it into a boardinghouse someday. Her true name is Ruth Parris. She’s the unmarried daughter of a button and comb maker who lives not far from here. The family is poor but respectable. About five years ago, Miss Parris left her family’s home when it was discovered she was with child. She went to stay with a distant cousin, gave birth, and eventually returned to Essex to take up residence at the Chipping Ongar house with her son. A boy of four.”
Almost Justin’s age, Phoebe thought numbly. “What is his name?” she asked.
A long hesitation followed. “Henry.”
Tears stung her eyes. She fumbled in her pocked for a handkerchief, pulled it out and blotted them.
“My lady,” she heard Ransom ask, “is it possible your husband—”
“No,” she said in a watery voice. “My husband and I were inseparable, and besides, he hadn’t the health or opportunity to carry on an affair. There’s no doubt it’s Edward’s.” She struggled to fit this new idea of Edward in with what she knew about him. It was like trying to push her heel into a punishingly tight shoe.
West remained silent, staring fixedly at the floor plans without really seeing them.
“Even if Larson isn’t the father,” Ransom said, “you still have ample proof of negligence on his part. He abused his position as executor and trustee by using your son’s inheritance as collateral for a loan and using the money to benefit himself. More to the back of that, the loan company is at fault in failing to provide oversight, since the money was designated only for land improvement.”
“Edward’s executorship must end immediately,” Phoebe said, her fist clenching around the handkerchief. “However, I want to proceed in a way that will cause the least amount of harm to Ruth and her child. They’ve suffered enough.”
“They’re living in an eight-bedroom house,” West pointed out sardonically.
Phoebe turned to him, her hand smoothing his sleeve. “The poor girl has been made an object of shame. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old when she and Edward . . . when their acquaintance began. Now she lives a half existence, unable to marry or meet with her family openly. And little Henry has no father. They deserve our compassion.”
West’s mouth twisted. “You and your sons are the ones who’ve been wronged,” he said flatly. “My compassion is all for you.”
Ransom’s face had gentled at Phoebe’s words, his eyes now warm blue. “You’ve a rare, good heart, my lady. I wish I could have brought better news today.”
“I appreciate your help more than I can express.” Phoebe felt inadequate and overwhelmed, thinking of all the emotional and legal tangles ahead of her. So many difficult decisions.
After studying her for a moment, Ransom spoke with encouraging gentleness. “As my Mam always told me, “If you can’t get rid of your troubles, take them easy.’”
Ransom left Clare Manor as swiftly as he had appeared, taking the financial documents with him. For some reason, West’s mood went rapidly downhill afterward. Turning grim and taciturn, he told Phoebe he needed some time to himself. He closed himself in the study for at least four hours.
Eventually Phoebe took it upon herself to see how he was. She knocked lightly on the door, let herself inside, and approached the table where West was writing. He had filled at least ten pages with lines of small, meticulous notes.
“What’s all that?” she asked, coming to stand beside him.
Setting down the ink pen, West rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “A list of recommendations for the estate, including immediate needs and long-term goals. I want you to have a good idea of what the most pressing concerns are and what information you’ll still need to find out. This plan will show you how to proceed after I’m gone.”
“For heaven’s sake, is your luggage already packed? You sound as though you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow, but soon. I can’t stay forever.” He neatened the stack of pages and set a glass paperweight on top. “You’ll need to hire a qualified assistant—I expect your father will know someone. Whoever he is, he’ll have to build a relationship with your tenants and at least pretend to give a damn about their problems.”
Phoebe stared at him quizzically. “Are you angry with me?”
“No, with myself.”
“Why?”
A scowl darkened his expression. “Just a dash of habitual self-loathing. Don’t worry about it.”
This irritable melancholy was completely unlike him. “Come for a walk?” she suggested. “You’ve closed yourself in this room for too long.”
He shook his head.
She