Page 49 of My Best Friend's Earl
This damnable weather, a topic Londoners discussed ad nauseam, would cost him far more than a small fortune. Like a runaway horse, his brain calculated rising cost in food, extrapolated that data to overall cash needed to feed and help those who depended on the estates to provide for them, then subtracted the expected income from those properties.
Realization settled like a musket ball in his gut. Sighing, he drew the weathered playing card from his pocket.
On this twelfth day of March, 1787, Lord Southwyn promises his son, Oliver Vincent, in marriage to Dorcas Thompson, daughter of Sir William Thompson.
Running a finger around the edge, he stared at the single pip. One pip. One viable option that served more than his own selfish desires.
Sure, he could follow this burning need for Constance, dower Althea, and browbeat her father into selling him the land and river for his canal system—or he could pour his finances into ensuring the survival of every man, woman, and child relying on the Earl of Southwyn.
In his shoes, Oliver knew what the late earl would choose.
He turned his back on the dreary sight of the garden. A packet of papers caught his eye, and he cursed. The marriage contracts he’d been procrastinating taking to his solicitor.
Well, choosing Constance had been a lovely thought forthe brief moments when it felt possible to awake every day with tight blond curls sprawled across the pillow beside his.
In light of reality and the latest information from his estates, there wasn’t really a decision at all. One path remained. One pip. Somehow, he’d quash this ache for Constance. Given enough time, surely her allure would fade as long as he saw her as infrequently as possible, and never alone.
A selfish part of him wished for one more chance to touch her, taste her. To revel in the experience of Constance in all her glory. Knowing for certain it would be the last time meant he’d memorize each sensation in vivid detail. After all, the memories would have to last him a lifetime.
Chapter Eighteen
Stay the course… or not
Maybe just accept reality?
Ask for help
Somewhere in London, a clock struck two right after Constance opened her eyes. Sleep had come in fits and starts because her busy mind wouldn’t permit true rest. As she stared into the dark, listening to the rain that never seemed to abate these days, she tried to settle her brain enough to go back to sleep.
When the same distant clock chimed three, she gave up. Hattie didn’t stir as Constance slipped from the bed, but Gingersnap opened one eye, grunted, then tucked his head under a paw.
Slippers protected her feet from the chilly floorboards as she donned her warmest wrapper over Southwyn’s coat—stopping to indulge in another stiff of his heady citrus and sandalwood scent—then fumbled on the bedside table until she found the iron candleholder. Once in the hall, she lit the candle and crept by her parents’ room, carefully avoiding the squeaky boards on her way to the stairs.
Down in the office of her silent bookshop, Connie stoked the fire, lit a lamp, and put the kettle on.
Everything was still. At this time of day, even the streets of London were fairly quiet. She sat at the desk and ran a hand over the scarred and stained wood surface. On the front right-hand corner were initials, carved with a penknife when she’d been about five. As usual, her sister had hissed at her to stop, that they’d get in trouble, and Connie had done it anyway. B&CM. Betsy and Constance Martin. Tracing the lines, she smiled.
This desk, this office, this shop. Home. The only place she’d ever felt entirely safe to be herself. Even when she didn’t understand what that was.
She’d always been curious, absorbing knowledge like a sponge from the many books around her. At times, creativity seized her and she easily picked up new skills like knitting, sewing, writing poetry. She’d even made new games to play with her family based on the globe in the map section.
Other times, the number of things to do held her in place, unable to accomplish anything. Not because she didn’t understand the importance of the tasks awaiting her attention, but because she understood all too well how important they were. And somehow that knowledge made it impossible to begin.
In this shop, it didn’t matter if it was a good or bad day. People who loved her accepted whatever she could give that day. In return, she loved them fiercely.
But this desk? This was where her parents forced her to sit and write endless letters and sums. At times, her mum resorted to bribery to get the work done. Now the desk held papers she needed to somehow conquer if she was going to convince her parents that Martin House would be safe in her hands.
And… she didn’t think she could do it. Not alone, anyway.
Admitting that made her chest expand in a deep breathshe didn’t realize she needed. Yes, she could take care of the store and keep the home that meant so much to her, but she needed to convince Hattie and Caro to help. Caro might not be in a position to work here anymore, but having her as a partner would open possibilities and resources for the store Constance couldn’t provide. And with Caro willing to contribute, it might help Hattie to feel less trapped, knowing she wouldn’t be abandoning Connie entirely if she needed to run.
Constance had tried to do it herself. Schedules and lists only went so far, though. While she’d made some progress, if she was being honest, the amount of effort it took to make that small dent wasn’t sustainable. Not when it meant pushing equally hard until the day she died.
What a depressing thought.
Pulling the smaller-than-usual stack of paperwork toward her, she examined the top sheet—a reminder to write quarterly payment slips for each of the mail accounts and lending library patrons. She could do that.
But when she put pen to paper, it wasn’t the standard request for payment she wrote.
