“It was more that I was… unique. They did not know quite what to make of me and that made them all terribly uncomfortable,” she admitted. “But Clay was there for me. Always. Even when everyone else was at their wit’s end, he never lost patience or made me feel like I was a burden to him. Though, clearly I was.”
It was astounding to him that siblings could be so close. His own brother had very little use for him. They’d always been competitive with one another, always attempting to outmaneuver or outachieve one another. Even as adults, they continued to remain at odds. But they were also very close in age. Perhaps that was the difference. “Your brother is your elder by how many years?”
“He was ten years old when I was born. Fourteen when our parents died. We moved in with our aunt and uncle first, but we were only there for two years. Then they sent us to cousins in Surrey. Another year there. Then a great aunt and uncle in Essex. We stayed there the longest, for almost five years. Then they died. After that, we went back to the aunt and uncle who had first cared for us—my mother’s sister and her husband—and we remained there for just a month or so until Claymore turned twenty-one and could assume stewardship of Mansford Hall. And I have been here since. For a dozen years… the last five on my own entirely. Quite happily, I might add.”
Four and twenty. Not so very old. Certainly, a spinster by most standards, but not old at all, in fact. Why had Mr. Winters-Beaton lied about that? Was it to disguise his more nefarious motives that Miss Winters had alluded to before? He had to have known that it would come to light and would call into question everything else he said. And if he lied about that, what else was he being dishonest about?
“I take it Cecil indicated I was a decrepit old spinster?” She asked with a knowing smirk. “He is known to tell stories. Lots of stories. The great aunt and uncle we lived with… were his parents. He was my father’s first cousin, though younger than he was by nearly a decade. He has despised us since his parents took us in. He tried to convince them to send us to the workhouse.”
Rage. It was the only word that would actually descriptor his feeling at hearing the woman before him might have been subjected to the horror and indignity of the workhouse. “They refused?”
Her head cocked to one side and her gaze roamed over him, no doubt taking in the tension that had settled over him as he struggled to control his temper. “Not precisely.” She looked down at her now empty plate. “There is a berry tart for dessert if you’d like some. I intended to make an apple one, but alas, I lost track of time.”
“I’d rather have an explanation of what ‘not precisely’ means,” he insisted.
She had hoped he would not press on that particular topic. It still infuriated her to speak of it. “There was a small amount of money that Claymore was to inherit along with the estate. He agreed to sign over that part of his inheritance to my aunt and uncle, who in turn would give it to Cecil, upon Clay reaching his majority. For the first few years, things were very lean for us here. He took whatever work he could get until he managed to get his position with the East India Company.”
The clock on the mantle in the other room chimed. It made him aware of the lateness of the hour and the fact that he should begin the long walk back to the inn they had passed on the way to Mansford Hall. It was smaller than the main coaching inn in town, but it was just over a mile or so away and, therefore, accessible to him.
Oliver placed his serviette on the table. “I’m afraid I will have to forgo the dessert, but I do thank you for the offer, Miss Winters. I will return on the morrow to discuss these matters with you further. Denby and Clarkson is an upstanding and honorable firm. If Mr. Winters-Beaton is attempting some sort of confidence game, we will not be a party to it. And, personally, I will do all that I can to help you.”
Miss Winters rose as well. “Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. I knew that I would be able to count on you.”
He frowned. “About that, Miss Winters… the note Hampton presented to me at the coaching inn was addressed to me by name. But we’ve had no correspondence. Did your cousin, by chance disclose my information to you?”
“I haven’t spoken to Cecil since my initial refusal to vacate the house.”And her refusal to admit him to Mansford Hall which had sparked his temper and caused all of her current problems.
“Then how did you know?”
Miss Winters smiled rather enigmatically. “I knew your name the same way that I know my brother is alive, Mr. Hawthorne. Some things defy rational explanation.”
More puzzled by her than ever, Oliver simply left that reply alone. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, Miss Winters. I shall see you tomorrow.”
He walked out of the dining room and retrieved his coat which had been left in the parlor. The dog never stirred. He began to wonder if it was dead. After shrugging into the coat, he made his way to the front door, and upon opening it, realized he would not be going anywhere. There were no less than six inches of snow on the ground and more was falling still. He could barely see more than a few feet beyond the door.
Oliver felt Miss Winters’ presence long before she spoke. “I’ve prepared Claymore’s room for you, Mr. Hawthorne. It’s the only one suitable for guests.”
And with that, he knew he was well and truly stuck. No doubt, before all was said and done, he would know much more than he could have imagined about the oddities that seemed so much a part of Miss Winters.
FOUR
December 16th—morning
Cecil Winters-Beaton stared out the window of the small inn room that had been his residence for the last week. He had refused to vacate the area or return to Surrey without some sort of resolution to his issues. He would see Polly removed from that house. She would be brought down a peg or two. Before all was said and done, she’d be begging him for every scrap by the time he was finished with her. He’d take her home, then he would take everything else.
Haughty bitch.
She’d always been too proud by far. And Claymore had always guarded her so fiercely, as if he’d been able to read every improper thought Cecil had ever entertained about the girl. They’d moved into his parents' home—been clothed, fed, sheltered—Cecil, to his mind, was entitled recompense for that. After all, wasn’t it the funds that should have provided for his future that were being used to care for them?
It mattered little that all of the ready funds that had been waiting for Claymore to inherit upon his majority had been signed over to his parents and him. The paltry amount was hardly worth mentioning.
There was a knock upon his door and after he called out for the visitor to enter, the innkeeper’s nosy wife appeared. The woman loved gossip.
“Mr. Winters-Beaton,” she began, her tone quite excited. “I have it on good authority from my nephew that a young man arrived here yesterday and asked for directions to Mansford Hall. It must be the London solicitor you sent for!”
Cecil had seen the man disembark from the stage the prior day and had wondered. But it was not to his benefit to let the solicitor of his firm know that he had lingered in the area against their advice. They had suggested that he allow them to handle the matter, but he had no trust for Polly. She had always been a cagey one. It was how she’d always managed to avoid him in his parents’ house. But he would have her. He would have her and he would have his share of her abilities.
When he could foresee events with the same degree of clarity with which Polly always had, nothing could stop him. He’d amass a fortune so vast that it could not even be counted.
