begun milling around the refreshments, Miles cornered him. “Fitz, what did you do?”
“I invited your parents,” Fitz said, sipping blithely at his champagne and doing his best to appear nonchalant despite the urge to hide his face in the cup.
“How?” Miles asked. “My father isn’t making much sense; he appears to believe that you heroically fought off a dozen men in order to rescue him.”
“That,” Fitz said, “is precisely what happened.”
Miles glowered. “What did you do?”
“I think we should discuss this after the guests have left,” Fitz said, having mostly surrendered by now to the urge to hide behind his cup.
Miles continued glowering at him, so Fitz retreated swiftly amongst his guests. He found that no one had very high standards for conversation from him on his wedding day, on account of most of them wanted to speak at him about how lovely they had found the ceremony, how beautiful Sarah’s appearance, and how lucky a bridegroom he was.
When at last the guests—most especially Lady Mathilda Loxley—had begun to depart, Fitz retired to his study and asked Mrs. Pellicott to send Mr. Rochester. As he waited, Fitz fretted over his papers, leaning against the desk and not allowing himself to pace.
Mr. Rochester was perfectly composed as he stepped through the door. Lord Loxley felt his heart flip over at the sight of the tall, well-dressed Mr. Rochester, looking more handsome than ever. Whatever misery and jealousy Miles felt was hidden behind a composed facade.
“Your bride is waiting for you,” Mr. Rochester said, advancing to stand in front of Lord Loxley. “And here you are hiding in your study.”
“I assure you that Sarah is otherwise occupied,” Lord Loxley said, flushing nervously as he struggled with how to begin, and ended up blurting out: “I wish to dissolve your contract of employment.”
He regretted it at once when he saw the flash of confused hurt cross Mr. Rochester’s face, and blustered onward in an attempt to explain, holding out the second document. “I’d like you to sign this, instead.”
Mr. Rochester took it, glancing it over in deepening puzzlement. “Fitz, what is this?”
“It’s a deed of ownership for Loxley Manor. Aunt Mathilda had the papers transferred into my name a week ago, and I had my solicitor draw this up a week ago. It’s already in your name. You need only to sign.” He moved the inkwell and pen to the front edge of the desk.
“Fitz,” Mr. Rochester repeated, looking befuddled. “You can’t—“
“I can. I have. I would have you manage Loxley Manor as you’ve been doing, but I would have you do it in your own name, for a half share of the proceeds, as my equal.”
“You are being childishly reckless and naive,” Mr. Rochester said, shoving the paper against Lord Loxley’s chest. “This is an insult to your wife.”
“My wife is in full support of it. It is a parcel of the arrangement that Sarah and I have discussed. Would you like to see the rest of the papers we’ve drawn up? You’re aware that Sarah comes with a rather substantial dowry: we’ve arranged that only Sarah will ever have management of it, and if Sarah should die, it reverts to her sisters and their heirs. If I should die, the manor falls to you,” Lord Loxley said, providing him with the accompanying folio of papers. “You’ll notice that there is no provision for any offspring, as there is no possibility of ever having any.”
Mr. Rochester looked up confusedly at that.
“Sarah and I have an arrangement,” Lord Loxley said, “as I have been trying to tell you for this past month. Sarah shall never be anything more than a sister to me. She wishes very earnestly to never share a man’s bed nor to ever bear children, and I have gladly promised her that.”
Mr. Rochester’s brow had furrowed, and Lord Loxley could see that he was beginning to understand.
“Sarah and her sisters are downstairs now, in secret, making preparations for a
“I invited your parents,” Fitz said, sipping blithely at his champagne and doing his best to appear nonchalant despite the urge to hide his face in the cup.
“How?” Miles asked. “My father isn’t making much sense; he appears to believe that you heroically fought off a dozen men in order to rescue him.”
“That,” Fitz said, “is precisely what happened.”
Miles glowered. “What did you do?”
“I think we should discuss this after the guests have left,” Fitz said, having mostly surrendered by now to the urge to hide behind his cup.
Miles continued glowering at him, so Fitz retreated swiftly amongst his guests. He found that no one had very high standards for conversation from him on his wedding day, on account of most of them wanted to speak at him about how lovely they had found the ceremony, how beautiful Sarah’s appearance, and how lucky a bridegroom he was.
When at last the guests—most especially Lady Mathilda Loxley—had begun to depart, Fitz retired to his study and asked Mrs. Pellicott to send Mr. Rochester. As he waited, Fitz fretted over his papers, leaning against the desk and not allowing himself to pace.
Mr. Rochester was perfectly composed as he stepped through the door. Lord Loxley felt his heart flip over at the sight of the tall, well-dressed Mr. Rochester, looking more handsome than ever. Whatever misery and jealousy Miles felt was hidden behind a composed facade.
“Your bride is waiting for you,” Mr. Rochester said, advancing to stand in front of Lord Loxley. “And here you are hiding in your study.”
“I assure you that Sarah is otherwise occupied,” Lord Loxley said, flushing nervously as he struggled with how to begin, and ended up blurting out: “I wish to dissolve your contract of employment.”
He regretted it at once when he saw the flash of confused hurt cross Mr. Rochester’s face, and blustered onward in an attempt to explain, holding out the second document. “I’d like you to sign this, instead.”
Mr. Rochester took it, glancing it over in deepening puzzlement. “Fitz, what is this?”
“It’s a deed of ownership for Loxley Manor. Aunt Mathilda had the papers transferred into my name a week ago, and I had my solicitor draw this up a week ago. It’s already in your name. You need only to sign.” He moved the inkwell and pen to the front edge of the desk.
“Fitz,” Mr. Rochester repeated, looking befuddled. “You can’t—“
“I can. I have. I would have you manage Loxley Manor as you’ve been doing, but I would have you do it in your own name, for a half share of the proceeds, as my equal.”
“You are being childishly reckless and naive,” Mr. Rochester said, shoving the paper against Lord Loxley’s chest. “This is an insult to your wife.”
“My wife is in full support of it. It is a parcel of the arrangement that Sarah and I have discussed. Would you like to see the rest of the papers we’ve drawn up? You’re aware that Sarah comes with a rather substantial dowry: we’ve arranged that only Sarah will ever have management of it, and if Sarah should die, it reverts to her sisters and their heirs. If I should die, the manor falls to you,” Lord Loxley said, providing him with the accompanying folio of papers. “You’ll notice that there is no provision for any offspring, as there is no possibility of ever having any.”
Mr. Rochester looked up confusedly at that.
“Sarah and I have an arrangement,” Lord Loxley said, “as I have been trying to tell you for this past month. Sarah shall never be anything more than a sister to me. She wishes very earnestly to never share a man’s bed nor to ever bear children, and I have gladly promised her that.”
Mr. Rochester’s brow had furrowed, and Lord Loxley could see that he was beginning to understand.
“Sarah and her sisters are downstairs now, in secret, making preparations for a
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