Chapter One
“Dead?”
Josie Hartwell stared at Mr Pemberton, the word hanging between them like something fragile and impossible. The morning light slanting through the parlour window seemed too bright, too ordinary for what he had just said.
“I am sorry, Miss Hartwell.” The physician’s voice was gentle, though his hands twisted the brim of his hat with visible unease.
“Your father’s heart simply… gave out. Mrs Dawson was quite right to send for me at once this morning.
From all I can determine, he passed quietly. There was no warning, and no pain.”
Josie’s breath caught.
Her father. Her kind, distracted, endlessly optimistic father, who hummed hymns while mending books and never remembered to eat unless someone placed a plate before him.
Gone.
She became aware that her hands were gripping the arms of her chair hard enough to ache. With an effort, she released them and smoothed her skirts with trembling fingers. Lily—her younger sister—stood frozen by the mantel, her face drained of all colour.
“When?” Josie managed.
“Sometime during the night, I believe. Mrs Dawson said she found him slumped over his desk at first light.” Mr Pemberton cleared his throat. “There are… arrangements to be made. The church will need to be informed, and—”
“Of course.” Josie rose, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her. She was the eldest. She must think clearly. “Thank you for coming, Mr Pemberton. You have been very kind.”
He departed with murmured condolences, leaving Josie and Lily alone in the suddenly oppressive quiet of the parlour. The clock upon the mantel ticked on with relentless cheerfulness. Somewhere in the house, Mrs Dawson was weeping.
“What shall we do?” Lily’s voice was small—far younger than her nineteen years.
Josie crossed the room and took her sister’s cold hands in her own. “We shall manage, dearest. We always have.”
But even as she spoke the words, doubt crept through her like winter air through a cracked window.
Her father had been the vicar of Halford parish for twenty years.
The vicarage was church property—owned, like the living itself, by the Duke of Greystone.
When a vicar died, his family had no claim to remain.
***
Three days later, Josie stood in the churchyard and watched them lower her father into the ground.
The service had been well attended. He had been loved—if not precisely respected by those who believed a vicar ought to possess more worldly sense.
He had given away more than he kept, forgiven debts that should have been collected, and maintained a cheerful faith in human goodness that the world had rarely justified.
She stood between Lily and their brother Thomas, newly arrived from London and looking haggard in an ill-fitting mourning coat. He had grown thinner since she had last seen him; his face was sharper now, his eyes restless.
“Come,” she murmured when the service ended. “Let us go home.”
They walked back to the vicarage in silence, Lily clinging to Josie’s arm, Thomas trailing behind with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Mrs Dawson had laid out a modest cold supper, though none of them possessed much appetite. Thomas picked at his plate and kept glancing toward the door.
“Thomas,” Josie said quietly. “Is something amiss?”
He looked up sharply, then away. “No. Nothing.”
Before she could press him further, a knock sounded at the front door.
Mrs Dawson appeared a moment later, her expression pinched with anxiety. “Miss Hartwell, there is a... gentleman here to see you. A Mr Granger. He says it is urgent.”
Josie exchanged a glance with Lily, then rose. “Show him in, please.”
Mr Granger proved to be a thin, sour-faced man in a dark coat, a leather case tucked beneath one arm. He bowed stiffly upon entering the parlour, his gaze sweeping the room with the appraising air of someone taking inventory.
“Miss Hartwell. My condolences on your loss.” His tone suggested the words were a duty rather than a sentiment. “I am Mr Granger, solicitor. I have come on a matter of some urgency concerning your late father’s affairs.”
Josie’s stomach tightened. “Of course. Please, sit.”
He did so, settling into the chair with the ease of a man accustomed to delivering unwelcome news. Opening his case, he withdrew a sheaf of papers.
“I shall be direct, Miss Hartwell. Your father died owing a considerable sum of money.”
The room seemed to tilt. Josie tightened her grip upon the arm of her chair. “I beg your pardon?”
“Debts. To various tradesmen and creditors in the village. The total amount is four hundred and seventy-three pounds, six shillings.”
The number struck her like a physical blow. Four hundred pounds. Her father’s living had provided a modest income—enough for simple comfort, but never for savings laid aside.
“That cannot be correct,” Josie said, though her voice sounded distant even to her own ears. “My father was careful—”
“Your father was generous to a fault. He forgave what was owed to him while incurring debts of his own. He gave money to anyone who asked.” Mr Granger slid the papers across the table toward her. “And now those debts have fallen due.”
Lily made a small sound of distress. Josie reached for her hand without looking away from Mr Granger.
“How long have we to settle the debt?”
“The creditors are prepared to be reasonable, given the circumstances. Six weeks.” He paused. “After that, they will pursue legal remedies.”
Six weeks. To find four hundred pounds.
Impossible.
“I see.” Josie forced her voice to remain steady. “Thank you for informing us, Mr Granger.”
He rose, clearly unmoved. “There is one further matter. The living of Halford parish is in the gift of His Grace, the Duke of Greystone. With your father’s passing, His Grace will appoint a new vicar. You and your family must vacate the vicarage to make way for the new incumbent.”
Josie had known this was coming, yet hearing it spoken aloud gave it a dreadful solidity.
“When?”
“That rests entirely with His Grace. However, I would advise against delay. The Duke’s steward will be in contact regarding the arrangements.” He inclined his head. “Good day, Miss Hartwell.”
When he was gone, Josie remained seated, staring at the papers he had left behind. Four hundred pounds. Eviction.
“Josie?” Lily’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “What are we to do?”
Josie had no answer.
***
That evening, Thomas finally confessed.
He waited until Lily had gone to bed, her face blotched from hours of weeping. Then he came to Josie’s small sitting room and stood in the doorway, looking very much like a man awaiting sentence.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
Josie set aside the letter she had been attempting to write—a carefully worded appeal to a distant cousin who might offer them temporary shelter. She looked at her brother and felt dread settle heavily in her chest.
“Tell me.”
He came in and sank into the chair opposite her. For a long moment, he said nothing at all.
“The debts,” he said at last. “Some of them are mine.”
She went utterly still. “What?”
“I borrowed money,” he said hoarsely. “From a moneylender in London. I believed I could repay it—I thought—” His voice faltered. “When I could not, I did something even more foolish. I gambled, hoping to win the sum outright.”
The floor seemed to sway beneath her. “And?”
“I lost.” He swallowed. “Badly.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred pounds. Gambling debts.”
Two hundred. Nearly half the debt.
“Thomas.” She could scarcely shape his name. “How could you?”
“I know.” His face was drawn with anguish. “Father paid it to protect me—to keep me out of debtor’s prison. He said nothing to you or Lily. But it left him with nothing, and then—” He broke off, pressing his hands over his face. “And then he died.”
Josie stared at her brother, feeling something within her fracture beyond repair. Her father had taken upon himself a burden he should never have borne for Thomas, and had been left with nothing.
“Where is the moneylender now?”
“Still in London. Father paid what he could—but only what I owed at the tables. The original sum still remains unpaid. Now that Father is dead, the man has given me until the end of next month to repay, or he will…” Thomas’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He will have me arrested.”
Debtor’s prison.
Josie rose and crossed to the window, resting her forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the vicarage garden lay dark and still. She had played there as a child, had gathered flowers with her mother before the fever took her. This house—this life—was slipping through her fingers.
“We have no money,” she said quietly. “No savings. No property to sell.”
“I know.” Thomas’s voice was wretched. “Josie, I am so very sorry—”
“Sorry does not pay debts.” She turned to face him, and he flinched. “Sorry will not keep you out of prison, nor Lily from ruin.”
He looked away, his jaw set.
Josie drew a slow breath, forcing herself to think. There must be a way.
“I shall write to Aunt Judith,” she said. “Perhaps she will help.”
“She will not.” Thomas’s voice was flat. “You know she will not.”
He was right.
“Then I shall seek employment. As a governess, perhaps—”
“It would take years to earn four hundred pounds as a governess,” Thomas interrupted. “Even if you found a position at once. And what of Lily? What of me?”
“What of you?” The words emerged more sharply than she intended. “You brought this disaster upon us, Thomas.”
He winced but did not protest.
Josie sank back into her chair, pressing her fingers to her temples. Four hundred pounds. Six weeks. A future stretching before her like a dark, unmarked road.
“We are ruined,” Thomas said softly.
“Not yet.” Josie’s voice was steadier than she felt. “Not yet.”
But she did not know how to make the words true.
***
The summons came two days later.