“I will never marry,” she said. “I intend to live modestly on my own income, and I have requested only such small funds as the terms of the trust might allow, in order to maintain my person in an appropriately genteel manner.”
Mr. Fothergill peered at her closely as if looking for signs of madness.
Beatrice’s aunt had looked at her the same way when Beatrice had asked her to cease presenting a certain favorite curate as a suitor. That a rational woman would reject the chance to secure a husband and thereby inherit an annual income of several thousand pounds had been inconceivable to Aunt Marbely. Beatrice had been unable to convince her that the curate’s willingness to take her, despite, as he said, her age and excessive education, was an indignity to which she would never surrender. She would rather starve. In her anger, Aunt Marbely had made it painfully clear that Beatrice’s father had been persuaded both to the trust and to the curate, and that it was his dying wish to see his daughter safe in the embrace of a suitable husband. Having survived the livid-white face and scalding insults of her thwarted aunt, and sworn to never give her satisfaction, she now faced the frowning Mr. Fothergill with equanimity.
“I see no need for supervision or approval of such small amounts?” she added, pressing her advantage.
“I can assure you I have little interest in poring in detail over the expenses of a sober spinster life,” said Mr. Fothergill. Still looking slightly confused, he held up an imperious hand and shuffled some papers as he cast about for his next line of attack. “But within the bounds of the agreement suggested, I hope I may propose a solution that will seem as easy to you as it would be for me.”
“What do you propose?” said Beatrice.
“What if I propose merely that you supply a monthly list of all expenses, along with copies of all tradesmen’s bills, and that I ask dear Mrs. Fothergill, my wife, to review and approve them? Not only can she advise me but she can be a great help to you, alone as you are and without female guidance.”
“I could not possibly burden your wife with such a task,” said Beatrice, horrified.
“She would welcome the opportunity,” said Mr. Fothergill. “I have already sounded her most discreetly on the prospect, and her noble head bent at once in agreement.”
“My affairs are not to be so discussed,” said Beatrice.
“I assure you my wife is the soul of discretion and that I mentioned neither name nor financial detail—merely spoke of a poor young spinster with no woman’s hand to guide her. We have no daughter of our own, you know…”
“Mrs. Kent and Lady Emily have both been very kind to me,” said Beatrice.
“Well, that is my point exactly,” said the Mayor. “Very great women in their way, of course, but Lady Emily must not be imposed upon.” He gave her a solemn look as if she had been caught making daily supplications for advice and financial support at Lady Emily’s great oak door. “And as for Mrs. Kent”—he went on, leaning forward now as conspiratorially as his ample stomach would allow—“she and my wife were girls together, you know, and while their long friendship must prevent me from speaking, my fiduciary responsibility must urge me to caution you.” He placed a finger alongside his nose.
“I cannot imagine what you mean,” said Beatrice. “I believe her husband is an important Whitehall official.”
“Unfortunate to expose one’s wife to so many years abroad, where the minor laxities of character might be encouraged,” he said. “Now my own dear wife has never left the bounds of Southern England and will not set foot in London unless I command. Propriety is everything it should be to her.”
Beatrice got to her feet and collected her sunshade and her composure.
“With the greatest respect, I think we are finished, Mr. Fothergill,” she said. “I am appalled that my trustees would ask a solicitor of your stature to oversee such a tiny matter, and you should write immediately to decline to act.” She drew on her gloves with a calm that hid a furious desire to rage at him. “I will not say anything to them, of course. They are a firm of the highest order of correctness, and I am afraid they might look askance at your proposal, however well meaning and delightful.”
“They can be stiff, these London chaps,” said Mr. Fothergill. He frowned, and she could see she had nicely confused him. “But then again I am certain they mean to impose such conditions.” He looked again at the papers, and Beatrice was sure he was regretting the loss of such fees as might be allowed. “They are offering you an immediate ten pounds,” he added.
“You and I, Mr. Fothergill, we scoff at their ten pounds,” she said. “Our integrity cannot be bought so inexpensively.”
“No, I do usually deal in larger transactions,” he said, but she was already saying “Good day” and sweeping from the room with as much of her aunt’s haughty attitude as she could imitate under the duress.
In the street she feared she might weep with frustration. Not sure of privacy in her own cottage, she strode very fast uphill, towards the old tower that overlooked the marsh, hoping to stand at the railing and cool her hot face in a breeze from the sea until she could regain her calm. She was only vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps behind her, but as she gained the garden entrance, she heard a “hulloo” and was appalled to see Mr. Poot, Fothergill’s nephew, panting up the street behind her, waving his hat and looking distinctly uncomfortable and hot in his woolen three-piece suit. She had some faint hope that he was waving his crushed hat at someone else, but as he made his way across the lawn, wiping his face with a large handkerchief, it was plain that he had followed her from the Fothergill offices and meant to talk to her.
“Miss Nash,” he said, “I beg a word with you.”
“Mr. Poot, I believe we have only barely been introduced,” she said. “I do not wish to be rude, but it is not quite nice for you to accost me in the street.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Nash,” he said. “But I believe we may be of service to each other, and if you will give me a few moments of private conversation, it might be to your advantage.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Poot,” she said. “I wish you a good day.” She turned away and moved down the railing, wishing that the garden had one or two other people within its walls, if only a lady artist at an easel to provide a watchful eye.
“How about if I say you owe me a minute of your time?” he said with a barely disguised sneer. “On account of your friends seeing to it that you took my teaching job.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean, Mr. Poot,” she said, tightening her grip on her sunshade. She turned to face him, her face carefully blank, as he stuffed away the handkerchief. She would not give him the satisfaction of asking what his employment troubles might have to do with her. “I must ask you to leave me alone,” she added.
Poot stared back at her a minute and then laughed, a short laugh like the bark of a dog.
“Oh, I suppose you didn’t know those nephews of the Kents, and that Wheaton fellow, tricked me into a tipple that morning?” he said. “Ruined my chances.”
“A man who is drunk must bear responsibility for the drinking,” said Beatrice.
“If a man spills rum on the back of your jacket, it may be enough that you smell of the tavern,” said Poot. “I ask you, is that fair, Miss Nash?”
“It is not, Mr. Poot,” she said, wondering whether he intended to complain and if her job might still be taken from her. Perhaps her face showed her consternation, because he laughed again.
“Oh, don’t worry, they did me a favor,” he said. “My uncle tried to arrange the teaching job so he wouldn’t have to take me into his office, but since it didn’t work out…well, here I am, clerking for him.”
“I assure you, I knew nothing, Mr. Poot,” she said. “I wished nothing but to be hired on my own merits.”