“In essence,” he agreed, “it is indeed. Everything comes to you. Save for the usual bequests to the remaining servants and to the church, and of course to several charitable societies which have benefited from your grandfather’s generosity in the past.

“Indeed,” she responded, trying to infuse appreciation into her voice.

“It’s an enormous responsibility,” Mr. Branscombe reminded her.

“I understand that.” What might once have been shared equally with the cousins would be hers. She would rather have had the cousins—

It was clear that Mr. Branscombe was uncomfortable with a woman dealing with such a heavy obligation. He fiddled with the edges of the blotter, and when no questions were forthcoming, he said, “Do you wish to keep the properties in Somerset and Essex? I must warn you that this is not a propitious time to sell—in the middle of a war—”

He had her full attention now, as she stifled her surprise.

“Properties—?” What was he referring to?

His thin lips drew together in a tight line, as if he’d finally caught her out.

Trying to recoup his good opinion of her and conceal her ignorance, she asked, thinking it through, “Were these estates destined for my cousins? You see, my grandfather told me very little about them.”

He had told me nothing—

“They’ve been in his possession for many years. Quite sizable estates, in fact. Whether he intended to settle either of them on your cousins in due course, I don’t know. He didn’t confide in me,” It was grudgingly admitted. “I can tell you that the property that belonged to your uncle, Tristan Hatton, was sold at the time of his death. It would have been prudent for your grandfather to provide in some other fashion for his eldest grandson. Sadly, Mr. Simon Hatton is also deceased.

The first of the cousins to go to war . . . the first to die.

Francesca was still trying to absorb the fact that her grandfather had owned other estates. But if it was true, why had he always chosen to live in the isolated Exe Valley? It was the only home she had ever known. And as far as she was aware, that was true of her cousins as well. Even Simon had had only the haziest memory of his parents.

Why had he never taken us to visit houses in Somerset or Essex, if they were his? There hadn’t been so much as a casual, “Shall we spend Christmas in Somerset this year?” or “Since the weather is so fine, we might travel to Essex for a week. I ought to have a look at the tenant roofs . . .” If he had gone there at all, it had been a secret.

Secret . . .