His voice dropped lower and I could not make out the rest. By then I was on my hands and knees behind a sofa. My heart was banging in my chest; I felt sure they must hear it, like something from a Poe story. And what would I say, when they found me?
“They have easy manners and a great deal of conversation. But these days, that means nothing—still, you invited them to be your guests. You put the imprimatur of approval on them, more than Henry. How was he not to think—”
“She saved my daughter’s life! An invitation to my house is nothing, to that. I take no exception to them—as acquaintances, as guests—but to ally yourself that way?” He paused and barked an unhappy laugh. “But I shall write to Sir Thomas-Philip, once I have a free moment, and we will learn all. Of course, being Henry, he probably will have wed her before word comes back.”
Silence followed, Frank Austen presumably still reading Henry’s letter. I was face to the floor, breathing carpet dust. Terrified of sneezing, I covered my nose with my hands.
“So he is finished.”
“What do you think I was telling you? How much had you invested?”
“How did this happen? Can you—you are a man of business—can you explain?”
“The usual way, I suppose. Loans on easy terms, to the likes of Lord Moira, gentlemen who regard seriously only their debts of honor—and when you are an opportunist, a blockhead, and apparently, a fortune hunter—by God, were I not—what I . . .” He broke off as the door creaked open, adding in a different tone, “Dr. Ravenswood.”
“Forgive me. I was looking for my sister. They told me she was gone to the library.”
“She is not here,” Edward said. There was a pause.
“I did not mean to interrupt, sir. I will go.”
“No. No. There is no need for apologies, or use in concealment. You will know all soon enough. Our brother—your friend—is undone. His bank is ruined.”
There was a silence, and then Liam said: “Alas, I knew it was coming. There was nothing that could be done. I went up to town last week, to offer him a loan, but he refused.”
“Indeed?” Edward sounded surprised. In fact, Liam had gone to London not to offer Henry a loan but to make one: thirty thousand pounds, half of the amount we’d come to 1815 with. And to judge from what I’d just overheard, it had not been enough; and now it was gone. I felt a thrill of fear at this prospect, even as I told myself I was being ridiculous. We had plenty for our remaining time in the past. “He refused, did he?” He sighed.
“It was noble of him, but I still wonder if it could have helped.”
“No use asking such questions, Ravenswood,” Edward said. “It has happened, and we must all make the best of it. If you will, I have some letters to write before dinner—”
There was a pause, and after a moment, I heard the door open and close again. Another long silence followed. Had they all left? Was it possible?
No. “Sometimes, sir, one longs to be at sea. If the Admiralty would give me a ship right now, I should ask no more. She could be a leaky brig, and my heart would be light. But forgive me, I forget myself. This sad business has set us all ahoo.”
“I quite understand.”
“If I might ask—I suppose, if you were able to offer my brother—I must presume you were not much invested in his bank, then?”
“Only in a very small way.”
“Very prescient of you.” Frank Austen sighed. A pause.
“Captain! Would you join me on a walk? I must go to the stables to see—I fear my horse has taken lame.”
“I should find my wife and tell her the dreadful news. This house is too big; we are forever losing each other.”
“I saw her in that pinkish room, not long ago.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The door opened and closed, and the room fell silent. My legs were falling asleep, and my neck hurt, but I feared getting up; what if someone had forgotten something and came back? Face to the carpet, I closed my eyes, willing time to pass. Then, to my horror, the door opened again; footsteps approached me and stopped. I lifted my head. Liam.
“How long were you crouching there, you poor object?” His hands felt cool and strong as they raised me up and briskly skimmed my hair, my forehead, my nose, my shoulders—“You’re all dusty!”—our first physical contact since the debacle at the Angel. As a painful wave of lust coursed through me, I collapsed on the sofa, unable to look at him.
“I can’t believe they didn’t see me. You obviously did immediately.”
“Mrs. Frank Austen told me you had gone to look for a book. So I suppose, when I walked in—You weren’t exactly invisible back here, but they were distracted.”
We stayed in silence for a while, I on the sofa, he standing nearby, arms folded. I tried not to recall the feeling of his hands on me. Or to admire his shoulders.
“So, our money seems not to have helped,” I said at last.
“So it would seem.”
“So you were right and I was wrong.”
“Don’t put it like that. We both agreed to try, and it didn’t work. We’ve still enough to live on.” As long as we can return to our own time and are not stranded here forever was the unspoken end to his thought; I felt the thrill of fear again. “Especially if we give up the house in town. Which we clearly should, now.”
“I’m kind of outraged he told Edward before us.”
“I suppose he was ashamed.” He paused. “He must be miserable. He was a wreck when I saw him last week. And then he still had some hope.”
“But why did you tell Edward that you tried to offer him a loan?”
“I think I was thinking—I was trying to make Edward see me differently. It’s like Mr. Darcy, patching up Lydia’s marriage. We’re practically members of the family, we’re helping out.” I had to admit this was clever; that Liam had a kind of intelligence completely different from my own. “A truly gentlemanly gentleman would never have revealed it, but ever since the thing with the cottage, I get the sense Mr. Knight is not so sure of me, so I haven’t lost much.” He paused. “You think I should have told him the truth, that I actually gave him money? I nearly did, but something stopped me.”
“What he was saying before you walked in is that he’s going to write to Sir Thomas-Philip Hampson and make inquiries.”
Liam smacked his forehead with his palm. “That’ll be the end of us, then.”
“It gets worse. What’s motivating him to write, you might ask. Apparently Henry made some reference in his letter to marrying me.”
“Mother of god.” Liam packed a lot of feeling into four syllables, adding after a moment, “How long do you suppose we have, if Edward writes to Jamaica?”
Wind and currents make the length of Atlantic crossings unpredictable, but this much we knew: a letter and its reply could make the round trip before September and the Opportunity of Return, assuming both people were prompt in their correspondence. I could only hope Sir Thomas-Philip was the sort of person who let unanswered mail pile up on his desk.
“Not long enough.”