On his ride back, he decided he needed to speak with his Grandmamma, Augusta Mowbray. She was the only other family member still living in Pemberton and he often sought her sympathetic advice on all matters.
* * *
“I thought I saw you going out for a ride,” Grandmamma said, “And the way you furiously rode off, I thought something must be troubling you. Am I right?” she asked with her accustomed sly smile.
“You know me all too well,” Thomas said, slipping into a chair opposite to where she was sitting by the window counting stitches in her knitting.
Grandmamma turned to her maid, Sithens, and asked. “I think we will have tea now. You can tell Mr. Willoughby.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sithens curtsied and left Augusta’s chambers.
Augusta was the mother of both Thomas’s deceased mother and his Uncle Wilcox. His grandfather had been lost at sea many years ago, and Thomas regretted never knowing him.
His grandmother was in her early seventies and still wore mourning, even though she had lost her husband over thirty years ago. It was clear she had been a great beauty in her day, and she still carried herself as a woman to be reckoned with. She had a cheerful personality and, as a result, she was often consulted by both her son, Wilcox, and her grandson, Thomas.
“How was your London trip?” she asked, as she pulled on her yarn and turned the knitting to start the next row.
Thomas sighed, stood, and gazed out of the window. “Not as productive as I would like.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
Thomas turned to address his grandmother directly, “I have not discussed this with you yet, but I have only recently learned from Uncle Wilcox that our projected income for the estate this year is drastically compromised.”
Grandmamma stopped her knitting and looked up at her grandson. “And do you know why that might be?”
“It seems there has been a great deal of unrest in the West Indies where we have a lot of our money invested. Apparently, the sugar cane has been affected by blight and the workers are starving. It is a terrible mess.” Thomas ran his hand through his hair.
“Is there anything we can do about that?” she sensibly asked.
“We do not directly control any of the production. It seems Uncle Wilcox purchased shares in a corporation that owns a number of various interests in the Indies. The corporation runs the plantations, and we have no say in how they manage the properties.”
“Why would Wilcox be buying shares using the estate’s money? You are the Duke and should have sole control of our resources.”
“Well, yes… but I have to say. I have been a little lax in oversight recently.” That set Thomas thinking. “I do not know how long ago he purchased those shares. It may have been while he was my guardian—before I had control of the Pemberton estate. But that is an interesting point, and I must talk to him about that.”
His Grandmamma pursed her lips. “Your uncle is somewhat of a schemer, Thomas, and I have often had to call him on his little tricks.”
At that moment Willoughby brought in the tea and set the tray on the table before Augusta.
“I’ll be mother,” she said. “Thank you, Willoughby.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, then turned and left.
Grandmamma busied herself pouring the tea, but asked, “Did you ever have an accounting with the solicitors and the bank after you came of age?”
“I saw no need. Do you think I should?” Thomas asked.
“I think it might be a good idea. One can never be too careful. And if you do not mind me saying, you have, indeed, been neglectful in your oversight of the estate.” She poured milk and added two sugars as Thomas liked. “All those trips to London for the balls, the parties, the assignations… I am well aware of your various city activities,” she said with a slight smile.
“How do you know what I get up to in London,” Thomas asked, a little shocked.
“You forget I came from London and I have maintained many close friends who give me regular reports.”
“You spy on me?” he asked with a nervous laugh.
Handing him the cup of tea, she said, “I care for you, Thomas. Do not mistake my caring for spying. I only have your best interests at heart.” Posing her pincers over a plate of scones, she asked, “Scone?”
“No, thank you.”
