“Hello, Rachel,” Jane said gently. Warily.
“Miss Ashford,” Sir Timothy added, his expression suddenly somber. He bowed.
Rachel looked from one to the other. “Good day to you both.”
She looked ready to continue on, but Sir Timothy said, “I was sorry to hear your father is not well. I hope he is not worse.”
“He is, I’m afraid. I was just on my way to the apothecary for more of the lozenges he likes. If you will excuse me.”
Sir Timothy’s brow puckered. “Could not one of the servants—?”
“Of course they might,” she sharply replied. “But I found I needed some air.”
“Ah.” He nodded in understanding. “No doubt the walk will do you good. A sickbed vigil can be exhausting, I know.”
“Yes. But pray do not think I am shirking my duty. I only—”
He raised a palm. “Of course not. I had no intention of implying you were. Do please give your father my regards.”
“I shall. Well. I will leave the two of you to your . . .” Rachel’s gloved hand gestured vaguely from one to the other.
Uneasiness pinched Jane’s stomach. “We happened to pass on the street and were only saying hello,” she defended. “Now, I too had better be going. But I will pray for your father. Or . . . I could come and share your vigil, if you like.”
Rachel coolly inclined her head. “Thank you, but no need.”
Sir Timothy stepped quickly to open the apothecary shop door for her, and Miss Ashford slipped inside.
He watched her go, then turned back to Jane, avoiding her eyes.
Good-bye, Jane whispered in her heart. Again. In the past, she had wondered what might have happened between them if she had not married John. But that was a long time ago.
She did not know the condition of her husband’s soul the day he died—if he had been prepared to meet his Maker, and would rise on the last day. But some things, she was quite certain, would never be resurrected.
When the door shut behind her, Rachel Ashford closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the air of the apothecary shop tangy and medicinal—camphor, chamomile, comfrey.
She waited for her heart rate to return to normal. It always beat a little too quickly upon seeing Sir Timothy Brockwell. And seeing him with Jane? That had caused her stomach to knot, and brought back all the old memories of her stymied hopes and soured friendship.
They were only talking, she told herself. She was foolish to let it bother her. Not when she had more important things to worry about—like her ailing father. And what would happen to her after he passed.
Drawing back her shoulders, Rachel stepped to the counter and purchased what she’d come for from Mr. Fothergill, who kindly asked about her father. She assured the apothecary that his remedies and Dr. Burton’s treatments kept him fairly comfortable and thanked the man for his concern. But they both knew little could be done to extend her father’s life.
When Rachel turned to leave, she paused to look out the front window to make certain Timothy and Jane had left. She did not want a repeat of their awkward encounter.
The three of them had spent a great deal of time together during their adolescence and early adulthood. There had been no awkwardness then. Rachel was a few years younger than Jane, and a late bloomer in the bargain. She knew Timothy had seen her as a child—a pesky little sister, of sorts. He was kind to her but had clearly preferred Jane’s company. But all of that had changed the summer after Rachel’s coming-out ball. For the better, and then . . . for the worse.
Standing there, an ache of loss washed over Rachel as though it had all happened yesterday instead of eight years ago. She wondered if he hoped for another chance with Jane now that she was a widow. For he had never pursued a second chance with her.
Rachel forced leaden legs outside, and back up the High Street. At its end, she crossed Ebsbury Road and cut through the meadow to reach Thornvale more quickly.
Inside the hall, the housekeeper greeted her somberly. “Your father has been asking for you, miss.”
Guilt stabbed her. “I’ll go right up.”
She climbed the stairs, knocked softly, and entered her father’s bedchamber.
The room closed in on her as soon as she entered—shutters drawn and windows closed against any chill breeze that might dare enter. Piles of books crowded the side table and formed pillars on the floor. She made her way carefully around them toward the bed. Her father refused to allow the maids to return them to the library. He wanted his favorites near him like old friends. The musty smell of dry leather and yellowed paper hung heavy in air already dank with the sour smells of a sick room. Mamma would never have allowed such clutter while she was alive. But Rachel, like the maids, had given up her protests.
“There you are, my dear.” Her father raised a weak hand in greeting. “I wondered what became of you.”
“I only went to Fothergill’s.” She lifted the parcel as proof.
“Ah. See any of our friends while you were out?”
The question reminded Rachel that her father had once been a gregarious and well-liked man.
“I . . . did yes,” she replied. “Jane Bell and Sir Timothy send their regards.”
“Jane and Timothy?”
“Mm-hmm,” she replied distractedly, setting her purchase on the desk beside another packet of Royal English Drops, still full. “And Mr. Fothergill, of course.”
Sir William’s body was failing, but his eyes were all too clear. She looked away from them.
“May I bring you anything, Papa? Tea? Something to eat?”
“No, thank you. But I had hoped you would read to me again.”
She nodded. “I bought the latest Gentleman’s Magazine last time I was in the High Street. I thought I might read that for a change. Several articles appear rather diverting.”
He frowned. “I’m afraid I’ve lost all interest in current affairs. It’s the old books that speak to me now and soothe my soul.”
He tried to pick up the thick book on the bed beside him, but the heavy volume trembled in his hands.
She hurried forward. “Here, Papa. Allow me.”
“Thank you, Rachel. Will you read it for me? What solace my books give me.”
She managed a tight smile. “Of course.”
Her father’s books gave her no solace at all. In fact, quite the opposite. Sometimes she thought he loved his books more than he loved her. He certainly gave them more of his time and attention.
Chapter
Six
Thora had been standing at the hall window for several minutes, waiting impatiently as Jane talked to Miss Ashford and Sir Timothy Brockwell on the street. Jane had once been one of their set—until she had condescended to marry an innkeeper. By rights, Jane ought to have married Sir Timothy, or someone like him. Everyone had thought she would. Yes, John had been charming and confident and capable. But few had thought he stood a chance of winning the hand of pretty Miss Jane Fairmont, Thora least of all.
Now she wanted to speak to Jane about the news Patrick had confided when she’d returned from Talbot’s farm. She thought back, trying to remember what, if anything, John had said about taking out a loan. She knew he had contemplated refurbishments but in the end had decided against it. After all, Thora herself had told him she doubted the investment would yield a good return. And he had listened to her, or so she’d thought. He usually did so—except when choosing a wife. And evidently in this as well. Had Jane asked John to take out a loan anyway? To finance new gowns or a trip abroad, perhaps—or what? Thora doubted whatever Jane had done with the money had been in the inn’s best interest. More likely it had served Jane’s self-interest.
When Sir Timothy bowed to Jane and walked away, Thora opened the door and waved her inside.
Jane did not look pleased to see her but complied, allowing Thora to lead her into the office.
There, Thora shooed out Colin McFarland with a dismissive wave of her hand. Then she closed the door and
started right in. “What are you going to do about the loan?”
Jane sighed. “Patrick told you, did he?”
“Of course he did. You should have told me yourself.”
“Mr. Blomfield came only this morning. I have been trying to think. I suppose everyone knows the straits we are in?”
Thora nodded. “Or they will, soon enough.”
“And I suppose everyone will blame me, when I have only just learned of the loan myself.”
Thora wasn’t convinced. “I will go and speak to Arthur Blomfield in person. See if there is anything I can do. Unless you refuse my help?”
“Of course not. I don’t pretend to have everything in hand.”
That was something, Thora privately acknowledged. It was no doubt difficult for the proud gentleman’s daughter to admit she had failed, or how quickly the inn had gone to ruin without Thora or Talbot there to manage it.
Thora walked with determination up the High Street to the stone-and-brick building at its end, the heels of her sturdy half boots clicking sharply with each step. Reaching the door of Blomfield, Waters, and Welch, she let herself in. A young clerk caught chewing a muffin stood abruptly, wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Thora had known the boy since he was in nappies. “Never mind, Todd, I will announce myself.”
“But—”
Pushing open the door marked A. Blomfield, Esq., Thora strode inside.
The banker looked up from his desk, brows high. “Ah! Mrs. Bell. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Is it unexpected, Arthur? When you have given my daughter-in-law a few short months to pay back a massive loan?”
“I . . . didn’t even know you were in town. You moved away last year.”
“I would have returned sooner had I known the extent of the trouble. I am disappointed you didn’t write to me yourself, out of professional courtesy, considering the bank’s long relationship with my family.”
His Adam’s apple rose and fell. “I did not realize you were . . . still involved with the inn.”
She could hear the trepidation oozing from the words. Oh yes, Thora thought. Arthur Blomfield was afraid of her. Always had been. And he was right to fear a tongue lashing or worse if he dared move against her family’s establishment.
“You did not think I would want to know? Have a chance to intervene?”
“Well, I . . . assumed your daughter-in-law or son would inform you, as they saw fit.”
“Did you really?”
He touched the knot of his cravat and said weakly, “One doesn’t like to meddle in family affairs.”
“I have never known you to shy away from a little self-interested meddling, Arthur. In fact, I am disappointed you didn’t meddle before this dreadful loan was taken out in the first place. I would have thought you would have offered some friendly counsel. Advised against it.”
He opened his mouth to defend himself, Thora assumed, but she cut him off. “What’s done is done. I have spoken briefly to Jane and Patrick, but I want to hear the particulars from you directly.”
He nodded. “If you have spoken to Jane, then you know the amount owing. Overdue now for some time. Regretfully, the bank must pursue recompense if that debt is either not paid in three months time, or if your daughter-in-law cannot prove significant profitability or plans to become so—with which I might apply to the partners for another extension. I gather from speaking with Patrick that neither is likely to occur, especially without an experienced leader at the helm. I assumed you would not wish to involve yourself.”
“Not wish to involve myself? Anything that affects the inn affects me. Always has done and always shall. If nothing else I would want the chance to offer advice or assistance at this critical time.”
“But Jane Bell is landlady now—not you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Thora snapped. “But I cannot stand by and do nothing while she brings it to ruin. What was the money used for? I see no improvements. What did she fritter it away on?”
For several moments he looked at her. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. He reached into his lower desk drawer and withdrew a bound document of several pages. He placed his index finger on a specific spot, and slid the document across the desk toward her.
She stepped nearer, bent her head and squinted, recognizing the signature with a frown.
“This is not a new loan, Thora. As you can see, John signed it himself, more than a year before he died. As far as I know, his wife had nothing to do with it. In fact, she seemed surprised to learn of its existence.”
“As was I . . .” Thora murmured. Jane had said as much, but Thora had not believed her. Guilt nipped at her, followed by a sinking feeling. What else did John not tell me?
She licked dry lips. “Did John specify what he intended to do with the money?”
Again he gestured toward the documents. “It’s all there. Plans for refurbishments for the inn, new coach horses, and the like.”
“Did you never confer with him? Ask for reports on how the funds were being used?”
Mr. Blomfield shifted. “Not initially. I have had no reason to doubt any of my past dealings with your family. But when the first payment became due, John put me off. He had some plausible excuse—refurbishments still in progress—and I petitioned my partners for an extension, promising payments would be forthcoming, and assuring them the Bells were old and reliable clients. But when the promised payments failed to arrive, I became concerned.”
He inhaled, looking up in memory, then continued. “John began avoiding me. Or at least it seemed so to me. Spending more and more time away.”
Yes, Thora had been worried about all those trips. But she said, “John was never one to shirk his duty.” Or so I’d thought.
The banker entwined his fingers on the desk. “I have no wish to speak ill of him, especially now. But nor can I, in all fairness, allow you to lay blame at your daughter-in-law’s door. Beyond perhaps procrastination and apathy.”
“Those are faults enough.”
“Are they?”
Thora studied him through narrowed eyes. “May I ask why you included Patrick in your conversation about this?”
“He was there at Jane’s invitation.”
“At her invitation, or your suggestion?”
He shrugged. “I may have suggested she might want someone with her to help her navigate the situation.”
“Did you write to him while he was away?” she asked.
He shrugged again. “I have kept in touch with Patrick over the years. He has had an investment opportunity or two to present to me from time to time. I . . . may have mentioned my concerns about the inn at some point.”
She asked archly, “And I suppose Patrick has made a fortune from these speculations and opportunities, which he has deposited here at Blomfield, Waters, and Welch?”
Arthur Blomfield cleared his throat. “Not as yet. But I view him as a young man of potential. I am persuaded he could do a great deal of good with a place like The Bell. He is brimming with ideas.”
Yes, Patrick always had big ideas. Whether he would follow through with them or not was another matter, but she would not malign her son in this man’s hearing. Or anyone else’s.
“And exactly how is Jane to prove ‘significant profitability’? What sort of plans would convince your partners to grant another extension?”
“Profits increasing at a rate of at least ten percent per annum. Or a sound written plan that includes renovations and new revenue sources that prove convincing in terms of return on investment.”
“And if the loan is not repaid or a satisfactory plan submitted in time?”
“Then I will have no choice but to sell the inn, which John used to secure the loan.”
“The Bell is worth more than that, and you know it.”
“Five years ago, maybe. Even three years ago, before the turnpike was approved. But now . . . ?”
“This is not fair.”
&
nbsp; “Is it fair that we loaned a sizable sum in good faith and have received not a farthing in repayment in over two years?”
She jutted out her chin. “And who do you think will buy The Bell if it is the poor investment you claim it is?”
“Actually, we have already received one offer to assume the debt in exchange for ownership.”
“Assume the debt? Well, yes,” she said sarcastically. “Anyone would assume such a debt in exchange for an establishment worth several times that amount. Tell me, who has made this premature offer?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“The devil you’re not. Whose side are you on, Arthur?”
“My dear Mrs. Bell. Our relationship may be of long standing, but I must put the health of my own establishment ahead of any other. Just as you would, were our situations reversed.”
She bit back a hot retort. “So. You have decided The Bell hasn’t a chance, have you? Well, we shall see about that.”
Thora stalked back to The Bell and immediately sought out Patrick. She found him rooting around the office and digging through the desk drawers.
“Can’t find a dashed thing in here,” he grumbled.
Thora closed the door. “Patrick, I have just been to see Arthur Blomfield. What are you up to?”
“I only want to help.”
Suspicion snaked through her. “Help yourself?”
Patrick tucked his chin, looking hurt. “Mamma . . . you misjudge me.”
“Do I?” she asked. She hoped that was true.
“Yes. Mr. Blomfield suggested, or at least intimated, that having a man in charge, and an experienced Bell in the bargain, would go a long way to increasing his partners’ confidence. He made no promises, but he thinks an extension much more probable if ownership were transferred to me.”
“You’re the one who wants to assume the debt.”
“It is only an idea. You know Jane isn’t keen on managing the place herself. I think she’d be relieved to be out from under the responsibility.”
“And you think you are equal to it?”