Catherine stood and walked toward the small-framed man with spectacles. He bowed to her. “Lady Catherine, thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course, Mr. Sheffield. And may I introduce”—Catherine turned and gestured to Quin—“His Grace, the Duke of Wesley.” The words felt odd in her mouth, but not bitter, just thick and uncomfortable. By the stiff nature of Quin’s shoulders, he felt the same.
“An honor, Your Grace.” Mr. Sheffield bowed.
“Please, sit. Can I offer you tea?” Catherine asked, being the proper hostess.
“No, I thank you,” the solicitor replied, taking a seat in a wooden chair. He set a satchel beside him, then folded his hands as he leaned forward to face Catherine. “First, may I give my sincerest regards. I pray fervently for the recovery of Lady Greatheart.”
“Thank you,” Catherine accepted, but her emotions were tamped down in her chest. Wanting a clear head for this, she refused to give the fickle feelings any room in her mind.
“And as I’m sure you’re aware, this is mere formality. However, given the age and situation of Lady Greatheart, I find it prudent to outline the procedures should we need to make any decisions later on. Given her current prognosis from the doctor, I feel it’s in your best interest and the best interest of the estate to be prepared for any potential future outcome.”
“I understand,” Catherine remarked.
From the corner of her eye, she noted the way Quin leaned forward, listening intently. A flood of gratitude filled her at his gracious offer to stay, to listen. She would have done it alone, survived and surely done fine—but it was better, comforting and a relief to have another person hear the words, interpret them, find the pieces she might somehow miss.
“Your grandmother’s estate is very clearly outlined, there is little to discuss.” Mr. Sheffield pulled out several papers, laid them on his lap, and thumbed through them. Brow furrowed, he selected a single sheet from the stack and silently read through it. Nodding to himself, he turned his eyes upward. “You’re of age, so you won’t be a ward of a relative or placed under guardianship. However, there is the matter of the estate’s trustee.” He paused.
Catherine nodded. “What exactly does ‘trustee’ mean?” Though she was certain of the generalities, she wanted to know all the details. Knowledge was power, and she wasn’t going into this blind. Not if she could help it.
The solicitor set the pages down and folded his hands. “It’s not common practice to have a young, unmarried lady as the sole heir and regulator of a large estate, of which I’m sure you’re aware. Until you marry, the trustee of the estate will make legal and financial decisions with your best interests in mind.”
“Which means?” Catherine inquired further. In this case, ignorance was not bliss.
“Which means that while you will not answer directly to him as guardian, he will have discretion and stewardship of the Greatheart estate for the time being.”
“But that’s not set in stone,” Quin interjected.
The solicitor turned to him. “No, but it’s the usual practice.”
“But only until I marry,” Catherine stated, choosing her words intentionally. Notif, butwhen. And all this was hypothetical anyway; her grandmother was going to heal, grow strong once more, and terrorize them all.
But a small voice whispered,“What if?”silencing all the brave words she heart-whispered to her head.
The solicitor was answering her question. “Yes. It’s only until you marry. Then, of course, your husband will have control of your estate.”
It grated on her, reminded her that she still held the weaker cards in the game. It also reminded her that marriage couldn’t be forced or taken lightly. Whoever she married would have control of her estate—for better or worse. She had never wanted to marry for anything but love, but now that seemed most important.
The concept of love in a marriage took on a whole new meaning. The estate’s management had been her responsibility. Catherine had happily dived into the ledgers, spending hours poring over the figures. Now, she was powerless and could only watch as it was handed over to someone whom she didn’t know and consequently didn’t trust. To think that all her effort in managing the estate would be for naught and now at the mercy of someone she hardly knew was unpardonable. But she had little choice in the matter.
Life was never fair.
And she had never felt its unfairness more than now.
Eleven
“What’s his name?” Quin asked Catherine when the solicitor had finally left.
“The solicitor?” Catherine asked, her brow furrowed.
“No.” Quin waved a hand, his thoughts clearly outrunning his mouth. “Your cousin, the trustee.”
“Lord Bircham,” she answered. “I don’t think he visits London often, but you might know him.”
“The name sounds familiar, but I plan to find out more about him before this goes any further.” He rose. “I don’t think it wise to leave any angle unstudied.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Catherine remarked, her tone taking on a lighter lilt.