stupidity.
Laura stepped in quickly. ‘Not just us, Di. Tax will be based on a percentage of the total value of a property and its contents. Every landowner in the country will be affected. The Duke of Atholl, the Duke of Northumberland, the Duke of Westminster, the Earl of Fife. They’ll all have to pay up when the head of the family dies,’ she added as her eyes skimmed the newspaper.
‘Then it’s got nothing to do with our family being cursed?’ Georgie asked.
Lady Rothbury looked stern. ‘I’ve told you, that’s a lot of nonsense. Of course we haven’t been cursed.’
Her husband started pacing around the room again. ‘For five hundred years my family has owned Lochlee and we’ve spent our hard-earned money filling it with beautiful furniture and paintings and a mass of silver, and we’ve farmed the land and provided employment for hundreds of people and now, when I’m gone, some snivelling little Inland Revenue clerk is going to go around valuing every bloody thing. It’s criminal! It’s the beginning of the end for landowners like us. Farming will be ruined, especially small holdings.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘By the time my great-grandchildren inherit this place there’ll be nothing left for them except a few sticks and stones.’
Lady Rothbury looked at him in distress. ‘You mean each time the head of the family dies, the tax man comes back for more?’
‘What do you think it means?’ he demanded with renewed anger. ‘All the grand estates will eventually be whittled down to next to nothing.’
‘Stop, William! It’s too depressing. It will be years before you die so there’s no point in worrying about it now. Freddie will look after everything when the time comes.’
‘We shouldn’t grumble,’ Beattie said earnestly. ‘We’ll never be poor like some people. I read that in the East End of London most children go barefoot and sometimes only have a crust of bread to eat. Can you imagine it? We’re fretting about having to sell some of our land one day while those families are sleeping six in a bed, in rat-infested hovels.’
Her mother glanced at her frostily. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of getting involved in good works?’
‘It would make a change from husband-hunting,’ Lord Rothbury remarked scathingly. ‘Now that Freddie is sixteen it’s time he learned how to run this place. I’ll talk to his tutor tomorrow. He must be taught exactly what to do when I die. He’ll have to have his wits about him then.’
Freddie, bored by his studies, sauntered over to the stables while his father was out riding. ‘Hamish?’ he called out.
The stable lad came running; his red hair was ruffled and his freckled face had a wary expression. ‘Aye, M’Lud?’ he replied in a broad Scottish accent.
Freddie nodded. As Viscount Fairbairn, heir to the Earl of Rothbury, he tried to insist that all the staff both inside the castle and out address him properly, although his parents had countermanded his order.
‘Get me some more whisky,’ he demanded, flicking a sovereign into Hamish’s grubby hand. ‘I want tobacco, too.’
‘Aye, M’Lud.’ Hamish did not dare object to being treated like a messenger because refusal to oblige in the past had led to a beating and the threat of dismissal. ‘I’ll tell my father you’re a thief and not to be trusted,’ Freddie had warned.
‘Shall I be leaving it hidden in the usual place, M’Lud?’
‘Where else?’ Freddie turned and swaggered off arrogantly. ‘And don’t be long about it.’
Hamish didn’t reply but raised two fingers and grimaced angrily at Freddie’s receding figure. ‘Scum,’ he muttered under his breath. He swore he’d swing for him one day if his young lordship kept pushing him for favours – and they weren’t always just for whisky and baccy. He recalled with a shudder how he’d realized some time ago that the young master was never going to be interested in girls. More than once he’d tried
Laura stepped in quickly. ‘Not just us, Di. Tax will be based on a percentage of the total value of a property and its contents. Every landowner in the country will be affected. The Duke of Atholl, the Duke of Northumberland, the Duke of Westminster, the Earl of Fife. They’ll all have to pay up when the head of the family dies,’ she added as her eyes skimmed the newspaper.
‘Then it’s got nothing to do with our family being cursed?’ Georgie asked.
Lady Rothbury looked stern. ‘I’ve told you, that’s a lot of nonsense. Of course we haven’t been cursed.’
Her husband started pacing around the room again. ‘For five hundred years my family has owned Lochlee and we’ve spent our hard-earned money filling it with beautiful furniture and paintings and a mass of silver, and we’ve farmed the land and provided employment for hundreds of people and now, when I’m gone, some snivelling little Inland Revenue clerk is going to go around valuing every bloody thing. It’s criminal! It’s the beginning of the end for landowners like us. Farming will be ruined, especially small holdings.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘By the time my great-grandchildren inherit this place there’ll be nothing left for them except a few sticks and stones.’
Lady Rothbury looked at him in distress. ‘You mean each time the head of the family dies, the tax man comes back for more?’
‘What do you think it means?’ he demanded with renewed anger. ‘All the grand estates will eventually be whittled down to next to nothing.’
‘Stop, William! It’s too depressing. It will be years before you die so there’s no point in worrying about it now. Freddie will look after everything when the time comes.’
‘We shouldn’t grumble,’ Beattie said earnestly. ‘We’ll never be poor like some people. I read that in the East End of London most children go barefoot and sometimes only have a crust of bread to eat. Can you imagine it? We’re fretting about having to sell some of our land one day while those families are sleeping six in a bed, in rat-infested hovels.’
Her mother glanced at her frostily. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of getting involved in good works?’
‘It would make a change from husband-hunting,’ Lord Rothbury remarked scathingly. ‘Now that Freddie is sixteen it’s time he learned how to run this place. I’ll talk to his tutor tomorrow. He must be taught exactly what to do when I die. He’ll have to have his wits about him then.’
Freddie, bored by his studies, sauntered over to the stables while his father was out riding. ‘Hamish?’ he called out.
The stable lad came running; his red hair was ruffled and his freckled face had a wary expression. ‘Aye, M’Lud?’ he replied in a broad Scottish accent.
Freddie nodded. As Viscount Fairbairn, heir to the Earl of Rothbury, he tried to insist that all the staff both inside the castle and out address him properly, although his parents had countermanded his order.
‘Get me some more whisky,’ he demanded, flicking a sovereign into Hamish’s grubby hand. ‘I want tobacco, too.’
‘Aye, M’Lud.’ Hamish did not dare object to being treated like a messenger because refusal to oblige in the past had led to a beating and the threat of dismissal. ‘I’ll tell my father you’re a thief and not to be trusted,’ Freddie had warned.
‘Shall I be leaving it hidden in the usual place, M’Lud?’
‘Where else?’ Freddie turned and swaggered off arrogantly. ‘And don’t be long about it.’
Hamish didn’t reply but raised two fingers and grimaced angrily at Freddie’s receding figure. ‘Scum,’ he muttered under his breath. He swore he’d swing for him one day if his young lordship kept pushing him for favours – and they weren’t always just for whisky and baccy. He recalled with a shudder how he’d realized some time ago that the young master was never going to be interested in girls. More than once he’d tried
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