No Choice but Surrender (32 page)

Well after
four o'clock
, she reached the last shop. All day it had been one rejection after another. The shopkeepers either found her appearance too shabby, or refused to hire a female, or were simply not hiring at all. Soon she would have to give up her independence and hope that the mysterious master of Number One would allow her to stay on as extra household help. But how she pined for an existence of her own! After months in captivity at Osterley, she longed for a little cottage of her own in the hills that overlooked the city, perhaps one that was old and solid like the one she and her mother had lived in in Tenby. She closed her eyes and pictured it in a daydream. Well, it wouldn't remain a fantasy if she could help it! She gritted her teeth and entered the last shop.

It was a small one and rather out of the way, near Abbey Churchyard. Through the door came the familiar and much- loved scent of tanned leather and foxing papers. She waited quietly among the tomes as a middle-aged man, obviously the owner, spoke with a customer—a quite distinguished-looking one. The customer looked about fifty years old. He could have been older, but his vibrant good looks seemed to disguise his true age. He had gray-white hair-that was curled and fashioned without powder and grease. He possessed a straight nose and a firm mouth. Despite the wrinkles that circled his lids almost until they reached his cheekbones, the man had dark piercing eyes that were quite arresting.

"Fanny Hill.
Bawdy, you say?" the customer said to die shopkeeper and laughed as he flipped through a plain cordovan-bound book. She noted how incongruous his oddly stained hands were with his finely embroidered golden waistcoat.

"Quite so, but don't let on to that sister of yours that you got it here! That Mrs. Gibbon—if she can't hover over you as if you were a child, she's just not happy." The shopkeeper cracked a smile.

"That she does," the handsome man agreed. "Mary's a fine woman, but I admit I'm content to just visit now. Seven years I've been away from the Circus. And you see," he added slyly, "I have found in London that there are advantages to be had —such as not having to worry about letting the family come to call at certain critical moments!"

Both men broke out in laughter. Suddenly the shopkeeper noticed her presence and raised a respectful eyebrow to the customer as he asked Brienne, "Can I be of assistance?"

"I . . .
ah . . ." Suddenly she was nervous. The customer was looking straight at her, and she found she could not meet his eyes. They seemed to scrutinize every aspect of her appearance, from her creamy wind-chapped cheeks and the faint lavender crescents under her eyes that proclaimed her exhaustion to the way her breasts were held tightly under her stays. His inspection did not aid her deflated self-confidence. Brienne began haltingly, "I am seeking employment. Naturally, I can read and write. I've read all the great volumes, such as . . ." Droning on with her well-rehearsed speech, she detached herself from the words and was then able to steel herself for the rejection that was sure to follow. When she was through, the shopkeeper's rejection was quick and complete, and she headed toward the door, feeling completely disheartened.

"Wait." She heard the command and abruptly stopped near
the door. The voice was not that of the shopkeeper but that of the aging customer. When he walked toward her, she did not know what to expect. He took her by the shoulder, and as if she were made of stone and alabaster, he swept his stained hand across the smooth flesh of her face, examining every plane and hollow. "Hold still and let me look at your eyes." He turned her face to the dimming afternoon sunlight that came through the shop's window. Receiving no help from the owner, she glared at the older man balefully.

"Do not touch me!" she demanded, feeling overly sensitive to a man's touch, any man's, after her experience with Avenel. She backed away from the eccentric gentleman and reached for the door handle.

"Will you sit for me?"

"Sit for you?" she questioned, her hand on the oak door.

"Would you like me to paint your picture?
Perhaps in a meadow, sitting under a willow?
No! That wouldn't be right for you. Perhaps
then . . ."
Brienne suddenly realized that the dirt on the man's hands was not dirt at all but the pigments that the man handled in his profession.

"What is the salary? Would it be adequate?" she asked.

At this question the bookseller laughed. "Oh yes, the salary, Tom," he interjected. "You wouldn't want the poor child to starve to death right on the canvas!"

"Salary!
What an abomination!" The customer turned to Brienne, goaded by the other man's teasing. "Look, miss. You cannot expect payment! After all, it's you who should be paying me! Here now, since I have taken a fancy to you, I shall do the portrait for free if you just give me your time."

"I'm afraid that I haven't the time or the luxury to sit for you. But if there were a salary—"

"God, no!
I have never had to stoop so low as to pay for a model. You flatter yourself! Do you know I can easily exact one hundred pounds a head?"

The figure left her amazed, but she knew it was futile to speak of the subject further. She needed to be independent; therefore, she needed to work. She was not a well-heeled lady
but an impoverished spinster. She'd had no job offered to her today, and she couldn't spare the time to sit for a painter when she had
work
to do for Mrs. Whitsome. "I am sorry." She opened the door and walked out to the street.

"By damned, you will be!" the painter shouted at her rashly, making her flinch with embarrassment. She turned the corner to go home and didn't see the painter reenter the shop and slam his hand onto the bookseller's desk. Remorse showed on his weathered visage, and he ran out the door to find her. But she wasn't privy to the regret that softened the man's stormy eyes when he saw that she was nowhere to be found.

"Love!
Get up! Mr. Harcourt is here!" It was late in the morning before Mrs. Whitsome came into her bedchamber. The housekeeper peered as Brienne sat up, startled from her nap.

"My God!
I am such a chit. What time is it? You must surely want to beat me!" Brienne cried remorsefully as she scrambled from the mussed coverlet and frantically tried to smooth it. "I haven't even raised the blinds in the drawing room yet!"

"No, child.
It's already been done."

"Oh," she answered in a small voice. "Never mind the beating, then. I shall give myself one for you."

"Now, that just wouldn't do."

"I'm truly sorry. I don't know what came over me. I was just going to the drawing room when I suddenly felt tired. I only meant to rest a minute." Brienne rubbed her forehead. She didn't understand the illness that had been plaguing her. It was erratic and unwelcome. At times she had never felt worse; she felt so very tired, she thought she would drop where she stood. But then, only yesterday, Cook had told her she never looked better.

"Don't worry yourself, love." Mrs. Whitsome stared at her oddly.

"Nonetheless, you must tell Mr. Harcourt that I haven't time to see him, for I am so very busy making up my extra work." To the housekeeper's delight, the gentleman had called several times since she'd first arrived in Bath, and although Brienne found Mr. Harcourt quite pleasant, she felt too guilty about her undone tasks to take time for a visit.

"Now, that especially wouldn't do." The matron patted her curls, which were held securely beneath the frills of her cap. "It's tired you've been these days, love.
How so?"

"I really haven't a clue. Perhaps it's the weather. It's been a cold spring." Looking into a small baroque mirror hung over a kidney-shaped table, Brienne straightened her mussed hair.

"But I've noticed the evening brings you into fine form. I daresay
,
it seems the morning is the worst time for you."

"Aye, it does." Brienne finished in the mirror and smiled sheepishly. "What's to be made of it?"

"Oh, nothing!
Nothing, I'm sure! So come, let's see your gentleman caller." The housekeeper whisked her out of the room, but Brienne noticed lines forming on the matron's already wrinkled brow. Her stomach tied in a
knot,
she followed the housekeeper down the stairs, trying all the while to shrug off a sense of foreboding.

"Mr. Harcourt! Please, sit," Brienne greeted him in the servants' main room. With the roar of the huge fireplace in the background, they sat together on an Irish pine bench. Acting as chaperone, Mrs. Whitsome, as custom had it, lowered herself into the portly, blackened Windsor chair.

"Good day, Brienne, Mrs. Whitsome." Ralph Harcourt nodded to both women, but his eyes were for Brienne alone.

"The weather—is it quite cold?" Brienne asked, noticing his spruce velvet topcoat was wet.

"Yes, it's a bloody miserable spring we're having." Suddenly, he reddened at his unintended coarseness, but then winked at Brienne. She stifled a giggle, thinking that their stiff, proper behavior in the company of Mrs. Whitsome contrasted so sharply with the way they'd met.

Trying to turn the conversation away from his faux pas, Brienne asked, "So, pray tell, what have you brought for me today? Do not plead innocent—you've already given me an indecent amount of gifts, and I fear propriety will soon force me to hand them back over." Brienne laughed as she took his proffered package, wondering if it contained another book of Shakespearean sonnets or perhaps some satin ribbon for her hair. His gifts had always been in the best of taste, yet were always spare enough in expense that she and Mrs. Whitsome both felt she should feel no discomfort in accepting them.

Handling the package, Brienne noted that the box was too small to hold a book. Since it was relatively light, she supposed it might contain dried rose petals to be placed in the famille rose bowl in her room or perhaps some steel pins, of which any woman would be happy to have more. When she untied the bow, the lid of the box tumbled to her skirt. Inside, nestled in several pristine wads of cotton wool, something caught the light from the fire. She gasped at the brightness.

"The Lord in his wisdom—" Mrs. Whitsome was heard to sputter, and then she abruptly left the room to give them privacy.

"Mr. Harcourt." Brienne swallowed.

"Ralph, princess.
My name is Ralph." He took the huge blue-fired emerald ring from its nest and held it out between his thumb and forefinger.

"Uh, Mr.—Ralph . . ." Brienne stammered, trying to gather her wits.

"Yes?" He smiled a warm, tender smile. Gently his hand went about her tiny waist, and he placed a kiss on her cheek.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll be my wife, princess. All you have to say is yes."

"I'm a servant. I haven't even a dowry."

"The
Harcourts
have been Bristol merchants as long as there's been an England. We've more gold than we know what to do with. I have no need for my bride's dowry." He slipped the ring onto her left hand.

Brienne stared down at the magnificent jewel, yet all she could think of was how happy this was going to make Mrs. Whitsome. Silently she berated herself.
This will make you happy too,
she thought. Studying the magnificent emerald, she tried to picture herself as the wife of the man before her. She was sure that they would make a good marriage. Ralph Harcourt was generous and honest. He would give her a home. And there she would be secure and well loved. They would have beautiful children, blond and fair. So what was bothering her? She frowned. Why had she had a vision that her children would be dark, with stormy gray eyes, just like their father—
She
gave a start. What could she be thinking of?

Nervously, she glanced at Ralph, who was gently turning her face toward his.
He's going to kiss me,
she thought distantly.
Oh, please, let it be wonderful.
Feeling his lips upon her own, she moved her body closer, wanting a more soulful kiss. She wanted to feel the fire in her loins that she'd felt whenever Avenel had kissed her; she wanted to feel desire coursing through her veins like molten silver. Opening her mouth to him, she desperately deepened the kiss on her own, trying with all her heart to kindle a desire that had been repressed since that night in March. She felt Ralph's surprise as his hand tightened around her waist. He kissed her
fully,
letting his tongue search the sweet recesses of her mouth until his sense of propriety finally seemed to tell him to stop.

When they broke apart, he leaned his forehead against hers. "Who are you, princess?" He took a deep breath. "You kiss like—"

"I'm a servant.
Just a servant."
Brienne turned from him to hide her stricken face. The kiss had been nice, but it had been nothing like—
Suddenly
anger flared in her eyes. Why did she have to think of Avenel Slane at a time like this?
Damn him!
she
cried to herself.
Damn his soul to hell!
Had his lovemaking ruined her so that she could never find pleasure in another man's arms?

Ralph interrupted her thoughts; his deep voice demanded an answer. "Brienne, you are no servant. Although you dress like one and perhaps have the dudes of one, I know it's a facade. From the very first day I looked at you, all I could see was your gentle manner and your noble beauty. You have a past, my love. I know it. Just tell me what it is, and on my honor I will not judge you."

"I can't think now." She put a hand to her head.

"All right, then." He stood up. "You may tell me after we are wed."

"No, wait!" She bit her lip. "You would dare marry me, not even knowing what is in my past?"

"I would dare anything for you."

"But my past could be . . . terrible." She dropped her eyes.

"Then we would bear it together." He forced her chin up and placed a sweet kiss on her lips. "I love you. Do you doubt me?" When she shook her head, he continued. "That won't change, no matter what."

"Please, Ralph, you must let me think." Her hands shaking, she pulled the ring from her finger. "Your offer is more than I deserve. I must have time to think."

He took the ring back. Sadly, he nodded his handsome golden head and retrieved his hat from the bench. "Send me a note when you have your answer, then. I'm at The White Hart."

As she watched him depart, she felt her heart fill with sadness. What had gone so wrong in her life that she hadn't jumped at this wonderful man's proposal?
she
asked herself. Avenel
Slane, that
was what. With grim frustration, she sat down and hung her head in her hands.