"What legal recourse do we have?" she asked, her voice remarkably steady.
"Limited, I'm afraid." Mr. Tomley's fingers tapped nervously on the papers before him. "The document appears legally binding. Your father's state of mind at the time might be questioned, but such challenges are difficult to prove, especially when the signing was witnessed by a respected physician."
"And our financial situation..." she prompted, though she knew the answer all too well.
Mr. Tomley's expression grew graver still. "As you are aware, your father's final illness consumed what little remained of thefamily fortune. The house itself is all that remains, and it is only yours because it was not entailed with the earldom. The Fairwick properties and title have reverted to the crown, as your father died without a male heir."
Lavinia nodded, the bitter reality one she had lived with for a year now.
"Is there nothing to be done?" she asked, her fingers still resting on her collarbone, seeking a comfort that was no longer there.
Mr. Tomley hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "There is... that is to say, Mr. Wickham has indicated that he might be willing to negotiate terms."
"What sort of terms?"
"He suggested that a... personal arrangement might be considered in lieu of immediate payment."
Lavinia stiffened, understanding the implication immediately. "I see."
"I would, of course, counsel strongly against any such arrangement," Mr. Tomley added hastily. "Mr. Wickham is not a gentleman, and his reputation is questionable at best."
"Thank you for your concern." Lavinia's voice was cool. "I have no intention of entertaining Mr. Wickham's improper suggestions."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Down shift in the doorway, the older woman's face a mask of worry. Lavinia wished she could offer some reassurance, but the truth was that she had no solution to present.
"I shall review these documents more thoroughly," Mr. Tomley said, gathering his papers. "Perhaps there is some legal technicality we might exploit. In the meantime, if you could ascertain whether Dr. Hargrove might shed any light on the situation..."
"Of course," Lavinia replied, rising as Mr. Tomley did the same. "I appreciate your diligence in this matter."
She walked him to the door with the same grace she might have shown a welcome guest, thanking him for his time and assuring him that they would speak again soon. Only when the heavy door closed behind him did she allow her shoulders to slump, this new catastrophe pressing down upon her like a physical force.
"My lady?" Mrs. Down approached cautiously, her lined face creased with concern.
"It appears we have a new problem to solve, Mrs. Down," Lavinia said, attempting a smile that felt brittle on her lips. "Though I dare say we've become quite adept at solving problems this past year, have we not?"
"That we have, my lady. That we have." The older woman reached out as if to pat Lavinia's arm, then seemed to remember herself and withdrew her hand. "Shall I bring you somethingstronger than tea? I believe there's still a bottle of your father's brandy in the cellar."
"No, thank you." Lavinia squared her shoulders. "I need a clear head for this particular challenge. I believe I shall retire to my room for a while to think. Please send Frances to me when she returns from her walk."
"Yes, my lady."
Lavinia climbed the grand staircase slowly, her hand trailing along the banister that had lost its polish.
Her bedchamber, when she reached it, offered little comfort. She sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection in the looking glass—one of the few quality pieces remaining, and only because it would fetch so little at auction. The face that gazed back at her was composed, dignified, showing none of the panic that coursed through her veins.
Until, suddenly, it wasn't.
The first tear slid down her cheek without warning, followed quickly by another and another. Lavinia pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling the sob that threatened to escape. She had not cried since her father's funeral—not when they had sold her mother's favorite piano, not when they had dismissed the last of the footmen, not even when she had discovered the loss of her precious pendant.
But now, alone in her chamber with disaster looming before her, the dam broke.
She reached for her account book, opening it with trembling fingers to confront the stark reality of their situation. The meager earnings from her secret work—copying letters for local merchants at three pence a page, mending fine lace for ladies who believed she was simply doing them a favor, tutoring tradesmen's daughters in proper etiquette and French—amounted to barely enough to keep food on their table and coal in the grates. Nothing close to the one thousand pounds demanded by Mr. Wickham.
The soft click of her door opening caused Lavinia to look up, hastily wiping the tears from her cheeks. Frances stood in the doorway, her youthful face immediately transforming from cheerful to concerned as she took in her sister's reddened eyes.
"Lavinia?" Frances closed the door quietly behind her, crossing the room in quick steps. "What's happened?"
"Nothing of consequence," Lavinia replied automatically, the instinct to protect her sister overriding all else. "A momentary lapse, nothing more."
