Finch looked up, adjusting his spectacles. "Ah, Miss Fielding. His grace has instructed me to return to London this afternoon. I am taking the estate records with me to properly consolidate the accounts."
Jane's stomach plummeted. "Those ledgers belong to Fenwick Hall. They are the only record of the tenant debts and the structural repairs needed."
"They belong to the Duke of Penrith," Finch corrected smoothly, snapping the leather case shut. "And as his Grace's primary financial officer, I require them. The Duke may be indulging in a temporary rustic retreat, but the business of the estate must be managed by professionals, not housekeepers."
The insult wasn't veiled. It was a direct, calculated strike.
"Did he authorize this?" Jane asked, her voice deadening.
Finch offered a thin, pitying smile. "His grace authorized me to handle the transition. He is a busy man, Miss Fielding. He relies on his staff to shield him from the tedious details. You have done an admirable job keeping the roof from entirely caving in, but your services in this capacity are no longer required. I have authorized a severance payment for you. It is quite generous." He pushed a small leather pouch across the desk. It clinked heavily.
Jane stared at the pouch. It was the physical manifestation of her deepest fear. Thomas had promised her the world in the dark. But in the daylight, his machinery was already turning, pushing her out, erasing her authority, reducing her to a paid-off nuisance.
She didn't touch the gold. "Keep it," Jane said. Her voice was devoid of emotion. "I won't need it."
She turned and walked out of the office. The decision crystallized in her mind, cold and sharp. She had survived her uncle's neglect. She had survived the creditors. She would not survive having her heart broken by a man who didn't even realize his own staff was orchestrating her exit.
It took Jane exactly 20 minutes to pack 5 years of her life. She owned very little. Two faded dresses, a few pairs of woolen stockings, a sturdy pair of boots, and the leatherbound book of poetry she had taken from the library. She packed them into a battered canvas satchel. She didn't leave a note. There was nothing left to say.
Outside, the Yorkshire sky had opened up again. It wasn't a torrential downpour, but a steady freezing drizzle that turned the courtyard into a slick expanse of gray mud. Jane pulled her woolen shawl tightly around her head and shoulders, grabbed her satchel, and walked out the back door.
She would walk the three miles to the village and catch the postal coach to York. She had a distant cousin there who might take her in as a seamstress. It was a bleak, miserable prospect, but it belonged to her. Her boots squelched in the mud as she made her way across the yard. The cold rain stung her cheeks.
She passed the stables. The heavy wooden doors were slightly ajar. Jane stopped. Despite her resolve, she couldn't walk past without looking one last time. She pushed the door open. The warm, familiar smell of hay and horse sweat washed over her. The lantern was lit, casting long, dancing shadows against the wooden stalls. At the far end, in Barnaby's stall, a man was working. He was shoveling soiled hay into a wheelbarrow. He wore a heavy rain-soaked linen shirt. The sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His boots were caked in muck. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and dampness.
Jane dropped her satchel. It hit the dirt floor with a heavy thud.
Thomas froze. He slowly turned around, resting his hands on the handle of the pitchfork. The silence in the stable was absolute, save for the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof and the soft breathing of the horses. He looked at her. He looked at the satchel on the floor.
"Finch told me you refused your severance," Thomas said. His voice was a low, rough scrape in the quiet space.
"Finch is an efficient man," Jane replied, fighting the tremor in her jaw. "He understands exactly how your world works. I am just a loose end that needs tying up."
Thomas drove the pitchfork hard into the dirt. It stuck there, quivering. He stepped out of the stall. He didn't look like a duke. He looked like the man who had arrived in August, hardened by labor and quietly furious.
"Finch is currently packing his carriage," Thomas said, closing the distance between them. "Without the ledgers, because I fired him 10 minutes ago."
Jane blinked, stunned. "You... You fired your accountant?"
"I fired my steward, my accountant, and the French chef," Thomas said, his gray eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity. "Mrs. Gable is back in the kitchen making porridge. And if you try to walk out that gate, I will drag you back in here myself."
"You can't do that," Jane stammered, taking a half step back.
"I am the Duke of Penrith," Thomas said, stepping closer, entirely ignoring her retreat. "I can do whatever I damn well please."
"That is exactly my point," Jane yelled, her frustration boiling over. "You have all the power. You can fire a man. You can hire a man. You can ruin my life with a snap of your fingers. You play at being a laborer. But underneath it all, you still command the world. I have nothing. I am entirely at your mercy, and I refuse to live like that."