“I’d have come last night, Miss Charlotte, but for the unfortunate circumstance of my having had business yesterday in Truro. Everything there is in a great bustle, you know, thanks to all the preparations in train to consecrate the new cathedral.”
“What must we do next, Mr. Kenhorn?” Charley asked, having no patience for amenities. She had already sustained a trying hour with Lady St. Merryn, who clearly believed her husband had died to make her life more difficult than it was already.
The solicitor primmed up his lips. “Fortunately, you had the good sense to describe his lordship’s condition when you wrote of your parents’ deaths, so I came prepared for the worst. I’m just sorry I could not get here sooner. Your father, I regret to say, made no will. He had no private fortune, in any case, only the allowance Lord St. Merryn gave him each quarter. Still, I had hoped I might get here soon enough to remind his lordship of that fact.” He clicked his tongue in frustration.
“What about my mother’s money?”
“Well, Mrs. Tarrant had her marriage portion, of course, but if there is a penny left of that, my dear, I shall own myself astonished. Your parents were not careful with their money, never were.”
Recalling many arguments between the two over that painful subject, Charley sighed. “I suppose you mean I am entirely dependent upon what Grandpapa left me.”
Mr. Kenhorn looked uncomfortable. “Ah, as to that, my dear, I should be talking out of school if I were to reveal details of his will before the proper reading. That must take place, of course, directly after the funeral. And that will be … ?” He raised his brows quizzically.
“They’ll all be buried tomorrow,” Charley said. “There is no point in waiting longer. The family is too spread about to expect anyone to come, and I refuse to pack all the bodies in ice merely so that more relatives can see them put underground.”
“Just so,” he said, glancing at her with undisguised concern. “Just so.”
“I suppose you think me callous, sir. I am not. I am merely practical. My grandmother is most distressed by all this, as you might imagine. It will not help her to know that her son, her husband, and her daughter-in-law are all stored away down in the ice house, awaiting the gathering of a proper funeral party.”
“Perhaps you would prefer to sit down whilst we finish our little talk,” the solicitor said with a worried frown.
“If you like, certainly.” She gestured toward a chair near the hearth, where a cheerful fire crackled, and took its twin for herself.
“Have you no one to support you, my dear?” he asked gently. “No older female—or even better, a male relative?”
“I’ll manage on my own, Mr. Kenhorn, thank you. And that’s just as well, since I know of no male nearer than Paris, or perhaps Edinburgh, whom I’d trust to make decisions, and no female nearer than London. Now, do stop fretting, and tell me what I must do. As you must know, I have never had to deal with such a situation before.”
“Few people are ever called upon to deal with a situation like this one,” he said. “And—forgive me for speaking frankly—you are quite young, Miss Charlotte, to take on such a burden.”
“Nonsense, sir. I am four-and-twenty, an old maid quite contentedly on the shelf, and I’ve had the benefit of an excellent education. What must I do first?”
“In point of fact, ma’am, there is very little that you can do except see to the burials and keep the household running smoothly until the new heir arrives. Petrok Caltor will keep the estates in trim, and I will see what we can arrange about sales of sheep and such like events that must be seen to before probate is complete. No one can sell any of the property unnecessarily before then, as I hope you know.”
“What a good thing I hadn’t planned to sell the house,” Charley said.
He smiled weakly.
“What of the house in Plymouth that my parents used from time to time?”
“As you doubtless know, it has been hired out to a family for the year. We’d be in breach of contract if we tried to evict them.”
“I was not suggesting that we should. I just wanted to know. Really, Mr. Kenhorn, I would be much obliged if you would not treat me like an idiot.”
“I hope I am doing no such thing, but the fact is, my dear, that there is no dower house at Tuscombe Park. Until we complete probate and the new heir has decided what to do with you, I’m afraid that you and Lady St. Merryn—and Miss Davies, too, of course—will be obliged to remain under this roof.”
Since it had not occurred to Charley that she might have to leave Tuscombe Park, especially if her father had been unable to provide her with an independence, she was somewhat taken aback by his concern, but she rallied quickly. “I shan’t require a great deal, sir. As you must know, I do not intend to marry, and have long looked forward to reaching that stage in my life when I shall be considered old enough to set up housekeeping with a reliable female to lend me countenance. Since Papa and Grandpapa have always known that to be my intention, I daresay there will be enough. It is not as if I were expecting a large dowry to see me properly married, after all.”
Mr. Kenhorn looked very unhappy, and the following day, when the family gathered in the drawing room at the end of the gallery to hear the reading of St. Merryn’s will, Charley discovered why.
Letty was not present, since the will did not concern her. When Charley, Lady St. Merryn, and Miss Davies had taken seats, Kenhorn said apologetically, “There is a great deal in this document that no longer pertains, I’m afraid, since his late lordship quite understandably expected his son to survive him. In the event, I shan’t bore you to death by reading the whole thing unless you particularly wish me to do so.”
“On no account whatsoever,” Lady St. Merryn said, languishing on the sofa. “My salts, Ethelinda!”
Miss Davies, a stout lady with frizzy, graying blond hair, hovered over the older lady, plumping pillows and straightening shawls until Lady St. Merryn was sufficiently bolstered to sustain the ordeal.
Kenhorn glanced at Charley. “Miss Charlotte?”
“I shall want to read the whole later, sir, but for now, the salient points will do.”
He blinked, then turned his attention to the document. Raising a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles to his eyes, he said, “First, there is her ladyship’s jointure. That, of course, was settled at the time of their marriage, and his lordship believed it was adequate. It is not a vast sum—”
“It is a pittance,” Lady St. Merryn said, sitting up indignantly. “Surely, that is not all he left me, Kenhorn!”
“I regret to say that it is, your ladyship. Please, bear in mind that although his lordship was aware that in the natural way of things, and notwithstanding your ladyship’s precarious health, he might well predecease you, he also expected his son to look after you and see that you lacked for naught.”
“Don’t fret, Grandmama,” Charley said calmly. “You will continue to live as comfortably as ever. You still have your share of the Balterley money, after all.”
Lady St. Merryn brightened. “Quite right. I had forgotten that.”
Kenhorn cleared his throat. “As to that, ma’am, I am happy to say that there is still a good bit of principal left of your marriage portion. Nevertheless, you will recall that you signed a large amount over to your husband several years ago to help settle some difficulties at one of the mines. Moreover, the amount I previously mentioned includes the income from what remains of your marriage portion.”
“Good God.” Turning pale, Lady St. Merryn collapsed against her cushions.
“His lordship left Miss Davies three thousand pounds,” Kenhorn went on.
“Goodness me,” Miss Davies said, blinking. “H-how generous.”
“Fustian,” Charley snapped. “Three thousand a year might be thought generous, Cousin, but a mere three thousand pounds after all the years you have so faithfully served my grandmother is absurd. I wish I might have had five minutes alone with Grandpapa to tell him what I think about that.�
��
“Charlotte!” Lady St. Merryn raised her vinaigrette and breathed deeply.
Miss Davies was flustered. “You are too kind, Charley dear. But really, you must not say such things, not at such a sad time, you know.”
“I could say much worse,” Charley said, turning back to Kenhorn. “I scarcely dare to ask, sir. Did he leave me anything?”
“He left ten thousand pounds to each of his two daughters, the Lady Susan and the Lady Daintry,” Kenhorn said, avoiding her gaze, “but I am afraid he expected your papa to provide for you, Miss Charlotte. He did leave you the pick of any horses currently in his stable. He also left three thousand pounds to augment whatever dowry your father arranged for you, but only in the event that you were married at the time of his death or married within a year after it. That is all. I might add that you are the only one of his grandchildren to whom he left a penny. The residual portion of his private fortune, along with all the entailed property, goes directly to his heir.”
“And who is the heir, sir? I confess, I haven’t a notion.”
Before Kenhorn spoke, Lady St. Merryn said, “It must be one of the Norfolk Tarrants, for St. Merryn had no brothers. We don’t know them.”
“Quite right,” Kenhorn said, “but there is actually some question as to which one it is, I’m afraid. The earl saw no reason to add that information to his will while young Charles lived, but I shall have it sorted out very soon, I expect. In any event, no one can alter anything here at Tuscombe Park until we complete probate, so you can all go on as before until the new heir arrives to set things in order.”
Charley said, “I am disappointed in Grandpapa. He knew very well that I have no intention of submitting my body or my mind to any man’s direction, because I decided that much when I was a child. I told him many times—and Papa, too—just how I want to live my life. It is as if they never took heed of my wishes at all.”
“I am afraid you are right, Miss Charlotte, but in fairness to your grandfather, your wishes must have appeared rather foolish to him. Many a young lady has said she never intends to marry, only to find that marriage is her best course. There is no place for single, independent females in our society. When all is said and done, a woman needs a man to look after her. Surely, you must agree. Moreover,” he added before she could set him straight, “I can tell you that your grandpapa assumed that you would have married long before he departed this earth. He did once say, however, that if through some mischance, you had not done so, you should apply to your Great-Aunt Ophelia to support your”—he hid a smile—“your knaggy notions. That’s what he called them. He said she should look after you, since she put them into your head in the first place.”
Charley pressed her lips together for a long moment. Then she said calmly, “I wrote at once to inform her of Papa and Mama’s death, and again when Grandpapa died, but I cannot imagine throwing myself on her mercy or asking her to set me up in a house of my own. Nor do I wish her to die. In the event, I know she will leave most of her fortune to my aunts, for she will also have expected my father to provide for me.” She stood and held out her hand to the solicitor. “Thank you for coming, sir. Do you remain another night with us, or do you mean to go straight back to Bodmin?”
“Straight back,” he said, clearly relieved that she had not become hysterical. “I will set matters in train at once to notify the new heir, but I daresay it will be six weeks or more before you hear from him.”
Mr. Kenhorn was wrong. Less than a fortnight later, Mr. Alfred Tarrant arrived from Norfolk, bringing his wife, two small children, and his unmarried sister with him.
“Came at once,” he informed the three astonished ladies who greeted his arrival in the drawing room. “Soon as I read that the whole estate was being looked after by a mere female, I knew there was not a moment to lose!”
Chapter Four
SUPPRESSING THE FIRST WORDS that leapt to her tongue as unacceptable, Charley turned to Medrose, who had announced the newcomers in his usual stately fashion. “Please send for Mrs. Medrose,” she said. “Ask her to help our guests get settled.”
“Not guests, my dear,” Mr. Alfred Tarrant said firmly. He was a squarely built, rather fleshy man of medium height with two chins. Charley judged him to be some five years older than herself. His condescending attitude grated as he continued, “I’m afraid that from this moment you are the guests here, not us. Not but what you aren’t welcome, of course. I stopped in Bodmin to have a word with Kenhorn, you see, so I know exactly how matters stand. You and your grandmama”—he made a stately bow in Lady St. Merryn’s direction—“and, Miss Davies, is it?” He made another bow, to which, clearly flustered, Cousin Ethelinda smiled weakly in response. “Yes, well,” he went on, as he turned back to the butler, “you are all quite welcome to stay here with us until we can make other arrangements. Medrose, I want you and the other servants to know that I mean to make no changes here for the present, so—”
“No one can make changes until probate is completed,” Charley said tartly.
“Quite right, my dear,” Mr. Tarrant said amiably. “Now then, Medrose, if you will just ask Mrs. Medrose to have the mistress’s chambers prepared for Mrs. Tarrant, and the late Earl’s ditto for myself—”
Outraged, Charley snapped, “Do you intend, the moment you step into this house, to turn my grandmother out of the bedchamber she has occupied since she came to Tuscombe Park as a bride! Good mercy, sir, what manner of monster are you?”
“Why, no monster at all,” he said placidly. “Surely, the dowager Lady St. Merryn expected to give up the primary female bedchamber when the new heir arrived. If there were a Dower House here, which I am told there is not, she would surely be making preparations to remove to it.”
“Are we expected to address you as Your Lordship?” Charley demanded.
“Oh, not just yet,” he said. “Time enough for titles when probate is complete, and Kenhorn has one or two small matters to look into before he can accomplish that.”
“What matters?”
“Nothing you need trouble your pretty head about, my dear. Kenhorn has it all in hand, and I doubt you would understand such things if I tried to explain them to you. Now, how are the children to address you, I wonder? I believe Kenhorn said you like to be called Charley by members of the family. I do not hold with masculine nicknames for females, myself, but if that is what you like—”
“How old are the children?” she said, smiling at the two toddlers hiding their faces in the skirts of the younger of the two women who had entered in his wake.
Tarrant said, “Our Neddy is four, I believe, and Jane is two.”
“They can call me Cousin Charlotte if you prefer,” she said, “or Charley if you will allow it.” Turning from him, she held out her hand to the older of the two women with him, and said, “Forgive me if I seemed to forget my manners. We did not anticipate your arrival for some weeks yet, you see, but you are certainly welcome. You, I need not add, may call me Charley if your sensibilities are not disturbed by such nicknames. And your name is …?”
“Edythe Tarrant, with a ‘y’ and an ‘e,’” the woman said, standing straight and looking down her nose. She was not much older than Charley, but she was at least six inches taller and carried herself like a haughty dame with fifty years’ experience behind her. Indicating the slender, light-brown-haired girl to whose skirts the children clung, she added, “This is Mr. Tarrant’s sister, Elizabeth, spelled the ordinary way. She makes her home with us, their parents being deceased. I must say, Charlotte, my dear, since I do not believe in mincing words, that I am astonished to see a young woman of quality putting herself forward in such an unbecoming way as you have done today.”
“Are you, ma’am? Well, when you have come to know me better, my behavior will not surprise you at all. As you can readily see, my grandmother does not enjoy robust health, so it has fallen to me to look after things here since my parents and my grandfather died. Now then,” she added in a brisker tone, �
�I will be glad to show you over the house when you have got settled in. Mr. Tarrant,” she added, turning back to Alfred, “I will gladly arrange to help you become familiar with estate matters, too.”
“You must call me Cousin Alfred, Charlotte,” he said. “As to estate matters, I assure you, I do not require lessons in management from a scrap of a girl. Kenhorn has promised to visit me to attend to all that. In the meantime, I’ll want to speak to one Petrok Caltor. Quite an outlandish name, but I am told he is the late lord’s steward. Kenhorn tells me he is capable enough, and I don’t suppose he named himself.”
“Petrok Caltor’s is a good and well-respected Cornish name, sir, and he is an excellent steward, I might add.”
“I expect we will see about that in good time.”
Charley ground her teeth together, noting that Lady St. Merryn had collapsed with her salts bottle and seemed to have no intention of speaking to the newcomers. She was grateful when Medrose chose that moment to return.
“Here is Mrs. Medrose, Miss Charlotte,” he said from the doorway. Then, turning to Edythe Tarrant, he said, “Do the children have a nursemaid, madam?”
“Ain’t arrived yet,” Alfred said before Edythe could reply. “We met with a dashed heavy fog rolling in from the sea, which doubtless delayed the second carriage. Nonetheless, our baggage and servants cannot be far behind us and ought to arrive before nightfall. In the meantime, our Elizabeth will look after them, won’t you, Lizzie?”
“Oh, yes, Alfred, of course I will,” the girl said in a soft voice. “Come, children. We will find a warm fire and perhaps some cinnamon toast. Oh!” The exclamation came when she looked toward the doorway.
Turning to see what had startled Elizabeth, Charley saw Letty come in with Jeremiah perched on her shoulder.
Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 02] Page 6