Grace, with a bit of exasperation, flung her bread roll playfully towards her sister’s face in retaliation.
But Heather ducked just in time, and the roll ended up hitting Mrs Merriweather instead.
Mrs Merriweather, so accustomed to the sisters’ antics, simply picked up the roll where it fell, placed it on her plate, and began to eat it.
The sisters burst into peals of laughter, all thoughts of the solicitors and impending fate forgotten.
Nothing could lift their spirits like a little sibling altercation.
Once their laughter subsided, Heather broke the brief respite. ‘Gracy, what do you think the solicitors will say?’
‘I am sure your cousin will provide for you,’ Mrs Merriweather smiled reassuringly. ‘He is a gentleman, after all.’
Grace scoffed. ‘Being a gentleman does not necessarily mean he has a heart. In fact, I recall Charles as a child. He was always a bully—a disagreeable numpty—and he proved it the last time he visited.’
Mrs Merriweather shook her head in disapproval, her tone soft but firm. ‘There is no reasoning with you when you start speaking like that, petal.’
But the ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, betraying her reprimand.
Grace laughed, leaning over to plant a noisy kiss on the old woman’s rounded cheek. ‘Fine, I admit it. Even Charles will not be so cruel as to throw us out onto the street.’
Even as Grace said this, a niggling thought bothered her. She recalled the cold, dismissive look Charles had given her as he left and felt as though she had burned a bridge.
But she couldn’t bring herself to voice these concerns to Mrs Merriweather. The old woman was doing her best to keep their spirits up, and Grace didn’t have the heart to dispel her comforting thoughts.
MR SMITH AND MR SMITHJunior, a father-and-son duo, ran a legal practice in London. At the behest of their client, Charles, they had undertaken an arduous journey to Skye Manor.
Once introductions were made and refreshments offered, the younger gentleman took his seat at the back of the room. His father, who dominated the conversation, silenced him before he could utter a word.
Grace felt a pang of pity for the young man—he seemed to be entirely under his father’s control.
The older gentleman settled his tall, sturdy frame onto a delicate spindle chair with a wobbly leg. It creaked loudly under his considerable weight.
Grace hesitated, debating whether to warn him, but before she could, Mr Smith cut her off and said,
‘I shall get straight to the point, Miss Skye. As you are aware, the Manor and Estate are entailed to the male line and now belong to your cousin, Charles Skye. Do you understand, Miss?’
Grace was fully aware.
Irritated by his patronising tone, she simply replied, ‘I do.’
Now, she rather hoped the chair would snap.
Mr Smith shuffled a stack of what looked to Grace like empty sheets of paper—no doubt a prop to make himself seem more important.
‘Yes, well. Mr Charles Skye has asked us to inform you that you are to vacate the premises within two weeks. Apart from your personal effects and your mother’s possessions, you are not permitted to remove anything else.’
At this, Mr Smith had the conscience to look somewhat shamefaced.
Grace’s heart sank, and her face paled. ‘Out of here in two weeks? You must be joking, Mr Smith!’
‘I am not in the habit of joking, Miss Skye.’
Mr Smith knew it was unreasonable, but he had a job to do, so he forged on. ‘Mr Skye has decided that, given your spinster status, your mother’s annuity should be sufficient to support your needs and your sister’s. He anticipated you could rent a room in the country and lead a quiet life, which he felt would suit your needs.’
Grace stared at Mr Smith in disbelief.
Charles was truly throwing them out of the only home they had ever known? She had at least expected him to provide them with a place to stay—if not here, then somewhere.
