A Divided Inheritance (15 page)

For some reason Zachary felt insulted by this, until he caught sight of Leviston. Dear old Uncle. A wave of unexpected emotion caught at his throat. There he was, jogging alongside on the quay,
waving his pathetic little rag until he could go no further.

Zachary regained control of himself and breathed a sigh of relief. Freedom! The servant boy came to tell him his cabin was ready, and the ship heeled against the waves. He staggered down to the
cabin and peered through the wind-lashed port hole. Nothing but sea. He dismissed the servant and looked around the poky cabin at his fine new luggage, his polished leather arms case. Then he
counted his purse, laying out the coinage in neat rows, amazed at his luck. Old Leviston was a good man, right enough. A good man but a fool. With a purse like this in his hand and a trunk of coin,
not to mention all of the world at his feet, Uncle Leviston would be lucky if he ever saw him again.

Elspet waited in the yard. With Zachary gone, the world suddenly seemed a more spacious place. Even the sun peeped out occasionally from behind the chasing clouds.

When the carriage drew up, with its pair of matching bays, she smiled, enjoying the reactions of the servants to this new marvel. For Hugh’s new carriage was indeed a beauty, built from
ebonized wood on a red steel frame, and gilded with scrolls and fleurs-de-lis. The metalwork gleamed in the sun. Inside, it was furnished in luxury with comfortable goosefeather cushions. She
congratulated herself; Hugh Bradstone was a man who, unlike Father, would not stint.

Even better, he had supplied a luxurious quantity of furs. Martha’s eyes almost popped. There were sheepskins for under their feet and felt-cloth wraps lined in soft patched rabbitskin.
Such ostentation would never have been contemplated by Father, unless it was for Cousin Zachary, of course. She quashed a stab of envy at Zachary’s good fortune and his uncanny ability to
persuade Father to open his coffers.

Once in the carriage she chided herself for her uncharitable feelings, and counted her blessings – Zachary was on his way to France, and though she would never admit it to Father, she was
heartily glad he was gone. Poor Father, she had left him grey-faced, roaming the house, picking things up and putting them down again as though unsure how he would occupy his time. She hoped
Zachary would write as he had promised.

Hugh climbed in after checking that all was well with the horses. ‘Are you comfortable?’

‘Quite,’ she said, as though she had been used to it all her life. She made up her mind to enjoy it all. It still held a slight unreality for her that she was to be married to this
stranger, Hugh, who was even now smiling fondly at her from the opposite seat. His admiration for her was puzzling. He could have chosen someone dainty and pretty, the sort of girl who knew nothing
of ledgers and never asked where the lace that trimmed her bonnet came from. Yet, instead, he had chosen her.

She glanced at him as the carriage moved off, at his even, sharply chiselled features and his well-cut breeches and doublet. She was curious as to what he was thinking. She wondered idly if he
liked to read, or to play cards. Behind the façade of his good looks and his obvious good-standing in business, she knew little about him. But then she had noticed the same of all men, even
Father. No matter how hard she tried, it seemed as though she fell into a void when she asked Father anything personal, as if she were asking him a conundrum he could not solve. Was it the same
with all men? She was pondering this when Hugh smiled at her and pointed through the window.

‘Look. They are ploughing manure into those sets already.’

She looked out. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, craning her neck as the ploughman receded from view. Though the wind was brisk, the sun gave a little tingling warmth to the side of her face. The
journey took them into the countryside and it was delightful to see the little dabs of purple vetch in the verges, the tangle of dog-roses in the hedgerows. It was only then that she realized how
free she felt without Father’s criticizing presence. She stretched her lungs in a long, deep breath. Perhaps, after all, she would enjoy her new life in Yorkshire.

The Jameses had a house by the river in Putney, close by the city, where after dinner the party could watch the craft go by on the Thames. Elspet had the disconcerting
impression that Mr and Mrs James were weighing her up with every move she made, and it turned her awkward and somewhat ill-at-ease, though she was sure they meant to be kind. Their house was highly
polished. Everything was mint-new, with the plasterwork barely dry and not a speck of dust daring to make an appearance.

After dinner she and the mistress of the house, Amelia, retired to the marquetry-panelled parlour. Elspet examined with interest some flys Amelia was tying for Mr James’s sport-fishing.
She had a batch of tiny pigeon and woodpecker feathers in a hand-sized basket and showed her how she used small, bent wire hooks to fix them together in layers of grey and spotted.

‘They are so pretty,’ Elspet said. ‘It seems such a pity to waste them on a fish.’

‘True. I have a friend who has a sweet little bag covered in white swan-feathers, overlapped so –’ and Amelia spaced a few out in a spiral shape. ‘See. Though persuading
them to lie flat is a lot of work, mind.’

‘But worth the effort perhaps.’

They sipped at the warmed malmsey wine. Elspet tried to think of a suitable topic of conversation.

‘Are you—?’ They both spoke together.

‘When are you two to be married?’ asked Amelia.

‘Oh, later in the summer, I think. The date has not yet been fixed.’

‘Hugh is a sweet man,’ Amelia said. Elspet picked up a slight sneer in her tone, as if she did not really think so at all. ‘And he clearly dotes on you.’ Elspet found
herself blushing. ‘But I feel I should tell you. You are not the first.’

‘I did not expect I was. I know he’s been married before.’

‘No, you silly. I mean he has been engaged twice since. Both times his father put his foot down. Said the girl was not good enough for his son.’

‘But—’

And now Amelia leaned in, her eyes greedy, determined to tell her every last detail.

‘Did you not wonder why he has not married again? Why, he is over thirty! His mother tried her best, poor soul, but what can she do? She despairs of ever having a grandchild. Such a sad
thing.’

‘I haven’t met his parents yet. We are to go –’ She paused and looked over her shoulder. There was a disturbance in the hall. Amelia rose and put down the feather fly she
was holding.

But before she reached the door, it burst open and Hugh hurried in. He grabbed hold of Elspet’s hands. ‘Elspet, your father . . . I think it might be best if I take you
home.’

‘What?’ She peered out of the door, not understanding, half expecting to see Father there, but she saw only Broadbank, the groom; he was panting, with gobs of mud on his face and
boots. ‘Come in, Broadbank,’ she called. ‘What’s the matter? Is he all right?’

‘No, mistress. I mean, I rode as fast as I could, and the physician’s with him, but—’

‘Tell me what happened.’ She said this whilst Martha was already taking her by the arm into the hall and hustling her back into her cloak.

Broadbank followed after her. ‘He went to see Goodwife Bainbridge and fell down all of a sudden; she had to send for the physician and they’re bringing him home. The boy says
–’ Here he swallowed, and his lips worked but no sound came. She waited for the words to come. ‘Sorry, mistress.’

She had no time to take this in. She let herself be moved like a puppet. Martha bustled her into the coach. Amelia James thrust her gloves through the window after her, where they landed on the
floor. Hugh instructed the driver to push the horses and they lurched away through the darkening lanes back towards the Convent Garden. Nobody spoke. Hugh stared morosely out of the window as if
uncertain what to say.

The black shadows of trees flashed past; the carriage jolted over the rutted track until she winced. One deep hole jounced her up so that she landed heavily and bit her tongue. She tasted blood
as it flowed into her mouth but staunched it on her knuckles. Martha found her other hand and took hold of it, squeezing it tight as if to wring the pain away.

It was as if she was somehow suspended in a purgatory where the journey would never end, with the clatter of the wheels turning and the cracking of the coachman’s whip in the looming
dusk.

Amelia’s words ran in her head too, like scattering mice at harvest when the scythe’s coming. The idea of Hugh and other women had never crossed her mind. How ridiculous to be
thinking of this at this time, when her father needed her. When finally she spied the lights of West View House, she almost wept with relief.

The carriage pulled up outside the house but the door was already standing open. She hardly waited for the wheels to stop before she was leaning out of the window trying to open the door.
Broadbank, who had been galloping alongside all the way, wrenched it open and she half tumbled out and hurried within.

Before she had even crossed the threshold, she knew that Father was dead.

The servants were lined up in the hall, their faces grave. She had never seen them like this, and the passage was full of people. They bowed or curtseyed as she went past, and gestured silently
upstairs. She ascended the stairs slowly now, quelling the desire to rush lest it seem disrespectful. She heard Martha sniffing behind her, but did not turn.

Father was laid out in his chamber still fully dressed. It was odd to see him lying on the bed with his best shoes still on, his good robe folded to cover his knees, his hands crossed over his
chest. His white ruff pushed his beard up in a way she knew he would not like.

Hugh’s head appeared around the door. ‘Would you like—’

‘Go away.’ Her voice sounded angry. She entreated him, ‘Please, leave us alone.’ Mercifully he went.

Goodwife Tyrwhitt from down the street got up from the dark recess in the corner and bowed her head.

‘Was he shriven before . . .?’ Elspet could not yet say the word.

‘No, mistress. He was not.’

‘Where is the physician?’

‘We let him go, mistress. We had to, seeing as there was nothing more he could do, and someone came galloping for a woman in childbed. He didn’t suffer, mistress. By all accounts he
fell clutching his heart and it was mercifully quick. Won’t you sit, mistress? We can pray together. We didn’t know whether to fetch the parson, but we ordered the sexton to toll the
bell.’

‘No,’ she said, rallying herself to give orders. ‘No parson. I will arrange for prayers with one of Father’s friends.’

She nodded, as though expecting it. ‘But for now, will you pray with me?’

Elspet moved away and knelt, and Goodwife Tyrwhitt got to her knees beside her.

She could not say the words. She heard them in her head, what she should say. ‘
Credo in Spiritum Sanctum, sanctam Ecclesiam Catholicam, sanctorum communionem, remissionem peccatorum;
carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam . . .
’

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, life eternal. She heard the sound of a dog whining
downstairs.

St Joseph’s bells began to toll to sanctify him, to ward off the spirits that might delay his flying soul. The sound of the passing bell was loud and terrible. She clapped her hands over
her ears but it kept on tolling, as if to drum his passing into her head. His face was still and white and unmoving, despite the terrible din. It was then she knew he was gone, and she bent her
head and wept.

Father’s funeral two days later was overshadowed by the memorial for Bainbridge’s masters and ships’ crews, held on exactly the same day. Most of
Father’s friends, anxious to watch the ghoulish entertainment of the sensation of the week, had decided to forgo his funeral and to go to the memorial service instead. So it was a depleted
and sorry company that gathered to say their farewells and witness her father’s final interment in the family vault.