A Rational Arrangement, page 22
“It’s a good opportunity for you, Wisteria,” their father said. “Lord Comfrey’s an influential man. Seat in Assembly, you know. And…well, he’d be a good man for Vasilver Trading to cultivate a connection with.”
“Then why are you suggesting I do it?” Wisteria asked. “Wouldn’t anyone else be better?”
Mr. Vasilver coughed. “Well. He didn’t ask for anyone else. He asked for you.”
“It’ll be fine, Teeri.” Byron squeezed her opposite shoulder. “Lord Comfrey already saw what you’re like. If he found anything objectionable, he’d not have suggested it.”
“Thank you, Byron.”
He glanced down at her. “Not being sarcastic now, are you?”
“No.” Wisteria considered this. “Do you truly think that listening to me lecture for an hour covers all the ways I might offend someone?”
Into the ensuing silence, her father conceded, “Perhaps not all the ways.”
Byron grimaced. “Still something, though. And you’re a good speaker, Teeri. You’ve a keen intellect and a shrewd mind for finance. Ought to show it as an advantage, right?”
“Is that why you wanted me to be the one to speak?”
Her brother shifted against the velvet-cushioned bench. “Might’ve factored in. You were the best person for it, though. And the one who argued we should share the information instead of keeping it for our own advantage.”
“A well-informed marketplace benefits everyone save liars and criminals,” Wisteria said.
Byron raised a hand between them, palm-out. “Not arguing! But that’s my point – you see things differently than most. More clearly. Half those insights were ones you’d come up with. Ought to be you explaining them.”
Wisteria did not feel insightful; she felt like everything she’d said was so obvious it hardly bore repeating. But that made sense, in its way: so many other things were so obvious to everyone but her that no one considered that she might not grasp them. It might as well work in the converse occasionally. “Very well. But the next time you want me to do something for multiple reasons, I would appreciate it if you would share them all.”
“Sorry. Guess it would help you evaluate it better.” Byron rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yes. And to hate you less when it turned out to be a disaster for reasons you foresaw.”
Byron turned away, mumbling, “Didn’t think they’d be outright rude like that.”
“Next time, Byron.” Wisteria patted his shoulder and spoke no more of it.
Nik struggled through his petitioners on Friday and Saturday – both days made more troublesome by his abandonment of duty on Thursday, of course – without contemplation of escape again. Where would I escape to? He couldn’t run off to Miss Vasilver every day. After his last appointment on Saturday night, he went to the manor’s library to read for a few hours. Their library held an eclectic selection of books, from a leather-bound illuminated replica of Code of the Savior, with Commentary by His Blessed of the Second Century (purchased after his father was forced to sell an original hand-scribed edition) to natural histories so old they pre-dated greatcats, to the histories and biographies his father favored and the melodramas and tragedies his mother enjoyed. Nikola chose a battered adventure novel he’d read many times as a boy – The Knights of Cambre – and sprawled undignified on a sofa as he read it again. A quarter of the way through, the author introduced Sir Conrad, one of the protagonists, and Nik remembered he’d always pictured Sir Conrad as Justin.
Nikola had known of Justin for some years before they’d properly met (‘improperly met’ might be a better way to put it, given the peculiar circumstances of their first encounter). Lord Justin, as he’d been before he inherited at twenty-three, had been a famed competitor in a number of school sports – fencing, archery, unarmed combat, backball – and an adolescent Nikola had idolized him from a distance. He’d followed Justin’s exploits via coverage in the Post, and sometimes traveled to attend local matches with Lord Striker. He’d thought Justin the perfect lord: fearless, determined, handsome, quick-witted, at ease in every setting. It had taken a while for young Nik to realize that his adulation sprang from infatuation rather than a desire to emulate Justin. Nikola had never expected that attraction to be reciprocated. He’d been stunned when he learned it was. Stunned and thrilled.
If only the admiration had been reciprocal as well.
He felt a certain weariness at the thought. Is it truly Justin’s failing? If he does not admire or respect me, is it not because there is little admirable or respectable about me? Penniless, undignified, petulant, spoilt, self-centered – it’s no wonder he thinks so little of me. And whatever chance I had of ever making him see me as a grown and independent man vanished when I agreed to put myself in his debt forever.
Nik sighed. He might as well try to avoid air as to escape thoughts of Justin. He’s been a fixture of my life, one way or another, for more than half of it. Small wonder I cannot set that aside. He turned back to the book anyway. As he read, he reflected that Sir Conrad was not much like the real Justin: the fictional knight was a kind-hearted, selfless man, indifferent to his own welfare and comfort, ready to lend assistance to any who asked without thought to the cost. Nik found he preferred Justin anyway. Sir Conrad has no sense of humor.
The clock had chimed past one in the morning and Nik was still reading when the noise of a commotion in the foyer caught his attention. He opened the library door, grimaced at the too-familiar high-pitched shriek of a young girl, and quickened his stride to reach the source.
The foyer was in shambles, as if a small tornado had torn through it and knocked over tables, toppled the grandfather clock, upended vases, ripped down tapestries, and cast paintings upon the floor. The probable source of the chaos cowered in a corner behind a makeshift barricade of tables, wielding the broken side of a heavy gilt frame like a club. “STAYBA’STAYBA’STAYBA,” Sharone Whittaker shrieked at Robert, a footman standing just out of reach of her ersatz club. The stout man was uttering a stream of curses, the sleeve of his jacket torn, his look suggesting he was considering drawing his ceremonial short sword on her.
In the most commanding tones he could muster, Nikola said, “Miss Whittaker, what is going on here?” He yanked on the bell rope by the front door to summon a greatcat from the felishome as he crossed the room to join the footman.
Robert bit back on his latest string of curses to give Nikola an ashamed look. “M’lord, we just found her wandering loose like this—” he shouted to be heard over Sharone’s screams “—Elisa went to get her parents—”
Nik nodded, motioning the man to silence. He took up station on the opposite side from Robert, surrounding Sharone’s barricaded corner of the foyer in the hope that she would not be able to get past both of them. As the child paused to refill her lungs with air, Nik demanded sternly, “Miss Whittaker, what is the meaning of this outburst?” On instinct, he added, “Is Mrs. Square involved?”
The child fell silent, breathing hard as she stared at him, fluffy black curls in a wild tangle about her face. After a moment, she gave a slow nod.
“Tell me how.” Nik tried to sound firm but not angry.
While the child’s attention was on him, Robert darted in and seized the section of frame she held. Sharone wailed “Le’goLE’GONOMISTERBROWN!” but the footman’s much greater leverage and strength overcame the reckless power that madness lent her and he wrested it from her grip. Screaming, she let it go and darted between the legs of a sideways table. Nikola caught her as she emerged and immediately regretted it as she flailed at him with feet and fists, frantic to escape. “LE’GOMISSUSSQUAREDON’HUR’EM!” Reflexively, he called on the Savior to cast out the demon that riddled her mind with thorn-covered vines, strangling her mindshapes. It was fruitless, of course; his mind filled with the Savior’s sorrow at the girl’s resistance.
As he was still trying to get her under control, the adult Whittakers arrived at a run. Mrs. Whittaker stammered apologies and Mr. Whittaker relieved Nik of his squirming, weeping burden. By the time Anthser arrived, the Whittakers had their daughter effectively restrained again. Mrs. Whittaker blamed herself – she’d fallen asleep on her watch, and Sharone had somehow managed to get a locked door off its hinges and escaped without waking either of them.
Nikola could not imagine how much trouble the child would be full-grown if she were not cured first, given the amount of havoc she could wreak at six. She’s not even four feet tall. How could she get a door off its hinges? The mind boggled. He resisted the impulse to rub his thigh where she’d kicked him. Elisa, a very young woman and daughter of the cook, had a ripening bruise around one eye and would not come within fifteen feet of the child even after she’d been bound. He nodded wearily at the Whittakers’ apologies and waved them back to their suite. Mr. Whittaker promised to watch the girl while Mrs. Whittaker would return to help clean the mess. As they left, Elisa started putting things to rights while Robert went to wake some of the other staff.
“Want one of us to stay in their suite?” Anthser had shown up a few minutes after the humans had gotten the situation under control. The greatcat had kept a quiet vigil by the door while Nik was busy.
Yes. No. I don’t know. The uncanny energy of her madness could not, surely, make the child a match for a greatcat, and a greatcat’s superior hearing, strength, and speed should keep her better under control. On the other hand – this was not their job. They should not have to deal with this kind of thing. Nikola watched the chambermaid lift paintings and lean them against the walls to survey the damage, then gather up the fallen tapestries. None of them should.
Anthser yawned, tongue curling in his huge fang-rimmed mouth. “Y’know, I’m tired and I don’t feel like going all the way back to the felishome tonight.” Nik raised one eyebrow at him; the felishome was a hundred yards away, if that. “So I’m gonna go sleep in, oh, one of the north wing suites. The one you gave the Whittakers has a fire set in it already, right? I’m sure they won’t mind sharing. G’night, Lord Nik.” Anthser nuzzled Nik’s cheek and turned to depart.
Nik managed a half-smile. “Good night, Anthser.” He watched a half-dozen grumbling, sleepy servants file into the foyer. Mrs. Goslin, Anverlee’s head of staff, shook her head at the chaos and directed the others on various tasks. His presence checked their complaints, but he could feel their resentment of the hour, the work, the extent of damage done – at least three of the paintings he could see were torn and irreparable. A wave of weariness washed over him. With an effort, he strode to Mrs. Goslin’s side. “Thank you for your efforts tonight,” he told her. “When you have a reckoning on the extent of the damages, please let me know. I’ll cover it. Also, I’d appreciate a list of the names and hours worked this evening on it – I’ll provide a bonus for it.” I don’t even have it yet and I’m already spending Justin’s money, he thought, nauseated and hopeless.
The tall, silver-haired housekeeper answered with a grave curtsey. “Yes, m’lord. Thank you.”
For what? There was a great deal more work to be done, none of which was his to do. Nikola gave up and retired.
Nikola awoke the next morning as Lord Striker swept into his bedroom in a long dark dressing gown, blue eyes fixed on his son. Nik scrubbed his hands over his face as his father said, “So. I gather you are aware of the destruction your madgirl caused in my house last night.”
“I’ll cover the damages.” There was little else to be said.
Lord Striker raised bushy white eyebrows. “Will you, now? With whose money?”
Justin’s. Nik almost said it, but the effort of the admission was too much. “Gifts from petitioners.” That was almost true, anyway.
Lord Striker looked unconvinced but did not challenge the point. He stood straight-backed at the foot of Nik’s bed, dignified even in a dressing gown. “Did you know the staff was up all night putting what they could to rights? One of the chambermaids gave notice and two other servants have threatened to leave.”
Good. You can’t afford the salaries for all these people anyway. Nik thought about the bruise on Elisa’s face and wondered if she was the one who gave notice. He said nothing; even he could hardly see driving away retainers as a net positive.
When it was obvious Nik would make no reply, his father sighed. “Look. I am not so heartless that I will turn out these people in the week before Ascension. But I will not have Anverlee Manor turned into a madhouse with permanent inmates. I want them gone by Wednesday next, do you hear me? And in the meantime, there are to be no more incidents like this one.”
It was, Nik had to admit, a fair request. More than fair, even. No interpretation of the Code required a Blessed to provide care to those who refused, and Sharone Whittaker had had more than a week to consent. Without treatment, she stood no chance against the demon that plagued her. What will become of her if I cannot help? Of her parents? Where will they go? Is there an asylum that would hold her? He did not imagine there was one that could heal her; asylums were little more than prisons where the incurably insane were kept, often for the rest of their lives. In Sharone’s case, that seemed the best she could hope for. But what else can I do? Take her to Fireholt, I suppose. Well, the Ascension Ball would be over by then and cutting his visit short at that point would not be that remarkable. Is it worth it, so much trouble for the child of strangers? He realized his father still awaited an answer. “Yes, my lord.”
Lord Striker nodded in reluctant satisfaction. “Dinner is at three. Good day.”
Dinner Sunday afternoon continued the unfolding disaster that comprised Nik’s life. His mother touched off a new incident during the main course when she asked who he would escort to the Ascension ball. Thus he announced to his entire family plus six invited guests at once that he was taking Miss Vasilver. The one advantage to this setting was that his parents had to restrain their outrage to a degree, rather than create a scene in front of company.
This did not stop Lord Striker from cornering Nik after the meal. His father took his arm and stood aside so Nik would be forced to linger with him as the crowd dispersed to parlor or drawing room.
Nik reined in his impatience and the desire to shake off his father’s vice-like grip. The rest of the party paid them no special attention, and soon the dining room was clear apart from the two of them.
Lord Striker glowered at his son. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing now, boy, but let me tell you this now: don’t imagine you can make Vasilver’s daughter into one of your whores. However much of a slattern she may be, she’s of a good family and I will not have you insult her father by taking advantage of her loose morals.”
Nikola stared, astonished by his father’s absurd fantasy. Beneath his surprise, cold rage grew. He moved to stand face-to-face with his father, prying Lord Striker’s fingers from his arm. “Insult me as you please, my lord, but I will not tolerate such blatant and outrageous lies about a gentlewoman of my acquaintance. You will retract that at once.”
Lord Striker gave a bark of dry laughter. “Adding hypocrisy to your string of vices, are you? I don’t suppose one more will make a difference. Don’t think I can’t tell what your real interest in this girl is, Nikola. It’s certainly not because you’ll consider wedding her, whatever your mother may fear.”
“My interest, as you put it, is in having one acquaintance for whom my beliefs and wishes are not inconvenient obstacles to be conquered, ignored, or swept aside. One person who can be bothered to listen to and perhaps extend some credit to what I have to say. One person, even, who does not consider such a thing wholly unreasonable.” Nik towered over his father, infuriated. “I will not hear her honor impugned, sir. You will retract your accusation against her, or I have nothing further to say to you.”
“What accusation? She wrote it in her own hand and gave it to you herself!”
Nik spun on his heel and strode for the door.
“Don’t you dare turn your back on me, boy!” His father seized his shoulder. “I’m not done with you yet.” Wordless, Nikola shoved the hand back and continued into the hall. Lord Striker followed, heaving an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, do you expect me to believe after viewing that document of hers that you think her a modest and virtuous creature?”
“Yes.” Nik stopped in the grand arched hall outside the dining room, hands clenching into fists. He forced his fingers to relax at the twinge of pain from the not-quite healed bite marks on the right, and glared over his shoulder at his father. “Because she told me as much, and a woman who would be so forthright in writing would hardly lie to me now.”
To his surprise, this argument brought his father up short. The older man folded his arms across his chest, white eyebrows furrowed, and harumphed. Nik waited, jaw tensed. Lord Striker sighed again. “Very well. I retract my statement about the girl.”
Nikola exhaled and turned to face his father again.
“Are you serious about Miss Vasilver, then?”
“Serious about valuing her friendship? Yes. About respecting her person? Yes.”
Lord Striker twisted his mouth. “You know what I mean, Nikola.”
“I am sure I do not.”
“Are you considering marriage to this woman?”
Nik hesitated a little too long before replying. “I am not looking for a wife, Father,” he said, though he was far less convicted on this point than he had been a week ago. “Nor a mistress, before your mind leaps back to the gutter. I enjoy her conversation. Why is this so hard to accept?”
“Because men do not befriend women, my boy. In particular, an unmarried gentleman does not merely befriend an unmarried gentlewoman. You cannot call on Miss Vasilver and invite her to the Ascension Ball, of all things, without exciting certain hopes.”
“Miss Vasilver understands my intentions – or lack thereof, I should say. And is perfectly content with that state of affairs.”
