Widow in White

Chapter Seventeen: Flouting Tradition

That night was the beginning of their affair, though not, Laura realized, the end of the reserve between them.

It was in him — in his watchful eyes, in his preoccupied frowns, in his distant, shielding smiles. She knew there were things he was not telling her. He might not have secrets, she thought, but he certainly had shadows within himself.

It was in her too — she could not bring herself to stay the night in his bed. She would count his breaths until she was sure he was sleeping, slip out from under the covers, and tiptoe back to her room. Sometimes he half-woke and tried to pull her back, murmuring some persuasion— he liked just to hold her —but she could not be persuaded, she would not be held.

And Laura couldn't tell, really, if she wanted the reserve between them to fall or not.

One morning in late April when Richard was out, Laura had her first caller at his house. She hadn't expected anybody to call at all— indeed, if she happened to pass an acquaintance in the street, they were sure to pretend that they did not recognize her —and the first dreadful conclusion she came to was that it was her father. As she reached out to take the card from the maid, her hands trembled.

It was not her father. It was Jonathan Percival.

Laura breathed out. Richard had mentioned to her a few days ago that he'd rejected Mr Percival's offer of business. It had no legs, he had told Laura, and she'd been unsurprised but worried to hear it. Mr Percival had no head for business. He was too timid, too soft-hearted, too disposed to thinking the best of others and the worst of himself. He had inherited his father's factories at twenty-five, and by thirty had nearly run them to the ground. Capital and competence might yet have saved them but Mr Percival had neither.

And now Mr Percival had come to call on her, probably to beg her to change Richard's mind about investing. Laura's heart sunk. Mr Percival was a damn fool.

But she could not refuse to see him. He was perhaps the only person she could not refuse to see.

She got dressed and went downstairs to find him sitting patiently on the most uncomfortable chair in the drawing room, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his heels touched together. He launched himself to his feet as she entered and swept a low bow.

"Lady Laura. It's an honour to see you looking so well."

She curtsied but did not hold out her hand for him to shake in case he was fool enough to kiss it. He was not looking well. He was paler and thinner than usual, with shadows under his cheeks, and new, sharp creases between his eyebrows.

"Thank you for calling," she said. "Unless it's my husb—" She shut her mouth with a snap. Husband. Yes, Mr Percival used to call to see Mr Maidstone. Used to ask to see Maidstone as a pretext for seeing Laura, because Maidstone did not like Laura to have friends of her own. And Laura had very, very much needed a friend.

"He's dead," she said, letting out a short, sad laugh. "For a moment I almost thought... You brought it back."

Mr Percival went from white to grey. "I'm sorry."

That was Mr Percival all over. Apologizing for things that were not his fault. It made Laura feel better. She held out her hand to him and he shook it limply.

"You haven't come to see Lord Albroke, have you?" she asked, sitting down and pointing at a chair opposite.

"Not really." Percival sat and chewed his bottom lip. "I don't think I can interest him in investing in the factory."

"He said there's no point. It's going to lose you and all your investors a lot of money." She met his eyes. "Chiefly you. He thinks you ought to sell out."