‘How can this be? Did my cousin truly arrange it this way? Where are we to go!’
Mr Smith squirmed. ‘Erm ... I ...’ He shuffled his papers again, as though searching for a suitable answer. None came to him.
Grace realised there would be no point in asking Charles to reconsider. It had been over six months since her father had died—plenty of time for Charles to grow a conscience, if he ever had one to begin with.
Out of love for her sister, she asked, ‘What of Heather? Did he say whether he would support her coming out, at least?’
Mr Smith shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the chair creaking loudly in protest.
‘Well ... Erm ... in his words, he said he did not wish to be troubled by a child. He feels that there is no reason to take on any obligations, especially after considering her ... erm ... mixed heritage and immaturity. He believes she has very little chance of finding a husband.’
A sharp pang of fury twisted in Grace’s chest.
Grace shot to her feet, anger burning through her as she cried, ‘This is unacceptable! He is Heather’s only male guardian—he has a duty to care for her!’
But even as the words left her lips, she knew they were useless.
Did I ruin her chances of finding a husband?She thought.Perhaps my charade worked too well.
And in that moment, it became painfully clear—this was not just neglect.
This was spite.
He was doing this to punish her for embarrassing him in front of Lord Bainbridge.
Heather had always dreamed of travelling to London for a season or two, speaking of it often. But now, that dream would have to be set aside—perhaps forever.
In their remote part of the country, there were few eligible men left. Many had perished in the Napoleonic Wars, while others were already engaged or married.
And even if, by some miracle, a suitable bachelor remained, their mixed heritage and now their impoverished state would deter any potential suitor—despite Heather’s beauty.
Grace feared that her sister, too, would become a spinster, just as she had. She would never know the joys of motherhood—a dream that Grace had long since abandoned.
After managing to suppress her anger, Grace asked, ‘And what of Skye Manor? Who will be looking after it now that I will not be here to oversee the Estate and household in place of the late steward?’
Mr Smith replied evasively, ‘You need not worry on that score.’
But this was not enough for Grace. ‘What about the staff?’ she pressed. ‘I know Charles will not live here, and if he closes the Manor, the staff will be left without income or pensions.’
Cornered, Mr Smith reluctantly admitted, ‘The remaining staff will, of course, be retained, but Mr Skye has decided to sell the Manor and the Estate. The new owner will sort it out.’
No sooner had he spoken than he realised he had said much more than he should have. Charles had clearly instructed him not to mention the sale.
Grace stiffened, startled by this revelation. ‘But the Estate is entailed—I thought it could not be sold...’
Yet she knew better.
With enough money and influence, one could always find a way around the law.
Mr Smith’s face—already pink with discomfort—turned a deep shade of purple. He fumbled for the right words, but realising Grace was too sharp for anything but the truth, he answered, ‘Yes ... well. Err ... the truth of the matter is that Mr Skye is undergoing a process called common recovery, a legal procedure allowing the entailed Estate to be sold.’
Grace was familiar with this legal fiction—devised by crafty lawyers to sidestep the enforcement of entails. Only someone with considerable clout could achieve this.
She briefly wondered who the new owner could be. He must be of some influence, otherwise, such a manoeuvre would have been near impossible.
So, this was the crux of it.
All her efforts to make the Estate profitable had backfired. She had turned it into something desirable, and Charles—having no attachment to it—had no qualms about selling it for a profit.
