Page 29 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
All thoughts of Benedict Fairburn's purposes in visiting the Dalton household fled Claire's mind as she gazed in astonishment at Amelia. "I beg your pardon?"
"Oh!" A hint of pleasing color teased Amelia's cheekbones. "You must know—everyone does!—that Benny is due to inherit our aunt's fortune. It's why he's expected to marry soon."
"Yes," Claire said with a note of dread impatience, "but what's this about the institute?"
"Only that if he hasn't chosen a suitable bride before Great-Aunt Nancy passes, her fortune will go to the institute for orphaned children rather than the family.
You can see why everyone's in such a fuss to get him married off.
And Mother is determined he should marry a woman of wealth and stature just in case Great-Aunt Nancy changes her mind at the last moment and leaves the money to the institute instead. "
The blankly accepting faces of Graham's niece and nephew, the hopeless eyes of the older children, their squalor, their ragged clothes, the raging pride of the fallen noblewoman who housed and clothed and fed them, appeared in Claire's mind's eye, each of those grim expressions burned in her memory.
She tried to speak and could not; swallowed, wet her lips, and tried again.
Even then her voice was nothing more than a hoarse and grating sound; she was finally forced to take up a cup of tea and drink deeply of it before she was able to speak again.
The momentary inability to speak had given her time to think; her horror was not now—she hoped—audible.
"Tell me, Miss Fairburn, if it is not too indelicate to ask. Would your brother be…quite bereft financially if he was not to inherit your aunt's estate?"
"Oh no," Amelia Fairburn said cheerfully.
"We are more than comfortable, and I dare say there's a generous dowry in my name as well.
But one can never be too careful, you know.
A brother or son might be inflicted with the gambling disease and whole estates can be lost in an evening.
Always better to keep the family fortune held close, and to grow it whenever one may. "
"I suppose so," Claire replied, but, entirely lost in the memories of Jack's family and the other wretched children, she hardly heard herself.
Indeed, she hardly knew herself: she had been upset over things in the past, as anyone might be, but she had never experienced the cold anger that now held her in its grip.
In the past, upset had been accompanied by a churning stomach, cold hands, flushed cheeks, an inability to choose a course of action.
In startling contrast she now knew precisely what she wished to do, exactly what she wanted to say.
It was only a matter of finding the opportunity, and hoping her anger held until then.
She could not, in truth, imagine that it would not.
Amelia spoke; Claire did not catch the words, and looked to the other girl in wordless query.
"I said, are you all right, Miss Dalton?
I've never seen anyone take such a turn.
You are so white and still that I fear for your health. Have I said something distressing?"
"Yes," Claire whispered, "but you could not have known how it would strike me, and I must not let it disturb our afternoon. Do forgive me, Miss Fairburn. I shall be all right in a moment."
Lucy, Miss Dalton's maid, had gone to fetch tea and, with the below-stairs sense of something noteworthy pending, Worthington stationed himself outside the drawing room door.
His nominal purpose was to open the door for Lucy when she arrived with the tea.
His actual purpose was eavesdropping, though he would never regard it in such a light.
He listened with interest to the tale of Mr Fairburn's engagement, with greater interest to the story of Fairburn's abortive visit to the Dalton household previous to his engagement, and with outright pleasure as Miss Dalton spoke passionately about the sights she had seen that day.
Before the ladies were finished discussing either Fairburn or orphans, Worthington left his post by the drawing room door to sit at a nearby table and withdraw pen, ink and paper.
With the ease of long practice, he applied himself to the writing of several notes: six, in fact, each of them in the hand of Mr Benedict Fairburn, whose quick-scratched penmanship was one of the easiest of the Lads' to emulate.
Cringlewood's, with its elaborate swoops and curls, was among the most difficult, as was—strangely enough—the stiff and belabored script used by Ronald Vincent, whom Worthington knew had only barely been able to write when he lost his writing hand, and had had to learn again.
The others were all various degrees between, though of course Worthington could write in Master Dalton's hand so exactly that when pressed, Dalton himself couldn't tell the difference.
The notes written, folded and sealed, Worthington passed them along to a footman, who was charged with their immediate delivery to the Lads, including to young Master Dalton, who was upstairs.
Another dispatch was sent to the Fairburn household's butler in Worthington's own hand.
Upon reading it, the elderly and easily exasperated Fairburn butler sighed, cursed the thoughtlessness of youth, blessed Worthington's thoroughness, and set about preparing the household for the moderate gala that young Benedict hadn't seen fit to mention.
These arrangements attended to, Worthington made a reappearance at the drawing room door, knocking to announce his presence and stepping in with an air of embarrassed intrusion.
"Forgive me, Miss Dalton, but it seems that the Lads will shortly be at Miss Fairburn's home for a celebratory dinner, and it will be quite necessary for Miss Fairburn to attend in order to have some hope of balancing the table. "
"Oh!" Miss Dalton sprang to her feet with fire in her eyes. "Miss Fairburn, may I be so bold as to invite myself along? I should like very much to help set that table to rights."
Miss Fairburn blinked at Miss Dalton in surprise, but ended on a smile.
"I imagine my mother would be grateful for your presence, Miss Dalton.
There are so many Lads. I would invite you over straightaway, but I fear there's too much difference in our heights to lend you any of my gowns.
Might we retire to your rooms immediately so you might dress, after which we will take the carriage back to mine?
The fuss of dressing is always more bearable with a bosom companion to talk with. "
"I can think of no more splendid course of action," Miss Dalton declared. The two girls hurried, hand in hand, past Worthington, who followed at a sedate pace to assist Master Dalton in dressing for dinner as well.