The Arrangement by Joan Wolf

enormous wealth. We have all heard that tale more often than we care to, I can assure you of that.”
    Albert Cole was not insulted. “You can’t bamboozle me, Lady Regina,” he said. “You and that genius husband of yours would be mighty happy to have my money, I can tell you that.”
    Lady Regina’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and she began to open her mouth.
    Before she could speak, however, John Melville cut in. “Gervase would just spend it trying to make a more powerful telescope, or something like that. Money means nothing to a man like Gervase Austen, Cole.”
    Mr. Cole’s little, light eyes shone like twin lamps in the darkened flesh that surrounded them. “Money never means nothing, Mr. Melville,” he said.
    All of the Melvilles sitting around the table looked politely incredulous.
    I had met many men like Mr. Cole in my time—they were the mainstays of my client list—and I thought I understood far better than the aristocratic Melvilles the frame of reference from which a man like Albert Cole operated.
    Yes, he was a boor. Yes, he was rude and unpolished. But it was a fact that he had been born into bitter poverty and that he had made himself a fortune with nothing but his wits and his hard work to sustain him.
    In one thing, certainly, Albert Cole was right and the Melvilles were wrong: Money can only mean nothing to those who have it.
    The butler came to stand behind the earl and murmur softly, “Have you finished, my lord?”
    “Yes, I think so, Powell. You may remove the cloth and set out the sweet.”
    To my astonishment, that is precisely what the servants did. The table was cleared and the cloth was removed to reveal another immaculately clean one beneath it. Clean glasses were set before each diner, along with dessert plates, knives, forks, and fresh napkins. A sweet wine was served for the ladies and decanters of claret and port were set before the earl.
    Then Powell set an immense apple pie upon the table.
    “Will you have some, Harriet?” the earl inquired courteously of the grieving widow.
    “Yes, thank you, Savile, I will,” she replied.
    Powell cut a piece, put it upon a plate, and gave the plate to one of the footmen, who brought it to Harriet. This procedure was then repeated for each of us at the table.
    Even though the pie looked wonderful, I declined. I had eaten a much larger dinner than I was accustomed to, and my stomach felt uncomfortably full.
    Throughout the rest of the dinner, the earl and John Melville talked determinedly about things that were going on around the estate. Everyone else was silent as they applied themselves to the pie.
    After the pie was finished, Lady Regina rose.
    “Shall we retire to the Little Drawing Room for tea, ladies?”
    Harriet and I stood up obediently, and the three ladies filed out, leaving the men to their port and their conversation.
    We did not return to the room where we had met before dinner, but went instead up the great stairs and into the comfortable-looking parlor that was the first room to the right of the Great Chamber. The walls of this room were covered in pale green damask and the armchairs were gilt beechwood with green velvet upholstery. A very pretty rosewood book cabinet with brass trellises along the glass front stood against the wall between two large, green-draped windows. A settee was placed at right angles to the fire, and Harriet sat upon it. She looked at me.
    Suddenly, I couldn’t face the thought of spending one more minute in her company.
    I said to Lady Regina, “I am so sorry, but I am truly exhausted from today’s journey. Please make my excuses to the gentlemen, but I am going to say good night now and go to bed.”
    “Oh, don’t leave us to our own company, Mrs. Saunders,” Lady Regina said, and the look she gave me was heartfelt.
    I was not inclined toward mercy, however. “I would be no company at all, I assure you.” I looked toward the settee. “Good night, Lady Devane.”
    “Oh, good night,”