“I just do not know if it is all worth it,” he said on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.
Aunt Elvira looked up from the orange she’d been sticking with cloves. “What is that, dear?”
Gregory lowered his scissors and raised his voice. “We are bailing a sinking boat with a teacup, Aunt, and I do not know but that we should abandon ship.” He’d been cutting out paper snowflakes to help decorate the parlor, but set the paper and scissors on the table beside him now, brushing the scraps into a pile.
Claire was folding paper into swan shapes, because she had read they were good luck. They were pretty and cost nothing, at any rate, made with the useless old parchment pages Gregory had unearthed. Hannah was hanging them, along with the viscount’s snowflakes, on the pine boughs they’d hung earlier, on the mantel and the windows and off the wall sconces, until the room was looking like a sorcerer’s snowstorm. With the fire burning and the candles gleaming, the scent of evergreens and spices in the air, Christmas had found a home here at Belle Towers, too.
Unless Gregory had decided to give up on the old place. Claire came to sit beside him on the couch, with Hannah on the floor at their feet.
“What do you mean, Papa?”
“I mean that perhaps we should reconsider staying here. Belle Towers needs far more money than I have, even with the windfall. I can pay off this quarter’s mortgage, and next’s, too, but then I will have no funds to reinvest in the farms and fields. Without new equipment and new livestock, the place can never support itself, so we will never be ahead of the bank.”
“Oh, but I do not want to return to Bath, Gregory.” Aunt Elvira’s voice had a tremor in it.
“Or to London, Papa.” So did Hannah’s.
The viscount looked toward Claire.
“Do you have other ideas?” she asked.
“With my cousin gone, I could break the entail. The bank would get most of the money if I sold Belle Towers, but the London town house might bring in enough to keep us in modest circumstances somewhere else, America, perhaps.”
“No, Papa! I do not want to leave here. Please?”
Gregory reached out and touched her silky hair. “I am sorry, poppet, but we might not have a choice.”
“Yes, we do. You can have Valentina.” She thrust the doll into his hands.
He smiled. “I appreciate the thought, Hannah, but I don’t see how—”
“The note said it, Papa, the note that came with Valentina. ‘Always in my heart.’ I told you.”
“Always…?” Claire asked, but Gregory was already pulling the cape and the bandage and the faded gown from the doll. Under the layers, the china-headed toy had a cloth body, with big loops and inexpert stitches holding closed a crude tear, right where the doll’s heart would have been.
“I sewed it back up myself,” Hannah proudly announced, “after I opened the seam I found in her.”
“And an excellent job you did of it, sweetheart,” Gregory said, even as he reached for his scissors and cut the threads, then reached inside. Twelve diamonds fell out into his hand, one for each of the hearts embroidered on Valentina’s dress.
If Ann Marvell had been half as marvelous as rumor had it, these gems were of the first water, and worth a fortune—Hannah’s fortune.
Gregory took a deep breath, then said, “I cannot take these, sweetheart. Your mother put them there for you as your dowry, so you can make a splendid match.” With such a sparkling portion, Hannah’s muddied birth would not matter as much.
Hannah was about to protest, for what good was a future husband without a house, now, but Claire spoke first.
“I have a dowry, too, you know,” she said. Although the invitation to Belle Towers had been as good as a declaration, the formal words had not been spoken. Claire supposed Gregory, with all his scruples, was waiting to make certain he could keep a wife in style, the clunch.
“Do you, my love?” Gregory squeezed her hand and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek, a promise to formalize their betrothal in private now that she had not run away from the shipwreck that was Belle Towers. “Then our daughter’s will be provided for.”
“But our sons deserve their patrimony, too, and it is a very large dowry, Gregory. My godparents added to the sum in my father’s bequest, and my mother left me a goodly amount for when I reach my majority. My brother never wanted the sum made public lest I be deluged with fortune hunters, but he invested the monies wisely. I might not be as well dowered as Lady Susannah, but I do believe we can pay off the mortgages on Belle Towers and still improve the farms.”
Diamonds, dowries—Gregory’s mind was in a dither. The mention of fortune hunters, though, disturbed him. “I cannot like living off my wife. It just isn’t right, dash it. A man should be able to support his own family.” He reached over to the end table and picked up a sheet of paper from the stack he’d been cutting for snowflakes, the worthless stock certificates from his father’s failed ventures, shares in empty mines, unused canals, tunnels that were never built. There were enough valueless stocks left for a flock of folded swans, a blizzard of snowflakes.
“Deuce take it,” he said, “why could my father not have invested half as wisely as your brother, instead of gambling everything we owned on these harebrained schemes? We’d be solvent now, if he’d had a particle of common sense.”
“I do not know, dear,” his aunt said. “But not all of your father’s investments were unsound. Why, one of those speculations was such a sure thing that I let him invest my savings. The sale of half my fifty shares in the Steiner Rouse Spice Syndication was enough to finance my house in Bath, with the remaining shares still paying dividends for its upkeep. I suppose your father lost his profits in some other scheme, but if I sell my twenty-five shares, we can use that money to purchase more cows. Or was it sheep you wanted to raise, dear?”
Gregory was not paying attention. He was reading the name engraved across the top of the page he now held. The Steiner Rouse Spice Syndicate. “Good Lord.”
Hannah was spelling out the words. “Does that mean we are solved?”
“Solvent? No, poppet.” He pulled her onto his lap, after carefully setting aside the stock certificate—for twenty-five hundred shares—then put his other arm around Claire, pulling both of them closer. “It means I am the now the richest, luckiest man on earth.”
“And we can stay here?”
“As long as we want.”
“I can stay, too?”
“Forever. I would not be half as wealthy without you, poppet, diamonds or not.”
*
That night, Christmas Eve, Gregory took Claire to the north tower, and gave her the telescope, which never got focused on a single star. “I wanted to give you the sun and the moon. Instead I am offering you a derelict estate in return for your dowry, a half-deaf auntie, a daughter whose birth does not bear inspection, a disgraced cousin, and debts.”
“And yourself?”
“And myself, with all my heart.” After sharing a kiss that would have set the stars spinning, whether the telescope could see it or not, Gregory asked, “Will you accept such a bad bargain, my beloved?”
Claire stepped out of the circle of his arms to dab at the tears of joy in her eyes. “Oh, I don’t think it such a poor trade. All I have for you for Christmas is a monogrammed handkerchief, the one I just used.” Gregory kissed away the moisture she missed.
“And your love?” he whispered as the church bells from the village rang out.
“And my love,” she told him as they sealed their promise with another kiss, “for Christmas, and for always.”
The Lucky Coin
Chapter One
“A penny for your thoughts, young sir.” At his fellow passenger’s words, Sir Adam Standish dragged his eyes from the view outside the coach window, where the desolate winter scenery was as bleak as his prospects.
“I fear my thoughts are not worth even that much,” Adam told the wizened, whiskered old man in the seat opposite him.
> “Nonsense,” the ancient replied. “All thoughts are worth at least a pence, be they good thoughts or bad, happy or sad. Why, ofttimes the telling alone is of value, and good conversation is priceless on such a journey as ours.”
The trip to London was tedious indeed, yet Adam was not one to confide in others, nor speak of his personal woes to friends, much less to chance-met strangers. He shrugged and turned back to the window.
“A woman?” the graybeard persisted.
Now Adam had to laugh, although there was no humor in the sound. “If I could afford a woman, wife or mistress, I would not be making this desperate, and likely futile, visit to my bankers.”
“Ah, money, then. I should have guessed a well-favored young gentleman like yourself would have no trouble with the ladies.”
No, Adam thought, the old man should have known he was below hatches by the worn boots on his feet and the frayed cuffs on his sleeves, unless the fellow’s seemingly knowing gray eyes were failing. In that case, the granfer should have realized his fellow passenger was badly dipped by the absence of a valet to rectify those same faults. For that matter, a baronet with brass in his pockets hired his own coach and team, instead of riding the common stage.
None of which, of course, was the curious old man’s business, but Adam was nothing if not polite, especially to his elders, so he nodded. “Yes, money is at the root of my problems, or the dearth of it, at any rate.”
“A spot of bad luck, is it?”
Now Adam made a rude snort. “A spot? More like a spill, a storm, a veritable swamp of bad luck.” And without meaning to, he began to tell the old man opposite him about his beloved estate Standings, about the debts he had inherited along with the title and acreage, about the flood and the fire, the blight and the bugs, the drought and the drop in prices for what little the fields could produce. Something about his companion’s interest, the compassion, perhaps, in that gray gaze, made Sir Adam go on to express his hitherto unspoken frustrations that no matter how hard he worked, he never found himself gaining on his deceased father’s debts. For every step forward he took, Fate seemed to send him two steps backward. Now, when he was close to his goal of making a profit at last, he could lose everything instead, if the bank would not extend his credit until the spring. He could make his quarterly payments now, but then he would have no funds left for seeds, for stud fees, for keeping up the wages of his few loyal servants. He would not mind going cold and hungry, but he could not ask the same of his poor tenants and their children.
Instead, he was going to ask the bank to let him delay his mortgage payments, on the promise of spring lambs and cows in calf, well-turned fields and the latest techniques from the farming journals. Surely begging mercy from the money changers was a forlorn hope, like trying to wring water from a stone, but one he had to attempt. Adam hated having to beg, but he hated worse the idea of having no gifts for his dependents on the quickly approaching Boxing Day after Christmas, not even an apple.
“So you see,” he concluded, “my thoughts are as dismal as the state of my purse. You must he sorry you asked, now that I have rambled on about my difficulties through the last changes.” Indeed, somehow the time had sped by in his telling, for they were close to London now, with its increased traffic and noise.
“Nay, I do not regret prying into your affairs, young sir, only that I am unable to be of assistance.”
“I never meant to imply—”
“Of course you did not.” The old man reached into his pocket for a coin. “I would like to offer more, but at least I can give you the penny I promised.”
Adam held up his hand. “No, I cannot take your money.” In his shabby coat and battered hat, the withered relic appeared to be in poorer straits than Adam.
Gnarled fingers tossed the coin in Adam’s direction just as the coach came to a stop at their destination. “Take it. It might change your luck.” With more liveliness than Adam would have thought possible—surely with more enthusiasm than Adam felt for their arrival—the old man jumped down from the carriage, doffed his hat toward Adam, and disappeared into the busy courtyard.
Adam tucked the coin into his fob pocket. Lud knew there was room, for he’d had to sell his timepiece a year ago. Then he took it out again to toss. Heads he would go to his banker first; tails he would hire a room for the night, to brush the dust off his apparel and make a better appearance, as if he were not at point non plus. Heads won, which was not at all what he wanted. In fact, if he never had to see Mr. Ezekiel Beasdale again, he would be far happier.
Being a man of duty and conscience, however, despite being a man of meager funds, Adam tucked the coin away, hefted his satchel, and took himself off to visit his banker.
He should have saved the walk. In fact, he should have saved the entire trip to London. Then he might at least have the price of a fine Christmas goose.
Mr. Beasdale was not receptive to Adam’s elucidation as to the future profitability of Standings. In fact, the heavy- set, ruddy-faced banker was not receptive to the baronet at all. He kept Adam waiting in the bank’s central office, with clerks and customers alike taking note of the poor country turnip come to plead his case, or so Adam felt, standing with a battered satchel between his scuffed boots. His welcome was even colder in Mr. Beasdale’s private office.
“What’s that? An extension until spring? Impossible, I say. This is a bank, sir, not a philanthropic foundation. We are a lending institution, which means we need our money returned, in order to lend it out again.” The man’s fleshy jowls shook with indignation over Adam’s apparent incomprehension of elementary finances. “Why, I have to answer to my partners.”
And Mr. Beasdale would have to answer to his Maker, Adam thought, for the lack of Christian charity at this of all seasons. He did not say his thoughts out loud, of course. He stood and bowed slightly, ready to leave.
“It’s nothing personal, mind,” the portly banker said, holding him in the richly carpeted room. “By all accounts you are a hardworking young man with no apparent vices. You do not gamble, like so many of your peers, or throw good money after bad, like your parent before you.”
How could he, with no funds to stake?
Beasdale lowered his thick eyebrows to study Adam’s appearance. “Nor do you seem to be a slave to fashion, spending your fortune in tailors’ bills.”
Adam had no reply to that obvious comment. “Whatever money I earn goes back into the land.”
The banker nodded, sausage-shaped fingers straightening the papers in front of him. “Not enough, though, is it? Mayhaps you’d best consider another avenue.”
Adam smiled, but it was more of a grimace. “I suppose you are going to advise me to find a wealthy female to marry. That is what my servants and tenants recommend. Even the vicar suggested I use my time in town to find a well-dowered lady to pull Standings out of River Tick. Of course we both know that no noble family is going to give its daughter’s hand to a down-at-heels baronet. What is your counsel, then, that I find a rich merchant who wants to raise his daughter’s standing in society?” Adam had no intention of taking such advice, but he did go on, not trying to hide the scorn in his voice: “I suppose you have an unwed daughter, a niece, godchild, or, heaven forfend, a spinster sister, an ambitious female who cannot find a husband on her own.”
Now the banker lumbered to his feet. His jowls flapped and his cheeks turned red. He pounded a meaty fist onto his desk. “I, sir, am a merchant. A Cit, a tradesman, and a rich one, with my sister’s only child in my care. And I would sooner see my niece, nay, any girl of mine, wed to the Fiend himself than a feckless fortune hunter. Raise her social standing? Why, you could not afford to pay your wife’s subscription fees at Almack’s, if you could guarantee her vouchers, which I doubt. You have no entrée to the polite world, no lofty peerage, no vast ancestral holdings. You have nothing but an empty stable, a rundown farmstead, and a ha’penny baronetcy. And even if you had something to offer—not that I put great value on titles and s
ociety tripe—I would not want any female under my protection to be bartered off to pay your puny way.”
Spent, Mr. Beasdale sank back in his seat, mopping at his damp brow. “What I was going to suggest, you arrogant, impertinent pup, was that you find yourself a job. The world of commerce could use diligent, honest workers. But I see that, like so many others of your useless ilk, you would rather wed your fortune than earn it. So good day.”
What could Adam say? That he had no intention of spending the rest of his life with a woman he did not love, not even to save his ramshackle estate? That Mr. Beasdale would be fortunate to find a coal-heaver to wed his niece, if she resembled the puff-guts in looks or temperament? That he had thought of taking a position, or taking up arms for the king, but too many people were relying on him at home? No, he could not say any of that, deuce take it, because Mr. Beasdale had only spoken the truth. He wished he could make the beef-faced banker eat his words, but Adam was, when all was said and done, worth less than that penny in his pocket
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