Lady: Impossible (33 page)

I take a deep breath. I think I know what this is, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

‘Financial statements?’

Suddenly looking tearful again, he clasps his hands on the table – almost as if he’s praying – and nods gravely.
 

‘You will see that the value of Silsbury Hall outstrips the debt I have accumulated. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that the price will hold. You know how the luxury property market is – unpredictable.’

The ache in my chest flares again. I steel myself for the numbers, opening the folder to see a simple spreadsheet on the top of the pile. The final numbers speak for themselves, and they are screaming. Seven figure sums. Eight figure sums. Estimates ranging from worst-case scenario to best-case scenario… It all makes my head spin and my vision blur. Numbers run into each other as if they’re attempting to flee in a panic. Without a property sale, we’re in the red. The spreadsheet itself is practically bleeding.

I could vomit right now. There’s no maths needed to prove such a feeling. I imagine this is what it’s like to have crippling ulcers or gallstones: a severe pain right in your gut.
 

‘Jesus.’ Every response I think of verbalising is either a Holy name or a swear word – or a permutation of both. I hold my fist to my mouth and bite, the searing discomfort a futile attempt at distraction.

I have my eyes closed when Father speaks next.

‘The sale of this particular house won’t be enough, not with the mortgage and my private debt – we’d end up keeping Silsbury Hall, but we’d have hardly any funds to live off.’

‘Who tallied these sums? Have you seen a professional?’

‘No, I haven’t. The only people who know about the quandary are the people I’ve borrowed from and, even then, they don’t know the true extent.’

‘Interest on those private loans?’

‘Minimal. But as a gentleman, albeit a foolish one, I intend to repay every last penny.’

I take a series of deep breaths, all of which fail to ground me. Even staring over his shoulder when I open my eyes doesn’t offer a focal point strong enough to keep me from swaying.
 

I struggle to get my words out. ‘Perhaps Andrew can take a look at these sums.’

My father’s eyes widen. ‘Investments are beyond us.’

‘Yes, I know. But he’d be better at this than me. Planning, I mean. I may be educated, but I don’t practise. Besides, I’m too close to the problem.’
 

I drop my fist from under my chin and envision the estate again. Its years and years of history. Generations of Pembrokes. My childhood. The childhood my own children were supposed to have. I know I’m lucky. I know I’m entitled. But that doesn’t mean I can deal with not having the entitlement.

‘Your mother and I discussed many matters today, the most pertinent being the immediate plan going forward. We can see Andrew if you’d like – he may have connections of use – but by the end of summer, the estate should be on the market. That is, if we can’t arrange for a private, more discreet sale.’ He bows his head, seemingly too ashamed to continue.
 

I thumb through the rest of the paperwork, coming across loan agreements, statements, invoices and trades. They’re all very real. This is really happening.
 

Burdened by the thought, I shut the folder and stare at my empty glass. I suppose I’ve never really thought about the distinction between pessimist and optimist before. The glass has always been full for me. Perspective is a challenge.

‘I would like it if we sought an independent opinion in Andrew. But, ultimately, how we proceed is not my decision.’

‘Millie, I value your opinion greatly.’
 

‘Well…’ I trail off, choking with emotion like earlier. I put a hand on my chest and concentrate on breathing. ‘I would like to know if there are any other options, that’s all. Putting a “For Sale” sign on our home is… deeply confronting.’

‘We might be able to secure a private buyer.’

When the tears escape, I lean back in my chair and wipe them away with a bitter laugh. ‘Perhaps Andrew Lloyd Webber can be persuaded. I think our house would make for a fantastic gallery, an excellent place for his art collection. Then again, I’m not sure what he thinks of East Yorkshire – might be a little out of his way.’ I pause. ‘Oh God, what about our things? Are we going to have to auction off the lot?’

My father raises his hand to slow me down.
 

‘It depends on how much the estate will fetch on the market.’

‘Market forces. Excellent.’ I reach for the pitcher and pour myself more juice, eyes stinging from my salty tears.
 

‘Your mother mentioned a suitor.’

I laugh again. ‘Who’d want to marry into a debt-riddled family?’

It’s a selfish thing to say, a rhetorical line delivered without much thought. But his question is a pertinent one. Sell and I’ll have some money to bring to the table. Refuse to sell, and ‘debt’ becomes my middle name.

‘I suppose it’s rather terrible of me to think of this matchmaking business as an actual bailout option. Your mother thinks you could very well be onto something, though at which point you disclose the truth to this fellow, I’m not sure. Ultimately, it’s up to you whether you feel comfortable going ahead – let’s not lose our moral compass, as convenient as a wealthy suitor may be.’

Oliver. He was keen enough to contact Al in order to untangle at least one complication. An infamous family is one thing. Infamous and in a financial tight spot is another.
 

‘We’ll see whether he contacts me. So far it’s mostly speculation and hearsay.’

Father nurses his drink, swishing the juice around his glass like he would a fine wine.
 

‘Am I to drop out of uni?’ I ask. ‘It hardly seems sensible to return.’

‘Again, it might depend on Silsbury Hall. The worst-case scenario also demands the sale of this house as well, in which case we’d have to consider our living arrangements.’

‘Right.’ The thought of having no remaining link to family history is just unfathomable. ‘Well, I can hardly imagine us living in my flat in Fife. I daresay the landlord might be alarmed.’

‘We’ll assess the situation over the next couple of months. If you have to drop out and break the lease, then…’

‘Then so be it.’

‘Yes.’ He holds out his hand out to me across the table. ‘I’m sorry.’

I take his hand, but not before imagining the three of us in Fife, shunned from high society but together nonetheless. How bizarre.
 

‘I assure you I haven’t seen Al,’ he adds.

‘I think Al only appears to those who welcome him. Tricky, reprehensible brother that he is.’

We sit in silence for quite a while, so long that we lose track of time. This is as much as we can bear to discuss, it seems. It might be like this for days, depending on the length of his stay, with details being fleshed out and discussed bit by bit. A person can only comprehend so much turmoil in one go.
 

Eventually, we hear footsteps coming from the corridor. Father cringes, most likely expecting a lecture on tardiness, delivered by none other than his estranged countess. I, on the other hand, sigh from mental exhaustion and welcome the impending distraction.

The doors swing open. As expected, it’s my mother looking harried. She’s changed her outfit and is now sporting a blue print dress and… an apron.

‘Why are you two sitting here like statues?’ she asks, entering the library with her usual authority. ‘There’s dinner downstairs. I helped.’

Father is so flabbergasted he’s lost for words.
 

‘What are you doing helping Blair?’ I ask her. ‘You’re more useless in the kitchen than I am.’

She narrows her eyes at me before addressing Father. ‘Are you listening to this? How did she end up this way? So cantankerous.’

‘How am I to know?’ His eyes are still wide with wonder. ‘But she has a point. You once thought baking soda was a regional beverage.’

‘Balderdash!’

I snort. ‘Balderdash? Now there’s a word I haven’t heard since… 1590.’
 

Father covers his mouth with his hand, a typical move when he wants to hide his smirk. If it wasn’t for the evidence file on the table, this could pass as a regular evening at
chez
Pembroke.

It’s not, however. It’s a very sad day, and jokes can only go so far.
 

Mother straightens her apron and employs a less outraged tone of voice. ‘So… did you discuss the situation?’

‘The situation?’ I ask. ‘Let’s not do that thing where people assign vague names to actual problems: The situation. The incident. The accident. The issue…’ I slap my hand on the manila folder. ‘Financial woes.
The situation
is real.’

My declaration causes both of them discomfort. I’ve seen people in hospital beds with more pleasant expressions.
 

I clear my throat. ‘Sorry. Jokes are my coping mechanism. It’s not the time. I apologise.’

I must be entering the denial phase again. This isn’t even remotely funny.
 

‘In times of hardship, laughter can be helpful,’ Mother says, offering me a lifeline of sorts. She takes a step towards the table before apparently thinking better of it. ‘So, are we heading downstairs? If not, I’ll get Blair to bring the food here.’

Father pushes his chair back and stands. ‘We should head down. A library isn’t the place for dinner.’

‘How long are you staying?’ I ask.

The question comes out like a forgotten ingredient, suddenly thrown into the mix when remembered. It catches both of them off guard.
 

I add a clarifier to the question. ‘Well, you brought your suitcase, after all. Just wondering.’

‘Uh.’ He looks over to Mother. ‘Caroline?’

For once, she’s flustered by being in the spotlight and smooths out her apron over and over. ‘Marcus, we discussed this. It’s your house. You make the rules.’

‘Yes, but…’
 

I remain seated as they appear to communicate non-verbally, the nuances of which I’m unable to detect with precision.
 

‘It’s not as though Alastair will be returning to reclaim his room,’ she says, perhaps more for my benefit.

He clears his throat. ‘Right.’

I’m confused, mostly because they should’ve sorted all this out by now. It’s been hours since I was unceremoniously kicked out of the lounge. The question of sleeping arrangements must have been left open-ended.

‘Okay, then,’ I say, finally standing up. ‘To the dining room we go. Shall I leave this folder here?’

‘I would take it with you,’ Father advises. ‘Unless you trust the butler not to pry.’

I scoop up the file and step away from the table. ‘I’ll keep it in my room. I don’t suppose there’s a Dewey decimal number for this kind of thing.’

‘There could be, but let’s pretend there’s not.’

He gestures for me to leave first, making way for me. I smile weakly and fall into step with Mother, who produces a handkerchief from her pocket.
 

‘Wipe away those tears, sweetheart.’

I eye it warily. ‘Is that clean?’

‘Would I hand you a used handkerchief? Honestly.’ She looks over her shoulder. ‘You can have her in the divorce.’

While I think it’s meant as a joke, it’s a little hard to tell. Certainly, Father’s chuckle is delayed and sounds awfully flat.

I take the handkerchief and blow my nose, all the while wondering how many more tears will be shed over the course of this ordeal.

***

The next few days pass in a sort of stasis. There have been no dramatic changes, just a prevailing atmosphere of shock and depression. We’ve mostly kept to ourselves, only congregating during mealtimes, with niceties and small talk replacing natural conversation. In fact, the one ‘conversation’ that took place with any type of unforced humour occurred when Father inspected Al’s postcard. As it turns out, he’s always been aware of how to read our childhood code so he didn’t need to see my translation.

As for Blair, he appears to have adjusted to the ‘new’ household with little trouble, likely drawing on his hotel experience to get him through. Sadly, he continues to avoid me, limiting our contact to the bare minimum needed for his duties. I think of sending him a text, but somehow manage to leave him be. It’s the manila folder that contains my misfortune, not my iPhone inbox.
 

Now that it’s Monday morning, some action has started to take place. My mother places a call to Andrew’s office, arranging for a private consultation at our home when he has a spare moment. Thankfully, he’s more than accommodating, agreeing to meet with my parents this Wednesday. I shudder to think what important client has been bumped at our expense but, at the same time, we really need the help.
 

Andrew leaves it to me to tell Abby about ‘the situation’, however, it feels entirely too private at the moment. I suppose I’ve inherited stubbornness when it comes to pride. I’ll give it a few more days and then explain myself when I can talk about it without fighting back the tears.

Of all my friends, Abby is the only one to be trusted. I’m sure there’s some element of gossip already going around. After I sent my apologies to Gillian for missing her birthday party on Friday night, Eliza sent me a text asking if my father really is in town. Not wanting to lie, I confirmed his presence but didn’t say anything further. Mindy must’ve heard as well, as she kicked up little fuss about me missing the ballet last night. It’s certainly easy to sit around and talk when there’s nothing else to do.

Well, not ‘nothing’ per se – I’ve been combing through the documents. Knowing a conversation is due, I find my father in the study and return the folder to him. It’s then that Blair knocks on the open door, a floral arrangement in his hands.

‘Sorry to interrupt, m’lord, but there’s been a delivery for Lady Emilia.’ He raises the bouquet of blue orchids, a kind smile on his face. ‘Lady Silsbury said to bring it over straight away.’

My father raises his eyebrows, sitting back in his leather chair. ‘What’s that? Looks like blue roses from here.’