Instead, she dragged in a deep breath and forced a smile. “Perfectly, sir.”
It had been a week since her father had fallen from his horse in the middle of St James’s Street and broken his neck. A week since her life had been turned upside down with no recourse.
Mr Joseph Picard, a man twenty years her senior, frowned at her in what seemed to be genuine solicitude. “You look pale,” he said. “Let me call for someone. A physician, perhaps?”
She didn’t need a physician: she needed her father back.
Beside Mr Picard, his wife sat demurely with her gloved hands delicately holding a handkerchief Louisa had yet to see her use. In fact, she had strong reason to believe Mrs Picard had never, in fact, met her father. And now she was to inherit everything her father had owned, while Louisa was left with next to nothing.
Louisa had never been so tempted to violence as when she had learnt the terms of her father’s will. The estate was entailed away, and all she could do was rely on their generosity.
Her cousin, she suspected, would do everything in his power to make sure she was comfortable.
His wife, however, she was less sure of.
“You must know,” he said earnestly, a friendly smile on his face, “that I do not begrudge your mother for her grief. It’s most understandable, considering what she has lost.”
Louisa made no attempt to explain that her mother’s grief was less for her father and more for the style of living she had grown so accustomed to.
“Thank you,” she said, casting her eyes downwards. “You are very kind.”
“My husband,” Mrs Angelica Picard said with emphasis, “is the best of men.”
“You flatter me, my dear.”
“No, not at all, Only consider what you are thinking of offering them. Five hundred a year!” She said the words as though it was an unreasonably large amount. “You are all generosity.”
Louisa inhaled slowly. Five hundred a year. They had been accustomed to living on no less than fifteen thousand. All she had left was her indifferent dowry.
Mr Joseph Picard watched her anxiously, looking as though he felt the injustice of his wife’s speech, a very little. “And of course you may have anything in the house that you feel any affection for,” he told her with another smile. Poor man, to be ruled so utterly by his wife.
Angelica gave a sharp, derisive bark of laughter. “Indeed! You are all generosity, my darling.”
“Thank you,” Louisa said, barely managing to keep her resentment from slipping out between her teeth.
“And naturally you must remain in the house until you find somewhere to reside,” Mr Picard said.
“I shall be more than happy to look for some eligible houses.” Angelica dabbed at her dry eyes with her handkerchief. “It’s theleastI can do.”
Of course you will, Louisa thought viciously. Anything to ensure they left the house sooner.
And, with only five hundred a year to their name, they would be forced to forgo the fashionable locations of London, not to mention most of their servants, their horses, their carriages. It was not cheap to stable a horse in London. Her sweet mare would have to be sold—no. Now it belonged to the new Mr and Mrs Picard.
None of this would have mattered if her father had lived the remainder of his natural lifespan. But that was not the case, and at a mere fifty-two years of age, he was gone.
“I should see to my mother,” she said, rising and giving a mechanical curtsy. “She likely has not eaten yet today.”
“Of course, of course. Don’t let us keep you.” Joseph rose to his feet. “And convey our good wishes to your mother. No doubt she is feeling this very acutely.”
“I have some hartshorn with me,” Angelica said with a saccharine smile. “Allow me to have some taken up.”
Louisa curtsied again. “Thank you, Mrs Picard.”
“Now then, you must call me Angelica. We are cousins, after all.”
“Angelica,” Louisa managed, and fled before she was any more tempted to ruin the very lovely vase her mother kept on the mantelpiece.
True to form, her mother was still abed, and Louisa rapped impatiently on the door. In the week since her father’s death, the only time her mother had left her room was to attend the funeral with a veil over her face and so much loud weeping that Louisa had been embarrassed. Louisa’s sorrow, in public, was a quiet, contained thing. Only when she was alone did she give way to tears.
