Chapter 8 - The Secret Hidden in Beatrice's Ledger
Cordelia stared at Julian.
The ballroom continued around them.
Music.
Laughter.
Candlelight.
None of it seemed real.
“Excuse me?”
“Marry me.”
“You have been shot recently.”
“I am aware.”
“I am beginning to suspect the injury was more serious than the physician believed.”
“Cordelia.”
“You cannot simply announce marriage as though ordering another carriage.”
“I did not order you.”
“You issued the sentence with considerable authority.”
His expression tightened.
“Vale’s claim weakens if your property becomes legally protected through a settlement.”
“Your settlement.”
“Yes.”
“Your money.”
“Yes.”
“Your name.”
“Yes.”
“Your protection.”
“Yes.”
Cordelia stepped backward.
Julian immediately understood the mistake.
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Listen.”
“I have listened to men explain why surrendering my choices is practical for most of my life.”
“This is not surrender.”
“It is marriage to solve a debt.”
“To me.”
“That is not the improvement you imagine.”
Pain crossed his face.
Cordelia hated seeing it.
She hated even more that she cared.
“Do you dislike me that much?” he asked.
“That is the problem.”
Julian went still.
Cordelia’s heart pounded.
She lowered her voice.
“If I felt nothing, perhaps I could make a business arrangement and call it sensible.”
His gray eyes searched hers.
“But you do?”
She looked away.
“I will not become grateful property.”
“You would never be property.”
“Men always say that while holding the contract.”
Cordelia left the ballroom.
She spent the night in the library.
Not because she expected to discover salvation among ledgers.
Because sleep was impossible.
Shortly before dawn, Beatrice entered.
Cordelia did not look up.
“You refused him.”
“How did you know?”
“Half the county knows.”
“Excellent.”
Beatrice sat across from her.
“You are a fool.”
“Almost comforting to hear something familiar.”
“You care for him.”
Cordelia turned a page.
“That is irrelevant.”
“No. It is the only relevant thing.”
Cordelia laughed without humor.
“Were those your principles when arranging Vale?”
Beatrice accepted the blow.
“No.”
That made Cordelia look up.
Beatrice folded her hands.
“I believed survival excused everything.”
“And now?”
“Now I am learning survival can become another word for fear.”
Cordelia studied her.
Beatrice seemed older each day.
“Why did you really hide Mother’s trust?”
“At first? Because Charles asked me to protect it.”
“And after?”
“Because I had spent some of the income.”
Cordelia stared.
“How much?”
“Enough to make confession difficult.”
“Of course.”
“I intended to repay it.”
“You always intend noble things after doing ugly ones.”
Beatrice flinched.
Cordelia almost apologized.
Almost.
Beatrice reached into her bag.
“I brought my household ledger.”
Cordelia laughed.
“The sacred text.”
“There are entries Charles made before he died.”
Cordelia pulled it closer.
Different handwriting appeared beside old expenses.
Initials.
Dates.
Payments.
One recurring mark read P.V.
Vale.
Another showed amounts transferred to an account labeled E.A.T.
“Eleanor Ashworth Trust,” Cordelia whispered.
“Yes.”
“Vale was taking money from it?”
“I believed he was investing it.”
“Did Father know?”
“Eventually.”
They turned pages.
One entry had been heavily crossed out.
Cordelia held it toward the candle.
Beneath black ink she could barely distinguish words.
B.W. survey.
Ravensworth mineral report.
Original deposited with—
The rest was illegible.
“B.W.?” Cordelia asked.
“Blackwater.”
Julian entered.
He had clearly not slept either.
“What happened at Blackwater?”
Beatrice looked toward him.
“Your father owned a survey company?”
“No.”
“He invested in one.”
Julian approached.
“Blackwood & Wren.”
Beatrice pointed.
“B.W.”
They searched estate records.
By morning, Westcott found the answer.
Twenty years earlier, Blackwood & Wren had surveyed properties throughout Gloucestershire.
One survey covered Thornwood’s southern acreage.
The report had identified substantial coal deposits.
If proven, Cordelia’s land was worth a fortune.
“Where is the original?” Cordelia asked.
Westcott frowned.
“According to company records, a copy was delivered to your father.”
“Vale destroyed it.”
“Possibly.”
“The ledger says original deposited with someone.”
Julian examined the writing.
“Could be a bank.”
Beatrice shook her head.
“Charles distrusted banks after one failed.”
“Solicitor?”
“His solicitor died.”
Cordelia stared at the smudged line.
Then she saw something.
A faint curve.
A letter.
“Church.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?”
“The word may be church.”
Beatrice whispered, “St. Matthew’s.”
The Thornwood parish church stood a mile from the manor.
Charles had served as churchwarden.
They rode there immediately.
The elderly vicar allowed them to search the vestry.
Nothing.
Then Edmund, who had insisted on coming after being excluded from every interesting event, wandered toward an old wooden chest.
“What is this?”
“Records,” the vicar said.
Edmund opened it.
Inside were baptism registers.
Marriage records.
Burial documents.
And beneath them, a flat metal case.
Cordelia saw her father’s initials.
Her knees weakened.
Inside lay the original geological survey.
Westcott read it.
Then read it again.
“My God.”
“What?”
He looked at Cordelia.
“Your forty acres are worth more than Thornwood.”
“How much more?”
“Potentially twenty thousand pounds.”
Cordelia sat.
Beatrice closed her eyes.
Julian smiled.
Not because of money.
Because for the first time, Vale no longer held all the power.
“We take this to court,” Julian said.
Westcott nodded.
“With the trust deed, forged signature and journal, we can seek an injunction.”
“Before noon?”
“If the magistrate is available.”
They hurried outside.
A carriage waited on the road.
Black.
Elegant.
Sir Percival Vale leaned against it.
He applauded slowly.
“Very impressive.”
Julian stepped in front of Cordelia.
Vale smiled.
“Oh, do not be dramatic.”
“How did you know?”
Vale looked toward Beatrice.
Her face changed.
Cordelia followed his gaze.
“Aunt?”
Beatrice shook her head.
“I did not—”
Vale laughed.
“You never realized your maid was mine?”
Beatrice stared.
Mrs. Pritchard.
The woman who had served Thornwood for eleven years.
Cordelia felt sick.
Vale held out his hand.
“Give me the survey.”
“No,” Cordelia said.
His smile disappeared.
“Miss Ashworth.”
“It belongs to me.”
“So stubborn.”
“So disappointed.”
His eyes became cold.
“You believe paper makes you powerful?”
“No.”
Cordelia stepped beside Julian rather than behind him.
“Choice does.”
Vale reached into his coat.
Julian’s hand moved toward his pistol.
But Vale removed only another document.
“Then choose.”
He handed it to Cordelia.
She read.
Her blood froze.
It was a petition to the county court.
Beatrice Ashworth sought legal guardianship of Edmund Bell.
The petition alleged Cordelia lacked income, home, reputation and moral fitness.
At the bottom was Beatrice’s signature.
Cordelia looked at her aunt.
Beatrice went white.
“I signed that months ago.”
Vale smiled.
“And tomorrow morning, I intend to use it.”
Cordelia stared at Edmund.
Suddenly the land did not matter.
The debt did not matter.
May you like
Vale had finally discovered the one thing she would sacrifice everything to keep.
Her child.
