Chapter 2
Six stitches to the left, turn, six stitches back…
This was a pattern as familiar to Lavinia now as breathing.
She had nearly completed the repair to Mrs. Worthington's lace collar when a knock at the front door shattered her concentration, the sound echoing through empty halls that had once bustled with servants.
Lavinia pricked her finger, a bead of crimson blooming on her pale skin. Suppressing a sigh, she laid the mending carefully in her workbasket, pressing her finger briefly against her worn cotton handkerchief as she rose.
"I shall answer it, Mrs. Down," she called, knowing the housekeeper's knees troubled her particularly on damp afternoons such as this. She was their only remaining servant after a year of careful, painful reductions, and Lavinia treasured her presence for both sentimental and practical reasons.
The polished oak floors, dulled now with time and lack of proper care, creaked beneath her sensible half-boots as she traversed the entrance hall. Lavinia paused before the heavy front door, straightening her spine and lifting her chin—a habit ingrained since childhood.
A lady's posture reveals her character before she speaks a word, her mother had always said.
When she pulled open the door, the familiar figure of Mr. Tomley, her father's solicitor, stood stiffly on the doorstep. His leather folio was clutched to his chest as though it contained state secrets rather than the increasingly dismal accounting of the Pembroke family's dwindling assets.
"Mr. Tomley," she greeted him, maintaining the pleasant, unruffled demeanor expected of the daughter of an earl, regardless of how reduced their circumstances might have become. "What an unexpected pleasure."
His eyes darted past her, likely searching for a footman who no longer existed. "Lady Lavinia," he replied with a bow that seemed even more rigid than usual. "I apologize for calling without prior arrangement, but I fear the matter is rather urgent."
Lavinia's heart sank, but her smile remained firmly in place. "Of course. Please, come in."
She led him through the entrance hall, past the ornate mirror whose silvering had begun to cloud around the edges, beneath ancestral portraits whose gilt frames had lost their luster.
The drawing room, when they entered, presented the sad specter of faded elegance—once-magnificent furniture showing signs of wear at the arms and edges, Persian rugs with patches worn nearly threadbare, and heavy velvet drapes grown thin with age and sunlight.
Mr. Tomley perched on the edge of a chair that had once accommodated her father's most distinguished guests, his discomfort evident in every line of his body. He placed his folio on the table between them, his fingers drumming once, twice, upon its surface before stilling.
"Tea, Mr. Tomley?" Lavinia offered, as though they were conducting an ordinary social call.
"That would be most kind, thank you."
Lavinia rang the small silver bell on the side table—one of the few pieces they hadn't yet been forced to sell. Mrs. Down appeared moments later, her weathered face a map of devotion to a family she had served for nearly forty years.
"Tea, please, Mrs. Down," Lavinia requested with a warm smile for the woman who had stayed when all others had departed, accepting nominal wages and often none at all.
"Of course, my lady." Mrs. Down's curtsey was less deep than in years past, her joints stiffened by age and hard work, but no less respectful.
While they awaited the tea, Lavinia engaged Mr. Tomley in light conversation about the weather and local news, all the while noting the tightness around his mouth, the way his fingers continued to stray toward his folio.
Whatever had brought him to Pembroke Manor on this dreary afternoon was not good news—that much was certain.
Once tea had been poured and Mrs. Down had withdrawn—though not entirely, Lavinia noted, as the woman hovered just outside the doorway—Mr. Tomley cleared his throat and opened his folio.
"I'm afraid I bring most unwelcome news, Lady Lavinia," he began, extracting a document and placing it on the table between them. "A creditor has come forward, presenting a demand for payment of one of your late father's debts."
Lavinia set her teacup down with care, though her hand wanted to tremble. "I was under the impression that we had addressed all of my father's outstanding obligations."
"As was I." Mr. Tomley's brows drew together. "This particular debt appears to have been contracted during your father's final illness. A Mr. Bartholomew Wickham claims your father borrowed a considerable sum—one thousand pounds—with Pembroke Manor itself offered as security."
"That is impossible," Lavinia countered, her voice sharper than she intended. She modulated her tone before continuing. "My father was barely conscious during his final weeks. He could not have arranged such a loan without my knowledge."
Mr. Tomley pulled out another document, this one bearing what appeared to be her father's signature. "I regret to say that the paperwork appears to be in order. The signature matches your father's hand, and there is a witness—a Mr. James Hargrove."
"Dr. Hargrove? Our physician?" Lavinia's mind raced. "Why would he not have mentioned this to me?"
"I cannot say. But Mr. Wickham is most insistent that the debt be settled immediately. He has threatened to seize the property if payment is not received within the month."
The room seemed to tilt slightly, the faded patterns on the carpet blurring before Lavinia's eyes. She drew a deep breath, calling upon years of rigid self-discipline to maintain her composure.
"What legal recourse do we have?" she asked, her voice remarkably steady.
"Limited, I'm afraid." Mr. Tomley's fingers tapped nervously on the papers before him. "The document appears legally binding. Your father's state of mind at the time might be questioned, but such challenges are difficult to prove, especially when the signing was witnessed by a respected physician."
"And our financial situation..." she prompted, though she knew the answer all too well.
Mr. Tomley's expression grew graver still.
"As you are aware, your father's final illness consumed what little remained of the family fortune.
The house itself is all that remains, and it is only yours because it was not entailed with the earldom.
The Fairwick properties and title have reverted to the crown, as your father died without a male heir. "
Lavinia nodded, the bitter reality one she had lived with for a year now.
"Is there nothing to be done?" she asked, her fingers still resting on her collarbone, seeking a comfort that was no longer there.
Mr. Tomley hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "There is... that is to say, Mr. Wickham has indicated that he might be willing to negotiate terms."
"What sort of terms?"
"He suggested that a... personal arrangement might be considered in lieu of immediate payment."
Lavinia stiffened, understanding the implication immediately. "I see."
"I would, of course, counsel strongly against any such arrangement," Mr. Tomley added hastily. "Mr. Wickham is not a gentleman, and his reputation is questionable at best."
"Thank you for your concern." Lavinia's voice was cool. "I have no intention of entertaining Mr. Wickham's improper suggestions."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Down shift in the doorway, the older woman's face a mask of worry. Lavinia wished she could offer some reassurance, but the truth was that she had no solution to present.
"I shall review these documents more thoroughly," Mr. Tomley said, gathering his papers. "Perhaps there is some legal technicality we might exploit. In the meantime, if you could ascertain whether Dr. Hargrove might shed any light on the situation..."
"Of course," Lavinia replied, rising as Mr. Tomley did the same. "I appreciate your diligence in this matter."
She walked him to the door with the same grace she might have shown a welcome guest, thanking him for his time and assuring him that they would speak again soon.
Only when the heavy door closed behind him did she allow her shoulders to slump, this new catastrophe pressing down upon her like a physical force.
"My lady?" Mrs. Down approached cautiously, her lined face creased with concern.
"It appears we have a new problem to solve, Mrs. Down," Lavinia said, attempting a smile that felt brittle on her lips. "Though I dare say we've become quite adept at solving problems this past year, have we not?"
"That we have, my lady. That we have." The older woman reached out as if to pat Lavinia's arm, then seemed to remember herself and withdrew her hand. "Shall I bring you something stronger than tea? I believe there's still a bottle of your father's brandy in the cellar."
"No, thank you." Lavinia squared her shoulders. "I need a clear head for this particular challenge. I believe I shall retire to my room for a while to think. Please send Frances to me when she returns from her walk."
"Yes, my lady."
Lavinia climbed the grand staircase slowly, her hand trailing along the banister that had lost its polish.
Her bedchamber, when she reached it, offered little comfort.
She sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection in the looking glass—one of the few quality pieces remaining, and only because it would fetch so little at auction.
The face that gazed back at her was composed, dignified, showing none of the panic that coursed through her veins.
Until, suddenly, it wasn't.
The first tear slid down her cheek without warning, followed quickly by another and another.
Lavinia pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling the sob that threatened to escape.
She had not cried since her father's funeral—not when they had sold her mother's favorite piano, not when they had dismissed the last of the footmen, not even when she had discovered the loss of her precious pendant.