Thomas gave him a polite nod, but in his heart, he didn’t agree. Taking one’s life was a terrible act of sorrow, desperation, and temporary insanity. His father had gambled away his fortune, and once the money was gone, so were his father’s so-called friends. Thomas felt deep grief that his father had seen no other course of action.
The gravediggers used their shovels to pat down the newly turned soil over the mound. There was not a grave marker yet and Thomas did not have enough money to order one from the stone mason. His grandfathers had large ornately carved monuments inside the chapel, but they weren’t disgraced earls. His father’s grave looked strangely blank without one. Thomas turned to Mr. Ryse and thanked him before shaking his hand. He left the graveyard without another glance backward.
Untying his horse, Thomas swung up into the saddle and began the short ride home.
From a distance, Ashdown Abbey looked more like a medieval castle than an estate house. Once the home of a monastery, the abbey had been sold in 1539 by King Henry VIII to Thomas’s ancestor the first Earl of Farnham. The front façade had four tall, circle stone towers with pointed roofs. Two separate wings flanked the main house, making the structure U-shaped. The wings did not have towers, instead eight arched and pointed eaves, with several narrow windows underneath. Once stately and formal gardens surrounded the house on two sides, with a large, rectangular man-made pond reflecting the west wing of the house. To the south stood the ash grove.
The closer Thomas got to Ashdown, the more dilapidated it looked. The roof was missing shingles. The gardens were overgrown and full of weeds. The windows were dirty and in desperate need of replacing. The stables in need of a coat of paint. The entire estate looked like an abandoned ruin. But his mother and his family’s ward, Miss Penelope Hutchinson, lived there, as well as a handful of dedicated servants who had remained despite the fact that they hadn’t been paid all year.
Thomas would pay them. He would fulfill all of his father’s debts.
He rode his horse into the stables and was surprised to see his valet, Edwin Thayne, there. Thomas dismounted and led his horse by the bridle to the stall where he stood.
“What are you doing, Thayne?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Mr. Thomas?”
“You’re mucking the stall,” Thomas said. “But that isn’t your job. Where is Gerald? And the other grooms?”
“Gone, sir.”
“Gone?” Thomas repeated stupidly.
“They left after breakfast to find new employment,” Thayne explained.
Thomas nodded dumbly, fiddling with his shirtsleeves. He didn’t blame them. Ashdown Abbey was doomed. As the eighth Earl of Farnham, he had no way to pay all the debts. His tenants couldn’t pay their rents because of several bad harvests and he had no other source of income. He had been trained for no profession, only three years of classical studies at Oxford University that had been cut short by his father’s death. It was only a matter of time before he declared bankruptcy.
Thayne took the bridle. “Best get in the house, my lord. Lord Rutledge is waiting for you in the great hall.”
Thomas thanked Thayne and walked slowly to the main hall, which had once been the abbey’s chapel. Like the rest of the house, the hall was covered in a layer of dust and grime. Medieval armor, swords, and shields hung on the walls. Sitting at the front of the room, in a wingback chair, was his mother. She looked like a queen, with her dark hair piled on top of her head and wearing all black. She didn’t appear to be upset at all over the death of her husband, but then again his parents’ marriage had never been warm or loving. The majority of it they had lived apart. His cousin Oliver, known by his courtesy title Lord Rutledge (he was the heir to a dukedom), sat on her right, holding her hand.
“Everything has been quite dreadful for me,” his mother said in her high, whispery voice. “I suppose your mother was unable to come.”
“Mother was overpowered by the sad news and could not travel,” Oliver said, and pulled at his shirt collar uncomfortably. He was probably lying. Oliver’s mother, Lady Oxenbury, had not been on speaking terms with her now deceased brother for more than ten years.
“Thank you for coming, Oliver,” Thomas said.
Oliver quickly got to his feet, releasing his aunt’s hand, the relief on his face evident. He strode forward. Thomas shook his hand warmly. “I came as soon as I read about it in the papers. Terrible business.”
Thomas nodded.
Mr. Hibbert, their elderly butler, came through the door holding a tea tray. He set the tray on a table next to Thomas’s mother and bowed stiffly to her. “Anything else, my lady?”
“That will be all. Thank you, Hibbert,” she said, and gestured for them to sit down. “Shall we have tea?”
His mother smiled as if Oliver’s visit was a normal social call and not the day that her husband of twenty-three years was buried without a funeral service.
“I’m afraid that I do not have the time,” Oliver said, pulling again at his collar. “I came to give my condolences and have a private word with Thomas here. My hired coach is waiting.”
“I will tell Penelope that you called,” she said, and her gaze shifted from Oliver to Thomas. “She’s not feeling well enough to receive visitors.”
“Do,” Oliver said with another smile. He took his aunt’s hand again and bowed over it.
“Why don’t we go to the library,” Thomas said. “We can talk privately there.”
Thomas and Oliver walked silently out of the main hall and down a smaller corridor to the library. Thomas opened the door to the long, empty room. It had once housed two stories of bookshelves lined from wall to wall with a mezzanine, and now not even one book was present. Only a few odd chairs and tables, all out of fashion.
“How bad are your finances?” Oliver asked bluntly before walking to the row of windows.
