If anyone dared speak ill of Miss Skye or Miss Heather, Johnson was infamous for his heavy-handed disapproval.
Grace had heard many complaints from new grooms and footmen over the years—but she trusted Johnson’s judgment implicitly.
Now, she felt it only right to include him and Mrs Merriweather, two of their longest-serving household members, in this difficult conversation.
In the Morning Room, the ladies sat, while Johnson remained standing near the fireplace, a stickler for proper decorum.
Grace broke the news as gently as she could, but the panic on her sister’s face told her she had failed miserably.
Heather’s eyes welled with tears. ‘What will become of us?’ she sobbed. ‘Will we have to go into service? How will we cope? Where will we live?’
Her words tumbled out frantically, before her distress turned to fury. ‘How could that little weasel leave us to fend for ourselves? Why, if I saw him now, I would land him a facer!’
She punched the nearest cushion with such vigour that fluff flew from the seams. This was followed by some particularly colourful language about what she thought of Charles.
Mrs Merriweather, who was usually quick to voice her opinions, remained shockingly silent—an unmistakable sign of her distress.
Johnson, ever the stoic figure, said nothing.
But his grim expression spoke volumes.
Grace placed a reassuring hand over her sister’s.
‘Squirrel, we will be alright. And no, we will not have to go into service.’
This seemed to revive Mrs Merriweather. ‘But, Miss Grace,’ she protested, ‘we only have two weeks! How will we manage? Where will we go?’
Grace was touched by Mrs Merriweather’s assumption that she would go with them.
Clearing the lump in her throat, she replied, ‘Mrs M, Johnson—you and the staff are expected to remain here. I have not been told otherwise. The Manor still needs to be looked after. After all, we are no longer able to afford the wages you are accustomed to.’
Mrs Merriweather shook her head so vehemently that her mobcap nearly tumbled off. ‘Oh! To hell with Mr Charles and his sodding wages! I will go wherever you go, and I know Johnson feels the same. I am frankly appalled you would suggest otherwise!’
Johnson, usually a man of few words, delivered what was perhaps the longest speech Grace had ever heard from him. ‘Miss Skye, I have been in your family’s service since you were a little girl. I cannot leave you both now, so I will go with you. Do not trouble yourself about the wages—we will manage. I made a promise to your father that I would stand by you, and I’ll not be one to break a promise.’
With a curt nod, he returned to his dignified silence, making it clear that no further arguments would be entertained.
For once, Grace was speechless.
Heather, however, brought them back to reality. ‘Yes, yes, of course, they will come with us. That’s settled. But where on earth will we go? We can’t very well pitch a tent in the middle of a field, can we?’ she said, rather irritably.
Grace’s lips curved into one of her impish smiles. ‘Well... I have a plan.’
Mrs Merriweather quivered in her seat. ‘Now, Miss, you have that look again. It always gives me palpitations.’
Even Heather looked uneasy. ‘Gracy... it’s not as outrageous as your last plan, is it?’
Grace laughed.
‘No, my dear squirrel, it’s much better.’
At Heather’s prompting, Grace began, ‘Remember when, not six months after Mama passed, Papa had that fit?’
They all nodded.
‘The doctors feared another stroke was imminent.’
Heather sighed, her voice tinged with sorrow as she reminisced. ‘After that, Papa would grow so frustrated when he forgot things. It made him angry.’
