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His plan was masterly, if one should agree with him, devilish and high-handed if one did not, and I most certainly did not! According to him, the fate of the Wentworth family depended entirely on me - or, more honestly, on the fortune my father had made and left to me.
Basil was a gambler and a wastrel, but however unsuited he was to succeed to the almost holy office of the title, he was indeed the heir, and Sir Mordecai was convinced Basil would destroy everything within months of inheriting. In that the old man was probably quite right.
“When he inherits he will eject everyone from the Hall, destroy the estate with neglect, squander what little money is left and drag the Wentworth name - an honourable name, long respected in this country - into the mud. Do you want that upon your conscience?”
Of course, I found the prospect horrifying, but could not get my mind around the fact that such an unsatisfying turn of events should rest upon my conscience, and so said to Sir Mordecai. He therefore proceeded to enlighten me, angering, and frightening me more with every word.
My purpose in existing, according to Sir Mordecai, was to stop Basil and the inevitable collapse of the family he was sure to engender. I was an heiress and a Wentworth, so Basil was already predisposed to marry me - rather, marry my fortune - which was what Sir Mordecai intended.
When I protested with anger and disgust, he explained that it was the only way to save the Hall and the good name of the Wentworths. Why, he asked in indignant tones, did I think he had demanded my father return to England if not to marry and sire sons, sons who would oust Basil from the succession? When he had learned that my father was dead, he had reorganised his scheme so that I could become the saviour of the Wentworths.
Then he went on to explain once more, though this time in much more distressing detail how my duty that night was to write two letters - one to Coutt’s Bank, immediately putting all my monies deposited there under Sir Mordecai’s sole control. The other was to my Uncle Bernard, telling him to sell everything I owned and transfer the monies to Coutt’s, which would put those proceeds under Sir Mordecai’s control. That way when Sir Mordecai died the monies would go into a trust managed by some good friends of his, thus ensuring that while Basil would inherit the title, I would be his wife and thanks to the trustees Basil could touch none of the money, making Wentworth Hall and the estate safe from his depredations.
Obviously proud of his machinations, he went on to say the plan was unassailable. He even believed that my prompt acceptance of his demand to my father to come had been a sign from Heaven signalling his success.
“You’re mad,” I said at last. “Why should I give up everything my father worked for, everything he wanted me to have, just to sell myself into slavery to a most unwholesome man whom I do not like, just to protect a place about which I care nothing?”
He could have not appeared more shocked had I slapped him.
“You are a Wentworth! Wentworth Hall is your home. You will do as you are told, or I will see it done for you. There are bigger things involved here than your petty feelings!”
My father’s fortune and my future were hardly petty, but disagreeing with Sir Mordecai would be like ordering a rock to become a feather. The man had to be completely mad.
“I will leave you now,” he said with portentous dignity, putting the lap desk on my bed, “so you can write your letters. I will come for them in the morning and see they are sent forthwith. You need not seal them - I must read them to make sure you understood my instructions correctly.”
In other words, to make sure I had done as he wished. And I believed entirely that if I did not do as he wished, he would be more than capable of writing such letters over my signature. Since he had demanded the letters be unsealed, there was no way I could write anything he did not approve of and be sure that it would end up anyplace but on the fire.
Surely this was a situation of which neither Mrs. Radcliffe nor any other novelist had ever thought to put on paper!
What could I do?
I needed to notify both Coutt’s and Uncle Bernard of the plot and prevent them from transferring any money, but how could I do it? Even if I jumped on Saracen and tried to ride to London alone Sir Mordecai would stop at nothing to prevent any interference in his scheme.
Stanhope.
He came into my mind unbidden. True, I knew him only by the slightest thread, but something within me knew I could trust him. At least, trust him more than anyone else around me. No servitor here at the Hall would dare go against Sir Mordecai’s edicts, and I was sure that I would not be allowed to see anyone else. That brought up the problem of getting to Stanhope, but optimistically I believed that could be managed somehow.
Chapter Five
I sat up most of the night writing two letters, one to Coutt’s and another, longer and more detailed, to Uncle Bernard. I tried not to think of how long it would take to reach him, and how long it would take for an answer to return, but there was no other way. When they were complete and sanded with the tiny jar of sand in the desk, I folded them small - there was neither wax nor wafers - and tried to think of where they might be kept until I could find a way to see Stanhope. There was no place in a house where the servants could not find something, and I would not put it past Sir Mordecai to search my rooms himself.
The safest place I could think of was on my person, which carried its own risks. Though I could not see Sir Mordecai laying hands upon me, I could easily believe him capable of ordering others to do so.
I slept very little, finally giving up to my whirling brain and arising before dawn. Although it was not particularly easy or graceful, I had learned long ago to dress myself, but how I did miss my devoted Temperance! With only a few stabs from ill-placed pins, I put on a lightweight day dress of pale green muslin trimmed with tiny pink embroidered roses and pink ribbons. I had decided to go to the stable to see Saracen and try to think of a way to get my notes to Stanhope with a plea that he send them on. I wanted to be sure that no one could fault me for trying to ride - though if that proved to be the only way, I would do it, delicate day dress or no. There was no choice in that; last night I had discovered that my riding habit had disappeared.
Getting out of the house was absurdly easy, as it had been the day before, even though I was a different human being than twenty-four hours previously. Then I had been excited and happy... and free. Now I felt as much of a prisoner had I been a slave chained in a coffle, but with a much less promising future.
Again, the dew was damp, quickly soaking my thin shoes and the hem of my dress, but it mattered little. It was the feeling of freedom, of being out of the oppressive atmosphere of Wentworth House, that fed my soul. I had missed my father greatly since the day he died, but never so much as now. He would have stood between me and Sir Mordecai’s mad scheme.
Unfortunately, I was here, and if I were to be saved, I would have to be the one to do it. I only wished I had an idea of how.
“Ye shouldn’t be here, missy,” the aged stablehand said, fear evident in his eyes. “His Lordship said...”
What kind of a master engendered such fear in his servitors? That was another black mark against Sir Mordecai.
“He said that I was forbidden to ride,” I replied gently. “He said nothing about visiting the stables or petting the horses.”
Head high, I walked past him into the stables without even slowing down.
