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I look down at my knuckles, white and shaking, and realize that I had been gripping the edge of the table. I let go now, twining my hands together in my lap.
“It does make me think though,” Cyrus says, “about the things that happen when we’re children. I can’t for the life of me think what made me remember this, but I woke up this morning with a memory as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday. Would you like to hear it?”
“No,” I say, draining the rest of my wine.
Aunt Phillips flushes scarlet. “Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t mean that. In any case, I would love to hear it, Mr. Thompson.”
“Mrs. Phillips,” Cyrus says with an ingratiating smile, “you’re too kind to indulge me.” He flickers a self-satisfied glance in my direction.
He leans his elbows on the table, settling in like he’s about to grace us all with gospel. “Well,” he says, “when I was little, say nine or so, a ship from Macao put in at the docks. I was at the tavern on an errand for my father when some of the crew came in on their leave. I still remember those men, the leathery brown of their dark skin, the mellow scent of vanilla under the musk of ship-living. There was one man in particular who caught my young imagination. He couldn’t have been anything more than a lieutenant, yet he wore a big gold earring, and when he ordered ale none of the other men would lift their glasses until he drank. And do you know what the best thing about him was? On his shoulder, he had the cleverest little monkey in a gold collar and chain. It cracked walnuts for him and did a little jig on the bar when the man whistled a tune. I’d never seen anything like it before and I knew right then that I had to have that monkey.”
Cyrus pauses to take a dramatically long draft from his glass and dab at his lips with his napkin. I roll my eyes and he clears his throat.
“Well, I walked right up to the man and told him I wanted to buy his pet. I had a little money from my father that was meant for new shoes, and I showed him the coins in my hand. The man took a long slow drink, his black eyes watching me from over the rim of his tankard. When it was drained, he put it down and wiped his mouth. ‘Odysseus isn’t for sale, my little fellow. Save your coins for sweets and trifles.’ And just like that, he took his monkey and left, the other sailors falling into line behind him, laughing at me over their shoulders.”
Aunt Phillips looks puzzled but does her best to act like this is the most interesting story in the world. “A monkey!” she exclaims. “I can’t imagine. What a curious thing to keep as a pet.”
“Ah, but you see, Mrs. Phillips, it wasn’t really the monkey I wanted. The creature probably had a whole host of diseases. No, it was the idea of possessing something that rare, something no one else had.”
I’m pushing a pea around on my plate, trying to make it follow the snaking path of the ivy motif, but when Cyrus says this, I put my fork down and slowly meet his gaze. His piercing dark eyes bore into me, and an icy shiver grips me by the spine.
“Well,” says Aunt Phillips, “did you ever get one?”
“You know, I never did. I heard that the ship went down a few months later under British guns.” He looks up, flashing his neat, white teeth at me like the wolves in my dream.
“If the man had only sold it to me, the poor creature would have lived.”
* * *
After the plates have been cleared away and Cyrus has exhausted the last of the wine, Aunt Phillips suggests that he and I retire to the parlor where we’ll be more comfortable. All sense of correctness seems to have been abandoned in her desperate suit to get me engaged.
As soon as the door clicks behind her Cyrus gestures to a chair. I stay standing.
When he speaks, he doesn’t meet my eye. “I was rather hoping it would be you who wrote to invite me over, not your aunt. A fellow doesn’t like to always feel as if he’s intruding in a lady’s parlor, you know.”
“And yet that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“Yes, well.” He tugs at his cravat and looks like he wants to say something else, but just goes to the sideboard and pours himself a drink. I don’t know how he can drink so much and still stand upright.
He downs the contents in one long gulp then wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Are you sure you won’t sit down?”
When I don’t make any move to sit, he takes a few steps toward me, then stops in his tracks a few feet away as if thinking better of it. “Well, Lyd, have you thought about it?” He is doggedly persistent, I will give him that.
For all his menacing accusations and threats the last time, he sounds like an earnest young suitor now, and when his eyes finally meet and hold mine, they’re wide and unsure.
I stand up as tall as I can, determined not to be fooled by his act. “I’m not a trick monkey, something to be possessed.”
“Of course you’re not, I never meant to imply you were,” he says quickly, taking my hand in his. It’s damp, and tightens around mine as if he’s afraid I might let go. “It’s only that you are such a rare flower—I don’t think you even understand yourself just how rare—and it saddens me to see you deny your true potential. How many other men do you think would say that after what happened the other day?” He’s launching into his case again, this time rapidly telling me just how much I stand to gain by marrying him. “I would do anything for you, Lydia. I’d fight a duel for you if it came down to it. I’d protect you from all the gossip of Boston, setting you up in a fine house, making you the envy of all those who drove you out. You’ll not want for anything.”
“Because you’ll be living off my father’s money,” I say sharply, pulling my hand back. “Money that you’re extorting from me.”
He looks hurt. “Only at first,” he says softly. “I’ve a good mind for investing, and after the first year or so I’ll have the business up and running again and bringing in all sorts of capital.”
I stare at the repeating geometric pattern of the carpet, unable to focus my eyes. What is Mr. Barrett doing right now? Is he escorting Abby Tidewell to the tailor to have her measurements taken for her wedding dress? Is he tilting her chin up to him so that he can steal a kiss before he returns her back home to her mother? His silence in response to my letters all makes so much sickening sense now.
And what of my own mother? Catherine’s letter mentioned that she was sick, but she said it wasn’t anything serious. Even so, could Mother handle the shock of seeing Catherine’s shameful secret in black and white in the papers?
Cyrus must read the battle going on in my face, because he moves closer to me, slipping his arms around my waist. “Say yes,” he murmurs down into my hair, pulling me close. “We’ll be so happy together.”