Page 11 of A Convenient Fiction

It was an impertinent question. As a rule, one’s personal finances were never discussed in polite company. It simply wasn’t done.

But she’d been the one to broach the subject.

She supposed it was a consequence of how they’d met. Much like the darkening wilderness walk, it gave the illusion of intimacy to their conversation. As if the two of them were acquaintances of long standing.

“We’re not in straitened circumstances,” she said. Her conscience gave a sharp pang of protest at the falsehood. “That is, not entirely.”

There was no point dissembling. He’d seen her in her twice-mended underthings, for pity’s sake. She nevertheless couldn’t shake the last remnants of her pride.

“For a time, my family was quite well known in the world of fragrance. Perhaps you’ve heard of Hayes’s Lavender Soap? Or Hayes’s Lavender-Scented Powder?”

Mr. Archer gazed down at her, the whole of his attention fixed on her face. “I can’t say that I have.”

“What about Hayes’s Lavender Water? It was in all the shops four years ago. A purely respectable fragrance. You might have given some to your mother once—or to a sweetheart.”

“The sweethearts I had four years ago weren’t the sort to wear respectable fragrances. As for my mother…”

“Let me guess. You’ve never given her such a frivolous gift.”

“I might if I’d ever known her.”

She inwardly flinched. Good heavens. His mother was dead. Long dead, if Laura inferred correctly. She met his eyes, thoroughly chastened. “Now it is I who must beg your forgiveness.”

Mr. Archer returned her gaze without animosity. “Freely given.”

“I lost my mother at a young age, too,” she said.

“Did you?”

“She succumbed to a wasting disease when I was but six years old. I don’t remember much about her, except…I know that she loved the water. She was the one who taught me to swim.”

“A pleasant memory.”

“You must have some of your own.”

“Not a solitary one.” They walked several steps in silence before he spoke again. “Was your father a perfumer, then?”

“He didn’t call himself such. He considered it only a hobby. But we had a factory in London, and a distillery in France. They’re shuttered now, but once…”

“What happened?”

“He grew bored with lavender products. He was set on trying something new. Fashionable perfumes, made with exotic spices and animal oils—musk and so forth. He sank all of his capital into the venture. Regrettably, it didn’t have the same mass appeal as lavender water.”

“And that was enough to ruin him?”

“Not on its own. Had he lived, he might have rallied. But a year later, an outbreak of scarlet fever came to Lower Hawley. Papa was gone within a day. I nearly lost my brother, as well.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Yes, it was a very dark time. I still think of it often, wishing things had transpired differently. A futile exercise.”

“It’s a miracle you didn’t contract the fever yourself.”

“Oh, but I did, Mr. Archer. Indeed, it tried very hard to take me, too.” Her mouth lifted in a fleeting smile. “I was simply too stubborn to let it.”

Alex returned Miss Hayes’s brief smile with a faint one of his own. Farther down the path, George and Miss Talbot walked arm in arm. When they’d set out, Alex had fully intended to accompany Miss Talbot himself. George had seemed agreeable to the idea. But as they’d descended the steps from the house, Miss Talbot had caught George’s arm. After that, George had made no effort to extricate himself.

In any other circumstances, Alex would have been angry. He had only a month, after all. Not nearly enough time to achieve his ends. Every minute counted. Every second.