Page 71 of Miss Determined
“I meant,” Jones retorted, “Smithers and Purvis can’t end well. How much do you know about the situation in Berkshire, sir?”
Jones ran the place. Young Purvis had known that for years, and thanked God for it. Should Young Purvis feel a pressing need to admire the Continental capitals, Jones would keep the firm muddling forward.
“Tavistock’s situation in Berkshire?” Young Purvis replied, taking Jones by the sleeve and hauling him into the foyer. “What I know is that Smithers told me when he retired to leave Tavistock, and especially the Berkshire holdings, entirely to my father. Said it was worth my freedom to remain in ignorance.”
“And have you?”
Young Purvis felt a bolt of something go through him—homesickness, perhaps, for a law firm where nobody intrigued, nobody fell asleep at his desk, nobody wished for a different patrimony. Aunt Adelia had told him he’d always be welcome to her guest room, and that offer had become an inordinate comfort.
“Smithers was emphatic with me about keeping my distance from Tavistock’s files,” Young Purvis replied, “and I respect old Smithers.” Not the answer Jones had sought. Young Purvis had nightmares about his father’s more ambitious schemes, but they were nightmares resting on a bed of supposition and conjecture, as far as anybody would ever be able to prove.
“I haven’t the luxury of ignorance,” Jones said. “My granny was on the staff at Lark’s Nest before I was born. Tavistock—the old lord—tossed her out when she took him to task for what was afoot there. Turned her off without a character, raised his hand to her, and told her to expect worse if she defied him.”
“Do not, I pray you, burden me with particulars, Jones. Whatever scheme my father has hatched, I want no parts of it.”
Jones leaned against the door, arms crossed. “Goes back to before your pa had the file, I know that much. Smithers knew. He had to have known. I don’t think the marchioness had any idea—the second marchioness. She would never have countenanced—”
Young Purvis put his hand over Jones’s mouth, which earned him the oddest smile.
“Stop talking. Grannies are prone to fanciful maunderings. Youknownothing, Iknownothing, and we can pray to a merciful heaven that young Tavistock knows even less. I have written out characters for every clerk on staff, glowing, honest recommendations. Smithers has done the same, and he’s the one who suggested I follow suit.”
Jones pushed way from the door. “But who will write a character for you, sir? His lordship is not a fool.”
What a good fellow Jones was, and kind. “Perhaps Tavistock will simply leave things as they are.”
“I sent Tavistock to Lark’s Nest because that’s what my granny would have insisted I do. What Old Purvis has afoot is wrong, and Tavistock can go along with it if he pleases to. I wasn’t referring to Lord Tavistock, who might well be a fool. I was referring to his lordship in Berkshire. He’s mentally quite sound, to hear Gran tell it, and long since of age.”
Bloody, bollocking hell. Who would look after Miss Brompton’s affairs when Young Purvis was living in some Parisian garret? Who would listen patiently to old Mrs. Peele natter on about her brilliant grandchildren? Who would nearly swoon with pleasure over a plate of Aunt Adelia’s Sunday roast every week without fail?
Who would make sure the clerks weren’t worked into early graves, and who, who on earth, would look after dear Jones?
“I know of no lordship at Lark’s Nest,” Young Purvis said, “and you don’t either. The whole business has nothing to do with us, at least until we’ve packed our bags, collected our savings, and put our affairs in order.”
“What of the clerks, sir? They work themselves to exhaustion and barely see the light of day.”
Young Purvis had been such a clerk, and Jones still was. “God bless you, Jones, for your nobility of spirit, but generous wages that they have had little opportunity to spend and a pair of glowing characters might be the most they can hope for.”
Jones shook his head, and that reproach stung bitterly. Jones could go larking back to the provinces, his savings considerable, his London cachet standing him in good stead in Reading or Oxford.
While Young Purvis’s only hope was that Aunt Adelia wouldn’t disown him.
ChapterSixteen
“We’re off to a Richmond picnic next week,” Mama said, beaming at Purvis graciously, “assuming we can find a conveyance by then. The Countess of Casriel prefers informal gatherings apparently, and Mr. Sycamore Dorning is proud of his property. Her Grace of Moreland is starting off the Season with a musical entertainment, and the Duchess of Quimbey is taking her chances on the weather with a Venetian breakfast. I forget what Lady Bellefonte’s do will be. We haven’t accepted that invitation yet, have we, Lissa?”
“Not yet, Mama.”
The odious legal carbuncle sitting upon his lawyerly toadstool underwent a transformation. Purvis had been getting a beady-eyed, testy, governess-filling-her-sails look, but Mama’s commentary inspired a crafty smile.
“Ladies, I bow to your importuning. You’ll have your bank draft, and subsequent disbursements will reflect your requested increase. Now, if that will be all?”
“No fresh tray,” Mama muttered. “I suppose it’s hard to find good help among all the riffraff flocking to London these days.”
“We’ll need a second bank draft to cover increased expenses for Diana and Caroline,” Lissa said, not at all trusting Purvis’s capitulation. “If Diana is to make her come out next year, she needs to begin attending the informal calls and gatherings where appropriate this year. Tea dances, strolling the park, the carriage parade, and so forth. She cannot do any of that wearing turned hems and the last century’s bonnets.”
Purvis rose and went to the door, and the clerk returned, bearing a new tray. “But, Miss DeWitt,” Purvis said as the clerk exchanged trays, “I was under the impression that before Miss Diana could grace Town with her presence,youhad to find a husband. Is there some happy news in the offing about which you and your dear mama are being overly discreet? A solicitor needs to know these things if we’re to spend adequate time drawing up any settlements.”
Lord, he was tiresome. “Don’t be antiquated, Mr. Purvis. The highest sticklers might insist that daughters marry in age order, but the gentry have never been so foolish. Diana will have her turn regardless of my situation, as will Caroline. You will triple the funds disbursed for their welfare, and we will take that bank draft with us as well.”
