“Mr. Lipman’s figures for Farleigh Manor are disconcerting,” said Felicity, scanning the page for the proper section. “I am not as familiar with the requirements of a country estate as you are, so I am uncertain as to whether I am being ridiculous or if there is something more sinister involved.”
Pointing out the part of the letter, Felicity turned it to Aunt Imogene, whose brows rose as she read it.
“As servants are residing there, coals, candles, food, and the like still need to be purchased, but this is more than I would expect,” she murmured, passing her eyes over the passage again. “Not enough to raise significant concerns, but I fear your steward may be derelict in his duties.”
“Or simply dishonest,” said Felicity, her shoulders dropping. “I had feared as much.”
“I would think that any property purchased by my nephew would be more profitable than this,” added Great-Aunt Imogene with a frown. “Its expenditures are less than its income, but not as much as one would wish to see.”
Felicity sighed. “I suppose I can no longer pretend that everything is well with Farleigh Manor.”
Glancing from the letter, Aunt Imogene patted her great-niece’s knee. “Do not despair, my dear. If you would like, I can write to my son and ask his advice on your behalf.”
With a wan smile, Felicity shook her head. “My thanks, but as you said before, I shall sort this out.”
Yet another issue that needed addressing, and though she tried to give all the proper assurances to her aunt, Felicity couldn’t feel them herself. Of course, that was mopey nonsense, for despite the despair of the moment, Felicity knew she would find a solution. She only wished she found some joy in the hunt.
“Perhaps you ought to go for a drive, my dear,” said Aunt Imogene. “I find that some time in the country air does wonders to clear one’s head.”
Felicity bit on her lip, considering the possibility.
“You may take my phaeton. It has been an age since it got any proper use, and it would do both you and it some good.” Aunt Imogene fairly beamed, patting Felicity’s knee once more. “I’ll have the grooms harness Duchess. She’s such a sweet-tempered creature that you’ll hardly have to steer.”
Turning her thoughts to that possibility, a smile crept across Felicity’s face. “I think I may just do that.”
Chapter 13
“Ilove what you’ve done with this cuff,” said Finch, leaning closer to inspect the tailor’s work.
Mr. Abbott maintained a dignified air, but pleasure gleamed in his eyes at the compliment. “I doubt my skill measures up to the quality you are used to finding in London, sir.”
Holding back a smile at the blatant lure the tailor set out, Finch ignored the comment and turned his attention to the cuff. It was a shame he didn’t have all his tools with him, for seeing the stitches and tucks of fabric made him long to know if he could mimic it. Mr. Abbott had a way of interpreting trends, and though Finch had little interest in chasing after them, the fellow’s work presented a new challenge.
The pair stood together, discussing all the work Mr. Abbott had done since Finch’s last visit. In London, so many of the shops worth visiting were too busy to allow the owners to pass a half-hour chatting about the nuances of their trade, especially with a gentleman who never spent a farthing.
Finch would miss this.
Glancing around the shop, Finch sized up his options. It had been years since he’d worn anything he hadn’t made himself, but it didn’t feel right to leave without purchasing something. Mr. Abbott had shown far too much patience with him over the years, and Finch owed the fellow.
The shirt they were admiring was beyond his reach, but Finch settled on a few cravats. Sewing them was his least favorite task, so it was an expense worth shouldering. With a few words of farewell, he took his package and wandered out of the shop.
His boots squeaked in the snow, and a flash of wet on his toes told him they were in need of repair, but they would have to wait until he was home again. His cobbling skills were minimal, but he knew enough to get another year out of this pair with the right tools, which were back in London. Perhaps it was finally time to dedicate himself to the art of boot-making. With the cost of supplies, it would be a pricey undertaking at first, but it would save him funds in the end.
And it would give him something to do once he returned to London.
So, cobbling it was.
A dusting of snow skittered across the road, and Finch looked around at the various shops and cottages that formed Bristow’s heart. So much of the world was changing at a breakneck speed, but this village looked much the same as it had two hundred years ago. While it was invigorating to see London grow and to witness the new commerce and inventions driving it forward, it was comforting to know that some places remained constant. He wondered if Bristow would still look this way in another hundred years.
Calling out to the lad who was walking Sheba up and down the lane, Finch tossed the boy a coin and patted the mare on the neck. Checking the harness and cinch, he mounted and pointed her towards Avebury Park.
No doubt Simon and Mina would still be on their adventure to Ainsley, but Finch had wasted enough time here, and shopping was a bore when one did not have the funds to indulge. Tucking his solitary parcel into his jacket, he meandered away from the heart of the village and saw the lane splitting between the path that would take him to Avebury Park and that which would take him to Buxby Hall.
Perhaps he ought to pay a call on Lady Lovell. She was an engaging conversationalist and always welcomed a visit. What more could he ask for than to pass an hour or two in good conversation? That and some more delectable gingerbread cake.
Pointing his mount down that lane, Finch was willing to admit that he wasn’t wholly disappointed at the thought of occupying more of Miss Barrows’ time. The lady may be odd—exceptionally so—but she’d proven to be quite entertaining on more than one occasion. Even if she did enjoy prying into his business.
Finch’s lips curled into a half-smile as he stared off in the distance, his eyes tracking the curving lines of the rolling hillside all covered in a dusting of snow. Casting his thoughts back, he was caught by a sudden thought. He wasn’t certain he’d ever seen Bristow in summer. Or any other season for that matter. The world expected him in London during the Season even though he had neither the funds nor standing to do much with that social whirl. Heaven forfend that he should spend those months elsewhere.
