by Bliss Bennet
“Yes, poor Harry indeed. Then why would you bring even more calumny down on her by assuming the missing money is her father’s fault and not mine? I might have gambled it all away, or spent it all on expensive trinkets for Mlle Crébillion.”
Benedict snorted. “You, gamble? Never. Or at least not with money, you don’t. Haven’t got the head for it, nor for anything to do with figuring.”
He jerked back, smacking his crown hard against the headboard. “What do you mean, I haven’t got the head for it? Shouldn’t you say I’m lazy and won’t apply myself?”
“Those are father’s words, not mine, Theo. Haven’t you realized by now that he could never see a person for what he is, rather than for what he wanted him to be? Especially you.”
He threw off the covers and stalked over to the window. “Especially when what a person is is as blockish as a beetle.”
“Well, I admit I’ve never met a beetle that could do sums. But then, I’ve never met a beetle who could charm a roomful of people with only a smile and a jest, either. Or one who could turn even the dullest day into a lark for two restless young brothers.”
Theo shook his head, then immediately regretted it. “But it’s more than not just not being able to do sums, Ben,” he said with a groan. “I can’t read a clock; I can’t dance, or fence, or do anything with intricate steps to remember; I can’t even understand the ledgers of my own estate. How can such a man ever hope to be worthy of the position the mere accident of his birth has handed him?”
“Stop it!” Benedict grabbed his arm, turning him away from the window. “Damn it, Theo, don’t you know how long I’ve been jealous of you? How easy you make it look to cheer even the most cross person in the room? Nay, to make all you encounter a bit easier in their own ill-fitting skins? I may be able to tally a column of figures, but I will never have the ease with people you do. Never, not if I practiced and studied for a million years. So for once, will you stop dwelling on what you cannot do, and see all that you can?”
Benedict, jealous of him? The thought was so ludicrous, he could not summon the words to refute it.
“At least stop telling the same old story about yourself,” Benedict said as he paced the carpet. “Invent a new one. One not about the legacy that father wanted you to fulfill, but the one you want to leave yourself.”
He blinked. The legacy he wanted to leave?
Benedict shook his head and laid a hand on Theo’s arm. “No matter how much better you imagine one of us would be at it, you are the lord of this manor, Theo. Not me, not Kit, not even Sibilla. And Saybrook’s people need you, whether you can count how many of them rely on you or not.”
Benedict walked to the door, then turned back for one last word. “Harriot Atherton is one of those people. I know you won’t disappoint her.”
Harry swiped a gloved finger along the banister in the dim staircase of the Market Rasen building where Haviland Mather kept his law office. Though it came away clean, the banister itself wiggled alarmingly, even under her light touch. In fact, the entire structure had a down-at-heels air markedly out of place in the thriving market town. Why would Haviland choose such a building to house his office? How sad to think of him having to toil in such dank, cheerless quarters every day.
She gave herself a brisk shake, then set her boot on the next step. After all, she’d not come all the way to Market Rasen to feel sorry for Haviland. No, she’d come to ask for his help.
Because her love for Theo was simply not enough. She’d truly believed that if she kept trying, if he knew, deep in his bones, that she was on his side, he’d come to believe in himself, too. That he’d see he wasn’t doomed to failure.
But she’d tried and tried to be there for him. She’d loved him—she did love him—with all her strength and spirit and heart.
But still, it wasn’t enough. Her love was not enough.
Harry bit her lip, forcing herself not to tumble down into a hapless, hopeless heap on Haviland Mather’s staircase.
If she were not enough, then she would just have to ask others to help, too.
Oh, Theo might doubt it, but she could ask for help when it was needed. He might no longer be willing to accept it from her, but he would listen to advice from his oldest friend. He must find a way to raise capital before payment for the cottages her father had commissioned came due at the end of the month. And before Sir Peregrine demanded to be reimbursed for the ever-increasing expenses he was incurring to ensure his election to Parliament.
The memory of Theo’s sharp, accusatory words of yesterday still stung. But she would not let her own hurt feelings—nor Theo’s outlandish claim that Haviland felt that way about her—lead her to shirk away from what she knew was her duty.
With a curt nod, she continued up the stairs, then knocked on the door to Haviland Mather’s place of business.
A wizened clerk looked up from the document which he was copying and aimed a scowl in her direction. “And who might you be, miss, and what might you want? Nothing good, I’ll be bound, coming all alone and secret-like to the chambers of a gentleman. In trouble, are you?”
“I am here to speak with Mr. Mather,” she said, pulling off her gloves as if the man hadn’t just insulted her. For it was improper for her to be here in a place of business conducted by men, and without chaperone, too. “Will you let him know Miss Atherton wishes to see him?”
“No, miss, that I cannot. For he’s not here, is he?”
“Not here?” She’d imagined that people who required a solicitor’s services would visit him in his office. But perhaps some asked him to visit them? “When do you expect him to return?”
The man jabbed the point of his quill against his desk with dangerous vigor. “Can’t rightly say. Hasn’t come in at all this morning, has he now? Not like him, no, it isn’t, not to send a note if he’s got business elsewhere.”
“No need to worry, then. I’m certain he’ll be here shortly.”
The clerk grimaced. “But what am I to do with old man Wilson when he comes in to look over his new will, right at ten on the button? Fair one for yelling when he’s put out, is Mr. Wilson. And if he finds a woman here, too, well . . .”
She did not take the clerk’s hint that her departure would be welcome. “Perhaps I should wait in Mr. Mather’s office.” She opened the far door and stepped inside.
“See here, miss—” But the clerk’s protest was interrupted by the arrival of the aforementioned Mr. Wilson, whose bombast drew away all the fellow’s attention.
Harry took a seat opposite the massive desk, setting her reticule and gloves in her lap, humming a bit to block out the discontented rumbling from the other room. But when she realized the tune she’d taken up was no other than that crass drinking song Theo had been singing yesterday at the inn, she clamped her lips tight.
Why would he think her unworthy of trust, only because she wanted to help him? He must know she would never keep secrets from him, never lie to him. Not someone she loved…
She brushed away a bead of perspiration rolling down her neck. The clerk had not raised any of the windows in here, and the air in the room hung heavy and close. How could anyone be expected to work in such an oppressive environment?
With a brisk shake of her head, she rose and strode behind Haviland’s desk, opening both windows wide to the warm August air. There, that was better.
But when an unexpected breeze billowed in, she realized why the clerk had chosen dank air over fresh. All the neatly piled papers on the desk began to flutter and fly. With a muffled cry, she lurched to pull the windows shut again, then turn to survey the damage.
Only a few stacks had been disrupted. She neatened each, then bent over to retrieve the few documents that had fallen to the floor. A conveyance for a property here in town; a draft of an apprenticeship agreement for one young man; articles of clerkship for another. And here, a bill of sale for land—Saybrook land—to be transferred to one Ezekiel Norton. Unsigned, yet, but still—
She sunk to her kne
es on the carpet. Why had Theo made her think he’d taken out a mortgage yesterday, when in fact he must have followed her advice to sell some unentailed property?
Or had she jumped to the mistaken conclusion herself? Had she failed to trust him, and thus proven herself unworthy of his trust, just as he had claimed?
As she scrambled to collect the fallen papers, her hand fell on a small booklet that had fallen part way under the desk. Something from a bank—
Her hand shook as the words on the cover of the booklet coalesced in her brain. Oundle and Thrapson Savings Bank. Property of Arthur Pennington, Viscount Saybrook.
She flipped through the pages of deposits and withdrawals, each signed for, as expected, by her father.
But on the final few sheets, the signature changed. In overlarge, flourishing letters, beside each entry—Mather.
Oh, merciful heavens. The bank clerk had lied!
But still, that wasn’t Haviland’s handwriting, was it?
Mather takes the Saybrook funds to the bank. Her father’s voice, confused, broken, betrayed. But correct, for all that. A Mather, yes, only the elder, not the younger.
And she’d come here, believing Theo could trust Haviland! She dropped into a chair, her mind thick with disbelief. How long? How long had he known his father was stealing from Theo?
As long as you’ve known your father’s mind has been failing?
No. Her entire body vibrated in protest. The two situations were entirely different! Her father hadn’t chosen to lose his wits, hadn’t chosen to take another man’s money, as Sir John had. If her father had intended to harm Theo, she never would have protected him.
Would she?
All the air whooshed from her lungs. Would she have written to Theo—no, not Theo, but the new Viscount Saybrook, a barely known absentee landlord rumored to care nothing about his people or his land—if she’d discovered her father deliberately stealing money that belonged to the estate? Would her need to protect her father, to be there for the ones she loved, stand in the way of what was right?
Was Theo right? Was she not to be trusted?
She shook her head. If father had been taking that money for his own gain, then of course she would have informed Lord Saybrook. Theo might not believe it, might not trust that her principles could ever win out over her feelings. But she trusted herself.
Because of her love for her father, though, she could understand why Haviland had done it, had kept this awful secret to himself. And if she waited here to talk with him about it, he’d only take the blame for it, rather than allow his guilty father to suffer. Theo might have accused her of lying to protect those he loved, but isn’t that what Haviland always did? Made excuses for his father, took responsibility for his father’s faults all onto himself? And didn’t his father always let him?
No, she wouldn’t let Haviland to take the blame, to lose his good name, his business, perhaps even his freedom, only to protect a far less worthy man. Which he would do if she confronted him.
She couldn’t wait for Haviland.
Harry shook as she tucked the bankbook into her reticule. Forcing herself to walk with slow, deliberate steps, she strode through the outer office, past the squabbling clerk and his loud visitor, closing the door softly behind her.
Leaning against the passageway wall, she gave a loud sigh. Then, hiking up her skirts, she raced down the rickety staircase.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“My lord.” Young Parsons, who had been dozing in a chair next to Mr. Atherton’s bedside, jerked to his feet. “Is something the matter? It’s not your usual hour for visiting.”
“No, indeed,” Theo said as he closed the door to Mr. Atherton’s chamber behind him. “But I was somewhat indisposed earlier in the day.”
Theo glanced about the room, but saw no sign of Harry. Wallowing in self-pitying ale-passion all morning, he’d missed their daily meeting outside her father’s door. The first time he’d forgotten since he’d brought the man into his home.
Harry would likely believe his absence meant he was still angry with her. But the only person with whom he was incensed was his own stupid self.
Not for much longer though. The time for keeping secrets was at an end.
He would start with Mr. Atherton.
Theo gestured the footman to come closer, then lowered his voice. “How is he feeling this morning?”
“Not too bad today, my lord. Ate a bit and talked civil-like for a short while. But wouldn’t allow nurse to dress him, and outright refused to move from the bed, no matter how she scolded. No shouting or violent turns though. Been right quiet since she left.”
Theo nodded, his eyes fixed on the silent man sitting up in the bed, his face lax, his eyes dull. Not a cheerful prospect, keeping watch over such a one, quiescent one moment, savage the next.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever thanked you for taking on this unexpected duty, Parsons,” he said with a nod to the younger man. “Sitting with the sick is not the usual charge of a footman.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.” Parsons gave a sad smile as he walked back toward the bed. “I’d be in the smithy now but for Mr. Atherton here. Oh, smithin’s fine work for some—my dad, and my brother Sam’re both dab hands—but it’s a bit too dirty for my likin’. I thank heavens every day Mr. Atherton talked my dad into allowing me to go into service.”
Parsons straightened Atherton’s bedcovers, then gave the man an affectionate pat on the shoulder.
“But even a footman as devoted to his job as you are appreciates the occasional reprieve, does he not? You go find yourself something in the kitchens while I sit with him for a short while.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Parsons turned back at the doorsill. “Will you come again before dinner? Or should I tell nurse not to expect you today?”
Harry visited with her father in the morning, and again before bedtime, but Theo had taken to sitting with the invalid in the early evening, when the man often seemed to grow the most fretful. Did the waning of the sunlight reminding him of the waning of his own faculties? Whatever the reason, Theo’s presence and prattle during that fractious time of the day soothed him as no one else’s could.
“I’m not certain,” Theo replied, hands tightening on the back of the chair beside the bed. It would depend, would it not, on how his sister responded to the revelations he was about to make. “But I’ll send word if I cannot.”
“Very good, my lord.” The door closed with a quiet click.
Theo dropped into the seat, elbows leaning on his knees, hands clasped before him. He searched the face of the man in the bed for some flicker of vitality or animation. But Mr. Atherton’s eyes remained painfully blank.
Theo cleared his throat. “Sir, I don’t know if you’ll understand, but I’ve something I need to tell you. Something I need to tell my sister and brother-in-law, a secret I’ve been keeping from everyone except Harry. I may be head of the Saybrook family, but you are the eldest man here, as my uncle lives in London. so I think it best to begin with you. Even though you know some of it already. Or did, once.”
Mr. Atherton raised his head. “Harry,” he whispered.
“Yes, I’m telling you because of Harry. Because she can’t be allowed to shoulder my burdens, as well as yours. For she’d excuse us both for losing the estate’s money, and take on all the responsibility for rectifying the situation herself, and never wish to have any credit for so doing.”
Theo fixed his eyes on Atherton’s. “But it is my responsibility, mine alone, for not noticing the funds were missing. Because I avoided reading your letters—her letters—and ignored anything to do with the estate’s finances, rather than tell anyone about my incapacities.”
Could Atherton understand what he was saying? Perhaps it did not matter; perhaps it was just the saying of it, this first time, that was the most important.
Theo took a deep breath. “You know, sir, or you once knew, that I cannot do sums, nor read account books, as every other landed gentleman
of the realm can. But it’s worse, far worse than that. I’m always early, or late, because I can’t judge the hour, can’t even judge the passing of time.”
Mr. Atherton’s hand scrabbled over the bedside table, his hand grasping a burnished pocket watch. “Your father’s.”
“Yes,” Theo agreed. Was that a spark of intelligence lurking in the old man’s eyes? “I gave it to you after my father’s funeral, for it could be of no use to me. I can read words, but I can’t understand a clock, or music, or orient myself on a map. And I can’t follow the steps of a cotillion or a quadrille, or any written notation of dancing. And I certainly cannot plan, or budget, or recognize when I’m being taken advantage of. Even if that advantage was entirely unintentional.”
Atherton’s calloused thumbs worried over the face of the watch, but he remained silent.
“It would have been far better, I’ve often thought, if I had been born your son, rather than heir to my father. For my muscles work the way the lord intended them, even if my brainbox does not. I might have been a credit to you, working the land, instead of the embarrassment I always was to my father.”
Atherton lowered his head. “No sons.”
“No. While my father was blessed with three. But unless one of them has me declared incompetent, then it is Lord Saybrook I am, and Lord Saybrook I’ll remain, at least until I shuffle off this mortal coil.”
Theo stood, his jaw set. “And so I must be the one to take responsibility for my infirmities and ensure that they do not bring the estate or its people to further harm. And I will, with Harry’s help, and my family’s. And with Haviland’s, too, if he’ll forgive me for lying to him all these years.”
Mr. Atherton’s head jerked. “Mather takes the Saybrook funds to the bank.”
Theo clutched the back of the chair, wishing he could shake some sense into the old man. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said? It’s my fault! Not yours, not Harry’s, and certainly not poor Haviland’s.”
But Mr. Atherton only continued to tumble down the same infuriating rabbit hole. “Mather takes the Saybrook funds to the bank. Mather takes them.”
