Chapter 19 #2
A sheen of guilt flickered in the older woman’s eyes. “I did what I believed right for the house. The reputation of Lobelia Hall matters, sir. If it were known a maid, my maid, had allowed such familiarity with the master…” she stammered, “I… I feared the new earl might dismiss me, too.”
Graeme’s brows lifted with painful understanding.
Fear. Reputation. Assumptions. Pride.
How many lives had the late earl bent or broken out of selfish loneliness? How many people trembled still beneath the weight of his choices?
Graeme ran a thumb along the edge of the worktable. “You witnessed the document discussing Miss Woodridge’s… provision.”
Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Aye. The master insisted that the chaplain and I sign as witnesses. He seemed quite set on it. I thought it best forgotten afterward.” She cast her eyes downward.
“I did not realize the young woman had not been informed. Nor that it should fall to you to untangle.”
“Mrs. Redshaw, I don’t accuse you of malice. But secrecy, however well-intentioned, has consequences. Miss Woodridge and her son are in need. The new earl will honor the late earl’s provisions.”
She nodded once, hands folded tightly, relief loosening the lines of her face. “I am grateful, sir.”
Graeme hesitated, then asked, “And Miss Whittington? Have you seen her these past two days?”
Mrs. Redshaw raised her eyebrows. “Miss Whittington? No, sir. I assumed she remained in her rooms. The weather has been poor for strolling. Shall I send word up to her, if you wish to speak with her?”
His heart tugged, an ache he was becoming far too accustomed to. “No, not yet. That won’t be necessary.”
She rose, adjusting her apron. “Will you require anything further, Mr. Ellison?”
“No, thank you.”
She bobbed a nod and returned to supervising the herbs, though her hand shook faintly as she set a jar back on its shelf.
Graeme closed the stillroom door behind him with care.
Penelope Woodridge had told the truth, as he knew she had. Mrs. Redshaw confirmed it.
And Phoebe… Phoebe believed him a liar, or worse. He pressed a hand to his forehead. One more conversation, then he could set things right—with both Penelope Woodridge and the woman he loved.
The Lobelia Hall chaplain was exactly where Graeme expected him, polishing one of the brass candlesticks with the care of a man who believed cleanliness next to godliness was not a metaphor but a liturgical requirement.
“Mr. Ellison,” said the chaplain, setting aside the candlestick.
“I heard the new earl is due to arrive at last. I had begun to wonder if I should see you before then.” He wiped his brow with a linen handkerchief.
“Pray tell me this is not further calamity with the roof tiles. They have been hanging by the grace of God alone.”
Graeme managed a smile. “The roof may rest safe another day. I’ve come about the late earl.”
“Ah?” He straightened, curiosity wrinkling his forehead.
Stepping to the front pew, Graeme rested a hand on its edge. “Penelope Woodridge came to the Hall today.”
“Is she well? I’ve been concerned. Her circumstances were… precarious.”
“She has struggled more than we may know. I understand you witnessed the document in which the late earl indicated her financial provision.”
Studying the candlestick with reverence, he said, “It surprised me at the time. The master’s health was failing. I was called. Mrs. Redshaw was present. He requested prayer and witness of the codicil. I assumed the matter would pass directly to the estate solicitor.”
Graeme pressed. “You never spoke to the solicitor?”
“I had no reason to. It was not my position to meddle in the legal affairs of the peerage. A clergyman keeps confidences. And as Miss Woodridge was shortly gone from the estate, I imagined the matter had been handled.”
“Miss Woodridge never learned of the provision.”
A pained look crossed the chaplain’s face.
“The poor girl. She is terribly young. Innocent, though life has not allowed her the luxury of innocence since.” He folded his hands.
“The earl treated her with a sort of fondness. I do not excuse him. It was an unbalanced attachment. He was powerful, while she was vulnerable, dependent.”
Graeme considered the harm done by both the housekeeper’s and the chaplain’s silence, yet their reasoning made perfect sense, each assuming the other would confer with the solicitor, and each assuming the other had already done so, all taken care of with little bother to themselves.
Then, had the estate solicitor known the identity of Miss P.W.
from the outset, would ought have been different with his request of Graeme to see the beneficiary relinquish her inheritance or face them in court?
Graeme doubted it. But at least there would not have been the confusion with Phoebe.
The chaplain sighed. “The earl was a man who lived and died by his pride. If you will permit me to say, I believe his affection for the girl was genuine, in his own way. He spoke to me often about his brother’s disgrace, marrying beneath him, as he said.
It consumed the man to think the family name might be mocked. ”
The weight of the lineage settled on Graeme’s shoulders with its prejudices and its cruelties.
“Tell me, sir, does His Lordship intend to honor the codicil?”
“Yes, he will honor it.”
Graeme closed his eyes briefly, Phoebe’s face rising unbidden in his mind, bearing wounded betrayal of an inheritance never meant to be hers.
How cruel of the earl, he thought, to leave nothing at all for her, knowing full well she was on her way to the Hall with expectations of marriage—a double betrayal, by Graeme’s estimation.
“God be praised. It will change that girl’s life. And, if you’ll permit me to say, redeem a portion of the late earl’s.”
Graeme’s throat tightened at the last. “Thank you. You’ve been helpful.”
“If Miss Woodridge needs anything, you may send her to me. And if you need counsel, Mr. Ellison, my door is always open.”
Nodding gratefully, Graeme left the chaplain to his candlesticks.