“Exactly. You might even buy the terrible one in advance and store it in the attics or an outbuilding, then your servants could move them at a moment’s notice. You can watch for a used one or get one cheap from an estate sale or some such.”
She thought about it a while. I could not tell if she was thinking about the idea in general or going through an inventory of things she might treat thusly. I just enjoyed watching the interplay on her face, as she was very engaged with her thoughts, and it was fascinating.
She gave a little evil chuckle. “I think I just worked out why it could be underhanded.”
“Do tell.”
“If I did that with a sofa my mother purchased and replaced it with one that was equal quality to what she found on her arrival, that would be completely honest in all particulars.”
“Agreed. You could even argue for that during probate of the will but—”
“But if the heir is already ensconced in the estate, it is difficult to gain access. Not to mention he might damage it out of spite.”
“Correct. And what was your idea for where it gets dishonest?”
“Suppose the entail inventory simply lists the silver by the number of pieces of each type. Twenty forks, and so forth.”
“Go on.”
“If there was good silver when my mother arrived, and the cheapest possible silver when she left, that would be close to theft, but nobody would ever know… or at least, the heir would be unlikely to prove it, unless you had the poor sense to let him inspect it beforehand. Like your earlier suggestion, I could even purchase it in advance.”
“Exactly. I would not do that unless—”
“—unless?” she asked anxiously, in a tone suggesting she was looking for a good excuse to do exactly that.
“Unless the heir is very disagreeable. In that case, he deserves what he gets.”
She grunted. “Hegetsa solid, well-tended estate with a good income for being born with certain body parts. Disagreeable or not, he does not deserve a single thing more than what I am unable to safely remove.”
I could not argue the logic, nor would such occur to me. A glance at the clock suggested time was up. Our meetings got longer by about a quarter-hour every year, but it was time to go.
“Next year, Miss Smith?”
“Same time, same place, Mr Jones!”
15th July 1810 11 o’clock
“Miss Smith.”
“Mr Jones.”
That was how our fifth annual encounter began.
The young lady had matured even more. She was no longer especially young, though she was a year or two from worrying about grey hairs. Her figure had filled out a bit more, she had lost a little bit of the bounciness from her earlier years, but she seemed a slightly more mature version of the little hellion I first met for years earlier. In point of fact, she had always been pretty, but she was approaching truly beautiful—or to be honest, already there.
“If I recall correctly, you should be coming up on nineteen in a fortnight. How go the wars?”
She laughed gaily, which lit up her eyes as prettily as they had the last time I used that line a year earlier.
“Win a few, lose a few, Mr Jones. We are presently focusing on losing a few.”
“How so?” I asked, as curious as ever.
She sighed resignedly. “My mother is back to her old tricks.”
That startled me. My opinion of her parents had never been high, but—
“Which specific tricks do you mean?”
