A Divided Inheritance (34 page)

‘Yes,’ he said, tired of him. ‘On purpose.’

Wilmot looked visibly shaken that he had decided to forgo the pretence at pleasantry.

‘I cannot persuade you—’

‘We will not leave until you agree to talk with us.’ Elspet Leviston emerged from the shadows of the foliage in her ridiculous dark English gown, all bones and bows and stiff as a
post.

‘Fine,’ Zachary said, ‘if you wish to sit here for ever.’

He saw the dark circles under her eyes, and that her hands clenched and unclenched, but he did not want her to tickle his conscience. He wanted her out of his sight.

‘I make no jest,’ she said tightly. ‘I will simply wait here every day, until you agree to discuss it.’

Over in the dark shade of the vines their English maid loitered, pale and scared, eyes darting from one to the other. As he glanced over to her, he spied Señor Alvarez’s dark figure
watching them from an upstairs window.

Damn. That was all he needed. The señor might not like female hangers-on in his yard. Curse Elspet Leviston. And his new friend Alexander was staring at the three of them, with a puzzled
expression.

He ignored Elspet and Wilmot and sauntered over to Alexander and took him by the arm, whispering in Spanish, ‘Come, let us take our refreshment.’ He was anxious to divorce himself
from his visitors. He felt Alvarez’s eyes upon him. Distractions to the training were frowned upon. He steered Alexander across the yard, deliberately ignoring Wilmot’s bleat of
‘Mr Deane!’

On the other side of the courtyard was a small cool room where refreshments were laid out at midday. There was lemon-water today, and it reminded him of Luisa Ortega of the dark doe eyes.
Zachary and Alexander joined the other three men, all of them silent. Señor Alvarez did not encourage talking whilst on the premises. They should conserve their strength, he said.

So he filled his tankard from the jug quietly, and stood with the small group supping tangy lemon-water and tugging on the chewy local bread with his teeth. From the corner of his eye he saw
Elspet Leviston sit down stone-faced under the vine, on the only bench in the yard.

Zachary dropped his backside down on to the ground, to lean on the lime-washed wall under the shade of the jasmine creeper. A lizard scuttled away in quick, flicking movements. He did his best
to ignore the huddled group on the other side of the yard, tried to pay them the same unattached attention as he did the lizard.

A moment later, Señor Alvarez emerged from the training hall as upright as a sapling. He swung a small wooden tray as he walked, and even his walk was graceful, spacious. He placed the
jug and three cups on the tray, and added a platter of bread.

Next time Zachary looked up, he was offering the tray to Martha the maid. Zachary paused, his bread halfway to his mouth at the sight. Martha bobbed a hasty embarrassed curtsey and set the tray
on the ground, then stooped to pour the liquid as Alvarez went over to Elspet and, with a small bow, offered her a twist of bread. She smiled and accepted it, thanking him in Spanish.

Zachary could not believe it. Alvarez offered it in turn to Wilmot, who accepted a portion but then stood shifting from foot to foot in decided discomfort. He looked as if he did not know
whether to eat it or not. Señor Alvarez glanced over at Zachary. Ashamed, Zachary dropped his head. He did not look at them again, even when it was time to go inside.

Elspet shifted on the bench to move out of the filtering sun. Mr Wilmot was angry; he slapped a broadsheet from his satchel at the buzzing flies, and huffed and puffed, and it
made her even more uneasy. After the men had gone back inside they waited hour after hour, and Martha dozed against the wall like a brown mouse, her bodice strings loosened and her mouth hanging
half-open.

‘It was nice of the fencing master to offer us refreshment,’ Wilmot said, after a while. He untied his ruff to let some air get to his neck.

‘Yes, he was very generous,’ she said, thinking what a fine, imposing figure the fencing master was.

‘Your cousin is not going to change his mind. You must face it, Mistress Leviston. I see no point in us waiting here. We should go home.’

‘I have told him I will wait and I meant it.’

‘But he is as stubborn as you are yourself!’

She flushed. ‘You can go if you wish.’

Wilmot stood uncertainly, sighed, and then leaned back against the wall.

She could not give up, not now. Not after all she’d been through on the journey. It was to be a battle of wills, that much was clear. She pressed her lips together and folded her arms.
Well, so be it, he would see that she was not for moving.

In the afternoon, the yard remained quiet, the only noise the sound of chopping on a wooden board from the kitchen window behind. The smell of rosemary drifted on the warm
air.

Mr Wilmot would not keep still despite the piercing heat, and paced up and down by the wall, peering out into the street and then looking up at the windows. When the sun crept lower and Zachary
and the others still did not appear, he started to get agitated, but she ignored it. At the sound of the clash of rapiers and feet scuffing on the wooden floor from the balcony above, he caught her
eye as if to say would she not give up waiting, but she set her mouth and looked away.

What if Wilmot was right, and Zachary were to stick to his word? She would be waiting for nothing. Time passed. She drew out her rosary beads and threaded them between her fingers for comfort;
they rattled on her lap, pale against her dark skirts.

‘Mistress Leviston.’ Mr Wilmot interrupted her thoughts. She turned to look at him again. He was very pale now, unlike his usual florid complexion. He swayed before her. ‘I
must get indoors. It’s the heat, I think it’s making me ill.’

She immediately stood so that he could sit, but he shook his head.

‘No, I must go and lie down. I am reluctant to leave you but I must go to our lodgings. You must give up this nonsensical vigil, and . . .’ he swallowed, staggered to the bench and
collapsed on to it, head in hands.

The back of his coat was dark with wet. Martha, with the sixth sense that servants have, was at his side in a moment. ‘I’ll find a pump,’ she said, ‘fetch water, and
something cool to drink.’

As she was about to go, Mr Wilmot leaned forward and retched over his shoes.

Elspet and Martha hurried to the kitchen door and thumped loudly. An older woman in a Moorish veil opened the door and Elspet managed to explain with much gesticulating, and Martha anxiously
peering from behind. The woman took one look across to Mr Wilmot and bustled over on her bare feet, calling behind her, ‘Luisa!’

A girl came running out, wiping her hands on her apron, full of advice and concern when she saw Mr Wilmot slumped forward over his knees.

Elspet helped him out of his coat, which was wringing with sweat. The old woman flapped her arms at the mess in the yard and ran away to fetch a pail and a broom to clean up. Luisa pulled open
the door to the street and yelled something unintelligible, but Mr Wilmot let it all happen round him, as if he was barely there. Before they knew it, a donkey and cart had appeared to take him
home and Martha and Luisa helped Mr Wilmot up. They asked if Elspet would go with him.

There was a long moment’s pause, but she shook her head.

‘I wait,’ she said, ‘for Mr Deane. He is a student, with Señor Alvarez.’ They stared at her in disbelief.

‘You go,’ Luisa said.

‘No,’ she said, feeling guilt like a needle in her stomach, ‘I wait.’ She looked away from their accusing eyes.

A servant was fetched to go with Mr Wilmot and Martha, and the clatter of the donkey and trap faded into the sounds of the hawkers’ cries, the church bells and the rattle of other more
distant wheels. The old woman whispered to Luisa and shook her head, disapproving. Luisa eyed Elspet with suspicion before going back indoors. Elspet sat back miserably to wait.

Shortly after, Luisa – now minus her apron and with her long hair let loose from its knot – hurried past. She nodded briefly at her as she left. ‘I hope your poor friend feels
better soon,’ she said pointedly in Spanish.

‘Thank you,’ Elspet said, feeling conscience-stricken.

Luisa ignored her and opened the door to the street and slipped through. She moved like a cat on her bare feet.

If only I had her grace, Elspet thought. She felt staid and plain in her English boots, the sleeves of her taffeta gown pressed against her arms; the lace on the sleeves was a nuisance, it kept
catching on hanging foliage wherever she walked.

Luisa’s clothes were light and her skirts seemed to flow round her in vivid hues of yellow and red. She wondered how old Luisa was, and realized that they might be the same age, though she
felt somehow aged enough to be her dowager aunt. The thought made her sad. After a half-hour Luisa returned with bundles of provisions, but did not speak, just let herself back into the house. Dusk
was falling and inside someone had lit candles in the upper rooms. Elspet was alone in the courtyard.

She had grown stiff from sitting so long, when there was a sudden commotion and a group of men descended the outside steps in a flurry of cloaks. The jangle of metal made her
sit up straight. Zachary was bringing up the rear with a tall, moustachioed man. His face was alight with energy, he smiled at his companion and waved his arms in a demonstration of swordplay.

She leapt up and planted herself at the door to the street. The men cast curious looks her way but passed through. As Zachary went by he dodged past, but she grasped his cloak to stay him. He
ripped it from her grasp and pushed in front of his friend.

‘Zachary,’ she cried, ‘wait!’ But he had gone into the street.

She looked out of the door and he was hurrying down the road into the gloom. ‘Zachary Deane!’ she shouted, ‘Zachary Deane! You will talk to me! You will talk to me or . .
.’ One of the taller men turned back to look, but they all carried on like bulls, jostling each other down the street. She heard their laughter as they went.

It was a moment before she could bring herself to move. She was panting as if she had been running. She let out a low moan. She had thought he would listen, if she wanted it enough. Things had
always fallen into her lap if she wanted them enough, her father had seen to that. But her impotence was a shock. That she could not control the world, had no influence over her own destiny, that
she held no sway over others, least of all Zachary Deane.

She would have to accept it. That she would lose her home and control of the business. That she must rely on her bastard brother for everything. Mr Wilmot was right, she would have to go back to
England.

England. Homesickness hit her like a fist. She had a longing to be back in the cool chambers at home, with Jakes nosing his big brown head into her lap. She wanted to lift Diver up to her cheek
and feel his squirming weight in her arms. The longing was so intense she had to lean against the wall, clutching her arms around her chest.

‘Señorita?’

She looked up to see the white hair of the fencing master. She wiped her eyes, and started to apologize. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Here.’ He offered a small flask. She shook her head. He uncorked it anyway and handed it to her with a gesture of encouragement. She put it to her lips. Brandy. The sting of it made
her cough.

‘Ah, better,’ he said. ‘Come, sit a moment.’

He took her arm and led her back to the bench in the courtyard. His grip was gentle but firm. She allowed herself to be led. In the shadow of the vines the bench was in a deep cavern of black,
but she could still make out the white of his hair and the whites of his eyes, though not his expression.

‘We will talk a few moments, then I will ask Luisa to accompany you home.’

‘You must wonder—’ she began.

‘Tell me about Zachary Deane,’ he interrupted.

‘I don’t know how to begin.’

‘At the beginning,’ he said.

So she told him in halting Spanish about how Zachary came to them, how Father’s interest in him turned to obsession, about how she came to find out he was her half-brother. Señor
Alvarez said nothing, just let her pour it all out. The fact that her Spanish was simple made it easier. The explanations were halting and spare, and it was easy to talk in the darkness to a
stranger. It reminded her of confession, having the listening presence beside her in the dark. She even told him about her father’s mistress. When this evoked no reaction, she confessed her
disappointment about her engagement to Hugh Bradstone.

‘So you see,’ she finished, ‘I came to try to persuade Zachary not to sell the roof over my head. Please, señor, will you speak with him for me? Persuade him to
listen?’

A pause. ‘I regret, but I cannot do that. I cannot interfere between you. Besides, I have only heard your truth. His might be something else entirely.’

‘But I’ve told you the truth!’

‘Ah, but truth has a habit of moving about, depending on who owns it. But I was interested to hear what you had to say. I am particularly interested in the parts of their lives my students
disown. And Mr Deane is a man of many contradictions, is he not?’

‘I hardly know him. He spent more time with Father.’ She heard her voice crack.

‘You see him only as an obstacle to your inheritance. For me, well, he is probably one of the ablest students I have ever had. It is exciting for me to teach him. He could be a great
swordsman.’ He paused a moment. ‘Yes, he has a feeling for it and the determination. But he does not take instruction well. He resists.’

‘He was like that with my father. But don’t ask me about his background because I simply don’t know. He won’t even speak to me about his past.’

‘You don’t know anything about him?’

‘Only rumours. The servants gossiped when he came to us, as you’d expect.’

Señor Alvarez surprised her then by saying, ‘I met him in London once, he was asking me about training then, but we were interrupted. I remembered his face, the way his eyes lit up.
He must want it badly to come all this way.’

‘In London? Oh. I did not know you had been to London.’