A Pitiful Remnant Read Free Page B

its
avian prey. "Had anyone but the late Mr. Gareth Hight held the
mortgages on the unentailed Guillemot properties, they would have
been called in long since. Your grandfather had considered it, but had
not made up his mind when... Well, now they are part of your
inheritance. The present marquess has not been told of the situation,
due to the severity of his injuries. Nor is he aware of the betrothal.
Indeed, you are almost certainly unknown to him, and we can expect
some resistance when he is appraised of your grandfather's
scheme."
    "But you believe something can be worked out?"
    "I have no doubt of it. Furthermore, I am hopeful that a loan
sufficient to cover living expenses for the two of you and your
dependents, plus whatever is necessary to maintain the farms will be
forthcoming."
    "One good year..." Lisanor knew to a farthing how
prosperous Ackerslea could be. Her father might have drained the
funds from the estate, but his profligacy had done nothing to its
productivity. But would there be enough to support Guillemot as
well?
    As if reading her mind, Mr. Whitsomeworth said, "The
Guillemot properties have suffered from poor management for a
number of years, and presently bear a heavy burden of debt.
However, they have great potential. I know you've been filling your
grandfather's shoes these past years. Even if Lord Guillemot knows
little of farming, I'm sure I can persuade him to listen to your
advice."
    "I hope so. Thank you Mr. Whitsomeworth. And now, if
you've no more of great immediacy to say, I would like to retire to
my rooms." She summoned Alanna with a motion of her chin, and the
two of them slipped out of the study.
    "Will you really marry a perfect stranger?"
    "Oh, Alanna, I've no choice. It's the only way to save
Ackerslea."
    "You could marry Darius-- No, I guess you couldn't."
    "No, Never ever. Ugh!" Lisanor shuddered before she
embraced her younger sister. "Don't you worry. Everything will be
all right."
    If only she believed her own words.

Chapter Three
    "Clarence, you will suffer a setback if you don't calm
yourself."
    "The devil with that. I want to know what you mean, I'm
getting married."
    "Well, it's a bit complicated, dear, but you're going to marry
Miss Lisanor Hight. She's the heir to Ackerslea Farm, you see, but she
must be married in order to inherit. We had thought there was time
for you to recover, to become accustomed to the notion, but--"
    "I had not planned to marry anyone." He wished his body
were less weak. How could a man fight his own battles if he couldn't
even stand?
    "Oh, but dear, you must. They have begun calling the banns.
I believe it's been done once, so only another two weeks...well, ten
days, actually, since today is Thursday. But since you cannot marry
on a Sunday, it will be eleven days. We'll have to call in a tailor. Your
wardrobe is in sad state."
    He pushed himself upright, held his body there by an effort
of will. "Mother, I. Am. Not. Marrying. Anyone. Not now. Not in the
foreseeable future."
    "But you must," she wailed. "You must."
    There had been a sincere note of panic in her voice. Clarence
made himself speak reasonably. "Why? Is there some reason why it
has to be so soon?"
    His mother hiccupped and wiped her eyes with an already
sodden handkerchief. "If you don't..." Another hiccup, and a
gasp.
    He waited, impatiently, but refrained from prodding
her.
    "Your father--" She buried her face in her sodden
handkerchief. Disgusted, he pulled the case from the pillow his head
had rested upon and handed it to her, after taking the almost
dripping scrap of linen from her limp hand. "Mother, calm yourself,
please."
    She sobbed for several minutes, in time subsiding into more
hiccups. At last she said, "Your father--" but again broke off to wail
wordlessly.
    Clarence reminded himself that she was a mere woman, and
sorely tried, if her manner was any indication. He remembered his
mother as easily flustered, often upset by his youthful mischiefs. But
she'd never, to his