AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“If I did,” Sir Mordecai answered sourly, “I must needs have done it a long time ago.”
Mountjoy chimed in, “Tables gone against you, Draycott? Again?”
The heavenly cherub gave a singularly false laugh and for the briefest second his eyes gave a flash of emotion more infernal than celestial. “You always seem to accuse me of coming here to rusticate from my financial responsibilities, Mountjoy.”
“If I do, it is for good reason. You seem to spend more time here than in Town. One cannot help but wonder why.”
“Percival!” cried an indignant Great Aunt Zipporah. “Such accusations are beneath you, and especially in front of dear Clarissa.”
“Even if they are accurate, dear great aunt?” he returned smoothly.
“Hardly good Ton, my boy,” murmured Simon Broadbank.
“Do have some breakfast, dear boy,” cooed Great Aunt Zipporah, gesturing toward the sideboard.
“Thank you, dear great aunt. The bill of fare at last night’s inn was barely tolerable.”
Her nephew took her at her word without a glance at Sir Mordecai, whose expression would doubtless have curdled anyone’s appetite, and proceeded to fill his plate to the maximum. Then, somewhat to my astonishment, he fell to and ate everything with every appearance of pleasure, for all as if it had been a week since he had eaten anything, barely tolerable or not.
Sir Mordecai rumbled before he spoke, as if the words were like the lava from a volcano painfully working its way to the surface.
“I must talk to you, Clarissa. Come.”
Then without waiting for a word from me, or even giving me a look, he rose and stalked from the table, obviously believing that I would follow.
I did, but not before glancing around the table. What I saw was disconcerting. Every face was fastened upon me - a situation to which I was rapidly becoming accustomed - with expressions that could be called either pity or avarice.
The library at Wentworth Hall was the first room which had delighted my heart. On every wall bookshelves ran solid up to the high ceilings, and each was filled with volume after volume. A fireplace and two French-style doors opening out onto a terrace pierced the bookcases against one wall. There was a scattering of comfortable-looking chairs and two couches around the room in no particular arrangement, their leather upholstery showing shabby and worn in the brilliant morning light. The light also highlighted the thick frosting of dust on the shelves. I could almost understand; none of the inhabitants of Wentworth Hall had struck me as particularly intellectual, so of course the books would be neglected.
The sad state of the library made no difference; it was a disaster compared to our meticulously maintained book room at home, but I loved books and this room could be brought back. It was one of the few individual rooms my father had ever mentioned.
“Sit down,” Sir Mordecai ordered, and I jumped. I had been so enchanted with the room he had slipped from my mind, a state of affairs which - had he been aware of it - would have made him furious.
He was sitting in the chair by the dead fireplace, the biggest and most imposing chair, of course. From there he could see the entire room, like a king surveying his fiefdom. I was sure that such an analogy had occurred to him. I slowly looked around the room, finally choosing a delicate confection from the previous century, not directly in front of him like a petitioner, but somewhat to the side. My legs had never stopped aching from this morning’s exercise, and they protested vigorously as I lowered myself into the chair.
“You like this room, don’t you?” He made it sound almost an accusation.
Whatever I had been expecting, this wasn’t it. “Yes. You have a lovely collection.”
He snorted derisively. “My father’s, not mine. I never had any interest in a bunch of poxy books. Should clear the lot out. It’s clear you are your father’s daughter.”
“I never wished to be anything else,” I replied somewhat stiffly.
“He always loved it in here.” For a breath, his voice was reminiscent, then with the next words turned bitter. “When he should have been out hunting or riding or doing something a man should be doing, I’d always find him in here with his nose in an accursed book.”
My father had loved to ride, but I stayed silent. Had it been anyone else I would have sworn that Sir Mordecai was uncomfortable, which meant that a serious conversation was on the way. Besides, even in my short time here it had become obvious that Sir Mordecai became temperish when not agreed with, so I remained silent.
“Your father failed in his duty to his family,” he said after a moment, his eyes looking at a wall of books, but I would wager seeing only the past. “He should have stayed here, helped with the estate and bred several sons. Never thought I would have such a disappointment for a son.”
“I thought that was the duty of Micah, since he was the eldest,” I snapped in response, all thoughts of silence evaporated in defence of my father.
“It was, but he failed. The female he chose is not only deuced annoying but barren. Peter should have been ready to step in and keep the family going!” His expression was a glower that would have sent small children running for their mothers. “Now it has come down to you, and it is time you accepted your responsibility here as a Wentworth.”
“Responsibility, sir? I already have too much responsibility at home.”
“And I keep telling you, this is your home. Surely you are not needed by whatever it was Peter did in the colonies, are you?” His very tone spoke of how he regarded such an idea as ridiculous.
Obviously, it would be a waste of breath to tell anyone here yet again that America was now a sovereign nation and not still an English colony, so instead I concentrated on what was important. “Of course I am needed there. I am proud to say that Father left me his portion of the company in my own right, without guardian or trustee.”
