Tom’s mother had remained at Halworth Hall because they simply couldn’t afford for her to take part in the season. Susie wasn’t out in society yet, and therefore couldn’t attend events, but since it would cost just as much to house her here as it would at Halworth Hall, she had come to London.
All other expenses, including food, were being bought on credit. Tom would much rather sell the carriage horses than his own, but that would be impractical. For one thing, he, Susie, and Charles would have a difficult time returning to Hampshire when the season ended.
Still, Tom couldn’t imagine giving up Horatio. His uncle had traveled to Prussia to purchase the gentle, sturdy Trakehner for Tom’s seventeenth birthday. It was the first time any male figure in Tom’s life had given him something other than their own cast-off possessions, and Tom had always taken the greatest care with his new friend. On the trip back to England, through the Swiss Confederacy and France, they’d stopped frequently and Tom had always attended to Horatio himself. The horse had even weathered the Channel crossing without incident. Tom couldn’t sell him.
“Didn’t you say you had more than one idea?” he asked, rubbing the nape of his neck.
Susie nodded. “We must cease my lessons.”
He grimaced, but said nothing. He couldn’t deny that her lessons were becoming a frivolous expense. If he hadn’t the money for a new wardrobe for her, he couldn’t afford to bring her out in society. At least, not yet. Her debut would have to wait until he had the funds to bring her out in the style she deserved.
“And . . .” She hesitated, before continuing, “I need to take up some employment.”
Tom groaned. “No. The debt isn’t yours.”
“Nor is it yours. It is our father’s. But unfortunately, it has fallen on your shoulders, and I want to help. I owe it to you.”
Tom walked to an armchair and dropped into it. “You owe me nothing.”
“I owe you my life, Tom.”
Tom shifted in the chair. This conversation wasn’t one he cared to relive.
“What happened then is in the past. I’ll consent to postponing your lessons for a time, but there is no reason to take up employment again. And you have done more than enough for me over the years.”
Susie shook her head. “I could go back to being a maid, but I think I would make more money as a governess.”
He exhaled. “English ladies do not take employment. And you of all people should know what unspeakable things can happen to pretty, young girls of six and ten—governesses and maids alike. I will not have your reputation ruined.”
Susie tilted her head to the side. “Need I remind you I am the bastard daughter of an earl and a parlor maid? I have no reputation. Besides, we both worked in Solothurn. It wasn’t improper for me to sweep floors in your uncle’s hotel. Nor did you mind managing it when he let you.”
The throbbing pain that had materialized earlier pulsed in his forehead, and Tom ran his hand across it. Susie was partly correct—the times his uncle had entrusted him to manage the hotel had been exhilarating. Bodmerhaus am Fluss was one of the few hotels in Solothurn catering to wealthy travelers; it boasted some of the largest rooms in the city or the canton. Tom hadn’t always enjoyed pandering to the customers’ whims or taking care of menial tasks, but he still remembered the way his chest swelled with pride after helping his uncle appease a particularly difficult guest. Once they were alone, his uncle’s whiskers would quiver into a crooked smile as he gave Tom a clap on the back.
His aunt and uncle had no son—only three daughters who were already married by the time Tom and Susie came to Solothurn—so his uncle had taken Tom under his wing. His aunt, a kind, plump woman, spent her days at her daughters’ homes supervising the raising of her grandchildren. She had a fondness for pastries and a habit of buying läckerli or magenbrot—the Swiss versions of gingerbread Tom could never choose between.
Tom fiddled with the leg of his trousers. He often missed his uncle’s family and the cobbled streets of Solothurn. Even now, he could picture the cozy interior of his uncle’s home with its carved wooden furniture and massive ceramic fireplace that heated the main sitting room so quickly. He pictured his uncle and aunt sitting to take their afternoon meal before a platter of cured ham, grassy Emmentaler cheese, sauerkraut, and brown bread, and his stomach growled.
Unfortunately, he was here—in the dull, gray town house that chilled the bones and the spirit almost as much as Halworth Hall did, eating food bland enough to make him lose half a stone, and worrying over how to keep the estate alive and running.
For the first time in his life, he was the sole manager of an enterprise. Only now, he was the manager of an ancient, thankless estate instead of a bustling hotel. He should be as energetic about running Halworth as he had been those times he’d managed the Bodmerhaus am Fluss, but the Halworth estate, unlike his uncle’s hotel, was tainted—tainted by debt, tainted by indifference, and most of all, tainted by agonizing memories.
Tom cleared his throat. “Our lives are different now. I promised myself when we returned that at least your life would be better.”
Susan opened her mouth.
He held up a hand. “I may have inherited an estate and a title I don’t want, but you have no such obligations. I won’t see you working again. You are the daughter of an earl, and I intend you to be treated as such. Once I’ve cleared some of this debt, you will have the season you deserve. I know you wish to help, but recall that as a peer, I can’t be hauled to debtors’ prison. I’m safe for the time being.”
His empty stomach dropped like a stone as he realized what he’d have to do. “Horatio will go. But I want Charles’s horse included in this. He was the one adding to the food merchant’s bill this past year, and his Thoroughbred will fetch a higher price than Horatio. I’ll sell them at auction myself and give the bailiffs the proceeds. I’ll tell them now.”
He started to push himself up from the chair.
“No, Tom. Let me,” Susie said.
He nodded his thanks and let himself collapse back down, stretching his neck back. The pounding in his forehead had spread to the top of his skull.
Susie went to the door, but then turned back, her palm still on the handle. “You returned earlier than expected. Did you enjoy your afternoon of barbaric male ritual?” she asked.
Tom grimaced.
She raised her delicate brows. “What happened?”
Tom explained what they’d witnessed at the boxing club.
With each detail, Susie’s eyes widened. “Tom, you must be careful.”
“Have no fear.” He smiled to reassure her. “I have no intention of going near the fellow again.”
Her forehead creased, but she opened the door. “I’d better see to the bailiffs. You will sell the horses, won’t you, Tom? I know how much Horatio means to you, but the situation is getting out of hand. If we cannot conjure some money, the bailiffs truly will take up residence with us.”
“Let’s hope it won’t come to that. I’ll sell the horses. I promise.”
She nodded and turned to go.
“The next step is to curb Charles’s spending,” he muttered. “Perhaps he can find some occupation. What say you to Charles as a dung-shoveler?”
Susie snorted with laughter. “He’d think twice about nagging you for ‘sullying the family name by partaking in business.’”
Tom wished he could laugh, but her jest only reminded him that Charles had failed to introduce him to potential backers after the match. Again. Though to be fair, Carmichael had interfered with that plan.
Tom gave Susie another half smile. Some days the urge to board the first ship out of England with Susie and Horatio was so strong, Tom could smell the crisp scent of cut grass from the pastures beyond the Solothurn city walls floating across the river Aare to meet him. Life would be so pleasant without debts and endless responsibilities. But then the image of his father laughing from beyond the grave rooted him in place. He couldn’t walk away from his f
amily. Tom would not let the old tyrant win.
Chapter the Tenth
She was willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been wont to suppose.
—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Vicky nodded at the butler, Sheldon, as she stepped into the foyer of the Aston House with Sarah at her heels. Her escort for the afternoon, the Honorable Bartholomew Shore, trudged in after them. Sarah took Vicky’s shawl and disappeared down the hall.
Vicky turned to Mr. Shore. “Thank you for the walk. It was most . . . pleasant.”
Mr. Shore waggled his eyebrows. He must have thought the gesture projected a rakish charm because he’d done it no less than ten times—Vicky had counted—in the space of the last hour. Unfortunately, the waggling only made him look silly or, if she were to be uncharitable, slightly deranged at worst. The art at the Royal Academy Exhibition had proved both a blessing and a curse, as it had kept Vicky from noticing how often he did it for the entire first room of paintings. When she finally did notice, they were too far into the inner room to do anything but continue on—albeit at a quicker pace.
“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Victoria.” Mr. Shore stepped toward the entry table in the center of the foyer and brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from the table onto the floor.
Vicky glanced at Sheldon, who stood stock-still next to the door, but he was too well-versed in his duty to make any outward show of his thoughts. Vicky barely suppressed a grimace, irked as she was at Mr. Shore’s implication that the Aston House staff was remiss in their housekeeping.
Still, he’d been kind enough to ask her for an outing without so much as meeting her first, so she would remain polite.
In the interest of giving Vicky choices beyond Mr. Carmichael, her mother had written missives to some of her friends who currently resided in Town. A good number of them had responded favorably, including her former schoolmate Lady Allenby. As her second son, Mr. Shore would never inherit his father’s earldom, but his parents planned to grant him a sizable estate in Berkshire once he came into his majority.
He waggled his brows again, nearly winking at her in the process. “So much art does put one in a mind for refreshment.”
She pressed her lips together. He wanted her to offer him a drink. She supposed she could invite him to stay for tea, but as he took a step closer to her and raised his thick, reddish brown brows at her—for the twelfth time—she knew tea was out of the question, let alone the disturbing notion of having to watch his eyebrow maneuvers for decades to come if she married him.
“Perhaps you might find one at your club,” Vicky said, gracing him with a smile.
He took another step toward her. “Ah, but I had thought . . .” He trailed off but met her gaze, and this time the red-brown caterpillars danced up and down as if fighting for supremacy.
Thirteen. “I’m afraid I have another engagement this afternoon, but thank you again for the outing.” She turned to the butler. “Sheldon, would you be so good as to show Mr. Shore out?”
Sheldon nodded. “Of course, my lady.” He opened the door. “Mr. Shore,” he intoned.
Realizing he was being dismissed, Shore inclined his head to her. “Another time then, Lady Victoria.”
Vicky kept her smile but said nothing.
He walked to the door and looked back at her with what looked like a genuine smile. “I bid you good day.”
Vicky smiled back. He really wasn’t so bad. Maybe his company improved on closer acquaintance. She really shouldn’t be so judgmental. He started down the steps to the street.
“Good day, Mr. Shore,” she called to him.
He turned back, his eyebrows dancing another absurd jig.
Vicky pressed her lips together and gave Sheldon a meaningful look.
Sheldon shut the door.
“Thank you for the outing, Mr. Fothergill, it was . . . most pleasant,” Vicky said. Swinging his walking stick, Mr. Fothergill thwacked it on the doorjamb as he followed Sarah through the threshold into the Aston House foyer.
“I say,” he exclaimed, looking between his stick and the door, “that came out of nowhere.”
Just as the railing on the great staircase at the British Museum had come out of nowhere. She tried not to roll her eyes as Sarah caught her gaze. Vicky glanced at Mr. Fothergill’s battered, ebony stick, then back at Sarah, who was suppressing a laugh as she took Vicky’s bonnet and gloves and hurried down the hall. Vicky wished she could follow.
One might think she would have learned her lesson about planning long afternoons after her outing with Mr. Shore, but Mr. Fothergill was the eldest son of the Viscount Lindsley, and they’d actually met as children at one of the gatherings at Oakbridge. She recalled him being a small ruddy-faced boy who’d been happy to join her, Tom, Charles, and Althea in racing paper boats down the stream. She’d thought an afternoon at the British Museum would lend them time to reacquaint themselves with each other and see some interesting artifacts in the process.
Yet Mr. Fothergill had grown into a lanky, thin fellow who still seemed to be gaining control of his frame. He’d almost tripped over her twice. And she’d nearly squealed aloud when his stick had knocked the base of the display holding up the Rosetta Stone. All that, she could overlook.
What she could not was that he’d insisted on stopping to take pinches out of his jewel-inlaid snuff box no less than four times while they were inside the museum, and in his clumsiness, he’d nearly spilled it each time. The first time, he’d almost dropped it on an Etruscan vase, and the second he’d almost fumbled the box and its contents onto her new blue day dress. She’d hopped backward, and the box had fallen to the floor beside the Parthenon sculptures. He’d lost half his snuff, and received many a cold glare, but that hadn’t stopped him from pausing to take another sniff a few minutes later.
“It was a good day for it,” Mr. Fothergill said as he nodded at her. “Not too fine out, you know. Waste of the air to be inside looking at dusty coins and urns when the weather’s fine.”
Vicky offered a half smile. They weren’t dusty objects so much as fascinating pieces of the past, but she did agree that a fine day should not be wasted.
He rubbed the silver handle of his walking stick against his trouser leg, and Vicky held her breath as the end flailed in the air. “Perhaps when the weather improves, we could take a drive.”
Vicky’s eyes widened involuntarily as she imagined him trying to juggle the reins of a vehicle as he took a pinch of snuff. She smiled wider so she wouldn’t have to answer.
Mr. Fothergill nodded and pulled out his snuff box. He grasped it in one hand while holding his walking stick with his last three fingers as he tried to take a pinch of the powder with his forefinger and thumb. Vicky glanced at Sheldon as Mr. Fothergill snorted the tobacco up his nose. Truly, was it so much to ask that a potential suitor be more interested in her than his snuff? Or, at the very least, contain his vices to an appropriate place and time? Sheldon caught her eye, but as usual his expression did not waver.
She glanced back at Mr. Fothergill, who had somehow pulled out a dark handkerchief. He was wiping his nose when his grip on the stick loosened and it crashed to the floor. He crouched to retrieve it and nearly dropped his snuff box again; he grabbed for it with his other hand, sending the handkerchief winging to the floor, where it landed with a slight squash.
Vicky grimaced at Sheldon.
“Allow me, sir,” Sheldon said and moved from his post by the door at his usual sedate pace.
Mr. Fothergill looked at Sheldon. “No need, my good man. I need only secure my snuff back into my pocket . . .”
Before he had done so, Sheldon had retrieved the wayward stick and handkerchief. He plodded back to the door with the items and Vicky followed, hoping Mr. Fothergill would take the hint.
After he returned his precious snuff to its protective pocket, he saw them standing at the door and moved there himself.
“Thank you for the delightful afternoon, Mr. Fothergi
ll,” Vicky said with a smile.
“A great pleasure, Lady Victoria,” he replied.
“Your stick, Mr. Fothergill,” intoned Sheldon, holding it out.
Fothergill took it and started through the door.
“And your handkerchief, sir,” Sheldon said, holding it delicately aloft with two fingers.
Fothergill snatched it from Sheldon, nodded at Vicky, and stepped outside. Vicky winced as his stick slapped the doorjamb again.
Sheldon swung the door shut.
Vicky paused at the front door of Aston House and turned to Lord Blankenship, who stood two steps below her. Behind her, Sarah opened the door and hastened through.
“Thank you for the outing, Lord Blankenship. It was . . . most pleasant.” And thankfully brief. Vicky had learned her lesson this time and only allowed Lord Blankenship to take her for a walk to Hyde Park and back.
“Quite so, Lady Victoria. Most pleasant,” said the young viscount, spittle flying from his lips as he said the “p” in “pleasant.” He climbed another step closer to her.
Vicky stepped back until she was standing in the door’s frame. It hadn’t been so bad conversing with Lord Blankenship in the park, where they were walking side by side and she needn’t face him—although watching his saliva reflect in the sun’s rays as it showered to the ground had certainly not been pleasant—but how was she to avoid being spit upon when he insisted on speaking face-to-face?
“The park always makes for such a diverting outing.”
Vicky winced as spittle flew closer to her with each “t” sound. She didn’t care if his mother and hers thought him a good marital prospect. Nothing was worth dodging dribble for the rest of her life. She inched backward and saw Sheldon holding the door, standing straight and serious as ever.
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