Harold was making this even harder. Damn him. George rubbed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair as he struggled with what to say next.
But it was Harold who spoke first. “You mentioned to me the other day that you were thinking I might become the estate manager as you wanted to focus on your painting.”
“Yes-s-s,” George was still struggling with how to answer that. “For now, I should like to carry on as we have been. I am happy to have you take on the day to day operation of the farm, but I am still sorting through my father’s papers and I have not yet found his will. I suspect his solicitor might have that. And before I make any permanent decisions, I should like to review all that I have before me. Does that make sense?”
Harold did not appear to be pleased with that answer, but he nodded. “As you wish. But I have my own needs to consider. As you know, I have been thinking of purchasing an estate locally, and my situation here might influence what sort of property I might wish to purchase.”
This George knew to be a lie. But he also saw it as Harold’s attempt to negotiate.
“I understand. If you can be patient with me for just a while longer, then, once I get my affairs in order, we can talk again. It should not be too long. No more than a week, I suspect.”
Harold stood. “Then I shall get to work. There is much to do to keep this place running as the old Duke would like it. Good day, Your Grace.”
George was relieved to have put off a decision on Harold for the time being.
* * *
Ann and Charlotte were pacing in Charlotte’s rooms. They had been outfitted in their new morning dresses and were chafing at the restrictions imposed upon them by the required time of mourning.
Ann threw her hands in the air in a wild gesture. “This is insupportable. How are we to trap Beaumont if we are restricted to this horrid house day after day? We can’t even go for a walk in the garden.”
“But Sister, dear, it is freezing outside. Would you really want to bundle up and traipse amongst a bunch of dead rosebushes?” Charlotte sensibly said.
“First, they are dormant, not dead,” Ann corrected. “And secondly…” She waved her hands again but struggled to speak further. “I do not know what is secondly…”
“You are frustrated, as am I, about our intolerable situation. We must dosomethingabout Mr. Goodwin. Did you see him at the reception after the funeral…? He was all eyes and smiles at Lucy. And we were constrained by our mourning to let it be.”
Ann started pacing again and mumbled, “There must be a way… some way to get alone with Mr. Goodwin. If even for a brief moment.”
“Are you still thinking for me to sprain my ankle?” Charlotte asked.
“No. No. That is no longer practical. We need a new plan. Something cunning and foolproof.”
“Well, I hope you can think of something, but I have been wracking my brain, and I can come up with nothing.”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes… something cunning. A way in. We need to figure out how to clinch the deal.”
“Our Sunday open houses are dead during the time of mourning. But there must be some other way…”
“What about a memorial service for Father? He would come to that, and we could corner him,” Charlotte suggested.
“But that would be redundant. The funeral was the service. And I am certain neither Mother nor George would agree to such a scheme.”
“You are most likely right.”
“Do we have any birthdays coming up? If so we could have a party.”
“No parties during mourning,” Charlotte reminded Ann.
“I am at my wit’s end. We must find a way. We just must!”
* * *
George was surprised when at breakfast, just three days later, there was a packet from Sir Cuthbert waiting for him at his place at the table where the morning post was customarily left for his review.
Only Ann and Betsy were up yet and at breakfast. He slipped the post into his coat pocket, even though he wanted to rip Sir Cuthbert’s letter open right then. But it would have aroused questions from his sisters, and he wanted to review the materials in private.
He hurried to his study directly after breakfast and opened the envelope. As expected, it contained a letter and a number of clippings fromThe Times.First, he read the letter.
