“Indeed and indeed,” Scammell smiled and nodded vigorously.

“Master Ebenezer?”

Ebenezer nodded, though Campion could see a small frown on his face as though he did not fully understand.

“Miss Dorcas?”

“No, I don’t understand.”

This was unexpected, for Isaac Blood started with some surprise, and then looked annoyed. “You don’t understand?”

Campion stood and walked toward the north-facing windows. “What is the Covenant, Mr. Blood?” She felt that her wings had been mangled, torn, bloodied, and she was plummeting helpless to earth. Her father’s death had solved nothing, merely delayed the wedding.

The lawyer ignored her question. He was bundling his papers together. “If you will permit some small advice? I would suggest a quiet wedding in the near future. Six weeks perhaps? It would not be unfitting.” He peered heavily at Samuel Scammell. “You understand, Mr. Scammell, that the will supposed your marriage, and your position in the household is dependent upon it?”

“I do understand, yes.”

“And, of course, it would be Matthew Slythe’s wish that the happy event was not overlong delayed. Things must be regular, Mr. Scammell. Regular!”

“Indeed and indeed.” Scammell stood to show the lawyer out.

Campion turned from the window. “Mr. Blood, you did not answer my question. What is the Covenant?”

Her father had been embarrassed by the question, but the lawyer shrugged dismissively. “Your marriage portion, Miss Slythe. The estate, of course, was always destined for your brother, but your father made arrangements for your dowry. I fear I know little more. It was handled by a lawyer in London, but I suspect you will find yourself generously provided for.”

“Indeed,” Scammell nodded at her, eager for her to be pleased.

There was a brief silence. Campion’s question had been answered and it had offered her no hope of escaping marriage with Scammell. Then Ebenezer’s grating voice was loud in the room. “What is ‘generously’? How much is the Covenant worth?”

Isaac Blood shrugged. “I do not know.”

Scammell raised his eyebrows archly, fidgeted, and looked pleased with himself. He was bursting with his news, eager to impress the beautiful, golden-haired girl whom he wanted to embrace. He wanted Campion to approve of him, to like him, and he hoped that his next words would break the dam of her withheld feelings. “I can answer that question, indeed I can.” He smiled at Campion. “Last year, as near as we can judge, the Covenant yielded ten thousand pounds.”

“Dear God!” Isaac Blood held on to the lectern.

Ebenezer stood up slowly, his face animated for the first time that day. “How much?”

“Ten thousand pounds.” Scammell said it humbly, as though he were responsible for the profit yet did not want to sound boastful. “It fluctuates, of course. Some years more, some less.”

“Ten thousand pounds?” Ebenezer’s voice was rising in shocked anger. “Ten thousand?” It was a sum of such vast proportions that it was scarcely conceivable. A King’s ransom, a fortune, a sum far in excess of Werlatton’s income. Ebenezer might expect £700 a year from the estate and now he was hearing that his sister had been given far, far more.