“Yes. And that was a tragically brutal blow to the family. We all took it hard, but Silas most of all. He was devastated. She was the rock upon which our family had been built. With her gone...everything fractured. Ugly words were spoken, ones that could not be taken back.”
“Why did Lord Ashcombe attack you in particular, Mr Lucas?”
“I’d survived. Somehow, that had become an unforgivable sin. He looked at me that night as if I were both a ghost anda betrayal.” Lucas sighed. “I look very much like my mother, Edgar. I have her colouring, and her eyes.” He swallowed. “I still see her when I look in the mirror sometimes.”
“He threw you out?”
“God no,” Lucas shook his head. “But along with everything else? I knew there was nothing left for me in Arcvale anymore. Nothing other than a parade of young women thrust under my nose, idiotic questions about the PBIC financial system already finished—and a broken family.”
“So you left...”
“So I left.”
Once again, silence fell in the parlour as man and tickerkin pondered the inexplicable mysteries of life, death, and everything in between.
Finally Edgar broke the silence. “I shall prepare an omelette for tomorrow’s breakfast.” With that announcement, he trundled out the door.
Lucas managed a smile. Life had continued in unpredictable ways and led him down unpredictable paths. But here he was, almost a decade on from a painful farewell. Perhaps it was time to mend some fences. To rediscover Arcvale as it is now, rather than dwell on what it had been.
For some unfathomable reason, the image of a lovely face—and a pair of striking grey eyes—floated through his mind.
Chapter Seven
“Beatrice, how lovely to see you.”
Verity rose and held out her hands to the woman walking towards her. Short and round, with a smile that could light candles, Lady Lockwood was always a welcome addition to any ball, soirée, or social gathering.
“Darling Verity, I just had to stop by and thank you for last night’s wonderful event...” Her gaze fell on the table and the mess of papers. “And I’m interrupting you, aren’t I...”
“No, no, not at all. You picked the perfect time in fact, since I have reached the point where my eyes are starting to cross, and the numbers refuse to add up. And that’s when I know it’s time to take a breather. Come, let me put all this behind me for a little while. I desperately need the break.”
“I’m always happy to offer anyone a chance to stop working,” laughed Beatrice, “although I’m quite cross when that’s done to me.”
“I will make a mental note of that.” Verity led the other woman to her parlour, trusting that Sprocket would take care of the practicalities.
Settling herself comfortably in a large armchair, Beatrice raised her eyebrows at Verity. “Come on then, don’t keep me in suspense...was it a profitable night? The Yardley Memorial evening...everyone had such a lovely time, didn’t they?”
“I think so, yes,” agreed Verity. “And although I’ve not completed my mathematics, thus far I’d say we’ve done better than I expected. Much better.”
“That is wonderful news indeed.” Beatrice clapped her hands, her delight infectious. “So the work on the roof can proceed as planned?”
“Yes. I’ll have to double check the estimates, of course, and work the financial side of things, but I’m relatively confident that I can come to a satisfactory agreement with the roofers.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Verity, I honestly don’t.”
“Do what?”
“Handle all this work yourself. The mathematics. The funding. The management of the Turner-Yardley charity accounts. Well that must be a full-time job in and of itself, for goodness sake. Don’t you find it a burden now and again?”
Verity chuckled. “Such matters are never a burden, Beatrice. Not to someone like me. I developed my affinity for mathematics at an early age—to the utter horror of my Mama, of course—and it’s stayed with me. Now, working on all the charities and the associated businesses? Sheer joy.”
Sprocket tapped on the half open door and eased her way in, holding a tray with a tall and shining coffee pot next to two elegant cups and saucers, plates, and a cake salver. The vapour emerging from the spout spread a delicate aromatic blend of
“Oh lovely, Sprocket. I am absolutely ready for coffee.” Verity smiled. “Beatrice?”
“I’ll never turn down a nice cup of steamspiced coffee. Ever. And...” she leaned over and sniffed, “those look very much like clock-rolls...?”
“Yes, my Lady,” replied Sprocket. “One of Lady Verity’s favourites.”
