He shook his head as he looked at her with pride.
“My, how far your talent has come, my lady,” he praised.
Ophelia smiled warmly. Out of all the men she’d ever met, Mr. Potter was the one of the few that did not vex her. He had always been there with a kind smile and quip of praise or positive remark.
“I believe you are the only one that believes so, Mr. Potter,” she said with a laugh. “Would you have Bea take these up to my rooms, please? And pray, where is my father?”
“He is waiting for you in the parlor, Miss Wexley,” Mr. Potter replied, accepting the basket of paint pots she offered to him, “And I will have Bea get these up to your quarters straightaway.”
Ophelia thanked him, and made her way past the grand staircase, down the vast hall, and to the right where the parlor was situated. She found her father, John Wexley, the 52-year-old Viscount Whitebridge standing over the vast, heavy table littered with paperwork; looking most perplexed at the papers he held in his hands.
“Papa,” Ophelia sighed, her good mood dimming at the sight.
John’s light blue eyes shifted toward her as his thick gray eyebrows rose in apparent relief. His lithe body straightened from its stooped position, and he beckoned her over.
“Ollie girl. Thank goodness you have come back. I have tried to make sense of this nonsense all day and I’m about to reach my wit’s end. I just received these today.”
“Let me see,” Ophelia said, reaching her hand out as she closed the space between them.
At one time her father had been one of the sharpest minds of the Londonton;accruing fortunes like no other- but then twentyyears ago his soul mate, Ophelia’s mother, died- and he began to slip away little by little as if small parts of him were leaving to join her. Now he had trouble making sense of most things, and as such, their financial security had slipped away just as those parts of him had.
John handed her the papers and disappeared through the doorway between his office and the parlor; no doubt bringing out more paperwork he’d received and forgotten to organize or respond to. They had started the process of re-organizing his office a month ago, and it still a work in progress. His lack of organization skills, though, was one only of the reasons why he had bleeding money the last few years.
Ophelia could help reorganize his office. She had even been able to help bring in the needed money to recoup some of their losses. What she couldn’t do, unfortunately, was help her father choose better investment partners. He had no gift for it anymore, and trusted far too easily.
“This is an invoice from your food market, stating that you are in collections,” Ophelia said, “I am putting it in the piles for mercantile bills.”
“They’re not going to deliver any more food?” John asked, his eyes wide with worry.
“Of course they will,” she hastily replied, “I will have Mr. Potter settle this for us this very afternoon. I have some funds left over from my last tutoring session. It should be enough to cover at least a third of the bill.”
She moved forward, not wanting her father to dwell on such a worry, and looked at the next letter.
“Ah, this is a notice from a Lord Whimsley. He says that your investment into Barnaby’s soaps has run out, and as a partner you need to send them an additional two-hundred pounds this month. I’ll put this in the investment pile.”
She put it down and sighed as she gave him an exhausted look.
“Soaps, Papa? You chose to invest insoaps?”
“Oh dear,” John muttered, slowly lowering the fresh stack of paperwork he’d just brought into the parlor. “Well Lord Whimsley was very convincing. He told me that they were doing very well in Italy. Only the highest ladies of the court use it.”
“Which means very few purchase it,” Ophelia sighed. “I believe this man duped you. You are probably bankrolling his entire venture! Let me see the contract.”
John’s thin lips twisted, accentuating his cheekbones as his eyes hopped from one pile to the next on the large table.
“It is here somewhere,” he muttered, scratching his head.
“Nevermind, I shall find it later,” Ophelia said, looking down at the third paper in her hand. Her heart nearly stopped as she read it. It was an invoice from one of their accounts at the Royal Bankof London- and the account was empty. It was not the first, and Ophelia was sure it wasn’t going to be the last.
The urge to yell at her father rose up quick. How?Howcould he let this all happen to them? They’d been struggling secretly for years, yes, but they’d always managed to keep their heads above water until now!
“Oh, I know that look, Ollie girl,” John said, his tone despondent. “That is the ‘you are disappointed in me’ look. What does it say?”
Ophelia cleared her throat, suddenly feeling more exhausted than angry.
“We’ve zeroed out another account, Papa,” she explained, laying the paper on the banking statement pile.
She looked up at him, her green eyes imploring as she took his hands. He used to be so good at this; making money, keeping things straight. Would she ever get that version of her father back? The version that took care of her, and did not need her to take on so much responsibility?
