As Fielding arrived at Blackwood he found an obstruction to his plan, in the form of Mountford's chaise and two other carriages standing before the main door. Servants congregated around a mound of baggage that was being toted into the house. In the distance he heard the shrill note of Margaret Mountford's voice raised in the hallway, tossing contrary demands around like handkerchiefs, and just as heedless of where they fell.
He made his way to the back of the house and entered through the servant's corridor, finding temporary solace in the dusty silence of the steward's office. He ought to be happy to have the house occupied once more, but could derive no pleasure from his friend's return. Not when it would preclude him from speaking to Anabelle's father. Mountford would expect an accounting of everything that had happened since he left for town and it would be impossible to get away.
When a knock sounded on the office door, he braced himself. However, it was not Mountford who had sought him out, but another familiar face.
"Henry said I might find you here," Edward Langdale said as he poked his head around the door. He exuded his usual elegant urbanity as he entered the room, leaning only slightly upon his cane.
Fielding jumped out of his chair, eager to clasp his friend's hand. "How long have you been in town?"
Langdale perched his tall frame on the edge of the desk, removing his gloves as he glanced around the steward's office. "A little over a sennight. I've been staying at Hill Street and Henry was kind enough to extend an invitation to visit Blackwood. I've long been curious to see what Uncle George's house looked like."
"I suggest not inspecting it too closely," Fielding said as he closed the door against the prying ears of curious servants. "The property is not in the best condition. Henry will have to expend a great deal of effort, time and money to set the place to rights. I do not envy him the task."
"But I hear you have been helping with the estate. Was that not why you stayed behind? Henry gave the impression that he had left you to suffer in some sort of provincial purgatory."
If Fielding was in purgatory it was a torment of his own making that had nothing to do with Mountford's estate. "As usual, your cousin exaggerates the situation. I stayed behind because the quicker I found a new steward, the sooner Blackwood would be brought into profit."
"You are a good friend to him, Fielding. I daresay he does not appreciate you, or his situation, as well as he ought."
He recognised the cold, harsh tone in his friend's words and wondered whether Langdale harboured some jealousy over Henry being their uncle's main beneficiary. "Do you believe you should have inherited Blackwood?"
Langdale laughed. "Hardly. Although I am older than Henry, he is the eldest Mountford, so it is his by right. Besides, Uncle George excised my mother from the family bible. I doubt he knew or cared that I existed. I only wish that Henry had a more responsible head on those elegantly garbed shoulders."
"Perhaps that is something Blackwood will provide him with." Fielding glanced at the mantle clock. "Who else did Henry persuade to accompany you?"
"Sally and Margaret are here. I offered Sally a seat in my post-chaise, which left Henry to accommodate Margaret and her tame caper merchant."
"Her what?"
"A Frenchman called Fournier. He was some kind of dancing master in town, eking out a living by teaching the Village Maid to pretty young things. Then he came into some money and now thinks himself a gentleman."
"If money alone made a gentleman London would be awash with them. Margaret has always set her sights high. I am surprised she is entertaining the fellow."
Langdale leaned back, stretching his legs before him. "Considering Margaret has offended or disgusted almost every one of our friends, she can no longer afford to be particular. If she does not take care to mind her tongue she will find herself on the shelf, like her sister."
Fielding gripped the back of the chair, as his reply sliced through the dusty air like a rapier. "There is no similarity in their situations, and you know it."
"Now, now." Langdale laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "I meant nothing against Sally. I know you two were once close. Indeed, at one time I half expected you to marry her."
As much as he liked Henry's cousin, Fielding had no intention of dissecting his friendship with Sarah Mountford for Langdale's benefit. Given the choice he would rather lose himself in estate matters with Henry. "I suppose I should make an appearance upstairs, so Mountford can see for himself that I have survived my ordeal."
Langdale wisely remained silent, and the two men traversed the cramped servant's corridor until they reached Blackwood's piano nobile. They slipped between the travelling cases that cluttered the hallway and followed the voices into the drawing room.
"Finally, the man himself appears!" Mountford called as they reached the open doorway. "You must have heard us talking about you."
The faces turned towards him were all familiar except for one. Mountford stood by the mantelpiece. Sally had curled up on the window seat, while her sister sat on the sofa. The man standing behind Margaret Mountford seemed unnaturally thin, as though he had been stretched out on a medieval rack. The unrelieved black of his morning coat, pantaloons and hussar boots put Fielding in mind of an ebony fence post or, at best, a starving undertaker.
"Ah! M'seur Fielding, I presume. It is, for me, a great plaisir to meet a man about whom I 'ave 'eard much."
The stick-like figure offered a bow so deep that Fielding was curious to see whether he would snap in two. Still, there was no excuse for deplorable manners, and he allowed the silence that followed to stretch past the point of comfort, until Mountford interceded with the long overdue introduction.
"Fielding, please allow me to introduce Monsieur Fournier."
After the traumatic event earlier in the day, he was in no mood to be gracious, particularly when it came to a man like Fournier. He held nothing against émigrés; only those people who did not respect the social order. Still, for Mountford's sake he chose to be civil, if not friendly. "Monsieur Fournier," he acknowledged with a curt nod of his head, before turning with great purpose to focus on their host.
Mountford lifted one shoulder in mute apology before resuming the thread of their conversation. "You are looking very well, my friend. It seems the country air agrees with you."
Miss Latimer's rejection of his suit had left him in lower spirits than he had ever known, but then Henry had never cultivated a perceptive eye; unlike his elder sister, whose penetrative gaze he could feel from across the room. "I managed to keep myself busy."
"You were right, Henry," Langdale said from his place by the door. "I found him buried in the office, surrounded by paper, with a face like a wet Sunday in Scarborough."
Their host shook his head with mock dismay. "I must see what I can do to rectify this shocking competence, or I shall be obliged to double your wages." As Mountford laughed at his joke, the Blackwood housekeeper announced that the guest rooms were now ready.
"If the ladies and gentlemen would like to follow me upstairs," she said, her tone more reverential than Fielding had yet heard it.
"Thank you, Mrs North. Lead the way, if you will." Mountford, still enjoying the novelty of being the host in his own home, chatted with Langdale, Margaret and the Frenchman as they moved out into the hall.
"I see the time spent isolated at Blackwood has mellowed you," Sally said once they were alone. "You were positively cordial in the face of Monsieur Fournier's gross impertinence."
Fielding dropped onto the sofa, his arm resting against the rolled back. "Henry should know better than to mix with his sort. What on earth was he thinking?"
Sally glided across the room with an easy grace, her blonde hair caught up in an intricate collection of braids. "He needed someone to keep Margaret entertained. She has become rather tiresome of late." She sat down opposite him, taking a moment to dispose her skirts across the cushion, and then stilled. The tranquillity of her movements—or lack of them—was one of the things he most liked about her. After a few minutes she narrowed her eyes. "You seem out of sorts. Are you ill?"
One of the things he didn't like about Sally—she was too perceptive by half. Tired and frustrated, his response came out sharper than he intended. "You know I am never ill."
She shook her head, and he thought he heard a disapproving tut. "I am not an inept servant to be snapped at. Nor am I an encroaching mushroom, like Fournier, so you can save your foul moods and stinging set-downs for those who deserve them."
His remorse was immediate, but he could offer no excuses; not without revealing too much of his situation. "My apologies, I..." Fielding drew a heavy hand down his face. "I am not myself today. Forgive me."
The smile that followed his words would have once made his heart race, but that was years ago. Now he only felt relief that she had not been offended by his curt speech. "My dearest Tony, of course I must forgive you. That is what friends do, is it not? At least I am happy to know that the discomfort you must have been suffering has finally come to an end."
A jolt of alarm stung him. How did Sally know about his conversation with Miss Latimer?
Seemingly unaware of his shock, her smile grew wider. "You will doubtless be pleased to have Mr. Parkes finally restored to you. It must have been difficult to cope without the company of such an efficient valet."
Fielding let out the breath he was holding. "Parkes is at Blackwood?"
"Yes. I noticed him atop the mail coach in St Albans when we stopped to change the horses. He was a little embarrassed, I think, that I recognised him. It seemed silly leaving him to fend for himself when we were travelling direct to Blackwood, so I found him a place on the baggage coach with Mr. Briggs."
At least he would finally feel more like himself. The effort of shaving himself twice a day had paled after the first week. "That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you."
She made no reply and the silence grew again, disturbed only by a gust of wind buffeting the window panes and the slow tick of the clock. The absence of conversation and the quiet calm of the room left him alone with his thoughts, which naturally returned to the mystery surrounding Anabelle's rejection.
Was he really such an unacceptable candidate for matrimony?
He squirmed on the sofa, unable to settle comfortably in one place. He wanted nothing more than to be at Woodside, clearing up this horrendous confusion with Mr. Latimer; the one person—excepting Anabelle—who could put his mind at ease. Until he knew what was wrong he could not begin to put it right. Fielding jumped to his feet, pacing in front of the fireplace, recalling the look of mortified astonishment on Miss Latimer's face as he had opened his heart.
"Would I make a tolerable husband?" He had asked the question of himself, not meaning to speak aloud. He had all but forgotten Sally's presence until he caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, her eyebrows raised in shock.
For a brief second she frowned, then that frown was replaced with a bright smile, her eyes innocently wide. "Oh, Tony! I had never dared to dream of such an honour. Yes! Yes, I will be your wife."
Fielding's heart stopped in his chest, and he found himself incapable of drawing air into his lungs. Then Sally's tinkling laughter registered beneath the thumping of blood in his ears.
"My poor, dear friend. How miserable you must be. This explains why you did not return to town with Henry. Who are you hiding from? The Beecham girl? Amelia Thornton? Ah, now I remember. You danced twice with Lady Alice Cargill the last time you attended Almacks. More than one person commented on it."
He could only offer her a weak smile in return. Certainly he would never reveal the truth about Anabelle; not to Sally, nor anyone else for that matter.
"If you are so far gone as to consider marriage, I am not sure what I can do to save you from yourself."
He turned to lean against the mantle shelf as he stared at the fire smouldering in the grate. "Perhaps I have no desire to be saved."
"Well, to answer your question, you are moderately handsome, acceptably wealthy and impeccably connected, so you must, of course, be an excellent candidate for marriage."
Her summary of his attributes did not begin to answer his concerns. "But that does not stop the lady from saying no."
"Yes, of course she could refuse...were she locked in Bedlam for her own protection. Otherwise, anyone in their right mind would be in raptures to receive an offer from Anthony Fielding."
Breaking away from the fire, he wandered behind the sofa, leaning against its back. "Are you suggesting that you were of unsound mind when I offered you marriage? I cannot remember anything even remotely rapturous about your response."
"You know I could not accept a proposal born of pity, even if it was kindly meant. In any case, I know you well enough to see that we would never suit. We are far too alike to live peaceably together. Besides, you deserve a wife who can give you every part of her heart and soul; someone who loves you for yourself. Any woman like that would accept you without question."
He smiled, although not without effort. "And if she does not?"
Sally sighed as she looked away. "Then I regret to say that your heart will break. But you may trust me when I tell you it only hurts for a little while."