Page 5 of The Spinster's Resolve

I n the following weeks, they all worked tirelessly to clean every inch of the cottage. Garlic and Ginger were tasked with dealing with the mice and creepy-crawly problem, but they were utterly clueless—being young, they were far more fascinated with chasing each other’s tails. The sisters could not be annoyed; despite their lack of skills as mousers, they were undeniably talented entertainers.

Although Grace had not expected it, a few of her former tenants from the Skye Estate discovered the cottage’s state of disrepair and kindly offered their assistance during the first week of their move. They helped repair the roof and windowpanes, much to the sisters’ surprise and gratitude. Farmer Jones and his son rebuilt the shed, which now housed a cow, chickens, and a horse.

Despite this unexpected help in the beginning, as the months passed, much remained to be done. Grace had to keep a close eye on the budget; although she had set aside funds for the refurbishment, the money was rapidly dwindling.

They also needed more furniture, so Grace began by designing a writing desk, which Jimmy crafted in time for Heather’s birthday. It was well received on the day in question. That evening, after the birthday dinner, the ladies gathered in the small morning room, as the other rooms were still uninhabitable.

As Heather scribbled away at her newly received gift, Grace disclosed, ‘The last of the budget is to be spent on the kitchen as a priority, but the left wing remains untouched and still needs a great deal of work. And let us not forget that horrid incident yesterday when Jimmy got his foot stuck in the rotting floorboards, creating a hole in the dining room ceiling. The poor lad had to remain trapped for two hours before any of us even noticed he was missing.’

Mrs Merriweather snapped back severely, ‘But it was his own fault—the dolt started working on the floor by himself, even though I expressly forbade it! The boy is like the moon: a work-shy layabout, nowhere to be seen most of the time, only to turn up when you least expect him. Had I known he was starting that job, I would have sent Betty to assist him.’

‘Yes, well, you must admit he is resourceful—he had the wherewithal to think of removing his... err... lower garments and shoes to wriggle out of his trap.’

Heather looked up from her letter-writing and said, ‘Well, we certainly got to see the full moon yesterday.’

She giggled, and the sisters could not help but laugh at the poor boy’s misfortunes.

Mrs Merriweather shook her head in exasperation, ‘Between Jimmy’s antics and Betty’s incessant gossiping, I am at my wit’s end.’ she declared, looking heavenward.

Heather’s ears pricked up at the mention of gossip, ‘Ooh, what gossip?’

Mrs Merriweather waved a dismissive hand, ‘Something about Mille—Farmer Hayhurst’s daughter—running away from home. There is a rumour going around the village that she might have eloped to Gretna Green with a secret beau.’

‘Oh, who is this secret beau?’ Heather asked eagerly.

Mrs Merriweather tutted before replying, ‘No one knows, hence—why he is a secret beau.’

Millie eloped? How strange! She had always seemed far too sensible to take such a risk , Grace thought, as she absentmindedly took a bite of the freshly baked biscuits Mrs Merriweather had made—only to splutter and cough violently.

‘Mrs M...’ Eyes streaming, she reached for the pitcher of milk and gulped it down. ‘D...did... you put spices in the biscuits?’

Having exhausted the recipes she had learnt from Cook, Mrs Merriweather had begun experimenting in the kitchen, adding Indian spices she had sourced from the market. This rendered most of her dishes inedible, though the sisters had to admit that her chicken curry was excellent.

‘I added chilli powder—do you like it? It is very good for the sinuses, you know,’ Mrs Merriweather stated proudly.

Grace made a mental note to find a proper cook when their finances improved.

‘Now, if you two have quite finished,’ Mrs Merriweather continued, ‘we must come up with a solution to our predicament. The bench in the kitchen collapsed beneath us all during supper yesterday, and aside from the fact that my backside is still aching, all my hard work preparing that meal went to waste!’

Grace hid her smile at the memory of Mrs Merriweather’s little legs flying up in the air as the bench gave way—at least they had been spared the spice-laden mashed potatoes.

‘We must not keel under the pressure of all these repairs,’ quipped Heather unhelpfully. ‘Perhaps Jimmy could craft a new bench for us?’ she added, continuing to scribble her letters.

Grace tried her best to control her giggles. ‘But we would still need to buy the materials and tools, and we simply cannot afford it at present.’

The ladies fell into silent contemplation. A shadow of gloom descended upon them—a stark reminder of the sacrifices Charles had forced upon them. As Grace pondered what could be done, Heather interjected, ‘What about selling Mama’s jewellery? The ones she left for me?’

Grace disliked the idea of parting with more mementoes of their beloved mother and abruptly responded, ‘Heather, under no circumstances are you to sell your jewellery. They are antique Indian designs, passed down through generations, and once sold, there will be nothing similar in England. Mama left them for you to wear.’

Heather bristled immediately. ‘I have just turned seventeen and am perfectly capable of deciding for myself! Besides, I won’t be wearing any of them, will I?’

With that, she stormed off, leaving Grace regretful—both for her abruptness and for the painful realisation that Heather was right. In their current situation, there would be little opportunity for her to wear them.

A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER , tensions still lingered in the Skye household following Heather’s outburst. Grace was battling a particularly stubborn weed in the vegetable patch, taking out her frustrations on the poor plant, when a harassed-looking Mrs Merriweather came hurrying out of the house.

‘Miss Grace, we have a visitor—he wishes to see you. He is waiting in the morning room.’

Covered in mud, Grace straightened up. ‘A visitor? For me? Who?’ But Mrs Merriweather had already disappeared.

Concerned for her companion’s well-being, Grace made a mental note to help her more in the kitchen. Absently removing her smock, she patted down the dirt on her dress and brushed stray strands of hair from her face before stepping into the morning room.

There, she found a young gentleman with slicked-back blond hair and a medium build. She guessed his age to be in his early to mid-twenties. His angular features suited him—by most standards, he would be regarded as handsome—but Grace remained unaffected. Slowly, recognition dawned. He was the same man who had accompanied that obnoxious excuse for a solicitor.

As he stood upon her entrance, she greeted him. ‘Mr Smith, what a surprise. How did you know where to find us?’ She curtsied politely.

Tapping his nose, he replied, ‘I have my ways, Miss Skye.’

Noting the dirt on her gown and the stray wisps of hair framing her face, he smiled with a twinkle of appreciation in his eyes.

‘You must be quite the Bow Street Runner, Mr Smith, for we took pains to remain hidden,’ she teased. There was no reason for secrecy, but she was curious to see how he had tracked them down.

Mr Smith, however, missed her jest and replied earnestly, ‘Oh, I am sorry, Miss Skye. I had no intention of intruding...’

Laughing, she waved her hand in reassurance. He relaxed and sat back in the armchair as she handed him a cup of tea. (Grace wisely refrained from offering him the biscuits.)

He took a sip and promptly choked just as Heather entered the morning room, dressed in a lilac morning gown. A serendipitous ray of sunlight followed her in, creating a halo effect that rendered her angelic.

After introductions were made, Mr Smith suddenly appeared nervous. Grace took pity on him and attempted to ease his discomfort.

‘So, when did you acquire your talents in hunting down individuals who do not wish to be found?’ she asked with amusement.

Finally realising her jest, he replied, ‘Ah, well—being a solicitor, we often track down people of interest, heirs, and inheritors of wills. You would be surprised at what I have picked up in my line of work. If you ever wish to find the unfindable, you may depend on me, Miss Skye.’

‘How about highwaymen? Can you find them?’ Heather interjected, her interest piqued.

He chuckled but, not wanting to disappoint her, replied gallantly, ‘Why not? Someone, somewhere, will always know the highwayman in question. Do you have one in mind, Miss Heather?’

‘Oh, no!’ She giggled. ‘I was merely curious.’

‘Well, then, you must be an asset to Bow Street Runners and the like,’ Grace quipped.

‘Alas, they do not consult us, and we do not divulge,’ he said. Tapping his nose again, he added conspiratorially, ‘Client confidentiality, you know. But no doubt, if they did—and if we could—we would not disappoint!’

He was looking far more at ease now.

Half an hour passed in pleasant conversation. Grace made a mental note to invite more friends and neighbours to the cottage. Perhaps attending the local assemblies might be in order as well.

‘So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? It is a long journey from London,’ she inquired.

‘We have a few clients in this area requiring attention. I must confess, however, that I volunteered to come here,’ he admitted, glancing towards Heather. ‘The scenery is so beautiful—I could not resist.’

Heather blushed prettily at the implication.

Grace noted the exchange and raised an eyebrow. ‘How do the staff at the Manor fare? Are they being looked after under the new owner?’

He cleared his throat at the direct question. ‘I believe the Duke of Armitage is the new owner—he is another client of ours.’ He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. He realised this was a sensitive subject and wished to change it, but Grace pressed him further.

However, he hesitated before replying, ‘To be honest, I do not know much about it. My father usually deals with the more important clientele, as you can imagine.’

Noticing the worried expressions on their faces, he added, ‘I am sure the new steward is managing everything appropriately.’

‘Has Lord Armitage taken up residence yet?’ Heather asked.

‘Come to the Manor? Goodness, no. His Grace has no intention of setting foot in the place. He is elderly and in poor health of late; I believe he does not travel much anymore.’

This unsettled Grace. They had been forced to leave their home, only for it to remain empty. Lord Armitage was clearly interested only in the Estate’s income.

Mr Smith hesitated before adding, ‘But Mr Gibbs is residing at the Manor and benefitting from its comforts, so it will not remain closed. The staff are safe.’

Both sisters looked stricken. If only Grace could have been employed as the steward, they might still be living there.

Noticing their distress, Mr Smith was visibly affected.

‘I believe the misfortunes brought upon you by your cousin—and carried out by my father—were an injustice. I did not like how we left you last time we met.’

Clearing his throat, he continued, ‘I would like to offer you my services, should you ever require assistance. Would it be too forward of me to help manage your finances and affairs? I know that being a lady in a world of men can be difficult to navigate.’

It would have been a great help, but Grace’s pride would not allow her to accept.

‘I thank you, sir, but we have everything we need,’ Grace replied. Then, glancing at Heather, she relented slightly. ‘However, Heather has some jewellery she wishes to sell, with the proceeds to be used for investment.’

Grace caught her sister’s eye, and Heather beamed.

‘I would be more than happy to assist,’ Mr Smith said, his expression brightening at the prospect of spending more time with her.

‘How are you finding Sandgate? I hope it is to your liking,’ Grace asked nonchalantly, quietly pleased with her matchmaking efforts.

‘I must confess, I have not seen enough of it to say. I have been staying at The Little Lamb and intend to remain for a few more weeks,’ he admitted.

Grace hid a smile. Her younger sister liked him, and Mr Smith appeared quite smitten.

Determined to encourage them further, she said, ‘Well then, you must allow me to introduce you to the local families at the next assembly. Do you like to dance, Mr Smith?’

He declared that he did, and they agreed to meet at the event. Before long, he became a regular morning visitor at Skye Cottage, spending several hours in the company of the ladies—particularly Heather—as he guided her through the intricacies of investment.