Page 119 of Better Love Next Time
Kitty veered her gaze down in surprise. “How did he acquire the funds?”
“It’s a mystery.”
What if Shelley had sold Notfelle? She wanted to gallop south and clap her eyes on her old home. She kept her voice even. “Well, I am happy for him.”
Georgiana snorted. She yanked Kitty off her elbow and snuggled beside her.
It was dawn when Kitty finally closed her eyes after staring at the cherry-red bed canopy for hours, with Georgiana long asleep and holding her hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
23 December 1765
Southampton
Julian stoodat the office window overlooking the loft floor with Sam Worthing while Adam Turner concluded his report on the state of St. Clair Shipwrights’ accounts.
“It appears the man who you previously employed as your bookkeeper did an admirable job,” Turner said. “In fact, his accounts are in perfect order.”
Julian had wished for an honest accounting when he had recruited Turner, sure that if he knew his wife had kept his books, his report would be biased in fear of offending his husbandly feelings. So Julian had concealed the fact.
“’Tis a shame, sir,” Turner said, “that you lost him to a competitor. Though I am quite pleased to have my position, you understand.”
Lost him. Indeed, Julian had. It was the price to be paid for trust. For sanity. For the respect of others as well as his own. And he wasn’t lonely, he reminded himself when he awoke eachmorning and returned to the lodge each evening. He was merely alone.
Beside him, Sam shifted on his feet, a habit Julian had pegged years ago as a tell of irritation. Sam didn’t much like Adam Turner, who had just recommended cutting Kitty’s calculated Christmas reward by half.
“They will be grateful to have any reward,” Turner said.
“True,” Julian said, holding firm, “but we will pay the amounts already determined.”
Sam nodded with a squint at Turner. But his foreman’s victory was short-lived when Julian’s new accountant wholly dismissed the idea of providing the men a percentage, saying,
“If I may,” Adam Turner said and finished when Julian waved him on, “It really is not done, sir.”
“And where would we be,” Sam said, “if a man never did a thing that ain’t been done?”
Turner blinked, regarding Sam in the condescending manner of one with considerably more knowledge on the subject. “Mr. Worthing, with Mr. St. Clair’s approval, I may allot time in the future to explain to you the absurdity of the scheme.”
Sam stepped toward Turner. “And if you knew bullocks from a bull’s foot, you’d know men buy into the building of smuggling boats from Cornwall to Dover and get percents of the haul. So ithasbeen done.”
“Mr. Worthing,” Turner said, “you are not buying into anything. You wish to be given it.”
“We work for it.”
“And you are paid wages accordingly.”
“Then any man who likes can buy in with his Christmas reward. See there, I’ve done yer job for you.”
Turner puffed up. Sam leaned in.
Julian calmly pledged to consider both sides. “Thank you, Turner. You may leave now. Enjoy the rest of the day with your family.”
Turner on the high ropes quit the office and Julian turned back to the window.
“I don’t like ’im,” Sam grumbled.
“I had no idea.”
