Hilde #2
“That doesn’t necessarily mean it doesn’t exist. But still…
Lady Croft, it is important that you understand that your late husband’s claim on Croftholde is questionable at best. Even if it was granted to him through some special dispensation and there exists the necessary paperwork to support that, it is highly unlikely that it would be recognized as binding by a court of law.
Even were I to help you forge some sort of will, it would never stand.
The courts would undoubtedly grant Croftholde to the Harrier, who has a legitimate claim to all lands that were once part of the family’s larger estate. ”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your husband was likely not completely honest with you. It’s possible that his family had some sort of understanding that Croftholde was his, but upon his death, that no longer matters.
It’s likely that he would not have been able to pass it on to an heir, let alone freehold it.
Now that he is gone, I am almost certain that Croftholde will rejoin the Harrier’s holdings regardless. ”
Hilde’s ears were ringing. Perhaps she ought to object to Mr. Winthrop’s assertions, to defend Thorgoode and say that he would never have lied to her about that—year after year of lies all layered on top of one another like Cook’s pastry dough.
But a creeping bitterness filled her throat and mouth, and there was no stopping its advance, because in her heart she knew that he was speaking the truth.
It explained so many things that had prickled at her mind like briars catching the hem of a petticoat: The Harrier’s ongoing sway over Thorgoode’s management of the Croft.
Thorgoode’s failure to set their plans in motion, and the weak excuses he had offered her for it.
It even explained why he had felt free to marry the maidservant he had chosen to dally with, and why he had no desire for heirs.
“Are you well, Lady Croft?”
She realized she had raised a hand to press against her mouth, and she lowered it, though she could not yet find the words to reassure him.
None of it had ever been more than a dream.
All her plans, all the nights spent convincing Thorgoode to think outside of the confines of his privilege, all the promises she had made to herself and the people of Croftholde…
all of it for naught. She had thought that, having married him, she had helped Thorgoode become a man she could love.
But he had lied to her, and now he was dead, and she would never know if the love they had shared could have survived this revelation.
She knew that she should feel devastated. That she should be crushed under the weight of falsehood and wasted time. Instead, there was an unfamiliar lightness in her body. How could that be?
“Lady Croft?” said Mr. Winthrop again, his hand coming to her shoulder. “It is possible that I am wrong, and I did not mean to…”
“Please do not worry yourself on my account, Mr. Winthrop,” she said, standing and letting his hand slide away. “I do not think you are wrong, and I am grateful that you had the courtesy to explain such matters to a simple country widow.”
He shook his head. “I do not think you are as simple as all that, Lady Croft. If you like, when I return to Neck, I can look into the matter for you to ascertain if perhaps your husband did have some special provision in place.”
“Thank you, Mr. Winthrop, but it sounds as though it will matter very little now. Please excuse me, I have a matter to attend to before I can retire for the night.”
Upon waking Ed and interrogating him about Rollo, she learned that while he had removed Rollo from her study to take him down to the kitchen, he had also returned him to her study afterward.
He claimed to have given special care to shutting the door firmly when he left, out of fear that Rollo would escape and make his way back to the kitchen, where Ed would have surely been blamed for any havoc he wrought.
In short, the entire conversation was of no use and had served only to frustrate her and terrorize poor Ed, who had not been prepared for his mistress to appear to him in the night wearing nothing but a damp shift like some sort of vengeful, inappropriate ghost.
She left his room but paused for a moment in the corridor, trying to organize her thoughts.
Speaking to Mr. Winthrop had made one thing very clear to her: she must apologize to Elmwood.
She had cajoled him, reprimanded him, and manipulated him, not to mention the blackmail—truly her many cruelties were unforgivable.
All she could do was tell him how sorry she was, and how wrong she had been, and offer him her true friendship, as she ought to have done from the beginning.
She would help him see that he could move past his many hurts and find happiness with Lady Isobel and thereby be saved.
She also needed to track down his absolute menace of a badger hound. He must be somewhere in the house! But first, she decided, she was going to change out of her increasingly clammy shift.
Hilde descended to the second floor without further incident.
She would change into something dry and then she would go and find Elmwood in her study.
She would apologize for her behavior, reassure him that Rollo would no doubt turn up in the morning, and go to bed like the sensible, respectable widow she intended to be henceforth.
When she opened the door to her chamber, her plans flew out of her mind entirely.
Lady Isobel was sitting on Hilde’s bed, wrapped in her pink coverlet, crying her eyes out.