The Second Mrs Darcy. Elizabeth Aston

annual income, the figures are all here, and although of course the profits are dependent on the crop and the hazards of shipping, the plantations are well managed, and you will find the figures for the last five years on this sheet.

      “In addition, there is the sum of ninety thousand pounds in gilts; Mrs. Worthington was always a conservative investor—and, held at the bank, there are her jewels.” He lifted yet another sheet of paper covered in lists and figures. “This is the inventory with the valuation that was made a year ago.”

      Octavia’s eyes flickered unbelievingly down the page: a diamond necklace, a pair of rose diamond drop earrings, a number of large uncut rubies, an emerald necklace with matching bracelets … It was a long list, and the words floated in front of her eyes.

      “Good heavens, what use had she for all these?” she cried. “And what should I do with them all?”

      “I do not believe she ever wore most of them,” said Mr. Wilkinson, pursing his lips. “Although she may have done so when Mr. Worthington was alive, when they were in India. She kept them as an investment, I dare say, and a good one, for they are unquestionably worth a great deal more than she or Mr. Worthington paid for them, as you will see. The jeweller who valued them, who knew her and looked after her jewellery for her, remarked that she was extremely knowledgeable; they are all stones of the highest quality. Should you decide to sell any of them—although I hardly think you would need to—he would be glad to have the handling of the sale, he asked me to say.”

      Octavia looked down at the papers that Mr. Wilkinson had handed to her, barely taking in the columns of figures, still unable to comprehend the extent of her inheritance.

      “And all this comes to me?”

      “Yes. You are named in her will, there is no mistake. She left some small legacies, annuities for her servants, that kind of thing, but the rest comes to you—you see, born Octavia Susannah Melbury, daughter of the late Sir Clement Melbury and Lady Melbury, now Mrs. Darcy, of Alipore, Calcutta. Now, it is fortunate, extremely fortunate, that she died after your late husband—since that removes any complications that might otherwise have arisen.”

      “What complications?”

      “As a married woman, your inheritance would have come under your husband’s control, and could have formed part of his estate. I understand there was an entail? Yes. Well, it would not have formed part of the entailed property, and should have come to you in the event of your husband’s death—but it might have been, as I say, a complication—not one we need consider in this case. I have from Calcutta copies of the documents relating to your husband’s sad and premature demise, please accept my deepest sympathies—and I am sure everything will be quite in order with regard to that.”

      Christopher would have rejoiced in her good fortune, Octavia reflected, as she watched the cows who grazed in Green Park lying comfortably on the grass, chewing the cud, looking, she couldn’t help feeling, very much like one or two of Theodosia’s acquaintances, with their bland, bovine expressions.

      Had Christopher survived, he would undoubtedly have put quite a lot of her inheritance into his house in Wiltshire, a place that seemed to eat up money. She went pale at the thought of the Worthington money passing into the grasping hands of Mr. Warren; well, there was no point in dwelling on might-have-beens; Christopher, God rest his soul, was gone, Mr. Warren had Dalcombe, and she had her own immense fortune from her mother’s despised family. She gave a little skip, startling a stout man hurrying past.

      She had pledged Mr. Wilkinson to secrecy.

      “It will get about in due course,” he said. “Such things always do, although not from me or anyone in my employ, we know our business too well for that, discretion is essential in our profession, Mrs. Darcy. Now, I am one of the executors of the will, and the other is a Mr. Portal—ah, I see you know the name. He is presently abroad, travelling in France, I believe, but that need not hold us up, although, as a lifelong friend of your great-uncle and -aunt, I know that he is very eager to make your acquaintance.”

      “He wrote to me, from France, but I did not quite understand his position. So he is an executor?”

      “Yes. Meanwhile, you will want someone to advise you; your brother, Mr. Arthur Melbury, would be the proper person, for I understand that Sir James Melbury is rarely in town. I can be in touch with Mr. Melbury at his earliest convenience to discuss—”

      Octavia cut in swiftly. “I forbid you, I absolutely forbid you to have any contact with Mr. Melbury about this or anything to do with me.”

      Mr. Wilkinson’s grave face took on a look of astonishment.

      “I am twenty-five, and as a widow I believe I have full control of my financial affairs, is not that so?”

      “In law, yes, but as a practical matter, I beg of you to consider what a responsibility such a fortune is. Mr. Melbury is known as an astute man, he will be better able to—”

      “No. If I decide to run wild and sell out of the gilts and gamble the money away at the card table, I shall do so; it is entirely my own business.”

      “But, Mrs. Darcy,” he began in appalled tones.

      “I joke, Mr. Wilkinson. I am not a gambler, and I have been too poor for most of my life not to know the value of large sums in gilts. But I mean what I say. Whom did Mrs. Worthington rely on to advise her?”

      He looked doubtful. “We were her lawyers, and she had a man of business in Yorkshire, but as to investments and so forth, and the plantations—well, I believe she saw to all that herself.”

      “Then so shall I.”

      “But, Mrs. Darcy, the cases are quite different. Mrs. Worthington was a woman who—”

      “I shall make mistakes, I am sure, but my mind is quite made up.”

      She could see that he was going to argue, and could watch his mental processes as he thought better of it. She knew just what was going through his mind, that in no time at all, she would be married again, and her fortune would pass into the hands of a man, someone who would take care of everything for her.

      “Not so,” she said to the nearest cow, who gazed at her with huge, soft eyes. “I am a woman of independent means, definitely in possession of a good fortune, but I am not in the least in want of a husband!”

       Chapter Seven

      Arthur called early the following morning, when his sisters and niece were still in the breakfast parlour. Penelope was toying with a piece of toast, looking out of the window, and, while her mother was attending to her morning coffee and arranging everyone’s day for them, letting herself give way to a heavy sigh. She rose politely as her uncle came into the room, dropping a neat curtsy, and presenting a dutiful cheek for his avuncular kiss.

      “You are not in looks, Penelope,” he said. “You need to get some roses into your cheeks. I saw Louisa yesterday, and she is blooming, quite blooming; you will have to look to your laurels.”

      “What have Louisa’s looks to do with me?” Penelope muttered as she sat down again.

      Arthur greeted his sisters, Theodosia with enthusiasm, Octavia less so, and sat himself down, calling for a fresh pot of coffee. “I have just time for a cup, but I shan’t stay. I have called on Octavia’s account, as it happens. I met Lady Warren last night, at the Batterbys’ rout—I didn’t see you there, Theodosia. It was a sad crush, you did well to avoid it.”

      “We called in early, probably before you arrived, for we were going on to the Tollants’ ball.”

      “Oh? Well, as I say, Lady Warren was there— Octavia, are you paying attention?”

      “I?” said Octavia, who had been looking out of the window and watching a pair of quarrelsome sparrows perched on the parapet of the house opposite.

      “You,