Manningham.
She must be a gentlewoman fallen on hard times. These things happened, Lord Ranulph knew, although not to anyone of his acquaintance.
‘I should not have allowed myself to be distracted by her,’ he thought.
But the sight of Jane Hartley had created a painful, restless sensation in Lord Ranulph’s heart.
‘I shall go to London,’ he told himself. ‘Indeed Manningham will be far too dull. I don’t want to bury myself in the countryside. Who knows, perhaps I may even see Miss Adella May in London. She is so lovely, she will surely help me to forget Miss Hartley. And maybe I will be able to score a point against Digby after all!’
And then he smiled as he imagined Digby’s face, when he saw him with Adella on his arm.
That settled it. He should go to Belgravia to his London residence, Fowles Place.
He would take Major, his favourite thoroughbred with him, so that he had a fine horse to ride in Hyde Park.
“Then I’ll find Miss May,” he said out loud, as he arrived back at the College. “And Digby will be as jealous as any man could be when he finds out that she prefers my company after all! How could she not, when she has had a chance to get to know me ?”
*
‘How can the sun still be shining?’ Digby thought, as he sat in his father’s study at Duncombe Manor the day after the funeral and looked out over the herb garden that his mother had planted and tended for so many years.
It seemed so wrong to look up and see cheerful-looking fluffy white clouds drifting though a blue sky and hear birds singing when his Papa was dead.
The countryside should be in mourning, just like his family.
There was a tap at the study door and Digby shook himself. It was not like him to be poetic, but in the last few days he had felt such incredible extremes of emotion and odd thoughts like these kept coming into his mind.
He had been so happy, everything seemed shining and wonderful when he was in the Gardens with Adella.
And then, since the news of his father’s death, he had felt such pain and sadness.
The study door opened and his mother came in. She had always been young and pretty to Digby, but the sudden loss of her husband had aged Mrs. Dryden.
Her eyes were swollen with weeping and the drab black dress she wore did not suit her fair beauty at all.
“Digby, this is Mr. Poole, our family Solicitor.”
A short grey-haired man followed Mrs. Dryden into the study carrying a heavy leather bag.
“Good morning, sir,” he began, peering up at Digby though the thick round lenses of his spectacles. “Very sad times. Sad times indeed.”
He sat down at the desk, opened his bag and pulled out some papers.
“Mr. Poole has come to read the will to us,” Mrs. Dryden said and her voice shook a little, so that Digby longed to run over and hug her.
“Should I fetch the girls?” he asked.
His sisters were younger than him, although Maud, the eldest, was sixteen and almost grown-up.
“No, my dear,” Mrs. Dryden said. “I think it would be best if it was just you and I.”
The old Solicitor took his time reading the will. Most of it meant nothing to Digby, although he understood that, just as he had expected, he was his father’s sole heir.
Duncombe Manor, the farms and lands that went with it and all of Mr. Dryden’s fortune were to go to him as the only son.
And then there was a long pause. Old Mr. Poole took off his glasses and polished them carefully, as if they had suddenly misted up.
As Digby listened to what he had to say next, he was very glad that his sisters had not come to the study.
He looked across at his mother and saw her white face and that there were tears in her eyes.
“Mr. Dryden made a number of investments during his lifetime, which were not well-advised,” Mr. Poole told them. “Over the last year these investments lost value and he was forced to take out mortgages on a number of the properties belonging to the estate.”
“What – does that mean?” Mrs. Dryden
She must be a gentlewoman fallen on hard times. These things happened, Lord Ranulph knew, although not to anyone of his acquaintance.
‘I should not have allowed myself to be distracted by her,’ he thought.
But the sight of Jane Hartley had created a painful, restless sensation in Lord Ranulph’s heart.
‘I shall go to London,’ he told himself. ‘Indeed Manningham will be far too dull. I don’t want to bury myself in the countryside. Who knows, perhaps I may even see Miss Adella May in London. She is so lovely, she will surely help me to forget Miss Hartley. And maybe I will be able to score a point against Digby after all!’
And then he smiled as he imagined Digby’s face, when he saw him with Adella on his arm.
That settled it. He should go to Belgravia to his London residence, Fowles Place.
He would take Major, his favourite thoroughbred with him, so that he had a fine horse to ride in Hyde Park.
“Then I’ll find Miss May,” he said out loud, as he arrived back at the College. “And Digby will be as jealous as any man could be when he finds out that she prefers my company after all! How could she not, when she has had a chance to get to know me ?”
*
‘How can the sun still be shining?’ Digby thought, as he sat in his father’s study at Duncombe Manor the day after the funeral and looked out over the herb garden that his mother had planted and tended for so many years.
It seemed so wrong to look up and see cheerful-looking fluffy white clouds drifting though a blue sky and hear birds singing when his Papa was dead.
The countryside should be in mourning, just like his family.
There was a tap at the study door and Digby shook himself. It was not like him to be poetic, but in the last few days he had felt such incredible extremes of emotion and odd thoughts like these kept coming into his mind.
He had been so happy, everything seemed shining and wonderful when he was in the Gardens with Adella.
And then, since the news of his father’s death, he had felt such pain and sadness.
The study door opened and his mother came in. She had always been young and pretty to Digby, but the sudden loss of her husband had aged Mrs. Dryden.
Her eyes were swollen with weeping and the drab black dress she wore did not suit her fair beauty at all.
“Digby, this is Mr. Poole, our family Solicitor.”
A short grey-haired man followed Mrs. Dryden into the study carrying a heavy leather bag.
“Good morning, sir,” he began, peering up at Digby though the thick round lenses of his spectacles. “Very sad times. Sad times indeed.”
He sat down at the desk, opened his bag and pulled out some papers.
“Mr. Poole has come to read the will to us,” Mrs. Dryden said and her voice shook a little, so that Digby longed to run over and hug her.
“Should I fetch the girls?” he asked.
His sisters were younger than him, although Maud, the eldest, was sixteen and almost grown-up.
“No, my dear,” Mrs. Dryden said. “I think it would be best if it was just you and I.”
The old Solicitor took his time reading the will. Most of it meant nothing to Digby, although he understood that, just as he had expected, he was his father’s sole heir.
Duncombe Manor, the farms and lands that went with it and all of Mr. Dryden’s fortune were to go to him as the only son.
And then there was a long pause. Old Mr. Poole took off his glasses and polished them carefully, as if they had suddenly misted up.
As Digby listened to what he had to say next, he was very glad that his sisters had not come to the study.
He looked across at his mother and saw her white face and that there were tears in her eyes.
“Mr. Dryden made a number of investments during his lifetime, which were not well-advised,” Mr. Poole told them. “Over the last year these investments lost value and he was forced to take out mortgages on a number of the properties belonging to the estate.”
“What – does that mean?” Mrs. Dryden
Similar Books
