Pembroke himself was a man of considerable size, with soft white hands that marked him as a professional intermediary and eyes that always seemed to be calculating. His voice, when he greeted her, bore a tone of condescension, as though he were speaking to an especially clever niece.
“Lady Fairfax. A rare privilege.” He gestured to the single chair before the desk. “Might I tempt you with coffee?”
She declined, settling into the seat with an ease she did not feel. “I believe this will not require fortification, Mr. Pembroke. You received my note?”
He smiled, both lips and teeth, spreading his hands across the desktop in perfect symmetry. “Indeed. You proposed a matter of urgency regarding the disposition of your annuity. I confess, Lady Fairfax, that I am always gratified to attend to a client who reads her statements with such vigilance.”
She returned the smile, but it barely touched her lips. “It is not a question of vigilance, Mr. Pembroke. I am merely determined to manage my own life.” She set the proposal in front of him. “This is my intent, in sum and detail.”
He took the paper, examining its folds with care. As he read, the corners of his mouth drifted downward. “A school,” he said at last. “For seamstresses.”
“A school and, in the longer view, a safe lodging for girls who have no prospects beyond needlework or ruin.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “It is to be in Whitechapel, with tuition provided by the charity itself. I intend to finance the initial year out of my pin money, with an endowment to follow if the experiment succeeds.”
Pembroke nodded, the way one nods at a distant relative who has confessed to an odd hobby. “It is an admirable vision,” he said. “Truly.” He cleared his throat, his eyes returning to the document. “You have calculated the risks?”
She had, and said so. “The sum is modest, as you see. The trust’s principal remains untouched. I will not beggar myself for the privilege of enlightenment.”
He tapped the column of figures, the sound just a shade too loud for the room. “You are, forgive me, unusually forthright in these matters. But have you considered the exposure to reputation?”
Helena’s smile flickered, then recovered. “If I am ruined for the crime of teaching girls to read, I will consider myself a martyr to a just cause.”
Pembroke exhaled, a slow hiss, and sat back. “You make it sound so simple.”
She let silence build, watching as he refolded the proposal with excessive neatness, aligning each corner before setting it aside. His hands began to drum on the blotter—thumb and forefinger in a staccato rhythm.
“There is,” he said at last, “the question of unforeseen liabilities. With any venture involving property, especially in that district, one must account for fluctuations in demand, the potential for fraud, and the risk of legal entanglements.”
Helena resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “If I wished to be swindled, Mr. Pembroke, I would have entrusted my estate management to others.”
He winced, whether at the jest or its proximity to the truth, she could not say. “Lady Fairfax,” he said, “please understand that I act only in the interest of your security. You have a considerable income, but you are not insulated from reversal. I must counsel prudence.”
The word ‘must’ stung. “I am not a child,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I know the meaning of prudence. What I do not know is why my factor should refuse to implement a perfectly reasonable disbursement, especially when the precedent for charitable investment is so well established.”
He hesitated, a pause so small it might have gone unnoticed in any other room. But here, with the dust thickening and the fire dying, it felt significant.
“It is not refusal, Lady Fairfax. Only a temporary withholding. Pending review.”
She stared, willing herself to decipher the meaning beneath his words. “What precisely must be reviewed?”
His eyes darted to the ledger at his left elbow, then to a drawer just beneath it. “There are instructions from your departed husband.”
It was nearly what she had expected, but worse for being spoken aloud. Her blood went cold, then hot. “Instructions. Regarding my money.”
Pembroke’s face became a mask of professional pain. “I am constrained, Lady Fairfax. As your late husband’s trustee, His Grace has certain powers?—”
She cut him off, the words slicing through the stale air. “I am not His Grace’s ward, nor has he previously interfered.”
He spread his hands, helpless. “You are not. But the annuity until such time as you remarry?—”
Helena stood, the motion so abrupt it sent the chair skidding back against the carpet. “I see. That is all, Mr. Pembroke.”
He stood as well, but not to escort her out. She gathered her reticule, refusing to let her fingers shake. The urge to hurl the proposal at his head was considerable.
At the threshold, she paused, spine straight with determination. “You will keep me informed,” she said, “of any developments.”
“Of course, Lady Fairfax.” His bow was perfunctory.
She stepped into the hall, breath shallow, and only then did she hear it—the low, sibilant voices of the clerks in the next room, engaged in the familiar business of gossip.
