Chapter 9
Rising to his feet, Frederick moved through the corridors, winding his way from the study into the heart of the home.
In the parlor, he found Phoebe, Timothy, and Mother all seated, awaiting him, and the scene was a stark reminder of how much life had changed since Father’s passing.
Frederick was now head of the household, and when he summoned the family, they listened—though Timothy folded his arms tight across his chest, eyes narrowing as his elder brother stopped before the fireplace.
“I thank you all for coming,” said Frederick, though it felt far too stilted and formal for a meeting with his family. Yet he supposed the die had already been cast when he sent the summons.
“I feel as though I ought to stand at attention,” chuckled Phoebe. “This is a tad overdone, don’t you think, Frederick?”
“Not at all,” he replied, shuffling the papers he and Mr. Gleason had prepared. “I must speak with you about a serious situation. Matters are quite dire.”
“You are ill and soon to perish,” suggested Timothy with an irreverent grin. “I am the head of the family now. You are all dismissed.”
Mother’s brow furrowed as she watched her flippant children with a frown. “After our great loss, we shouldn’t jest about such matters.”
And with that, she dabbed at her dry eyes with her handkerchief. Phoebe’s gaze met Frederick’s, and she managed not to scoff, though it was rife in her expression; as there was no one for whom to perform, he didn’t know why Mother was playing the part.
“Do not fret, Mama. We laugh so we shan’t cry,” said Phoebe, coming over to the lady’s side and settling in beside her.
“Just like your father,” whispered Mother, and with another strain of her brow, she nearly managed to wring out a tear.
“This is quite serious,” said Frederick, drawing their attention back to him. “Before his passing, Father made a number of poor investments and left us in a difficult position. If we have any hope of saving Dunsby Hall, drastic changes need to be made to the household accounts—”
Mother swiped a dismissive hand, her handkerchief fluttering. “Do not speak of finances, dearheart. It is ill-mannered.”
“I fear we must risk a bit of impropriety,” said Frederick, holding up the papers. “Our bills far outweigh our savings and income, and we must seize control of our spending if we hope to weather this. I consulted with Mr. Gleason—”
“You told someone of our troubles?” asked Timothy, straightening as his arms fell limp at his side.
Frederick sighed. “The steward is hardly ‘someone.’ And he already knew much of it—”
“But not all of it. You are making us fodder for the gossips,” he argued.
“Hush, Timothy,” said Phoebe with a frown. “Frederick requires Mr. Gleason’s guidance, and the fellow shan’t broadcast it about that the estate he manages is struggling.”
“Bankrupt,” corrected Frederick. That word rang through the room like a gong, and his family froze in place, their eyes fixed upon him. “There is nothing left in our accounts, and our debts are mounting higher each day. Since our income cannot be increased, we must cut our expenditures.”
No one said a word. Their gazes conveyed their shock and horror as clearly as any words, and Frederick supposed he ought to have delivered the news with more tact, but if it allowed him to speak without being interrupted every other word, then thank the heavens.
It took long enough to explain the plan he and Mr. Gleason had concocted without their commentary.
“We still have a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, so we will be comfortable enough, but we must stop entertaining and keep our expenses to a minimum. We cannot waste a farthing on anything but the necessities,” said Frederick.
“But dinner parties are a necessity,” said Mama, her brows raising as she broke free of her stupor.
“Once our mourning is completed, we will be expected to host events. People will notice if we do not. And if our gowns fall out of fashion, it shan’t be long before everyone will know the truth. We will be a laughingstock.”
“So be it,” he replied.
Glancing at her mother, Phoebe added, “I will happily give up my pin money and rework my gowns, but surely Mama has earned the right to live as she wishes. At her age… After all she has done… Should she go without?”
Forcing his tongue into obedience, Frederick refused to argue that Mother’s spending had contributed to this situation.
Never in her life had she gone without, nor could anyone claim that she’d suffered greatly whilst in the care of her father or husband, as both had allowed her to spend to her heart’s delight.
“Everyone must work together if we are to weather this,” said Frederick in a heavy tone.
“Even if all our grand plans and schemes come to fruition and fortune smiles upon us, our debts are still more than we can manage without significant alterations. Retrenching isn’t being overly cautious.
It is necessary, and this is not a negotiation. ”
Silence followed that pronouncement, and Frederick fought against the urge to break it. There was nothing more for him to say. There was no other option. No other course of action to take. Pretending otherwise would only extend their troubles and add to their burdens.
Mother abandoned her handkerchief in her lap, and her expression was vacant as though his words held no meaning, though Timothy and Phoebe’s complexions grew ashen.
Her mouth hung slightly ajar, and there was a gleam in his brother’s eyes that said the fellow was furiously thinking through the matter.
“Surely it isn’t as bad as all that,” said Phoebe in a weak voice. “A bit of economy is wise, to be certain, but you speak as though we are on the verge of being destitute.”
Tucking his hands behind him, Frederick’s stomach clenched as he met his elder sister’s pleading gaze. “It is. And we are.”
Phoebe’s hand flew to her mouth, her pallor growing worse with each heartbeat.
“There is no need to be dramatic,” said Mother with a wave of her handkerchief. “We can take out a mortgage. Such things are common enough.”
“Father did so already—one that will take decades to pay off—and even if we wished to compound our troubles, I doubt anyone would give us another.” Turning his eyes to each of the three in turn, he added, “Mr. Gleason and I have exhausted all avenues, considered every option, and we cannot go on as we have. Our circumstances are greatly reduced.”
Another flutter of lace, and Mother rose to her feet, striding over to pat him on the cheek. “You’ll sort it out. I am certain of it.”
“I am trying,” he said, motioning to the list of expenditures. “And if we take these steps, we may weather these troubles—”
“There’s no need to keep speaking of money, my boy,” said Mother with a shake of her head, as though dismissing the whole discussion without further ado.
“Is it really that dire?” repeated Phoebe, her eyes fixed on her hands, which were clenched tight in her lap.
Mother huffed. “We needn’t borrow worry—”
“It is,” interrupted Frederick. “For all that I have a plan in place, the majority of our success rests on providence, and it has not been kind to our family of late.”
Rising with a curt nod, Phoebe strode from the room without looking at the others, her footsteps sharp and quick.
For his part, Timothy remained draped across the armchair in a manner that ought to be impossible with the tight cut of men’s coats; he sat there for a long moment, considering his older brother, before getting to his feet and following after their sister.
Rubbing his forehead, Frederick turned to the parlor window. This view was finer than the study (or at least it was to his eye) for it opened to the pastures and rolling hills that surrounded Dunsby Hall. His family’s legacy. Generations of Vosses had lived on this land.
Surely, Frederick wouldn’t be the last of the line to inhabit it.
That thought brought forth a spike of worry that shot through him like a bolt of lightning, sizzling beneath his skin and piercing his very bones.
Frederick could not see Dunsby Hall fall.
He would not allow this to be his mark upon the family history.
Whatever the origin of these troubles, he was master now, and he would see them resolved.
The investment would pay out, retrenching would set them on a firmer footing, and one day his children would run these halls.
A hand on his shoulder gave him a start, and he spun around to find Mother standing there. Her brows rose, the familiar Voss smile gracing her lips as she suppressed a laugh.
“You forgot I was here,” she said. “You have too much on your mind, my boy. It isn’t good for you.”
“There is nothing I can do about that,” he replied. “This is my inheritance and my responsibility.”
“Nonsense,” said Mother, her handkerchief fluttering about as she gestured with her hands. “This is our home, and we shan’t lose it. There’s no good to be had in dwelling in such unpleasantness, so you needn’t fret so much.”
Though something inside him warned him against it, he dragged in a breath, forcing it past the tightness in his chest as he pressed the worries down where they could not pester him. They were thoughts for later. Not now.
“Besides, I think you are making a fuss over nothing,” said Mother.
Brows rising, Frederick leveled his gaze on her. “I assure you, this is a serious situation.”
Another flap of the handkerchief, and Mother waved it away. Again. “Not that. You look so deathly serious that it must be troublesome. However, you are forgetting that a clear solution is standing right before you.”
But Mother was the only thing there at present, and she was not the answer to this quandary. In any fashion.
Laughing, the lady shook her head. “Not me. Miss Keats.”
Frederick blinked at that, and Mother slipped her arm through his as they turned to look out the window.
“With the investment paying off and her dowry added to our coffers, there is no need to economize. No doubt her funds would cover the rest of any…” The lady hesitated a moment before adding in a hasty breath, as though speaking the word quickly would brush aside the implications, “…any debts we’ve accumulated. ”
Jerking out of her hold, Frederick turned to face her. “A dowry is intended to provide for a man’s daughter for the rest of her life. No matter that her property becomes her husband’s when she marries, it is intended for her usage—not to save his family from themselves.”
Mother huffed a laugh at that. “Nonsense. If you marry her, your troubles and hers become one and the same, so using her dowry would clean the slate and start your married life on the right foot.”
“Lies are hardly the right foot.”
“I said nothing about lying,” said Mother, frowning.
“So I should tell her of our reduced circumstances?” asked Frederick, fully knowing what her answer would be.
“Don’t be a ninny,” she said with a sharp huff.
“This is the way of the world, and there is no reason we cannot profit from it. You both yearn for this match, so you wouldn’t be tricking her.
You simply wouldn’t be broaching a conversation that is entirely inappropriate to have.
Who speaks of finances and income to a sweetheart? The notion!”
Slipping her arm through his once more, she turned him to the window, and they gazed out on the vibrant fields.
The new spring growth and fresh rain made the green different than any other one could find in nature.
There was life and light within it. As if it were making amends for all the gloomy winter and spring months when the sun refused to peek from behind the thick clouds.
“There is nothing wrong with you taking advantage of the situation,” said Mother in a low voice.
“Miss Keats’ dowry didn’t factor into your decision to pursue her in the first place, and it shan’t be the reason you move forward with this union, so why should you feel ill at ease?
Husband and wife are meant to be a boon to one another, and this is just another blessing she can grant you—just as our long family legacy will allow the Keats to further distance themselves from her grandfather’s lowly beginnings. ”
He said nothing at first, letting his mother’s words hang between them as his gaze drifted over the bright, rain-fed fields.
There was a certain logic to the argument—cold, practical, and not without merit.
Money had not factored into the match, and were the roles reversed, Frederick would not begrudge Thea entering the union without a farthing.
If it meant that he and Thea could be together, what harm was there in allowing her to mend his father’s folly?