Chapter Three
“Uncle.”
“Mary Elizabeth.” Lord Wycomb’s head and shoulders appeared first, then the rest of him dressed in the most elegant of coats. He paused when he reached the top of the steps, though his hand still rested on the banister.
“Might I have a moment of your time?” She gestured toward the nearest unoccupied room, which, to her dismay, was the ballroom.
Wycomb’s dark brow rose. His hand fell away from the banister. “Only a moment. I have many demands on my time.”
Clearly she had no demands, if his expression were correct. But she wasn’t ready to start the confrontation yet, so she did not argue.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured.
The letter from Mr. Sparks was still crumpled in her hand as she led Wycomb to the door. He let her enter first as propriety dictated, then stepped into the shadowed ballroom with no more sound than the sighing displacement of air.
It was quieter here, as the windows faced the rear garden rather than the street. Drawn curtains let in only filtered streams of light dimmed by rain and clouds, both of which seemed absent of the thunder that had rumbled just minutes ago.
“What is amiss now, Mary Elizabeth?” Wycomb tugged briefly at his left cuff, twitching it into place without bothering to meet her eyes.
“I have received news from Ashdown Abbey.” She squeezed the letter tight in her fist and set it behind her back so he would not take it. “The trustees have decided not to provide the tenants with new roofs this year in favor of improvements to the mill.”
He stilled, letting his cuff slip from his fingers. “I was not aware Mr. Sparks corresponded with you privately,” Wycomb said softly, failing to comment on the roofs. His eyes flicked over her, as though there would be some mark upon her that screamed corresponds with estate managers.
“My father never neglected his duties.” Did Wycomb think she would have no interest in her inheritance? “I will not either.”
“It is not your duty, Mary Elizabeth.” His head angled slightly so that the pale light from the windows slanted over sharp features and the few silvered strands at his temples. “The trustees make the decisions with my participation and, occasionally, guidance.” He did not step forward, did not make any movement at all.
Somehow she felt as though he had.
She narrowed her eyes, refusing to give in to his subtle intimidation. “The trustees may make the decision, but I am the only Ashdown left, uncle. I am Baroness Worthington.”
“Indeed, but your inheritance is not yours to control.”
That did not mean she was not helpless.
“I met with the tenants last spring.” She felt each rigid point of the crumpled paper fisted in her hand, as though all of her body’s sensation had centered to that single spot. “They were passed over then for the improvements to the smithy and the chapel. I promised them I would see their roofs were repaired this year. It is only a handful of cottages, and my fortune is more than—” She broke off, realizing that she was no longer certain what state her fortune was in. It was one of the hazards of having trustees. “It is not insignificant. I’m one of the wealthiest women in England. Surely there are sufficient funds for a few roofs.”
Wycomb clasped his hands behind his back and strolled away to the window, his boots ringing quietly on the parquet floor.
He’d set his back to her. As though her concerns were of no importance.
Oh, she would not tolerate such indifference. She went after him.
“Surely, there is enough,” Cat said again.
“Whether there are sufficient funds is not at issue.” He did not turn around to face her, but set a hand to the curtain and pushed it aside. “What is at issue is that your trustees and your guardian have assessed the situation. We have decided.”
“I made a promise.” Cat dug in her heels, the letter in her hand nearly forgotten except that it gave her something to squeeze.
“Mary Elizabeth.” Wycomb’s words were soft. Very, very soft. A shiver ran up her spine. “You do not have the power to make any such promise to the tenants.” Now he did look at her, turning his head and dropping the curtain. Cold blue eyes met hers.
Anger rolled through Cat at the statement. She let the heat of it swell, grow, and though she attempted to use her mother’s training to ease it, she could not. The sting of his words remained, as sharp as any needle.
“No, I suppose I do not have such power,” she said. There was no denying he was right, and it scraped at her.
“I don’t expect you to understand these estate matters, but I assure you, the proper decision has been made.” He turned to face her fully so that the white of his cravat shone in the dim light.
“And the goodwill of the tenants?”
“We don’t need it. If they choose to leave, there will always be more tenants.”
Cat sucked in a breath, ready to rail at him for such sentiment, but he again walked away. Simply walked across the room and set his fingers on the door handle.
“It is none of your affair, Mary Elizabeth. You need only concern yourself with navigating the Season to secure a husband. There are not many gentlemen worthy of your birthright. You would do well to entice them.”
He was gone, through the door and into the hall, leaving her with no answer.
Someone cursed.
It was her.
Frustration was a hot, hard ball in her belly, one that did not ease as she made her way to her chambers. She resisted the urge to slam the bedroom door. Control required more willpower than temper, and if there was one trait she possessed, it was willpower.
Turning to face the room, she looked around the space. It had been hers since she was old enough to be out of the nursery. Someday, when she was married, she would sleep in the baroness’s chamber below. For now, she’d chosen to stay here.
She moved instinctively to the dresser, her gaze focused on a slim glass bottle there. Painted pale blue, it was smooth against her palm when she picked it up. Removing the cork stopper, she inhaled deeply. The scent of violets calmed her. Even the feel of the bottle against her skin soothed her.
Mother.
A lady has better weapons than a man, my darling. Subtlety wins more wars than brute force.
“I’ll pay for the roofs myself,” Cat said into the room, quiet now that the rain had tapered off and no longer tapped against the windows. Replacing the stopper, she went to the escritoire and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I made a promise.”
Dear Mr. Sparks,
Please use my pin money to replace the tenants’ roofs. There is a significant amount available in the same location my father held his personal funds. More will be available as the new quarter begins.
Respectfully Yrs,
Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown
Baroness Worthington
There. Mr. Sparks would see it done, as her father’s will ensured he could not be removed from his position beyond illness or legal incompetence. The new roofs would anger the trustees, perhaps, when they found out, and her uncle as well. By then the work would be complete, or partially complete. There would be nothing they could do but deny her pin money—and that they could not. It was hers by the terms of her father’s will, and it was more than she ever needed in a single quarter. Cat folded the letter into the proper shape. Lighting a candle, she set the end of the white wax she favored to the flame until it was soft. Pressing it against the paper, she closed the flaps. Quickly, before it cooled, she pressed her seal into it.
Her father’s seal.
Fortitude. Courage. Generosity.
Generations of Ashdowns had lived by those words—and she was the last one, which meant the duty was hers alone. If Wycomb discovered she was mailing the letter to Mr. Sparks, she would be failing in that duty.
Standing quickly, she went to the wardrobe for her pelisse. It was March in London, and the air would be damp and chilly after the rain. She started to pull the garment over her gown, then sighed heavily and rang for her maid. The girl would be horribly disappointed if Cat readied herself to walk to the Receiving House.
It was only a few moments before Eliza arrived, so there was little delay in her plans.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” Cat smiled at the young, round-cheeked girl she’d brought to London from Ashdown Abbey. “I have an errand, and have need of my pelisse and bonnet as well as a companion.”
Eliza’s eyes brightened as she bustled toward the garment Cat held out. “Of course, my lady. I would be honored. Shall I send round for a carriage?”
“No, I’d rather walk.” Cat shrugged into the pelisse Eliza held out for her, then moved to the dressing table to sit on the cushioned stool. “There seems to be a break in the weather after days of rain, and I’d like to take advantage of it.”
“I shall be ready in a trice, then, milady. Here, I think the bonnet with the blue ribbons would be best. It’s nearly the same shade as your eyes and compliments your gown as well.” Taking the bonnet from the shelf, she held it up for Cat’s approval.
“Yes, I think that is a good choice.” Cat smiled at the girl, though inwardly she wondered what difference it made. At a ball, where she was to meet her future husband, one was careful about accessories and color choice. She was only going to the small haberdashery she favored because it doubled as the closest Receiving House.
A lady didn’t meet her husband at the Receiving House.