“Yes, sir.”
Clara moved forward.
“I am Clara Langley.”
The woman's gaze shifted sharply.
For a moment, she appeared almost frightened.
Then she lowered her head.
“Miss Langley.”
“I received your letter.”
Mrs. Beale's hands twisted together.
“I ought not to have written. Mr. Vane said it would do no good, and I knew it was foolish, but the girls—”
“It was not foolish.”
Clara spoke so gently that Mrs. Beale looked up.
“May we come inside?”
The cottage consisted of a small kitchen, two adjoining rooms, and a narrow staircase.
It smelled of damp plaster, boiled cabbage, and the faint medicinal sweetness of dried herbs hanging above the hearth.
A little girl sat beside the fire repairing a woolen stocking.
Another, perhaps six years old, lay on a narrow bench beneath a faded blanket.
She had a persistent cough.
Clara noticed the bucket beneath the window.
Water dripped into it from the wall.
Julian noticed it too.
“Has the roof been repaired this year?” he asked.
Mrs. Beale shook her head.
“I put in a request in March, Your Grace.”
“And what were you told?”
“That there were no funds.”
Julian's eyes moved toward the damp ceiling.
He remembered approving nearly six hundred pounds for village repairs in February.
“Did anyone inspect the damage?”
“Mr. Vane's man came. He wrote something in his book.”
“And afterward?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Clara crouched beside the younger girl.
“What is your name?”
“Annie.”
“How old are you, Annie?”
“Six.”
“Do you attend the village school?”
The child's eyes brightened.
“When it's open.”
Clara looked up.
“When it's open?”
Mrs. Beale gave a weary sigh.
“The school has been shut these four weeks, miss. Mrs. Calder says there's no money for coal or the roof, and the trustees have not answered her letters.”
Clara felt something tighten inside her.
Her mother had established the school fourteen years earlier.
It had been small at first, only a room above the old bakehouse, but over time it had become a proper building with two classrooms, a garden, and a modest library of donated books.
Clara still possessed the plans, drawn in her mother's careful hand.
She also knew exactly how much money had been settled upon its maintenance.
“There should be sufficient income,” she said slowly.
Mrs. Beale looked away.
“Mr. Vane said the money was needed elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“For improvements.”
Julian's expression hardened.
“What improvements?”
“I couldn't say, Your Grace.”
The elder daughter stopped sewing.
“The new river works,” she said quietly.
Her mother turned.
“Lucy.”
But the girl continued.
“They're going to build a great wall by the water. Mr. Vane says the old cottages are too near the bank, and we must all leave before Christmas.”
Julian looked at Clara.
She looked back.
Neither spoke.
He turned toward Mrs. Beale.
“May I see your tenancy agreement?”
The woman fetched a worn packet from a cupboard.
Julian examined the document.
It was an ordinary lease, properly witnessed and signed by his brother Matthew.
The terms provided that Mrs. Beale could remain in the cottage for seven years after her husband's death, subject to a modest annual rent.
There were still six years remaining.
No increase was permitted during that period.
Julian read the relevant clause twice.
Then he examined the notice Clara had brought.
The two documents contradicted each other completely.