Betsy completed her work while Lottie changed behind the privacy screen. This morning called for comfortable clothing, not complicated gowns or riding habits. Poor Dancer was probably antsy for a good gallop. Maybe after tea, she would be up for a ride.
Ethan hadn’t sent a note last night, and that was a worry of its own.
Three cups of tea later, Lottie’s outlook on life had only slightly improved. Stemson brought the morning post, along with the papers. The newssheets could wait. One more awful headline and she might crack. A slim folded paper with her father’s insignia pressed into the seal made her pause.
Lottie turned the letter over in her hand. Her father’s sharp scrawl confirmed that this was the letter she’d been waiting for. She’d almost forgotten what his handwriting looked like. Looking around the empty room, she wished Agatha or Ethan were there to either provide moral support or celebrate with.
Except Ethan was in Kent, fighting to keep his home. Sitting in a freshly redecorated breakfast room, far from danger, Lottie felt useless and decorative. Like the paper doll he’d once called her.
Charlotte,
It would appear you have once again become the subject of gossip and speculation. Lord Danby tells me the papers are full of your exploits, the likes of which can only be interpreted as an effort to make your disdain for a proper match known. In addition, the letters from yourself and Lord Amesbury erased any doubt that your time in London has been spent finding the least acceptable candidate for a husband in order to force my hand.
Clearly, you are too old and set in your ways to be amenable to marriage, so I am prepared to offer a compromise. Rogers assures me he taught you well, so I will give you your heart’s desire—property of your own to manage and the funds set aside for your dowry. Rogers has one in mind about which he’s already written to you.
If you want to be an ape leader, so be it. That outcome, as distasteful as I find it, is preferable to marrying that Scottish upstart.
Should your desire to marry Amesbury be genuine—although I can’t imagine how—then I can’t stop you. You’re of age. However, I can and will ensure not a penny of your dowry lines Lord Amesbury’s pockets.
In short, if you continue with this engagement to Amesbury, know that you do so without the support of your family’s wealth or title. Neither of you will be welcome at Stanwick Manor.
He didn’t sign it.
All the air left her lungs in a wobbly cry. He thought their letters were a manipulation tactic on her part. Those prejudices and preconceived notions he held would be the end of them.
They’d expected a rejection while hoping for a blessing. Leave it to Father to take her by surprise and complicate matters further.
Cut off. Never allowed to go home. Disowned if she chose Ethan.
Or everything she’d wanted, handed to her.
The tears fell in earnest now while birds sang outside the window.
* * *
They’d repair the damage to the brewery, since it primarily consisted of stone. But the granary? Ancient timbers and wattle and daub had stood for over a century yet were no match for flames.
Ethan swore fluently until Connor stopped nodding along and just stared.
“Are ye done, Ethan?”
“Whoever did this stole food off the tables of my people.” Ethan spit on the glowing embers of what used to be this year’s grain harvest. “Find the bastard responsible. I’ll have his guts for garters.”
“I have men listening in the village, plus two footmen goin’ door tae door askin’ questions. Someone somewhere saw something. Macdonell is out for blood.”
“Milord, message from London.” A servant reined in his horse before handing over a folded piece of paper.
Glancing at the handwriting, Ethan smiled. Lottie. Memories of how she’d looked when he’d left her bed—soft and pink and well loved in the early morning light—were his bright spots in an otherwise wretched day. Or days, rather. Almost forty-eight hours ago, he’d kissed her goodbye, then rushed from London. Of course, the letter could be news about the earl’s response. In which case, he had other pressing matters to deal with. If the earl said yes, they would celebrate. If he said no, another hour or two of ignorance wouldn’t make a difference in the long run. His people needed him right now, and the earl would have to wait. Ethan tucked the letter in his pocket before nodding his thanks to the servant.
Acrid smoke lingered against the sun, while the blackened beam remnants of the granary stood as charred testaments of stubborn construction. He would update her via post this evening. She needed to know about this. While it could be the work of an unknown enemy, more likely than not, they’d eventually uncover Montague’s hand behind this attack on his livelihood.
As he surveyed the damage with tired eyes, the anger that had been his constant companion since he’d come home battled to escape. How dare that worthless bastard set foot on his land? Hurt his people, destroy the fruits of their labors, endanger their livestock’s food supply for the winter? Montague would pay. There wasn’t a consequence severe enough to cover the damage done here. The niggling worry in the back of his mind asked how much more he could afford to economize in order to rebuild. He’d find a way. They’d make it and come out stronger on the other side.
“My worry is for whatever’s next, aye?” Connor muttered.
It was a valid point. The day before yesterday, workmen discovered the destruction at the brewery site. Everything flammable had burned. Stone walls had been smashed and equipment destroyed. What should have been a boon for the village economy lay in ruins. That was when Connor had written, and Ethan had set off for home. They’d worked all day to set to rights what
