Widow in White

Chapter Seven: No Lie

Laura lay on her bed with an unopened book in her hand and stared listlessly at the snow falling outside. She had not thought it possible but she was as bored in her own room, with every luxury of entertainment available, as she had been in the attic, with nothing. It was almost a relief to hear the knock at the door and imagine some trifling servant problem to be solved, but her heart fell as she sat up and saw her father enter.

"What is it?" she said sullenly, falling back down on the mattress.

Her father came to the end of the bed, rested his hands on the bedboard, and stared down at her. She did not like the hint of a smile about his eyes.

"Mr Fordham is waiting downstairs. He wishes to speak with you."

Laura sighed. She was quite fond of Fordham, when he was silent. When he was silent, he made a pretty picture of masculinity, particularly when propped up against a suitable landscape, such as a roaring fire or a library full of books he had never read. But conversation, when he attempted it, ruined the effect of his good looks. In the company of men, she knew, he could warble at length about whatever manly topic was on offer. But in the company of women his conversation became pedantic and static. His conversation with a woman was confined to three topics: her health, the weather, and Fordham's Grievances Against the World. As Laura's health was always good, as the weather was consistently bad, she was, after two weeks of acquaintance with him, more intimate with his every complaint than she ever wished to be. She knew he resented his brother for being the elder and having the title and money that came with it. She knew he had hated India and his father who had sent him there. She knew he had been wronged by his family, even the dead aunt who had left him a fortune. She knew he thought his valet was cheating him and that his new boots pinched his toes.

The one topic on which he had not been forthcoming was his hatred of Richard. Laura had tried to coax the story out of him, but he had fallen back upon a strange reticence. All she knew was that they had been at university together, and that Richard had wronged Fordham somehow. As the world in general seemed to have wronged Fordham, this was not very enlightening.

Laura rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. "Tell him I'm ill."

"You're not and I won't. Now get up and come down."

Laura twisted again and opened one eye a crack to glare at her father. "Why does that peacock want to talk with me anyway? He never says anything worth listening to anyway." She buried her face again in the pillow and spoke, muffled, "What a pity it is that all the handsome men are stupid and all the intelligent men are ugly."

Her father ignored this last bit. "He's going to ask you to marry him."

Laura sat up at once, sending a pillow flying. "What!?"

"Yes." The hint of a smile on her father's face was threatening to become a grin. "Now, will you go down and talk to him?"

Laura stared at her father. Her heart was drumming against her ribs and a strange terror had lit inside her. Above her bodily feelings, her thoughts ran strangely cold and logical: She could not marry Fordham. Her father would try to force her. She could not persuade her father. She could not reason. She could not refuse. Her only hope was to make Fordham change his mind and leave her alone.

And Fordham, stupid Fordham, could be persuaded, surely?

An electric combination of hope, fear, and a strange, perverse excitement flooded her. She slipped off the bed and went to the mirror to check her appearance. Her dress was rumpled and her hair untidy. But perhaps it was best that way. Fordham was fastidious with his appearance and did not like untidy people. She gave her hair only a cursory pat.