A Passion for Pleasure(10)
“Any word from Mr. Blake?” Mrs. Fox poured her own tea and added sugar.
“Yes, he’s expected to return tomorrow, thank goodness, so he’ll be at Lady Rossmore’s ball. It would be a great misfortune if we missed the opportunity to secure her patronage.”
After seeing one of Granville’s mechanical toys on display at a gallery on Regent Street, Lady Rossmore had paid a visit to his Museum of Automata. She’d been utterly delighted with Granville’s creations and insisted that he create something entirely new and astonishing for debut at one of her famous balls in support of the Society of Musicians. Only after Clara had convinced him had Uncle Granville agreed to present Millicent, the Musical Lady, an automaton on which he had been working for months.
“Lady Rossmore has already expressed interest in commissioning an automaton with dancing dolls,” Clara said.
Mrs. Fox’s expression didn’t change, but her dark-lashed eyes flickered upward for an instant. “I believe it’s more important that Mr. Blake continues to work as he wishes, rather than be indebted to a patron.”
“He won’t be able to work without patronage,” Clara replied, her voice tart. “We’ve several appointments next week to discuss special commissions, so it’s important that Uncle Granville be present.”
“I’m certain Mr. Blake views no other meeting as important as that of consoling and assisting Monsieur Dupree’s bereaved family.” Mrs. Fox held her teacup in both hands, as if attempting to warm her chilled fingers. Her eyes remained steady on Clara’s face.
Clara stepped back. Shame curdled in her stomach. Of course, Rosemary Fox was right. Her uncle had remained close to Monsieur Dupree and his family in the twenty years since completing his apprenticeship. When Granville received word that his mentor and former teacher had died, he’d wasted no time in procuring a ticket to Paris.
“Yes, well, he’ll return in time to conduct the demonstration, so that’s what matters,” Clara said. “I expect Millicent will garner a significant amount of attention from her ladyship’s guests as well.”
“If you believe that is for the best, then I shall not argue,” Mrs. Fox murmured.
Clara’s shoulders tightened with irritation. In the thirteen months since she had come to live with Uncle Granville, Clara had found that though Mrs. Fox was sometimes circumspect with her opinions, every flicker of her gaze, every nuance of her expression, carried a weight of meaning.
Self-righteous meaning, Clara thought. Mrs. Fox possessed the air of a woman who had never done anything wrong in her life, who shaped herself to the world rather than expecting the world to accommodate her.
Safe though it might be, how one actually accomplished anything with such a manner, Clara had not the faintest idea. Then again, Mrs. Fox likely had little reason to harbor fear so caustic it would forever scrape her throat like salt water.
Feeling as if the scales of balance had tipped decisively in Rosemary Fox’s direction during this conversation, Clara nodded toward the array of ledgers and papers on the desk.
“I’ve ordered new curtains for the front room. Please ensure the bill is listed in the museum accounts and not those of the household.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Fox nudged a stack of letters toward her. “The morning’s post, I believe.”
Clara leafed through the stack. Her heart stuttered when she saw one stamped with the seal of her uncle’s solicitor. Clutching the letter in her fist, she hurried toward the music room.
With shaking fingers, she tore open the letter.
Dear Mr. Blake and Mrs. Winter,
We regret to inform you of the final ruling handed down 4 October 1854 by the Court of Chancery at Lincoln’s Inn Hall, Chancery Lane, regarding the ownership of Wakefield House, a property located at…
Several neat rows of writing swept across the page, but individual phrases jumped out and stabbed one by one into Clara’s heart.
Upheld conditions of the trust…possession of the house remains in the hands of Mrs. Clara Winter…prohibited from selling or bequeathing the house…
Regret.
Our deepest apologies.
Final ruling.
No further recourse.
The letter fluttered from Clara’s limp fingers. She stared at a table piled high with layers of silk and tangled ribbons. For a moment, she was numb, trying to deflect the emotions converging upon her with the force of a battering ram.
Wakefield House was the only point of advantage she had against her father, the only thing she possessed that Lord Fairfax wanted. The financial obligations of Manley Park, including a new studhorse and the cost of a new wing he’d added onto the house, as well as the mortgages of his other properties, had left him facing bankruptcy.