by Joan Smith
“What is the total of this batch of bills?” Alex asked, hefting the folder.
“It is nothing to worry about. Tailors and bootmakers and hatmakers. Few gentlemen presented such a fine appearance as the late Lord Penholme. A few bills from jewelers. Your brother was popular with the ladies,” he ventured playfully.
“How much?” Alex repeated in a louder, harsher voice.
“I have it figured out here. Four thousand and five hundred, give or take a few guineas.”
Nothing to worry about! A mere drop in the bottomless bucket of Charles’s improvidence. “We’ll let the merchants wait a little longer,” Alex said, rising. He felt a hundred years old. His very joints protested at the effort of moving.
“Oh, they are not worried about getting their money. They were all happy for your brother’s patronage. His appearance did them credit.”
Not worried, but they should be. They weren’t aware that Penholme was mortgaged to the tune of forty thousand, Sawburne to three, the Leicester property sold outright, that Charles had gotten the family into such debt that they’d be lucky to get a shilling on the pound when he was forced to declare himself a bankrupt.
“There are a few assets, what?” Naismith asked archly, but more than “a few” were needed. “A few investments.” Alex gave a hopeful look. “The shipbuilding company was not profitable, alas. He lost a good sum on that, though it’s still worth something—a few hundred. The wiser course would be to hang on till after the war, but you could sell them now ...”
“A few hundred won’t make much difference.”
“Fortunately some of his other ventures did a little better. Would you like to take your brother’s papers home with you? Look them over at your leisure, and we’ll have a good meeting after you are in possession of the facts. Not much we can do till you have all the facts before you.”
Naismith began pulling out folders and had them stuffed into a large box for Penholme to take to his carriage. A clerk was called to save his lordship the indignity of carrying a box.
“These are the stocks here,” Naismith said, handing a slim folder to Alex. “A pity about the shipbuilding company. I thought it might prove profitable, but with the war disrupting shipping ...”
“Yes, a pity,” Alex said. He put the folder under his arm and left. He threw the material in a heap on one banquette of the carriage and directed the groom to take him to Hyde Park. He got out at Tyburn Turnpike House and walked along in a sort of daze. Tyburn, that old historical site of executions, suited his mood. He stopped at Tyburn tree, now replaced with an inscribed stone, and thought of Cromwell hanging there, and Jack Sheppard. He was at the end of a rope himself; he might as well be hanging there with all his troubles behind him. It hardly seemed worth surviving a war, to come home to this.
How bright the future had looked a few short weeks ago. In his eagerness to get home, he’d left with his wound still open, thinking it would heal during the voyage, only to have it become infected during the trip. But that was only a physical wound—one gritted one’s teeth and endured the short agony of cauterization.
How was this other hurt, this deep, creeping ache that must be despair, to be overcome? He thought of his family, the children raised with high expectations, who must be farmed out to obliging relatives, for it was beginning to look as though he might lose even Penholme. It wasn’t fair to his tenants to make them go on living in damp, unhealthy cottages, working farms that needed money put into them to be profitable.
Some smart, retired merchant like Anglin could afford to set Penholme back on its feet. He would lose it—the stain of failure would besmirch his name, not Charles’s. And Annie—was he to lose her now, after so much waiting, and when she was within his grasp?
Annie ... A sad smile settled on him as he remembered her mending her blue slippers and regretting the white crepe, but in good humor. “An officer and a gentleman should have more gumption!” she had told him. What good was gumption when unaccompanied by money? Sell the London house? He’d clear two thousand, a laughable sum, in the face of his debts.
All he had was his title. A title ought to be worth something.... Any number of sinecures might be open to a lord returned from the war in Spain. An ambassadorship or some government post would be provided. Prinny treated his officers with liberality.
He looked into the muddy waters of that misnamed lake the Serpentine, which was nearly a perfect parallelogram, and thought its creator, Queen Caroline, had been nearly as foolish as Charles to have spent a reputed twenty thousand pounds for the dirty, unappetizing little puddle. The world was full of fools and scoundrels—how did it come that they were invariably the ones who got their hands on money?
How much would a sinecure at court pay? Enough to hold on to Penholme, to meet the staggering mortgage? Perhaps, if one lived like a hermit for a couple of decades and could endure the guilt of making his tenants live in squalor. Was it fair to offer a lady a battle-torn body, scarred for life, and a crippling burden of debt? Possibly even a life of exile, if it turned out he was given an ambassadorship. Annie loved her roots and her home as much as he did himself.
Alive or dead, Charles was still between them. Dashing, daring, handsome, reckless Charles, who had infatuated Anne as he had all the other girls, and treated her as badly, too. Perhaps it was partly Alex’s fault. He had felt he had no chance to win her while Charles was alive, and nothing to offer her. He had seen her only when he could find an excuse—a brace of partridge or a rabbit, which he was obliged to say came from Charles, the lord of the manor. And, of course, the family parties, when he had had the excruciating pain of seeing her smile at Charles and hardly glancing in his own direction. But with Charles dead, it looked as though all that was changing. He had always known they’d be pinched for money at first, but Annie wouldn’t cavil at that.
His delight at learning she cared for him was short-lived. It had lasted exactly thirty-six hours; from eleven o’clock the night of the assembly till eleven this morning. The dream of having her at the Hall, a bride for himself and a mother for the children, had seemed possible for exactly thirty-six hours. At least he hadn’t offered for her; he would not have the shame of withdrawing his offer.
Yet he regretted that he had not. He could not honorably offer now, in his position, but had the wedding already been set, she wouldn’t back down. She would face with him what he must now face alone. He wouldn’t mind being exiled to Austria or some such place if only Annie could go with him.
He walked for two hours, not noticing when the carriages started to arrive, but the increased traffic began to annoy his solitude after a while, and he went to his carriage, to return to Exmore’s. It was his family’s custom to share all the news, however unpleasant, and talk it out thoroughly, but today he couldn’t face it. Rosalie’s eager face told him she expected to receive her money, possibly even that minute, and he had to make an excuse about that.
“I have some debts of Charles’s that must be taken care of immediately,” he explained. “Exmore said his need wasn’t urgent. I’ll pay him as soon as I can.”
“It seems a pity to me that Harriet Wilson must take precedence over us, but there will be a great scandal if her jewelry isn’t paid for. I suppose that is the debt you refer to.”
“Who is Harriet Wilson?” Alex asked.
“Oh, Alex, really! Have you been living in Spain or on the moon? I made sure even you would know about the Wilson sisters. Why, Wellington himself is one of Harriet’s beaux, you must know. Three prissy little whores who have every buck and beau in the city languishing after them. Charles was carrying on with Harriet before he died, and it was said he was the one who gave her that diamond necklace she wore to the opera. I think he might have paid Exmore instead! Of course, the Wilsons are very good ton,” she added forgivingly.
Alex stared at her condoning tone. “How could you let him do it, Rosie? He’s ruined this family. He hardly behaved like a rational man.”
“He didn’t
seem very worried. In fact, after you left, he said you had read him a Bear Garden jaw, and he was going to make some solid investments.”
“Yes, in a shipping company that’s sunk.”
“Even when he was dying, he didn’t appear unduly concerned. I made a point to be with him at the end, you know,” she said in a saintly voice. “I mentioned to him that he still owed Exmore and wondered if he had any suggestion as to how we might get our money.”
Alex stared at this untimely dun, but Rosie was not disconcerted. “Well, I knew that once the will went into escrow, if that is the proper term, it would take eons to get our money, but Charles said not to worry.”
“I don’t believe he even knew what he owed. He’d run out of control completely. He hadn’t sold off the furnishings; that’s about all that remains. You are welcome to take your money in merchandise from the house if you like, before it is put up to auction.”
“Oh, Alex, you’re not going to have an auction! So vulgar. Why, you’re worse than Charles.”
“Yes, I have taken the cavalier notion to destroy the family’s dignity and fortune, after Charles’s careful guardianship, Rosalie. Better dip in and grab what is owed you, before the bailiffs move in.”
“There is no need to be satirical. I knew how it would be once you took over,” she snipped, and began assessing what value she could get away with putting on his possessions and what increase she might realize at a private sale later.
“Think about it. I’m returning to Penholme at once.”
“What, going back already? You haven’t seen Aunt Lucretia or ordered new jackets or anything.”
“I’ll write to Lucretia, and I won’t be going anywhere that I need new jackets.” His gait was dragging as he left the room. Rosalie shook her head sadly. Alex had never had the spirit of Charles. Charles would only laugh at this contretemps and begin making eyes at the richest heiress in London.
“You’d best get home and begin making eyes at Miss Anglin, then,” she said.
The duchess sent a footman to inquire as to whether her brother wanted the papers from his solicitor taken up, but as he was leaving so soon, he left them in the carriage. She did succeed in getting him to remain one night, as an early-morning start would prevent him from having to stay overnight at an inn. She urged him out to the theater with her and Exmore, but he elected to stay at home and spent his night tallying up long columns of figures, of which the assets always formed the smaller total. He left early the next morning, with Rosalie urging him to let her have her money as soon as possible. Anglin would not object to forwarding him a measly few thousand.
Alex realized this great compulsion to get back to Penholme was irrational, but like a wounded fox seeking its hole, he felt an instinctive desire to crawl home and lick his wounds, to staunch the flow of life-giving blood. He should stay in London, put the house up for sale, the furnishings at auction, start that breaking up of the family inheritance that must inevitably now occur.
It broke his heart to do it. He must at least consider it in peace and quiet awhile, to see if there was any possible way to avoid such a drastic, calamitous step, and Naismith had not rushed him at all. The clever thing to do, of course, would be to court Miss Anglin, but he had never been one to put cleverness above right.
He knew he must retrace his steps within a few days, and the journey was uncomfortable with his shoulder still not completely healed, but he felt an atavistic need to be home, to see that the children were well, the place not burned down around their ears. But most of all, he wanted to see Anne. How could he tell her? What possible words could he find to soften the blow?
Chapter Twelve
Penholme’s commission for Albion was no more than to bring him the most recent papers, and with Rosalie a willing ally in the plan, she parted with her own copies. Alex was in a deep study all the way home. He noticed neither the traffic, the pretty countryside, nor the jostling of the carriage. As they passed through Winchester, he realized they were getting close to home, and firmed up his plan to ingratiate himself with the Anglins, for Robin’s sake. This was done by stepping in to take a glass of wine with them.
As his tired eyes looked around the luxurious house, he felt none of Rosalie’s amusement at the appointments. Everything bright and new, and of the most expensive, if not always of the most refined taste.
Albion glanced at the papers brought and reached into his pocket to produce the payment. That would amuse Rosalie, too, but in his present mood, it impressed Penholme favorably. “I make it just two pence beneath a shilling. Don’t worry about the change,” he said.
“That’s quite all right—really, I—”
“Take it, or I won’t feel right asking you to bring us anything another time,” Albion insisted. This being the case, Alex insisted Albion take his two pence change.
“And now, how about a glass of wine to wet your whistle?” Albion asked. “Or an ale, if you prefer.”
“An ale would do the job,” Alex agreed.
“I’m not a lover of the grape myself. Truth to tell, I like the grapes well enough, but it seems a pity they must destroy them by turning them into wine. I see the ladies narrowing their eyes at that notion,” he laughed. “You gels go ahead—have wine, if you can stand the brackish taste of it.”
The ladies had wine and sat nervously watching, praying their father would not give their noble caller a disgust of him. That they might institute some polite talk themselves did not occur to the mother and occurred to the daughters only to be rejected. Their fears proved unfounded. Before Penholme left, he had invited the whole family to the Hall for a short visit. They were astonished at the invitation, but not at all reluctant, and agreed to go in two days.
“You’ve thrown my household into a pelter, Penholme,” Albion laughed. He considered the invitation no less than the prelude to an offer for one of his gels, but that Penholme scarcely glanced at Marilla made him think young Lord Robin was the best he might hope for. “The ladies will spend the night pawing through their wardrobes and their trinket boxes, deciding what gewgaws to wear.”
“If they come just as they are, they will do you credit, sir,” Alex said, smiling.
“I don’t stint on dressing them up. A heifer is always brushed to a sheen before a show, as folks say,” he declared with awful candor. Maggie gave an embarrassed smile.
A stray caller seldom got away from the Anglins’ without having food pressed on him. A nobleman who issued an invitation was urged to remain to dinner, and when this was refused, a meal very much like a dinner was served on their laps as they sat at the sofa.
Alex made one more stop before going home. Remembering Albion’s idea that Sawburne might be sold up to pay the arrears on Penholme’s mortgage, he called on his solicitor and told him to draw up papers handing it over to Lord Robin. He was to take them to Penholme for signing the next morning. He hoped the Anglins’ visit would result in an engagement between Maggie and Robin.
The visit caused Penholme’s carriage to pass Rosedale after dark. As he was not expected back so soon, no eye was focused on the road in anticipation of his passing. He was tempted to stop, but bringing bad news to trouble sleep seemed inconsiderate. He went directly home to jog the servants into work for the pending visit from the Anglins.
Robin’s first move after becoming an official landowner was to post over to Rosedale. Alex had not revealed the full extent of the situation in London, so the only news Robin brought was good news. Alex was home, and though he hadn’t mentioned coming to Rosedale, he would certainly do so. Anne thought so, too, and rather wondered that he hadn’t stopped the evening before.
“I didn’t realize you were to get Sawburne so soon, Robin,” Mrs. Wickfield said. “I thought it would be a year or so.”
“Alex says I have shaped up so quickly he has no fear to let me run it myself. He brought the solicitor home with him and we signed the papers this very morning. The Anglins are coming to stay with us for a few days—Alex has gi
ven the nod to my offering for Maggie.”
Lukewarm congratulations were offered.
“Mind, she hasn’t said she’ll have me, nor have I spoken to Albion. I don’t relish that part of it, I can tell you.”
“Is the whole family visiting, or just Miss Maggie?” Anne asked.
“The whole kit and caboodle. It’s as good as a proposal—or an acceptance.”
“Are you quite certain you want to offer for her?” Anne asked.
“Well, I think I do. I like her awfully, Annie, and was only waiting to hear what Alex and Rosie and everyone had to say about it, for it would be dashed uncomfortable having a bride no one would speak to. Alex thinks it’s a capital idea, and, of course, Rosalie will be in alt. I daresay that’s why Alex gave me Sawburne, so I’d have a roost to take my chick to.”
And a rich father-in-law to pay off the mortgage, Anne silently added. That was Miss Maggie’s great charm. But if Alex could afford to go through with giving Robin Sawburne, she might at least rest easy that the news in London had not been too horrid. She felt she would be receiving a visit herself soon and changed into her good blue mulled muslin to receive it. She put on her blue slippers with a wad of cotton to cushion the tacks, but no caller came.
By four in the afternoon, tempers at Rosedale were wearing thin. “That is odd,” Mrs. Wickfield said. “I made sure we would hear from Alex by now. It’s a pity I told Cook to prepare the green goose. I wouldn’t have done it just for us.”
Anne’s hackles were lifting at such cavalier treatment. “He might at least have brought the brochure on the Carlton House table,” she snipped.
Her mother stared at such foolishness but felt along with her daughter that Alex was developing a very odd kick in his gallop. A delay in the rendering of bad news she could understand, but the news in London was obviously good, so why didn’t he come? The green goose was served and eaten. Twilight came and slowly receded into darkness.