VII
“My daughter’s not here?” Mr. Prodmore demanded from the threshold, already scanning the hall like he expected to find Cora hiding behind a tapestry.
“Your daughter’s not here.” Mrs. Gracedew was ready for him, composure smooth as polished oak. “But it’s a convenience to me, Mr. Prodmore, that you are, for I’ve something very particular to ask you.”
He brushed past her without a word, heading straight for the morning room, his hand hovering on the latch like he expected to catch Cora and the Captain in flagrante. “I shall be delighted to answer your question, but I must first put my hand on Miss Prodmore. Unless indeed she’s occupied in there with Captain Yule?”
“I don’t think she’s occupied anywhere with Captain Yule,” Mrs. Gracedew said, calm.
Mr. Prodmore whirled back, his temper fraying. “Then where the deuce is Captain Yule?”
“His absence, for which I’m responsible, is just what renders my inquiry possible.” Mrs. Gracedew faltered half a second, then pressed on, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “What will you take? What will you take?”
He raised his eyebrows, completely misreading her intent. “Take? Nothing, thank you—I’ve just had a cup of tea. Won’t you have one?”
“Yes, with pleasure—but not yet.” Mrs. Gracedew looked around the hall, hand pressed to her brow, visibly anxious. “I want to know how you’d value one of these charming old things that take your fancy?” She nodded at the ancient portraits and carved oak lining the room.
He followed her gaze, swelling with the pride of a collector who’d spent a lifetime gathering such pieces. “One of these charming old things?”
“Every single one!” Mrs. Gracedew said, her voice warm. Then, with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather, she dropped the real question that had been burning in her mind since she walked through the door: “Should you be willing to treat, Mr. Prodmore, for your interest in this property?”
He froze, then laughed like she’d told a preposterous joke. “Am I to take it from you then that you know about my interest in the place?”
“Everything!” Mrs. Gracedew said, sharp, no room for him to lie.
Mr. Prodmore’s face closed up, defensive. “You don’t know everything if you don’t know my interest—considerable as it might have struck you—has just ceased to exist. I’ve given it up for a handsome equivalent.” The implication hung heavy in the air, no need to name the equivalent: Captain Yule, the son-in-law he’d been planning to attach Cora to for months, the social standing he’d been chasing for years.
“Won’t it depend a little on what your daughter herself calls him, in the end?”
“No. That will be between the happy pair.” He was smug, certain of his victory, tapping the massive gold watch in his pocket. “It’s my assured conviction that she’s accepting him while we stand here.”
The cruelty of the statement made Mrs. Gracedew’s smile fade for a second; she turned away, pacing a few steps to collect herself, before floating back, her composure restored, her tone soft and persuasive. “Dear Mr. Prodmore, why are you so imprudent as to make your daughter afraid of you? You should have taught her to confide in you. She has clearly shown me that she can confide. Let me suggest you follow her good example. Tell me, for instance, the ground of your objection to poor Mr. Hall Pegg, the Bellborough man, Granny’s godson, associate of his father in their flourishing mercantile business, to whom Miss Prodmore is devotedly attached.”
Mr. Prodmore had sunk into the nearest high-backed chair during her speech, his face gone purple with shock. “It has gone so far as that?”
“It has gone so far that you had better let it go the rest of the way!” Mrs. Gracedew’s voice rose with urgency. “You’ve plotted to keep her in the dark, but it’s only when you’re kept in the dark that your daughter’s kept in the light! It’s at her own earnest request that I plead to you for her liberty of choice. She’s an honest girl, not a baby to be bullied. You overdo the nursing. She has a perfect right to her preference.”
Mr. Prodmore huffed, offended, like she’d insulted his parenting. “And pray haven’t I a perfect right to mine?”
“Not at her expense. You expect her to give up too much, for the sake of your pride. What has she expected you to give up but the desire of your heart and the dream of your life? Captain Yule announced his intention to offer her his hand only minutes ago, but if he does, he’ll simply find she won’t have it.”
“She will!” Mr. Prodmore sprang to his feet, making for the stairs to find Cora and force the issue himself.
Mrs. Gracedew was there before him, barring his way with a gentle but unyielding hand on his chest, her face set with sudden, unexpected passion. “She shan’t!” They faced each other like enemies for a heartbeat, before her face softened into a bright, winsome smile, all warmth again. “Now tell me how much.”
He stood frozen, bewildered, before turning away to hide the conflict in his expression. “How can I tell you anything so preposterous?”
Mrs. Gracedew didn’t miss a beat, stepping closer, her voice low and persuasive. “Simply by computing the total amount to which, for your benefit, this unhappy estate is burdened. If I’ve troubled you by showing you your speculation is built on sand, let me atone for it by taking that investment off your hands entirely. I’ll pay your price, whatever it is, to set Cora free to marry the man she loves.”
He turned back slowly, his eyes sharp, calculating. “And pray what profit will you derive from that, Mrs. Gracedew?”
“Ah, that’s my own secret!” She laughed, bright and airy, refusing to give an inch. “I want this house!”
“So do I, damn me!” he roundly returned, his face flushing. “That’s why I’ve practically paid for it already!”
“I’ll practically pay for it, if you’ll only tell me your figure. I’ll cable to my brokers in Missoura Top to have the money sent right out to you, as soon as you name your price.”
Mr. Prodmore stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “You imagine that having the money sent right out to me will make you owner of this place?”
She tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she was close to solving. “No—not quite. But I’ll settle the rest with Captain Yule.”
He looked down at his polished patent leather shoes, his voice tight with confusion. “Captain Yule has nothing to sell.”
“Then what have you been trying to buy?” She asked, her brow furrowed in innocent confusion, as if she couldn’t possibly guess.
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