Page 29 of A Convenient Fiction

Alex stood at the end of the path, watching them go. He hadn’t expected to be invited in. But as Miss Hayes and her aunt disappeared inside, the door shutting firmly behind them, he admitted to a certain curiosity—if not outright concern.

What had happened today to make Miss Hayes weep as she had? He’d never before seen a lady so desolate. So utterly undone. Certainly not a lady as self-contained and dignified as Laura Hayes.

It was something to do with her visit to London and the meeting she’d had with her solicitor. Mr. Weatherwax, wasn’t that his name? It would be the work of a moment to discover more. Perhaps he could help her? Perhaps he could—

But he shouldn’t.

And wouldn’t.

He had no reason to do so, and every reason not to.

Alex climbed back into the gig and set the horse in motion with a slap of the reins. Bramble Cottage grew smaller behind him as he drove away from it, down the road that led past Talbot’s Wood and onto Edgington Park, and thereby, his future.

He didn’t look back.

Nothing in his life had ever been achieved by succumbing to sentiment. He had to think of himself. Only of himself, and his interests. For if he didn’t, who else on earth would?

“I’ve never heard anything so preposterous!” Aunt Charlotte paced the confines of Teddy’s bedroom, her silk skirts and starched petticoats swishing with every step. “The nerve of the man—the absolute, unmitigated nerve.”

Laura sat in a low-backed chair beside Teddy’s bed, trying not to look and sound as bleak as she felt. “It’s early days yet. We still have time—”

“One month.” Teddy was in his nightshirt, tucked under a quilt, his back propped up against a mountain of pillows. Magpie was curled up beside him. “And then he’ll take control of everything for good and all.”

Aunt Charlotte twisted her lace-trimmed handkerchief in her hands. “If my brother were alive—”

“Don’t speak to me about Papa,” Laura said. “The whole of this is of his devising.”

“An old will. It surely doesn’t reflect the reality of what was in his mind—”

“His only will. That’s all that matters. And Mr. Weatherwax is the executor. The decisions are his to make.”

Teddy’s eyes met hers. “Until I come of age. That’s what you’ve always said.”

“That’s what I understood to be the case.” Laura gave her brother an apologetic look. “I never considered that he would argue against it. I didn’t think he could do. But now—”

“We must simply hire another solicitor,” Aunt Charlotte said. “We must challenge Mr. Weatherwax’s authority.”

“We can’t afford another solicitor. We can scarcely afford—” Laura stopped herself from saying anything more. Indeed, she’d already said far too much.

“How bad is it, Laura?” Teddy asked.

“It isn’t good,” she admitted at length. “But we’re not in debt. That’s something, at least. And we haven’t yet been forced to go hungry, or to wear rags. I have my health, and so does Aunt Charlotte. We can surely find a way to—”

“If Weatherwax won’t allow us to seek a loan so that we can reopen the distilleries, what is it he means for us to do?” Teddy’s expression tightened with anger. “Let me guess. He proposed that we sell them.”

“He did,” Laura said. “He advises that we sell all of the properties.” Weatherwax had been pressing them to sell ever since Papa died. He seemed intent upon it. It was the safest course, or so he claimed.

“And if we don’t, what then?” Teddy asked. “Are we to languish here, waiting on his charity?”

“It’s not charity. It’s our very own money. Yours, anyway, once you come of age.”

“But he says that won’t matter. That my coming of age doesn’t matter. Because I’m crippled. Because I—”

Laura reached to briefly clasp Teddy’s hand, silencing him. “He didn’t say that. He merely fears that your ill health will be an impediment to your taking charge of our property. He thinks he’s doing us a courtesy.”

“He’s threatening to take us to court to maintain his power, Laura. He’s going to claim I’m incompetent. You said yourself—”

“I said too much. Perhaps I misstated his intentions.”