“Drastic?” her mother’s pale eyes stared fixedly. “No. We need to be.”
“It’s not assured that there’s nothing…” Hestony trailed off. “Mayhap there is something else we can do. Have you spoken with Mr. Lewis?”
“What need?” her mother laughed dismissively. “He’s not much good, is he – managing nothing.” She took a sip of her tea and Hestony felt worried for her.
“Mama, we need to ascertain if this is true before we start shutting Hartfield House.” Hestony felt gripped with a sort of creeping terror. She had grown up at Hartfield! Most of the servants were almost friends! She couldn’t imagine laying them off, especially on an assumption. They didn’t even know the letter was from the solicitor! Since her papa had died, Hartfield had become her security. It was a home for her soul, more to her than simply a fine pretty house!
“I’m writing to our butler now,” her mother said firmly. “If he hears no news within a week, he is to cut back the staff and close the west wing. What else can I do?”
“Mama…” Hestony paused. When her mama was like this, what could she do, to prevent her? She herself had no information as to whether it was true or not!
“I know it’s awful,” her mother said, draining her cup of tea. “But it’s necessary. What we need,” she added, putting the cup down and reaching for a pastry, “is a savior.”
“A savior?” Hestony asked. She wanted to eat something more, but she found she had no appetite. Her mother’s words had shocked her.
“Someone who can lift us from this penurious state, and put us back into society,” her mother said. “I don’t know where that’ll come from,” she added, with a dismissive snort.
Hestony felt sick. She had no idea what she could do to help. She just knew she had to leave, or risk being ill. “Excuse me, Mama,” she murmured. “I feel dreadful.”
“I understand,” her mother commented with more than a little irony. “I feel pretty bad, too.”
Hestony stood and pushed her chair in, then, not running despite her wish to escape as fast as possible, she headed swiftly up to her room.
“I don’t know what to do,” she murmured.
She sat down heavily on the plush bed, looking around the room with its silk-papered walls, its abundance of lace curtains and little paintings. She covered her face with her hands.
“What can I do, to help?”
She couldn’t think of anything. Half of her mind insisted that she should write to Mr. Lewis, asking him to come in person, paying for his fare to come to Amhurst Heights and explain himself. The other half told her she should respect her mother’s wishes.
“We need a savior,” she murmured.
Somebody who could put them back on the map of society, rescuing them from this penurious state.
But who could that be, and what could she do, to help?
Nothing, her mind told her, except worry.
Her first comprehensive thought was to tell Emilia. But, what could she do? She herself had no means besides those of her father – which had undergone their own crisis, thanks to Uncle’s gambling costs – and that of Lord Westmore, which were not hers to access.
“And besides – wouldn’t Mama have told Emilia and Uncle Barton, if she wanted them involved?”
The more she thought about it, the crazier that seemed. If she exposed the shame of their penuriousness to everybody, her mother would hate her worse.
No – it can’t be Emilia.
But who else could she turn to? Emilia was her closest friend and strongest support. She and Emilia shared everything! When her family had been suffering from Uncle Barton’s debt, Lady Hartfield had shown no restraint in assuring that Emilia and Hestony were given the same dresses, and equal share of everything until their situation healed.
“Maybe I should ask Mama?” Hestony half-stood, but the very thought struck her to the heart. She could almost imagine what her mother would say. Nonetheless, swallowing hard, she walked down the steps to the breakfast-room.
“Mama?”
Her mother was at the window. She turned to face her. Those pale blue eyes were empty of emotion.
“Yes?” her mother said. Her voice was flat and defeated.
“Mama?” Hestony swallowed hard. “I wanted to ask if I have leave to find help for us?”
Her mother looked at her uncomprehendingly. Then she nodded. She was more subdued than Hestony had ever seen her.
“Why not?” she asked, shrugging.
Hestony frowned. “Can I approach anyone?” she murmured.
Her mother shrugged again. “Besides our relatives, yes. I am desperate enough to seek help in any guise.”
Hestony felt a mix of relief and horror. This simple resignation was less like her mother than anything she could have foreseen. She would have welcomed her shouting, her rages…anything! Just not this dull acceptance.
“I’ll do my best, Mama,” she promised.
“Thank you,” her mother said. She leaned on the windowsill, and Hestony left the room.
She tried to focus on other things, but the image of her mother – alone, subdued, leaning on the sill – would not leave her heart.
She had to do something to help them; whatever it took.
They needed a savior.
Chapter Seven
A Matter of Money
Hal looked up at the big coach and felt a little dubious. He enjoyed riding, and coaches always made him feel uncomfortable. The large coach with the coat-of-arms of Westmore emblazoned on the side was probably the most intimidating of all such contraptions he’d ever seen, and he balked at the idea of alighting.
“It’s faster if I ride…” he protested. His cousin frowned.
“Hal – we’re taking the coach anyway. Emilia cannot ride for any distance. It tires her out too much. What sense would it make to get the coach all harnessed up, and then you ride? There’s room for four at least inside.”
“That’s true.”
Luke chuckled. “Of course, it is! Come on, now…the sooner you’re in, the faster we reach Amhurst Heights.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hal swung up grimly into the coach, seating himself on the side beside the window. Luke helped Emilia to enter, and then sat down beside her, opposite Hal. The door slammed shut on the brightening morning outside.
“Well, then,” Luke smiled at him fondly. “Won’t it be nice to see Lady Hestony again?”