“That’s Papa’s diary.” Rose pushed it farther back into the cabinet. “It’s personal; we shouldn’t look at it.”
Celia nodded. Her parents had always discussed Killyreigh’s finances openly, and starting at thirteen she had taken over doing the books herself; she had no mental framework for snooping around offices at night. It felt odd to sit in one of her uncle’s chairs, so she bundled up the papers and settled on the hearth rug, her back against the big desk. Rose built up the fire and lay on her stomach, so they could share the light of the hearth and candle.
Celia held her breath, trying to rein in her principles long enough to open the first ledger. But when she looked down, it was just a row of dates and math, bland and—well, and meaningless. Celia could have laughed at herself, if she wasn’t worried about setting Rose off again. What did she expect, giant purple letters declaring The Ruined Future of My Daughters?
Celia shook her head to clear it and focused on the numbers. Without money, there was no future for well-educated ladies. The Thompson sisters were too spirited and self-assured to become a companion or governess—not to mention the lady of the house would feel threatened at bringing someone sowellborn and confident around her husband or sons—and they didn’t have the experience to become a dresser or a housekeeper.
Celia had a horrible feeling that there was another, more lucrative option, that Henrietta at least was pretty enough to do. But she couldn’t even contemplate that.
For some time, they sorted through the papers. Comparing back and forth, they determined that Mr. Thompson had invested heavily in some mines in America. Paper after paper about the mines. Celia pressed her fingers into her temples but couldn’t decipher the balances. Her uncle would start one sheet, leave off, and start the next with different numbers. Clearly, some of his numbers were speculative, or some of the sheets were working out different possibilities. It was no proper way to organize account ledgers.
Rose yawned, pushing a pile forward. “Here are the letters regarding those mines. I put aside all the ones with loans with other English businessmen.”
“You don’t think those matter?”
Rose shook her head, helpless. “They might. But men like him make loans—dozens, every year, always coming in and going out. We’ll never sort out what’s important and what isn’t.”
They began skimming letters.
“I don’t like this business partner of his,” Rose grumbled.
“Me neither. No one can be this confident, not about something so risky.”
“Papa’s not some greenhorn. He couldn’t have fooled him with this blather!”
“Maybe not.” Celia picked up the ledger to compare. “But the partner is in America, and your father is four thousand miles away. Your father is dependent on the fellow.”
And where Mr. Thompson was dependent, so his daughters followed. Celia wasn’t sure if any of them understood how deeply their future was imperiled, since the proper way to raise Englishgirls was so sheltered. Marianne might see herself a humanist and decry the conditions of children in workhouses, but she had no idea how much she relied on her father’s credit.
Rose pulled out a sheet. “Here’s a checklist—oh, it looks like he was sending letters. Maybe to sell shares? Find May 1818.”
The papers crinkled under Celia’s fingers and the fire crackled in the grate. With each turning page her sense of dread increased. She didn’t want to find anything; she’d rather confirm that her uncle’s finances were in perfect order, Mr. Hughes was mistaken, and her aunt merely had a hankering to plan a wedding at St George’s.
Celia read slowly. “Selling shares in tin in Yorkshire. Ship building in Liverpool. Ferry in Brighton. Lavender farm in France. The list goes on.”
“All selling?”
“Yes. I’m quite sure; those columns are for projected and actual. All sold out in May and June.”
Rose moaned. “Then where did that money all go?” She rolled to her side, and the sleeve of her robe snuffed the candle.
It was dark like their mood, smelled of wax, and they both knew where all the money had gone. The jewel mines, and the unscrupulous partner.
In Celia’s world, wealth was in the land, whether you tilled it yourself or managed the estate for the good of all. Celia knew how to judge lengths of linen running through her hands, the golden stream of wheat pouring onto the scales, a ship loaded to her gunwales meaning everyone would eat well that winter. A jewel mine in central America sounded like a fairy story. But her uncle rented houses, Rose’s dowry contained no forests, and if the Thompsons’s money was in those mines, then it could all go up like a trick of the Sidhe.
“Has your father a habit of dramatic investments?” Celia kept her voice low.
“They always come right in the end,” Rose mumbled. “That’s what he says. So you needn’t worry, Celie.”
Celia needn’t worry; she was the one whose family had thousands of acres from Queen Elizabeth. Not that she was allowed to live there any longer, nor visit, nor even see the books. But the castle was still there, and although Clarence had dismissed the staff and had it all under holland cloths, it had stood for hundreds of years and would be strong enough to protect Rose and Henrietta and Marianne one more time…if she could get them there.
There was an impression of movement, not even a creak—Rose felt it too, and grabbed Celia’s elbow as they both turned towards the door. It was so dark inside the office, with only the glow from the fire, that they could watch the slowly expanding rectangle of gray as the door opened.
The snick of a latch. The sense of a person.
Rose squeezed Celia’s fingers. They had been worried that Mr. Thompson would feel a powerful need to research an obscure historical fact, which was known to drive him out of his comfortable bed at night, but he would be humming and huffling and most certainly carrying a light. This person was suspiciously quiet and suspiciously dark.
A burglar? But how could anyone get all the way upstairs without making noise in the hall, and why would a burglar be in the library? Celia ought to have been frightened but she was just perplexed. There were hundreds of pounds’ worth of silver in the dining room below them, and Mr. Thompson kept his valuables in the bank. At least she and Rose were out of sight, on the floor behind the desks.
