Page 77 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

After the first week, Clem fancied he was starting to get the measure of things at the house on Juniper Row. It was a household full of eccentrics, he realized. The four-storey townhouse was well appointed but largely neglected. There had been money at one point, from what he could gather, their late uncle had brought the place with the insurance payout from their parents’ death. That was probably the plumpest in pocket the old man had ever been, especially since he started sinking everything into The Parthenon.

Presumably, that short period of affluence was when Uncle Barnabus had paid for the wallpapers, rugs, and curtains, which though now showing signs of wear, were of undeniably good quality. Likely the fancier pieces of the furniture too, though they were about fifty years out of fashion. These were mostly found in the front parlor or in the dining room, whereas other parts of the house were threadbare and sparsely furnished.

Her idiot brother and Allsop barely seem to notice the freezing cold house or how rude their housekeeper frequently was to them. So long as they did not have to order the coal or prepare the food, they seemed willing to put up with all manner of discomfort. Sure, they would grumble, but then turn a blind eye from what Clem could make out.

At mealtimes, none of the other occupants of Number 6 barely seemed to concentrate on eating at all. Now the formalities were done with, and his presence accepted, books were brought to table and pen and paper for sudden inspiration. Allsop’s fingers sometimes ran absently over the edge of the table as if his fingers were playing notes. Fields wore a velvet smoking jacket and read extracts loudly from whatever play he was reading at the time, underlining passages with significant looks or a “Hah!” or a “You’ll like this one” and then he would launch into a recitation and everyone would listen attentively.

Dora seemed to find nothing amiss with this behavior and Clem suspected that, before his installation, she must have behaved in a similar manner, perhaps planning her next bizarre outfit or cutting out pattern pieces between courses.

If a bowl of apples was laid out on the table in the parlor, they would eat them one after the other, but for the most part, Clem fancied they only seemed to notice their hunger when there were means of assuaging it at hand. Once the initial awkwardness of his arrival was out of the way, everyone seemed to accept him readily enough as a fixture in the house.

Mrs. Cherwell was the only one who seemed to continue regarding him through suspicious eyes whenever she thought he was not attending, but as she frequently snubbed both Fields and Allsop altogether, Clem was not so sure he had cause for complaint.

She made so many sarcastic and pointed comments about “hoping folks would be satisfied with her poor efforts” while thumping down dishes that Clem started to wonder if that was why his brother-in-law and Harold Allsop hid behind their books at table. He was half tempted to bring his own, though he was no reader by habit.

To Dora, Mrs. Cherwell could not be more attentive. Ignoring her married status, she addressed her exclusively as “Miss Theodora” and sought her approval alone in household matters. She reinstated the delivery of coal every Tuesday and the baker, the butcher, and many others besides. She also kept a tolerably well-stocked pantry, so Clem found that other than supplying a purse of monies for this purpose, he was not obligated to do anything else.

He contented himself instead with buying treats to tempt Dora with and setting them strategically either in their bedroom or in their sitting room. He watched her carefully to see which way her tastes ran, and it seemed to him that she had a decidedly sweet tooth.

If she did not like something, a brief expression of displeasure would pass over her face, then her expression would turn carefully blank, and she would cautiously eat it anyway. If she liked something, she would sit up, examine the label, and then carefully ration herself to make it last. He started to wonder if their uncle indulged them when in funds but otherwise stinted them on luxuries.

Clem glanced over at the sofa a couple of evenings later, where Theo was lying wrapped in a ratty old velvet dressing gown and a pair of knitted socks that looked like rotting cabbage leaves. She had also, to his distraction, carried on taking out her false ringlets whenever it was just the two of them alone and his strange preoccupation with her shorn head and neck still persisted.

He could not tear his eyes away from the pale column of her throat, rising out of the strange bronze robe she wore, the way her dark hair waved away from her brow. He wanted to draw her all of a sudden. It was an old hobby and one he had not indulged in for years. Not since he had left school. His fingers itched to commit those features to paper.

To Clem’s irritation, she barely seemed to notice his frequent gazes. She was too busy scribbling away in her damned notebook with a dreamy look in her eye. He had a nasty suspicion it was new lines for her turn, the date of which they had still not negotiated.

Partly to distract himself and partly to drag her away from her fruitless occupation, he stated, “Those are the most hideous socks I have had the misfortune to lay eyes on.”

“They are extremely warm though,” Dora said glancing down at them, as if unsure which socks he was maligning.

Clem sent her a withering look. “Should I add more coal to the fire?” This was nonsense, as the fire was a roaring blaze, and after glancing at it and then back at him, Dora reached down and slipped off her socks.

“I shall take them off if they offend you so much,” she offered with a small smile. She had beautiful feet with a lovely arch to them; her toes tapered off to show well-shaped nails of perfect proportion. Stuffing such feet into those ugly socks was practically a crime, he decided.

Theo gave a sudden exclamation, and he looked up from her feet to her face questioningly. She was gazing down at the box of cherries dipped in brandy and dark chocolate with a horror-stricken look on her face. “Clem, I’ve eaten a whole tier of your fancy sweets!” she blurted out, guiltily. “I’m so sorry; I will be sure to replace them the first chance I get—”

He shrugged. “I bought them for you.”

“For me?” She sat up, blinking, a rosy color filling her face. “Did you really?” Her voice was husky with surprise, and it made parts of him perk up that had no business doing so. He watched the stunned expression on her face as her eyes poured over the fancy box embellished with lavender ribbon.

You would almost think no one had ever thought to buy her a box of sweets before. The realization made his breath catch in his throat as he watched her carefully lift the box to her chest and press it there, as though embracing it.

“Can I keep the box?” she asked, still in a hushed manner.

“You can do whatever you like with it,” he answered. “It’s yours.”

Carefully she replaced the lid and carried it over to the display case, placing it in a position of prominence before returning to the sofa, walking backwards so she could keep her eyes trained on it as she sank back onto her seat.

Clem watched her with a faint frown on his face. “Aren’t you going to eat the rest?” he asked.

“Oh no! I shall savor them. Just one or two per evening to make them last.”

“Why?” He shrugged. “There’s four more boxes in the cupboard and I shall buy you some more soon enough.”

Theo’s head whipped around, and she stared at him. “You will buy me some more?” she repeated.

“Yes.”