Page 15 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
Thalia stood very still. The letter in her hand, the guest at her side, and the brother before her each represented a different threat to the place she had built—intentionally or otherwise.
And in that moment, she understood how quickly something hard-won could be unravelled: not by catastrophe, but by accumulation—of pressure, intrusion, and quiet betrayal, all dressed in the language of concern.
Hopkins, who had remained nearby in discreet silence, stepped forward once more.
“There is… one further matter that requires your attention, my lady,” he said, his voice subdued.
Chapter Six
“I fear the damage to the roof may prove more extensive than we initially suspected,” Hopkins said gravely. “The storm’s violence has displaced several sections of slate, which will require immediate replacement if we are to prevent further deterioration of the structure that protects the house from the elements.”
He stood in the doorway with concern etched into his features, his usually immaculate appearance somewhat dishevelled from his morning inspection of the damage. His calm, precise account of the necessary repairs served only to underscore how precarious Seacliff Retreat’s position had become—both in the literal sense and in every other.
The grey morning light streaming through the tall windows seemed to cast everything in shades of uncertainty, from the water stains that marked the walls where the previous night’s tempest had found weaknesses in their defences, to the expressions of worry that characterised the assembled residents who had gathered to hear the assessment of their sanctuary’s condition.
Lady Thalia Greaves surveyed the evidence of destruction with the sort of calm determination that had served her well during previous crises, though the exhaustion evident in her dark eyes spoke of a sleepless night spent contemplating not only the physical damage that required attention but also the more complex problems posed by Lord Jasper’s deception and her brother’s increasingly aggressive interference in her carefully constructed independence.
“What is your estimate of the cost for such repairs?” she inquired with the sort of practical directness that had always characterised her approach to household management, though privately she wondered whether her already strained finances could accommodate yet another unexpected expense when creditors were already demanding payment and her brother was actively seeking to dismantle her establishment through marriage arrangements that would serve his interests rather than her own.
“I fear the figure may exceed two hundred pounds, my lady,” Hopkins replied with obvious reluctance to deliver such unwelcome news, “for the work will require not only materials but also skilled craftsmen whose services command premium rates during the season when storm damage creates demand that exceeds the supply of qualified workers.”
It was no surprise. The number aligned with her own calculations—yet hearing it aloud gave the strain a sharper edge. The reality could not be softened: such a sum would deplete the reserves she had so carefully guarded, and jeopardise the delicate balance that kept Seacliff Retreat operational amid creditors’ demands and her brother’s meddling ambitions.
“Two hundred pounds,” she echoed quietly, her voice steady but low. She was calculating not only the immediate impact of such expenses but also their broader implications for the long-term viability of everything she had worked to accomplish at Seacliff Retreat.
Lord Jasper stepped forward with visible hesitation, his expression marked by a tension that suggested he was weighing the risk of speaking at all. Whatever inclination he felt to offer help was tempered by the knowledge that his recent betrayal had undermined his claim to any role in Lady Greaves’s affairs. Still, his concern—for her, for Seacliff Retreat—remained plain.
“Lady Greaves,” he said carefully, “I hope you will not take it amiss if I observe that the necessary repairs might be approached more efficiently—and at lower cost—by engaging several craftsmen to work in parallel, rather than addressing each issue separately.”
Under other circumstances, the suggestion might have been welcome. As it was, Thalia could not ignore the unease that accompanied his renewed involvement, even when offered with apparent sincerity. Was it a gesture of reparation, or another attempt to insert himself into decisions that were not his to make?
He pressed on, encouraged by her silence. “I’ve had some experience negotiating terms under less-than-ideal conditions. It may be possible to secure fairer prices—particularly if we act swiftly, before demand from other damaged properties rises further.”
Before she could reply, Miss Ivy Fairweather appeared at the edge of the group. Concern was written clearly in her eyes as they moved from one face to the next, studying lips and expressions with the focused intensity of one determined not to miss a word. Her paint-streaked hands moved fluidly through a series of signs, her gestures brisk but eloquent.
Mr Christopher Whiston, standing beside her, translated with his usual care. “Miss Fairweather wishes to know whether the damage to the conservatory will prevent her from continuing her painting, for the broken windows and water damage have made her usual workspace unusable until proper repairs can be completed.”
“I fear the conservatory will require extensive renovation before it can safely accommodate artistic activities,” Thalia replied with genuine regret, for she understood how deeply the disruption of familiar routines affected individualswhose creative work provided both purpose and emotional stability during uncertain times.
Miss Violet Ashworth approached from the music room with her usual regal bearing, though the lines of concern around her eyes revealed the anxiety that threatened to undermine the composed exterior she maintained for the benefit of younger residents who looked to her for guidance and reassurance during difficult moments.
“My dear,” she said to Thalia with gentle authority, “I believe we must consider not only the immediate repairs but also the broader implications of our current circumstances for the continued operation of our little community.”
Her words carried layers of meaning that extended far beyond simple concern for storm damage, encompassing the multiple threats that had emerged during the past few hours to challenge everything they had worked to build together as a family of choice bound by artistic passion rather than social obligations.
“Indeed,” Thalia replied, her expression sober. “We must address not only the physical damage but also the legal and financial pressures that seem to be coordinating their attack upon our independence with remarkable timing and effectiveness.”
Lord Jasper cleared his throat. “If I might be permitted to say so,” he began, cautiously, “the convergence of these pressures is... unlikely to be accidental. I fear that my family’s interest in this property may have invited attention from others—those who, though pursuing different ends, share an interest in seeing Seacliff Retreat dismantled.”
His admission hung in the air like smoke from a poorly managed fire, confirming suspicions that Thalia had been reluctant to voice even to herself, for the possibility that her various opponents had discovered common cause in destroying her sanctuary suggested a level of coordinated opposition that exceeded anything she had anticipated when first challenging society’s narrow definitions of appropriate feminine behaviour and acceptable domestic arrangements.
“Your family’s interest?” Violet asked, her tone sharpened by the practised precision that had once served her well in the tangled politics of theatrical companies and rival playhouses. “Are you suggesting that the Vexley family’s business considerations have somehow become known to others who might benefit from the disruption of our current arrangements?”
Jasper inclined his head gravely. “Regrettably, such business matters rarely remain discreet. The mere suggestion of acquisition may have reached ears eager to exploit it.”
Marcus Berrington, who had remained nearby throughout the morning’s developments, now stepped forward with the sort of self-satisfied air thatsuggested his thoughts had taken a turn most agreeable to him—however ill-timed such satisfaction might appear amidst the broader atmosphere of tension and disquiet.
“Ah, Sister,” he said, as though the conversation had merely been awaiting his contribution, “I trust the recent events have offered you some clarity regarding the wisest course forward—for yourself and for those under your care.”
