Page 35 of The Wallflower Takes All

“There is nothing improper in withdrawing from an account that cannot pay and will not be governed by solid advice.”

“No.”

“Then do not look at me as though I have suggested widows should be tossed into the street.”

“I was thinking nothing of the kind.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “You were thinking something.”

“I was thinking,” his father said, rising slowly, “that human beings make a poor fit for tidy categories.”

“You have said that before.”

“And you have not yet listened.”

Gabriel dipped his quill into the ink. “If you have come only to dispense riddles, I have work to do.”

“So I see.” His father moved to the door, then paused. “Gabriel.”

He looked up.

“Do not mistake Miss Montfort’s smile for frivolity.”

Gabriel said nothing.

His father opened the door. “And do not mistake your own restraint for wisdom merely because it is uncomfortable.”

The door shut behind him.

Gabriel remained motionless. The office smelled of ink, paper, and the faint beeswax his mother used to rub into the old desk when she thought no one watched. Absurd that he should remember the scent now. He had been a boy when she died, old enough to understand a grave and young enough to be bewildered that the world continued to require things of him.

His father had wandered through those first months like a man searching for a room that no longer existed. Gabriel had answered letters because no one else did. He had learned ledgers because figures held still. He had learned rules because rules did not leave you. If he had become severe, it was because severity had saved what tenderness could not.

He shook his head. There was no use contemplating the past. His current obligations were all that mattered. And at present, he was obliged to write a letter to Lord Algernon Montfort.

He pressed his quill to the paper with more force than it deserved.

My lord,

I write on behalf of Lady Montague regarding your recent communication concerning the London town house…

He chose every word with care. Respectful, firm, precise. He did not plead. He did not accuse. He noted Lady Montague’s long occupation of the house, the shortness of the notice, the practical difficulty of removing a widow and unmarried daughter with so little warning. He requested, on grounds of decency and familial obligation, an extension of possession for no fewer than six weeks.

Six weeks was nothing.

Six weeks was everything.

He sanded the letter, folded it, sealed it, and gave it to the clerk with instructions to send it by the swiftest hand available to Lord Montague’s current address.

Then he returned to the papers.

By the time he rose to call at the Montfort house again, his neck ached, his temper had frayed, and his careful piles had multiplied like rabbits.

The Montfort foyer greeted Gabriel with every sign of a household where order had never been introduced, much less encouraged to stay.

A footman opened the door with a bandage around one finger and a haunted look that suggested Gabriel did not want to know what had caused the injury. Somewhere above, a woman was singing scales with great passion and little accuracy. Freddie came skidding across the floor at full speed, failed to stop, and collided with Gabriel’s boot.

“Good afternoon,” Gabriel said to the dog.