gentleman. Do you know him well?”

“Why, no. In fact I do not know him at all. We had not met before last night,” Louisa told him. She saw that he was watching her closely, giving her the distinct impression that he was more concerned with how well she knew Sir Charles than how close she was to James, and making her wonder once again what could have happened to cause so much dislike between himself and Sir Charles Meredith. But she pushed the matter away, telling herself that no matter how unpleasant the situation might be that existed between the two men, it was their business and had absolutely nothing to do with her. She had troubles enough of her own without bothering her head about that.

Alistair nodded slightly. “I see. Then if, as you say, he is a stranger to you, take my advice and be very careful before becoming better acquainted with him. Do not allow yourself to be taken in by him. Oh, he can be charming and persuasive, I grant you, but he is not what he seems.”

Louisa gave him a cool stare. “Thank you, Lord Dunstan,” she said curtly, “but your opinion does not interest me. I choose my own friends.”

Alistair’s answer to this was a faintly sardonic smile. “Of course. Tell me, are you here alone today?”

“Yes. I enjoy browsing among the bookshelves. Besides, James is not a reader.”

“And you are?”

“Yes, very much so. Are you here to purchase a book yourself, Lord Dunstan?”

“No. I am here to see an acquaintance of mine on the Morning Chronicle. We are to meet in the Mitre tavern further along. I happened to be passing when I saw you enter the shop. I was curious. I thought I recognised you. I do recall seeing you once before, albeit some time ago,” he said with a crooked grin, full of charm. “Or perhaps I should say twice?”

Louisa looked at him sharply, having recognised his features at first glance the previous evening. But she was still unable to remember where.

“Let me enlighten you. The first time was at Vauxhall Gardens—some two months ago, as I recall—when you were in the company of Mr Fraser and Mr Hacket. You seemed to be enjoying yourself, as I remember.”

Instantly Louisa recalled the occasion in Vauxhall Gardens, when James had insisted upon taking her there to celebrate her birthday, and she flushed, feeling defenceless suddenly when her memory of that night came flooding back. At last she recalled where she had seen Lord Dunstan before, remembering how he had stood and watched her for some considerable time while she had danced with Timothy and James. The fact that he had observed her so clearly—and recalling how she had unashamedly returned his bold stare, and the pleasure she had derived from it—swamped her with mortification and embarrassment.

Quickly she composed her features, giving Lord Dunstan no indication of how much her recollection of that occasion affected her, but he was not deceived, being well schooled in the way women’s minds worked, and he was secretly amused by it.