A Pitiful Remnant Page 2

  Lisanor had known since childhood that she was to marry Gregory Sealand, but he, like so many second sons, had gone to the army. He'd been posted to Spain, just in time to waste his life in the fighting in Vimeiro village. Not to be discouraged, her grandfather had found Dunstan Foxworth, nephew of an old friend in Devon, and another who had no prospects of his own. She had met Captain Foxworth and had found nothing to dislike about him, except that he was a cavalryman. Military men had short life expectancies, but other than that she'd had no objection to him.

  His few stilted letters had showed her little of the man, but she'd believed Grandfather when he promised that if she disliked Captain Foxworth on closer acquaintance, she would not be forced to marry him. In her admittedly meager experience, one man was much like another. He would have done, as well as any man. She knew her duty.

  "Outrageous!" Uncle Percival snapped. "And who's to know if this fella's alive either? Ain't they still reporting losses from that debacle at Coruña?"

  "Indeed. Which is why Mr. Hight named two guardians who will be responsible for Miss Hight until her marriage."

  "Well, tell us, man," Uncle Percival said. "Who are named her guardians?" His tone made it clear he believed himself qualified for the task.

  Lisanor crossed her fingers. I pray he is wrong in his expectation.

  "The Marquess of Guillemot and my humble self, if Major Lamberton is...unavailable. Until Miss Hight reaches the age of twenty-nine or marries a man of whom we approve. Whichever comes first. Unfortunately--"

  Before he could continue, the room erupted with speech. Only Lisanor, Alanna and Mr. Whitsomeworth were silent.

  She was still numb. Even before her grandfather's death, she had been demoralized by the loss of not one, but two, prospective husbands. She'd numbly agreed to Grandfather's suggestion of Clarence Lamberton as a third candidate without really thinking about it. After all, he was another military man, and would probably not survive long enough to marry her.

  Now she was being told she would be under the thumb of an unknown nobleman for the foreseeable future. And Grandfather was gone. His sudden death had left her reeling, especially since she knew that nothing had really been settled. His death had been so sudden, so unexpected. The tears she had suppressed while she and Alanna waited for the men to return from the cemetery welled up and overflowed.

  Mr. Whitsomeworth held up his hands. "Unfortunately," he said again, in a loud voice, "there is a further complication, one Mr. Hight was unaware of when he requested me to write the codicil."

  His gaze, as it traversed the room, from one face to the next, dampened all speech. "I learned just yesterday that Lord Guillemot passed away two months ago. Unfortunately."

  The gabble resumed, until Lisanor wanted to cover her ears and run, screaming, from the room.

  Again Mr. Whitsomeworth tapped the papers, this time with some agitation, as if he was reluctant to continue. "I am prepared to act as sole guardian, until such time as we can discover the disposition of Lord Guillemot's affairs. Perhaps his heir..."

  Uncle Percival asked the question Lisanor wanted to. "What's to become of this estate until this is all sorted out? Last I heard, the wolves were at the door. Drystan made a bloody mess of things, and m'brother was too ill to stop him."

  "I believe the creditors are prepared to be reasonable, for a short spell, at least. And I have already taken steps to resolve this dilemma."

  Lisanor wondered what steps, while at the same time thinking of what economies they could practice. The estate was solid; only funds were lacking. Creditors hadn't been paid for months, the household account was empty. Unless they sold off much of the livestock, they wouldn't even be able to buy seed when spring came, despite Mr. Fishman's strict economies. A few of the tenants were already muttering of jobs to be had in the manufacturies.

  "I've heard that Guillemot is under the hatches," Darius Fortescue, Uncle Percival's nephew-by-marriage, said from the doorway. Apparently he had been eavesdropping. "I doubt that a marriage to the new marquess would be likely to reassure your creditors. Or his." He sounded almost gleeful at the prospect.

  "He's right," Percival sputtered. "Two bankrupt estates combining? My good man, they're more apt to demand immediate payment, rather than agree to delay it."

  Darius strode to the front of the room, halted beside the desk where Mr. Whitsomeworth sat. "Sell the place off. Pay the creditors. Use what's left to give the girls dowries. That ought to get them husbands. Solid yeomen, or maybe a hungry Scot. In fact..." He licked his lips. "I'd marry the young one. Time I was settling down."

  Lisanor would have attacked him, but before she could, Alanna picked up a vase and threw it, with excellent aim.

  "I'd die a maid before I'd let you lay a finger on me, you...you lecher."

  "Why you little bitch--"

  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Let us have some decorum."

  Although the lawyer's expostulations had little effect, Uncle Percival showed some initiative. He caught the tail of Darius' coat and gave it a jerk.

  "You ain't part of the family, nevvy. Got no say in what happens."

  Darius subsided, but only after a spiteful glare in Alanna's direction.

  "M'brother would spin in his grave were this place be sold," Percival said. "And I don't like the notion myself. There've been Hights here since before the Normans came. If there's a way to save it, you find it, Whitsomeworth. And you, Miss Hoity-toity, you'll marry as you're bid, if it means keeping Ackerslea in the family."

  "I never said I would not," Lisanor said, while feeling strong resentment that he should doubt her devotion to Ackerslea.

  "Good. That's the ticket." He patted his round belly. "Is that all, Whitsomeworth? Can we have our dinner now?"

  "Indeed, Mr. Hight. Why don't you gentlemen remove to the dining room? I have a bit more to discuss with Miss Hight and Miss Alanna, but nothing to concern you."

  Once the men had left, Mr. Whitsomeworth picked up the papers, sorted through them, and pulled out one that was written on both sides with crossed and recrossed lines. "I received this only yesterday. It is from the solicitor who handles Lord Guillemot's business affairs. Tsk, tsk. Most distressing." Mr. Whitsomeworth tapped both forefingers on the papers lying before him.

  "Lord Guillemot was severely wounded in the retreat at Coruña. At present he is recuperating at Guillemot Burn, his principal estate not too far from here, in Lincolnshire. The family has not yet told him of the situation, though I have no reason to believe he will reject the notion of a marriage between you." His slight smile reminded Lisanor of a cat who's just swallowed the last feather of its avian prey. "Had anyone but the late Mr. Gareth Hight held the mortgages on the unentailed Guillemot properties, they would have been called in long since. Your grandfather had considered it, but had not made up his mind when... Well, now they are part of your inheritance. The present marquess has not been told of the situation, due to the severity of his injuries. Nor is he aware of the betrothal. Indeed, you are almost certainly unknown to him, and we can expect some resistance when he is appraised of your grandfather's scheme."

  "But you believe something can be worked out?"

  "I have no doubt of it. Furthermore, I am hopeful that a loan sufficient to cover living expenses for the two of you and your dependents, plus whatever is necessary to maintain the farms will be forthcoming."

  "One good year..." Lisanor knew to a farthing how prosperous Ackerslea could be. Her father might have drained the funds from the estate, but his profligacy had done nothing to its productivity. But would there be enough to support Guillemot as well?

  As if reading her mind, Mr. Whitsomeworth said, "The Guillemot properties have suffered from poor management for a number of years, and presently bear a heavy burden of debt. However, they have great potential. I know you've been filling your grandfather's shoes these past years. Even if Lord Guillemot knows little of farming, I'm sure I can persuade him to listen to your advice."

  "I hope so.
Thank you Mr. Whitsomeworth. And now, if you've no more of great immediacy to say, I would like to retire to my rooms." She summoned Alanna with a motion of her chin, and the two of them slipped out of the study.

  "Will you really marry a perfect stranger?"

  "Oh, Alanna, I've no choice. It's the only way to save Ackerslea."

  "You could marry Darius-- No, I guess you couldn't."

  "No, Never ever. Ugh!" Lisanor shuddered before she embraced her younger sister. "Don't you worry. Everything will be all right."

  If only she believed her own words.

  Chapter Three

  "Clarence, you will suffer a setback if you don't calm yourself."

  "The devil with that. I want to know what you mean, I'm getting married."

  "Well, it's a bit complicated, dear, but you're going to marry Miss Lisanor Hight. She's the heir to Ackerslea Farm, you see, but she must be married in order to inherit. We had thought there was time for you to recover, to become accustomed to the notion, but--"

  "I had not planned to marry anyone." He wished his body were less weak. How could a man fight his own battles if he couldn't even stand?

  "Oh, but dear, you must. They have begun calling the banns. I believe it's been done once, so only another two weeks...well, ten days, actually, since today is Thursday. But since you cannot marry on a Sunday, it will be eleven days. We'll have to call in a tailor. Your wardrobe is in sad state."

  He pushed himself upright, held his body there by an effort of will. "Mother, I. Am. Not. Marrying. Anyone. Not now. Not in the foreseeable future."

  "But you must," she wailed. "You must."

  There had been a sincere note of panic in her voice. Clarence made himself speak reasonably. "Why? Is there some reason why it has to be so soon?"

  His mother hiccupped and wiped her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief. "If you don't..." Another hiccup, and a gasp.

  He waited, impatiently, but refrained from prodding her.

  "Your father--" She buried her face in her sodden handkerchief. Disgusted, he pulled the case from the pillow his head had rested upon and handed it to her, after taking the almost dripping scrap of linen from her limp hand. "Mother, calm yourself, please."

  She sobbed for several minutes, in time subsiding into more hiccups. At last she said, "Your father--" but again broke off to wail wordlessly.

  Clarence reminded himself that she was a mere woman, and sorely tried, if her manner was any indication. He remembered his mother as easily flustered, often upset by his youthful mischiefs. But she'd never, to his knowledge, given way to hysteria. Whatever it was that had her so distressed must be serious indeed.

  She took several deep breaths, heaving great sighs as she exhaled. At last she said, "Over the last few years your father's investments did poorly. Very poorly. And the income from the stud fell off. He said it was the war, but I think... Never mind.

  "In an effort to recover his losses, he borrowed against the estate. With those funds, he invested again, certain that he would realize great profit. But...but the ship was lost in a storm. He mortgaged everything that wasn't entailed, borrowed against future profits, and with what he received he again invested, this time in what he called 'a sure thing'.

  "He let everything that was not entailed to tenants on a sharecrop basis, but the income has been disappointing. What we received last year was barely enough to pay the interest on the mortgages. And he refused to call in debts owed, because... Oh, I do not understand it all. You must speak to his solicitor. He attempted to explain all to me, but I... You know I have never understood financial matters. "

  Clarence wanted to lay his hand over her mouth, for he knew the inevitable ending.

  "I begged him not to commit everything, but he paid me no mind. When he discovered that his 'sure thing' was all a swindle, he...he--" She stared at him with eyes welling with tears.

  Clarence wanted to curse his father for taking the easy way out. For leaving his mother--and him--with the disaster he had created. Instead, he leaned back against the pillows, laid a forearm across his eyes, and said, "Go on."

  "And now this year's payments on the notes, the mortgages, are due. And there are no funds to pay them. We could lose everything, All but Guillemot Burn and Pinedale, and you know Pinedale has never been a profitable property. Because of his great respect for your father, Mr. Hight did not press for repayment. When..." Her voice broke and she buried her face in the now-sodden pillowcase.

  "Hight? As in Miss Lis-something-or-other Hight?" Clarence was conscious of a great rage building in his gut. The woman sought to buy herself a husband? She was doomed to disappointment.

  "Yes. I mean... Oh, dear. No, I do not believe Miss Hight had any notion of...well, you see, if only young Foxworth had survived...or if Mr. Hight had not died so unexpectedly. These terrible wars. It's just not fair." The last word was uttered as a wail.

  Like pulling teeth, he managed to drag the whole story from her. His father had given notes to Gareth Hight, a wealthy farmer with a large, prosperous holding some miles from Guillemot. The notes were secured by title to all unentailed holdings, including about half of the lands that presently made up Guillemot Burn. If those properties were lost, they would be left with too little land to provide the necessary income. Pinedale, in Northumberland, was the original seat of the marquessate, and it had always been a drain on the estate.

  Eustace Lamberton and Drystan Hight had been schoolmates, and in and out of each other's homes until Eustace married Clarence's mother and retired to bucolic bliss at Guillemot. Drystan stayed in Town, part of Prince George's crowd. Even after his marriage, he spent more time in London than at Ackerslea Farm, living high and wild. "Far beyond his means," Clarence's mother said, with a little sniff that had nothing to do with her distress. "And they were considerable."

  She wiped her eyes one last time and straightened in her chair. "It is a good thing Drystan killed himself in that silly curricle race when he did, or Ackerslea might be in as desperate straits as Guillemot. I know little of the details, but your father did say it was fortunate he'd mortgaged Guillemot when he did, for the elder Hight was finding himself in tight straits, due to his son's profligacy. That was when he offered to sign that terrible contract.

  "When Mr. Hight came to Eustace's funeral, he promised me that he had no present intention of calling in the mortgages. That was the first time he suggested that you and Miss Hight might wed. He babbled something about having a second string to his bow, but I paid no attention, as it made no sense at all. Besides, she was betrothed to someone else and you were in Spain and being unreasonable about coming home, but there was a younger sister, so..."

  "Am I to assume he understood that might be years from now, even if I were to agree."

  "Well, yes. I mean, no, he knew it might be a month or two before you could sell out, but we thought...perhaps April?"

  "Sell out? What made you think I'd sell out?"

  "Oh, dear. You see, the first man she was betrothed to was killed in some silly battle--"

  Clarence ground his teeth. "Coruña was anything but silly, Mother."

  "No, it was another...last year. Or the year before, perhaps. Anyway, the second man she was betrothed to did die at Coruña. So sad. Miss Hight must be devastated."

  "So I am the third choice? I see." He fell back against the pillows.

  He was the heir to his father's follies, his debts. No longer just Major Lamberton, but the Marquess of Guillemot. He must marry. Ensure the succession. But surely not immediately.

  Clarence silently prayed for patience. "Of course. But the younger sister surely could be persuaded to wait until I have recovered."

  Face buried in the now-sodden pillowcase, she shook her head.

  "Mother, please contain yourself. Why must I rush into matrimony?"

  Her first few words were muffled, until she lowered the handkerchief. "...and I wrote to Mr. Hight when you arrived, telling him of your condition. He suggested that the weddin
g take place immediately, and was planning to bring his granddaughter here. But then he..." Her words dissolved into a grief-stricken wail.

  "But he what, Mother? What has changed?" He really didn't want to know, but had long since learned that 'twas best to get over heavy ground as lightly as possible.

  "He is dead."

  "Yes, I know father is dead, but what does Hight want of me?"

  "He is dead. Gareth Hight. And by the agreement, you must marry his granddaughter. Oh, my son...my poor son. Doomed to an unhappy marriage with a dreadful woman. A mere peasant." She threw herself across his bed, weeping and wailing.

  "Mother." He patted her shoulder, wishing she would remove herself from his leg. While it was protected by the splint, it was still tender.

  While he patted, he thought back over her words. His father had signed "that terrible contract." What contract? And how could it be worse than everything mortgaged and him in no position to redeem those mortgages?

  The door, which had been slightly ajar, opened. "Perhaps I might elucidate, my lord," Carleton said as he slipped inside. "Your father made me cognizant of the terms of the contract."

  "Why the devil aren't you in livery?" Clarence demanded.

  "I have been butler for some time, my lord. Simpson retired at the end of last year." His manner was stiff, his voice tight with disapproval.

  "Great God!" Clarence lay back on the bed, wondering if there was anything the same about his home. "Congratulations, Carleton. I think. If what my mother's told me, being butler may be a short-lived career."