“He is a strong young lad, is he not?”
“Indeed.” Simon drew Mercy forward next, squatted next to her, and guided Mother’s hands to the child’s curls and cheeks. “And this is Mercy.”
“How are you, child?”
“Me saw sheep.” Mercy seemed uncertain about the hands probing her face, so she kept her eyes on Simon as she spoke. “Me can count high.”
“Oh, she is delightful. How high, my dear?”
“This many.” Mercy displayed five fingers first, then five more, but seemed confused when the woman would not look at them.
Simon stood. “Children, return with Hanson back to the nursery. I will come back to get you for dinner.”
With nods, the children slipped away with the footman. The door closed behind them.
“Mother, would you like to sit?”
“No, Son.” Her hand clasped his arm, and the smile from earlier faded into the more serious look he’d sensed in her eyes. “I wish a private word with you, though it seems you have realized as much.”
“Go on.”
“I am aware, of course, that news of your father’s death is still terribly new to you—but I fear some matters simply must be attended to.”
“What matters?”
“Your father’s will.”
A sigh built in his chest. “Mother, I—”
“Do not say anything, dear. Tomorrow, you will meet with Sir Walter in his office, and he shall set you to straights on the details and stipulations.” Something in her tone altered on that last word.
Simon tried to push back the wave of uncertainty, but it rushed to shore anyway. He knew Father too well. “What stipulations?”
“You shall see tomorrow.”
“Mother—”
“But whatever they are, you must obey them. It was your father’s wish that his son should live on in this house, and with your brother gone, it must be you.”
“I did not return home to stay.”
Despite her sightlessness, she lifted her eyes to his face. A trace of resentment, of unresolved hurt, twisted at her trembling expression. “You forsook this house and your father the day you left twelve years ago. I beg of you to not disrespect him now. Not in his last wish.”
This made no sense in the least.
Leaning closer to the looking glass on her bedchamber wall, Georgina inspected her gown for any trace of wrinkle or blemish. She had chosen her finest day dress and had instructed a maid to pay diligent attention to her hair. After all, what else was one to do when a renowned barrister called for one’s presence?
She blew air out of her cheeks and stuffed at her fichu, nerves already twisting at her stomach. What could such a thing mean? Was she some sort of unaware witness in an important case? Was that why Sir Walter Northcote should send a personal letter to her doorstep?
The bedchamber door hurried open without a knock and Agnes swept in. “Are you ready? The carriage is waiting.”
“As ready as I shall ever be, I suppose.” Georgina hurried on a pelisse and snagged her reticule from a chair. “How do I look?”
“I cannot see what that has to do with anything.” Agnes crossed her arms. “Unless, of course, you have already been peering out your bedchamber window.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That we shall be late if you do not get rid of him.”
