The entries were not household expenses.
They were rents from three cottages, a small orchard, and a parcel of meadowland near the eastern boundary.
Every page bore the name of Eleanor Whitcomb, her mother’s mother.
At the back was a folded deed.
Emily read the first paragraph and felt the room tilt beneath her feet.
The meadow and cottages had been placed in trust for Eleanor’s eldest granddaughter.
That granddaughter was Emily.
“Why have I never seen this?” she asked.
“Your grandmother died before you were old enough to understand it,” Higgins replied.
“His lordship took possession of her papers afterward.”
“Did he know?”
Higgins looked at the floor.
“He knew enough to be angry when your grandmother refused to change the settlement.”
Emily turned another page.
The rents had continued after Eleanor’s death.
They had also continued to be collected by Arthur Harrington.
The sum was not enormous, but it was sufficient to have provided Emily with an independent income for years.
She remembered winters without proper boots and evenings when she had gone hungry so Clara could entertain visitors.
She remembered being told that she cost the family more than she could ever repay.
Her father had been taking money that belonged to her while making her feel indebted for every mouthful of bread.
Higgins watched her face with open sorrow.
“I should have spoken sooner.”
Emily closed the book.
“Yes,” she said.
He accepted the answer without defending himself.
That was the first honest thing anyone in the house had done that morning.
By noon, Emily had written a letter of her own.
She addressed it to Mr. Ashcombe, not to the duke.
She requested an independent solicitor who could examine a trust deed without informing her father.
She included no declaration of affection, no appeal for rescue, and no promise to attend a luncheon.
She asked a practical question about property that appeared to belong to her.
The reply came the following afternoon.
Mr. Ashcombe would meet her at the village lending library, where the vicar’s wife kept the keys.
He would bring a woman named Mrs. Beatrice Fenwick, a solicitor who had spent twenty years handling settlements and inheritance disputes.
Emily read that detail with relief.
For the first time, the conversation would not depend upon whether a powerful man found her agreeable.
She walked to the village beneath a sky the color of pewter.
Her shoes leaked at the toes, but she kept the account book dry beneath her cloak.
