‘Our business is concluded, sir. I have made my decision.’
Faye Shawcross abruptly stood up. The sauce of the man! Not only had he advised her to invest in a financial plan that had failed dismally, but he wanted to persuade her to plough what money remained to her into another of his schemes. When she had received his note yesterday, requesting an audience, she had believed he intended to come and beg forgiveness for letting her down so badly. She had even harboured a hope that he might speak of recompense. Not so much of it! Barely had he settled on a chair before proffering a new parchment for signature as though she were a gullible fool.
‘I do not want to seem dictatorial, Miss Shawcross, but I beg you will reconsider my proposal. I’m sure your fiancé would direct you to listen to me, were he here.’
‘But he is not, and neither is his presence required. I need no further time, or advice, sir. I have clearly said I have made my decision and have terminated my contract with you. Goodbye.’
A moment ago Faye had employed the small brass bell on the table by her side; her housekeeper had promptly appeared and was now hovering, awaiting an instruction.
‘Mr Westwood is leaving, Mrs Gideon.’
A barking cough from the servant reminded the man she was ready to show him out.
Westwood had sprung to his feet as Miss Shawcross did, an angry blush burning in his cheeks at her curt dismissal; but he managed to jerk a bow. ‘As you wish; but I make no apology for striving to assist you in restoring your fortunes.’
‘Perhaps you might instead like to apologise for having depleted them in the first place,’ Faye replied coolly, anger and impatience sparking green fire in her eyes.
‘I mentioned to you there was a risk attached,’ he intoned piously.
‘But not quite as fulsomely as you bade me to pay no heed to it. Had I an inkling that my money might disappear within a short while of you handling it, sir, I would not have listened to a word you uttered.’
Westwood’s eyes popped, but Faye was not intimidated by his display of fury. She indicated he should leave with a nod.
Barely had the parlour door closed on his ramrod-straight back when it again opened and a boy hurtled over the threshold.
‘Are we poor?’
‘Of course not, my dear.’ Faye held out her arms to her half-brother, catching Michael into her embrace. ‘We are just not quite as well off as once we were.’
‘I can still go to school in Warwick?’
‘Indeed you can! And I hope to have some better reports from your headmaster when you return in the autumn, young man.’
Michael looked sheepish at the reminder of his misbehaviour. ‘I know I shouldn’t have got into that fight.’
‘No you shouldn’t...but neither should you allow those boys to bully you.’ Faye ruffled her half-brother’s fair hair. She felt guilty that Michael had been mocked by some older pupils when the news circulated about his overdue school fees. The headmaster’s letter had been one of the first indications that all was not well. She had accepted Westwood’s explanation that the matter was just an oversight. How she regretted having been so naive!
But now she had terminated the lawyer’s contract the periodic sum the charlatan had charged to nurture her investments would again be available for essentials. They weren’t poor...but neither were they rich, nor even comfortably off as they had once been. Faye bitterly regretted having employed Westwood; but he had come recommended by the man she was to marry and thus she’d trusted the fellow to deliver what he’d promised. Now she suspected he was incompetent at best and corrupt at worst, but she had no proof that he’d done anything underhand. She’d willingly signed the documents, handing him control of half her father’s bequest. Fighting Westwood in court and losing the battle would certainly end in her destitution. With her younger siblings relying on her she couldn’t afford any such action...and no doubt Mr Westwood was aware of that fact.
At twelve years old Michael had many more years at school; further economies would need to be made if her half-brother were to stay in Warwick. Yet she must be even-handed; she also had her half-sister’s future to consider. As though that young lady were aware of Faye’s reflection she skipped into the room.
‘May we go out this afternoon?’ Claire asked excitedly. ‘I saw the caravans from my window. There are crowds gathering already on the village green.’
‘I saw them, too! May we go?’ Michael interrupted his sister to add his own plea to be allowed to visit the local midsummer fair. The Romanies arrived annually and stayed for a few days to entertain the locals before moving on to another town.
‘Yes, indeed, we shall go and enjoy ourselves; only a few pennies each to spend, though,’ Faye cautioned. She sighed happily; a break from the unpleasant anxiety that had beset them all would be very welcome.
Just a few days ago at breakfast she’d unsuspectingly opened the letter from Westwood, finally admitting the truth. From her spontaneous gasp of dismay the children had learned something was amiss. Faye had been tempted to shield them from the dreadful news. But what use was procrastination when they must know immediately that savings had to be made.
‘I’m going to fetch my new bonnet and stitch some ribbon on it.’ Claire skipped towards the door.
‘Bill Perkins won’t be going, so you’re wasting your time wearing it for him,’ Michael ribbed.
‘I’m not bothered about him anyway...’ his sister retorted.
‘No bickering, if you please,’ Faye reprimanded wryly.
Claire had developed a