Lavinia barely heard her, too caught up in her indignation as she watched the great house recede into the distance. Her cheeks were warm with righteous anger, her mind already composing a dozen retorts she might have delivered had propriety not restrained her.
But the more important question in her mind was what could result from this encounter. Good or ill?
CHAPTER 2
Six stitches to the left, turn, six stitches back… This was a pattern as familiar to Lavinia now as breathing. She had nearly completed the repair to Mrs. Worthington's lace collar when a knock at the front door shattered her concentration, the sound echoing through empty halls that had once bustled with servants.
Lavinia pricked her finger, a bead of crimson blooming on her pale skin. Suppressing a sigh, she laid the mending carefully in her workbasket, pressing her finger briefly against her worn cotton handkerchief as she rose.
"I shall answer it, Mrs. Down," she called, knowing the housekeeper's knees troubled her particularly on damp afternoons such as this. She was their only remaining servant after a year of careful, painful reductions, and Lavinia treasured her presence for both sentimental and practical reasons.
The polished oak floors, dulled now with time and lack of proper care, creaked beneath her sensible half-boots as she traversedthe entrance hall. Lavinia paused before the heavy front door, straightening her spine and lifting her chin—a habit ingrained since childhood.
A lady's posture reveals her character before she speaks a word,her mother had always said.
When she pulled open the door, the familiar figure of Mr. Tomley, her father's solicitor, stood stiffly on the doorstep. His leather folio was clutched to his chest as though it contained state secrets rather than the increasingly dismal accounting of the Pembroke family's dwindling assets.
"Mr. Tomley," she greeted him, maintaining the pleasant, unruffled demeanor expected of the daughter of an earl, regardless of how reduced their circumstances might have become. "What an unexpected pleasure."
His eyes darted past her, likely searching for a footman who no longer existed. "Lady Lavinia," he replied with a bow that seemed even more rigid than usual. "I apologize for calling without prior arrangement, but I fear the matter is rather urgent."
Lavinia's heart sank, but her smile remained firmly in place. "Of course. Please, come in."
She led him through the entrance hall, past the ornate mirror whose silvering had begun to cloud around the edges, beneath ancestral portraits whose gilt frames had lost their luster.
The drawing room, when they entered, presented the sad specter of faded elegance—once-magnificent furniture showing signs of wear at the arms and edges, Persian rugs with patches worn nearly threadbare, and heavy velvet drapes grown thin with age and sunlight.
Mr. Tomley perched on the edge of a chair that had once accommodated her father's most distinguished guests, his discomfort evident in every line of his body. He placed his folio on the table between them, his fingers drumming once, twice, upon its surface before stilling.
"Tea, Mr. Tomley?" Lavinia offered, as though they were conducting an ordinary social call.
"That would be most kind, thank you."
Lavinia rang the small silver bell on the side table—one of the few pieces they hadn't yet been forced to sell. Mrs. Down appeared moments later, her weathered face a map of devotion to a family she had served for nearly forty years.
"Tea, please, Mrs. Down," Lavinia requested with a warm smile for the woman who had stayed when all others had departed, accepting nominal wages and often none at all.
"Of course, my lady." Mrs. Down's curtsey was less deep than in years past, her joints stiffened by age and hard work, but no less respectful.
While they awaited the tea, Lavinia engaged Mr. Tomley in light conversation about the weather and local news, all the while noting the tightness around his mouth, the way his fingers continued to stray toward his folio. Whatever had brought him to Pembroke Manor on this dreary afternoon was not good news—that much was certain.
Once tea had been poured and Mrs. Down had withdrawn—though not entirely, Lavinia noted, as the woman hovered just outside the doorway—Mr. Tomley cleared his throat and opened his folio.
"I'm afraid I bring most unwelcome news, Lady Lavinia," he began, extracting a document and placing it on the table between them. "A creditor has come forward, presenting a demand for payment of one of your late father's debts."
Lavinia set her teacup down with care, though her hand wanted to tremble. "I was under the impression that we had addressed all of my father's outstanding obligations."
"As was I." Mr. Tomley's brows drew together. "This particular debt appears to have been contracted during your father's final illness. A Mr. Bartholomew Wickham claims your father borrowed a considerable sum—one thousand pounds—with Pembroke Manor itself offered as security."
"That is impossible," Lavinia countered, her voice sharper than she intended. She modulated her tone before continuing. "My father was barely conscious during his final weeks. He could not have arranged such a loan without my knowledge."
Mr. Tomley pulled out another document, this one bearing what appeared to be her father's signature. "I regret to say that the paperwork appears to be in order. The signature matches your father's hand, and there is a witness—a Mr. James Hargrove."
"Dr. Hargrove? Our physician?" Lavinia's mind raced. "Why would he not have mentioned this to me?"
"I cannot say. But Mr. Wickham is most insistent that the debt be settled immediately. He has threatened to seize the property if payment is not received within the month."
The room seemed to tilt slightly, the faded patterns on the carpet blurring before Lavinia's eyes. She drew a deep breath, calling upon years of rigid self-discipline to maintain her composure.
