Page 2 of The Spinster's Resolve

Six Months Later

A s was her routine, Grace was out at the crack of dawn, tending to the tenants or overseeing outstanding tasks in the Skye Estate. At Farmer Jones’s cottage, she was pleased to find the labourers had successfully repaired the leaking roof. The solution she suggested for draining the flooded land in the southeast corner of Farmer Hayhurst’s land worked well.

However, today, a pit of fear settled in her stomach.

The dreaded news had arrived—the probate had cleared, and Charles was now the official owner of Skye Manor. Grace was living on borrowed time and expected solicitors to arrive with news of how their lives would change under his control.

She rode back to Skye Manor, standing grand and tall against the morning sky.

Jimmy, a fourteen-year-old orphan she had taken in a year ago as a stable boy, took her horse with a cheerful smile. Grace returned the gesture before strolling through the stables and luxurious pleasure gardens, making her way to the stately study adorned with rich mahogany furnishings.

Settling at her desk, she set to work, completing paperwork, but anxiety gnawed at her thoughts.

No one knew yet that she had another plan—one she would execute if today’s meeting did not go well.

A sharp knock on the door snapped Grace from her contemplation.

Melissa, Farmer Trent’s daughter, stood shyly in the doorway. It was not uncommon for tenants to visit with small gifts or requests, and Grace always welcomed them.

‘How lovely to see you again, Melissa,’ Grace greeted warmly, ushering her inside and offering her a biscuit.

The young girl hesitated before stepping forward.

‘Ma sent these raspberry jam preserves for the Manor, Miss Skye, as a thank you for sorting out the broken fence. The sheep aren’t escaping anymore,’ she explained, nibbling at the biscuit.

‘Oh, and Pa said to thank you for arranging the sales at the market. He made a tidy profit.’

‘That was no trouble at all.’ Grace took the jars. ‘You must thank your Ma for her famous preserves, though. We do love them.’

Melissa’s gaze drifted to the bookshelf, her fingers twitching with anticipation. Grace knew exactly what she wanted.

‘How did you find First Impressions?’

Melissa’s shyness vanished in an instant. ‘We loved it! I read it twice,’ she said rapturously, retrieving the book from her reticule.

‘I am glad you did. Heather and I have read it out loud thrice now.’

Grace smiled. ‘You are welcome to borrow another.’ She could not have said anything better. Melissa beamed, jumping eagerly to the shelf.

After Melissa left, Grace sought out her sister and Mrs Merriweather for a late luncheon. Leaving the masculine study, she entered a contrasting feminine space—the morning room.

Sunlight streamed into the airy room, illuminating vibrant cushions with intricate Indian patterns and a cosy fire crackling in the hearth.

A well-laden luncheon table awaited, and her stomach grumbled in response.

As she reached for a bread roll, Heather intercepted her.

‘Gracy, Johnson said the new litter of kittens are old enough to leave their Mama. I have chosen the ginger one for the house,’ she announced in a rush.

Grace sighed as she sidestepped her sister. ‘We already have five cats roaming around the Manor! Do we really need a sixth?’

‘Yes, well—Ginger climbed up my skirts today and settled himself on my shoulder. So, you see, he chose us,’ Heather declared triumphantly, plopping into the seat beside her.

Her enthusiasm was as infectious as ever.

Heather’s easy manners could brighten even the dreariest day, though at times, Grace craved a little distance from her younger sister’s boundless energy—for the sake of her own sanity.

However, Grace did not mind her sister’s nature on most days and usually handled it with a mixture of light scolding, bantering, or teasing.

Today, she chose the latter tactic, continuing to feign indignation. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ she asked, shaking her head in mock reprimand.

Heather flashed a mischievous smile, clearly goading her.

‘What is that smile supposed to mean, if I may ask?’ Grace responded, keeping her tone calm.

Heather, clearly aiming to irritate her sister further, replied archly, ‘I am smiling because I am your little sister, and there is nothing you can do about it.’

She punctuated her words with a maniacal laugh.

Grace, with a bit of exasperation, flung her bread roll playfully towards her sister’s face in retaliation.

But Heather ducked just in time, and the roll ended up hitting Mrs Merriweather instead.

Mrs Merriweather, so accustomed to the sisters’ antics, simply picked up the roll where it fell, placed it on her plate, and began to eat it.

The sisters burst into peals of laughter, all thoughts of the solicitors and impending fate forgotten.

Nothing could lift their spirits like a little sibling altercation.

Once their laughter subsided, Heather broke the brief respite. ‘Gracy, what do you think the solicitors will say?’

‘I am sure your cousin will provide for you,’ Mrs Merriweather smiled reassuringly. ‘He is a gentleman, after all.’

Grace scoffed. ‘Being a gentleman does not necessarily mean he has a heart. In fact, I recall Charles as a child. He was always a bully—a disagreeable numpty—and he proved it the last time he visited.’

Mrs Merriweather shook her head in disapproval, her tone soft but firm. ‘There is no reasoning with you when you start speaking like that, petal.’

But the ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, betraying her reprimand.

Grace laughed, leaning over to plant a noisy kiss on the old woman’s rounded cheek. ‘Fine, I admit it. Even Charles will not be so cruel as to throw us out onto the street.’

Even as Grace said this, a niggling thought bothered her. She recalled the cold, dismissive look Charles had given her as he left and felt as though she had burned a bridge.

But she couldn’t bring herself to voice these concerns to Mrs Merriweather. The old woman was doing her best to keep their spirits up, and Grace didn’t have the heart to dispel her comforting thoughts.

MR SMITH AND MR SMITH Junior, a father-and-son duo, ran a legal practice in London. At the behest of their client, Charles, they had undertaken an arduous journey to Skye Manor.

Once introductions were made and refreshments offered, the younger gentleman took his seat at the back of the room. His father, who dominated the conversation, silenced him before he could utter a word.

Grace felt a pang of pity for the young man—he seemed to be entirely under his father’s control.

The older gentleman settled his tall, sturdy frame onto a delicate spindle chair with a wobbly leg. It creaked loudly under his considerable weight.

Grace hesitated, debating whether to warn him, but before she could, Mr Smith cut her off and said,

‘I shall get straight to the point, Miss Skye. As you are aware, the Manor and Estate are entailed to the male line and now belong to your cousin, Charles Skye. Do you understand, Miss?’

Grace was fully aware.

Irritated by his patronising tone, she simply replied, ‘I do.’

Now, she rather hoped the chair would snap.

Mr Smith shuffled a stack of what looked to Grace like empty sheets of paper—no doubt a prop to make himself seem more important.

‘Yes, well. Mr Charles Skye has asked us to inform you that you are to vacate the premises within two weeks. Apart from your personal effects and your mother’s possessions, you are not permitted to remove anything else.’

At this, Mr Smith had the conscience to look somewhat shamefaced.

Grace’s heart sank, and her face paled. ‘Out of here in two weeks? You must be joking, Mr Smith!’

‘I am not in the habit of joking, Miss Skye.’

Mr Smith knew it was unreasonable, but he had a job to do, so he forged on. ‘Mr Skye has decided that, given your spinster status, your mother’s annuity should be sufficient to support your needs and your sister’s. He anticipated you could rent a room in the country and lead a quiet life, which he felt would suit your needs.’

Grace stared at Mr Smith in disbelief.

Charles was truly throwing them out of the only home they had ever known? She had at least expected him to provide them with a place to stay—if not here, then somewhere.

‘How can this be? Did my cousin truly arrange it this way? Where are we to go!’

Mr Smith squirmed. ‘Erm ... I ...’ He shuffled his papers again, as though searching for a suitable answer. None came to him.

Grace realised there would be no point in asking Charles to reconsider. It had been over six months since her father had died—plenty of time for Charles to grow a conscience, if he ever had one to begin with.

Out of love for her sister, she asked, ‘What of Heather? Did he say whether he would support her coming out, at least?’

Mr Smith shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the chair creaking loudly in protest.

‘Well ... Erm ... in his words, he said he did not wish to be troubled by a child. He feels that there is no reason to take on any obligations, especially after considering her ... erm ... mixed heritage and immaturity. He believes she has very little chance of finding a husband.’

A sharp pang of fury twisted in Grace’s chest.

Grace shot to her feet, anger burning through her as she cried, ‘This is unacceptable! He is Heather’s only male guardian—he has a duty to care for her!’

But even as the words left her lips, she knew they were useless.

Did I ruin her chances of finding a husband? She thought. Perhaps my charade worked too well.

And in that moment, it became painfully clear—this was not just neglect.

This was spite.

He was doing this to punish her for embarrassing him in front of Lord Bainbridge.

Heather had always dreamed of travelling to London for a season or two, speaking of it often. But now, that dream would have to be set aside—perhaps forever.

In their remote part of the country, there were few eligible men left. Many had perished in the Napoleonic Wars, while others were already engaged or married.

And even if, by some miracle, a suitable bachelor remained, their mixed heritage and now their impoverished state would deter any potential suitor—despite Heather’s beauty.

Grace feared that her sister, too, would become a spinster, just as she had. She would never know the joys of motherhood—a dream that Grace had long since abandoned.

After managing to suppress her anger, Grace asked, ‘And what of Skye Manor? Who will be looking after it now that I will not be here to oversee the Estate and household in place of the late steward?’

Mr Smith replied evasively, ‘You need not worry on that score.’

But this was not enough for Grace. ‘What about the staff?’ she pressed. ‘I know Charles will not live here, and if he closes the Manor, the staff will be left without income or pensions.’

Cornered, Mr Smith reluctantly admitted, ‘The remaining staff will, of course, be retained, but Mr Skye has decided to sell the Manor and the Estate. The new owner will sort it out.’

No sooner had he spoken than he realised he had said much more than he should have. Charles had clearly instructed him not to mention the sale.

Grace stiffened, startled by this revelation. ‘But the Estate is entailed—I thought it could not be sold...’

Yet she knew better.

With enough money and influence, one could always find a way around the law.

Mr Smith’s face—already pink with discomfort—turned a deep shade of purple. He fumbled for the right words, but realising Grace was too sharp for anything but the truth, he answered, ‘Yes ... well. Err ... the truth of the matter is that Mr Skye is undergoing a process called common recovery, a legal procedure allowing the entailed Estate to be sold.’

Grace was familiar with this legal fiction—devised by crafty lawyers to sidestep the enforcement of entails. Only someone with considerable clout could achieve this.

She briefly wondered who the new owner could be. He must be of some influence, otherwise, such a manoeuvre would have been near impossible.

So, this was the crux of it.

All her efforts to make the Estate profitable had backfired. She had turned it into something desirable, and Charles—having no attachment to it—had no qualms about selling it for a profit.

Grace stared at Mr Smith, her mind racing. So, this was his plan all along. She had been a fool to believe that Charles would, at the very least, leave her and Heather with a roof over their heads.

She had spent years ensuring Skye Manor flourished, working tirelessly to improve the Estate, increase its profitability, and support the tenants.

And now, all of it would be handed over to a stranger.

Her stomach twisted with dread.

Who was the new owner? Would he care for the land and its people—or would he see it as just another asset, stripping it of its value before moving on to his next conquest?

Mr Smith cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I believe this concludes our business, Miss Skye,’ he said, his tone brisk, as though eager to escape the unpleasantness of the situation.

‘I shall return in two weeks. The new steward will be arriving to take possession and will require all the keys, so the property must be vacated before then.’

‘Won’t the new steward require a handover?’ Grace pressed. Surely, he will need to understand the land, the tenants, and the staff—I have been acting as steward these last twelve months since Travers, our last steward, died.’

Mr Smith’s face darkened, his walrus-like moustache twitching in irritation.

‘That will not be necessary,’ he replied stiffly. ‘Mr Skye has recommended a new steward to Lord Armitage. I am sure he has already informed Mr Gibbs of everything required for his new post.’

Lord Armitage? The new owner of Skye Estate —a name Grace had not heard before.

Before she could question him further, Mr Smith pushed back his chair, calling over his shoulder, ‘Come, Paul, we must be on our way!’

Paul?

Grace turned, startled, as Mr Smith Junior hesitated, shifting awkwardly by the door.

The younger man had remained silent throughout the meeting. But now, he lingered, his gaze full of hesitation.

After a moment’s pause, he stepped forward, a flicker of guilt in his expression. ‘Miss Skye, I am very sorry for your predicament,’ he said quietly.

Then, with a swift movement, he pulled a small card from his coat pocket and extended it to her. ‘If there is anything I can do to assist you in this difficult time, please send word. I would be most happy to help at a moment’s notice.’

Grace blinked rapidly, willing away the tears that threatened to fall.

Stupefied by this unexpected kindness, she took the card, her fingers trembling slightly.

She murmured her thanks, but before she could say more, Mr Smith Senior barked impatiently, ‘Paul! Come along!’

With a final look, Mr Smith Junior gave her a short nod before turning on his heel and following his father out the door.

The moment they were gone, Grace sank into a chair, her limbs heavy. A heavy silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

The irony of her earlier statement came to mind, Charles had thrown them out onto the street after all.