While this explanation was technically true, Wren privately supposed that what would actually come to pass was that Miss Flora’s fortune would skip over her altogether and land straight in Felix’s pockets—where it would pour out again like water through a sieve into the coffers of whichever gambling dens, whore-houses, and money-lenders he favoured. But Wren’s opinion on the matter had not been asked, and so he did not give it out.
“Now, my dear,” Mr Grigsby said to Miss Flora, his smile bespeaking his total ignorance of Wren’s suppositions. “Is that all you wished to know?”
“Not quite,” Miss Flora admitted. “Is it true that if I do not marry him, Felix will be ruined?”
“Goodness, what a question!” Mr Grigsby laughed, as much startled as amused. “My dear Miss Fairfield, whatever could have put such a notion into your head?”
Miss Flora did not answer him. Wren kept his own suspicions to himself. At length, Mr Grigsby’s mirth subsided.
“In pecuniary terms, no,” said Mr Grigsby. “He’s as well-provided for as yourself.”
Miss Flora looked as though she had some opinions of her own about whether or not she was well-provided for but kept these thoughts to herself.
“Though I daresay,” Mr Grigsby continued, “it may ruin him in his heart, as it might ruin any man, to lose your affection.”
A wan smile graced Miss Flora’s pale lips.
“However,” Mr Grigsby went on, “if your affection for him is not sufficient to permit you to marry, then you might do him the least harm by breaking off the engagement sooner rather than later.”
Wren, surprised by the old bachelor’s romantic acuity, gave Mr Grigsby a sharp glance. Mr Grigsby failed to notice it.
“Is that your advice, sir?” Miss Flora asked.
“It is,” said Mr Grigsby. “Provided, of course, that you do not feel the affection for him that a bride ought to feel for her bridegroom. Better to have a small portion of misery now, in the breaking of an engagement, rather than to drag out a much larger portion of misery over the course of an unhappy marriage. Not that I mean to suggest you are miserable, or that your future together would prove certain misery,” Mr Grigsby hastened to add. “I do not presume to know the mind of a young lady, much less how matters stand between you and Mr Knoll in particular. However, if you are uncertain as to the depth of your own feelings, I would suggest taking the matter up with the young gentleman himself.”
Wren blinked at Mr Grigsby. Mr Grigsby continued to take no notice of his astonished clerk.
“Then,” Miss Flora said, after considering Mr Grigsby’s advice for many moments, “I have just one more question.”
Mr Grigsby gave her such a look of solemn readiness that Wren might have had to disguise his laugh with a hasty cough if ten years in the man’s service hadn’t already inured him to Mr Grigsby’s innate and guileless comedy.
“Do you know,” Miss Flora asked, “where I might find a room to stay the night in London?”
A deafening silence thundered down on the office.
“Stay in London?” Mr Grigsby echoed after an excruciating pause.
“Yes,” said Miss Flora, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world for a girl of her station. “The hour draws late, and I don’t think it wise for me to attempt to return to Miss Bailiwick’s Academy this evening. Her wrath, I fear, is still too fresh. The storm ought to clear by morning, and when I return to Rochester tomorrow afternoon, her relief will render her much happier to see me than if I were to arrive on her doorstep after dinner tonight.”
While Wren could not fault her reasoning, Mr Grigsby appeared quite at a loss. Another awkward pause ensued.
Wren cleared his throat.
Both Miss Flora and Mr Grigsby whirled to stare at him.
Wren put on an apologetic smile. “I meant to inform you earlier, sir, but as it so happens, this evening I intend to visit a friend, and do not expect to return before tomorrow morning. As such, I will make no use of my garret tonight. While it cannot offer accommodations of the standard to which Miss Fairfield is accustomed, perhaps it may prove a suitable solution for our present predicament?”
The awkward pause resumed.
“Visit a friend?” Mr Grigsby echoed. Then he clapped his hands in delight. “Splendid, Lofthouse! How wonderful—who is your friend? No, I mustn’t press you, of course—only do give him my regards and hopes for many more such visits in the future. And how convenient for our purposes!” he added, seeming to at last recall Miss Flora’s presence. “For, if you’ve no objections, Miss Fairfield…?”
“None at all,” she said, her astonishment turned to repressed amusement at Mr Grigsby’s reaction to Wren’s scheme. Though, Wren noted, she didn’t seem to mock Mr Grigsby so much as share in his good humour, or at least find her own joy in knowing he’d found his.
“Excellent,” said Wren—and, for once, meant it. “Let me just tidy up a little and then I’ll be out of your way. Good night, Miss Fairfield, Mr Grigsby.”
Wren didn’t wait for their reply before he dashed up the two flights to his garret. Within a quarter-hour he’d swept and dusted matters into some semblance of order. More importantly, he locked up his desk and ensured the worst of his creative efforts were hidden away in the hollow under the floorboards beneath his bed. He didn’t think it would occur to Miss Flora to look for anything out of the ordinary. Still, he sprinkled some dust-sweepings over that particular corner to make it appear disused. Then, packing candles, tea-spoon, chalk, knife, matches, twine, pencils, and sketch-book into his satchel, he gave one final approving glance around the garret and fled downstairs. There he snatched up his hat and coat, handed his key over to a bewildered Miss Flora, and with a final good-night, vanished into the fog of Staple Inn.
~
