She ignored that. “The staff, as much as they may adore me, need a wage to live. If I don’t pay them, they will go seek employment elsewhere as is fair and right.” That went for Gladys and Elsie, too. Bede was correct to say that they were like family, but family or not, they would go. She shook her head, still grappling with the obvious . . . with the expected. “You would steal from me—”
“I am the master here,” Bede inserted, tugging on his brocade vest in an effort at dignity. “I cannot steal from myself.” He waved a finger about him. “This house, this land, is mine. I am master here, but I think you forget that, sister. You should turn all the money over to me as is proper. I should have control of all our finances.”
She snorted. “That is not happening.”
He huffed indignantly.
She moved into the room and started collecting her scattered letters from the floor. “Dinner is in an hour,” she said with more calm than she felt.
“I plan to leave tomorrow,” he announced, a threatening edge to his voice—as though he dared her to stop him.
“Very well.” What else could she say? She could not prevent him from going.
“To do so I need funds.” His tone turned petulant, the threat evaporating. “Money,” he stressed. “As vulgar as it is to discuss such matters, you force me to say it. I need money.”
“If funds are necessary to make your departure, then I do not know what to tell you.” She shrugged. “I suppose you will have to delay your leaving.”
“Where is the money? I know you have some hidden in here.” Bede sent a quick glare about her bedchamber. “You might be content to remain here in this little backwater, but I am not. Papa never expected it of me. How can you? I have a life. I have friends. I have needs.” He pointed to his chest for emphasis. “I am somebody.”
On her knees, Mercy calmly and sedately tucked all her letters back into her hat box. Standing, she returned the box to the bottom of her bureau.
With a deep breath, she lifted her gaze back to her brother. “I must freshen up for dinner.”
It was the only response he deserved. She would not even acknowledge the rest of his ridiculous remarks. There was no sense arguing with him and trying to persuade him that this was not what Papa had in mind. No sense in pointing out that she and Grace and the rest of the staff were somebodies, too. If he didn’t understand that, he never would.
“Mercy! Have you no heart? Please.” Apparently he felt the impulse to beg now.
“Me?” She tapped her chest where her heart resided, alive and very much present.
He nodded. “Indeed. What do you think I am doing out there if not trying to uplift our family? Just as our parents wished?”
“How are you helping our family?” She scoffed. “By ruining us? For that is what would have happened if I had not gone to London a-and . . . salvaged things.”
“I am extending my social circle with an eye to an advantageous marriage.”
She blinked. “You? Marriage?”
It was the first she had heard of this from him. A wife would mean less freedom for Bede. He would have to consider someone else’s welfare other than his own. It seemed highly unlikely he would do that.
“I am amenable to it. I have been navigating society of late with an eye to courting a number of heiresses.”
“Yes, brother, but have these heiresses been amenable to your suit?”
Anger flashed across his expression. “I am doing my part, and I am considered quite the catch by many.” He tugged on his waistcoat. “What of you? Why don’t you marry, sister? If you had a husband, he could help ease some of the family burden. Where is your sense of duty?”
She flinched, but then recovered. With a harsh laugh, she said, “Yes, because I have suitors beating a path to my door.”
Her brother looked her up and down. “A new frock might help in that endeavor. And perhaps a little rouge to liven your face. You could also stop working the farm like a regular laborer. Callused hands do not belong on a lady.”
“Oh, Bede. Where do I venture where someone might see me in a new dress? Into Shropshire every other week? I know all the lads there, the eligible gentlemen. I would have none of them and none of them would have me.” There was no sense even addressing her callused hands. There was no help for that.
“Beggars cannot be choosers, Mercy. Mr. Flockton is a widower with some coin to his name. At least the rumors attest to that.”
“Old Man Flockton,” she exclaimed, using the less than flattering nickname. It was not complimentary, but nonetheless true. Mr. Flockton was on the far side of ninety.
Her brother flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “We all make sacrifices.”
He had no idea.
“Oh? Do we now?” She rolled her eyes at his absolute temerity.
He continued, ignoring her sarcasm, “You should not have to suffer him for long I would imagine.”
She made a choking sound. “Oh, you are a despicable person.”
What would Papa and Mama think of what their precious son had become? Certainly this was not what they had imagined.
“Merely pragmatic, sister.”
Now that was a ludicrous claim. There was nothing pragmatic about her brother. Not ever on any day of their lives would she describe him as that.
She propped her hands on her hips. “Would you please leave me to freshen up before dinner?”
Now more than ever, she needed some space to herself.
He stood frozen in place, glaring at her in that petulant way of his that reminded her of when they were children and he was denied something. Rare occasion though that was.
Sighing, she realized what needed to be said. It was the only thing that would prompt him to leave her in peace in her room.
He had to realize his defeat.
“I am not giving you any more money. Not a penny.” She crossed her arms over her chest resolutely. “You can turn this room inside and out. You won’t find it.”
His face burned a splotchy red. With a dramatic groan, her brother flung his hands in the air and started from her chamber, slamming the door closed behind him. Just as when they were children. Again, some things did not change. In his case, nothing changed at all.
Satisfied she was alone in her room, she moved to the window seat where she had spent many an hour of her childhood.
She lifted the seat cushion to reassure herself. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she peeled back one of the wood slats beneath the cushion, revealing the money hidden there.
Her shoulders eased at the sight of it. Still there. Still safe and secure.
There it would remain until she removed it. Bede would not get his hands on it.
This, she vowed to herself.
Chapter Eight
Mercy tried to enjoy the tasty meal Gladys had prepared for the evening, but her appetite failed her. Bede sat in peevish silence, eating his food and then helping himself to seconds, piling his plate high with ham, potatoes and cabbage. Apparently his appetite was not affected by his current mood or the unpleasantness of earlier.
Grace ate sparingly, her fork toying with her perfectly buttered cabbage as she looked uncertainly between Mercy and Bede. She doubtlessly felt the tension in the room.