“I find myself having swung from the top of the heap to the bottom in the course of a day. I had a woman who agreed to be my wife, and I thought I had a fat bank account to support her. Now I have neither, nor a job. Like Jeremiah, I am brooding.”
Delorey gave him his usual slap on the back. “Then you’re looking for work, are you?”
“I am, and a permanent place to live as hotels are expensive. Strangely, I have a family estate in Scotland that I cannot have, nor if I could, would I be able to pay for its upkeep. I have a woman who loves me, but I cannot pay for her upkeep, either.”
The men laughed as if he’d spoken in jest.
“What type of work did you do in America?” Delorey asked.
“We all thought you rich as Croesus,” Molino added.
“So did I,” Greer said, draining the rest of his ale and gesturing to the server for another. “I’ve been spending like him, too, and now find my family’s company has gone bankrupt. Railroad stocks are all up in smoke.”
“Railroads,” Delorey repeated. “Can you work them or do you only know how to make money off of others working on them?”
“A fair question,” Greer said. “I’ve done every job on the line, from switch man to boiler header, and I’ve argued with more than one tonnage hound over the safety of too long and heavy a train. I’ve also eaten my share of meals at the beanery.”
“Fair enough. I’ll ask around. There are certainly railroad jobs for the experienced.”
Greer shrugged. “Who is striking on George’s watch?”
“George has a team of lamplighters.”
“Gas lamps?” Greer asked. “That sounds easier than working the railway.”
His new friends laughed. “Maybe easier, but the pay is crap and with electric lights coming in, they’re getting nervous.”
“Hence the strike, I suppose,” Greer said. In truth, he felt cheered talking jobs with these men. Ordering a third ale as his steak came, he mentioned what else had been bothering him. “If I could have got a hold of the land in Scotland, it has an income.”
“Why can’t you?” Delorey asked, his interest piqued.
Greer considered what to say, but the ale had loosened his tongue, and he told the truth. “Without money of my own, I can’t offer for a titled lady, and without one, I can’t meet the stipulations of my great-grandfather’s will that would allow me to inherit.”
“The woman who agreed to be your wife is a titled lady?”
He grinned. “No, I fell in love with a shopkeeper’s daughter. I decided to give up my inheritance for her.”
Delorey shook his head pityingly. “And now she won’t marry you because you lost your wealth.”
“Strangely, she will, but I won’t marry her until I can support her.”
Molino nodded in agreement. “A shame you can’t get your estate, if, as you say, it runs at a profit. Must be good land to do that without a master at its head.”
Greer recalled the conviction he’d felt when visiting the main house, to fix it up and bring a family of his own there. “If my father were alive, he’d no doubt fight for it and probably have a plan, too. There’s a painting in one room that looks as I remember him, although I know it’s not my father but his, as a young man.”
In the portrait, his grandfather, filled with vim and vigor, stared out at the viewer, ramrod straight back, with one hand resting against the pommel of his sheathed sword — the very same one his father had taken and lost in the war — and a brightly colored necklace clutched in the other. Greer had thought it strange at the time, but while he’d wondered about the necklace, having never seen it on his mother, there’d been no one there to ask, except a skittish maid and some farm hands outside.
“Your thoughts are more than a furlong away,” observed Delorey. “Like a man in love.”
Greer started in on his steak, thinking of the portrait and Beatrice and the necklace ...and Miss Sylvia?He stopped chewing unable to credit what his brain was thinking. The necklace in the portrait had been odd because it was not a strand of pearls or even diamonds or any single precious jewel. It was an ugly mish-mash of stones. Just like the cat’s collar.
“Do you appraise jewelry?” he asked Molino, the antique dealer.
His eyes lit with interest. “I do. I specialize in the Tudor period, but I can look at anything. If I don’t know about it, I can send you to someone who does.”
“Have you suddenly remembered some hidden treasure?” Delorey asked with a chuckle.
Greer shook his head with wonder. “Maybe I have.” He probably should keep it to himself until he was in the safety of Molino’s shop, but with uncharacteristic good cheer, the man bought them all another round. With his tongue lubricated, Greer told them about Miss Sylvia’s collar, describing the stones, and told them of the painting.
