By the time they had traced the threads through all Mr. Thompson’s paperwork, their eyes were aching and their hands were clumsy. Perhaps an hour or so along, Henrietta had asked for ink and paper; Rose sorted through the drawers and Celia tidied up each pile as they finished. By four in the morning, Henrietta’s list made a miserable sort of logic, each piece verified until it could not be refuted by either Rose’s loyalty or Celia’s optimism. Henrietta seemed to have no difficulties with either.
In 1815, Mr. Thompson had invested in jewel mines in North Carolina.
In 1817, his partner had gone to America to investigate various concerns.
In 1818, Mr. Thompson had pulled all his other investments to fortify the jewel mines. What promises or threats precipitated this, the women agreed they could not understand.
In January of 1819, the first set of jewel mines closed and the partner moved to another mine. From the spate of letters received and irate notes in the journal, the women concluded that a great deal of Mr. Thompson’s shares vanished in this transaction.
In June of 1819, the mendacious partner reassured Mr. Thompson that his investment was returning to him in precious goods.
In July of 1819, theLittle Beltset sail from Charleston with what they assumed was all of Mr. Thompson’s remaining fortune on board. Ever since, the household accounts operated on the flow of private loans and trades and promises. The letters from colleagues indicated that Mr. Thompson had not madeclear exactly when theLittle Belthad sailed, some believing that it was not until the fall or even early winter.
Mr. Thompson, and now his older daughters and niece, knew that theLittle Belthad left Charleston on the 9thof July. In good weather, she would have arrived in London in August; in poor weather, four months would be reasonable for passage, and it had been a hard winter.
But theLittle Belthad not left in winter weather. After more than eight months, ships carrying jewels are not coming home.
The worst betrayal of all was not on Henrietta’s list. That page was folded again and again, stuffed in the wrong date, and corresponding to a page in the diary. They had passed them each around and around, not wanting to believe how cavalier he had been with their futures. The torn-off record page was a list of every expense for a Season: new dresses, hosting dinners, monogrammed stationery, space in the mews for their carriage, on and on in profligate, prodigal detail. On the back side of the page, a list of names with questions and checkmarks, corresponding to loans that winter. In the diary…
He had known. In the diary, for the entire page, Mr. Thompson wrote only Rose—Henrietta—Celia—marriage. He had underlined each more than once, with different pens. The page had thumbprints and blotches; Celia fancied he kept turning back to those names to goad him through whatever came next.
“He could have explained,” Rose kept repeating, her voice small. “He could have said why this year was different. He could have explained why I needed to marry Owen Featherstone.”
Even Celia was too tired to come up with reassurances.
The ledgers and accounts did not divulge what Mr. Thompson might do next; they did not disclose the options for Marianne or Aunt Thompson; they did not declare any secondary plan if the marriage one failed.
“So.” Rose straightened the stacks of papers. “Our chances expire at the end of the Season? He hasn’t anything to rent a summer house.”
Henrietta shook her head. “Our last chance is when the others figure out that theLittle Beltis not going to come.”
“A month, then?” Rose’s voice trembled.
Celia knew a little more about this, from her brother. “No,” she said slowly. “As long as the payments come in and go out. Like a boat in the locks, rising and sinking. You can see he’s continued, getting payments from one place and loaning them to someone else, buying and selling art, paying tradesmen’s bills. As long as he can do that, the other investors might be suspicious but they won’t call his bluff.”
The cousins watched her, their faces grim in the shadows.
“You’re right,” said Henrietta. “As soon as someone calls in his debt and he can’t pay, then a dozen others will call in at once.”
Rose dropped her head. “A month, then? A year?”
“No one knows, exactly.” Henrietta began to laugh, dry and exhausted. “He’s gambling for the end of the Season.”
“Papa never gambles,” Rose said, parroting what Mr. Thompson so often deplored at the dinner table, but even she caught the irony of it. “Such a waste of time and talent,” she added, in a deep voice with her father’s inflection, and they all began to giggle. They giggled and chortled and pressed their skirts into their mouths and doubled up in hysteria, tears running down their cheeks and washing the itchiness from their eyes. They giggled until they all tumbled over like spillikins, Henrietta’s head pillowed on Celia’s thigh, Rose’s face buried in her own arms.
Celia closed her eyes, the Oriental rug soft and prickly against her cheek. She imagined herself standing in the doorway of a grand home, welcoming her cousins. A quiet library forRose, a gig for Henrietta to visit the neighbors, a grand piano for Marianne. At first she saw a flash of Castle Killyreigh, but that was so far away, and her vision faded into a generic English country house.
“It’s so late!” Rose turned her face, cheek wrinkled from her robe. “What are we going to do tomorrow?”
There would be a party of some sort, but tomorrow was the least of their worries. Tomorrow, they were still shielded by Mr. Thompson’s loans, the appearance of the wealth that protected their place in society.
“I think we have all caught a cold,” Celia declared.
“Must have been at the promenade this afternoon.” Henrietta coughed delicately.
“Such a sore throat. I can scarcely speak.” Celia patted her throat.
“Aches in my temples. Tonsils quite swollen,” Henrietta agreed.
