She followed him from the chamber. As they began to descend the stairs, the clock struck ten. In the ground floor library, he was thankful his servants had built a fire. The mossy green room was toasty warm. He beckoned for her to sit on one of a pair of sofas that faced each other in front of the fire.
Once seated, he was trying to gather the courage to tell her the grim news when she lowered her brows and asked, "Why did you use the word need?"
He cleared his throat. "Because I need to tell you something before you go bustling over to your uncle's residence."
She gave him a quizzing gaze.
"I'm afraid there's no one at your uncle's house."
"I thought you said you really didn't know my uncle."
"That's true." How in the devil am I going to phrase this?
"When will they return?"
He found himself delaying the response as long as he could. Was that not better—allowing her to ease into the morbid explanation one troubling step at a time? "By they, do you mean the servants? Or your uncle? Or both?" He was quite sure he was bungling things most miserably.
"I suppose both."
He drew a deep breath. "Well, the truth of the matter is that none of them are coming back."
"You mean to tell me my uncle has moved?"
"In a way."
"Sir, he's either moved or he hasn't."
She might look young, but there was a distinct maturity about her. He suspected quite a bit of intelligence lurked beneath that youthful exterior. He needed to be direct. He eyed her solemnly and spoke in a voice even more solemn. "Your uncle has died."
Her eyes widened, but not the slightest sound emanated from her. Tears began to trickle along her fair cheeks. After a considerable length of time, she asked, "When?"
He shrugged. "I think three or four days ago."
"And no servants stayed behind?"
"I am told by my servants that they sought employment elsewhere."
"What about my uncle's burial?"
"I honestly don't know, but I am at your service to find answers."
As quickly as the snuff of a flame, she burst into tears. These weren't soft sobs with the intermittent sniffle. This was a full-fledged wail. Every molecule of her body was involved in the convulsion of tears which erupted like a spewing volcano.
He handed her a handkerchief. As he continued to sit across from her, he'd never felt so utterly impotent. She cried and cried. She wailed and wailed. She sobbed as if she'd just witnessed the death of her own child. His handkerchief was completely saturated with her tears. He began to wonder how so small a body could hold so vast an amount of tears. Was there no end?
After an interminable length of time, the clock stuck eleven. Dear lord, had she been wailing for nearly an hour? How long could this go on? Finally, he gathered the courage to ask, "But, Miss Hastings, it is Miss Hastings, is it not?"
Her tear-splattered face lifted, and she nodded.
"I seem to recall that you told me you'd never met your uncle."
She nodded. "That's correct."
Then why in the devil was she so distraught? "Forgive my impudence, but your reaction to his death seems somewhat out of proportion to your connection with him."
She sniffed. "Which makes me seem abominably self centered." Sniff. Sniff. "I'm crying for me. For my future." Wail. Wail. "Or my-y-y-y lack of future." Long wail.
"I would say a young woman like you has a bright future."
She blew her nose and attempted to stop crying. "Since I was my uncle's only living relative, he was going to have me learn about his business. He planned to leave it to me."
"But if you're his heir, it will still come to you."
"Fat lot of good it will do me in Upper Barrington. Because I am an unmarried woman, Aunt Harriett will never allow me to live in London, and . . . " She began to bawl again. "I'd rather die than return to Upper Barrington."
Her aunt must be quite the dragon. "Then you are not of age?" Were she of age, she surely could take her inheritance, hire a companion, and make her own home away from Upper Barrington.
"Not for seven months."
"We shall have to think on your problem, but first we need to discover who your uncle's solicitor is." A helpless little female like her was ill equipped for so urban an undertaking. He would have to help her.
* * *
Perhaps Mr. Birmingham wasn't always such a sot. He was being awfully helpful to her. It was quite ingenious of him to dispatch one of his most resourceful servants to Uncle Simon's house to pick the lock.