She had worked sohard. Harder than she’d worked at anything.
It was no mean feat training an entire staff from scratch. Redecorating the entire house—from carpet to ceiling frescos—was the largest project she’d ever taken on. And she was doing all of this while helping Benedict with the firm. She had put in more work over the past month than she had in the past five years.
And all of it for naught.It was almost enough to make her cry.
Agatha remained silent, waiting for Amelia’s reaction. No doubt in breathless anticipation, the wretched creature.
For a brief moment, it was all Amelia could do not to let her anguish show. But then she felt Benedict squeeze her shoulder. Just a light touch, a you’re-not-in-it-alone gesture.
It was all she needed.
She lifted her chin and met the old crone’s stare. “Please inform Lady Merwick that I’m so sorry I was unable to include her on the guest list. When Prinny attends a hunt, so does every other reputable gentleman, and there really wasn’t room to spare.”
Agatha’s fingers tightened on her saucer just a smidgen.
Satisfaction pooled in Amelia’s gut at the older lady’s surprise. How she would manage to wrangle Prince George into attending was a matter for later, not now.
“Do tell me,” Benedict drawled, “must I serve De Luze cognac to our beloved regent? I much prefer a Scottish whiskey.”
Amelia looked at him, surprised. He did not remotely approve of this hunt. She hadn’t expected him to willingly defend it.
Agatha cleared her throat. “Well, I do hope you’re correct. But at any rate, there will be plenty of opportunities for society to visit next year once we’ve cleared the land to the south of the Peach Tree River for a proper hunting ground.”
It set Amelia back a minute because, surely, she couldn’t have heard what she thought she had. Benedict suddenly dropped to the arm of the chair next to her, suggesting her ears were working just fine.
Good grief.
In a second, saving her hunt had become a trivial matter.
“Did you say you’re clearing the land to the south of the river? How much of it?” she demanded.
“You bitch,” Benedict said under his breath, but Agatha still heard it and her face paled.
Her mulish look of determination didn’t change though. “I don’t know the details. That’s Lord Karstark’s domain. But by next autumn, the woods will be stocked, a trail will be built, and Abingdale will be able to hold a proper hunt.”
A swirling, seething unease settled into the pit of Amelia’s stomach. There were so many farms south of the river. So many families. Children she’d seen running in the village square. Mothers she’d played with on the bandy field. Men that worked hard at the firm.
“But the farms. The Joneses and Pattinsons and McTavishes. Where will they go?” Her tone betrayed her fear, but she didn’t care.
“I suppose they can go to the colonies.”
“The Americas,” Amelia ground out.
“Whichever. That’s not our problem.” Lady Karstark sniffed.
Benedict’s anger was palpable. He stood, fists clenched. He seemed twice his normal size—a furious leviathan.
He loomed over Lady Karstark, his face as close to violence as Amelia had ever seen it. “They have worked those farms for generations.”
Amelia jumped up, putting herself between her husband and the woman who had clearly come here just to wound him.
Had anyone asked ten minutes ago, she’d have said he’d never hit a woman—let alone an old, frail one. But at this moment, she wasn’t going to risk it.
And there was nothing frail about this witch.
She pushed Benedict into a chair and then rounded on her guest. “Surely you owe them some loyalty. You profit from their hard work.”
Lady Karstark’s complete lack of visible reaction was damnable. She was discussing people’s livelihoods as though it were a debate about pineapples versus peonies for table centerpieces.
