Six yards from the carefully planned breakfast table in the west-end garden, Lord Archibald Garfield dug his Hessian heels into the dirt. Crossing his arms over a dark multi-caped overcoat, he crinkled his face, standing on the edge of a barely-breeched tantrum. The boiled eggs and honey-nut pastries took no offense, but the steaming pot of Chai withered under his glare through rounded spectacles too small for his face.
"I hate cinnamon."
His greeting pricked Saira's skin like a thousand cast off shards. Before Miss Emma could jump in to remove the offense, she reached for the teapot and filled her cup to the brim. "A shame," Saira said, daring their guest to insult her directly. "I take it every morning."
When she and her aunties chose not to rise in greeting, Garfield cast his eyes about the garden. He steadied his glasses atop his long nose, presumably attempting to locate Mr. Tinely for a formal introduction. The butler-groom-footman was too occupied with moving Garfield's carriage round the drive, so he harrumphed and took the seat across from her, eyeing the teapot with Lordly disdain.
As The Shroud, Saira had encountered too many men like Garfield, whose single-mindedness was as transparent as the cut glass in cathedral windows. With women, every utterance was purposefully colored with promises, shaped with conditions, soldered together by the intent to claim everything under their gaze. Even before laying eyes on Lord Garfield, she had decided there would be no winning or claiming at Avonburgh House that morning.
Moments later, Matilda and Mrs. Simon joined them. Saira's friend expertly wielded her role as Lady Burton, leading them around a light conversation regarding the small dahlia arrangements that brightened up their place settings. Aunty Bava easily fell into the exchange, and after Cook discretely provided their grumbling guest with his own cup of Pekoe, Garfield showed a small amount of decorum, taking part in the conversation with an occasional hum. All the while, Saira tried… and failed to quiet her Gift.
From across the table, his riotous energy blared like a parade of blowhorns. His constant assessment of the china, the way his attention rested on each window of Avonburgh, the state of the grounds, the flowers… everything translated to coins in his head. If Saira had been unsure about her father's plans, Garfield's silent, yet deafening considerations cleared it up for her. Avonburgh's assets were to be dismantled. The estate would go up for auction, and all the proceeds would be in Garfield's name.
Saira sifted through the blurry images, fascinated by how much she could See without physical contact, and disturbed by how much clearer the situation became. Her presumed 'yes' (which Garfield wrongfully assumed was an instant response to his coming proposal) was to be the beginning and the end of her role. In Garfield's mind, she appeared as an afterthought: a guest cottage on the edge of his family's property, or a necessary side course to his Sunday banquets. Garfield didn't want her, but he would take her to get everything else. Nowhere could she find any thoughts regarding Bavagna or Rameswari.
What was to become of her aunties? Saira would not abandon them! Her father could easily assign the estate assets to Garfield without banns or licenses, couldn't he?
As Matilda turned the talk towards the fair weather, Garfield's inner fanfare modulated into a turbulent march of insecurities. The debts he held over her father shifted towards a hidden agenda, which even she couldn't See into. Saira leaned into her fascination with this strange clarity across the table, pushing beyond the surface images of signing deeds and selling assets. Suddenly, as if she had gotten too close to his truth, a powerful wave of panic washed over the table, bringing with it a stark picture involving a money sack and an obscured name scrawled at the bottom of a document. Candle light. Cellars. Young men who should have known better than to bind their agreement in writing…
Saira pulled herself back from the images, blinking rapidly to clear her head. "Apologies," she said in response to Matilda's puzzled look. "I think I need more Chai."
Though she hadn't known the depth and breadth of Avonburgh's ruin, she had suspected. Her aunties kept the accounts. Occasionally, she had helped to balance the monthly expenditures. She'd even set aside some of her savings to pay for their necessities when her father overdrew and disappeared for days without a by-your-leave.
Inside, a hundred doused oil wicks fumed, clouding Saira's struggle to maintain her composure. Outwardly, she watched Garfield's clumsy performance, akin to a boar in a crystal shop. While Matilda engaged Aunty Bava into a lively repartee involving the language of flowers, Garfield's gracelessness assaulted the table, causing Cook to apologize for a fumbled butter knife, the upset mustard jar, and a devastation of spilled sugar lumps across the lawn. In open exasperation, Saira moved the teapot out of his reach, grateful for his apparent aversion to cinnamon.
And thank the moon and the stars for Chai! Each hot sip kept her from speaking her mind, asking the questions she had no right to know about. Not that she particularly cared about Garfield's public regard, or why he allowed his peers to jeer him so openly without rebuttal. Once more, she found herself soured against her own father. The plans for Avonburgh House's dismantlement should have come from his lips first, instead of being dredged up from the mind of a monkey masquerading as a man.
Preferring to disengage as much as possible, Saira concentrated on sweetening her many cups of Chai. Garfield directed three specific questions towards her regarding the estate, its layout, and an unabashed solicitation for a private tour. She deflected his inquiries towards her aunties, because if her father wanted to sell the estate, he would have to do it himself, thank you very much. Aunty Bava subsequently drew their weary guest into a discussion regarding poetic form.
And finally… finally, after a tedious sixty-three minutes of grunts and furrowed brows, and probably because he no longer had the patience for debating the difference between a Petrarchan and Shakespearean Sonnet, or the merits of manufactured lace, Lord Archibald Garfield took his leave.
***No sooner had the carriage wheels left the circular drive, flower-headed pins rained down onto the table, along with the remains of Saira's long-suffering patience.
"Thank goodness that's over!" she exclaimed.
Matilda pressed a napkin to her lips, then primly folded it and placed it onto the tea tray. "Is it, though?" she asked.
"If I deny him, Father cannot force me to marry. Isn't that the way of it?"
"Officially, yes," Matilda said. "However, if you reject one suitor, won't your father simply replace him with another?"
Saira stewed in silence, extricating the remaining pins from her head. By the time her aunties came back from the house with Miss Emma and Cook for a second load of trays, her hair had fallen in waves around her. If she had any more hair, she wouldn't need The Shroud's veil to conceal her disgust.
It felt like a betrayal. Like a hot iron on her feet. Like the misery of all the poor women that she'd counseled as The Shroud, who, once saddled by a man, had no other options than to lie down and surrender. Once again, she vowed to herself that she would not become one of those women.
"Such a disaster!" Aunty Rame declared. "If Russell wants her courted, we can surely do better." She picked up Garfield's half-sipped teacup, gave it a shrewd glare and tossed the dregs into the bushes.
"Mr. Cogsworth has a well-to-do cousin in Bristol with three sons. We could inquire there," Aunty Bava offered.
"I'm not marrying as part of my father's negotiations!" Saira insisted. "I will simply have to put off whoever my father brings round until I'm the legal age of maturity. It's less than a year to go, and Matilda has dissuaded suitors for the better part of two Seasons, isn't that right?"
"Yes, but my father has me under no such pressure to accept offers," Matilda supplied.
Aunty Bava tapped her long fingers on the table, rattling the teaspoons for inspiration. "What about that well-dressed man who delivered the package from Mrs. Lanchester? He seemed keen to speak with you. Do you know if he is well funded?"
Matilda's eyes grew wide. "Saira! Who was this?"
Saira's face burned so hot she had to turn away. "Later!" she whispered to her nosey friend.
Aunty Bava sighed resignedly and continued, "Ah, it doesn't matter. We should keep to the plan, of course. Though I do not know how many of these breakfasts I can endure with such repugnant company."
Five had had no formal introductions, but his brief visit to Avonburgh House hadn't escaped the notice of Miss Emma or Mr. Tinley. Naturally, as soon as breakfast had cleared from the garden, Matilda demanded to know all the details.
When her father returned home with no mention of Garfield, or subsequent breakfasts with strangers, Saira shoved the talk of suitors out of her mind and tried to enjoy the last days she had with Matilda before her friend returned to London. All weekend, a peculiar vibration settled along her spine, traveling from the nape of her neck to the tingle in her fingers. The kiss had been utterly improper. Scandalous even, if she was in a position to be scandalized, or if her father had been home. Secretly, she basked in the stirred-up feelings that resonated so much louder than watered-down, second-hand emotions she received from her Sittings. Those had been her own toes curling in her shoes, her arms forming goose pimples. Her lips sighing against his.
During Monday's sewing circle, the Modiste invited Lady Burton and her chaperone to Tuesday's tea, citing the merits of mixed company. Matilda was delighted to be finally let in on one of Saira's secrets.
"It's only fair, since I told you about Daniel." Her friend settled into her chair in the back of the tea shop, along with Mrs. Lanchester and Lady Simon.
"He is no suitor," Saira informed her friend. "He's a…" She lost her words and nervously smoothed her fingers over her skirts as Five approached their table.
"Distraction?" Matilda supplied with a wicked grin, and then her face became stone. "Green eyes, you said?"
Five took pause at their table, first nodding to Saira, and then making a half-hearted introduction towards Matilda.
"We are already acquainted, Mr. Quintus. Unless you have forgotten." Under her breath, Matilda whispered, "They're the same meadow-green eyes, Saira. He's the stand-in for Lord Knapp I told you about."
"This is not ideal." Five squeezed between the tables and took the empty seat between the wall and the kitchen. He had upgraded to a respectably tied cravat and a tasteful, tan-colored waistcoat, but his demeanor had plummeted. Gone was the self-assured bravado, replaced by a keen desire to melt into the floor like flavored ice in July.
At the next table, Mrs. Lanchester and Mrs. Simon whispered amongst themselves. Matilda aimed a steely glare at Five from under her bonnet. It was a look usually reserved for men who had overstepped their welcome, undoubtedly learned from her mother.
Saira squirmed in the uncomfortable silence that ensued. Indeed, the pleasant afternoon she had hoped for had been usurped by another awkward encounter, almost (but not quite) rivaling Friday's unfortunate breakfast. When she caught Five's lip twitch at the server's pointed stare over the appointment book by the door, she couldn't hold her frustration back any longer.
"Do you require Lady Burton's bonnet to shield your face from the town?"
"I have my back to the wall. Thank you for that," he said, looking slightly contrite.
Matilda scoffed. "And a quick exit to the alley, if you must run again."
Five glowered, but straightened himself. Saira watched his shoulders roll back, his arms deliberately uncross, and his fingers press firmly onto the surface of the table.
Saira was at a loss. Something had changed. The tea shop hadn't bothered Five last time, and Matilda's glare wasn't helping. Not able to See into the source of the upset, Saira did what any normal lady would, carefully arranging her features into a pleasant, inviting countenance. This man appeared less like the daring and forward Five standing in her parlor, and more like a caged prisoner, waiting for his opportunity to escape. When his eyes stopped darting around the room and landed on hers, his jaw loosened, and his fingers let go of their death grip on the table. Finally, a sign, albeit small, that he wanted to be here. With her.
Before Saira could settle on a neutral subject to ease the cloud of tension hanging over them… perhaps the weather, or the upcoming play at the Royal, which none of them were inclined to see… Matilda's strained voice broke through.
"Tell me why you came to tea that day."
Despite the sour atmosphere, Saira paused, curious about his answer. When Matilda spoke of the stand-in at her supposed tea with Lord Knapp, Saira hadn't put the pieces together that Five and the man with green eyes that her friend had described were the same person. Why had Five gotten dressed up in last year's fashion and gone to tea with her childhood friend on the day they met?
"He paid me," Five said, as if it was a simple matter. "And arranged for another Lord to take his place. Downright honorable, if you ask me."
"I wasn't expecting a stand-in. He had agreed to meet me," Matilda said, forcing her words to hover just above a whisper. "Instead, I got you, and then that Lord Buffoon!"
Five steepled his fingers together on the table in front of him, returning Matilda's glower tenfold. "First, you and Lord Buffoon seemed to enjoy yourselves well enough. Second, you might have mentioned to him that your mother wasn't in town."
Matilda sat back, ticking off on her fingers, mimicking Five's severity. "First, I am a superb actress when the situation calls for it. Second, I will have you know it is nigh impossible to craft 'The Baroness is staying in London when I visit Bath next week', into iambic pentameter, without letting on that I am sending a message!"
Saira watched the two of them verbally parry. Matilda was obviously smitten with the man who stood her up, or she wouldn't appear so agitated.
But she observed Five for a different reason. On Friday, he'd made his feelings for her plain, yet his intentions remained unclear. Usually, a man would issue a public interest towards a lady, either through a look, or a certain touch, or even a word.
Five was doing none of those things. He was too busy arguing with her friend.
"I see you left those ridiculous bows at home. Please tell me Knapp doesn't encourage them," he said.
"The bows again! Will you give me no peace? They were an effort to ward away the likes of anyone else who might take an interest. They worked on you."
"I wouldn't have been interested either way," Five said evenly.
Then, during the following lull, he did look at her. Warmth spread up her neck under his direct gaze, only to be blocked moments later by the arrival of the tea tray between them.
"Refreshments!" the server announced.
Saira poured half of the watery spices into her cup and then filled the rest from the creamer. Each sip allowed her worries to slide from her shoulders. It had the same effect on her company. Matilda's interrogation and Five's defensiveness dissolved like the last frost into a warm, comfortable silence.
He wasn't a suitor, she reminded herself. He was here for a friendly tea, and that was all. (Though, the friendliness of the afternoon could be debated in court). It shouldn't matter what his intentions were, or whether he showed them. However, since she had Five and Matilda in the same place and they were no longer raising each other's hackles, an idea formed in her head. She didn't know Five's intentions, but she was well-versed in Matilda's desires. With all their late-night talking, Matilda's heartfelt recounting of the letters and the dances, this afternoon's table discussion had definitely sealed it. Judging from their back-to-back bickering, Five knew Matilda's secret beau well enough to take his money. Which meant that he knew the man's whereabouts.
"If you're interested in seeing Lord Knapp, I think we can have it arranged," she said to Matilda.
Matilda's eyes lit up. "How?"
"It would require Mr. Quintus's cooperation." She felt strange addressing Five by his obviously made-up surname, but there wasn't any reason to call him 'Five'. Not when he had calling cards. Not when they had a contract.
"What are you proposing?" Five asked warily.
"I know a place. It's out of the way, and I can get Matilda there with no one seeing, as long as you bring Lord Knapp. It would have to be this evening. Matilda leaves for London in the morning."
"I'll see him at the club this afternoon." Five seemed relieved to be taking part in something other than arguments.
"A club!" Matilda scoffed. "Does he waste his money so regularly?"
"It's the Fencing Club," Five corrected. "Lord Knapp is quite adept with a blade."
Matilda's face changed to something resembling quiet pride. She nestled her cup into the round grooves of the saucer, studying it intently. "Well," she said assuredly. "Of course he is adept."
Saira noted the chaperones had grown bored with Matilda's fanfares and Five's barbed comments, and were carrying on a conversation of their own. This was her chance to make something happen that would benefit all of them. "If we meet at half-past six, it would give them an hour to talk, and we can still get back to the house in time to change for Father's requested dinner at nine."
Five looked at Saira pointedly. "You will be there?"
"Naturally."
He silently ran the proposition through his head, and Matilda sucked in a breath, waiting for his answer. "We'll have to reschedule the stage for later tonight, but I can make it happen." He stared at his hands for a long moment. Then he looked up at Matilda, all pretense gone. "Truthfully, he's downright miserable, knowing you're so close and not being able to see you."
Matilda's face bloomed into a wide smile. Then, as if remembering herself, she tried not to look too pleased.
"I'll arrange it," Five said. "Send your instructions to the Fencing Club." His face morphed into annoyance at something over Saira's shoulder. "That damned ape."
Saira turned to look, and sure enough, Garfield was outside with a group of men who were failing to be discrete with their flasks. Anyone could see that they had already become too tipsy for politeness.
Five looked at Saira. "I assume you looked after yourself at the breakfast."
Saira wasn't expecting that. She was expecting… she was expecting Five to do something brash, to step in for her, by the way he'd come to Avonburgh to warn her, but he was looking at her with a confidence that she had barely registered within herself.
Yes, in the garden's privacy, she had no qualms issuing plain statements to Garfield. But she'd always masked her annoyance or distaste at anything her Gift threw at her in public, relying on her companions or circumstance to shield her from any unpleasantness. The way Five was looking at her now, she suddenly wanted to prove to him she could figure it out on her own.
And she had Seen more about Garfield on Friday than she had expected. Surely, she could put some of that to good use.
"Yes, I can handle him," she said, hoping she sounded as confident as Five believed her to be.
Five nodded to Matilda, who busied herself with a biscuit that had yet to be touched.
"Excuse me," he told the older women at the next table, all politeness and aplomb, "there's someone I need to avoid." To Saira, he said, "Don't give him my seat."
Over the exclamations from the kitchen staff as Five left through the back, Matilda set her nibbled biscuit down. "Is he really capable of arranging a meeting with Daniel?"
Before Saira could sort through her jumbled thoughts about what exactly Five was capable of, the shop door opened, and Garfield strode inside.
"I cannot fathom it! Your man, Mr. Quintus, has relegated us to that barbarian a second time!" Matilda exclaimed.
"I'll deal with Garfield," Saira said. "And Mr. Quintus isn't my… what a thing to say, Matilda!"
Matilda gave her a bewildered look. "Then who exactly is he to you, Saira?"
There was no time to compose an answer, because Garfield strode right down the aisle and stopped at their table.
"Good day," he said.
Saira wanted to rip the words right out of his throat. Instead, she forced out a "Good day to you, sir," although it was not a good day at all. Not anymore.
"Ah, a vacancy!" he declared, making a move to step between the tables.
A rolling tide of anger surged her up from her chair to block his path. "If it wasn't clear on Friday, we are not interested in you," she said plainly.
His grin faded as she stared into his eyes. She didn't normally See anyone's immediate thoughts, but at the moment, she was getting a very clear picture. Garfield hadn't regarded her person at Friday's tea, but unfortunately he had reconsidered. Through his eyes, she Saw his regard of her dark skin, her glossy hair, her… other parts… which he was imagining completely wrong - no one's body parts looked like that in real life, why did he even think… never mind. Saira much preferred when she had been an afterthought.
Purpose overrode her loathing. Saira snatched up his billowing sleeve, ignoring the dampness and the brandy-spill smell. Now, she Saw straight into him, easy as opening a book. All she needed was a question.
As if Garfield had thought it up himself, Saira made the silent inquiry.
What terrifies you, Archibald Garfield?
Charcoal images appeared. A sense of keen dread surrounded the sack of coins, the document, and Garfield himself, holding a quivering quill. It was as clear as if he had sketched it out on the table in front of her.
Money, tied up in secrets and lies.
"You should never have signed," she said close to his ear. "Not if it was a Canterbury Tale, and not without an expiry date."
He shook off her hand and backed up. "You cannot know of it!" he exclaimed. "He swore to secrecy!"
Saira got a flash in her head of the man in question. In a quiet murmur, she described him to Garfield just as he had Shown her, from the man's spectacles down to his polished shoes and a scabbard at his side. For good measure, she added the thing that frightened Garfield the most.
"He can be very forthcoming."
"How much do you want?" he whispered at her insistently, eyes darting around as if he was afraid someone might overhear.
"I want nothing from you."
"Surely," he hissed insistently, "you gained this tidbit because you require something for your silence. Name your price."
"I do require something," Saira said. "I require your immediate absence. If you approach me again, I will solicit an interview with the Bath Times."
It was a veiled threat.
Or rather, an unveiled threat, since Saira wasn't wearing her veil.
Flanked by curious onlookers in the tea shop, he brusquely marched outside. The group of top hats jovially downed whatever they had been drinking, openly upending their flasks this time. Garfield looked highly vexed by the good-natured elbow bumps his cohorts exchanged as he stalked past.
Saira sank back into her seat, a slight tremble in her legs. "He will leave us alone now," she said.
Maybe that would be the end.
Or maybe, if Garfield reported the exchange to her father, it would be the beginning of more trouble. But now that Saira had stood up for herself, she had no intention of allowing people to walk all over her anymore.
Matilda was looking at her strangely. "Saira, did you…?"
"Garfield has made himself the laughingstock of his peers for money." Perhaps she should feel guilty about Seeing into him so directly, but his atrocious behavior had given her no alternative. Her own code regarding her Gift might not even apply in this situation. He had not given her a contractual coin. In return, she had no obligation to keep his secrets.
It had been done, and she had earned favorable results. Aunty Rame always told her that after one finished doing the needful, one should turn away. Saira forced herself to no longer dwell on Lord Archibald Garfield.
"Do you still want to meet Daniel?" she asked Matilda.
"Certainly, but how do we manage it?"
Saira hoped that the older women would take no offense to her next request, just as they had seemed unbothered by her directness with Garfield moments ago. "Thank you for taking tea with us," she said politely to the modiste. "As it is such a nice day, Lady Burton and I wish to browse the shops. Could you please tell my aunties that we intend to walk back to Avonburgh House? We promise not to be late for dinner."
Mrs. Lanchester patted Lady Simon's hand. "Touring Market Street is something we like to do in Bath," she told the other woman. "A walk will give them a healthy appetite, and it is Lady Burton's last day in the city."
At the other woman's nod, Saira and Matilda slid out of their chairs and left the tea shop. As they passed the cluster of men outside, several of them tipped their flasks to her, calling out, "Hear, hear!"