Something Old by Rebecca Connolly (autobiographies to read txt) 📕

“I have no complaints about my life at the present,” Thomas said with a slight smile. “Nor with my wife, our relationship, or our arrangements.”

A slow, smug smile crossed Whitlock’s lips. “Very good, sir. To the victor, the spoils.”

Thomas scoffed softly. “Whom would you be naming the victor in this?”

“Probably your wife. The whole thing makes fools of men, but the ladies seem to adapt well enough.”

That was too true.

Thomas’s eyes flicked up to a footman of the club heading toward them, a letter sitting on a tray. Whitlock was a man of some importance, so it would come as no surprise that communication would come for him at any given time.

“A missive, Mr. Granger,” the footman intoned, surprising them both by stopping before Thomas and bowing.

“Thank you,” Thomas murmured, plucking the folded parchment up. The seal on the back was that of his solicitor, which was even more peculiar, as he had seen the man just a few hours before.

He snapped the seal and unfolded the pages, scanning quickly. The floor might have fallen away beneath his feet for the upending its contents produced. Thomas swore softly under his breath, reading the lines again and again.

“Trouble?” Whitlock asked, no sign of amusement in his tone.

“A cotton mill in Manchester I’m heavily invested in caught fire,” Thomas grunted, his stomach churning. “Burned to the ground. All contents and machinery lost.” He blinked, then pushed out of his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, Whitlock, I must ascertain if I am shortly to face ruin or not.”

Without waiting for a response, Thomas strode away from the table, the feeling of impending illness continuing with him. He would not be as destitute as he had been five years ago, there was no question there, but it could be that he would need to pull all assets from other investments to salvage his situation. Or funnel profits from the estate. Or a hundred and three other things that might help, if only he knew the extent of the issue.

Security and solvency had been his aim from the day of his ruination, and he’d be damned if he’d let either of them slip now.

Something had to be wrong.

She had been sitting here at the table in the dining room for an hour now, and there was no sign of Thomas. She had known that he would be gone for the day, but he had assured her that he would be home for dinner, and that their evening would be spent in quiet contentment together. He’d been so thrilled by the idea that it had begun to sound perfect to Lily as well, and she’d prepared everything specifically for such.

She’d ordered supper to be even simpler than its usual fare and to have it brought to them in the drawing room so they might capture again the simplicity they’d enjoyed when they had dined with the villagers at Wheal Venton. She’d taken her hair down, and her gown this evening had been specifically chosen for its whimsy rather than its finery: a simple muslin dotted with small flowers reminiscent of bluebells.

Everything was in order, and her excitement had reached its peak at the appointed time for the meal to begin.

Now, she sat here as an act of desperate hope. Or of unconquerable will. Or frank denial. Perhaps all three at once.

But she could not sit here further, and she would need to begin asking questions. She had not feared for his health or safety, for London was full of people, and any injuries or calamity would have been reported to her with some efficacy. Had her husband been caught up in meetings longer than he wished, he surely would have sent word to her that he would be detained.

Any other explanation was not so easily guessed, and she feared asking. Why, she could not say. It was not as though she doubted that her husband loved her, or that she doubted his faithfulness to her, or that she thought he might fall into sin somehow. She knew better than to suspect any of that.

It was precisely that she could not fathom the reason for his lateness that she feared. Something she had not imagined kept her husband from their plans, and her fear was not the sort to grip her soul and rob her of sleep. It was the sort to rid her of all emotion and return her to the blank expanse of existence she had known before all of this.

The sort that would effectively erase the joy of recent days and the love she had discovered. That would give her little to hope for and less to live for.

But what could have changed to drive her to that place?

She could not let herself imagine the worst. Not now, not when she had no reason. Her husband deserved loyalty from her and to the promises they had made. She had to keep hope that she was thinking too much, worrying excessively, or letting her imagination venture where it had no business venturing.

Swallowing, Lily pushed back her chair and rose, waving the footmen back as they stepped forward, smiled her thanks and left the room, her plate as empty and clean as when she had entered earlier. Her steps made no sound on the marble floors but somehow still echoed in the silence of the house.

The sight of the butler made her heart leap into her throat, propelling her forward with more haste. “Sutton?”

He stopped in his place and turned toward her at once. “Yes, madam. How might I serve you?”

She smiled at his usual formality. “Did Mr. Granger give any indication when he would return this evening?”

Sutton seemed to blink without actually blinking. “Mr. Granger is at home, madam.”

Lily stared at the wiry man for the space of two heartbeats. “Is he? And when did he return?”

“Two hours ago, madam. He asked that he not be disturbed.” A hint of strain appeared in the