Page 23 of A Convenient Fiction

But the very thought of hiring another solicitor made her feel even worse. They hadn’t any money to spare for the expense of it. And even if they had, what use would it be? It was Mr. Weatherwax her father had put in charge of things. He couldn’t simply be replaced on a whim, no matter how insufferable and overbearing he was.

“He saved me mum from being sent away,” the maidservant went on. “He’s the best solicitor in London.”

Laura managed a faint smile. She felt rather like weeping. “Well, perhaps one day I shall call upon him for help. Until then, I fear I’m quite on my own.”

Alex was just finishing breakfast when the vicar’s housekeeper, Mrs. Griffiths, ducked her head in the door of the vicarage dining room. She was a plump, older woman with a kindly face and a brutally efficient manner. The sort of female servant accustomed to ruling over a bachelor household in much the same way an unmarried sister might do.

“Miss Talbot from up at the Park is calling for young Mr. Wright, sir,” she said. “Shall I wake him? Or shall I tell her—”

“No need to wake George.” Alex downed the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood. “I’ll see Miss Talbot. If you’ll show her into the parlor?”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Griffiths bobbed a curtsy before disappearing back through the door.

The vicar had departed for his office at the church well before breakfast. And George was still abed, having developed an acute case of nausea after his night of heavy drinking. The slightest movement provoked another episode of retching.

For all intents and purposes, Alex was on his own.

Miss Talbot couldn’t have called at a more opportune time. Despite his misgivings about her suitability—and about her relationship with George—Alex was still resolved to have her. Country-bred heiresses were thin on the ground. He didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

Besides, Edgington Park would make up for a wealth of minor deficits on the part of its mistress. Even if Miss Talbot was besotted with George, and even if she was a bit spoiled and frivolous, it was but a small price to pay for gaining control of such an estate—and such a fortune.

When he entered the parlor, she sprang to her feet in a rustle of ruffled Indian muslin. “Mr. Archer, is it true? Is George unwell?”

“A minor stomach complaint. Nothing a day in bed won’t cure.” Alex bowed over Miss Talbot’s outstretched hand. “You look very well today, ma’am.”

“In this old gown? It’s nothing very fine, though I did have it made in Paris.” She glanced impatiently about the room. “Is George’s father not at home? Has he not summoned the doctor?”

“The vicar’s gone to the church to work on his Sunday sermon.”

“He didn’t see fit to stay with George?” Miss Talbot’s bee-stung lips pursed with disapproval as she resumed her seat. “How very unfeeling.”

“He left at dawn. George was still asleep.”

“At least you’re here. That has to be some comfort to poor George in his time of need.”

Alex doubted whether George registered his presence at all. When last he’d ventured upstairs to George’s room, he’d found George heaving into a chamber pot, his countenance a distinctly yellowish hue.

“Do you expect he’ll be recovered by Thursday?” she asked. “I’d hoped we might have a picnic on the grounds of Edgington Park. I’ve already instructed Cook on what to make. But if George won’t be well enough to join us—”

“He’ll be well enough.” Alex debated whether to join Miss Talbot on the sofa or to take the chair across from her. He chose the latter. There would be time enough to press his suit during the next month.

“Things aren’t going at all as I planned them,” Miss Talbot said. “First Laura must away to London, and now George is ill. It isn’t very much of a homecoming for him.”

“Miss Hayes is coming back tomorrow, is she not?”

“On the three o’clock train, or so she said.” Miss Talbot sighed heavily. “Oh, but it will be too late then to do anything worthwhile. And Laura will insist on reporting to her family afterward. Heaven knows how long that will take. I don’t expect we’ll be able to lure her away until Thursday.”

“Hence your picnic.”

“Precisely. It will be a treat for her—and for George.”

“For me as well,” Alex said.

Miss Talbot gave him a dimpled smile. “I shall endeavor not to bore you, Mr. Archer.”

“There’s no danger of that, ma’am.”

“Isn’t there? You strike me as being altogether more sophisticated than the rest of us. You’ve been living on the continent for such a long while. Lower Hawley must seem rather dull when compared to Paris and Marseilles.”