Persuading Him: A Modern Persuasion Retelling (Pemberley Estates Book 1)

by Keena Richins

  "Where's your father—oh, hi, Anne," Penny gave a timid wave, those intelligent eyes lidded.

  "Anne is about to get him." Her sister gave Anne a pointed stare.

  "Oh, Anne doesn't need to get up. I could go get him."

  "Don't be ridiculous. He's napping."

  Red heated Penny's pale cheeks. "Oh, yes, that would be very awkward."

  "Anne." It was a command as if Eliza had snapped her fingers for a dog.

  Resisting Eliza only caused conflict, something Anne hated, so she reluctantly closed the two folders.

  "Is that the Wickham case?" Penny asked, her eyes on the folder in Anne's hands.

  Anne paused. This was the third time she'd asked about the case despite professing no interest in it.

  "Anne, that was supposed to be in the mail already. If you miss that deadline, Dad could lose his job. Maybe even his license!"

  "It’s due in the mail in three days," Anne said in a measured tone. Eliza did not like being corrected, after all. "But," she tapped the heavy manila envelope inside the 'out' box, "I intend to send it out today."

  "I'm sure it should have been in the mail last week," Eliza countered, unwilling to admit she might be wrong.

  Anne might give way for most things, but this was not a fight she'd let Eliza win. Anne tapped the keyboard and the monitor flickered out of sleep mode; she turned it toward Eliza so she could see the calendar and pointed three days ahead where the schedule clearly stated when it had to be mailed. "Says here it should be mailed on this day unless your calendar isn't correct?"

  Eliza thinned her lips, a sign she was about to retaliate. Anne tensed, not quite sure what Eliza would use to get back at her.

  Her sister turned to Penny and, with a sweet yet cold smile, asked, "Penny, do you want to go to dinner with my father and I? We'll need a notetaker and you've always been better than Anne at that."

  Her friend widened her eyes. "Me? Better than Anne? You are too kind and generous! I would love to go!"

  Eliza looked at Anne with a smug smile, safe in assuming that Anne would be livid for being uninvited.

  Anne quietly gathered the two folders and scooted the chair toward the overstuffed cabinet, trying to look miffed by the insult. But in reality, Anne was relieved. She had never enjoyed attending those meetings with the clients, where she was regulated to note-taking the entire time or having to smile and listen to things she had no interest in. And as long as Eliza assumed banishing Anne from the meetings was an effective punishment, Anne had no desire to set the record straight.

  "Would you mind if I went home and changed real quick?" Penny asked, smoothing her hands over a very pretty blue and white sundress. Anne had no idea why she needed to change. Yes, it was a season old—and had once been Eliza's—but it showed no sign of wear and flattered her frame exceptionally well.

  Eliza arched an eyebrow and Penny, as if worried she had given offense for daring to imply Eliza's old dress wasn't adequate enough, added, "I can also take the envelope and drop it off for you on my way home. The post office is practically on the way."

  Anne scooted back to the precious envelope. "There's no need—"

  "That is so sweet of you," Eliza cut over Anne's protest. She snapped her fingers, again acting like a queen, a habit she'd developed when their mother had died. As the eldest, and with a work-obsessed father, she had assumed command of the house and had reveled in the glory ever since.

  Anne hesitated. For some reason, she didn't like the idea of giving that very important envelope to Penny. Unfortunately, she had no viable excuse to give to her sister and outright refusing seemed silly. Penny was a secretary for Eliza and her father; she always took things to the post office. Plus, Anne would have to entrust the envelope to the mailman anyway.

  Reluctantly, Anne held out the envelope and Penny graciously took it, but not before Anne caught a very odd smile—almost like triumph—sneak over her lips for a fraction of a second.

  Chapter 2

  "I will be right back." Penny darted out of the room, the precious envelope tucked under her arm, before Anne could object.

  Eliza smiled at Anne, a chilling edge in her eyes. "Aren’t you supposed to be getting Dad by now?"

  Anne knew that tone; Eliza wanted a fight. Her anger from Anne's recent win hadn't dissipated and she was eager to dispense that wrath. Anne, aware of the trap and having no desire to fall for it, gave her sister no verbal response and headed out of the office and down the hallway. It opened up to a spacious entranceway with a dining and sitting room on either side, and a grand staircase rising to the upper floor. Without fail, her eyes flicked to the beloved grand piano standing with pride before the windows in the sitting room, and her fingers itched to caress those black and white keys. Eliza may need a scapegoat to vent emotions, but Anne only needed a piano. Unfortunately, music would ignite the boiling wrath of her sister, so, with a sigh, she headed up the grand staircase.

  At the top, filling the wall from floor to ceiling, stood a mirror, allowing her father and sister to ensure their outfits oozed poise and perfection. Anne, however, simply smoothed down her brunette hair, pulled into a messy bun and sighed at her thin frame donned with black slacks and a pale yellow blouse with a ribbon around her waist. Her father tended to make comments if her appearance wasn't up to his standards. Not that she could ever reach his standards. She lacked the high cheekbones and regal beauty Eliza possessed. Nor did she have the curves and luscious curls of her younger sister. Apparently, her genes had given way just like she did in life. It must be a defining factor of herself.

  Still, she couldn't help remembering someone who had once found her far prettier than either of her sisters. For a moment, she could imagine him standing behind her, his strong arms wrapped around her, a sly grin on his handsome, nineteen-year-old face. How she had loved that expression. And the feeling of safety within his arms.

  But his grin morphed into a snarl, the face flushed with anger and hurt, the soft eyes now filled with accusation. That was how his face looked the last time she had seen him. She grimaced as the memory descended to when he had come to confront her father. Since she was but seventeen at the time, they had needed the permission of her father to marry before he was to leave for the navy. Her father had been appalled. The boy had aged out of foster care, had a GED instead of a proper diploma, and had a history of violent anger and delinquency. Anne had tried to explain his past shouldn't define him, that his heart was good, that he was determined to make a name for himself, and that she knew he would succeed and be able to take care of her, but her father wouldn't hear any of it. His daughter was to become a great lawyer, not be given away to some random delinquent, ex-foster boy.

  Anne had sought the help of her godmother, hoping she could change her father's mind, but Russelle had sided with her father and convinced Anne of the folly of rushing into marriage at seventeen with a boy she'd only known for four months.

  It had fallen to Anne, then, to inform the love of her life that she couldn't run away with him as planned. He had not understood and begged her to come anyway. If she truly loved him, she wouldn't let her father’s lack of permission stand in between them. She should defy authority and run away with him. But defiance was his strong point, not hers. And the law was on her father's side. So, she gathered the courage to shut the front door on his angry, confused, and hurt face—and then cried for a week, a fact she hid from everyone since she doubted any of her family cared.

  She had hoped, when she finally turned eighteen and no longer could be controlled by her father, he'd return. She had even sent a few emails, hoping for a response and a grand reunion. But an email from him never graced her inbox. She tried to follow him on social media but found he was rarely on it, his accounts barer than a ghost town, and the messages she'd sent languishing in a forgotten inbox.

  Pushing the unhappy memories away, she headed down the hallway to the kitchenette built into the wall, pulled out a teacup from the cupboard along with a pack
et of medicine she had prepared that morning, and turned on the instant hot water machine. Knowing it would need a minute or two, she headed further down the hallway, past her room, Eliza's room, her younger sister's old room—now another wardrobe for her father—and stopped at her father's door. Knocking twice, she waited a moment, but when she heard nothing, she peeked inside.

  The room was spacious with a massive four-post bed dominated the room while an equally large dresser and two chairs consumed most of the far wall. Near the dresser and against each wall were tall mirrors, positioned so her father could get a look at himself from any angle. Her father was blessed with youthful beauty and it was a gift he sought to keep his entire life, reveling whenever someone assumed he was a decade younger than his actual age. The cancer, unfortunately, had dealt a heavy blow to his vanity, especially when the stress lines began to appear despite the mountain of anti-aging products in the bathroom. Losing his hair to the chemotherapy had nearly robbed him of his desire to continue living. But Anne had been by his side, insisting he rally, and now, with the return of his curly, brown hair, he had the spirit to take on the challenges of life once again.

  Speaking of her father, he lay motionless on the bed, a green silk sheet pulled up to his torso, his coveted curly hair a complete mess. Since he wasn't up yet, she returned to the kitchenette and prepared the tea. Her father always woke up grumpy but she'd found tea to be a nice remedy.

  The tea ready, she returned to the room and gently prodded him awake.

  "House on fire?" He grumbled, an automatic sneer on his face for whoever dared to wake him.

  She smiled. "Tea is ready."

  He poked an eye open and glared at her. "What kind?"

  "Your favorite. Green tea."

  He sighed. "I suppose." He hefted himself to a sitting position and took the offered tea. He took a cautious sip. "What time is it?"

  "Time to take your medicine." She held the bag of pills and he groaned, hiding behind the teacup. But when she wiggled the bag again, he grudgingly took it and emptied the contents into his mouth, washing them down with the tea. At the beginning of his cancer, he had refused to take pills. With stage three prostate cancer, he had been in too much pain and hadn't seen the point to survive if the pain didn't go away. Unfortunately for him, Anne had refused to let his depression win. She researched all the available treatments and drugs, acquired second, third, and even fourth opinions from esteemed doctors, and then, with her fledging lawyer training, made a compelling case to her father. It was one of the few times she had managed to convince her father to do something he didn't want to do, something he had even thanked her for. Once. A moment she would always cherish.

  Alas, this was not that moment.

  "Where's Eliza?" It was his usual first thought ever since she had moved home a few months back. She hadn't expected her father to live and had left, taking a position in a prestigious law firm in Boston, thus inspiring Anne to abandon law school to rush to her father's rescue. And, once it became apparent he'd live—never mind that it was thanks to Anne's persistence—Eliza had returned with loving adoration to help save his career. Or so she claimed. Anne, however, guessed Eliza hadn't been progressing fast enough in the Boston law firm to suit her tastes and hoped to rise faster with her father's help in his job instead.

  "She's downstairs." Anne took the empty teacup from him. "She says you have a meeting with clients this evening."

  He glanced at the clock. "Tonight? In an hour? Why didn't you wake me sooner?" He shuffled to the bathroom, muttering about how impossible it was to look his best in under an hour.

  Knowing her father wouldn't spare her a thought during his dressing dilemma, she returned to the kitchenette and washed the teacup as well as prepared more pills for tomorrow. Once that was done, she meandered to the loft where she could check the entrance area—and gazed at her beloved piano. Since her father's bathroom was the furthest room from the piano, she had learned she could practice while he fussed with his appearance. Unfortunately, that ritual was ruined when her sister had returned. And with Eliza probably still on the prowl for a victim, playing the piano would not be a smart move at the moment. With a sigh, she headed downstairs to the office. Since she did most of the research for both of her father's and sister's cases, there was always an unending stack of things to do.

  The doorbell rang as she reached the landing and she stopped in surprise. It was too late for a random salesperson and neither her father's nor sister's friends ever bothered to visit the house. Curious, she opened the solid oak door to find Penny's father, a man in his forties already sporting grey hair and with a round belly due to too much sitting. He was also their faithful accountant who had been managing their money for decades.

  "Mr. Clay," Anne said with a smile. "If you're looking for your daughter, she recently headed home—"

  "I saw her car pass me, I know, but I'm not here for her. I'm here because, well," he glanced behind Anne as if nervous someone was eavesdropping, "I came here to see you. Your father isn't returning any of my calls, texts, or emails again, and I really need a decision to be made."

  Anne inwardly sighed. Money management had never been a strong point for her father. She waved the accountant toward the sitting room. "What's the matter?"

  He paced in front of a chair. "It's the house."

  Anne sat down hard as if the act could somehow save the house. "What do you mean?"

  "There hasn't been enough money to pay for the two mortgages on the house for several months now and the banks are talking about foreclosure."

  Anne pressed her eyes closed. Her home, all her memories, in foreclosure?

  "I suggested selling some things," Mr. Clay continued, still pacing, "to drum up the needed cash but I've heard nothing from your father."

  Anne understood why. To her father, 'stuff' proved one was wealthy. To part with it would make one look poor and he couldn't let anyone assume that!

  "Are there other options we could pursue?"

  He sat down, perched on the edge of the seat, his nervousness too much for him to relax, "Renting the house is a viable option. It is in such good condition," he hurried on in a prepared speech. "Has good grounds and gorgeous views from the back windows. I'm sure it could attract a wealthy family who could pay enough to cover both mortgages."

  Anne took a slow breath. She'd rather sell everything in the house—save the piano— than be forced out of her childhood home.

  "Any other options?"

  He winced. "I'm afraid we've run out of the other options. Your father's financial situation is very precarious right now."

  She drummed her fingers on her knees. "I shall speak with my father about selling some things."

  "Should I look for renters as well, just in case?"

  Anne wanted to vehemently say no, but she knew the process would give Mr. Clay something to do. Even if he found renters, it didn't mean they would actually need them. "Sure, but make sure they have excellent background checks. My godmother, Russelle, can help you with that."

  "Yes," he stood up with a relieved sigh. "Yes, I'll speak with her if I find anyone suitable. Thank you, Anne," he reached out and patted her shoulder. "I knew you'd help me with this delicate dilemma. Please assure your father I'm doing everything possible to keep him afloat."

  She rose as well. "I will." She directed him to the front door and waved him off, then closed the door and leaned against it. Money. Why did her family have to spend it so rapidly? And to think, in a few hours, her father and sister would be paying for a super expensive dinner for clients, hastening their impending ruin.

  She swept her eyes over the beautiful entranceway, noting the expensive furniture and overpriced paintings. Nothing in here could be sold—too obvious. But perhaps some of the unused furniture upstairs? And she was sure there were plenty of knick-knacks in the garage that could find a new home. The trick would be to not let her father know as well as hope the sales could somehow save their financial situation.

&
nbsp; The doorbell abruptly rang again and Anne yelped in shock. Figuring the accountant had forgotten something, she opened the door but found a tall, slender lady attired in a gray and black pantsuit, her short, straight black hair accenting her strong chin and sharp eyes.

  "Russelle!" Anne cried, a real smile donning her lips. Anne may prefer her own company, but Russelle was an exception. She was both her godmother and her best friend. "What brings you here?"

  "You, of course," Russelle said as she glided into the house. "But now I’m here for your financial situation. I can’t believe you’re considering renting the house!"

  Anne grimaced. "You spoke with Mr. Clay already?"

  "I pulled up as he was about to leave and it was the first thing he mentioned. But Anne, I thought your father had excellent health insurance."

  "He does." She motioned toward the sitting room where they took a seat. "But, you know my Dad, always needing to have the best. And the best in the medical field weren't always covered by our insurance."

  Now it was Russelle's turn to grimace. "Yes, I can see how that played out. Is your father back to working full time?"

  "Not quite—"

  "What of Eliza? I thought she moved back to help him out."

  "She's been doing really well and she and my Dad have a meeting with clients this evening."

  "And you, as well, I assume?"

  "No, Penny will be going as the notetaker."

  "Notetaker? Honey, you know more about all the cases than Penny, your sister, and even your father combined. You've been doing all the hard work for the past year! You should not be shut out from these meetings." She stood up. "I shall speak with Eliza—"

  "Please don't," Anne said in a hurry. "Really, it's no trouble. I don't want to go. There's plenty of work for me to do here and Penny has always been the better notetaker."