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Archie turned up his palms. “Well, then.”
Simon was getting it now. “You are saying I pay for Miss Brown to retire, and only then will she be free to choose me.”
“No, I’m saying I pay for Miss Brown to retire, and only then will she be free to choose you.”
“Yes, you can’t do it, Simon,” Effie said. “Have you been listening to anything we’ve been saying? If you do it, it’s not a free choice, is it?”
Simon was at once touched and bewildered.
Touched: “You would do that for me?”
“Yes, of course,” Archie said.
Bewildered: “What’s the difference if I give her a lot of money or you give her a lot of money? Won’t you just be a proxy for me?”
“No. I have come to understand, recently, how much I have taken Miss Brown for granted. I have endeavored to begin making up for that. This will provide the opportunity to complete that mission.”
“Thank you” was all Simon could manage. So he said it again: “Thank you.”
“It is nothing,” Archie said, but it wasn’t nothing. It was the reason Simon had called the boys here. He had known, in some hidden part of himself, that they would help.
He also needed them to help with something else, namely the problem of the blackmailing brother-in-law. Diantha seemed to believe all that was necessary to put him off his scheme of ruining Lady Harcourt’s reputation was to ruin her own, thereby rendering herself unmarriageable. He feared she gave him too much credit. What’s to say the man wouldn’t reveal the contents of her letter purely out of spite? But one thing at a time. She’d said he was coming back in five months. And Simon had promised Diantha he would keep her secret. If his plan to win Diantha’s heart—and hand—worked, they would tackle the wretched man together.
“I am pouring you a drink now, sour stomach or no,” Effie said. He handed Simon a glass and lifted his own. “She will be free to choose you, now, Simon, and I for one cannot fathom why she wouldn’t.”
20
The Glow-Up
September 29
Eight days since Earls Trip
The next morning, Simon summoned Mrs. Tavish and told her he wanted to have a party.
Or, at least, he thought he told her. The way she stood regarding him as if he were a statue in a museum made him question whether something had gone awry, communication wise.
“A party, my lord?” she finally said.
“Yes. I shall furnish you with a list of attendees.”
“And you would … like me to write out invitations.”
“That is how it is generally done, is it not?”
“The countess may prefer to write them herself.”
Right. “The countess won’t be attending.” He nodded at a chair. “Mrs. Tavish, will you sit for a moment? I need to inform you of some impending changes to the structure of the household.” He considered how best to explain. As far as he had observed, Mother wasn’t close with any of the servants, but one never knew where the staff’s loyalties lay. He decided that short and to the point was best. “The countess will be moving here, to this house, permanently.”
Was he mistaken, or did Mrs. Tavish furrow her brow ever so slightly?
He forged onward. “I will be renting a house in Town for myself and will split my time between it and Galecroft.”
“And the countess will … not be splitting her time between the two properties as she has historically done?”
“No. She will be here full-time.” He paused. “And I will not be here.” He hoped he had made his point. Though, why was he dissembling? Why not make himself crystal clear? “I have decided that my mother and I should not spend any more time together.”
“And when is this … shuffle meant to occur?”
