Chapter Sixteen A Respectable Marriage #3
A flicker crossed Benedict’s face before he could smooth it away. Mary Beth finally saw what his anger had been hiding: he was afraid she might actually find what he had done.
The footman appeared.
“Lord Sablehurst is leaving.”
Benedict did not move.
The servant waited.
Mary Beth said, “And if any representative of Sablehurst asks about Blackthorn’s accounts, tenants, borrowing, suppliers, servants, visitors, or my correspondence, I want the request brought directly to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Benedict’s face reddened. “Do you imagine you can make this disappear by giving orders to a footman?”
“No. I imagine I can begin by making clear that my house is mine.”
He picked up his gloves.
At the doorway he stopped. “When the bank calls your note, remember this conversation.”
Mary Beth felt the last of her uncertainty leave.
“Thank you.”
He frowned. “For what?”
“For finally sounding like yourself.”
He left.
The front door shut a minute later.
Mary Beth remained in the drawing room until she heard his carriage turn on the gravel.
Then she went to the desk.
She wrote three letters.
The first was to the bank, requesting in writing the basis for any alteration to Blackthorn’s credit and copies of any representations concerning future estate management that had been relied upon in making the decision.
The second went to the York merchant. Mary Beth stated that she would settle the current account in full, asked for a written explanation of the sudden change in terms, and requested the name of anyone who had made representations about Blackthorn’s solvency or management.
The third was shorter.
She addressed it to Ambrose Tavener’s Leeds office.
Benedict has been buying my past and selling pieces of it back to the county. I have proof enough to begin, but I want more.
Then she stopped.
The sentence below it took longer.
I am still furious with you.
She considered crossing it out and decided against it.
Come to Blackthorn on Saturday. Use the front door. If you refuse, I will come to Leeds and embarrass us both.
Mary Beth signed her name.
She had the letters sent before she could improve them.
By late afternoon, Blackthorn was busy in a way she found comforting.
Roof tiles for the schoolroom were counted.
A tenant account needed correction. Someone had ordered lamp oil twice.
The west-field drainage held after the morning rain.
Ordinary problems presented themselves and, unlike society, generally improved when someone paid attention.
Near five, the footman brought her a small parcel.
No sender was marked.
Mary Beth’s first instinct was to put it directly into the fire.
Then she noticed the wrapping.
Brown office paper. Red cotton string. A Leeds postmark.
Inside was a folded sheet in Ambrose’s handwriting.
Mary Beth,
I found the man who copied the estimate from my office. He was paid through a Leeds solicitor acting for an unnamed client. I have the receipt. I also have the clerk’s written statement. The solicitor’s account reference begins SABLEHURST ESTATE.
I left because I thought removing myself would stop what they were doing to you. I was wrong about that, and wrong to leave without giving you a choice.
I am sorry.
A second sheet was enclosed.
It was a signed statement from the unnamed office clerk, acknowledging that he had been paid to copy Ambrose’s Blackthorn estimate and two private letters from Ambrose’s desk.
Attached to it was a receipt bearing the name of a Leeds solicitor and, beneath the fee notation, the words Sablehurst Estate Inquiry.
Mary Beth read both pages twice.
Then she laughed.
It was not amusement. It was relief sharp enough to resemble it.
Benedict had been right when he said she lacked proof. Half an hour later, Ambrose had put it into her hands.
She carried the papers to the locked drawer of her desk and placed them beside the anonymous copies, the broadsheet clipping, and the York merchant’s altered terms.
For weeks other people had been deciding which version of Mary Beth Blackthorn the county should be permitted to see.
The adulteress who had never committed adultery.
The employer who paid lovers from estate funds.
The foolish widow being exploited by a tradesman.
The woman who required a titled husband to keep her from ruining herself.
Mary Beth had defended herself against each version separately. With the papers locked in her desk, she could finally see the pattern she had missed: one story connected them all, and it belonged to Benedict rather than to her past.
At dinner she ate alone.
Ambrose’s chair across the morning-room table remained empty, which still made her angry enough to improve her appetite.
Afterward, she poured herself a glass of wine and opened the letter from him again.
He had not said whether he would come Saturday.
Mary Beth traced the final line with one finger.
I am sorry.
“Good,” she said to the empty room. “You should be.”
Then she folded the letter and put it in her pocket.
That night she slept without rehearsing an apology to anyone.