“I’m starting to feel that way,” I said. I lowered my trunk to the floor, then looked at the stairs. “Where is everyone?”
Uncle Jalil winced, again. “The majority of the servants were laid off, or chose to work elsewhere,” he said. “Only a handful remained.”
I stared at him. “They were laid off?”
“Yes.” Uncle Jalil sounded as if he would sooner be talking about something - anything - other than this. “They were let go.”
“I see,” I said. I didn’t, not really. “Uncle ... what about the family?”
“Most of them moved out,” Uncle Jalil said. “The remainder are largely concentrated in the backhouse. Your father didn’t like them hanging around. He didn’t trust them. He thought they were plotting against him. I think he only trusted me because I was his brother-in-law, not an actual brother. He knew I couldn’t rule the family.”
I shook my head slowly. “Uncle ... is there something to drink?”
Uncle Jalil laughed, humourlessly. “Come with me.”
I followed him down a corridor and into what had once - probably - been a waiting room for the servants. I took a seat and watched as he heated water with a spell, then poured it into two mugs and added tea leaves. It was the sort of simple task most aristocrats would delegate to a servant. I knew girls of aristocratic stock who’d be horrified at the mere thought of brewing their own tea, let alone brushing their own hair or cooking their own food. I supposed boarding school had done something for me. I was far better prepared to look after myself than one of those shrinking violets.
“I’m afraid the budget doesn’t run to alcohol,” Uncle Jalil said, as he passed me a steaming mug. “And besides, as your uncle, I can’t serve alcohol to you anyway.”
“I have never so much as touched a drop,” I lied. Actually, one of the girls had smuggled in a bottle of farmhouse whiskey for a midnight feast. It had tasted so vile that I’d sworn off the stuff from that moment on. The banging headache the following morning, when we’d had a charms test, hadn’t helped. “Uncle ... what happened?”
“It’s a long story,” Uncle Jalil said. “Where do you want me to start?”
“At the beginning,” I said. My patience was beginning to wear thin. “What. Happened?”
Uncle Jalil let out a long breath. “Your father was a very imaginative man,” he said, in a tone that suggested it wasn’t entirely a compliment. “He’d hoped to repair the family fortunes, which were already flagging when he married your mother, and put them on solid ground. Instead, he had a run of bad luck. Some of his investments flopped, while others failed to make a profit. We were staggering along when the House War broke out. It crippled us.”
My eyes narrowed. “Uncle ... we didn’t take part in the House War.”
“Not directly,” Uncle Jalil agreed. “It didn’t save us. We’d invested heavily on opening new trade routes to Minima and Hangchow. The fighting destroyed our warehouses and wiped out any chance of us recovering our investment, let alone making a profit. Your father did everything he could to conceal it, but the writing was firmly on the wall. He spent the last six years, ever since Razwhana died, trying to save the family.”
“He sent me away,” I said. I felt another pang. I missed my mother too. “Why?”
“I believe he feared you might be dragged down with him,” Uncle Jalil said. “The blunt truth, Lucy, is that the only reason he kept his post was that no one else wanted it. He didn’t listen to the conclave - or me, really. They didn’t try to vote him out because that would have left them holding the bag.”
“And so they all inched away,” I said, slowly. I sipped my tea as I tried to think. “I ... didn’t you try to tell him? I thought you were an accountant!”
“I am,” Uncle Jalil said. “Yes, I did try to tell him. He didn’t listen. He just went ahead with zany scheme after zany scheme until he finally died and left you holding the bag. As your uncle” - his eyes met mine - “my honest advice is to decline the poisoned chalice he’s left you and leave the city for good.”
“I can’t do that,” I said, shocked. “I ...”
“I know.” Uncle Jalil looked away. “And I am sorry.”
Chapter Five
There was hardly anyone at my father’s funeral.
I stood beside Uncle Jalil and pretended to listen as the speaker - Uncle Isfahan, my father’s oldest surviving relative - droned on and on about my father’s accomplishments to a handful of people who’d probably come to make sure my father was truly dead. Uncle Jalil had suggested hiring professional mourners, but one look at the account books - the ones carefully hidden from everyone else - had been enough to convince me we couldn’t afford them. Besides, everyone would know. I couldn’t help wondering, as my eyes swept from side to side, if it really mattered. House Lamplighter was collapsing. We had so little, the vultures weren’t even bothering to circle.
My heart sank as I surveyed the mourners. Twelve people, just twelve ... two of them servants and three more family members who practically had to attend. House Lamplighter had once commanded small armies of kin and enough wealth to corrupt a small city, but now ... I picked out the names and faces, silently noting who’d been kind enough to attend. I’d make the others pay, I vowed to myself. They should have attended. It was their duty.
The speaker finally droned to a halt and raised his hand, pointing at the pyre. I forced myself to watch as my father’s body caught fire, the remnants of magic within his dead flesh sparking brightly as the flames turned him to ash. His soul was long gone; he’d joined the ancients in the world of the honoured dead. I shivered, my legs wobbling uncomfortably as the flames grew hotter. I wanted to believe there was something after death, even though I feared what my ancestors would say. To me, to my father ... The world had changed in so many ways since House Lamplighter first rose to power.
I closed my eyes. My father was dead ... I felt a gaping emptiness in my chest, a dull awareness that something was missing. I’d been taught that crying was bad, that giving vent to one’s emotions was wrong, but ... I’d been taught to conceal my pain, yet there was nothing to hide. I felt ... numb. I’d seen so little of my father since birth that it was hard for me to feel anything. What had he been like, really? A kind man? A decent man? Or a monster? I just didn’t know.
The flames reached their peak, then abated as the remainder of the body crumpled to dust. The ashes would be picked up by the wind and swept over the garden, an offering to the ancestors who’d built the manor so long ago. I wondered, grimly, what they thought of us now. They had to be ashamed. I’d never truly realised how badly my family had gone downhill until I returned home.
No wonder the healers were so determined to ensure it really was father’s body, I thought, dully. I’d read the reports carefully, noting just how thoroughly they’d done their work. They must have wondered if he’d faked his death.
I swallowed, hard. I’d sneaked into the crypt to view the body, even though tradition insisted that the Heir Primus was supposed to pretend her successor had never really lived. The Head of the Family was dead; long live the Head of the Family. The face had been that of a stranger, a face so unlike mine that it was hard to believe we’d been related, much less father and daughter. I had his colouring - and his eyes, I’d been told - but the rest of my features came from my mother. I supposed that wasn’t entirely a bad thing. My mother had been a beauty in her day, everyone insisted. And my father had had a beard.
Uncle Jalil put his hand on my arm. “Do you want to speak to the mourners?”
I shook my head, unable to put my feelings into words. My father was dead ... my thoughts ran in circles. I wondered, sourly, just how many of the mourners had come to make sure my father truly was dead. I’d heard all the jokes, back when they’d been funny ... I supposed it said something that so few people had come to make sure of it. My father had lived and died without making many friends, let alone enemies who’d come to gloat. I wasn’t sure if I should be re
lieved or discomfited. House Lamplighter had once been amongst the powerful. Now ... how many of us were even left?
The wind picked up, scattering the ashes across the overgrown lawn. I lifted my eyes to the mansion, silently calculating everything that needed to be fixed before the building crumbled into ruin. My ancestors really knew how to build, I’d been assured, but even the greatest of the Great Houses needed proper maintenance from time to time. There was no choice. The walls might be solid, and charmed to repel everything from subtle scrying to powerful curses, but the windows and interiors were far less so. We might be left with nothing more than a framework if the rest of the building collapsed. I counted windows that needed to be replaced and shuddered. I’d been taught that putting on a good face was half of making a good impression. My father had clearly forgotten that lesson.
It was relatively cheap to shower, put on makeup and don a fancy dress, I reminded myself, dryly. Fixing everything wrong with the mansion would be a great deal more expensive.
My heart sank. I’d donned mourning garb for the funeral - it was tradition, no one would say a peep about it - but I didn’t have anything else to wear. I snorted with bitter amusement. There were entire wardrobes of clothes that could be adjusted to fit, but they weren’t remotely fashionable. I’d be mocked if I wore a dress from last season, let alone the last hundred years. People would say I couldn’t afford anything better. They’d be right. Perhaps I could claim it was a family tradition ... the thought lingered in my mind. It was doable. If I made a show of wearing my father’s styles ...
And then people would be shocked I wore trousers, I thought. There’s no way to win.
I heard the mourners leaving, Uncle Jalil bidding them a polite farewell, but I didn’t look around. We were supposed to host a feast for the mourners, but - as I wasn’t technically confirmed as Matriarch - we could skip the requirement without exciting too much comment. I rather suspected no one would care enough to comment. Twelve people, just twelve, had come to the funeral. The servants would be already heading back to their rooms ... I wondered, idly, if they’d hold a private wake for their former master. Kate had told me servants and commoners had their own traditions and rituals. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but it was nice to think that someone would have held a formal ceremony for father ...
A tingle ran down my spine. I’d spent the last six years in boarding school. I’d learnt to tell when someone was sneaking up on me, either to slap me on the back or hit me with a particularly nasty hex. I tensed, readying a counterspell as I turned. A young man - a few years older than me, with an artfully bland face - stood behind me. His eyes were firmly fixed on my face. He wore a fashionable suit, the kind of outfit that would be worn by an aristocrat who dabbled in trade, but the way he wore it suggested he hadn’t grown up with high fashion. I felt a flicker of envy. There was something to be said for a childhood that didn’t include endless etiquette and presentation lessons. Or an environment where the slightest mistake would be remembered and dragged up to be used against you years later.
“Lady Lamplighter?”
I nodded as I studied him. He was handsome, I supposed, but ... bland, definitely bland. He had a very forgettable face, neither striking nor ugly enough to linger in my memory. His suit hadn’t been professionally tailored either. It fitted him well, but not perfectly. A commoner pretending to be an aristocrat? Or an aristocrat who’d fallen on hard times? I suspected the former. His accent was perfect enough to suggest he was hiding something. A lower-class accent? It was quite likely.
“I am Clive,” he said. “I speak for Zadornov.”
He spoke the name as though it should mean something to me, but it didn’t. I’d never heard of Zadornov, even though I’d been warned to memorise everyone of importance within the city. I was out of touch, but ... if Zadornov was important, I’d have heard of him. I’d heard of a great many people who thought they were important too.
I met his eyes, feeling my temper start to fray. “And who is Zadornov?”
Clive’s eyes widened, just for a second. “A businessman,” he said. His voice was polite, but firm. “Your father owes him money.”
“My father is dead,” I said. I waved a hand at what remained of the ashes. “Dead and gone.”
“The fact remains, the debt is now due,” Clive said. “My master wishes to discuss repayment.”
“Does he?” I groaned, inwardly. “My father’s secondary will has yet to be read. If you feel you have a claim on his personal estate ...”
“Your father signed agreements, in his persona as Patriarch,” Clive said. “Those debts have to be honoured.”
I felt a stab of pure anger. I’d just watched my father's cremation. I hadn’t even started coming to terms with his death, let alone working my way through the account books. I didn’t know what my father owned, either personally or professionally, and I didn’t much care. I had too many other problems.
“Your father owes my master money,” Clive said. I thought I heard a hint of amusement in his voice. “The original sum, combined with interest, is over two thousand crowns.”
I blinked. “Two thousand crowns?”
“Yes,” Clive agreed. “The original sum was a thousand crowns. Combined with interest ...”
“A ruinous rate of interest,” Uncle Jalil said, as he came up behind us. “I saw the paperwork, young man. The interest rate was so high because it was a personal loan to Lord Lucas, not a family loan. It cannot be passed to his heir.”
Clive shifted, moving uncomfortably. It dawned on me, suddenly, that he was quite young. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five, perhaps younger. And yet ... I cursed my father under my breath, even though it was technically blasphemy. What had he done?
“If you have a legal claim on any part of my father’s estate,” I said, “you have to put it in writing before the will is read and approved. That’ll be in three days from now.”
“I will inform my master.” Clive bowed, formally. “A pleasure meeting you, Lady Lamplighter.”
He turned and hurried off. I watched him until he’d passed through the gates, then turned to Uncle Jalil. “Who’s Zadornov?”
“A loan shark.” Uncle Jalil shifted uncomfortably. “That’s a person who makes loans at ...”
“I know what a loan shark is,” I said, crossly. There’d been a couple of girls at school who’d made a tidy profit by loaning money to their fellow students, then collecting it back with interest. “Why did father go to him?”
“Because he was short of money and no one was prepared to lend it to him,” Uncle Jalil informed me. “You can review the contract if you like.”
“I will.” I knew more than a little about inheritance law, but I was uncomfortably aware I was out of my depth. Father hadn’t just been my father. He’d been the Patriarch of House Lamplighter. The contract might be vague on precisely who was liable for the debt, if he died ... I scowled. It was going to be a legal headache. How many of father’s possessions had really been his? “Uncle ...”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Uncle Jalil said. “You have company.”
I raised my eyebrows as Ellington, the butler, walked up to us. He was a tall dark man, wearing a simple black suit. I couldn’t recall him ever wearing anything else, even when I’d been a child. His family had worked for ours for generations, the older children going into service as soon as they came of age ... I wondered, suddenly, if they were really as happy as they claimed. As a child, I’d never questioned it. As an adult ...
“My Lady,” Ellington said. His voice was formal, as always. “I grieve with thee for thy father, who is now amongst the ancestors.”
“I thank you,” I said, equally formally. There weren’t many people, even amongst the aristos, who used the old terms. “May the Ancients welcome you as well.”
Ellington bowed. “It will be my honour to serve you,” he said. “And I bid thee welcome to thy home.”
I nodded, unsure of the formal response. “I’v
e not been confirmed yet.”
“This is your home,” Ellington said. “It will always be your home.”
He bowed again, then took his leave. I shook my head as he turned away, understanding - finally - what my tutors had meant when they’d lectured me on noblesse oblige. Ellington was old enough to be my grandfather - literally - but I was responsible for him. And his family. And all of the other servants. My heart sank as I remembered walking the halls, remembering how many servants had once lived and worked in Lamplighter Hall. Now ... how many were there? Five. Just five, one of whom was too old to work. They were my responsibility now. I couldn’t just kick them out to starve.
Ellington could probably get a job elsewhere, I thought, although I wasn’t sure that was true. The Great Houses preferred to hire their kin for the senior household roles, regarding them as more trustworthy than outsiders. The others ...
“That man is more loyal than your father ever realised,” Uncle Jalil said, quietly. “Lucas always took him for granted.”
The Lady Heiress (The Zero Enigma Book 8) Page 5