Page 38 of A Convenient Fiction

On Sunday, Laura saw him in church. He was seated in a pew at the front, along with George, Henrietta, and Squire Talbot. It was the pew reserved for the squire and his family, a seat of honor many rows away from where Laura humbly sat with her Aunt Charlotte.

After the service, Mr. Archer lingered behind to be introduced to some of the villagers.

Henrietta glanced back at him with a smug smile as she and Laura walked out of the church together. “He’s not as handsome as George,” she said, “but he is handsome.”

Laura didn’t know how her friend could say so. With his dark good looks and commanding height, Mr. Archer fairly put George in the shade. To Laura’s mind, there was no comparison at all. “Are you considering marrying him?”

Henrietta’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Marriage? My goodness, Laura. The things you say.”

“Well?”

Squire Talbot’s barouche was waiting ahead, the coachman seated on the box, and a footman poised to open the door for his mistress.

“He hasn’t asked me,” Henrietta said. “I’ve only known him a week.”

“A week in which you’ve been in his company every single day.”

“As have you,” Henrietta returned. “And you’re not in expectation of a proposal.”

“I’ve seen more of George, of late, than I have of Mr. Archer.”

It was the truth. Since Mr. Archer had turned his attentions to Henrietta, Laura had been thrust into George’s company far more than she cared to be. Granted, things between them were a little easier. But she didn’t trust George. There was a furtive sort of restlessness about him. As if he were counting the seconds until he could get away from Lower Hawley and back to the depraved life he’d been living in town.

“Poor George,” Henrietta said with sigh. “He’s not the best company, is he? I expect he finds all the fresh air and outdoor activity a tedious ordeal.”

“It’s good for him,” Laura said. “Whether he likes it or not.”

“My feelings exactly.” Henrietta stopped not far from her father’s barouche. “I’m pleased that Mr. Archer enjoys the country. He’s very well suited to Lower Hawley, don’t you think?”

What Laura thought was that Mr. Archer would be well suited anywhere. She wondered how he really felt about their little village. How appealing would ruralizing be if there wasn’t the promise of a fortune at the end of it? Not very appealing at all, she suspected. “He’s certainly been game enough for all of the activities you’ve planned.”

“Yes, he’s very indulgent of my whims. And Papa approves of him, too. The two of them get on so well together.” Henrietta gave Laura a narrow glance. “Do you know, I thought he looked at you rather too much in the beginning. Now he looks at you not at all.”

“Mr. Archer?”

“I daresay he found you interesting at first. Even pretty.”

Laura recognized the sharp hint of jealousy in Henrietta’s tone. It instantly put her on her guard. She couldn’t afford to make an enemy of Henrietta Talbot. Especially not when she’d only just borrowed twenty pounds from her.

It was too much, but Henrietta had insisted.

“You will pay it back, of course,” she’d said. “Within a twelve-month, shall we say? At six percent interest?”

Laura’s stomach clenched just to think of it. She hadn’t expected that Henrietta would make her a gift of the money. She’d fully intended to pay it back, whatever the sum. But her friend’s businesslike attitude toward the request—speaking of payment terms and interest, and even requiring Laura to sign a note—had made Laura distinctly uneasy.

“Nonsense,” she said. “Mr. Archer is completely smitten with you.”

“Do you really think so?” Henrietta asked.

“I know it.” Laura felt like a liar and a fraud. Even worse, she felt like a poor friend. She should be warning Henrietta, not encouraging her. “But, Hen…”

“If you’re going to tell me that I know nothing about him, and that he may very well be a fortune hunter, you may save your breath to cool your porridge.” Henrietta resumed walking to the barouche. The footman opened the door for her and assisted her up into her seat. “I have it all well in hand, Laura.”

Laura stood at the arched iron gate at the edge of the church’s small graveyard. Carriages and smaller gigs of every type jockeyed for position on the road—some coachmen waiting to retrieve their masters and mistresses, and some attempting to leave with their occupants in tow.

Parishioners were still spilling out of the church. Sunday services with Mr. Wright were generally well attended, but this Sunday it seemed the entire village had turned out to celebrate George’s return—and to get a glimpse of the mysterious friend he’d brought back with him from London.

When Squire Talbot finally arrived at his barouche, ready to depart, he wasn’t alone. Mr. Archer was with him, smiling at whatever it was the squire was telling him.