Chapter 18 #3
Ingersoll’s bushy brows drew down. “The house and property are yours, Miss Fielding. I was certain you knew that. Mrs. Fielding has a life estate—she can live in the house if necessary—but title passed to you upon your majority. The mortgage was paid off at the time of your father’s death from his own funds, so you are free to sell the property if you please. ”
Amabel’s grip on her reticule looked quite snug. “I own a house? Papa’s house?”
Ingersoll looked a bit uncomfortable. “In fee simple, but for Mrs. Fielding’s life estate, which expires upon her demise, or execution of a quitclaim deed.
You may live there any time you please, though you might have to tolerate her company.
Despite her bottomless appetite for silks and jewels, Joseph provided well for her, enough to generate regular income.
The details are in the will, and we will send a copy along to the Glen before sunset. ”
“I own my own house? I didn’t think…”
“Women can certainly inherit property from family,” Ingersoll said, “if that’s the direction of your thoughts, else we’d have no heiresses.
Mrs. Fielding inherited half of The Oaks, for example, though I am not familiar with the details of the property disposition.
Wopley handled the matter, I regret to note. ”
“Thank you,” Amabel said. “You have been very informative, Mr. Ingersoll, and I would never have discharged you. After I returned from my time in the south, I was much preoccupied with matters at the Glen. I should not have assumed my money was ticking along, earning interest for all this time.”
“Few people put as much emphasis on their legal affairs as they ought,” Ingersoll said, “especially early in life. What will you do about Mrs. Fielding?”
Amabel pulled on her gloves. “That will take some thought. I fear this is not the only mischief she’s wrought, and sorting out next steps is complicated.”
“Well said.” Richard rose and extended a hand to her. “Ingersoll, my thanks for an interesting and candid discussion. You’ve shed light on an aspect of my new situation that was much in need of illumination.”
They took their leave, though Amabel was quiet for the duration of the ride to Swidhelm Abbey.
“Talk to me, Amabel.” Richard had waited until the coach tooled through the Abbey’s gateposts.
She’d sat silently beside him, the picture of feminine composure, but Richard had felt her mental gears turning faster than the coach wheels.
“Orla has a kind of derangement,” Amabel said.
“She was probably raised in Marie’s shadow, never having their papa’s best affections, no mama.
She hadn’t her sister’s great good looks or Marie’s warmheartedness.
She has been unsure of her worth from a young age, and so she steals security from others. ”
St. Didier had posited a version of the same theory. “All the while, she appears to be a guardian of sorts. Now that you’ve explained her, do you intend to excuse her?” The decision, provided it was reasonable, was Amabel’s to make.
She took his hand and gave his fingers a squeeze. “If we send her away, we might never know why Marie fled.”
Finally. We. “I can live with that. Mama had her reasons for leaving and for obscuring the truth from me. I am more concerned with the future than the past, and that is how it should be.”
Those words were less of a surprise to Richard than they should have been. The choice was not between lies and the truth. The choice was between allowing the family malefactor to remain underfoot and sharing a future with Amabel unclouded by the malefactor’s presence.
No choice at all, viewed from that perspective.
“You truly believe you can be content without knowing the facts?” Amabel asked.
“Content enough. I still wish I knew the details of Mama’s past, but I refuse to allow old, unanswered questions to come between me and the most joyous future I can have. My own mother would counsel me thus, and so does my heart.”
Marie had chosen to take her chances with a risky future, and her courage had been rewarded with a mostly happy life.
Richard was willing—now—to leave her decisions and motivations in the past, if a happy life with Amabel required that choice.
He was confident that St. Didier, at least, would understand his reasoning.
The Abbey was, as most abbeys tended to be, an edifice of venerable stone. This one reposed at the end of an alley of equally venerable, if somewhat unkempt, lime trees. The facade looked tidy enough, though plain. Two lonely pots of red salvia sat at the bottom of the steps to the front terrace.
“It’s not falling down,” Richard said as the coach rolled to a halt. “We don’t have to inspect it now.”
Amabel put on her bonnet. “A quick tour only. This was our stated destination after all.”
Her air of distraction continued through the inspection of the Abbey, which was neither as large as it looked, nor as dilapidated as they’d been led to believe. Dusty in places, going threadbare in others, but structurally sound and reasonably appointed.
The housekeeper was a cheerful guide, clearly fond of the old place and respectful of her present employers, whom she referred to as a good Durham family who did not get above themselves.
“You are still preoccupied,” Richard said when they climbed back into the coach. “Shall I leave you to your cogitations, or might we discuss what troubles you? In the alternative, we can discuss what troubles me.”
A hint of a smile lit Amabel’s eyes. “You want to disown Orla. Fate finally hands you a maternal relation, and you wish you’d never met her.”
“There is that. No going back, though, and if I had to meet Orla to cross paths with the woman I love, the bargain is well met.”
Richard braced himself for you-mustn’t-say-such-things, my-lord-presumes, and several other scolds, remonstrations, and demurrals.
“I love you too. You left Ingersoll to me and intervened only when I had more or less quit the field. Even if you weren’t hardworking, patient, honorable, and good company at a picnic, I would adore you for that.”
Richard made a note to himself: He must aspire to become outstanding company at any and all private picnics with Amabel.
“You were owed a moment to gather your composure,” he said. “I claim a similar moment now. You love me?”
“I have said as much. You have said the same concerning my humble self.”
“And I’ve never meant words more sincerely.”
Amabel pointedly examined the view out the window—hills, sheep, stone walls—as a delicate pink crept up her neck.
“Richard, shall we stop for a picnic? I do not favor picnics in moving coaches.”
“Neither do I.”
After further discussion, they did not stop for a picnic. They barreled on home to the Glen, posthaste, and availed themselves of the amenities at the fishing cottage, though that outing consumed the remaining hours of their afternoon.