The depth of his loss surprised Hart. He’d thought he had time to right the ship and do what his father demanded of him. He wasn’t even sure his father heard Hart’s heartfelt promises before he died.
Seated by the library fire in the evening after the mourners departed, he thought back over the day. His steward, Albert Carver, had commented on the impressive array of dishes ladies in the area had brought. Kind of ’em, but Hart expected to be awash with invitations to dinners and dances, and urged to meet the ladies’ daughters. If only he could return to London immediately, but that was not to be.
Hart removed a book from the shelf to distract himself and opened a page of Omar Khayyam’s poetry and read.
The moving finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Hart snapped the book shut at the sad truth of the words. He swallowed the last of the whiskey in his glass. It left a sour taste. His father’s dissatisfaction with him seemed to linger in the library as if he still sat in his favorite chair.
He and his father had never been close, although he’d tried to be a dutiful son, coming down to see him whenever he was called upon. But that was not enough to satisfy his father. Hart had tried to live with him and take over the reins. But his father, a stubborn man, was not prepared to relinquish them, which resulted in arguments and a tense atmosphere that caused Hart to escape back to his life in London. But why hadn’t he noted the signs of neglect when last here? The home farm in need of restocking, fences down, hedges out of control for want of cropping, land lying fallow not yet sown with spring crops. For whatever reason, his father failed to offer an explanation.
Hart was determined to restore the estate by learning the true state of affairs in the morning when he consulted the estate manager. It appeared he would need to extend his stay here for several weeks. He yawned. He’d retire early with a book with no ladies available to warm his bed. Society in the country was stultifying.
The following morning, his estate manager, Ted Hewes, shared his gloomy view of the estate’s rundown condition. “It has worried me, my lord. I broached it with your father, but his hopes rested on a shipment from the East. It disturbed him a great deal when the sea claimed it. Lloyd’s have been quibbling over the insurance ever since. It will take a considerable amount of money to fix the problems here.”
“Then I must find it somewhere,” Hart said. He wouldn’t become a penny-pincher like his father, but he must be more judicious. He would write to the bank and inquire if any monies were readily available. If so, the money would only stretch so far.
Carter added to the grim news. “There are many unpaid accounts and taxes, which won’t wait,” the steward said. “Your father sold a few paintings to pay the most pressing of them. The stables are all but empty now, the horses sold at Tattersalls. That pair of Ming vases from the dining room fetched a good price at auction. However, there’s not much left you might easily turn into cash. I’d advised him to sell one of his other properties, but he refused. Said he wanted to keep them for you.”
“My father said that?” Hart stared at the man, as surprise, despair, and a sense of shame rocked him. Why had he not seen this side of his father? He was a stiff, unbending man, but still he had cared.
The news which came in the post from Hart’s banker was of great concern. With the investment in imported silk carpets and goods robbed by pirates who left the ship lying at the bottom of the sea, the coffers were alarmingly low. Enough to run a skeleton staff for a few years, perhaps, while the neglect of the estate continued unchecked. Their biggest investment, a colliery in Newcastle-on-Tyne, could take years to sell. There appeared only one thing to do, and that was to sell the estate. But Hart found this incredibly difficult to accept. Not only would his father bitterly disapprove, as Hart rode over the acres, visiting all those places he knew as a boy, he realized his home was of great importance to his soul. “A man’s land is as vital as the blood flowing through his veins,” his father had been fond of saying. And it appeared to be true in his own case. Hart wasn’t ready to give it up just yet. But how could he hold on to it?
And then a week later, like a bolt out of the blue, Hart received sad news. His Uncle William, his father’s brother, had passed away. As his uncle had never married, Hart was the beneficiary of his will. It appeared as if The Lord took a hand on Hart’s behalf, despite him hardly deserving it.
A sennight later, he entered his uncle’s drawing room in Canterbury along with a few hopeful relatives and staff for the reading of the will. An hour later, he left it, shattered. Had his Uncle William, the Montford second son who grew up at Pembury, been in cahoots with his father? Uncle William had stipulated in his will Hart was to cease his rakish lifestyle and restore his inheritance. He must be seen to have dealt with his obligations, settled down and married, or the inheritance would go to a cousin on his aunt’s side of the family.
“Is this condition enforceable?” Hart demanded of his solicitor.
“As there’s no entail, your uncle could leave his money to anyone he chose. If it is not to you, to Mr. Frompton, your cousin.”
“Frompton! That pious cretin!” Hart expostulated.
“Surely, my lord, a man cannot be both.” Mr. Spilsby coughed. “Either pious or er…the other.”
“He’s a fraud,” Hart raged. “He slithered around my uncle like a snake, advising him. It is my bet he listens at the door.” Hart turned. “I hope your ears are burning, Willard. I have your measure.”
They heard a faint sound of footsteps retreating down the corridor.
“There, I told you,” Hart said, folding his arms.
“It won’t do a bit of good whatever Mr. Frompton’s character might be like. He will inherit if you have not done as requested in your uncle’s will by the end of the year.” He handed Hart his uncle’s letter.
With a deep breath, Hart read the spidery writing.My dear nephew, I took this action after advice from my friend, the Marquess of Lyle,who has applied the same strictures to his son. Lyle doesn’t seem too fond of his heir, Phillip Ormond, but rest assured, I have always had a deep affection for you, and feel that this is for the best.
Hart turned to the solicitor. “Who decides whether I have brought the estate to a proper standard?”
“Your uncle appointed my firm as the trustees, and we will have to make that decision. Bear in mind that we will remain impartial in the matter. And if you have not met those conditions that your uncle set out, then we will have no alternative but to let the estate pass to Frompton.” Spilsby smiled briefly. “I wish you good fortune in your endeavors.”
At least his uncle had not made an agreement with Hart’s father. Somehow, that would have been the ultimate betrayal. There had been no love lost between his uncle and his father. But that Uncle William, of whom Hart was extremely fond, felt the need to do this, crushed him. He took several minutes to calm himself. Whenever he visited his well-read uncle, they enjoyed deep discussions on politics and history and all manner of things while playing chess. He had cherished those times, which in the last months had dwindled after his uncle became ill.
“After I’ve sorted out some urgent matters at Pembury, I’ll return posthaste to London and set about finding a wife,” Hart said to the solicitor, hating how he’d fallen far short of what his father and his uncle expected of him. He bit back a sense of shame.
