CHAPTER 4

“G ood Lord, Bennett,” Cary mocked as he opened the door and

admitted Christopher into the familiar parlor. “Late again? For your

next birthday, I'm buying you a pocket watch.” This time he offered

a glass of hot, spiced wine, perfect for a chilly evening.

“Sorry, Cary. I've been busy lately,” Christopher replied, cradling the warm

beverage in his icy hands as he took his customary seat on the sofa. He had lost

his gloves somewhere and was freezing. “Father and I are making several

improvements to the machines at the cotton mill. We don’t dare risk another injury to one of our workers. Thank the Lord Mr. Smythe recovered quickly.”

Cary nodded.

“Where's Colin tonight?” Christopher asked. While he liked Cary well

enough in a group, he was not as close a friend as Colin, whom Christopher had

known since childhood.

“Meeting with a potential creditor,” Cary replied grimly. “The tenant houses

on his estate are falling into ruin. He's hoping to get a loan to improve the buildings so people will stay and work the land.”

“I must say, the aristocracy's in trouble,” Christopher commented.

“They are,” Cary agreed. “Poor Colin. He's too stubborn to admit defeat.”

“What choice does he have?” Christopher asked.

“None,” Cary agreed, “but the land on his estate is so overworked, he'll never

grow enough to earn a profit. As it is, he can barely pay his taxes, let alone the

debts his ancestors incurred.”

Both friends shook their heads at their friend's woes.

“So, what did you find to read tonight?” Christopher asked, changing the

subject.

Cary grinned and swallowed his mouthful of wine. “Well, I recall you

enjoyed the first Browning poem, so I found you another.”

“Lovely,” Christopher said sarcastically. “What's this one called?”

“‘My Last Duchess.’” Cary replied, waving his familiar folio.

“Good Lord, the nobility again? All right, let's hear it,” Christopher urged.

So, Cary read it, and then he looked at his friend, puzzled. “What happened?

I don't understand.”

Christopher shook his head. “He killed his wife.”

“How on earth do you know that?” Cary demanded.

Christopher crossed to his friend's spot on the armchair and indicated the line

with one finger. “Right here. Look. ‘I gave commands/Then all smiles stopped together.’”

Cary regarded the paper with lips drawn downward and eyebrows nearly

meeting. Then he raised his head, his expression stony. “He killed her for smiling too much? That's just unrealistic. No one would do such a thing.”

Again, uncomfortable awareness rose in Christopher. “Do you really believe

every woman who is abused has earned it with bad behavior?”

“Well, no, but for smiling?” Cary said incredulously. “And who's the old man

telling this to?”

“To the representative of the woman he wants to marry. See the reference to

a dowry?” Christopher pointed again.

“Good Lord.” Cary shook his head. “I don't like this Browning fellow at all.”

“Why?” Christopher demanded. “Because he wants us to think and not

merely enjoy pretty words? There are women everywhere who are treated

terribly. Remember the sister of that fellow we knew at Oxford?” Good Lord, man, you're a vicar. You should be telling me these things.

“Which one?” Cary demanded.

“Williams. Her husband beat her, remember? It was so bad she miscarried.

Then Williams hunted him down and beat him.”