Read Chapter 11: The Loan Application

Through the carriage window, Galway appeared as a smudge of gray stone against a pewter sky. Maeve had not seen the city in six years, not since her wedding day when she and Kilmartin had passed through on their way to the coast. She remembered the crowds then, the noise, the color of the market stalls. Now the streets seemed thinner, the faces hungrier. The blight had reached even here.

Ashworth sat across from her, his long legs folded in the cramped space, his hat resting on his knee. He had been quiet for most of the journey, reading a sheaf of papers she assumed were his own accounts. But she caught him watching her more than once, his pale eyes unreadable.

"You're nervous," he said.

"I'm practical." She smoothed her skirt. "I've learned that hoping for the best is a luxury I cannot afford."

He almost smiled. "Then we understand each other."

The bank sat at the corner of Eyre Square, a solid limestone building with columns that seemed absurdly grand for a city eating itself alive. Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and old paper. A clerk led them to a back office where a man named Mr. Caldwell waited behind a vast mahogany desk.

Caldwell was thin in the way of men who ate well but worried more. His collar was too tight, his hands too pale. He rose when they entered, his eyes flicking to Ashworth first, then to Maeve, and she saw the calculation there—the quick weighing of what she was worth before she had spoken a word.

"Mrs. Kelly," he said, extending a hand she did not take. "And Mr. Ashworth. I understand you're seeking development capital."

"I am," Maeve said, taking the seat he offered. "My estate requires modernization. Drainage, crop rotation, new implements. The land is good, but the methods are old."

Caldwell folded his hands on the desk. "And your current yield?"

The question landed like a stone. She had prepared for it, but the truth still caught in her throat. "The east fields failed this season. Blight. But the west fields produced enough to see us through. With proper investment, we can—"

"The west fields." Caldwell's eyebrows rose. "Your husband's ledgers showed them producing barely enough to feed the tenants, let alone turn a profit."

Ashworth shifted in his chair. "Circumstances have changed, Mr. Caldwell. Mrs. Kelly has taken a hands-on approach to the management. The potential is there."

Caldwell ignored him, his attention fixed on Maeve. "I'll need to see your accounts. Proof of income for the past three years. A list of outstanding debts. And a personal guarantee."

"I have the accounts." Maeve pulled a leather satchel from her lap and set it on the desk. "The debts are known to your bank already. That is why I'm here."

Caldwell opened the satchel and began to leaf through the documents. His face gave nothing away. After a long moment, he closed the folder and looked at her.

"Mrs. Kelly, I'm going to be frank with you. Your estate's liabilities exceed its current value. The land is mortgaged to the hilt, and the crop failure means you have no collateral to offer beyond the soil itself, which is already pledged. I cannot approve this loan without a co-signer of demonstrable means."

Ashworth leaned forward. "I'm prepared to—"

"No." Maeve's voice cut through the room like a blade. She turned to face him fully. "I told you before we left. I will not put the estate in your name."

"Then we return home with nothing," Ashworth said, his voice flat.

"Perhaps that is better than returning home in debt to a stranger."

Caldwell watched the exchange with the detachment of a man observing a peculiar specimen. "If I may offer a professional observation, Mrs. Kelly, pride is a poor substitute for solvency. The bank cares only about the numbers. If you cannot satisfy them, you would be wise to consider other arrangements."

Maeve's jaw tightened. "Other arrangements."

"There are private lenders who may be more flexible in their terms."

"And more brutal in their collection methods." She stood, gathering her satchel. "I've met men like that before. I would sooner starve than owe them a penny."

Caldwell shrugged, a gesture of profound indifference. "As you wish. Mr. Ashworth, a word before you go?"

Ashworth hesitated, glancing at Maeve. She waved a hand. "Stay. I'll wait outside."

She walked through the bank's marble corridor with her head high, feeling the clerk's eyes on her back. When she reached the street, the cold air hit her face and she stood for a moment, breathing hard, the enormity of her failure settling over her like a shroud.

Not failure. Refusal. She had chosen this. She had chosen to keep her estate free of Ashworth's name, and she would not regret it.

But the truth was that she needed the money. The barn held barely enough seed to plant a quarter of the fields. The tenants had eaten through their stores faster than anyone had predicted, and the winter would be long.

She was still standing there when Ashworth emerged from the bank, his face unreadable. He walked to her side and paused.

"He would have lent it," Maeve said. "If you had co-signed. He made that clear."

"Yes."

"Then why did you offer?"

Ashworth was quiet for a moment. "Because I believe in the estate. And because I believe in you."

She turned to face him, searching his face for the lie. But his gray eyes were steady, and for the first time she saw something there that looked like sincerity.

"Believing in me does not require you to risk your own money," she said. "It does not require you to bind yourself to a dying estate."

"Perhaps I have my own reasons." He looked away, toward the harbor. "I told you once that my name may have been connected to your husband's loan. I've been trying to understand that connection myself. If my family had a hand in the debt that now hangs around your neck, I owe you more than a co-signature. I owe you the truth."

Maeve stared at him. The wind off the bay cut through her shawl, and she pulled it tighter. "And what truth is that?"

"I don't know yet." He turned back to her. "But I have a friend in this city. A merchant named O'Connell who has money to invest in land. He's not bound by the bank's rules. He could lend you the capital without requiring the estate to change hands."

"And what would he require?"

"Collateral. A percentage of future profits. He's a businessman, not a philanthropist. But he's fair, and he doesn't prey on the desperate."

Maeve considered this. A private lender was a risk. But the bank had turned her away, and the winter would not wait for her pride to recover.

"Take me to him," she said.

Ashworth nodded and began to walk down the street. She followed, her boots echoing on the wet cobbles, and as they turned a corner she caught a glimpse of the harbor—ships bobbing in the gray water, their masts like bare trees in a dead forest.

And something in her chest tightened. Across the water, her father had said. The locket's map was folded in her pocket, and she had not yet shown it to anyone.

"Mr. Ashworth," she said, and he stopped, turning.

"Yes?"

"This friend of yours. Does he know anything about land in the west? Near Galway?"

Ashworth's brow furrowed. "O'Connell deals mostly in trade goods. Why?"

Maeve touched the locket at her throat. "No reason. I merely wondered if he might know of any property that could be purchased cheaply. A poor investment would be a poor use of his money."

Ashworth studied her for a moment longer than she liked. "I'll ask him."

They continued walking, and Maeve felt the weight of the locket against her skin, warm despite the cold. Whatever the map showed, she would find it. She had to.

But first, she would need to survive the winter.