The Secret of Pembrooke Park(3)

Now they were facing financial ruin—and it was her fault. Little more than a year ago, she had encouraged her father to invest in Uncle Vincent’s new bank. Her mother’s brother was her only uncle, and Abigail had always been fond of him. He was charming, enthusiastic, and eternally optimistic. He and his partners, Mr. Austen and Mr. Gray, owned two country banks and had wished to open a third. Uncle Vincent had asked her father to post a large bond of guarantee, and under Abigail’s influence, he agreed.

The banks were at first successful. However, the partners made excessive, unwise loans, sometimes lending to each other. They sold one bank but struggled to keep the others afloat. The new bank had stopped business in November, and a week ago the original bank failed and the partners declared bankruptcy.

Abigail could still hardly believe it. Her uncle had been so sure the banks would thrive and had made Abigail believe it as well.

Seated at his desk, her father set aside the jewelry case and ran his finger down the accounts ledger.

Abigail awaited his verdict, palms damp, heart beating dully.

“How bad is it?” she asked, twisting her hands.

“Bad. We are not destitute, and you and Louisa still have your dowries. But the lion’s share of my capital is gone and with it the interest.”

Abigail’s stomach cramped. “Again, I am sorry, Papa. Truly,” she said. “I honestly thought Uncle Vincent and his partners would be successful.”

He ran a weary hand over his thin, handsome face. “I should not have allowed myself to be swayed by the two of you. I have seen his other ventures fail in the past. But you have always had a good head on your shoulders, Abigail. I thought I could trust your judgment. No, now, I don’t say this is entirely your fault. I blame myself as well. And Vincent, of course.”

Seeing her father so deeply disappointed and disillusioned—with her and with life—left her feeling sick with guilt and regret. Uncle Vincent blamed his partners and their risky loans. But in the end, regardless of who was to blame, the fact was that Charles Foster had agreed to act as guarantor. He was not the only person who lost money when the banks failed, but he lost the most.

Her father shook his head, a bitter twist to his lips. “I don’t know how I shall break it to Louisa that she is not to have her season after all. She and her mother have their hearts set on it.”

Abigail nodded in silent agreement. The London season was well-known hunting grounds for wealthy husbands. She hoped Louisa’s eagerness to participate meant she was not waiting for Gilbert Scott. If Louisa and Gilbert did have an understanding, Louisa had clearly kept it a secret from her mother, who was determined to give her youngest a spectacular season. At nineteen Louisa was at the peak of her beauty—or so their mother declared, insisting it was the perfect time to find her an advantageous match.

Her father leaned back in his chair with a defeated sigh. “If only we could avoid selling the house, but as much as we all love it, it is too large and too expensive. The price of being fashionable, I suppose.”

Not to mention the cost of maintaining a Grosvenor Square–style of living—behaving like nobility, though in reality they were only genteel, with no title or land. As a gentleman, her father had never in his life had to work. The family had lived on the interest from his inheritance. Money he had invested wisely—until now.

Once again, Gilbert’s suggestion that they not “shackle ourselves with promises” echoed through Abigail’s mind, and she straightened her shoulders in resolve. “Yes, Papa. We shall have to sell the house, but not the family jewels. Not while there is another option. . . .”

A short while later, Father asked Mamma and Louisa to join them in the study, and attempted to explain the situation. He did not assign any blame to her, Abigail noticed, but knowing he held her partially responsible for their predicament was enough to make her miserable.

When he had finished, Anne Foster protested, “Sell our house?”

“You know, Mamma, that might not be so bad,” Louisa said. Grosvenor Square isn’t as fashionable as it once was. I saw some lovely houses in Curzon Street that would do us very well.”

“Curzon Street?” Father echoed. “That will not be possible, my dear.”

“I think it would be wisest to retrench elsewhere,” Abigail said. “In a smaller city or even in the country, where the pressure to have an army of servants, large dinners, and the latest gowns would be far less.”

“The country?” Louisa’s pretty face puckered as though she’d found a mouse in her soup. “Unless you are talking about a great country estate, with house parties, and fox hunting, and hedge mazes . . .”

“No, Louisa, I am afraid not. Something smaller.”

“Oh, why did this have to happen?” Mamma moaned. “What about Louisa’s season? Her dowry? Is it all gone? Is our youngest daughter not to have her chance, after all?”

“I didn’t say that. No. Louisa is to have her season.” Father sent an uneasy glance toward Abigail, then quickly looked away. “We will muster enough for Louisa’s gowns and things. I trust your aunt Bess will allow us to stay with her for a few months?”

“Of course she will. But . . . I don’t understand. I thought you said there would not be enough money.”

With another glance at Abigail, Father began, “Abigail has kindly—”