The Jane Austen Society(76)

Colin was listening to her carefully, the world of horse racing and football matches and willing waitresses seeming to slip away with her every word.

“Anyway, our society would be happy to take some of these books off your hands. Those shelves there, for example. And the two lower ones downstairs, that I was hoping I could take myself. And a few other books from the downstairs library.” She kept talking for as long as she could, while Colin pondered the life he was getting into.

“But, of course, if you would like to bring someone in, to value all of this . . .” She watched the glazed look starting on his usually overly animated face. “After all, between the two rooms there are nearly three thousand books—”

“Three thousand . . .”

“Yes, give or take a few hundred. A full cataloguing and valuation would take months, perhaps even a year. Especially if one takes the time to go through each book carefully, page by page.”

But Colin Knatchbull-Hugessen did not have a year. He never did. He lived between games and races and betting-parlour hours of operation. He wanted his money, and he wanted it now.

“How much?” he interrupted.

“The society would be prepared to offer forty thousand pounds for the contents of the library.”

Frances thought back to everyone’s faces at the third meeting of the society, held in a rush two nights before, and the moment when Mimi had stood up and pledged the money right away.

Colin composed himself and started to tap his right index finger on his chin.

“That would free up some cash for you, from the estate, while you decide what to do with it,” Frances said with an accommodating look. “Right now, you see, sadly, any profits from the estate go straight back into the cost of operating it.”

Colin stopped tapping his chin. “Come again?”

Frances was now recalling what Andrew had told her about the current state of the estate’s financial ledgers. “Well, as the executor has informed me and will do so with you, I am sure, the estate is actually running at a bit of a loss.”

“A loss? How so?”

“Well, you see, every time the estate has passed down, the death taxes would eat up such a big chunk of it that the new heir would have to sell things off to keep it going—a field or two of land here, a small barn or cottage there—and it worked, to a point. But really, all we have left now is this Great House and the little freehold cottage up the lane and the contents inside.”

“The little cottage where you are going to live.”

She nodded. “And so, according to the executor, with the death taxes currently levied on the estate and the increasing running costs, we are in a bit of pickle. He suggests perhaps converting this house into flats as well and renting them out. That will generate a bit more money to help keep things going, although not quite enough. Of course, you could always sell the cottage outright to realize more immediate funds.”

But Colin had no head for business. Just listening to Frances talk about the financial concerns ahead was giving him a headache. It was so much easier just plonking down some money on a counter and letting fate have its way. You win some, you lose some. No effort required. That was more his style.

“I’m going to have to think about all of this,” he said, with no intention at all of doing so. Unbeknownst to Frances Knight, he already had a potential buyer in mind for the estate. A golf course and hotel development company from Scotland had recently approached his lawyer upon hearing of the inheritance from one of their directors with a distant connection to Chawton. Always on the lookout for great estates about to be broken up and sold off due to a financial shortfall of some kind, the development company now had its eye on the estate of Chawton Park as a potential hotel and golf greens, and the little steward’s cottage as a clubhouse and dining room for members’ wives and their guests.

Getting rid of some musty old books was one thing—the bigger deal, to Colin’s mind, was to keep the property as intact as possible and sell it all to one qualified and highly motivated buyer. Of course, if he did so, Frances Knight would lose her home for life—but surely some kind village soul would take pity on her. After all, he told himself, wasn’t that what village life was all about?

“Of course.” Frances smiled as graciously as possible. “Take all the time you need.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Chawton, Hampshire

That same afternoon

While Colin Knatchbull-Hugessen was counting his pennies over at the Great House, Dr. Benjamin Gray was paying the one house call he had most dreaded ever having to make. He walked down Winchester Road in the direction of Alton, before turning into a small lane. Stopping in front of the first house at the end of a row of semi-detached terrace cottages, he looked quickly about himself, then gave a firm, hard knock on the door.

The door opened after a minute to reveal old Mrs. Berwick, now well into her seventies.

“Has there been an accident?” were the first words out of her mouth, something Dr. Gray was used to whenever he showed up unannounced at the most senior villagers’ homes.

“No, everyone is fine—is Adam here?”

“He’s making a delivery up at Wyards Farm.” She pushed her tiny reading glasses farther down her nose to peer at him closely. “He’ll be back by tea if you want to try again.”