The rain lashed against the tall, mullioned windows of Highfield Manor, mirroring the dreary mood that had settled over the Vance family. Beatrice Vance sat in the darkest corner of the drawing room, a forgotten shadow in a faded grey muslin gown. Her lap was burdened with a tangled mass of embroidery. She was twenty-two, orphaned at fourteen, and wholly dependent on the begrudging charity of her late father’s sister, Aunt Leonora.
"It is a tragedy, Mr. Sterling," Aunt Leonora sighed, pressing a lace handkerchief to her dry eyes. "The Vance legacy, bleeding away into the moors. And we are burdened on all sides by dependents who consume the very resources we lack." She cast a sharp, dismissive glance at Beatrice.Her son, Julian, swirled his brandy. "Quite useless, really. But do not upset yourself over her, Mother. Let us hear the worst of it."Mr. Sterling, the family’s solicitor, adjusted his spectacles while Mr. Hawcroft, the estate manager, stepped forward. Hawcroft was a thick-necked man with restless eyes. "The Northern Accounts are in absolute ruin," he lied smoothly, tapping a heavy leather ledger. "The coal veins in Durham are tapped out. The textile mills in Lancashire suffer from strikes. Continuing to pour capital into the North will bankrupt you by Christmas. However, I have an associate, a Mr. Silas Thorne, willing to purchase the Northern estates for ten thousand pounds. A pittance, but a lifeline."