by Diane Gaston
‘Please do not delay in speaking to them,’ she requested. ‘They expect to have the day off.’
Squire Hedges walked around the desk to escort her to the door. ‘We will move as quickly as possible. Dixon will organise them for us.’
Certainly. Dixon would be pleased to do so, Lorene was sure. He would probably be pleased to tell them what to say, as well.
Squire Hedges opened the door for her and she stepped into the corridor where Dixon still stood on guard, but the area soon filled with other voices. Her sisters and their husbands. And Dell, who looked absorbed in his own thoughts.
‘Tess. Genna. I forgot it was Boxing Day. I do not know where Tinmore put the purses for the servants and tenants.’
‘Filkins will know,’ Genna said. ‘I’ll find him.’
She dashed off, but her husband, the Marquis of Rossdale, heir to the Duke of Kessington, marched right past Dixon, entering the room with the Squire and the coroner.
‘What is he doing?’ Lorene asked, alarmed that Rossdale just barged in on the men.
Glenville, Tess’s husband, answered, ‘He wants to be certain they handle this properly. And as quietly as possible.’
She supposed a future duke would have some influence. It was a good thing to have someone even more important than Earl Tinmore to advocate for her.
And for Dell.
‘Surely they will decide that it was merely a horrible accident,’ she said.
‘Dell tells us there will be an inquest,’ Glenville explained. ‘The coroner will have to find jurors and swear them in. They will have to see where the death occurred and view the body, so you cannot bury your husband until that takes place.’
It all sounded dreadful. She hated thinking of his body lying on his bed for as long as it took to find the jurors. Between Christmastide and winter weather, it could take more than a week.
She glanced at Dell, who leaned against the wall, a scowl on his face. He glanced up at her and his expression changed to something more tender, something like regret in his eyes.
She held his gaze for a moment before glancing away.
* * *
The afternoon was exhausting. Not only the sheer numbers of gifts to distribute, but over and over to hear and accept condolences, to answer questions about what had happened, to attempt to reassure the servants and tenants that Tinmore’s heir, whoever he was, would do right by them.
She really had no idea what would happen to any of them, including herself. She had signed a marriage contract with him, but it stipulated that her sisters receive a handsome dowry, that her half-brother receive funds to purchase an advance in rank, and that she receive a modest living upon his death. As it turned out, neither of her sisters received the dowry, nor did her brother keep the money Tinmore bestowed on him. Would she fare any better?
She also did not know the heir to Tinmore’s title, lands and fortune. A great-nephew, he’d said, but never named the man. Was he among the important people Tinmore invited to house parties and whom he called upon in London? She did not know. She hoped her reassurances to the servants and tenants would be true. Any decent man would see to it.
Lorene had insisted Tess leave to rest while she finished up and Genna had hurried away to see what Cook had provided them all to eat and to see to making tea immediately. Lorene was alone with her thoughts in this drawing room, the same room to which Tinmore had taken Dell the night before.
There was a light rap on the door.
Lorene rubbed her face and straightened in her chair. ‘Come in.’
Dell appeared in the doorway. God help her, her body flushed with awareness just looking upon him, even though his expression was dark.
‘May I disturb you for a moment?’ he asked.
She stood. ‘Yes. Come in. You do not disturb me.’
He crossed the room to her. ‘I came to bid you goodbye.’
‘Goodbye?’ She had not thought of him leaving. The idea of it made her insides twist.
He nodded, still looking grim. ‘My coachmen need their holiday and—’ his impossibly blue eyes captured her gaze ‘—there is no reason to stay.’
‘No reason?’ Goodness. Could she do nothing but repeat his words?
‘The Squire and Mr Walsh left.’
Had that been why he’d stayed this long? ‘But surely you will stay for dinner.’ If Cook left them anything to eat.
He shook his head. ‘Ross and Glenville will stay. And your sisters. They will...’ He paused. ‘Look out for you.’
She’d have no friends here if they did not stay, except perhaps for Mr Filkins, but he had no power or status.
‘Still...’ she murmured. Still, she wanted him to stay.
Again his eyes met hers, piercing into her as only his eyes could. ‘It is better I leave. And better I stay away, lest my mere presence makes it seem as though—as though there was truth to Lord Tinmore’s accusations.’
She could not deny the sense to that.
‘So—’ He bowed rather formally. ‘Goodbye, Lady Tinmore.’
Her arm reached out to touch his. ‘Dell,’ she rasped. ‘I am so sorry. I have caused you a great deal of trouble and I am so worried sick over what could happen—’
He took her hand in his warm, strong one. ‘You have caused nothing.’
But she had! If she had not defied her husband, if she had not formed this schoolgirl worship of hers, none of this would have happened. Instead of standing here with him, feeling the heat of his palm against her fingers, she would be taking tea with Tinmore, hearing all his praise of his generosity and his complaints of those less than deserving. He’d correct something about how she gave away the boxes and instruct her on how a lady ought to have done it.
She lowered her gaze and he dropped her hand, but she still did not wish to let him go. ‘What of this inquest? Will you be accused of killing him?’
He could lose his life.
His face hardened. ‘I did not kill him.’
She blushed. ‘I know, but Dixon will have said—’
‘He did not see what happened.’
She did not want to obsess about who the coroner and Squire Hedges would believe, not any more than she had already done.
She absently straightened the items left over on the table where she’d piled the boxes. ‘Things change so rapidly.’ She glanced back up at him. ‘Yesterday was such a lovely day. A lovely Christmas. That was your doing, I know. You came to Summerfield House so we could all be together.’
His eyes darkened. ‘Not only for you. I did not want to be alone.’
Her heart lurched for him. He’d lost his whole family. She reached out for him once more, placing her hand on his arm. ‘But you also came here for us. I am so grateful to you.’
He glanced away. ‘To go from such a happy day to such a horrific one—I am so sorry for it.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘You must never apologise, not for what happened.’
His gaze pierced her again. ‘It will get better, Lorene. I promise you.’
It must, but if he were held responsible for this dreadful event, she would never forgive herself.
She remained captured by his eyes. It seemed as though she would stay there for ever, but he abruptly broke contact and stepped back.
‘I must leave.’
‘When will I see you next?’ It was the question of a lover, not the sort she should be asking, but it burst from her lips.
‘At the inquest.’
He bowed again, turned and left.
Chapter Five
The next several days for Lorene went by as if in a dream.
At least she had not been alone. Tess and Glenville stayed with her at Tinmore Hall and Genna and Rossdale called almost every day. Their presence further d
isgruntled the servants, but Lorene had long ago given up being accepted by them. Most were old retainers who had served Tinmore most of their lives. She knew nothing of the history of their service to him, but they’d perceived her as an interloper. When Tinmore had been alive, they’d barely been civil, but now their animosity was palpable. Only Filkins, Tinmore’s secretary, exerted himself to be helpful to her, writing to the solicitors who were executors of Tinmore’s will, notifying Tinmore’s heir. The secretary even made tentative arrangements for Tinmore’s burial, although the funeral had to meet the executor’s approval. More than that, the funeral had to be delayed until all the jurors had paraded through the house to examine Tinmore’s body and the place he fell. The jurors were good and lawful men recruited from neighbouring properties and, though they must not have been pleased to have their Christmastide so interrupted, they all seemed to take their task seriously.
* * *
By New Year’s Eve, all jurors had seen what was required of them. The inquest was scheduled for January the thirteenth, a week after Twelfth Night, so as not to interfere with any of the festivities of those involved. There were no festivities at Tinmore Hall.
* * *
On January the eighth, Lord Tinmore’s solicitors arrived from London and gathered all interested parties to a drawing room to read the will.
Lorene’s sisters and their husbands accompanied her.
Rossdale muttered under his breath as they walked into room, ‘He had better have done well by you.’
‘I do not expect much,’ Lorene cautioned. ‘Contrary to what everyone believes, I did not marry him to make myself a wealthy widow.’
All she wanted was enough to purchase a little cottage somewhere and to live quietly. A place where scandal would never touch her again. That had been all she asked of Tinmore. Enough for her to live comfortably in some quiet village somewhere and never, ever, be under the thumb of a husband again.
‘Well, I think Tinmore owes you a great deal,’ Genna huffed.
‘He already gave us a great deal,’ she responded.
They’d had beautiful places to live, plenty of food, social connections and the prettiest gowns money could buy, but now she needed no more than a little cottage where she could plant flowers in a garden and not be waited on hand and foot by a brigade of servants. One or two maids to help in the house and a man to do the heavy things would be lovely, but, even so, she could do with less.
They took their seats. This drawing room was the same room where the coroner and Squire Hedges had interviewed her and Dell. There were two men, the solicitor and his partner, both attended by Mr Filkins, who’d made certain the proper people had been invited. The room was filled with the servants who had been in Tinmore’s employ the longest, Dixon, Wicky, the housekeeper, Lorene’s lady’s maid, and a smattering of others, including the estate manager and others important to the running of the estate. Lord Tinmore’s heir was not present, having declined to make the trip.
‘Shall we begin,’ the solicitor intoned, unfurling the document.
The room fell silent and he began to read.
Lorene fancied she could hear Tinmore’s voice in the words and it disturbed her mostly because she had no feelings about it. She could not say she missed him. She could not even say she’d been fond of him.
The most she could say was she was glad she no longer had to listen to his voice.
She glanced around the room at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls. In them, though, she saw Tinmore’s features. His brow here. A nose there. His eyes. His disapproving mouth.
She forced her gaze to the window. The snow had melted and the landscape bore the bleakness of winter and none of its beauty.
The solicitor’s voice broke through. ‘...And to my widow, née Lorene Summerfield, the town house on Brook Street in Mayfair and an income of twelve thousand pounds a year...’
Genna gasped.
Lorene shook her head. Surely she had misheard.
The solicitor went on to specify certain carriages and horses that were to be hers, as well as some pieces of furniture and the gilt pianoforte that had been one of Tinmore’s more extravagant gifts.
She murmured, ‘It cannot be so.’
She’d not even known he owned a town house on Brook Street. While in London they’d stayed at the town house on Curzon Street, which she knew to be entailed.
The solicitor continued with a long list of other bequests to persons present and others who would need to be informed. When all the bequests had been spoken, he rolled up the will again and indicated that they were free to leave.
The servants and others milled around briefly talking among themselves. They seemed pleased, as well they should, because Tinmore had generously provided for them.
Finally they filed out of the room and Lorene walked up to the solicitor. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’
He unrolled the will and reread the words pertaining to her.
She still could not believe it. ‘How much income?’
‘Twelve thousand.’ The man rolled up the document again. ‘Quite the generous man, was he not?’
Lorene nodded and turned away.
She’d wanted to be comfortable, but now she would not be comfortable after all.
She’d be wealthy.
Rossdale and Glenville also approached the solicitors and she withdrew to let them gather all the petty details of how and when she was to receive this fortune and the deed to the town house she did not want.
Tess took her arm and sat her back down on the sofa between Genna and herself.
‘This is marvellous.’ Genna took her hand. ‘You will want for nothing!’
Tess looked at her with concern. ‘Why are you so shocked? Surely you expected a decent inheritance?’
‘I—I did not,’ she said.
‘Humph!’ Genna made a face. ‘He probably did it so the beau monde would call him generous.’
Tess shot Genna a quelling glance. ‘No matter the reason, he was very generous.’ Tess looked thoughtful. ‘Although I suppose it is less than if he’d given you dower.’
Dower would have given her a third of the value of Tinmore’s property for her lifetime, but she’d signed away her rights to dower when she married Tinmore in exchange for his providing for her siblings.
‘I did not expect this.’ Lorene pressed her fingers to her temple.
Tess took her other hand and squeezed it. ‘Now you can come to town and live in a lovely town house and always be near me.’ Tess and her husband spent most of the year in London.
But living in Mayfair was an appalling thought for Lorene. To be in town, among the beau monde, as Genna called them, the very people who whispered behind her back and remarked how she was just like her mother, who was scandal personified. She could hear them now, boasting how they knew all along she was after Tinmore’s fortune.
Genna hugged her. ‘This must be a huge relief to you. Now you will have no worries at all. You may do as you please. Everyone knows that widows are the most fortunate of women. You can make your own decisions. Control your own money. No husband will dictate to you.’
Tess gave her younger sister a horrified look. ‘Genna! How can you say such a thing when you are so newly married?’
Genna laughed. ‘I was not talking of me. Goodness knows, Ross is the best husband a woman could desire.’ A dreamy look crossed her face, but fled again, replaced by a pragmatic one. ‘I was speaking of other men.’
‘Not Marc,’ protested Tess.
‘Of course not!’ Genna appeared affronted. ‘Your husband is nearly as wonderful as mine.’
Tess smiled and absently touched her abdomen. ‘Yes, Marc is wonderful.’
Lorene regarded them and her heart swelled with fondness. That deep core of contentment inside her woul
d never leave her. Her sisters and brother had found what she had most wanted for them and what she once dreamed of for herself.
Love and marriage.
And Lorene was convinced that her decision to marry Tinmore had led to their happy outcomes, even if none of it had happened as she’d thought. She gazed from Tess to Genna and was glad she’d made the sacrifice to give up her own dreams of such happiness.
Dell’s handsome face flashed through her mind, though she scolded herself for it. These feelings for him were simply ones she’d used to counter Tinmore’s nagging displeasure or thoughtless disregard of her. Dell was the antithesis of her husband, the perfect gentleman, always doing what was right and good. But their connection was not a romantic one.
She must stop mooning over him. What if she’d somehow shown her secret regard for Dell and that was why Tinmore had accused them of being lovers?
She’d not seen Dell since the day after Tinmore died. How was he faring? She knew he stayed away deliberately lest people think they really had been lovers and, worse, lest they think he pushed Tinmore to his death because of it. Look how coming to her aid had hurt him.
‘Lady Tinmore.’ The solicitor was gesturing for her to approach.
She rose and walked over to where Rossdale and Glenville were still standing with him.
‘Mr Filkins tells us the funeral and burial can take place as soon as two days hence,’ the solicitor told her. ‘That is, if you approve of such a simple ceremony. We could, of course, plan to wait until we can plan something grander.’
Wait? She could not bear to wait.
‘No, let us proceed with a simple funeral in two days,’ she said. ‘I am certain that is what he would wish.’ Not precisely. Tinmore would probably relish a great deal of pomp and fuss.
‘As you desire.’ The solicitor inclined his head. ‘You will, of course, not be expected to attend.’
Wives and other female mourners were not welcome at funerals and burials. They might break down in tears, which would be most unseemly. Lorene, though, feared her lack of tears would be what offended.
