“Son, come sit here with me.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I prefer to stand.”
The deep, deep voice drew her attention, just as it always had. As if unwilling to be there, he moved to the windows where he gazed outside, hands behind his back, his broad shoulders encased in black mourning clothes, the superior quality and fit showing him to advantage.
Not that she cared.
She breathed in. Out. Lord God, help me …
“What is this about? Whittington?”
The elderly man cleared his throat, apologized, then launched into a tangle of legal terminology. Eventually, after much mopping of brow, he said, “Now I know this will come as something of a surprise, but it appears that the estate is entailed to”—he swallowed—”Mr. Jonathan Carlew … er, I mean, Winthrop.”
No.
The walls tilted.
“But Peter is dear Walter’s nephew!” cried Aunt Clothilde. “Surely he stands a greater right than some illegitimate cousin—”
“How dare you?” Lady Harkness snapped.
Catherine glanced toward the window. Mr. Carlew’s attention remained fixed outside. The only sign he’d noticed the slur and his mother’s outrage was a lifting, a tensing of his shoulders, as though he’d suddenly drawn in air.
“While it is true that Mr. Carlew is a third cousin once removed, he still holds a greater claim as he is descended from Lord Winthrop’s great-grandfather’s younger brother—”
“If indeed he is,” muttered Aunt Clothilde.
“And thus preserves the male lineage as required by law. It is true that Peter inherits the extra holdings, including the Avebury estate, but the title, the Manor, and tenant farms go to Mr. Carlew.”
“But—”
“We shall see about that!” Aunt Clothilde snapped. “We shall have a proper solicitor look into this.”
“As you wish.” Mr. Whittington bowed his head.
“What I wish to know is how much the estate is worth,” Lady Harkness said.
Mr. Carlew turned, frowning at his mother.
“Don’t look at me like that, Jonathan. We all want to know. Well? What has he left you?”
He shook his head. “Mother, this is neither the time nor place.”
“You mean because of these unknown persons?” The green gaze scanned the room. “I agree, it would be better if this could be kept in the family for the moment.”
“Family?” Aunt Drusilla hissed. “That woman has a nerve—”
“I have a nerve and excellent hearing, also, Drusilla dear. Now, do wipe that expression off your face. I fear you’ll start curdling the milk for my tea.”
Someone tittered. Catherine’s jaw sagged. Was there anything this woman wouldn’t say?
Catherine glanced across at Lavinia, whose arched brows no doubt matched her own. Next to her, the earl’s expression mingled horror and amusement.
Lavinia shot her a sympathetic look and pushed to her feet. “I hope, Lady Winthrop, that you will be feeling better soon.” She then murmured something to Serena before clasping Catherine lightly. “Send a message when you would like company. And remember, if there is anything we can do, please do not hesitate.”
The earl reiterated his condolences from earlier and offered a grave smile. “I trust you will not hesitate?”
“Of c-course, my lord.”
“Good.” He nodded, as if satisfied, before moving to Mr. Carlew and extending his hand. Catherine watched the two men exchange a few words while the other ladies farewelled Lavinia. Other neighbors soon followed the Hawkesbury lead and made their departures as well, apart from Lady Milton, who sat complacently nibbling a small biscuit and studying the large Reynolds portrait hanging over the fireplace, as if hoping a lack of eye contact would render her invisible.
“Lady … Milton, is it?”
Mr. Carlew’s deep voice drew the attention of everyone who remained in the room, including the avid appreciator of art, who swallowed her biscuit hurriedly. “Yes?”
“Pardon my ignorance, but are you so intimately connected with Lady Winthrop that you feel it your duty to stay?”
The squire’s wife blinked rapidly. Catherine suppressed a smile. Never had she seen Lady Milton so disconcerted—save at the wedding of Lavinia to the earl. “I have known Elvira for years, so of course I consider it my duty—”
“Oh, take her away,” Aunt Clothilde snapped. “Nobody wants her here.”
Lady Milton drew herself up, chins in the air. “Well, I never!”
“About time you were,” muttered Aunt Drusilla, as the nosy neighbor waddled from the room.
Catherine coughed to hide her snicker, the sound drawing Mr. Carlew’s attention.
His blue-gray eyes widened, his cheeks paling under his healthy tan, like he saw a ghost. Her breakfast curdled within. She lowered her gaze to his dark waistcoat.
“Mr. Carlew, allow me to introduce Miss Winthrop.”
He nodded to Mr. Whittington. “Thank you, we are acquainted.”
Mr. Carlew offered a small bow which she could only, politely, acknowledge with a nod.
He shifted away, leaving her feeling raw and hollowed. She exhaled with a shaky breath and forced her gloved fingers to relax. The worst was done. But oh … Her eyes burned.
“Now, shall we resume?” The lawyer glanced around the room.
Mama sat with Aunt Drusilla; Aunt Elizabeth, Papa’s quiet sister who had raised three most unquiet girls, sat on the next settee, her red-rimmed eyes testifying to her sorrow at least. Churning emotion mingled with frustration. Did Mama’s grief stem more from the loss of her position and house than any real sorrow at Papa’s passing? Catherine stifled the uncharitable thought and moved from her position to sit beside her grieving aunt. Aunt Elizabeth clasped her hand.
Catherine glanced over at Aunt Clothilde and Peter, still wearing matching disgruntled expressions. On the other side of the fireplace sat Lady Harkness and her daughter, both wearing looks that could only be counted as expectant. Behind them, Mr. Carlew stood motionless, his expression as grave as she remembered. Truly, the man did not look like he took pleasure in any of this.
Mr. Whittington began to speak, his dry voice and drier legal circumlocutions dulling her senses until she could hardly focus. Finally he turned to her mother. “Lady Winthrop, as you might be aware, your husband had quite large debts, and had heavily mortgaged the assets he did have. I deeply regret to inform you that you will have to live on a substantially smaller allowance than you have been accustomed to.”
“What?”
“H-how much smaller?” Catherine ventured.
Mr. Whittington turned to her. “I’m very sorry, Miss Winthrop, but apart from the settlement monies put aside for you and your sister upon your eventual marriages, nearly everything else is gone.”
She stilled. “How c-can they be almost gone?” She refused to look at Mr. Carlew, her cheeks burning in humiliation at his being privy to both her loss and her stammer.
“Do you mean to say we have no money?” Mama asked. “That … that is impossible! Walter would never have left me without funds.”
Mr. Whittington coughed. “I am afraid he did, madam.”
“No. No, I simply refuse to believe it. Walter would never—”
“Mama,” Catherine murmured.
Lady Harkness glanced complacently at her offspring. “A lack of funds does not concern us, I’m relieved to say. My husband was an excellent provider.”
“Her husbands,” Aunt Drusilla muttered. “How many has she had? And all now dead. The Black Widow they say—”
“Aunt!” Mortification warmed Catherine’s cheeks anew. How had Papa’s death descended into such a sideshow of incivility?
“Lady Winthrop, you will have a small income, not more than eight or nine hundred a year—”
Mama groaned.
“And your daughters will receive a similar sum when they do eventually marry—”
Catherine wished she cou
ld groan as well. Why, why, why had he to be here to hear the doubt in the lawyer’s voice? Like a spinster of twenty-five could hope to marry. Like anyone would want her. Hadn’t his rejection proved it?
“And Peter? What about him?”
Mr. Whittington studied Aunt Clothilde with an expression bordering on dislike. “Madam, while Peter is specifically mentioned in the will to receive the Avebury estate, I’m afraid there is nothing more provided for its running costs.” He turned to Peter, whose mien had deflated at that last comment. “I trust you have other assets to assist?”
“I … er …” His pimpled face flushed, then he glanced at his mother.
She seemed to draw within herself before saying stiffly, “That is no concern of yours.”
“Of course, madam.”
Aunt Clothilde rose unsteadily to her feet, grasping Peter’s arm. “This all smacks of gross incompetence! I cannot believe my Peter did not receive what is his proper due.” She cast a venomous look at Mr. Carlew. “The title should at least go to someone with real Winthrop blood.”
Murmurs of discontent and accusation filled the room, plunging Catherine’s soul deeper into despair. How could they scrap over the title like stray dogs over a bone, snarling and biting at each other? Did nobody care Papa was gone?
The room eventually emptied of all save herself.
Her eyes filled with tears and she slumped into her favorite chair, burrowing deep into the cushions as though she could hide.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
CHAPTER THREE
JONATHAN WALKED THROUGH the paneled Oak Room, thankful to be removed from the earlier tension, thankful for a moment of distraction to clear the turbulence of his heart and head. The Oak Room was a kind of long gallery—so he was informed by Geoffreys, the overly pompous butler—and was lined with paintings of long-dead ancestors he had never known.
Save for—yes. He stopped. Stared up at the large portrait. Blue-gray eyes scowled down from under heavy brows. This face he did recognize. His lips twitched. He would not thank his mother for the compliment of suggesting he took after his grandfather in more than just a certain shrewdness in financial matters. Yet he saw enough, remembered enough, for it to be true. The angle of jaw perhaps, the shape of the ears. But Jon hoped he never looked quite so displeased with life. Even if sometimes it felt true.
“Ah, dear boy. You’re here.”
He turned, sketched a bow. “As you see.”
His mother smiled. Sparing a glance for the portraits, she shuddered theatrically. “The skeletons are as ghoulish as ever.”
“Mother …”
“Why I ever married into this family I do not know. Look at them, so filled with pride it practically drips from their noses.” She hooked a hand around his arm. “Your grandfather was the best of a bad lot.”
“Even better than Father?”
She glanced at him with hooded eyes, as though she had words she dared not speak. Uncertainty rippled through him as it did every time she refused to speak of his natural father. He’d happily claimed Harold Carlew as his father for as long as he could remember, identifying so much he had taken on his name from a very young age. But had Harold been too eager to call him son? Were the Winthrops correct? Had there been a mistake after all?
“Do you remember visiting your grandfather?”
He nodded. How could he forget? It had been the start of a dream. An impossible dream.
“I was so glad you got the chance to make his acquaintance before …”
Her words trailed away. He placed a hand on hers, gently squeezed. She sighed. “I suppose you’ll want to move in soon?”
“Mother, I could not presume—”
“Why ever not? You are the rightful heir, after all.”
Was he? He studied her, but her bright gaze admitted nothing. “I would hope Lady Winthrop would invite me, rather than impose myself upon them.”
Her laughter trilled. “I’m afraid you would be waiting until kingdom come. Besides, you would not be imposing. How many times must I tell you that you rely too much upon such sensibilities? You belong here, not she, not they.”
He shook his head gently. “Mother …”
She cast him a searching glance. “I noticed you seemed a little taken aback this afternoon.”
His jaw clenched.
“I declare, I would not have recognized her again in a thousand years! She seemed altered beyond belief. Like a faded little brown mouse.”
Faded. He forced himself to nod. Yes, faded was an appropriate term. And appropriate justice for what she had done.
“I do hope that woman won’t cause any trouble.”
“Catherine?” Her name now tasted strange on his tongue.
His mother’s lips pursed. “No, that ridiculous turbaned aunt of hers. Y’know, the mother of that poor child she thinks should inherit. Can you imagine—him, a pimply, gawky boy, running all this?” She waved a hand at the courtyard, one of two, Geoffreys had informed him on their brief tour of the Manor, after matters in the drawing room had descended into ignominy.
“I cannot see how he’ll cope with running Avebury.”
“Neither can I. One of Wiltshire’s great estates? In those unproved hands? I’d sooner believe a sparrow can tame a lion. Or is it a tiger?” Her head tilted, she squeezed his arm. “It is so wonderful to have you home again, to know you are safe instead of in such a godforsaken place.”
“God was with me there, Mother.”
“Well, perhaps.” She patted his hand. “But I am glad to have you near again.”
She smiled up at him, and a burst of affection filled him, leading him to kiss her brow. They continued ambling, his mother’s chatter drowning out the uncertainty from before. Whatever the questions surrounding his mother, he had never doubted her love for him, or her total confidence in his abilities.
His smile slipped.
Unlike some.
“AND SIR, I have given you the blue bedchamber, which I trust you will find most comfortable.” Geoffreys coughed apologetically. “I know it should be the master suite, but I’m afraid it is not yet ready.”
Jon held up a hand. “Please, don’t touch anything there on my account. I would rather leave things as they are for as long as possible.”
“Oh.” Geoffreys’s hope-filled eyes dimmed a little. “Pardon my presumption, sir, but I thought you would want to change things.”
“Perhaps in the future, but in these times of sadness, I’d prefer the family, indeed the Manor, to remain undisturbed as long as possible.”
“Of course, my lord.”
My lord? Jon blinked, before remembering.
The butler looked at him questioningly, but Jon shook his head.
“If that is all, sir?”
“Thank you.”
Jon wandered slowly through a myriad of corridors back to the main entrance hall, hesitating as he heard the whine of Peter’s mother again. They had not been offered accommodation—unnecessary, Geoffreys had assured him, as their own home was only fifteen miles away. He stayed, rooted in the shadows, until their exit. His lips twisted. He might have faced a charging elephant once upon a time, but his courage faltered before the indomitable force of the Winthrop women and their sneered aspersions.
The door closed forcefully, as if the footman—William, perhaps?—was also relieved to see their departure. He stepped forward, caught the footman’s shamefaced grin, then moved back past the enormous oak staircase—how much had the previous baron spent on that?—before footfalls on the stairs accompanied by a hasty enquiry of a servant led him to an exit into the gardens.
He hurried along the stone path dissecting the green expanse of lawn until he reached the relative safety of screening plants before an enormous hedge of yew. He turned. No whisk of a curtain hastily closed. No face peered from a window. For a moment he could pretend he was alone.
His shoulders sagged. Finally.
The past few days had proved a constant parade of people and appointments. He wandered along the weed-strewn path interspersed with urns seemingly forsaken by the gardening staff, judging by their shriveled occupants. A sigh escaped. How many other areas needed attention? The Manor’s stonework needed repointing. From this position he could see at least two tilting chimneys and a great deal of peeling paintwork, unlike the neatly finished front façade. And this was only the most cursory of inspections. Then there was the matter of Avebury.
He scuffed the path with his boot. Anyone could see young Peter was without sufficient funds to assist in that matter. Whittington had spoken plain. The baron had lived on credit these past years, his gambling forcing him to sell the odd piece of unentailed land when necessary in order to make ends meet. If the baron had not spent money on upkeep here at the Manor, his primary residence, how much—how little—would have been spent there? Was this inheritance more noose than he’d first realized?
Tension knotted his shoulders again. What a difficult line he must walk, between appeasing the Winthrop family’s concerns and doing what he could to salvage their fortunes. And this, without even taking into consideration the various personalities and expectations that would make this time so challenging.
The worries crowded in. Muscles bunched in his neck. He pressed deep into the base of his skull to massage them out. Forced himself to relax. To remember this wasn’t the first time he’d faced difficult odds. India had been full of unexpected challenges. And each time, he—with God’s help—had overcome.
The untrimmed yew hedge held a gate, propped open, with weathered palings. He walked through into a knot garden, its classical lines still evident despite the obvious lack of attention. The path led to an overgrown arbor, under which a stone seat was positioned, doubtless a lovely place in summer. The house loomed above the hedge, like a watchful giant, waiting for his move.
Who would have envisaged this? Six months ago, he was fending off disaster in Bombay; today, he held the keys to a future he’d never dared believe. And this house?
This house certainly possessed nothing of the modest proportions he was used to associating with manor houses. Geoffreys’s tour had not included the upper floor, Jonathan not wanting to intrude any more than absolutely necessary, but he was reliably informed there were at least a dozen bedchambers, for which the suite of rooms for entertaining made sense. Clearly Winthrop Manor was the primary residence of the head of the family, its age and importance everywhere seen, such as the heralds and coats of arms inscribed above the main entrance and stained in glass in the library’s bay window.
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 3