A Rational Arrangement, page 24
And she was a remarkably handsome woman, for all her peculiar ways. Justin found himself curious what she would find out about the companies he’d left her to evaluate, and whether his initial impression of her abilities would be borne out. If she was as clever as she appeared – hmm. Justin had never seriously considered or desired marriage. The miserable sham of his parents’ marriage was not something he ever wanted to inflict on children of his own. Beyond that, the well-born and eligible girls he’d met over the years were, at best, amusing company for an evening. They aroused little sexual interest in him and while fawning attitudes were entertaining at a ball, such were unlikely to survive a wedding and would grate after continual exposure in any case. They had not all fawned or simpered, but none had engaged his interest in any but the most superficial way.
Miss Vasilver was entirely different. The idea of marrying her was not immediately repugnant. Intriguing, even. Justin roused himself from his reverie. Let’s not get ahead of myself. First impressions can often mislead. For that matter, perhaps she prefers her affairs without attachment. He briefly imagined Miss Vasilver as irritated by the presumption of one-time-lovers as he was. It didn’t seem likely, but it was an entertaining notion.
On the opposite side of the carriage, Millson was still sulking. “Are you sure it’s wise to have business dealings with such a strange individual?”
Justin favored him with a dry look. “No doubt those are her thoughts exactly, but the poor unfortunate girl is committed now.”
Flustered, Millson stammered out an unnecessary apology and explanation – “I meant she was strange, my lord!” Justin ignored him to gaze out the window, wondering what Miss Vasilver’s exact thoughts truly were.
If she closed her eyes, Wisteria could almost feel the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the smoothness of his skin beneath her fingertips, his body near enough to warm her with his heat.
Wisteria leaned back in her desk chair, eyes closed.
If she was honest with herself – and she was not in the habit of self-deception – she had to admit she’d liked it. A great deal. Not just as a companionable gesture – much the way Byron might look over an account with her – but as the touch of an extraordinarily handsome and definitely not-related man.
Who was unlikely to regard her in any way as an eligible match.
On the other hand, it’s not his estate or his title that I’m craving. She thought again of Lord Comfrey’s golden-brown face framed by that perfect fall of long black hair, and wondered what it would be like to kiss those narrow lips. If only I were a man, no one would care in the slightest if I gave my virginity away.
Of course, if I were a man, other men wouldn’t want me anyway.
Not that they want me now, as far as I can tell. Wisteria opened her eyes and pulled the Ellesex binder closer. She’d been told all her life that young men were akin to rutting beasts, interested in women for only one thing and always eager to get it. Young women, on the other hand, were supposed to be chaste, pure beings, untouched by desire. As far as she could tell from personal experience, the exact opposite was the case. Not that I’d notice if it weren’t. Also, if I have to obsess over men, couldn’t I do it one man at a time? She conjured up mental images of Lord Comfrey and Lord Nikola, trying to decide which was more attractive, Lord Nikola’s tall fair-haired lean grace or Lord Comfrey’s powerful dark frame. It was like deciding which was more intoxicating, red wine or white. I would gladly become drunk on either. Though I suppose at least Lord Comfrey hasn’t said to my face he’s not interested in marrying me.
Yet.
If it came to a choice between the ineligible, Wisteria preferred Lord Nikola, who was easier to make sense of. More straightforward. She did not know what to make of Lord Comfrey. “You take me too seriously”. Wisteria wasn’t sure she knew how to take people lightly. Maybe she ought to practice sometime. Dismissing the whole chain of thought as unproductive, Wisteria opened her notebook on one hand and the Ellesex binder on the other, and set to work.
Since Monday, Nikola had thrown himself into addressing the needs of his petitioners. He started appointments at seven in the morning and continued with them until midnight, and would have taken them later still if Shelby had not flatly refused to schedule them. He no longer attended the family dinners; he took meals alone and largely because his staff brought food and Anthser threatened to sit on him until he ate it. The whole was less out of a sense of mission than because there was nothing he wanted to do. Channeling the Savior’s power for every waking hour was not quite as numbing as spending them falling-down-drunk, but the former was more socially acceptable and at least helped some people. Also, no hangover.
He would have refused Justin’s invitation for Thursday, too, had his conscience not compelled him to accept. You are already spending the man’s money. You have no business rejecting him for anything. The thought sickened him. The entire interior of his head was a repugnant, unpleasant place, which perhaps explained why he spent as much time as possible absorbed in those of other people.
The crush of petitioners peaked on Monday at over four hundred during the course of the ‘official’ open hours from nine to noon. Tuesday and Wednesday saw fewer new people, although despite all the extra time as he’d devoted to appointments, the backlog of the treatable-but-not-yet-treated was larger than he cared to think about.
Since Shelby wouldn’t let him take petitioners after midnight – all his staff had the ridiculous notion that Nik ought to get more sleep, despite all the years they’d known him – Nik would check on the Whittakers then. Sharone’s erratic behavior extended to her sleep schedule, and as a result the Whittakers kept odd hours. Every time Nik checked on them, a different greatcat was in their quarters: Anthser, Gunther, Jill. On Monday night Sharone was awake and raving in a low, steady monotone, making an elaborate abstract pattern in charcoal on the flagstones around the fireplace. Mr. Whittaker was watching her, and apologized to Nikola for all the trouble, as the Whittakers did whenever they saw him. “I don’t think she’s up to treatment but if you want to try…” Mr. Whittaker began.
Nikola waved it off. “I thought I’d just stop by and…be in her general vicinity without being scary for a bit.” He took a seat in an ancient battered armchair fetched out of the attic to furnish the shabby suite, and made desultory conversation with Mr. Whittaker. The man was a cobbler, or had been, until managing his daughter had become a full-time job for two people. His business was in the care of a brother; Nik got the impression that Mr. Whittaker had not worked regular hours for some time even before the nine-hundred mile pilgrimage to Newlant. After an hour or so, Nik was not sure he’d made any impression on Sharone, but at least her father was more at ease. Progress enough.
Tuesday night, Sharone was asleep, sprawled atop a curled-up dozing Gunther.
Wednesday night found Sharone, Jill and Mrs. Whittaker playing with blocks, dolls, and toy animals. The dolls (animated by Jill) and toy animals (by Mrs. Whittaker) were at war while the blocks (under Sharone’s direction) tried to negotiate a peace. Nikola watched them for three-quarters of an hour, waving Mrs. Whittaker to continue and not let him interrupt. Sharone directed the game, instructing her adult playmates in how their forces were to respond to overtures for peace and when to commit acts of war. It was the most normal thing he’d seen Sharone do. The child took little notice of him until Jill gave an ostentatious greatcat yawn and told Sharone, “’m tired. Howabout Lord Nik takes over the dolls for me? You too old to play with dolls, Lord Nik?”
“I think I have always been too old to play with dolls. I will have to pretend they are soldiers instead,” Nik said, mock-somber.
Sharone shook her head. “Nuh uh. Y’ play blocks, Lor’ Nik. I take dolls.”
When Jill scooted back, Nik lay down on the floor before her and leaned against the greatcat just as he had when he’d been a boy. The dolls were a vicious, backstabbing people under Sharone’s hands, much as they’d been with Jill. Sharone had a curiously sophisticated sense of the toys as individuals separate from herself: she would pause during play to apologize for the things the dolls did. “They don’t know any better,” she told Nik. “Ess why y’ have to teach them.”
“But you do know better?”
Sharone shrugged and turned back to the toys. Without her inner demon in evidence, the little girl was adorable: cloud of tight black curls held back by a headband that framed her dark brown face, round eyes animated and intent on the game. The blocks’ diplomatic efforts made little impact on the dolls’ actions. After a savage assault by the dolls on a toy animal found too near disputed territory, Sharone sat back. “Y’ can na reason wi’ them.”
“What do you think we should do, then?”
The little girl was quiet for a long moment. “Don’ know.”
“Perhaps we should banish them,” Nik said, gently.
Her eyes flicked to his, away. “Banch?”
“Put them where they can’t hurt anyone.” He sat up on the flagstone floor to open his after-supper jacket and show its inner breast pocket. “If you’ll give the dolls to me, I’ll put them in here and take them away. Then the animals can be safe from them.”
Sharone hovered her small hand over the toys, then drew back. “Can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” Nik offered his gloved hand, palm up. “I need your help, Miss Whittaker. I can’t do this without you.”
Her fingers closed on one of the dolls in a tight fist. Shaking, she brought it over Nik’s palm, and dropped it into his hand. Slowly, he drew his hand away and tucked the doll with care into his pocket. He extended his hand again, and waited. Sharone stared at his pocket, then gave a little shriek and scooped all the dolls into her arms. She paused, looking at Nik’s hand, then shook her head vehemently and ran behind her mother, dolls clutched to her chest. “can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t” she repeated over and over, huddled in a low crouch.
Mrs. Whittaker put her arms around the girl. “It’s all right,” she said, powerless. She tried to take one of the dolls away, but Sharone shrieked as if in agony.
Nik shook his head at the mother’s look. “I understand you can’t right now,” he said to the child. “Perhaps later?”
At first he wasn’t sure she’d heard or understood – he wasn’t sure he understood the girl’s metaphor properly – but then Sharone turned to look at him, falling silent. Little dolls peeped over her slender arms, chin tucked to her chest and shoulders hunched. She gave him a solemn nod.
Nik flashed her a quick smile. “Well enough, then. Sleep now, perhaps.” He rose and took his leave, not wanting to outstay his welcome further. As he walked back to his room, he took the one little wooden toy Sharone had given him from his pocket and turned it over between his fingers, thoughtfully.
Late on Thursday morning, Anthser interrupted Nik between reevaluations. The black greatcat stepped into Nik’s office as the young lord showed out the latest petitioner. Instead of bringing the next, Anthser had an adolescent greatcat courier beside him. “…message for you, m’lord.”
Nikola frowned at Anthser; the big feline had a glazed, stupefied expression. “Is something amiss, Anthser?” One man kept bringing back his unresponsive and sadly untreatable mother – the staff now turned him away before he got inside, but it still caused a scene. Nik hoped it wasn’t something like that again.
“I…uh…you tell me.” Anthser nudged the liveried courier forward.
The messenger pawed open a pouch and produced a packet and a courier’s receipt. “There’s a document inside for you to sign, if you would, m’lord. I’m to wait for it.”
Still frowning, Nik turned the packet over. It bore the seal of Michaelson’s Bank and Trust – not an institution Nik utilized. He broke the seal and opened the packet. Inside was a bank ledger in an embossed leather case with Fireholt’s seal on the front, a contractual document and its duplicate, awaiting signature and seal, and a sealed envelope marked “Nikola Striker, Lord of Fireholt”, in Justin’s casual, bold hand. With the weight of dread in his stomach, Nik sat in one of the office’s comfortable chairs. The contract was boilerplate, granting him possession of an account held in trust at the bank, his signature and seal meant to identify him for future transactions. It described the safeguards on the funds with a level of detail he couldn’t process; he got a vague sense that the trust was secured by several different institutions but accessed only through Michaelson. Nik opened the bank ledger. It had a detailed breakdown of the account in neat figures, which totaled an obscenely large sum. A sum large enough to pay the expenses of Nikola’s entire household for the next hundred years. It was more money than he’d seen in one place, ever. He knew that Justin was wealthy, but this – this – what kind of Paradise did they live in, where one man could have so much that he could give it away like this?
Over six years ago, due to a series of misunderstandings almost comic in retrospect, Justin had sent Nik a gift of cash – a humiliating gift that Nik had returned in fury at the presumption behind it, the idea that he had been bought. Justin had called it a ‘token’ then, and Nik had been shocked that anyone could refer to five thousand marks – more than Shelby’s salary for a year – as if it were a trifle. Looking at this ledger now, Nikola finally understood just how insignificant five thousand marks was to the Viscount of Comfrey.
Anthser had laid down at Nikola’s feet, great black head against his forepaws. The young courier-cat was sitting on her haunches, waiting politely. Nik drew an unsteady breath and closed the ledger. He moved to the desk to sign the receipt and then the account, setting his seal at the bottom before sealing the whole closed. He returned the document to the courier and let her leave before he opened Justin’s note.
Striker,
My life is worth a great deal more to me than this, you know; I feel quite the miser for offering so little. I trust you will forgive me.
Michaelson’s is famed for their confidentiality. Only two people there know the origin of the funds for your account or Anthser’s; news will not spread from that quarter, nor from me. Whatever you would have known, or not known, I leave entirely to your discretion, my most excellent friend.
Thank you again for saving me. And for allowing me to repay you in some fashion for that priceless gift.
Your devoted servant,
JC
Nik touched his fingers to the paper, an impossible mixture of emotions flooding him. Anthser’s name caught his eye, and he looked down to the greatcat sprawled on the floor.
Anthser had raised his head to look back at him. “So,” Anthser said, then stopped. He tilted his head to one side and tried again. “I think I just got a mountain of money from Lord Comfrey.”
Nik blinked at the greatcat. “…did you?”
“Unless it’s a joke. Or I’m dreaming. Either kinda seems more likely. When I think about it.” Anthser opened a harness pouch with one paw and pulled out a bank ledger with Anthser of Fireholt, Warcat embossed on it. “Is this real?”
Nikola took the ledger and opened it. It was identical to the one Nikola had just received, down to the same obscene total. Nik stared at it for a while, even more shocked than before. Justin – you – you – Justin. There were no words. Despite himself and all his inner turmoil, Nik realized he was smiling. You truly are making it about that rescue, aren’t you? He returned the ledger to Anthser and sat in the chair again. “It’s real.”
The greatcat pinned it to the floor before him. “Whoa. That is…whoa. I mean. Whoa. What do you do with that kind of money?”
“Whatever you want, I suppose.”
Anthser turned it upside down, as if the figure would make more sense that way. Perhaps it did. “Could I buy my own bowracing course?”
“I imagine you could, if you wished.”
“Huh. That…that’s a lot of marks.” Anthser looked up from the ledger at last. “Lord Comfrey sent a note with it. Said I should talk to you about, um, discretion. And money management.”
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” Nik advised, gently.
“Does this mean I have a big vault full of bills I could go roll around in?”
“I’m…not sure.”
“Because I want to, maybe? It’d be more real. Heh. I could hire Southing to race for me! She wouldn’t need to find another sponsor.” Anthser’s whiskers spread with pleasure.
Nikola marvelled at the greatcat’s uncomplicated delight at the funds: it did not occur to Anthser to wonder at the motives of the giver, to find obligation inherent in the gift. If he does not see it, curst if I’ll be the one to teach him. “Do I need to find myself another riding cat?” he asked, smiling.
Anthser started, and kneaded his claws against air, muzzle crinkled in thought. “Uh. I don’t know. I like being your warcat.” He sunk his chin against forelegs. “The riding part’s fun. And harassing you. I’d miss you if I didn’t have an excuse to hang about. And it’s not like anyone who doesn’t work with you gets a chance to see you for more than fifteen minutes. I could do without fending off petitioners and parents and stuff, though. Could you hire another greatcat to do all the crappy parts of my job and I’ll keep the good stuff?” His ears perked. “I mean, Lord Comfrey gave you a mountain of money just the same’s mine, right?”
“Exactly the same,” Nikola said. “And I could, if that’s what you’d like.”
Anthser opened his mouth in a feline grin. “That’d be great, Lord Nik.” The greatcat sat up and leaned forward to butt Nik’s chest with the top of his head and then slurp his face, making Nik laugh.
