The one thing George knew before his meeting with Harold was that it was going to take some time before Sir Cuthbert would be able to secure and send The Times articles. Yes, George could rush to judgement, but Harold had been too good a manager and yes, even a friend to the family to dismiss him out of hand.

“Your Grace,” Harold said as he found George in his studio cleaning brushes.

“Oh, Harold, do come in and take a seat. Sorry about the raggedy sofa, but this is my retreat and it is more for comfort than for show.”

Harold looked around the studio. “You know this is the first time I have been up here.”

“Really? I guess you have been taking care of business while I have taken care of just myself.”

“As is your right,” Harold said with no hint of censure in the comment. “And by the way, I do like your paintings very much. And you may or may not know this, but your father was very proud of your accomplishments. He spoke to me often of your success in London.”

“Thank you for telling me that. It means a lot.”

Harold was making this even harder. Damn him. George rubbed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair as he struggled with what to say next.

But it was Harold who spoke first. “You mentioned to me the other day that you were thinking I might become the estate manager as you wanted to focus on your painting.”

“Yes-s-s,” George was still struggling with how to answer that. “For now, I should like to carry on as we have been. I am happy to have you take on the day to day operation of the farm, but I am still sorting through my father’s papers and I have not yet found his will. I suspect his solicitor might have that. And before I make any permanent decisions, I should like to review all that I have before me. Does that make sense?”

Harold did not appear to be pleased with that answer, but he nodded. “As you wish. But I have my own needs to consider. As you know, I have been thinking of purchasing an estate locally, and my situation here might influence what sort of property I might wish to purchase.”

This George knew to be a lie. But he also saw it as Harold’s attempt to negotiate.

“I understand. If you can be patient with me for just a while longer, then, once I get my affairs in order, we can talk again. It should not be too long. No more than a week, I suspect.”

Harold stood. “Then I shall get to work. There is much to do to keep this place running as the old Duke would like it. Good day, Your Grace.”

George was relieved to have put off a decision on Harold for the time being.

* * *

Ann and Charlotte were pacing in Charlotte’s rooms. They had been outfitted in their new morning dresses and were chafing at the restrictions imposed upon them by the required time of mourning.

Ann threw her hands in the air in a wild gesture. “This is insupportable. How are we to trap Beaumont if we are restricted to this horrid house day after day? We can’t even go for a walk in the garden.”

“But Sister, dear, it is freezing outside. Would you really want to bundle up and traipse amongst a bunch of dead rosebushes?” Charlotte sensibly said.

“First, they are dormant, not dead,” Ann corrected. “And secondly…” She waved her hands again but struggled to speak further. “I do not know what is secondly…”

“You are frustrated, as am I, about our intolerable situation. We must do something about Mr. Goodwin. Did you see him at the reception after the funeral…? He was all eyes and smiles at Lucy. And we were constrained by our mourning to let it be.”

Ann started pacing again and mumbled, “There must be a way… some way to get alone with Mr. Goodwin. If even for a brief moment.”

“Are you still thinking for me to sprain my ankle?” Charlotte asked.

“No. No. That is no longer practical. We need a new plan. Something cunning and foolproof.”

“Well, I hope you can think of something, but I have been wracking my brain, and I can come up with nothing.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes… something cunning. A way in. We need to figure out how to clinch the deal.”

“Our Sunday open houses are dead during the time of mourning. But there must be some other way…”

“What about a memorial service for Father? He would come to that, and we could corner him,” Charlotte suggested.

“But that would be redundant. The funeral was the service. And I am certain neither Mother nor George would agree to such a scheme.”

“You are most likely right.”

“Do we have any birthdays coming up? If so we could have a party.”

“No parties during mourning,” Charlotte reminded Ann.

“I am at my wit’s end. We must find a way. We just must!”

* * *

George was surprised when at breakfast, just three days later, there was a packet from Sir Cuthbert waiting for him at his place at the table where the morning post was customarily left for his review.

Only Ann and Betsy were up yet and at breakfast. He slipped the post into his coat pocket, even though he wanted to rip Sir Cuthbert’s letter open right then. But it would have aroused questions from his sisters, and he wanted to review the materials in private.

He hurried to his study directly after breakfast and opened the envelope. As expected, it contained a letter and a number of clippings from The Times. First, he read the letter.

Your Grace, The Duke of Sutherland

It is with a feeling of great sadness that I pass these newspaper clippings along to you as I promised. In reviewing the articles, it brought back to me the surprise and disappointment I felt at the time of my initial reading of these news stories.

However, I do feel incumbent to follow through on my promise to you to deliver this sad news. Forgive me.

I believe the stories speak for themselves, but should you have any further use of my services, please do not hesitate to respond with your further requests.

I do look forward to our meeting again during the course of our future business enterprises.

Ever Your Devoted Servant,

Sir Cuthbert Honeyfield, OBE

George read the three accompanying articles provided. They did confirm all that Sir Cuthbert had told him. George felt a great wave of disappointment wash over him. He liked Harold so very much. And he knew this news would be devastating to Lucy. And for her, it could not but mean she would have no living bestowed upon her. Not that that mattered to him, but it would certainly be devastating to her.

Standing from his desk, George began pacing the room. What was he to do? How could he solve this problem so that Betsy and Lucy would not be gravely hurt? What would his father have done? He immediately knew the answer to that—banish him immediately. But that solution held no compassion for Betsy or Lucy. And it would deprive him of an accomplished manager when he needed him most.

As George glanced at his desk, his gaze was caught by a letter he had neglected to see when he first found the letter from Sir Cuthbert. He picked it up. It was from Seth Hardy, his gallery director. Opening it, he was delighted to see that Mr. Hardy was offering George a major one-man show to be held at the beginning of the autumn season. But he would need a considerably larger number of paintings than George had ready at present.

George let the letter drop to the desk. “Damn,” he said aloud, “How am I to produce the needed number of paintings if I no longer have a manager for the estate? How can I possibly let Harold go?”

If only there were someone he could discuss this with. And there was only one person, other than Lucy, he could trust to give him sound advice—Nanny.

* * *

“Mrs. Wilkes?” George called out tentatively as he stepped into the nursery.

Nanny looked up as she sat by the window concentrating on some sewing.

“Master George,” she said, and then corrected herself, “Oh, I am sorry… Your Grace.”

George laughed for the first time in several days. “Oh, Nanny I shall always be Master George to you.”

“Come sit by me. It has been such a long time since we have had a good natter. Tell me all about your life these days. That is, if you have time. Is this a social visit?”

George pulled a chair over by her and sat. “Not strictly, but I do have time to spend with you. Tell me how you are doing with no children to teach.”

He noticed that she still seemed to be her old self—smiling, chipper and it did not look as though she had aged too much.

She chuckled. “They keep me involved with busywork. And your sisters are still not married, so there are still no new children for me to teach.”

“My sisters can sometimes be difficult. But do not give up hope. One day soon, perhaps.”

“I am so sorry about your father…” she said. “I know you all miss him very much.”

“We do.” George was thoughtful, then said, “And that is one reason I have come to see you. I have a situation I would have gone to my father for—for advice. But he is gone, and there is only one person, other than you, that whose opinion I would trust.”

“And that would be Lucy,” she said with a smile.

“It would be, but I cannot ask her because it involves her.”

Nanny took a few more stitches before replying, “I believe you have romantic feelings for her. Is that not so?”

“Nanny… how could you…”

“Oh, I have eyes and remember I know you both so well. So, my dear Georgie, are you here for romantic advice?”

He laughed. “Not today. I need your advice on how to handle a most difficult situation regarding someone who is very dear to Lucy.”

“Her brother?”

“Yes.”

George laid out the situation in detail and iterated all the reasons for and against letting Harold go, and even alerting the constable about this man who was a thief.

“How do you think your father would have resolved this?” Nanny asked after some thought.

“I believe he would have let him go and called the police.”

“And do you concur?”

“That is my dilemma. Something is stopping me from taking that action.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because of Lucy?”

“No, my dear. Because you have a kind heart. You have compassion.”

“And how does that help me solve my problem?”

Nanny continued with her sewing. “Your heart will find the solution. Not your mind.”

George laughed. “I was hoping you would give me the answer. Tell me outright what I should do—like showing me how to work a maths equation.”

Then she laughed. “Ah… yes, I expect you would like me to do that. But then you would not benefit from the struggle of searching for the right response.”

“Oh, Nanny you are impossible.”

“I know. And has that not always been the case?”