But there was leisure aplenty, too, and her grief slackened and sank beneath a rising tide of delight in the brave new world about her. In spring, Sir Roderick showed her the new foals and calves, and pointed out hidden nests with half-a-dozen gaping beaks for mother birds to feed. He showed her a precious little meadow filled with wildflowers, which she would never have found by herself. It was almost as beautiful by moonlight as by day—and she knew, for she came out there herself the next morning, and found it even more enchanting with the day flowers opening their faces to the sun. In summer, he taught her to lie lazily on a hillside making fanciful images of the cloud-shapes above her, to rejoice in the fury of the lightning and the thunder (provided she was safe indoors), and to watch for the Wee Folk to dance beneath the moon. (She never saw them, of course, but he did point out the rings where they’d been dancing.) Then, in autumn, he showed her the glory of the golden wood and the rustling leaves, the cleverness and prudence of the squirrels as they hoarded nuts, the peaceful vista of fields after reaping, and finally, the tucking-down as the little creatures composed themselves for the long winter’s sleep, and the geese passed overhead with distant honking in their pointed formation, going south to fabled lands of wonder for the winter.
And always, there was chess—in the evenings, in the boring afternoons of rainy days, and by the fire in the winter. She became so adept at the game that she could handily beat him—thought she was never sure he hadn’t let her, and forced him to win a few out of spite. She did wonder how he could see the pieces without a head—but then, she wondered how he could see her, too.
There was less time for that as she grew older, though, for Papa didn’t tend to the estate, but let it go as it would, so the land yielded less and less as the years went by, for want of proper management, and the tenants had less money to pay. He wouldn’t lower the rents, of course, so those who could left for better conditions, or for fancied jobs in London—and those who stayed were always fearfully behind in their rents.
Then Papa remarried, a horrible woman, and Anthea’s world came crashing down, what was left of it.
She couldn’t understand what Papa saw in her, aside from money—though there did seem to be plenty of that. He called in a tailor and was soon resplendent in new clothes—and off to London with his new wife. The woman made it clear from the first (after the wedding) that she wanted nothing to do with her stepdaughter—so Anthea stayed behind at Windhaven, heartsick and lonely. Sir Roderick consoled her and managed to boost her spirits to the point at which she began to take an active interest in the estate. Within a few months she wished she hadn’t, for Papa paid it no more attention than before, merely sending one of his wife’s men to oversee the farm—and Anthea became certain the steward was skimming most of what little profit remained. Sir Roderick confirmed this, though he could bring her no proof but his own witness, which wouldn’t have been much use in court, so she had to let it pass, and do without a new dress, or new curtains, or repairs to the roof. The servants left as the income ran out, and neither Papa nor his wife showed the slightest interest in putting money into Windhaven, so more and more, she took care of the house by herself, cooking and straightening up as much as she could, though she knew better than to try to clean more than a few rooms by herself. It would have been intolerably lonely without Sir Roderick.
Then Papa had some sort of horrible argument with That Woman, perhaps occasioned by the size of his gambling debts and her extravagances—but the long and the short of it was that he came back to Windhaven, chastised and beaten, and lapsed instantly into melancholy.
Anthea wasn’t disposed toward any but the most chilly conduct toward him, but by and by began to pity him, for he was so very doleful. Her old fear of having both parents pine away reasserted itself, and she took to showing him some slight kindness, attempting to chat with him over tea—a very new ceremony, but one which served nicely. He reacted little, or not at all, at first, but she persevered, and gradually he emerged from his dejection and began to respond. Little by little, with Sir Roderick’s advice, she managed to coax him into showing some sort of interest in life again, and Papa repaid her attentions with growing fondness and eventually came out of his grief enough to value her company. They played long games of chess in the evenings, and he taught her to play whist, piquet and several other card games, though never very well, and began to enjoy her conversation as she grew older and more knowledgeable. She was amazed at the depth of her own reaction to his attention—she had thought she would never even be able to forgive his neglect, but actually found an almost pathetically eager surge of delight. She did her best to control it, but some of her warmth doubtless showed.
Anthea managed to come by the occasional newspaper, and brought it home to read to him, asking him to explain the bewildering variety of events—for example, who was this Napoleon, and why was everyone so concerned about him? Questions of this sort drew answers of surprising energy from her father, and slowly, little by little, he began to take an interest in the world around him again.
It was too late, though, for the damp and chill of the old house had settled into his bones, and he died when Anthea was only seventeen. Once again, Sir Roderick consoled her through her grief, and brought her out to life and light again—only to have her confronted with a heap of bills that she could not possibly pay. Papa’s wife, it seemed, had beaten him to the grave, but not by much, and had left her own stack of debts, which were added to his—so Anthea was sole heiress to a dearth of assets, and a mountain of debts.
In desperation, she turned to Sir Roderick, her only source of support, and he took a midnight flit about the neighborhood to discover an honest and capable solicitor. In the hands of that good man, Anthea discovered that, as a minor, she could not agree to anything legally binding, and therefore could not be held liable, as long as there was a relative to whom such decisions could be referred. It was then that she remembered Aunt Trudy.
Aunt Trudy was Papa’s sister, somewhat estranged by irritation with Mama, whom, she felt, should have taken far better care of Papa than she had. When Papa had moved to the country and lapsed into melancholy, he had broken contact with her completely—he had not even learned of her husband’s demise, or her sons’ and daughters’ marriages. Now, though, apprised of circumstances by the solicitor, Aunt Trudy, really Lady Broch, descended on Windhaven to weep buckets of tears at her brother’s grave, every one of them sincere, then to press Anthea to her matronly bosom, which was amazingly soft and warm—and something inside Anthea that had been knotted tight, loosened, and she found herself weeping like a watering pot in a real, flesh-and-blood embrace for the first time since she was ten, while Aunt Trudy made consoling noises and soothed her, then put her to bed.
Then Aunt Trudy and the solicitor, between them, tackled the pile of bills and the horror of Papa’s books, or lack of them, and called the steward to account. The long and the short of it was that he was let go and sued for monies owing. In his stead a reliable under-steward was appointed from Aunt Trudy’s estates, inherited from her husband, Lord Brock. Suddenly, the old manse was under repair, the fields were put in order, and Aunt Trudy was sweeping Anthea away with her to London, just in time for the Season.