"It has supported itself for eleven years, and now it requires repairs."
"So does the West Wing of this house."
Margaret's teaspoon struck her saucer. Julian stared at his wife. For an instant, Eleanor saw something behind his anger: fatigue, perhaps, or the discomfort of discovering that a woman he considered sheltered had noticed more than he intended.
"You are determined to make this difficult," he said.
"I am determined to keep my word to the people who work for me."
"And I am expected to finance your sentimental obligations."
Eleanor's face went still. "I have not asked you for a penny."
Julian pushed back his chair. "You are a burden, Eleanor."
The words seemed to leave him before he had properly considered them. Margaret looked down at her plate. Eleanor did not flinch; she simply withdrew her hand from the table where it had rested inches from his.
"I see," she said.
Julian stood beside his chair, suddenly conscious of the distance between them. "I meant that this constant disagreement is becoming burdensome."
"You were quite clear the first time."
He looked away. There were things he might have said then. He might have admitted that his mother had been pressing him about the purchase for weeks, or that an agreement concerning the land beyond the workshop was proving more difficult than expected. Instead, he reached for the leather folder.
"Very well. If you find life here so objectionable, perhaps a separate establishment would suit you better."
Eleanor's eyes returned to his face. "Are you asking me to leave?"
"I am suggesting an arrangement that might make us both more comfortable."
Margaret straightened. "Julian, surely this is unnecessary."
But he had already begun speaking, and pride would not permit him to retreat. "Thirty thousand pounds from my personal fortune, together with sufficient assistance to establish a suitable residence elsewhere. You would have no financial anxieties, provided you left Ashkam Hall and ceased interfering with this transaction."
Eleanor watched him take a fresh sheet of paper from the folder. Thirty thousand pounds—more money than her father had earned in his entire working life. Yet Julian spoke of it with the same detached certainty he used when ordering a carriage.
"And the workshop?" she asked. "You would agree to its sale?"
"Then your offer is not a gift."
He paused. "Call it whatever you please."
"I believe the word you want is purchase."