‘Absurd or not, I am going to run the risk,’ answered Beatrix, with a firmness that frightened Mr. Scratchell. In a twelvemonth I shall be of age to do what I like with my money, without consulting anybody. You may just as well make yourself agreeable while I am in your power, and let me have my own way.’
Mr. Scratchell hesitated, sorely perplexed. To make himself disagreeable to Beatrix, even in the endeavour to protect her interests, might be fatal. Women are such self-willed, unreasonable creatures, he argued within himself. If he thwarted her in this ridiculous whim, she might resent his conduct all her life. In a year, as she had reminded him, she would be sole mistress of her fortune. She might dismiss him from his agency, which would be simple and unmitigated ruin. He was as dependent upon the Harefield estate for sustenance as a barnacle on a ship’s bottom. In a word he could not afford to offend her.
‘You have another trustee to consult,’ he suggested.
‘Mr. Dulcimer? Oh, I know he will consent.’
‘Because he’s a fool.’
‘No, because he’s a generous-minded man, and would like to see Sir Kenrick’s estate set free.’
‘Humph!’ muttered the lawyer. ‘It’s a foolish business altogether. And pray where is the money to come from?’
‘Have I not stocks or shares, or something that can be turned into money immediately?’
‘Yes, you have a nice little fortune in consols and railway debentures. We might scrape up about thirty thousand that way, perhaps.’
‘Then you can mortgage the Lincolnshire estate for the other twenty thousand.’