7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven

Iris lay awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to close her eyes. Though the bed was comfortable and the house was quiet, her mind couldn’t rest. Not after learning what she did about Rowland that day. He’d shot and killed a man, and he spoke of it as if it were routine. And she supposed, for him, it was. Which meant that her brother was in certain danger if they didn’t come up with the money they owed.

She made up her mind to return to Buckland Hall the next day if she could. That way they could get to work on a solution together. After all, the point of the ruse of them in the bedroom was to give her some control over the estate. It was time she exerted some of it.

She arrived home by dinner the following night, but had her meal sent up to her room. She needed to change and think about how she wanted to address Hugh. She didn’t want to insult him. And she was dreading all the apologies he was about to hurl at her again. If he had any ideas, she was open to hearing them, but she had a few of her own as well. She hoped that Rowland was right, and the guilt would make Hugh open to hearing her out.

Hugh’s study door stood open, so she took a moment to examine him. She wondered how they could be so alike in their fair features and yet entirely different in disposition. She supposed they were similar as children, but the world shaped them, as it tended to do. He’d been given the opportunity to study what he wanted and marry who he wanted. Iris was handed over to a stranger at nineteen and suffered seven years of marriage.

Even physically, Hugh was softer, with less edge to his jaw and shoulders, whereas Iris was all harsh lines. Resentment rose in her chest, but she swallowed it down and knocked on the door to alert her brother to her presence. He looked up from the paper he was reading, and his face fell.

“Iris,” he said, folding the paper into his lap. “Did you have a nice visit with Sybil?”

“I did,” she told him. “While I was there, I did some thinking about how we can raise this money we owe to Mr. Sinclair.”

“Oh, I do wish you wouldn’t worry about that. I believe I can get it handled.”

“You thought that before, and look what happened.”

He paused and swallowed. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t bother with the apologies. What’s done is done.”

“Well, I wanted to bring up…” he trailed off, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat. “If there’s to be a child after what happened with Sinclair, I, er…wanted to assure you that no one would need to know and we could take care of it.”

She blinked. Her mind marinated in his words, and she almost laughed. But she had to appear affected or she wouldn’t have a card to play.

“Oh, that,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Not to worry. I’ve got my courses. We got lucky.”

Hugh’s shoulder sagged as he let out a sigh. “Thank God.”

“But that doesn’t mean all is well, Hugh. We are still in debt to a dangerous man. ”

“I know, and I’ve got it sorted. I’ll raise the rent on the farmers by fifty percent.”

Iris huffed. “That won’t work. You’ll get push back. Ten percent at most.”

“Iris, I think I know how to—”

“No, you clearly don’t. If you knew how to manage things, I would not have been violated by a man like Rowland Sinclair.”

The words were like ashes in her mouth. Even though the ruse was his idea, she hated how it made him out. Which was even more disturbing because she knew she shouldn’t care at all what people thought of him.

She drew herself up to her full height. “I’m involved now, Hugh, whether you like it or not. You owe me.”

Hugh dropped his gaze, defeated. “You’re right.”

“Glad we agree. I’ve got some ideas I’d like you to hear.”

“Let’s have them.”

“First, yes, we will need to raise the rent, but by the number I suggested, ten percent,” she said. “That’s a reasonable amount, and after the stunt you pulled, it will seem even more fair in comparison.”

“That won’t get us enough to pay it back in time.”

“Hold on, I’m not finished. I was also thinking…now, don’t immediately shut it down because you may not like it, but…we open the house to the public. For tours.”

Hugh leapt to his feet. “Have you lost your mind, Iris?”

“Hear me out! The public has always been fascinated by how the aristocracy lives. I know they’d pay good money to get a glimpse for themselves. And if we did it maybe once a month or so, we could raise a good portion of the debt.”

“Once a—just once is bad enough! This is our home ! We have valuables here!”

“Exactly, we have art and books and jewelry that people would love to see!”

“Yes, and that they’d also love to steal!”

Iris folded her hands over her chest. “That sort of attitude nearly got Sybil killed when Titanic went down.”

The story was horrific. Lewis had locked Sybil in the bedroom of their suite. She got herself free only to find that the stewards had locked all the first class doors to prevent third-class passengers from stealing when they made their way up to the boat deck. Charles had to wade through rushing water and break down the door to save her. Iris had been out on a lifeboat already, but Sybil told her everything once they reached New York. Hugh heard the story when Iris told it in her divorce proceedings as proof of Lewis’s violent tendencies.

“There was something to be said for what they did, and it wasn’t as if they did it with the knowledge Sybil was in the room,” Hugh said. “People do steal.”

“I’m not suggesting we allow them to roam the house unattended,” Iris said, rolling her eyes. “I’m not a fool. The tours would be guided—by us or the servants—and we’ll have a path marked with ropes. Private rooms will be locked. It will all be perfectly safe.”

“I don’t know about this…”

“I know it’s unconventional, but I think it could work. And it could make us more approachable to the people in our area.”

Hugh leaned against the desk. “It’s not just unconventional, Iris, it’s unheard of. As is making ourselves approachable.”

“The world is changing, Hugh. And again, if we learned anything from Titanic —and the Great War too—it’s that these divisions by class do more harm than good. We are all people, and we should be working together.”

He rubbed a thoughtful hand over his chin. “I suppose…we can give it a try.”

“Wonderful. Take a seat. Let’s talk numbers and logistics.”

“Right, but first, Iris, I…”

She watched his face as his expression faltered, and he once again fixed his eyes on the desk instead of her. He drummed his fingers along the wood.

“What is it?” she pressed.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, finally meeting her gaze. “Sinclair. When he…did he hurt you?”

She opened her mouth and closed it again, unsure of what to say.

“I…I won’t trouble you with the details. It was no worse than anything I endured from Lewis, I suppose.”

Hugh sat heavily back down in his chair. “I’ve been a terrible brother to you, haven’t I?”

Her mind immediately thought yes , but she assumed the question was rhetorical, and therefore did not answer, giving him space to talk it out himself.

“I failed to protect you when your husband mistreated you, and in a moment of weakness, I offered you up to a ruthless gangster.”

“In fairness, our father gave me to Lewis, not you. And he offered me up for a lifetime. You only gave Sinclair an hour.”

He gave a half-hearted laugh. “I’m not sure how many would agree with you.”

“What does it matter? No one knows what happened with Sinclair.”

“I do. And I’ll know it until the day I die.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you get any more dramatic, I’ll put you in the theater. If it’s forgiveness you’re after, consider it given. Just let me help get this estate back on track. I’ve been sacrificed twice now for its survival, the least you can do is let me be involved.”

“I suppose I deserve that,” he said, sitting back. “All right. Let’s go over the books together.”

She pulled up a chair beside him as he retrieved a ledger from the right-hand side drawer. He opened it and flipped to the last few pages until their father’s familiar handwriting swept across the pages.

“Here’s where we first started having problems,” he said.

He pointed back to 1904, the year their mother passed. Iris scanned the page and spotted events she recognized. Such as when she was married off the following year, and a large deposit followed, with continued payments each year of the marriage. In 1912, the year Hugh married, an even larger deposit came in—Cecilia’s dowry. Then Hugh’s spending, followed by the debts from the races and boxing matches.

“Did Father keep any expense reports and bank statements?” Iris asked. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he said, and reached for another file in the desk. “These are all recent. Anything back before Mother died will be in the cabinet. They’ll be organized by year.”

Iris got to her feet and went to the cabinet. She pulled all the files going back to 1900 and slammed them onto the desk. “We need to go through all of this paperwork and make sure everything adds up.”

“Tonight?”

“Starting tonight, yes.” She walked over toward the fireplace and pulled the bell to ring for tea. “We’ll get through as much as we can, and tomorrow, we’ll continue.”

“What about planning the tours?”

“That will have to wait. If there are any savings or any money lying around we don’t know about, it’ll be in these records. All of it can go toward paying the debt to Sinclair. The more we find, the less we’ll have to open the house.”

Hugh sighed. “All right.”

Iris opened up the first file and flipped through the pages. A footman arrived with their tea, and then left quickly. Iris took her first sip and let it warm her and inspire her. It was going to be a long night, after all.

“Iris?” Hugh said.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

She paused and stared at him. “For what?”

“Your forgiveness.” He reached over and took her hand, a familial form of affection they hadn’t shared in decades. “And your help.”

She curled her fingers around his. “You’re welcome, Hugh.”