The plaster in more than one room needed repair. Some windows were cracked. Some of the rooms were unfurnished, which, while not an urgent need, couldn’t be left off the list. The kitchen hadn’t been used in years and needed supplies.
The situation was at once better and worse than he’d expected it to be. Nothing was so urgent or vital that he needed to fret about even the smallest delays. However, those things that needed attention would grow into bigger problems if not addressed. But that required money, which he didn’t have.
Their tour continued on the grounds. The front expanse of lawn was kept trimmed. Scott suspected the path had once been flanked by flowerbeds. A smaller garden area to the east was clearly the kitchen garden. Low walls marked what had once been an ornamental garden, he’d guess. The back expanse ended at a small stream.
“What can you tell me of the land?” he asked Strickland.
“This is all there is. No farmland. No farming tenants. We’ve not kept up the fancy garden, but we’ve maintained a fine kitchen plot. And there ain’t but a couple flowers, even in the summer. Didn’t seem much reason for them.”
No farmland and no tenant families meant the estate produced no income. It likely had, in the past, been supported by an influx of funds from the Sarvol estate. That estate was now insolvent.
A born failure.
The Sarvols have kept their estates profitable and respected for years. You’ll sink it in only a few years. And no one will be surprised.
Your father raised a disaster.
He spent the afternoon with Strickland, learning all he could and feeling more and more overwhelmed. By the time he dropped into bed that night in a sparsely furnished bedchamber with a badly cracked window, he was thoroughly discouraged. If he didn’t find some solution or at least a stopgap measure of some kind, he would be as sunk as his uncle had predicted. He would lose hold of everything he’d been working so hard for.
There’d be no suppers with Sarah and Harold.
No pleasant conversations with Mater.
No possible future with Gillian.
Toss, Duke, and Fennel would all be making their departures directly from Houghton Manor for Cambridge the next day. And thus, the afternoon’s revelry was particularly uproarious. Gillian hadn’t the heart for it. But she also didn’t want to diminish anyone else’s enjoyment of their last day together.
Seldom had she wished to be apart from the Huntresses. Under any other circumstances, she would be deeply disappointed that Nia and Eve had begun their journey back to Ireland rather than join the others on their jaunt to Houghton Manor. She would have even been pleased to see Mme Dupuis if it had meant Lisette would be among them rather than returning to France. But what she longed for now was quiet and privacy in which to paste her heart back together enough to face the world again.
The group was undertaking a game of short answers, which the Huntresses had played before, with one of the most notable occasions being in Bath, where their absent member Ellie had first met her beloved Newton. This game was progressing with a great deal of ridiculousness from Toss, a tremendous amount of seriousness from Duke, and eagerly happy participation from Fennel. Had Gillian herself not belonged to a group of friendswho were in their own way vastly different from one another, she might have found the contrast between the gentlemen startling.
“I do wish my brother were here,” Daria said. “He is a dab hand at this game.”
“I’d wager Scott would be as well,” Toss said. “He’s clever, which I think is more helpful in short answers than almost anything else.”
There was some truth to that.
“Scott’s sister is very quick-witted,” Charlie said. “She’s my sister-in-law, you’ll remember. So I intend to say only incredibly favorable things about her.”
“Have you a great many unflattering observations about her that you’re holding back?” Duke asked.
Charlie grinned. “No. Truth be told, she’s a good gun.”
“She is also American?” Daria asked.
Scott was American, so his sister, obviously, would be as well.
Gillian simply said, “SheisAmerican.” And no one offered the least criticism of Daria’s potentially embarrassing question.
“Do you suppose Scott will travel back through here on his return journey to Nottinghamshire?” Fennel asked.
The group turned to look at Gillian. She was not about to open that topic to broad discussion. “I haven’t the first idea.” She was tremendously proud of how easily and unemotionally she gave the answer.
What they made of her response, she didn’t know, as the housekeeper arrived with tea and finger sandwiches, offering a welcome distraction.
Daria rose and crossed, not to the food but to Gillian. “Is Mrs. Brownlow equal to having visitors? I would like to visit with her.”
Gillian nodded. “She is doing well. I think she would enjoy gabbing with you a spell.”