the moneylenders. At that imprudence she drew the line. The interest on Robert’s loans had accumulated to frightening amounts. Anything was better than getting into their hands. As usual since her widowhood, or, if she was being honest, for some time before Robert’s death, she would have to solve her own problems. Or rather beg for further assistance from the one man who would help.
Chapter 8
A t seven o’clock the next evening, Caro boarded the Norwich mail coach on her way to the Quintons’ house near Newmarket. It was her first trip outside London in almost a year. That journey, too, had been by mail. When it became clear what a mess Robert had left, she’d returned to her mother’s house to beg for money, and been refused. The only thing she’d got out of the visit had been damaged pride and a further hole in her purse from the cost of the coach ticket.
So now she sought the help of Robert’s former guardian, Max Quinton. He owed her nothing, less than nothing. Robert had always disregarded his counsel. Because Mrs. Quinton was a cousin of Caro’s mother, Quinton had agreed to untangle the snarl of debt to which Robert, in the six short years of his majority, had reduced his handsome estate. Max disposed of the heavily mortgaged lands and other assets, paid off what debt he could, and negotiated the schedule of repayments that left Caro in possession of her house and a modest income. An income she never managed to quite make cover her expenses. Already, she was behind with her current tradesmen’s bills.
Caro didn’t know what Max could do about the thousand pounds Horner demanded, apart from giving her a well-deserved scolding. The Quintons were comfortable but by no means wealthy and had a growing family. Who would have thought that Eleanor, wed at the same time as her charge, would now have three children while Caro had none?
A tear seeped from the corner of her eye at the recollection of the tiny boy, born too soon, who’d barely lived long enough to take a breath. Poor little infant. He would have been nearly four years old now. Caro hadn’t conceived until three years into her marriage, and had never done so again. It was probably just as well that such a feckless pair as she and Robert had never given a hostage to fortune. She could not help sometimes thinking of her son, wondering whether he would have inherited his father’s charm of manner, his intelligence and wit. And his talent for self-destruction.
A woman sitting across from her in the coach noticed her distress. “Are you all right, madam?” she asked in a kindly way.
“Thank you, I am quite well.”
“I hope it’s not bad news that brings you on your journey.”
“Nothing like that,” Caro said. “Merely a matter of family business in Newmarket.”
“Business and family don’t always mix well.” The speaker, a neatly dressed woman of middle years, had a sensible, humorous air about her.
“There, madam,” Caro replied with a smile, “you are entirely correct. In my present errand, I pray you may be wrong. What brings you on this road?”
“I’m returning home to Norwich after a visit to my niece in London.”
“Prosperous family business?”
“Happy but not prosperous. She just had her sixth child. Another healthy boy making two lads and four little girls for them to keep. Her husband has a good place as a clerk, but that’s a lot of mouths to feed.”
Another traveler, a man huddled in a heavy coat fastened to the neck with large buttons, joined the discussion.
“Girls are expensive. I have three sisters. They help in my father’s factory, but we’d like to find them good husbands so they need not work for a living.”
The woman nodded her approval. “Helps if you have a little money. Mr. Ransom, my husband, made sure he was beforehand with the world and set aside a hundred pounds apiece for my two girls. My Mary’s betrothed to a grocer with his own shop in Norwich.”
“A good man you have, if
Chapter 8
A t seven o’clock the next evening, Caro boarded the Norwich mail coach on her way to the Quintons’ house near Newmarket. It was her first trip outside London in almost a year. That journey, too, had been by mail. When it became clear what a mess Robert had left, she’d returned to her mother’s house to beg for money, and been refused. The only thing she’d got out of the visit had been damaged pride and a further hole in her purse from the cost of the coach ticket.
So now she sought the help of Robert’s former guardian, Max Quinton. He owed her nothing, less than nothing. Robert had always disregarded his counsel. Because Mrs. Quinton was a cousin of Caro’s mother, Quinton had agreed to untangle the snarl of debt to which Robert, in the six short years of his majority, had reduced his handsome estate. Max disposed of the heavily mortgaged lands and other assets, paid off what debt he could, and negotiated the schedule of repayments that left Caro in possession of her house and a modest income. An income she never managed to quite make cover her expenses. Already, she was behind with her current tradesmen’s bills.
Caro didn’t know what Max could do about the thousand pounds Horner demanded, apart from giving her a well-deserved scolding. The Quintons were comfortable but by no means wealthy and had a growing family. Who would have thought that Eleanor, wed at the same time as her charge, would now have three children while Caro had none?
A tear seeped from the corner of her eye at the recollection of the tiny boy, born too soon, who’d barely lived long enough to take a breath. Poor little infant. He would have been nearly four years old now. Caro hadn’t conceived until three years into her marriage, and had never done so again. It was probably just as well that such a feckless pair as she and Robert had never given a hostage to fortune. She could not help sometimes thinking of her son, wondering whether he would have inherited his father’s charm of manner, his intelligence and wit. And his talent for self-destruction.
A woman sitting across from her in the coach noticed her distress. “Are you all right, madam?” she asked in a kindly way.
“Thank you, I am quite well.”
“I hope it’s not bad news that brings you on your journey.”
“Nothing like that,” Caro said. “Merely a matter of family business in Newmarket.”
“Business and family don’t always mix well.” The speaker, a neatly dressed woman of middle years, had a sensible, humorous air about her.
“There, madam,” Caro replied with a smile, “you are entirely correct. In my present errand, I pray you may be wrong. What brings you on this road?”
“I’m returning home to Norwich after a visit to my niece in London.”
“Prosperous family business?”
“Happy but not prosperous. She just had her sixth child. Another healthy boy making two lads and four little girls for them to keep. Her husband has a good place as a clerk, but that’s a lot of mouths to feed.”
Another traveler, a man huddled in a heavy coat fastened to the neck with large buttons, joined the discussion.
“Girls are expensive. I have three sisters. They help in my father’s factory, but we’d like to find them good husbands so they need not work for a living.”
The woman nodded her approval. “Helps if you have a little money. Mr. Ransom, my husband, made sure he was beforehand with the world and set aside a hundred pounds apiece for my two girls. My Mary’s betrothed to a grocer with his own shop in Norwich.”
“A good man you have, if
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