of monies owed seemed, well, unpatriotic. ‘Well, damn you, Austin,’ Violet muttered crossly. The aroma of baking bread wafted up from the kitchen. Isabella was preparing the meal for this evening, though it hardly seemed worth the effort just for one. Still, she laid the table in the dining room each evening, and there, Violet sat alone. Not for too much longer, at least. Charlie Warren, a neighbouring farmer, was going to lease the land, and Samuel had reluctantly agreed they should sell off what was left of the antiques, paintings, china and glass, and all the rest of it, and shut the house.
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