The Jane Austen Society(23)

He took another long sip of tea, then placed the cup down on the tray between them and cleared his throat.

“About the estate—I know you say your father has not involved you much—and I know this must be an extremely difficult time. But decisions, sadly, will always have to be made, both in good times and in bad. The books for the estate are not in the best of shape, and I have been trying—so far as I am able—to work through as much of it with your father as I can. I do think the two of you should talk though. I mean, generally speaking, it is always wise. Times will be hard enough without too much being, um, thrown at you when the inevitable time comes.”

She was looking down now, as if at an invisible book on her lap. “My father and I are ill-suited to conversation at the best of times.”

“Yes. I know.”

It was the first allusion he had ever made to their shared past, and she looked up quickly at his concerned face as if to double-check his words.

“And anyway, it won’t make a difference. My father does as he wants.”

“Yes, I know that, too.”

She sighed. “I just want us all to get through the year in one piece, now that this awful war is finally over.”

Immediately she wondered what had come over her to say something as emotional as that. She took a final sip of her own tea, then placed the empty cup down with the tiniest chink of the china against the silver tray.

Andrew felt as if this was his cue to leave and stood up. “Well, I best get back to the office.”

“Did you walk, by the way?”

“Yes. It’s my favourite walk. Always has been.”

With those words, he nodded goodbye and left.

Frances sat quite still. She usually found herself lingering behind in empty rooms to mull over difficult conversations like this. For one thing, her mind worked slower now, probably due to lack of engagement more than anything else. Certainly, everyone in her family who had lived to old age had remained sharp as a tack. That was why, as much as the accounting ledgers might look to be in a state, she knew that her father was still completely on top of everything. So she was a little curious as to why Andrew had been checking in on all of that with her.

But before she could think about his words any further, Josephine appeared in the other doorway, the one leading from the library to the back gallery and the warren-like complex of kitchens and cellars beyond.

“Miss Frances, telephone call for you. A Mr. Yardley Sinclair, from Sotheby’s.”

Frances made a small face. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Should we tell him you’re indisposed, ma’am?”

Frances stood up. “No, it’s fine, I’ll take it in the hall. Thank you, Josephine.”

She headed into the hallway just as Evie Stone passed by, duster in hand, on her way to the library. Frances smiled at the young girl’s diligence when it came to dusting the thousands of books. Goodness knows the many volumes had sat neglected on those shelves for far too long.

Frances picked up the phone that rested on a small desk at the far end of the hallway, below the substantial hanging Jacobean staircase that led to the upstairs rooms.

“Frances Knight,” she said uncertainly, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

She heard a man clear his throat on the other end, as if he had been waiting quite some time to speak with her.

“Miss Knight, hello—my name is Yardley Sinclair. I work with Sotheby’s, the auction house, here in London.”

“Yes.” She waited.

“Yes, I see, thank you—thank you for taking my call. I am telephoning because I just supervised the sale of the Godmersham estate a few weeks past.”

This estate had once also belonged to the Knights, but had been sold decades earlier to pay off significant tax and other debt owed by the family.

“Oh, yes, so I’d heard.” She and her father had learned about the sale of the estate and all its contents from Andrew Forrester, who had obtained a copy of the Sotheby’s catalogue through a colleague in the City for their perusal.

“I’m terribly sorry, I hope you don’t mind my calling like this—I would much rather visit in person. You see, I am the biggest fan of your famous ancestor. The biggest.”

“How would one measure that?” Frances asked, and she heard a panicked pause, followed by a strange attempt at a laugh.

“Oh, I see, how funny—yes—I suppose you hear that all the time.”

“Yes,” she replied again, and waited.

“Yes, well, you see, with the Godmersham sale, we saw a few of Miss Austen’s possessions go off to America, to different buyers, and one of them has asked me to reach out to you.”

“Mr. Sinclair, is it? Look, I’m terribly sorry, but this is not a good time. My father, James Knight, is not well.”

“Oh, I see. I am so sorry.”

“Thank you. I am sure you understand.”

“Oh, yes, of course, it’s just, this particular buyer—well, he is very persistent—he’s in love, you see, and extremely well-off—and apparently the sky’s the limit when it comes to his fiancée. And she, too, is quite obsessed with Miss Austen.”

“That’s all fine, but of no concern to me. Not at present.”

There was a long pause.