windows, larger than many in the castle, had been cleaned and, although still smeared with engrained grime, allowed faint rays of spring sunshine to percolate the gloom. A scarred, well-used oak table served as a desk for Mr Wellings to preside over the legal affairs of the dead, the surface littered with documents and letters, frayed ribbon and cracked seals. The two documents before him, upon which his thin hands now rested, were both new, the paper still in uncreased and unstained condition.
Honoria had taken a seat on an upright chair beside the fire. Lord Mansell stood behind her, leaning an arm against the high carved mantel. The lady was as impassive as ever, but Mansell’s concern for her well-being increased as the days passed. If she had slept at all the previous night it would have been a surprise to him. Her hair and skin and her eyes were dull as if they had lost all vitality and he knew with certainty that she was not eating enough. If only she had some colour in her cheeks and not the stark shadows from exhaustion and strain. Whatever was troubling her was putting her under severe stress, but she clearly had no intention of unburdening her anxieties to him. Whenever possible she absented herself from his company. When they met they exchanged words about nothing but the merest commonplace. Why are you so unhappy? he asked her silently, glancing down at her averted face. Surely your freedom from Sir Edward with a substantial income in your own name should be a source of happiness and contentment, not despair? But he found no answer to his concerns. Perhaps she was indeed merely dull, with no qualities to attract.
But, he decided, quite unequivocally, she should not wear black.
Lady Mansell’s spine stiffened noticeably as Mr Wellings cleared his throat, preparing to read the final wishes of the recently deceased Lord Mansell. The present lord, on impulse, leaned down to place a hand, the lightest of touches, on her shoulder in a gesture of support. She flinched a little in surprise at his touch, glancing briefly up at him, before relaxing again under the light pressure. After the first instant of panic, he recognised the flash of gratitude in her eyes before she looked away. So, not impassive or unmoved by the situation, after all!
Also present in the chamber, as requested by Mr Wellings, was the Steward, Master Foxton, on this occasion accompanied by Mistress Brierly and Mistress Morgan, Lord Edward’s cook and housekeeper of many years. They stood together, just inside the doorway, nervous and uncomfortable in their formal black with white collars and aprons, to learn if they were to be rewarded for their long and faithful service. Uneasily, their eyes flickered from Mansell to the lawyer, and back again. The brief sour twist to Foxton’s lips as he entered the room suggested that they had little in the way of expectations from their dead master.
Mr Wellings cleared his throat again and swept his eyes round the assembled company. He knew them all from past dealings at Brampton Percy, except for the new lord, of course. He would be more than interested to see Lord Mansell’s reaction to Lord Edward’s will. He straightened his narrow shoulders and lifted the two relevant documents to catch the light. ‘My lord, my lady, this is the content of Edward Brampton’s will.’
He turned his narrowed eyes in the direction of the servants and inclined his head towards them. A brief smile, which might have been of sympathy, touched his lips. ‘Lord Edward left a bequest to Master Foxton, Mistress Brierly and Mistress Morgan in recognition of their service at Brampton Percy. They shall each receive a bolt of black woollen cloth, a length of muslin and a length of linen, all of suitable quality and sufficient for new clothing. They shall also be assured of their keep and a roof over their head until the day of their death.’
Mr Wellings paused.
‘Is that the sum of the bequest, sir?’ enquired Mansell in a quiet voice at odds with the grooves of disgust that bracketed his mouth.
‘It is, my lord.’
‘It is interesting, is it not, Mr Wellings, that the final part of the bequest will fall on my shoulders, not on those of my late departed cousin?’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ Wellings’s sharp eyes held a glint of humour at the obvious strategy of his late employer.
‘It is quite insufficient, but much as I expected.’ Mansell dug into the deep pocket of his coat and produced a leather pouch. How fortunate, he thought sardonically, that he had come prepared. As the pouch moved in his hand, the faint metallic chink of coins was clear in the quiet room. He approached Foxton and handed over the pouch.
‘I have noticed that every member of this household is in need of new clothing, Master Foxton. If you would be so good as to arrange it, this should cover the expense and more. I expect that those in my employ should be comfortably and appropriately clothed, as would any lord.’
‘My lord …’ Foxton stammered, holding the pouch tightly. ‘This is most generous …’
‘No. It is your right and I believe it has been neglected.’
‘Thank you, my lord. I shall see to it.’ Mistress Brierly and Mistress Morgan, less successful that the Steward in hiding broad smiles of delight, exchanged glances and dropped hasty curtsies, their cheeks flushed with pleasure.
‘If you will come to me this afternoon, Master Foxton, I will discuss with you suitable remuneration for all three of you as is fitting and as I am sure Lord Edward would have wished.’
‘I will, my lord.’ Lord Francis himself opened the door to allow Foxton to usher out the two women.
‘That was well done, my lord.’ Wellings’s tone was gruff as he nodded in acknowledgement of the gesture.
‘It was necessary. I take no credit for it, Mr Wellings.’ Mansell’s tone was sharp, his brows drawn in a heavy line. ‘Efficient servants are essential to the smooth running of this household and should be suitably rewarded. It is to Lord Edward’s detriment that he failed to do so. It is something I must look to.’
‘Your concern will be welcomed at Brampton Percy, my lord. It is not something of which your dependants have recent experience.’
‘Probably not. So, Mr Wellings, let us continue and finish this business.’ He returned to his stance by the fire, casting a critical glance at Honoria. She had remained silent, uninvolved, throughout the whole interchange. The sudden warmth that touched her chilled blood would have surprised him, her instinctive admiration for his sensitive handling of Edward’s mean bequests. He did not see her quick glance through concealing lashes. She would have thanked him, but feared to draw attention to herself. Perhaps later, when all this was over and she could breathe easily again.
‘Very well, my lord.’ Wellings picked up where he had left off. ‘To my wife Honoria …
‘As by the terms of the jointure agreed between Sir Robert Denham and myself on the occasion of our betrothal in February 1643, she will enjoy to her sole use and her gift after her death the property of Leintwardine Manor in the county of Herefordshire, which was in her own inheritance. Also the property Ingram House in London. The coach and six horses in which she travelled on the occasion of her marriage from the home of Sir Robert Denham. And the handsome sum of £4,000 per annum.
‘This will be deemed sufficient to allow her to live comfortably and is in recognition of the extent of the inheritance that she brought to the Brampton family with her marriage. It is a substantial settlement—as is your right, my lady.’
‘Is that as you anticipated, my lady?’ Mansell queried when the lady made no comment.
‘Yes. It is as was agreed between my lord and Sir Robert. Lord Edward made no changes here.’
‘Continue then, Mr
