Once Beloved Read Online Free PDF

Tavish had not given him an outright no; an alliance with the manufacturer could be the lifeblood they needed. Yet it could just as well prove disastrous, depending on too many variables. Would it be better to risk the ever-present threat of illness wiping out a flock or the stormy effects of a partner company’s whims and tribulations? Better they establish a strong web of multiple contacts than place all their eggs in one seemingly strong but uncertain basket. For that matter, Farley and Sons was still considering exporting Lanfield goods to the Americas. Still, it would be foolish to put all his stock in such lukewarm responses. Perhaps he could still salvage this trip on his last day; all it would take was one solid prospect. He took another swig of the excellent port, focusing on the richness of it coursing through his system, and settled into the plush armchair. Who had he yet to approach?
    â€œMr. Lanfield, I was pleased to see you on the club register today,” said an unfamiliar voice.
    Another prospect? He perked up, adjusted his damned cravat, and stood to meet the newcomer. When the attendant made the requisite introductions, it was easy to see why this man, Mr. Frederick Clarke, was the perfect balance for his self-assertive wife. He tensed. Mrs. Clarke had invited him to dine with them, and he’d sent his regrets claiming illness. It was, in a way, true. He had been sickened when he’d recognized Mrs. Martin. The very thought that he’d carried her in his arms sparked a roiling burn in his wame. He had been right to reject their invitation, but you never knew who might take offense.
    â€œPardon me, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mr. Clarke said. “Mrs. Clarke was quite disappointed that you could not come to dinner last evening, after all. She’s been concerned about your health ever since. It seemed like fate when I saw you were here. May I confirm that you are in good health and good spirits?” Mr. Clarke pulled a chair close and sank into it comfortably. His manner seemed easy and undemanding.
    â€œYes, thank you,” he replied, relaxing back into his seat. What else could he say? No, not at all. Good spirits are nowhere to be found. I am failing utterly. “It was a passing ailment. You may assure your considerate wife that I am well today.”
    â€œConsiderate is quite a nice way of putting it,” Mr. Clarke responded jovially “She’s perpetually meddlesome, but she has the heart of a lion and the soul of a saint. I find my life is more comfortable and orderly when I do whatever she tells me to do. When she puts her mind to something, it is inevitably the right course, and one would do well not to deviate from it.”
    â€œWell, as I said, I am quite fine so there is no need for her concern.”
    He could still picture Helena Thorton—Mrs. Martin now, he should remember—before he walked away from her that day at the Crystal Palace. A vulnerable, helpless woman whose first thoughts upon waking were her children. Knowing who she was brought a bitter taste to his mouth. She’d aged, of course, but not enough to satisfy him. She ought to look like one of Macbeth ’s gnarled witches, her outside matching her base and ugly spirit. No one with a soul could live with bringing about the ruin of her village. He’d never in his life do a woman harm, but he could wish he hadn’t noticed her distress, to begin with. As if this trip weren’t enough of a dismal failure, meeting that viper again made London a new level of hell.
    Another attendant arrived at the table to refill their drinks, and he frowned at the direction his thoughts had taken. His collar felt too tight, but he couldn’t loosen it here. How could he still hold such sharp, boiling anger over a woman who was ultimately a stranger now? What did it matter that she looked normal, that she looked sedate and well-fed and secure? Water under the bridge.