Page 33 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)

D awn did not come early on a December morning in London.

Claire waited for it an interminably long time, sleeping not a wink after Mr Fairburn's gathering.

Her rash announcement of an engagement had been made late in the evening.

Hopefully late enough that word of it would not come around to Mr Graham before she had a chance to visit him and explain herself.

It had been a spectacularly foolish thing to say.

She knew that now. Had, indeed, known it from the moment she swept out of the Fairburn house.

Her rage had cooled in the brisk wind, and a tremble had come into her hands.

She had drunk a few sips of water during the night, afraid that anything else would upset her stomach, but with dawn on the horizon and breakfast approaching, a combination of duty and hunger began to hold sway.

Charles would not expose her. Charles was unlikely to even be at breakfast, which meant that she could eat, dress, and with a servant—ideally Worthington, who already knew the trouble she had arranged for herself—visit Mr Graham early enough in the day to be the one to bear the news.

That these things transpired without incident came as an almost unbearable surprise to Claire.

She awaited ruin with every breath, and twice nearly told her aunt the entire story out of desperation and guilt.

The second time it was Worthington's presence and the nearly imperceptible shake of his head that kept her from doing so.

Smiling with nervousness, she instead asked Aunt Elizabeth if she might borrow Worthington while she did some shopping that morning.

Aunt Elizabeth, expecting Charles would not rise until sometime after noon, saw no reason to deny the request. They departed at half past ten and, obliged to go on foot for discretion's purposes, arrived at Jack Graham's home shortly after eleven.

The Graham house was a good, if not extremely good, address, and had modest, visibly maintained front gardens: the grass and hedges were trimmed and rose bushes lined the short drive.

The stone stairs leading to the door were in good order, the doorknob polished, and the door itself bore relatively new black paint.

Worthington stepped up and knocked twice, smartly, with the heavy, black-painted cast iron knocker, then retreated to stand behind Claire.

A pause ensued. Claire waited patiently, then uncomfortably, and finally nervously. She glanced at Worthington, wondering about the wisdom of knocking again. Before she spoke, the door swung open to reveal Graham performing the duties of his own butler.

Jack Graham was a man in ruins. His hair was unkempt, his eyes shot with red and his jaw unshaven.

His cravat was loosened, his collar unstarched and his waistcoat unbuttoned.

He wore no coat and his trousers were unbuckled at the knee; one stocking had wrinkled and caught on the buckle, narrowly preventing a length of leg from being exposed.

He stood at the door of his own home staring at Claire as if she were a vision, but whether of mercy or damnation she could not tell.

"If you have come to do me the kindness of telling me that Miss Hurst is engaged," he croaked, "I already know. "

Claire, gazing up at him, wondered what she had gotten herself into, but also found tremendous humor in saying, "No, Mr Graham, I have come to tell you that we are engaged."

Graham's dark eyelashes dropped in a slow blink; when they parted again, he looked to Claire, then at Worthington, who stood behind her, and to Claire again.

"Well," he said slowly, "then I suppose you had better come in.

Forgive…" He waved a hand that Claire was frankly surprised did not still contain a bottle, finished, "… everything," and ushered them in.

From the outside, Graham's house was modestly fashionable.

Within, it had clearly once been fashionable, but no longer: the hall boasted old wallpaper, well-kept but beleaguered with trompe l'oeil that would not be seen in a modern home, and the rug beneath Claire's feet, though fastidiously clean, showed obvious signs of wear.

Neither had the stairs been recently sanded, and that was all Claire had time to glimpse before Graham escorted her into the sitting room.

Two chairs huddled up to a hearth which contained no fire, and heavy curtains were drawn despite it being mid-morning.

Graham opened them, letting large windows shed light into a room that still had bones of beauty: excellent cornices graced the ceiling and the hearth was of handsome marble.

Graham crouched there, striking tinder made of scorched linen to start a fire for warmth: the room was hardly warmer—perhaps no warmer—than the streets outside.

Claire sat in one of the chairs, shivering, and didn't remove her coat.

"Sorry," Graham said. "I don't get many visitors.

No need to keep the fires burning if no one's going to be here, and this way I keep my bedroom warmer.

Can't afford to keep the children here," he said, as if warding off her question.

“All I've got is the pretense of decency, not enough to keep them safe or warm or looked after.

I bring what I can to the institute after a good night at the tables. "

"You told me," Claire said quietly and without judgment, "and yet I had no idea."

"I imagine it would be more difficult if I were a young woman," Graham said with a shrug. "People seem to expect to visit ladies in their homes more than gentlemen. I can offer you tea, but I'll have to go to the kitchen to make it myself. I haven't had servants for several years."

Worthington murmured, "I insist," and departed, though he left the drawing room door open as a matter of form. As if, Claire thought, servants might pass by to keep an eye on them; as if an open door meant they were not alone in a room together.

Graham sat in the chair across from her and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.

He looked altogether more attentive, if not especially less dissipated, than he had at the door.

"Dare I ask how we came to be engaged? I have," he admitted in the manner of a confession, "been drinking, but not, I think, that much. "

Claire laughed shakily. "No, I'm afraid it's all my own doing, and I will break the engagement at once if you wish, but let me explain, and then let us…consider whether there is any wisdom in it."

"There cannot be," Graham said at once, but listened to Claire's tale, his expression darkening only briefly when the matter of Benedict Fairburn's inheritance and the institute for orphans came together as one.

"You can't hold that against him, Miss Dalton," he protested. "The institute is nothing to him, nor should it be."

"I most certainly can," Claire said, indignant.

"I may not be familiar with the depths of degradation found in London's slums, but there is still a matter of noblesse oblige, which I have learned very well in the country.

One does not simply gather all the wealth to oneself without considering the welfare of others and still call oneself a goodly person. "

"And there is the matter of Society's opinion of you. It will not be favorable."

"Well, I don't care!" It was untrue; Claire cared deeply, and inside shuddered at the thought of people telling unkind lies and laughing into their fans at her.

She was not high-enough born to be considered eccentric or too rich to offend.

At her rank she would be a laughingstock, or pitied, or both.

She—they—might well be ruined socially forever, no longer invited to parties, no longer respected.

It could easily be a cold and lonely life.

But the emptiness on the children's faces haunted her more deeply still.

The way they hadn't protested when Jack prepared to leave, the way none of them had any expectation of anything more than what the moment gave them, was intolerable.

They might grow up in a household scorned by society, but they would grow up warm and fed and loved—for Claire believed utterly that she could love the twins—and that was the more bearable fate.

Graham was a nice enough man. She was fond of him and could perhaps grow to love him.

Marrying him would not be unpleasant, and it would mean a life for the twins.

Worthington brought the tea, which was almost tasteless with age but was at least hot, and retired to stand outside the door so they could continue their conversation.

Bolstered by his presence, Claire concluded with, "I propose we do indeed marry, Mr Graham.

My dowry is enough for a modest household, and the twins can live with us in health and safety. "

"It's not a sacrifice I can ask you to make."

Claire sat back in her chair, aware of its lack of padding, and considered not only Graham but his phrasing.

"You are not asking," she said then. "I'm offering.

But I don't think I'm offering to make, or be, a sacrifice, Mr Graham.

I must marry, you are pleasant and handsome, and must be wed.

The situation lends itself to this solution. "

"What if you were to encounter some other gentleman in Society with whom you found true love?"

"Well." Claire's mouth quirked. "I suppose I imagined living in the country, where we would largely be out of Society anyway, but should it come to pass that such a thing were to happen before we married, I suppose I would break our engagement."

"Could you?" Graham asked bluntly. "When you're making it not for me, but for the twins?"