know, if the aristocracy isn’t concerned enough to have families—and large ones—the English aristocracy will die that much sooner?”
Rebecca nodded. Only life titles had been given since the 1960s—none that would be passed on through the generations. One might attribute it to any number of things: politics, a goal for universal democracy, simple modernized thinking. Somehow Rebecca didn’t think Elise would find any of those arguments compelling.
Rebecca slid her thumb along the cool glass in her hand, avoiding eye contact with either Lady Elise or Quentin.
“Since you are the commercial manager for this estate,” Elise said, “how is the market for selling such a place as this?”
The glass nearly slipped from her hands. Elise wanted not simply to close the Hall to visitors—she wanted to sell it? It might not be home to her anymore, but it once was, when her boys were young. When her husband was alive, he spent much of the year here. The same home had housed Hollinworths, and Hamiltons before them, for two hundred years. Rebecca could think of nothing to say.
“Mum is daring me to sell or donate the place to the Trust,” Quentin said, pouring himself a glass of iced tea. “But if you knew her better, you would see the ploy behind the suggestion. She wants the Hall to be either home or museum, not both. She’s archaically old-fashioned. I intend to keep things as they are, at least for the time being.”
A wave of relief rushed through Rebecca, one that had nothing to do with whether or not she kept a job she loved. If Lady Elise was so old-fashioned, couldn’t she see history would lose a vital connection with today if it were owned by anyone else, even the Trust?
“Drafty in the winter, hot in the summer,” Elise said. “And since it’s open to the public on more days than ever, it’s hardly a home and certainly no place to raise children.”
“Why not? At least they’d have a thorough education on the running of a Victorian estate. Thanks to Rebecca, who made sure it won a Sandford Award and has just been nominated for a Featherby as well.”
“How nice,” said Elise, staring out one of the mullioned windows. “Sounds as if the Trust would be happy to have this place.”
So much for an offer of thanks for Rebecca’s part in distinguishing the Hall with educational awards.
Soon Helen and her husband came in with trays, a full five-course dinner beneath rounded silver domes. Quentin led his mother to the table, where the three of them took their seats.
“Just a moment,” Elise said once the dinner was served and the husband and wife headed for the door. They both turned expectantly.
“Yes, ma’am?” Helen asked. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No.” Her narrow gaze could have pierced steel. “Was it your idea or my son’s to serve our dinner in here?”
“It was mine, Mum,” said Quentin before Helen could answer. “I want the bird to know I’m home, so I’ve been having my meals in here.”
One brow rose over Lady Elise’s eyes in what looked like exasperated acceptance.
“Anything else, ma’am?” Helen’s back, as well as her tone, seemed a bit stiffer than it had before.
Good for her. At least she isn’t cowering.
Elise turned back to the table, effectively discharging them from the room. Rebecca caught the grin Quentin sent Helen’s way, a simple gesture that softened the board she had made of her shoulders.
“There is a bit of other news,” Quentin said as they began eating.
Rebecca paused before taking up her fork. Evidently there was no blessing to be said over this meal. Silently, quickly, she sent up a word of thanks.
“Other news?” Elise asked. “What news have you given me already that this should qualify as ‘other’?”
“About the Featherby, Mum,” said Quentin. Amazingly, his tone was light, forgiving.
“Oh, that,” she murmured dismissively. “What other news, then?”
“We’ve heard from an American branch of the
Rebecca nodded. Only life titles had been given since the 1960s—none that would be passed on through the generations. One might attribute it to any number of things: politics, a goal for universal democracy, simple modernized thinking. Somehow Rebecca didn’t think Elise would find any of those arguments compelling.
Rebecca slid her thumb along the cool glass in her hand, avoiding eye contact with either Lady Elise or Quentin.
“Since you are the commercial manager for this estate,” Elise said, “how is the market for selling such a place as this?”
The glass nearly slipped from her hands. Elise wanted not simply to close the Hall to visitors—she wanted to sell it? It might not be home to her anymore, but it once was, when her boys were young. When her husband was alive, he spent much of the year here. The same home had housed Hollinworths, and Hamiltons before them, for two hundred years. Rebecca could think of nothing to say.
“Mum is daring me to sell or donate the place to the Trust,” Quentin said, pouring himself a glass of iced tea. “But if you knew her better, you would see the ploy behind the suggestion. She wants the Hall to be either home or museum, not both. She’s archaically old-fashioned. I intend to keep things as they are, at least for the time being.”
A wave of relief rushed through Rebecca, one that had nothing to do with whether or not she kept a job she loved. If Lady Elise was so old-fashioned, couldn’t she see history would lose a vital connection with today if it were owned by anyone else, even the Trust?
“Drafty in the winter, hot in the summer,” Elise said. “And since it’s open to the public on more days than ever, it’s hardly a home and certainly no place to raise children.”
“Why not? At least they’d have a thorough education on the running of a Victorian estate. Thanks to Rebecca, who made sure it won a Sandford Award and has just been nominated for a Featherby as well.”
“How nice,” said Elise, staring out one of the mullioned windows. “Sounds as if the Trust would be happy to have this place.”
So much for an offer of thanks for Rebecca’s part in distinguishing the Hall with educational awards.
Soon Helen and her husband came in with trays, a full five-course dinner beneath rounded silver domes. Quentin led his mother to the table, where the three of them took their seats.
“Just a moment,” Elise said once the dinner was served and the husband and wife headed for the door. They both turned expectantly.
“Yes, ma’am?” Helen asked. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No.” Her narrow gaze could have pierced steel. “Was it your idea or my son’s to serve our dinner in here?”
“It was mine, Mum,” said Quentin before Helen could answer. “I want the bird to know I’m home, so I’ve been having my meals in here.”
One brow rose over Lady Elise’s eyes in what looked like exasperated acceptance.
“Anything else, ma’am?” Helen’s back, as well as her tone, seemed a bit stiffer than it had before.
Good for her. At least she isn’t cowering.
Elise turned back to the table, effectively discharging them from the room. Rebecca caught the grin Quentin sent Helen’s way, a simple gesture that softened the board she had made of her shoulders.
“There is a bit of other news,” Quentin said as they began eating.
Rebecca paused before taking up her fork. Evidently there was no blessing to be said over this meal. Silently, quickly, she sent up a word of thanks.
“Other news?” Elise asked. “What news have you given me already that this should qualify as ‘other’?”
“About the Featherby, Mum,” said Quentin. Amazingly, his tone was light, forgiving.
“Oh, that,” she murmured dismissively. “What other news, then?”
“We’ve heard from an American branch of the
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