The Silver Squire. Mary Brendan

      ‘Ah, Frederick, so you are up and about today. How very nice to see you at last. How long has it been now?’ Jarrett Dashwood mimed concerned thoughtfulness. ‘A sennight, perhaps, since last we had dealings together?’ The darkly suave man sauntered further into the drawing room of Rosemary House. Without waiting for an invitation, he flicked back his coat-tails and seated himself on a gilt-framed chair.

      Margaret Worthington looked at her husband, looked at their tormentor and closed her eyes. ‘Do have some tea, Mr Dash-wood,’ she urged in a thin, trembling voice, while thin, trembling fingers fumbled at the silver pot on the tray. ‘It is freshly made in readiness for your arrival.’

      ‘More tea, Mrs Worthington? I believe I am awash with your tea, dear lady.’ His wide, sensual mouth smiled at her, his olive eyes did not. ‘Now were you today to offer me, say, two thousand pounds, or a private interview with that intriguing daughter of yours, I would certainly be tempted to partake. As it is, I am heartily tired of trailing here each afternoon to meet with her only to be fobbed off with tea and excuses.’ Leaning back into the chair, he stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. ‘Where is your daughter? The longer we are apart, the more desperate I am for some time alone with her. It is said, is it not, that absence makes the heart grow fonder?’

      Margaret and Frederick Worthington exchanged nervous glances.

      ‘She is visiting her aunt…’

      ‘She is ailing in her room…’

      The couple glared, horrified, at each other at these conflicting versions of Emma’s lengthy absence, each sure that they had voiced the correct one for today. Both shifted uneasily back into their chairs and, apeing their sinister guest’s lead, examined their manicures.

      Jarrett Dashwood used a fleshy thumb to shine a perfectly trimmed set of fingernails. ‘Well, what’s it to be? Is she visiting? Lying abed with her smelling salts or Miss Austen’s romances? Shall I go above stairs and discover for myself how my poor, ailing fiancée fares?’

      ‘Please, sir, do not term her so,’ Margaret forced out in a high, wheedling tone. ‘She refuses you; you know that. You have our sincerest apologies.’ Margaret looked at Frederick, hoping for a modicum of assistance in dealing with this frightening man. Her perspiring husband simply gazed glassily into space. ‘There is nothing to be done, Mr Dashwood.’ Margaret emphasised her despair by crushing her handkerchief to her mouth. ‘We cannot force her to wed against her inclination. Everything in our power…my power,’ she gritted through the muffling linen, stabbing a glance at her florid husband, ‘has been done to make the selfish ingrate see sense. But she is a woman grown and so stubborn she will take no heed of her fond parents’ good advice.’

      ‘Perhaps she will then take heed of me, madam,’ Jarrett Dash-wood smoothly said. ‘Perhaps you both will do likewise. For this whole matter has now the stench of premeditated fraud about it. I have been fleeced, I believe, of my two thousand pounds, not only by you, good sir,’ he mocked Frederick with a bow of his raven head, ‘but also by you, madam, and your daughter. How many fiancés have you accepted for the chit in return for a little aid with pressing debts, only to find that she’s turned coy afore the altar?’

      Margaret’s handkerchief dropped to her lap, her chalky complexion adopted a greyish-green tinge and her mouth worked like that of a beached fish. ‘I beg of you, Mr Dashwood, never think it!’ finally exploded from her. ‘My daughter has received no other firm offers at all. She is accomplished at deflecting any gentleman’s attention far sooner than that. It would be heaven indeed should she encourage just the one to come a-courting.’

      ‘But I’m not convinced,’ Jarrett Dashwood said easily, with a final lingering look at his flexing fingers. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged…’ He laughed lightly. ‘There…you see how the dear girl has affected me. I find I can continually bring to mind passages from her favourite books…Now, where was I? Ah, yes, with odd truths. Indeed, it is strange that the more one is denied something, the further it seems from one’s grasp, the sweeter finally possessing it becomes. I believe I am developing a tendresse for your daughter which makes the money quite irrelevant. Even were you in a position to repay it, I would not accept. I want that spirited hussy as my wife. The documents pertaining to the marriage contract are signed and sealed. The marriage must go ahead.’

      Finally bored with this polite charade, he said in a guttural voice, ‘Find out to wherever it is she has absconded and furnish me with the news; I’m sure I can make her see sense. If you do not….’ He smiled grimly at Margaret ‘…I understand that the Fleet is able to accommodate families…’