Most of the furniture was her uncle’s, from his time with the army in India, where he’d made even less of a success of himself than he had in London. It was all in a sorry state, chipped and scratched. A couple of pieces belonged to her and her mother, the remnants of happier days in the rooms above the draper shop.
‘We’ll take the portrait of Father.’ She motioned to the painting hanging over the sagging mantel. The varnish had turned dark around the edges, but those hazel eyes, so similar to Laura’s, still watched over them with the same clarity as they had in life. It was the one aspect of her father the artist had rendered perfectly.
One of Mr Rathbone’s men reached up and removed it from its nail, exposing the stained and faded wallpaper beneath it.
‘And this?’ Mr Rathbone tapped the tip of his walking stick against a locked trunk beside the bedroom door.
‘It belongs to my uncle.’ She rolled her wrist—the memory of the bruises she’d received when her uncle had caught her trying to pick the lock one night still stung. Whatever was in there, be it valuables or the body of a wife from India, he hadn’t wanted her to see it. At this moment, she didn’t care. He could have the trunk and whatever comfort he drew from the contents. ‘The desk was my grandmother’s. My mother will want it.’
Two men took up positions on either side of the desk, heaving it up and shuffling past the door to her mother’s room just as she tugged it open.
‘What’s going on here?’ she demanded, her thin frame barely filling the tilted and sagging jamb. She snapped up her walking stick, laying it across the chest of the closest burly man and stopping both cold. ‘Are we being evicted?’
Laura rushed to her mother, gently lowered the walking stick and took her by the arm to steady her. ‘No, we’re moving. Now, this moment.’
‘Moving? Where?’ She looked past Laura to the men behind her.
‘Mother, allow me to introduce Mr Rathbone.’
Mr Rathbone bowed with respect, not mockery, but it failed to ease the suspicion hardening her mother’s pale-brown eyes.
‘Yes, I know who he is.’ Her mother eyed the moneylender down the length of her straight nose like she used to do with ragamuffins intent on swiping a ribbon from the shop. The fierce look would send them scurrying off in search of easier pickings. Mr Rathbone wasn’t so easily cowed. He met her stern glare as he had met almost everything else which had transpired between them, with no emotion.
‘He and I are to be married and we are to live with him,’ Laura announced. There was no other way to break the startling news.
‘Was this the price of Robert’s loan?’ Her mother banged her walking stick against the floor. ‘If so, I won’t let you do it. I won’t let you sell yourself to pay off one of Robert’s debts. Your uncle isn’t worth it. I deny my permission for this marriage.’
Laura stiffened. At three and twenty, she was two years past the age when such consent was necessary. However, she could feel her mother’s strong will rising, a will which illness, misfortune and widowhood had sapped from her this past year. It gave Laura hope for her future.
‘You have every right to object,’ Mr Rathbone agreed, his features taking on a more civil countenance. ‘As Miss Townsend’s mother, I should have consulted you on the matter before making the proposal. I apologise for my breach of manners, but the circumstances of our betrothal are most unusual and allowed no time for a more formal courtship. May we discuss the matter now, in private?’
He moved forward and held out his arm. Beneath the stern set of her mother’s expression, Laura caught the subtle arch of a raised eyebrow. He’d won her with his manners, hopefully whatever he intended to say to her would win her favour for the match.
‘Yes, for I wish to know how my daughter has so suddenly transfixed you.’ Mrs Townsend laid her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her back into the cramped bedroom and help her to sit on the edge of the broken-down bed.
Laura pulled the door closed on them, not envying Mr Rathbone. It’d been a long time since she’d experienced her mother’s chastising scrutiny. It was formidable, but she felt the moneylender equal to the challenge.
In the tiny sitting room, she tossed a weak smile to the two remaining men flanking the door. They nodded in return before Mr Connor came to stand beside her.
‘You’re a very fortunate lady, Miss Townsend.’ There was a hint of teasing in the compliment.
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, the widowed Mrs Templeton has been trying to capture Philip’s attention for many months now. If I’d known aiming a pistol at him would do the trick, I’d have advised her to try it.’ He threw back his head and laughed, filling the room with the merriest sound that had been heard there for ages.
Laura let out a long breath, his humour allowing her to smile. ‘You are Mr Rathbone’s business partner then?’
‘We’re friends. Grew up together. My father worked for his father, seeing to the more practical aspects of the business.’ He nodded at the men by the door. ‘Just as I do. Though not for much longer. I intend to establish myself in a business, once I decide which is the best to pursue.’
‘Then I wish you the greatest success.’
‘As I do you.’ He threw her a wide sideways smile she couldn’t fail to meet with one of her own.
‘Tell me, is Mr Rathbone always so businesslike?’
‘Oh, he’s almost jovial today. You should see how stern he is with clients.’
‘Apparently, I will.’
The door to her mother’s room opened and she and Mr Rathbone stepped through it. His face revealed nothing of their conversation. Her mother, however, beamed, striding in on his arm as though a duchess in Hyde Park. Laura gaped at them, wondering if there would be any end to the surprises in store for her today. She wasn’t sure she could handle too many more.
‘You have nothing to worry about, my dear.’ Her mother patted her shoulder. ‘Now, let’s be off. I see they’ve taken the painting and the desk.’ She looked up at Mr Rathbone. ‘Would you please ask your men to fetch our trunk from the bedroom? Everything else Robert can have.’
‘It would be my pleasure.’ Mr Rathbone motioned to the two remaining men. They hurried past Laura into the bedroom, emerging a moment later with the sad trunk holding what remained of Laura’s and her mother’s possessions.
They were not a foot into the room when another figure staggered into the doorway, the stench of pipe smoke and cheap ale swirling around him.
Uncle Robert.
The air thickened with tension as Mr Rathbone’s men slowly set down the trunk and straightened, dropping their hands to the clubs hanging from their belts. Mr Connor stood behind her uncle, his laughter gone as he shifted back his redingote to reveal the smooth handle of the pistol fastened at his waist. Laura’s hand tightened on her mother’s arm, Mr Rathbone’s warning rushing back to her along with a cutting fear.
‘What’s all this then?’ Robert Townsend demanded, struggling through his stupor to pronounce each word. His eyes fixed on the two men
