Her father had been dead ten years.
She had been eleven.
Augusta remembered the funeral.
Rain.
Too many bankers.
Edward Bellamy had been a prosperous London merchant with interests in marine insurance, government securities, and wool imports.
Not noble.
Not poor.
The sort of man aristocratic families invited to dinner while pretending money had not influenced the invitation.
Sir William Harcourt had known him since university.
They had been friends for twenty-four years.
Edward named William one of two trustees for his daughter’s inheritance.
The other trustee, Mr. Peter Langford, died in 1809.
William became sole surviving trustee.
Julian looked toward Clara.
“Your father settled thirty-six thousand pounds for your benefit.”
Augusta knew the number.
Clara did not move.
“Invested primarily in three-percent Consols.”
“I know.”
“Your aunt has received income.”
“A portion.”
Julian nodded.
“Exactly.”
He turned the ledger.
“By 1810, Father had severe liquidity problems.”
Augusta’s jaw tightened.
That was a polite description.
Harcourt wealth had always looked stronger from the ballroom than from the bank.
Land in Sussex.
Harcourt House in London.
A smaller property near Bath.
Tenanted farms.
Timber.
Leases.
All valuable.
None easily converted to cash when creditors wanted payment on Tuesday.
Sir William inherited debts from his father.
Then added his own.
Not gambling, despite gossip.
Infrastructure.
Drainage.
A failed canal investment.
A disastrous loan to his younger brother.
Repairs after a fire at the Sussex estate.
Then a banking contraction.
By 1810, Harcourt House carried a mortgage of eighteen thousand pounds.
Two lenders threatened foreclosure.
Selling the London house would have destroyed William socially.
That mattered more in 1810 than Augusta now wished to admit.
Julian pointed toward an entry.
“March 3, 1810.”
Transfer from Bellamy trust holdings.
Ten thousand pounds.
Augusta looked away.
“September 17.”
Another six thousand.
“January 1811.”
Four thousand.
Twenty.
Exactly.
Clara looked toward Augusta.
“You knew?”
Augusta’s first instinct was to say no.
It would have been partly true.
She had not known the exact securities.
Not then.
But she had known enough.
“Yes.”
The word shocked Julian.
Clara’s face tightened.
Augusta continued before either could speak.
“I knew William borrowed against a trust.”
“Whose?”
Clara asked.
“I knew it was Edward’s settlement.”
“Mine.”
“Yes.”
The word came harder.
“Yours.”
Clara looked toward the ledger.
“How old was I?”
“Fourteen.”
Augusta answered.
Clara laughed once.
No humor.
“And did I approve?”
“Of course not.”
“No.”
Julian said quietly.
“You could not.”
Augusta turned on him.
“Do not speak as though your father entered a nursery and stole coins.”
“I did not.”
“You imply it.”
“I am reading his books.”
Augusta’s voice sharpened.
“He intended to replace every pound.”
Julian stared.
“Did he?”
Silence.
No.
Not completely.
Some interest had been paid.
Some principal restored.
Then other crises arrived.
A tenant dispute.
A roof collapse.
The final years of war.