to be alone.’
Her heart lurched for him. He’d lost his whole family. She reached out for him once more, placing her hand on his arm. ‘But you also came here for us. I am so grateful to you.’
He glanced away. ‘To go from such a happy day to such a horrific one—I am so sorry for it.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘You must never apologise, not for what happened.’
His gaze pierced her again. ‘It will get better, Lorene. I promise you.’
It must, but if he were held responsible for this dreadful event, she would never forgive herself.
She remained captured by his eyes. It seemed as though she would stay there for ever, but he abruptly broke contact and stepped back.
‘I must leave.’
‘When will I see you next?’ It was the question of a lover, not the sort she should be asking, but it burst from her lips.
‘At the inquest.’
He bowed again, turned and left.
The next several days for Lorene went by as if in a dream.
At least she had not been alone. Tess and Glenville stayed with her at Tinmore Hall and Genna and Rossdale called almost every day. Their presence further disgruntled the servants, but Lorene had long ago given up being accepted by them. Most were old retainers who had served Tinmore most of their lives. She knew nothing of the history of their service to him, but they’d perceived her as an interloper. When Tinmore had been alive, they’d barely been civil, but now their animosity was palpable. Only Filkins, Tinmore’s secretary, exerted himself to be helpful to her, writing to the solicitors who were executors of Tinmore’s will, notifying Tinmore’s heir. The secretary even made tentative arrangements for Tinmore’s burial, although the funeral had to meet the executor’s approval. More than that, the funeral had to be delayed until all the jurors had paraded through the house to examine Tinmore’s body and the place he fell. The jurors were good and lawful men recruited from neighbouring properties and, though they must not have been pleased to have their Christmastide so interrupted, they all seemed to take their task seriously.
* * *
By New Year’s Eve, all jurors had seen what was required of them. The inquest was scheduled for January the thirteenth, a week after Twelfth Night, so as not to interfere with any of the festivities of those involved. There were no festivities at Tinmore Hall.
* * *
On January the eighth, Lord Tinmore’s solicitors arrived from London and gathered all interested parties to a drawing room to read the will.
Lorene’s sisters and their husbands accompanied her.
Rossdale muttered under his breath as they walked into room, ‘He had better have done well by you.’
‘I do not expect much,’ Lorene cautioned. ‘Contrary to what everyone believes, I did not marry him to make myself a wealthy widow.’
All she wanted was enough to purchase a little cottage somewhere and to live quietly. A place where scandal would never touch her again. That had been all she asked of Tinmore. Enough for her to live comfortably in some quiet village somewhere and never, ever, be under the thumb of a husband again.
‘Well, I think Tinmore owes you a great deal,’ Genna huffed.
‘He already gave us a great deal,’ she responded.
They’d had beautiful places to live, plenty of food, social connections and the prettiest gowns money could buy, but now she needed no more than a little cottage where she could plant flowers in a garden and not be waited on hand and foot by a brigade of servants. One or two maids to help in the house and a man to do the heavy things would be lovely, but, even so, she could do with less.
They took their seats. This drawing room was the same room where the coroner and Squire Hedges had interviewed her and Dell. There were two men, the solicitor and his partner, both attended by Mr Filkins, who’d made certain the proper people had been invited. The room was filled with the servants who had been in Tinmore’s employ the longest, Dixon, Wicky, the housekeeper, Lorene’s lady’s maid, and a smattering of others, including the estate manager and others important to the running of the estate. Lord Tinmore’s heir was not present, having declined to make the trip.
‘Shall we begin,’ the solicitor intoned, unfurling the document.
The room fell silent and he began to read.
Lorene fancied she could hear Tinmore’s voice in the words and it disturbed her mostly because she had no feelings about it. She could not say she missed him. She could not even say she’d been fond of him.
The most she could say was she was glad she no longer had to listen to his voice.
She glanced around the room at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls. In them, though, she saw Tinmore’s features. His brow here. A nose there. His eyes. His disapproving mouth.
She forced her gaze to the window. The snow had melted and the landscape bore the bleakness of winter and none of its beauty.
The solicitor’s voice broke through. ‘...And to my widow, née Lorene Summerfield, the town house on Brook Street in Mayfair and an income of twelve thousand pounds a year...’
Genna gasped.
Lorene shook her head. Surely she had misheard.
The solicitor went on to specify certain carriages and horses that were to be hers, as well as some pieces of furniture and the gilt pianoforte that had been one of Tinmore’s more extravagant gifts.
She murmured, ‘It cannot be so.’
She’d not even known he owned a town house on Brook Street. While in London they’d stayed at the town house on Curzon Street, which she knew to be entailed.
The solicitor continued with a long list of other bequests to persons present and others who would need to be informed. When all the bequests had been spoken, he rolled up the will again and indicated that they were free to leave.
The servants and others milled around briefly talking among themselves. They seemed pleased, as well they should, because Tinmore had generously provided for them.
Finally they filed out of the room and Lorene walked up to the solicitor. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’
He unrolled the will and reread the words pertaining to her.
She still could not believe it. ‘How much income?’
‘Twelve thousand.’ The man rolled up the document again. ‘Quite the generous man, was he not?’
Lorene nodded and turned away.
She’d wanted to be comfortable, but now she would not be comfortable after all.
She’d be wealthy.
Rossdale and Glenville also approached the solicitors and she withdrew to let them gather all the petty details of how and when she was to receive this fortune and the deed to the town house she did not want.
Tess took her arm and sat her back down on the sofa between Genna and herself.
‘This is marvellous.’ Genna took her hand. ‘You will want for nothing!’
Tess looked at her with concern. ‘Why are you so shocked? Surely you expected a decent inheritance?’
‘I—I did not,’ she said.
‘Humph!’ Genna made a face. ‘He probably did it so the beau monde would call him generous.’
Tess shot Genna a quelling glance. ‘No matter the reason, he was very generous.’ Tess looked thoughtful. ‘Although I suppose it is