Page 50 of All My Broken Dreams

“All my broken dreams,” said the priest.

The phrase stuck in her mind. What it meant in context of the sermon he was giving, she didn’t know, she missed that part. But it spoke poignantly to what she was feeling sitting in an ice cold chapel thousands of miles away from home.

Broken dreams were all she had left. Harry dying meant she would never really feel happy again. Part of her was gone and was never coming back.

The Stewart family solicitor leaned over to tap on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but if you have a moment to spare after the service, Miss Listowel, I would like to speak with you about the trust that was to go to your brother.”

“I have an appointment set for tomorrow. Can it wait until then?”

“I do apologize, but it is imperative we get the paperwork sorted before the deceased leaves the country. Since it is only a matter of reviewing the legacy with you and signing a few papers, the sooner it is completed, the better. I won’t keep you long.”

“Yes, of course,” Robbie said, bewildered.

“Wonderful,” the man beamed. “I’ll meet you in the church office after the Processional.”

She couldn’t find Deacon anywhere so it was Casey Manderville and Alastair who joined her for the meeting.

“With the death of your brother, Harry Listowel, the entirety of the Stewart estate and holdings, comprising the house, acreage and distillery is passed down to the next in line, Rowena Listowel.”

“That’s impossible,” she said. Robbie scanned the document in front of her. “I’m not a Stewart.”

“Your mother was, therefore you are a Stewart. Heirs can be sons or daughters in this case. Mr. Bryan Stewart died without issue, leaving the family fortune to be held in trust for his nephew when he reached the age of twenty-five. In the event of that person’s death before producing an heir, the trust passed to his niece.” The solicitor was all business. “Now, if you will sign here and here, the matter can be finalized and the estate handed over to you.”

“But I don’t know anything about running an estate or a distillery!”

Alastair spoke up. “It is my understanding that as Harry’s biological father, I am authorized to manage the trust on Rowena’s behalf until she turns twenty-five. Is that correct?”

The solicitor’s mouth tightened. “No, sir. Bryan Stewart made his wishes clear. Neither you nor Sarah Listowel are permitted access to the estate. Miss Listowel takes possession immediately and is free to hire an agent if she is unable to manage the estate herself. My office will provide her with some names. In the event of marriage, her spouse can be granted signing authority but that is a separate meeting.”

Robbie signed in the places as instructed, conscious that she didn’t know what she was doing. “I don’t have a lot of money. My father left me some. Is this estate going to cost a lot to run?”

The solicitor laughed. “The Stewart estate brings in an estimated million pounds per year! And that is a conservative estimate. You are a very rich young woman.”

“Congratulations,” Casey said with a huge grin. “It couldn’t happen to a nicer person. Harry would be pleased.”

Alastair Manderville didn’t look happy. His black eyes scowled at the documents the solicitor was shoving into his bag. “I should have some rights as the boy’s father. This could be contested.”

“It could,” the solicitor agreed amiably. “It would be a costly procedure that you would certainly lose. Rowena Listowel has Stewart blood in her and you do not. So often it comes down to the blood, doesn’t it?”

He snapped his leather briefcase closed. “Let me know about the land agent and I’ll have it arranged.”

Robbie watched the man leave and in the riot of feelings that she was coping with, Casey Manderville squeezed her shoulder.

“Cheer up. It can’t be all that bad becoming an heiress.”

“This was the last thing I expected. I can’t be responsible for a three-hundred-year-old estate. I’ll drive it into the ground.”

Casey laughed. “No, you won’t. We’ll help you. Come on, you look like you could use a drink. Let’s head over to the pub with the others. They’re putting out sandwiches, sausage rolls and meat pies. I’ll stand you a pint.”

She pulled on her coat. “I should find Deacon. He must be wondering where I am.”

“We’ll meet up with him at the pub. You don’t want to miss this, Robbie. All of Harry’s friends will be there and they want to meet you. Besides, you deserve a little fun after what you’ve been through.”

She wanted fun. Fun sounded good. She wanted something normal and loud, with people her own age who didn’tknow her as a recluse. “Sounds amazing,” she said. “Thank you so much, Lord Manderville, for arranging it. I keep forgetting how horrible this time must be for you. You lost a son.”

Her sympathy produced a strange reaction in him. His teeth bared and he almost recoiled from her kindness. For an instant, the mask of civility slipped and she realized Alastair Manderville was polluted with black hate.

The alarm she felt was fleeting. Manderville couldn’t scare her. After losing Harry, she felt like nothing could scare her ever again.

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