Chapter 3
Turning back to his friends, Frederick considered returning to the previous conversation.
Yet watching Gordon and Lambert from afar (their ridiculousness evident even at this distance), he couldn’t bring himself to return to his friends.
For all that they believed his good humor was overflowing, Mr. Stout’s words and the accusations leveled against his family rested heavily on his shoulders.
And worse still, the fellows would want to know why a gentleman had sought out a tradesman in conversation.
Glancing around the churchyard, one might believe that the likes of the Jenkins, Vosses, Keats, and Norfolks mingled with tradesmen and shopkeepers.
However, even on this hallowed ground, those pockets of conversation did not bridge the social divide; proximity was not the same as familiarity.
Heaven knew Mother and Phoebe did not count Mrs. Dickey amongst their closest friends, no matter that they spent countless hours in the milliner’s shop and sat only a few pews away every Sunday.
Brushing it aside, Frederick considered the options before him: return to his friends or seek out Thea.
Such a question didn’t warrant a second thought, for there was no one whose company he desired more than his beloved Thea’s.
No amount of fraternal camaraderie equaled a quiet moment with his sweetheart, and he hoped he was struck deaf and dumb if he ever chose those buffoons over the sweet and lovely Althea Keats.
Yet when her gaze turned to him, Frederick felt questions simmering in her thoughts even from across the churchyard. For all that his friends hadn’t given his absence a second thought, she’d been aware of him, and the curiosity surrounding his actions shone in her eyes.
They were such an unusual shade of brown.
Deep and rich, it was a color one didn’t often find paired with fair hair, but more than that, they exemplified the saying, “the eyes are the window to the soul.” Anyone who cared to look saw straight into Thea’s thoughts and feelings.
There was no mask there. No hiding her heart.
And they peered straight into his, stripping away any shield or protection he tried to erect.
Digging in until she knew every nook and cranny.
There were moments when Frederick could scarcely comprehend how fortune had seen fit to place her in his path. He had done nothing to deserve such a companion, nothing to merit the quiet devotion that shone in her gaze. To bask in that light and warmth was a gift beyond measure.
He loved her. He loved the sound of her laughter, the tilt of her head when she grew thoughtful, the feel of her hand upon his arm.
He loved her patience when he grew restless, and the way she held fast when shadows gathered near.
More than all of that, he loved her simply for being Thea; for meeting him without disguise, without pretension, and for making him believe that he was worthy of such devotion.
But now was not the time or place to have conversations with her about financial quandaries.
Passing beneath the lychgate, the crunch of gravel gave way to the firm press of cobbles beneath Frederick’s feet as he strode from the gathering, weaving around the various parishioners as they began to drift home.
The church lay in the heart of Haverford, the rows of cottages and shops with their sun-warmed brick fronts pressed in close, hugging the narrow lane.
Some doors stood open to let in the spring air, releasing the scent of baking bread from the kitchen, which mingled with the early blossoms clinging to the branches of the trees.
A group of boys idled near the pump in the market square, tossing a leather ball between them, their laughter echoing in the bright air, and farther along, a milkmaid balanced her pails with practiced grace, nodding politely as Frederick passed.
Step by step, the street widened, and the cobbles softened into rutted dirt. The gentle hills of the Lincolnshire countryside lay beyond, and fields stretched wide and lush, edged by winding roads and hedgerows.
And on the nearest rise stood Dunsby Hall.
Its red brick walls glowed in the morning light, each window set in precise symmetry as two broad wings stretched from the front door, with tall chimneys that pierced the heavens like sharp points of a crown.
It was a house built to be noticed, and each step closer brought not only the memory of what it had once meant, but the sharp press of what it now demanded of him. Frederick was its master now.
Making his way through the entry, he took the stairs two at a time and deposited his tailcoat, hat, and gloves on an obliging armchair before striding to the study, but Frederick lingered at the threshold, the brass latch cool beneath his hand.
Heavy curtains dimmed the light, leaving the air thick with the scent of pipe smoke that had long since sunk into the upholstery.
The great oak desk stood squarely at the center, its surface scattered with ledgers, loose slips of paper, and a smattering of quills in varying stages of sharpness, whilst books crowded the shelves in unruly ranks, some leaning, some stacked, their leather spines softened with use.
Though the keys to every room in the house now belonged to him, stepping into this one felt like trespassing.
The chair behind the desk was not his, however much the world insisted it must be.
He was master of Dunsby Hall by right of inheritance, yet Frederick felt like an interloper.
A usurper seated at another man’s throne.
But the time had come to cast aside any misgivings. If Mr. Stout’s bills had been overlooked, who knew how many others were awaiting their payments whilst Mr. Howlett neglected the household accounts.
On one corner of the desk sat a stack of missives, but having already perused them, Frederick ignored them in favor of the drawers.
Beginning with the upper ones, he slid each open in turn.
Quills, paper, sealing wax, ledgers, and letters: everything appeared in its proper place.
And with each cranny checked and cleared, the tightness in Frederick’s chest eased.
Clearly, Mr. Stout’s bills were an anomaly, and everything was in order.
Another drawer, and a smile tugged at the corner of Frederick’s mouth as he discovered Father’s cache of licorice.
The scent of anise seed wafted from the bag, filling his nose with a fragrance that was synonymous with his sire, and Frederick paused, reveling in the familiarity of it.
All thoughts of his passing, the funeral, and the future vanished into the dark recesses of his thoughts as Frederick simply remembered those moments he’d spent here, enjoying the sweets as his father worked away at the ledgers and his correspondence.
He could almost hear the turn of the paper as his father shuffled through the daily news, and Frederick tugged on the final drawer—but it held fast. Glancing at the handle, he spied the brass keyhole just above it. With a frown, he tugged it again, but it remained closed.
A locked drawer meant nothing. A man deserved a bit of privacy, and Frederick longed to walk away and leave his father’s secrets as they were, yet it was the last place to search, and he couldn’t leave it be. Mr. Stout needed to be paid, as did any outstanding bills.
Standing, Frederick crossed to the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.
Even a lock couldn’t keep one’s secrets when little ones were poking about in every corner of the house and spying on that which they ought not to spy.
Father hadn’t moved the key from its hiding place behind the clock, and in a trice, Frederick had the drawer open and discovered a mound of letters and missives inside.
Somewhere in the house, he heard the front door open and close as Phoebe returned from church and joined Mother and Timothy in whatever activities they’d deemed more important than the Sunday services. But Frederick’s attention was fixed on the papers before him.
The ticking of the clock echoed in the room as he sifted through them, and the shadows grew longer; the light coming through the window shifted as the sun travelled across the sky until dipping once more into the horizon.
At some point, one of the maids saw to the candles, though Frederick hardly noticed the interruption as he sorted the bills.
With a blank sheet before him, he added each sum, watching as the number grew larger and larger. His stomach churned with each addition, and Frederick forced himself to breathe. In quick succession, he organized each into piles according to their urgency.
It wasn’t wise to deplete one’s savings all at once, yet the tradesmen’s income depended on these bills being paid, and it wasn’t fair of the Vosses to ignore that need in favor of their own.
They would simply have to economize for a few months until their savings were replenished.
That was all. Better to clean the slate than allow this to hang over their heads—
Buried beneath it all was a leather pouch.
Such a thing wasn’t remarkable in and of itself, but a chill swept across Frederick’s skin as he stared at it for a long moment.
Lifting the flap, he pulled out a series of correspondence, detailing his father’s investments.
Every scheme he’d funded. Every business buoyed by the Vosses’ income. Every farthing gone.
His gaze darted from one figure to the next, the lines of ink seeming to swell against the page until they blurred together.
Each letter spoke of another failed venture, another sum vanished into smoke.
The amounts staggered him—hundreds at first, then thousands—so large that Frederick wondered if he had misread the columns.
He turned to the next sheet, hoping for reassurance, but the numbers only climbed higher.
Frederick propped a hand on the desk to steady himself whilst the air thinned and his head spun; the polished wood was cold against his skin, anchoring him as the figures threatened to unmoor him entirely.
The more he fixed his eyes upon the ink, the more the numbers twisted and crawled across the page, multiplying until he could scarcely tell where one ended and the next began.
Even if a portion of the savings remained untouched, it could never balance these losses. He calculated swiftly, forcing his mind into the steady rhythm of sums.
Economize. Yes, they could tighten their belts, dismiss a few servants, perhaps sell off the horses and other assets. A few hard years would see them through. A few years of sacrifice, and the slate might be cleared.
Frederick leaned back, the chair groaning beneath him. The pages lay spread before him like a battlefield, each line a wound he had no power to staunch.
And then his eyes fell to the last paper in the pouch. Stamped and sealed in an official manner that made sweat bead on Frederick’s forehead, he unfolded it and read the words he dreaded to see: a mortgage.
The word seemed to bleed through the parchment, staining his fingers.
Father had gambled away not only their security; he’d wagered the very heart of the Vosses on a roll of the dice.
Frederick’s grip tightened until the page crackled in protest. The neat, legal script blurred, reformed, and blurred again as his gaze swept the figures.
Heavens above.
The sums before were staggering, but this? It dwarfed the rest like a snarling beast, ready to devour the family. This was no little sum. This was ruination. If even a fraction of these debts were called in, the house itself could be forfeit. The land. The furnishings. Everything.
Frederick dragged a hand through his hair, fingers clutching at his scalp as though pressure might force sense into the madness. His breath came too quickly, rattling in his chest. He tried to master it, to summon the calm his father had worn like armor.
There was one investment left. One last hope. If it paid as well as Mr. Howlett claimed it would, then they could save the house and pay down much of the debt. Economy would be necessary, but it was possible.
And that one thought allowed Frederick to grasp all that panic and fear and squeeze it into a little ball, easily tossed into the shadows. There was no use borrowing trouble. All would be well in the end, and then he would look the fool for fretting.
Everything would be set to rights.
It would.
Snatching up quill and paper, he scribbled out another missive to Mr. Howlett. One way or another, Frederick was going to get an answer from the man, even if he had to go to London himself and force him to respond at the end of a pistol.