Frederick propped a hand on the desk to steady himself whilst the air thinned and his head spun; the polished wood was cold against his skin, anchoring him as the figures threatened to unmoor him entirely. The more he fixed his eyes upon the ink, the more the numbers twisted and crawled across the page, multiplying until he could scarcely tell where one ended and the next began.
Even if a portion of the savings remained untouched, it could never balance these losses. He calculated swiftly, forcing his mind into the steady rhythm of sums.
Economize. Yes, they could tighten their belts, dismiss a few servants, perhaps sell off the horses and other assets. A few hard years would see them through. A few years of sacrifice, and the slate might be cleared.
Frederick leaned back, the chair groaning beneath him. The pages lay spread before him like a battlefield, each line a wound he had no power to staunch.
And then his eyes fell to the last paper in the pouch. Stamped and sealed in an official manner that made sweat bead on Frederick’s forehead, he unfolded it and read the words he dreaded to see: a mortgage.
The word seemed to bleed through the parchment, staining his fingers. Father had gambled away not only their security; he’d wagered the very heart of the Vosses on a roll of the dice. Frederick’s grip tightened until the page crackled in protest. The neat, legal script blurred, reformed, and blurred again as his gaze swept the figures.
Heavens above.
The sums before were staggering, but this? It dwarfed the rest like a snarling beast, ready to devour the family. This was no little sum. This was ruination. If even a fraction of these debts were called in, the house itself could be forfeit. The land. The furnishings. Everything.
Frederick dragged a hand through his hair, fingers clutching at his scalp as though pressure might force sense into the madness. His breath came too quickly, rattling in his chest. He tried to master it, to summon the calm his father had worn like armor.
There was one investment left. One last hope. If it paid as well as Mr. Howlett claimed it would, then they could save the house and pay down much of the debt. Economy would be necessary, but it was possible.
And that one thought allowed Frederick to grasp all that panic and fear and squeeze it into a little ball, easily tossed into the shadows. There was no use borrowing trouble. All would be well in the end, and then he would look the fool for fretting.
Everything would be set to rights.
It would.
Snatching up quill and paper, he scribbled out another missive to Mr. Howlett. One way or another, Frederick wasgoing to get an answer from the man, even if he had to go to London himself and force him to respond at the end of a pistol.
Chapter 4
Sympathy was a fine quality to possess. Of course, it was. It softened the hard edges of the world, bridged gaping voids between hearts, and lent comfort when no words could suffice. It was rarely overabundant, and one ought to do one’s best to nurture such feelings, for it was the gentle balm in sorrow, the quiet rejoicing in gladness, and the unseen thread that bound lives together in shared understanding.
But when paired with a fretful nature, sympathy tended to add to one’s burdens. To carry one’s own fears was difficult enough; to take on another’s as well stretched the heart past endurance. Sympathy, so gentle in itself, became a channel through which every tremor of unease flowed unchecked from one to the other, compounding that gentle heart’s tribulations.
And when one fretful and sympathetic soul was brought into the orbit of another fretful, sympathetic soul? The issue grew tenfold, for as one grew agitated, the other sensed the unease, which caused their own to grow in turn—only for the originator to feel that shift and amplify their own worries, which the other soul then sensed and echoed back.
A fact that was on clear display as Thea walked alongside her cousin through the streets of Haverford, for if there ever was a soul more sympathetic and fretful than her, it was MinaAshbrook. And with Thea desperate for her cousin to have a lovely visit, Mina’s fretful nature came to the forefront, which only added to Thea’s concerns in turn.
The pair were like pitch and fire. Left to her own devices, Thea could master her nerves with a steady breath and a determined smile, yet beside Mina (who was every bit as quick to feel another’s disquiet as her own), her composure faltered.
For all that it felt as though they were the oldest and dearest of friends, their last visit was some three years prior, and correspondence was a vast deal different than speaking face-to-face; Thea didn’t know her cousin’s expressions well enough to fully discern the sentiments beneath them.
And matters weren’t helped when they ventured into the chaos that was the Spring Market.
Haverford was in fine form. The market square bustled with the energy of spring. Stalls stood in tidy rows, their awnings bright against the pale spring sky, while the air was thick with the mingled scents of fresh-turned earth, baking pies, and the tang of newly shorn wool. Farmers called out the merits of early lambs, their voices competing with the cries of hawkers selling ribbons, food, and polished brass trinkets that winked in the sunlight, whilst servants and laborers eagerly sought out positions for the coming season.
Neighbors gathered in cheerful knots, exchanging gossip as easily as the coins passing from customers to vendors, as children darted through the throng, weaving between skirts and boots as mothers tried in vain to keep them near. A fiddler claimed a corner by the green, and his lively tune threaded through the square, drawing a crowd whose feet tapped along to the beat with middling success.
Sprigs of hawthorn and bundles of primroses decorated several stalls, a reminder that winter’s grasp had at last loosened, and the burgeoning warmth of spring heated thecobblestones, coaxing the crowd to linger longer than needful, for it was not merely trade that drew them but the simple pleasure of standing together beneath the gentle sunshine.
It was the busiest day of the season for Haverford, yet as Thea looked out upon the market square, she couldn’t help thinking that it must seem so provincial to a young lady who attended the London Season and mingled amongst the highest levels of society. Haverford was naught but a speck in the country compared to Mina’s home.
“This is delightful. I am so happy to be here,” said Mina, forcing the words out in a breath. And though there was a tight edge to her tone, Thea felt the earnestness beneath the nerves.
Brows rising, Thea forced herself not to bite her lip as she studied her cousin. “I am happy you are here, though I am sorry you are missing the Season.”
Mina wrinkled her nose and grimaced. “I am not. Thank the heavens that Aunt Matilda is too busy with Beatrice’s wedding to play chaperone for me in London, else I would never have convinced Papa to allow me a visit. And I am desperate to meet your Mr. Voss.”
Though a flush of pink stole across Thea’s cheeks, she couldn’t correct the pronoun her cousin attached to the gentleman. And with that, she wove her arm through Mina’s.
