A Divided Inheritance (5 page)

‘Anyway,’ Father blustered, ‘I will take you to the chambers tomorrow and show you the ways of the lace trade.’

Zachary smirked a self-satisfied smile, then nodded, chewing over his food.

‘Tell me about your family,’ Elspet said, looking deliberately at Zachary. ‘You have brothers, my father said?’

‘I have no dealings with them.’

‘But—’

‘Elspet,’ Father chided, ‘finish up your meal before it cools. Leave your cousin to eat in peace.’

She cut her meat slowly then, aware of an uncomfortable silence in the room, as if all ease had been stifled. The servants also seemed to feel it; they crept in wordlessly to take the savouries
away and returned equally silently with the sweetmeat platters.

When the repast was over, Father invited Zachary to his study for more wine. It was the custom in their house, when there was company, for the men to retire to Father’s chambers whilst the
women remained companionably at table. That way the men were not disturbed by the servants clearing away. But it was quite a different thing when there was no female company present and Elspet was
left suddenly alone at the long expanse of board with only the leftovers for company.

She rested awhile, an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach despite the meal, before she wrapped her mantle deliberately about her and descended the stairs to the kitchen.

Confound them both, she thought. She would sit with Goody Turner and fuss the dogs. She told herself Zachary Deane was just a novelty; that Father would soon tire of his company. It would only
be a few days before Father would return to his usual custom of sitting in the oak-panelled chamber, his books open on his knee before the crackle of the fire, whilst she wrote up the day’s
trading figures and listened to him rail against the Scottish king.

She had no idea whether Zachary could converse with Father on his favourite subject – how Isabella should have been Queen, or how much he knew about Dante’s
Divine Comedy
.
He would not last long with Father if not, she thought dryly.

Zachary stifled a yawn. He must make himself look interested. He cocked his head to one side and opened his eyes wide. He would act a bit. After all, he was getting free bed
and board and it always served you well to butter the palm that fed you.

Old Leviston’s offices were exactly as he had predicted – old-fashioned, musty, and full of surly staff who bowed and scratched before him, but scowled behind his back when he
wasn’t looking.

Leviston pointed to a long column of figures in yet another ledger and began explaining about yardages. Zachary kept his expression of interest, but let his attention wander. He marvelled that
he was there at all. But it was not a case of choice, his mother would have called it
el destino
– fate.

‘So you see, there’s much more profit in Flanders’ lace,’ Leviston said.

‘Oh yes, yes, I see,’ Zachary said, not understanding one jot.

After Leviston had showed him, in flea-like detail, the prices of grades of lace he was nearly wall-eyed. Thank God, the old man finally took him down to the warehouses. Now this was more like
it. A shipment had just arrived, and there was all the hustle and bustle of unloading and packing to horse.

‘Bring that one over,’ Leviston shouted, and the bow-legged man with the bolt over his shoulder veered towards them. He dropped his load with a thump on the table and stood
respectfully to one side, cap in hand. Leviston jammed his eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose, picked up the shears attached by string to the bench, and slit open the bale with a practised hand.
He extracted one of the hand-tied parcels within and shook it out before him.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘this is how we check the yardage.’ And he demonstrated how the men measured the lace by stretching it out over the counter. Old Leviston looked quite
lively. He was even perspiring. After, he showed him how it had to be reeled in before it could be wound on to cards.

Leviston dismissed the red-cheeked apprentice who was tugging at the delicate stuff in his big white gloves, and took hold of Zachary’s wrists, pushing his bare hands under the lace.

‘See, Zachary, how fine the work is. Only in Flanders do you get such fine work.’ Leviston’s eyes were alight.

‘Fine indeed.’ And, true enough, he had to admit that he could grasp the skill of it. He had never paid lace much attention before. He gazed a moment at the delicate white strands
draped over his skin, trying to understand the movement the bobbins and needles must make – thousands of tiny parries and thrusts for one hand-span of lace.

Leviston smiled at him, the stiff smile of a man unused to smiling. ‘I knew you’d have a feel for it,’ he said, ‘it’s in the blood.’

Zachary forced himself to beam back, and Leviston clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. The apprentice gawped like a bedlam fool from one to the other, but Zachary glared at him. He did not
like his uncle’s sudden affection. The apprentice sidled away, brushing the flecks of cotton waste from his sleeve.

The warehouse, one of many, was the size of a large stable, with bays of shelving stacked with brown and green oilskin-wrapped parcels. If this was all lace, then it represented the flying hands
of thousands of working women. A fleeting memory of his mother’s face came to mind. She would have been amazed to see it. But as far as he knew, Leviston never deigned to bring her here.

He glanced over to where Leviston was now talking with the overseer, a man introduced to him as Wilmot. Wilmot was a solid dull-looking man, with a long pale jaw, wispy yellow hair and a beard
shaped like a spade. He was listening hard, hands propped on a measuring cane, leaning forward slightly to catch his employer’s words. They were discussing shipments and prices.

With all this, Leviston must really be a rich man. So it begged the question, why had he let his house get so rag-a-tatter? Zachary scanned Leviston’s unfashionable doublet, which was
almost threadbare, and wondered why his gangling daughter had been dressed in such an uninspiring faded green wool, with the elbows worn thin. Zachary shook his head. If he owned all this –
well, he’d be choosing new suits every week; fine slashed velvet, gold-tipped lacing, all the new fashions from France.

Wilmot and Leviston were still deep in conversation. When they’d done, Leviston said, ‘My apologies for that. Just a few bits of business to clear up. Come, I’ll take you over
to the tavern and we’ll have something to eat and a warm ale. It is always draughty in the sheds when the ships come in, and they’ll be another hour or two unloading.’

‘That sounds fine,’ he said. ‘It’s all been most interesting.’ He put on his gentleman’s voice, to sound more learned.

His friend Gin Shotterill always used to say, if you speak like they do, they’ll think you’re one of them. Otherwise they’ll think you a fool.

The twelve-penny tavern was cold and cramped, despite being the haunt of gentlemen, and they had to wedge themselves side by side into a seat with no window. The back door
partition was behind them with its whistling draught.

Zachary had no wish to continue a conversation about grades of lace, so after they had supped on what was put in front of them and exhausted the small talk about the dubious quality of the ale,
Zachary told him he would like to meet up with a few of the fellows in Hanging Sword Alley for some fencing practice, before returning to West View House.

‘Of course,’ Leviston said. ‘I will tell the kitchen hands to wait the evening meal until seven, shall I?’

‘If that’s not too inconvenient, sir,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to put the household to any trouble.’

‘Not at all, not at all. I’ll arrange it. We will have a chance to talk business afterwards. There are some new samples of goldpoint I’d like to show you – from Brussels.
Not bad, some of them. There’s a good profit margin in them, though the weave is not as dense as the French. An ounce of gold will go further, I think.’

Zachary nodded, though he was not much enamoured of spending a whole evening poring over women’s fancies – a waste of good gold, in his view.

He was mulling over better uses for gold when Leviston suddenly said, ‘Is your mother often in your thoughts?’ His voice was gentle.

Zachary was momentarily nonplussed, not understanding. Then he realised. Leviston had taken his staring into space for melancholy.

‘Not so often now,’ Zachary replied guardedly, twisting his head sideways to look at him. He feigned a nonchalance he did not feel. ‘After all, life goes on. It is ten years
since and I have seen many neighbours and friends go since then, and in the end, death is not such a strange thing.’

‘But different, surely, when it is your own kin, and her so young.’

‘True.’ He could sense a conversation coming that he did not want to have. He could think of nothing to say that did not give away his feelings, so he offered a platitude.
‘Death keeps no calendar.’

‘Indeed no. And you are aware that it is some years since I lost my wife.’ Leviston waited for Zachary’s reaction, but Zachary kept silent. He would offer no condolences, out
of respect for his mother.

They sat for an awkward moment, each waiting for the other to speak. Leviston did not seem to know what to say next, but he cleared his throat several times before taking another gulp of ale.
Someone else came in and the bitter draught shivered up Zachary’s neck. Leviston shrugged an apology to Zachary with a rueful look as the door banged closed behind them. Finally, he said,
‘Your mother was a beautiful woman, you know.’ His voice held a kind of plea, but he was looking down, as if the ale in his tankard had suddenly become interesting.

‘Yes.’ Zachary was tight-lipped. He was damned if he would absolve him.

‘We were . . . close, once.’

‘Yes. She told me.’

‘What did she tell you?’ Leviston slid to the edge of the bench and turned sideways to look him full in the face.

Zachary paused. He knew what Leviston was implying, but he must be careful. Act surprised. He was supposed to think that Leviston was his uncle until he was told otherwise. He replied, ‘I
know that she had a high regard for you, as a sister might.’ That much was true at least.

‘Then you might think well of me?’ Leviston wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, despite the draught from the door.

‘Of course. Family is family. I remember you from when I was small. I am delighted to have found my uncle again. I am in your debt, sir, for seeking me out after all this time, and for
offering me your hospitality.’

‘She did not . . . I mean –’ Leviston swallowed before going on. ‘She did not speak of me as . . .?’ Zachary waited, watching his discomfiture, as if he was a
fishfly on a hook. Leviston’s mouth worked a little before he could blurt out the words. ‘I am not your uncle, Zachary. You are my son.’

Zachary feigned shock, jerked back in his seat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I have never been your uncle. I am your father.’

‘My father?’

‘I am sorry if this comes as a shock. There is no easy way to broach it, I’m afraid. But you are of age, so I feel bound to treat you as an equal and tell you I am no relation to
your mother. Your mother and I were lovers. When I stayed with her she called me “Uncle” so that you would feel comfortable in my company.’ His pale grey face had become mottled
with red.

Zachary shifted uncomfortably on the seat. He was no longer sure he wanted to hear about his mother and this balding man before him. But he had no choice, Leviston was continuing. ‘We were
lovers until she fell with child. But I was already married, you see, and my wife . . .’

Zachary found he had stood up and, to his surprise, righteous anger filled him. ‘Are you telling me you cast my mother aside? With never a second thought for either of us?’ He was
surprised at how agitated he felt.

‘No, Zachary, it was not like that. Not as simple as that. It started as a business arrangement, but as it became more frequent, well, your mother grew in my affections. Things became
complicated. Then you were born and . . . God knows, I wanted to be with her, with you both –’ Leviston paused. His fingers clawed at his collar and to Zachary’s horror he could
see his eyes were swimming. Leviston pulled off his eyeglasses and wiped a hand over his eyes. ‘But you have to see I had a duty, a duty to Agnes my wife. She told me she was expecting a baby
herself. I was caught. I could not abandon Agnes then. It tore me apart. You must understand that I—’

Zachary cut him off. ‘You chose, Uncle. You chose between your wife and my mother. You have played no proper part in my childhood, and yet you expect me to accept you now as my father!
Well, it is too much to ask.’ Zachary faced him with difficulty in the confined space. ‘Pray pardon, sir, but I need time to think.’

He picked up his sword belt and girded it on with deliberate movements.

‘Please, Zachary, don’t go like this, let me try to explain –’

‘There is nothing more I want to hear.’ And with that he clattered out of the tavern and away up the street.

He did not know where he was going, just away from Leviston. It was too uncomfortable, listening to him talk. He did not want to know about his mother’s liaisons with this man. The thought
made him sick. He buttoned his cloak against the wind and lowered his head, to try to stop the thoughts crowding in. He strode away down the street, dodging other passers-by.