The cottage seemed to be empty, the small plot of garden attached to it overgrown, and no smoke emerging from its chimneys. He'd expected to hear hens, for the old gardener had always kept several, and supplied the house with eggs, but there was no cheerful cackling to be heard. No doubt there was a new man there, perhaps without a wife, but he would insist he maintained his own garden properly. He pushed on through a small grove of trees, noting how the undergrowth had been permitted to spread. Had the Earl not cared? Or had he been too old to inspect his property, and been taken advantage of? That, he vowed, would soon change, especially if, as he hoped, he would soon be bringing Fanny Holbeck, and her fortune, here as his bride.
He emerged onto the edge of the lake and took his first look at the Priory. He blinked. Had he come to the wrong place? It could not be! There was no other house he knew which had so many different architectural styles. But this house was smothered with ivy, several of the windows were broken, and a chimney and part of the roof at one end had fallen in. The grass in front, which had once been a smooth lawn sloping down to the lake, was rank, and the few sheep scattered about were doing little to keep it in order.
Silas felt a sudden surge of rage. Had the old Earl cared so little for his son's inheritance he had not bothered to keep up the property? Or, more likely, had the people left in charge, the lawyer mostly, been negligent? This was no place to bring Fanny. He turned his horse and set cruel spurs into his sides. He would see Mr Sopwith as soon as he returned to Ludlow, and find out what had been going on.
*
Lady Charlotte and Amanda were paying a morning visit to Lady Charlotte's daughter Barbara, where they found her neighbour, a widow recently returned from India, and her daughter Fanny. Mrs Holbeck, it seemed, lived next door to Barbara in Park Street.
Barbara's daughter Jane had been presented the previous year, become engaged to a very eligible man with a minor title, and had come to London to prepare for her wedding. Amanda, who had known Jane when they were children, wanted to know all about it, and the three girls soon withdrew to some chairs near the window.
Amanda was wearing one of her new gowns, in a delicate shade of pink with embroidery in a deeper shade, but she looked enviously at Jane's more sophisticated gown of amber silk trimmed with ruffles and lace. Fanny was still wearing one of her grey half-mourning gowns, and Amanda hoped her mother would soon provide her with gowns that were less childish and suited her dark prettiness better. She would, Amanda considered, be able to wear brighter colours than Aunt Charlotte was permitting her.
'Papa wanted me to get married in the local church in Devon,' Jane told them, 'but Mama said it would be easier for all our friends to attend if we had it here, in Hanover Square.'
'Are you enjoying buying all your bride clothes,' Amanda asked, thinking of the vast amount of clothes she was buying for her Season. If, and she blushed at the thought, she herself were to be married in a year's time, would she need to buy lots more?
'Most have been bought, and made,' Jane said, 'but I will be buying material that can be made up for me next year, or perhaps for the Little Season if we come to London then.'
'Gerard brought some lovely silks and muslins back from India,' Fanny said shyly. 'I'm sure he'd love to show them to you.'
'Did he? Were they for you, or is he betrothed?' Jane asked.
'He's a trader. My father had a large trading business, importing Indian and other goods, and since he died my brother has had to take it over. He had to leave the army and come back to England.'
Jane looked puzzled.
'But did he have to become a trader himself? Men don't always join their father's business. None of my uncles did.'
'He felt he had to, in order to keep the business going, to provide for me and Mama. What is your grandfather's business?'
'Everything he thinks will be profitable!' Jane laughed. 'He has mines and mills and ships and – oh, a dozen other things. But he set all my uncles up in their own businesses.'
Amanda nodded. 'Lucien told me,' she said, and turned to Fanny. 'From what my brother says he asked the sons what they most wanted to have, what sort of business they thought they would like to control, and bought them, then said that was their inheritance and they must do what they could with it. I think one has a coal mine in Leicestershire, another a clay mine in Cornwall.'
'Yes,' Jane said. 'There's a woollen mill in Halifax and a cotton mill in Preston, and an iron works somewhere. Then a fishing fleet in Norfolk, but the one that was most odd, according to Papa, was the school for young boys.'
'Heavens, how many uncles do you have?' Fanny asked.
'Seven, and there were five daughters too. Mama says it's fortunate he didn't do the same with the girls, or she'd have been a fashionable modiste, or the owner of an hotel in Bath or Cheltenham. But he said the girls had to be ladies, and marry well. They all did, naturally, because they had such enormous dowries,' she added. 'Much more than my portion, but I love Douglas, and he has plenty of money, so that's all right.'
'Do girls need large portions to make good marriages?' Fanny asked, looking rather apprehensive. 'I don't know what Gerard plans for me.'
'You need not,' Jane said, and eyed Fanny critically. 'It's the task of your father or guardian to manage that, but you are so pretty you'll have dozens of suitors as soon as you begin going to balls and parties.'
Fanny blushed and shook her head.
'I don't know what Mama is going to do. She says it won't be possible to be ready for several weeks.'
Jane was horrified.
'But the Season will be half over by then! You can't afford to wait.'
'I know, but we don't know many people in London, as we've been away for years and years. Besides, Mama hates going to parties, and she says big ones, like balls, give her bad headaches and all she can bear to do is lie in a dark room with pads soaked in lavender water over her eyes. I'll often only be able to go if Gerard can escort me, and he'll be too busy most of the time.'
'If neither he nor she cannot escort you, you must come with us,' Amanda said impulsively. She felt sorry for Fanny. Her mother sounded selfish and uncaring. Did she want Fanny to marry, or to remain with her as some unfortunate girls were compelled to do, becoming no more than servants of demanding mothers. 'Aunt Charlotte won't mind. And surely you can acquire a few gowns immediately? Especially if you have silks and muslins already.'
'And since Fanny is so dark and you are fair-haired, you'll be good contrasts for each other,' Jane said, eyeing them judiciously. 'I'll hazard you'll both be buying your bride clothes by this time next year. Did I tell you about my new riding habit? It's a dark green, and has epaulettes like the soldiers have, and gold braiding down the front and on the sleeves, and I've a simply delightful shako hat to match.'
*
Silas glared at Mr Sopwith, bewildered and furious.
'What the devil do you mean, there's no money? The Earl, my father, was extremely wealthy, and there must be plenty of money from what's in the Funds, and rents from his properties. And it's clear nothing has been spent on the Priory for decades.'
Mr Sopwith took off his spectacles and wiped them carefully on a handkerchief.
'The lack of money is, I'm afraid, your own fault my lord,' he said carefully. He was finding the new Earl a difficult man to deal with. He could understand the man's anger, but after all it had been his debts and other misdoings that had resulted in the Priory being in the state it was.
'Mine? Don't be ridiculous, man. I never had a penny once he sent us – me – to India. He didn't give me any allowance, said I had to manage once I got there, with that wretched position in the Company army he pushed me into.'
'You left considerable debts,' Mr Sopwith said quietly. 'Not only were there your gambling debts, which were enormous, you had not paid your tailor or any other of the tradesmen who supplied you for years, in Oxford or London.'
Silas frowned. He had no real idea how much John had owed, for he suspected the
man had not known the full sum himself.
'Chickenfeed!' he scoffed. 'My father was wealthy.'
Mr Sopwith shook his head slowly, picked up a paper from his desk and mentioned a sum which made Silas frown.
'I have the full sum of the gambling debts and the names of the tradesmen who were owed listed down here, with their accounts.'
Silas grabbed the paper and after a moment's perusal sneered and tossed it back onto the desk.
'That can't be true! These figures are false. I know what must have happened. People claimed I owed them, once I was on a ship and couldn't deny it, and my fool of a father believed them.'
'Your father was not so gullible!' Mr Sopwith was becoming increasingly angry on his late client's behalf, and it showed by his heightened colour, though he kept his voice steady. 'He obtained proof for every claim, from persons who had been present when the wager was made, or the others present at the gambling hells you frequented. That in itself, obtaining proof, cost a great deal, but your father,' he stressed the words, 'was an honourable man and could not endure to have his name dishonoured!'
'If you speak to me like that I'll take my business elsewhere,' Silas blustered. 'It's my belief you've been helping yourself instead of doing the best you could for my father.'
At this Mr Sopwith abandoned his efforts to remain cool and permitted his anger to show.
'That is slanderous, and if you repeat such allegations outside this room I will sue. That will take whatever is left of your inheritance, my lord!'
'We'll see about that.'
Mr Sopwith nodded, and picked up another paper.
'But there were not only the debts. And I need to warn you that had your father not cleared them, you would not be able to set foot in London now without having bailiffs after you. Besides, your father felt he had to recompense the family of the man you killed. There is no money left in the funds, and he had to sell every property apart from the Priory. That brings me to another problem. The remaining servants need to be pensioned off, and your father left legacies in his will which must be met, and there is no money to meet any but the smallest. The main one is the property the Earl left to your half-brother, Silas. It was sold some years ago, and Silas could claim the value. In which case the Priory itself would have to be sold. And in its present condition it will not fetch a great deal.'
'Well, you needn't be concerned about that. Silas is dead. He died just before we were to set sail.' And the value would become his mother's. Was she still alive, he wondered. 'And the servants can go to a poor house. I'm not going to be held responsible for them. What about the London house? That was rented, but I'll need it now, I mean to live there.'
'That was sold with all the rest.'
Silas breathed deeply. Things were far worse than he had imagined in his bleakest nightmares.
'Then sell the Priory, man, and quickly. Obtain what you can. I've no affection for the place, but I must have some blunt to live on.'
Almost all of the money he had brought from India had been spent. He'd depended on what he could find in the bank. It was a blow to lose the Priory, for the possession of a country estate was essential if he were to live the sort of life he had anticipated. There was still the possibility of finding an heiress, and while he had not entirely given up the notion of marrying pretty Fanny Holbeck, whose mother favoured him, her brother's attitude was not encouraging. In London, however, he would have more opportunities of seeing her without the fellow's protective presence when he would be busy in his counting-house.
As he walked away from the lawyer's office he was making plans for obtaining funds on which to live. What he still had would just pay his shot at The Feathers, and then he must replenish his purse.
*
CHAPTER 4
When Amanda, indignant on her new friend's behalf, told Lady Charlotte that Fanny might not be able to go to parties for several weeks, her aunt immediately said they must invite her to the small party she was giving the following week.
'Surely she will have at least one suitable gown by then? What in the world is her mother thinking of? Apart from other considerations most of the eligible men will have been fixing their interest on other girls by then.'
Amanda giggled. 'Her father was a merchant, so is her brother now. Will that be a disadvantage? My friend from school, Louise, said the high sticklers will not invite anyone in trade, as they call it, to their parties.'
'They may not, but if a girl has a respectable portion, and especially if she is pretty, there are plenty of men who will ignore her background.'
'Perhaps someone will fall in love with her. She is cetainly very pretty. And she is clever at sketching. She has done portraits of me and Jane, and drawings of people we have seen in the Park. I think it's odious for men to look first at a girl's fortune!'
'Perhaps. my love, but it is the way of the world.'
'Well, I won't marry anyone who just wants my fortune! But – ' she hesitated, 'how can I tell? I have received so many compliments already, and we have only been in town for a couple of weeks.'
'Lucien and I will make certain you are not being sought just for your money, Amanda. Which brings me to something I meant to say. How many times have you driven out with Sir Martin?'
Amanda looked guilty.
'Just twice. But he met me in the Park two days ago when I was walking with Jane and her maid, and stopped to talk. He was riding, but he dismounted to walk with us for a while, which I thought very considerate of him.'
'Indeed.' Her aunt's tone was amused. 'He's almost twenty years older than you, my love, and has a reputation for making up to heiresses. There are other men looking for girls with big dowries, too. We call them the gazetted fortune-hunters. Take care not to be seen in his company too often.'
'Would it damage my reputation?' Amanda sighed. There was so much to learn.
'It would not help it.' Lady Charlotte was uncompromising.
Amanda nodded. 'I don't really like him very much, Aunt. But is there a list of these men? When you say they are gazetted it sounds as though their names are published in a newssheet!' She giggled. 'Perhaps all debutantes should be given a copy!'
'If only that were possible. Or even if the chaperones might have such a list. There are more such men every Season, I think. It would make our task so much simpler!'
*
Silas, in his room at The Feathers, was morosely considering his next move. He might ride for Oxford, where he could find plenty of callow young men who would play cards with him. There would, however, still be tutors and college servants around who might recognise him, or remember that he and John had departed the university in something of a hurry, and know the reason. It would take longer, but he was in no haste to reach London, if he rode north to Shrewsbury and joined the old Roman road, Watling Street, that ran from Anglesey to London. It carried plenty of traffic, and much of that would be coming from Ireland. There would be soldiers, as well as Irish civilians who might be going to London for the Season. Many of these would be carrying large amounts of money, pay for the soldiers, and money for their expenses on the road. Besides, he thought, the Irish were a primitive race and probably did not trust banks, or had no banking facilities in England. If he could not relieve them of some of this money he was losing his touch.
He nodded. That would be best. He would take the horse he had hired in Ludlow, in order to ride out to the Priory. It would be cheaper than buying a ticket on the stage all the way to London. He would try to exchange it if he could find a suitable horse in a lonely field. Then when the animal was missed it would be more difficult to trace him. To confuse the trail still further he would sell that horse when he reached Shrewsbury and buy a different one. He wondered about paying a visit to the Priory one dark night, to see whether his mother were still alive, but he swiftly rejected the notion. She would never be able to keep the secret, and she would surely know his true identity. From what the lawyer had said she probably was still alive.
T
here were plenty of posting and other inns on the London road, and while the other travellers might be in a hurry to get to London, he could ride slowly so that new travellers would catch up with him, giving him fresh prospects all the time. If he did not win sufficient money to set himself up in London when he finally reached it he would know he had lost his touch.
Should he travel as the Earl of Escott, or incognito? Much as he was eager to puff off his new consequence, he decided eventually that a title would cause people to remember him more. He had not had time to replenish his wardrobe in London, and the clothes he had bought in India were, he discovered, old fashioned. He could not, yet, even afford to buy new hessians, and had been forced to have these repaired. Besides, they would expect an earl to travel in a carriage with servants. If, and it was unlikely, any of these people remembered and recognised him when he was in London, he would laugh and say he disliked pomp, and was accustomed to managing for himself. He might even say he had sent his servants on ahead to prepare for his arrival. That, however, would depend on what accommodation he could afford when he arrived in London. If he rented a set of rooms, he would need a valet, and to pay rent for the rooms, at least to begin with. Would it be cheaper to put up at an inn where everything could be put on the tab? He was so out of touch, but he would soon get his bearings once he reached London. And then, with better clothes, and as the Earl of Escott, he would look about him for an heiress.
*
Gerard picked up the invitation cards on the mantelpiece in his mother's drawing room.
'Good, I see you have begun to meet people. Has Fanny been able to buy all she needs?'
'Oh, Gerard, I don't feel well enough to take her to all these parties. I'm still in mourning for your father, remember, and recovering from that horrid voyage.'
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