isn’t she?’ she murmured.
Lizzie was laughing but her eyes looked suddenly worried. ‘We should get a move on, though,’ she said with sudden seriousness. ‘None of us are married yet and I’m already twenty-one.’
Laura’s smile faded and a shadow crossed her face. ‘I’m twenty but I’m never going to get married. How could I? I’ll never find anyone like Rory,’ she added quietly.
‘You will, dearest,’ Beattie said, giving her a hug. ‘You’re such a lovely person lots of men will want to marry you.’
‘I might not want to marry them.’
‘Well, I needn’t start worrying yet,’ Diana remarked smugly. ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to get married when you’re fifteen, are you?’
‘Don’t worry, Di. We’ll leave a few Earls and Viscounts for you to marry once we’ve taken our pick,’ Lizzie teased.
April arrived in a flurry of rain with brief snatches of sunshine and the promise that 1894 was going to have a good summer with bumper harvests. For the Earl of Rothbury, however, it spelled the doom and disaster he’d told everyone was blighting his family.
A loud roar from his study startled the family as they came out of the breakfast room.
‘What on earth . . .?’ exclaimed Lady Rothbury. The strangulated bellows continued and Lizzie rushed forward and flung open the study door. Her father was standing at his desk, holding an open copy of
The Times.
‘William! What on earth is the matter?’ his wife scolded, sounding shocked. ‘The servants will hear you.’
‘Damn and blast the servants,’ he raged, purple in the face.
‘What on earth has happened?’
‘Have you seen this?’ He shook the newspaper at her. ‘Have you seen what’s going to happen? Then will you believe we’re doomed?’
‘William, please,’ she remonstrated. ‘Compose yourself!’
Laura watched her father’s face crumple like an overtired child.
‘Let’s sit down quietly and you can tell us, Papa,’ she coaxed.
He flashed a look of contempt in her direction. ‘It doesn’t bloody matter whether we’re standing or sitting – this is going to ruin us,’ he said. Then he looked at the newspaper again, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d read.
Lady Rothbury seated herself by the fireplace while the five elder sisters sank into the chairs around her. The atmosphere bristled with tension as Lord Rothbury paced up and down.
‘Tell us what the paper says, Papa,’ Laura said softly.
He cleared his throat. ‘This is a total calamity,’ he began. ‘In the House of Commons yesterday Sir William Harcourt delivered the budget and he’s introduced a new tax, dammit! In fact, it’s five new taxes. Death duties, they’re called, and you’ll find out all about them when I die, because the government is going to demand thousands of pounds from you.’
Lady Rothbury froze. ‘From me?’ she repeated as if she’d been personally insulted.
‘From the estate,’ he retorted impatiently. Looking down at the newspaper he read aloud, ‘“The five duties present an extraordinary specimen of tessellated legislation. The Probate duty, which began life as a stamp duty in 1694 . . .”’ He flung the paper down in disgust. ‘It goes on and on,’ he continued, ‘and by the look of it, you’ll have to sell most of our land to pay these new death duties. Have you ever heard of anything so outrageous?’
‘Has the government passed this bill?’ Laura asked.
‘They will if they haven’t already. They are a bloody lot of scroungers.’
Lady Rothbury looked dazed and vacant. ‘What exactly will it mean?’
‘It means,’ he replied with a vengeful glance in her direction, ‘that when Freddie inherits Lochlee Castle and its valuable contents plus one-hundred-and-forty-five-thousand acres, a huge amount of money will have to be raised in order to pay this tax.’
‘That’s so unfair,’ Diana exclaimed. ‘Why should they pick on us?’
‘Dear God.’ Her father groaned at her
Lizzie was laughing but her eyes looked suddenly worried. ‘We should get a move on, though,’ she said with sudden seriousness. ‘None of us are married yet and I’m already twenty-one.’
Laura’s smile faded and a shadow crossed her face. ‘I’m twenty but I’m never going to get married. How could I? I’ll never find anyone like Rory,’ she added quietly.
‘You will, dearest,’ Beattie said, giving her a hug. ‘You’re such a lovely person lots of men will want to marry you.’
‘I might not want to marry them.’
‘Well, I needn’t start worrying yet,’ Diana remarked smugly. ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to get married when you’re fifteen, are you?’
‘Don’t worry, Di. We’ll leave a few Earls and Viscounts for you to marry once we’ve taken our pick,’ Lizzie teased.
April arrived in a flurry of rain with brief snatches of sunshine and the promise that 1894 was going to have a good summer with bumper harvests. For the Earl of Rothbury, however, it spelled the doom and disaster he’d told everyone was blighting his family.
A loud roar from his study startled the family as they came out of the breakfast room.
‘What on earth . . .?’ exclaimed Lady Rothbury. The strangulated bellows continued and Lizzie rushed forward and flung open the study door. Her father was standing at his desk, holding an open copy of
The Times.
‘William! What on earth is the matter?’ his wife scolded, sounding shocked. ‘The servants will hear you.’
‘Damn and blast the servants,’ he raged, purple in the face.
‘What on earth has happened?’
‘Have you seen this?’ He shook the newspaper at her. ‘Have you seen what’s going to happen? Then will you believe we’re doomed?’
‘William, please,’ she remonstrated. ‘Compose yourself!’
Laura watched her father’s face crumple like an overtired child.
‘Let’s sit down quietly and you can tell us, Papa,’ she coaxed.
He flashed a look of contempt in her direction. ‘It doesn’t bloody matter whether we’re standing or sitting – this is going to ruin us,’ he said. Then he looked at the newspaper again, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d read.
Lady Rothbury seated herself by the fireplace while the five elder sisters sank into the chairs around her. The atmosphere bristled with tension as Lord Rothbury paced up and down.
‘Tell us what the paper says, Papa,’ Laura said softly.
He cleared his throat. ‘This is a total calamity,’ he began. ‘In the House of Commons yesterday Sir William Harcourt delivered the budget and he’s introduced a new tax, dammit! In fact, it’s five new taxes. Death duties, they’re called, and you’ll find out all about them when I die, because the government is going to demand thousands of pounds from you.’
Lady Rothbury froze. ‘From me?’ she repeated as if she’d been personally insulted.
‘From the estate,’ he retorted impatiently. Looking down at the newspaper he read aloud, ‘“The five duties present an extraordinary specimen of tessellated legislation. The Probate duty, which began life as a stamp duty in 1694 . . .”’ He flung the paper down in disgust. ‘It goes on and on,’ he continued, ‘and by the look of it, you’ll have to sell most of our land to pay these new death duties. Have you ever heard of anything so outrageous?’
‘Has the government passed this bill?’ Laura asked.
‘They will if they haven’t already. They are a bloody lot of scroungers.’
Lady Rothbury looked dazed and vacant. ‘What exactly will it mean?’
‘It means,’ he replied with a vengeful glance in her direction, ‘that when Freddie inherits Lochlee Castle and its valuable contents plus one-hundred-and-forty-five-thousand acres, a huge amount of money will have to be raised in order to pay this tax.’
‘That’s so unfair,’ Diana exclaimed. ‘Why should they pick on us?’
‘Dear God.’ Her father groaned at her
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