“Honour?” India cried harshly. “Forgive me, Uncle, but I see no honour in any of this. Isham must have known that Father could not pay such sums. He is a cur. If I were a man I’d call him out myself.”
Sir James’s face grew stern. “You don’t understand, I fear. If a man sits at the tables his companions do not question his finances. It is taken for granted that he will be able to meet his obligations. To do otherwise would be fraud.”
India was silent. In her heart she knew that Lord Isham was not solely to blame for the disaster that had overtaken them. For the first time in her life she was beginning to realise that her adored papa, for all his charm and gaiety, lacked any sense of responsibility for his family. To face the truth squarely, as she must now do, he had gambled away not only the roof above their heads but monies which he might have considered were not his to spend.
The law would not agree with her. She knew that well enough. Where her own property was concerned a wife had no rights. Her husband might dispose of it as he willed. But how could Papa have left them destitute? Something of her despair must have shown in her face, and her uncle saw it.
“I wish I could make you understand,” he said more gently. “Tailors, grocers, even builders may be left to whistle for prompt settlement of their accounts, but gambling debts must be paid at once.”
“Very well then,” India told him stiffly. “He shall be paid, and much good may the money do him. He, above any man in London, is in no need of it…”
“That’s not the point, my love. Try not to be bitter. His lordship has been accommodating. He gave you three months’ grace in your old home when he might have turned you out at once.”
“That was kind of him!” India would not be placated. “He must have been waiting with impatience to take possession of the Grange. After all, a hovel would be an amusing change from one of his so-called palaces.”
“Your home was scarcely that, India.” Sir James looked about him sadly. “Now this, I fear…”
India was at once contrite. “Uncle, I am a wretch! Pray do not think we are ungrateful to you for giving us this place. We shall be happy here…” Her voice wavered a little but she pressed on resolutely. “I have such plans for the garden. We shall grow fruit, and vegetables.” She managed a brief smile. “I am even learning to cook.”
Sir James looked shocked. “My dear, there is surely no need for that? I thought that Martha…”
“Martha is an excellent housemaid, but she has no gift for cooking. My own efforts are in self-defence, and it is not so very difficult. Hester has brought me a copy of Mrs Rundle’s book, and I follow it to the letter.”
“Even so, it is an unsuitable task for you. I’ll send someone over from the Hall.”
“No, please! I beg that you will not. We are too much in your debt already…”
“I wish I could do more. You shall have coals, and food of course, and the use of a carriage when you need it. I’m sorry about the house in London, but the rent was beyond my means, otherwise you might have finished your Season…That I do regret.”
“Please don’t. How could we have stayed? After Father’s death, rumour alone would have driven us away. It would have been unthinkable.”
Sir James regarded her set expression with unease. How much had she heard? He’d done his best to protect his wife’s family from the worst of the London gossip, but rumour had raced through the Ton like wildfire, and had lost nothing in the telling.
Even without it India had been badly hurt. Described always as “the child of his heart,” she had been her father’s favourite, and to her he had seemed a godlike creature. Now her uncle sensed that much of her anger towards Lord Isham stemmed from that hurt, and the realisation that her idol had feet of clay. Gareth Rushford’s death had come as a shock to all of his family, but what had followed had been worse.
Damn the fellow, Sir James thought savagely. He had known for years that that charmer’s carefree lifestyle had rested upon a pyramid of debt. It had taken only that fatal evening at White’s to bring the whole edifice crashing down. The result had crushed his family.
Now India spoke with difficulty. “Have you heard nothing more? About the accident, I mean?”
“Nothing!” her uncle said mendaciously. India must never learn the truth. Gossip had not lied, as he had taken the trouble to find out. Knowing that he was ruined, Rushford had stayed on at the club, drinking heavily. In the early hours of the morning he had staggered out of White’s and into St James’s Street. Would they ever discover if that lurch into the path of a racing curricle had been deliberate? He himself suspected it. Had Rushford tried to spare his family the shame of an obvious suicide? Perhaps. As it was he had died instantly beneath the flying hooves.
There was little he could say to comfort his niece, but he tried. “It was very dark, you know, my dear. We suspect that your father did not see the carriage until it was upon him. At least he did not suffer.”
“Even so…I wonder that he did not hear the horses. It is very strange…”
“My dear child, you must not torture yourself. Perhaps your papa was thinking of something else…”
“His gambling debts? Oh, Uncle, how I hate the practice! It should be outlawed…”
“There, at least, we are in agreement, India. As you must know, my own estate is heavily encumbered and has been so since my grandfather’s day. He had to sell much of it to settle his losses at cards. I have been trying to buy it back, a little at a time.”
“I know it,” she cried warmly. “Hester has told me how you’ve struggled. It is selfish of me to think only of our own concerns, but I cannot help wondering how men can risk their substance upon the turn of a card.”
“Not only men, my dear. It is the vice of our time, and the ladies play their part. You must have seen it when you were in London.”
“I didn’t pay much attention,” she confessed. “There were so many other things to do. It was one long round of parties, balls and concerts…”
Sir James’s hand reached out to her. “Your life now will be very different,” he said sadly. “Tell me now…during your Season, was there no one…I mean…?”
“You mean did anyone offer for me?” For the first time India managed a slight smile. “No, they did not. Uncle, look at me! In the first place I am much too tall. I towered over most of the men who danced with me. And then, you know, I cannot be described as ethereal. I believe that statuesque is the kindest word. My hair is not exactly carrotty-red, but it is certainly a ruddy chestnut, and blue eyes are much preferred to hazel.”
Sir James smiled his dissent, and India dimpled. “I did, however, create one sensation,” she admitted. “I had the misfortune to offend George Brummell, who promptly snubbed me. I was expected to be crushed, but I’m afraid I laughed aloud. He won’t forgive me for it.”
“You seem to have borne that fate with fortitude,” Sir James said drily. “He is another, I fear, who lives beyond his means.”
India was silent. That last remark was much too close to home.
Her uncle sensed it and made haste to change the subject.
“How is Letty?” he enquired. “I hope that she is a comfort to you at this time.”
“She is upset, but not because of our losses. Letty is in love. We had hoped that Oliver Wells would offer for her, but now? Well, I don’t know.”
“Wells?” Sir James considered for a moment. “One of the Wells of Bristol? Money can be of no consideration there, so it cannot signify if Letty has no portion. I married for love myself, you know…”
“I know it, Uncle dear, but Oliver is a younger son and his mother is