Chapter Fifteen
Farrah was distracted from her examination of the estate books by the arrival of visitors.
Visitors whom her mother hadn’t thought to tell her about beforehand, aware no doubt that Farrah would protest about the expense.
To say nothing of showing the world the ramshackle state of their premises.
Mama had perfected the art of burying her head and seeing only which she wished to, but she was also very aware of her position in society. Why would she risk being censured?
The drawing room had been cleaned and polished to within an inch of its life, and with the few remaining valuables retrieved from other rooms, it looked halfway presentable.
The rest of the estate, however, was a shambles that would be obvious to anyone the moment their carriages drove through the dilapidated gates.
Farrah sat through an afternoon of torment as her mother lorded it over the local ladies, none of whom outranked her in terms of status, Farrah noticed.
No doubt the acquaintances in question had been chosen for that reason.
They would not dare to criticise the state of the place and were full of sympathy about her father’s disappearance.
Farrah also knew that the invitation would be reciprocated, no doubt leading to dinner invitations, thereby launching Mama and Sophia fully back into local society, something that Farrah had insisted upon their avoiding in order to protect their rapidly dwindling capital.
She stirred her tea with unnecessary force, accepting that she had been outmanoeuvred by a master manipulator as she watched her mother holding court, taking the role of the leading social hostess that she herself would never be.
Having learned of the circumstances that led to the estrangement from her sister and having also met her aunt, Farrah now better understood the bitterness that drove her mother, but could not condone it.
Surely Mama would have been better off staying on good terms with Lady Bartholomew, thereby being assured of acceptance everywhere she went.
‘What do you think, Lady Farrah?’
Farrah was jolted back to awareness by a question posed to her by one of the younger guests.
‘I beg your pardon. I was wool-gathering there just for a moment and did not hear your question.’ Farrah summoned up a smile and reminded herself of her social obligations in a situation that would not have arisen, had Farrah received prior notice of her mother’s intentions. ‘How rude of me.’
‘The younger set were discussing Madame Celeste.’ The girl blinked at Farrah when her hand froze with cup raised midway to her lips. ‘Surely you have heard of her. No one speaks of anyone else these days.’
‘Yes, of course I am aware of her advice, which I gather is gaining in popularity. What has she done on this occasion?’
‘She advised on a love potion for a lady, who has now apparently received a proposal from the gentleman she admired!’ The girl’s eyes glowed. ‘Apparently, he barely knew she was alive, but suddenly there he is at her door on bended knee. There, what do you say to that?’
Farrah wanted to say that it was quick work.
She had only invented the potion a week previously and there was absolutely no possibility of it containing any …
well, potency. Even so, she smiled politely, wondering if there was any truth in the girl’s assertion and how she could be so sure of the facts.
Social gossip tended to become exaggerated with each retelling, she knew.
But still, the rumours could only be good for her trade, which was just as well. Never had she needed the blunt more.
‘How very fortuitous,’ she contented herself with saying.
‘Isn’t it?’ If the girl noticed Farrah’s lack of enthusiasm she gave no sign and continued to rattle on.
‘Everyone in London is attempting to guess Lady Celeste’s true identity.
Miss Harrison has just returned from the capital and assures us all that is the case.
’ The girl nodded towards another young woman, presumably the knowledgeable Miss Harrison, and adopted a dreamy expression. ‘She must be so very clever.’
And desperate, Farrah refrained from adding. Even so, it seemed her little hobby was getting out of hand, and she would have to tread even more carefully to protect both her income and her anonymity.
‘The older set pretend to be scandalised,’ the girl said, nodding towards their mothers and giggling, seemingly determined to pursue that particular line of conversation, ‘but I think that in reality they are as curious as we are to know the lady’s identity.
Some say she is a member of society. Someone we could be rubbing shoulders with every day without being aware. Only imagine.’
‘I barely can.’
The girl wandered away, leaving Farrah unable to decide if she should be concerned or whether she should use her growing popularity to negotiate a higher income.
No doubt the Society Post had seen a sharp increase in sales thanks to Farrah’s contribution.
It amused her to think that without her capital her mother would not even have been able to pull off this modest gathering without giving the impression of being a pauper.
‘Well, of course, my close friend, Agnes, – that would be the Duchess of Alton – is in agreement with me.’ Her mother’s raised voice attracted Farrah’s attention, causing her to wince with embarrassment.
‘We have such high hopes for Sophia, especially since the duke appears to be quite taken with her.’
Farrah’s heart quailed as she listened to her mother run on, her circle of hangers-on agreeing with her every word.
They were clinging to Mama’s coattails in the hope of social advancement every bit as much as Mama hoped to profit from her friendship with the duchess.
Why was social standing so important? she wondered.
From what she had seen of society, it was a never-ending round of one-upmanship and tediously predictable soirees, as evidenced from the conversation that she was currently obliged to endure.
‘Not for me,’ she muttered, slipping unnoticed from the room and returning to her books. She had shown her face and done her duty, and no one would miss her.
Having regained the sanctity of her chamber, she did not immediately reapply her attention to the books, which made very depressing reading anyway and would do little to improve her mood.
Instead, she dwelt for a moment upon Madame Celeste’s increasing popularity, wondering if she ought to continue giving advice, worried that some silly chit would take her too literally and do something foolish.
Aware also that she couldn’t afford not to take the risk.
She glanced at the offending books, which had already made her mind up for her.
Mama had not curtailed her spending to any great extent since returning to Hampshire.
The only saving grace from Farrah’s perceptive was the reduction in temptation since there were far fewer retail establishments in the vicinity that she would lower herself to patronise.
Sighing, she returned to the books and knew after several hours of studying them that there was absolutely no hope of solvency hidden in their depressing depths.
She threw her pen aside and straightened up, placing her hands on the small of her back to rid herself of the aches that had accumulated there.
They were nothing more than an irritant compared to the turmoil in her head brought about by this evidence of her father’s gross mismanagement of the estate.
‘Why, Papa?’ she asked aloud. ‘Why did you permit it to come to this?’
Regular amounts had disappeared without any clear indication of what use they had been put to. She knew it would be a fruitless exercise to consult Freeman. She no longer trusted their steward, and he was now the last person she would turn to for advice.
Farrah slept badly, a combination of Madame Celeste’s success and her father’s recklessness keeping her awake into the early hours. When the first fingers of light seeped into her bedroom, she gave up on sleep, threw back the covers and firmed her jaw.
‘Today I will find answers,’ she told her reflection, wincing at the state of her tangled hair and the puffiness beneath her eyes.
When the time came to leave for her engagement with the duke, she discovered that Mama and Sophia had gone off in the carriage somewhere without including her in the excursion, probably because they intended to spend money they did not have on something essential to enhance Sophia’s wardrobe.
Their absence suited Farrah perfectly, even if their intention of extending their credit with the local modiste did not.
It saved her the trouble of inventing an excuse to exclude herself and avoided yet another disagreement about unnecessary expenditure; one that she almost certainly would not have won.
With the notes she had taken from her examination of the estate books crinkling inside her reticule in place of yesterday’s stones, Farrah pulled her trusty cloak tightly around her person to ward off the chilly wind and set off at a brisk pace so as not to arrive late at the cottage and keep the duke waiting.
Deep in thought, she was startled by a man on horseback crossing her path at a brisk trot.
Farrah resisted the urge to hide. She had every right in the world to be on any part of the estate she chose, but she did wonder what reason Freeman had to be patrolling such an isolated spot.
‘Lady Farrah. What a pleasure.’
‘Mr Freeman.’
She said nothing more, aware that few people were comfortable with silences and ordinarily sought to fill them. Freeman proved to be no exception.
‘You are making a tour of the estate, one assumes. There is little to see in this part of it, I regret to say. We have been obliged to prioritise, and areas like these where the soil is poor and does not yield good crops have been allowed to return to nature.’