“Is this your way of chasing me off? A new tactic? Compliment me? Stroke my ego?”
“No! Not at all. Bede merely explained to me that you are a person of some importance in London.”
He laughed harshly. “And believing that, he sent you to steal from me?” He shook his head in disgust. “You are going to have to do something about him.”
“What can I do?” she asked sharply, shooting up straight in obvious indignation. “All of this belongs to him.” She waved a hand around them. “Papa left it all to him. His name is on the deed. The law does not recognize my sister and me as anything more than chattel. That is what I have to contend with.” Her cheeks flushed with angry color.
“There must be some way—”
“Oh? Indeed. You think I have not considered every possibility? That I am not clever enough? Pray, enlighten me on what I am missing.”
“No,” he said slowly, carefully, reconsidering his perhaps brash and insensitive words. “I think you are very clever. You have been managing this place all by yourself for years and I think your father would be very proud of you.”
She stilled. “My father?” She stared at him in wide-eyed bewilderment. “What do you know of what he would think? He left all of this to Bede.”
“Only because he expected that your brother would be an honorable man, that he would step up and do what is right by you and your sister. That is what any father would expect.”
“Yes. Well. He was wrong, was he not?”
“Yes. He made a mistake. That does not mean he did not love you. I am certain he would be proud of you . . . and if he could, if he were still here, he would do things differently and place more trust in you over Bede.”
Her eyes gleamed with moisture, and he was not certain if he had overstepped himself. Had he upset her?
She sniffed and nodded jerkily. “Thank you. Thank you for that.”
His chest loosened a bit at the realization that he had not upset her. She seemed almost . . . moved. Relieved from his words. As though he had said something she desperately needed to hear.
They returned to work in companionable silence. As messy as the task of shoveling horse shit was, he could not help but think it was one of the most pleasant mornings he had spent in a long while.
Chapter Fourteen
Mercy had not expected to be back at the Blankenships’ ballroom so soon. It seemed she was here just a short time ago. Of course, she had been a different person then.
She felt like another woman now as she stood in the glittering ballroom, staring out at a sea of familiar faces—residents of Shropshire she had known all her life. Of course, no one knew of the change in her. No one was aware. They still saw the plain spinster, Mercy Kittinger, wearing the same tired gown she wore to all these events.
The well-to-do Blankenship family had always included everyone when they hosted these affairs. All the denizens of the village and surrounding countryside in every varying level of rank were present. It really was quite egalitarian of them.
Mercy and her family never missed a Blankenship ball. Grace would be beside herself if such a thing happened. These balls were a long-standing tradition in the area, but, thankfully, they usually only occurred once a year. It was not such a great commitment to attend once a year.
Once a year Mercy could tolerate it. Once a year she would don her best gown—and a smile—and ride the hour and a half to Shropshire and the Blankenship estate that sat outside of town. For her sister it was a small sacrifice.
It was the highlight of Grace’s year. It made her happy. Even if in the weeks following she moped about, depressed to be back in her quiet life in the countryside, removed from all of society and its diversions. That was the drawback to these events. Contending with Grace afterward.
Mercy craned her neck, searching for her sister among the crowd. She had seen her with friends earlier, near the refreshment table. Mercy’s brother was out there, too, doing what he loved most. Socializing. Hopefully not gambling in one of the card rooms. He had nothing left to gamble, after all. No money, certainly.
But Bede still has possession of the farm.
Unfortunate, that. A familiar hopelessness rose up inside her chest. There was nothing she could do about the situation. That would forever and always be the case.
He might not make the mistake of gambling away their family home here, in Shropshire . . . or perhaps this soon after the last time, but how could she trust that he never would again? Later, in another place, another time, he might be so reckless. She swallowed thickly. It only felt like a matter of time. Inevitable.
Then what would she do?
“Someone does not look like she’s enjoying herself. What is such a scowl doing on your face?”
Mercy spun around at the sound of the much-loved voice. “Imogen!” She stepped forward and happily embraced her lifelong friend, Imogen Bates.
Well, she would not be Bates for much longer. She was soon to be married. They would no longer be the two spinsters huddled together near the potted ferns at these events. Those days had come to an end. At least for Imogen.
Mercy fought down the twinge of sadness that realization brought forth. Her friend had fallen in love and she was happy for her. True, it was unexpected. She would never have guessed Imogen the type to have her head or heart turned—especially not by the likes of her soon-to-be husband, the erstwhile Duke of Penning. And yet it had happened.
Imogen was set to wed Peregrine Butler, a former duke. He had been stripped of his title and lands, naturally, once it was learned he was the illegitimate son of his father. None of that seemed to matter to either Imogen or Perry though. They appeared blissfully content with each other and their lives and his lack of a title did not seem to signify.
“I did not think we would be back here so soon.” Imogen waved to the ballroom at large.
“No,” Mercy agreed, “I suppose we have to owe our thanks to the new Duke of Penning for bringing us together again tonight.”
“Indeed. Have you met the man?”
“No. Have you? What is he like?”
“Yes. He invited us to tea shortly after his arrival. Most hospitable of him. He is a bit of an eccentric, but perfectly pleasant. I suppose that is to be expected. He was not born a duke nor brought up to be one, after all.”
He was not a pompous blue blood then. “That is to his credit, I imagine.” Mercy had scarce to no interaction with nobility, but she had oft heard they were quite high in the instep. Peregrine had fit that mold in the days whilst he was still the duke. Now, of course, he was of humble and modest character. She much preferred him as he was now in his present role.
“There he is. That is the duke.” Imogen nodded to a man of middle years with a florid complexion. He was imposing. Easily the tallest man in the room. Mr. Blankenship stood near him, naturally. The two of them were the most important men in the room, after all.
One was a duke and the other was the wealthiest gentleman in Shropshire. Even so, Mercy knew for a fact that no previous Duke of Penning had ever demeaned himself to attend a fete in the village. Not even Peregrine Butler, when he had been the duke.
“He seems nice.” It was the truth. The man smiled widely and seemed interested in those around him, speaking not only to Mr. Blankenship, but others that approached, no matter their rank.