Carola Dunn (4 page)

Too late. The Will was written. She’d have her chance to reform her wanton ways but Sir Barnabas was certain she would fail.

The same went for his unshaven godson. Miles was a good-for-nothing, care-for-nobody libertine and gamester, beyond redemption. Sir Barnabas owned he’d be astonished if the wastrel accepted his challenge, let alone met it, even for the sake of a fortune.

All any of them cared for was his fortune, the late baronet muttered silently, sweeping the assembled company with an invisibly scornful gaze.

The last of the upper servants filed in and closed the door. Euphemia shifted weightily in her seat, taking it upon herself to glance around the room through her lorgnette as if it were her business to ensure everyone’s presence. Her complacent air turned to an indignant glare as she noticed Nerissa beside a lounging Miles in the back row of chairs.

“Mr Harwood, pray have that... that person ejected,” she demanded with an imperious gesture.

Nerissa raised her chin in defiance--so like her stubbornly disobedient mother! She opened her mouth to protest, but the inimical stares turned on her apparently stopped the words in her throat. No doubt she was used to a more appreciative audience.

Snodgrass stepped forward. To the butler’s habitual supercilious tone was added a hint of relish: he was glad of a chance to thwart Effie, who constantly interfered in his duties. “Mr Harwood, sir, the young lady is Miss Wingate. I admitted her according to your instructions.”

The lawyer stood up, beaming. “To be sure, Snodgrass. Miss Wingate, I am William Harwood, your late grandfather’s attorney. Allow me to welcome you to Addlescombe and to hope that your stay here will be a happy one.”

Sir Barnabas glowered at him. A happy stay was not at all what he had in mind for the jade.

However, Harwood’s words had magically changed the attitude of the rest of his family. Raymond Reece was the quickest off the mark.

“My dear Miss Wingate--Cousin, if I may make so bold,” he said in his oily way, “may I be the first to welcome you to the family. ‘For this thy brother was lost and is found.’“ He proceeded to introduce himself, and then the rest as though she were his protégée.

“Your grandfather!” grumbled Euphemia. “Well, I am sure I don’t know how I could have guessed, though now I see you do bear some resemblance to Anthea. We have been forbidden to mention your mama’s name these twenty years and more, and one cannot be expected to recall....”

“I remember her very well,” squeaked Sophie. “We used to visit Addlescombe quite often before she left home. I was prodigious fond of dear Anthea.”

Her sister gave her a reproving frown. “So were we all, Sophronia, and naturally we have not forgotten her, but we were unaware she had a daughter. I am delighted that your grandfather saw fit to relent at the last, my dear child,” she added unconvincingly.

Nerissa seemed overwhelmed by her sudden popularity--an accomplished actress indeed. Sir Barnabas looked on with cynical amusement as they fawned about her. Doubtless they were all afraid that as his closest relative present, his only direct descendant, she’d get the lot. Ha!

With increasingly exaggerated throat-clearings, Harwood called the meeting to order. An expectant silence fell.

“Ahem.” He settled gold-rimmed spectacles upon his nose, picked up the three closely-written sheets of parchment, and began to read. “‘I, Barnabas Elijah Philpot, Baronet, of Addlescombe in the County of Dorset, being of sound mind, do declare this to be my last Will and....’“

“Cut the twaddle,” Sir Neville advised impatiently.

Harwood frowned over his spectacles. “Sir Barnabas gave particular instructions that every word was to be read. To continue.”

Amid much fidgeting, he completed the preliminaries. “As you have all already been instructed,” he continued, “Sir Barnabas forbade any observance of mourning, either in clothes or in conduct. He here gives his reason, which I regret the necessity of pronouncing. ‘Any such observance can only be the rankest hypocrisy, too extravagant for even me to stomach though I have lived surrounded by fawning hypocrites. Anyone disregarding this requirement will forfeit his or her bequest.’“

“No mourning!” Jane moaned. “What will people think?”

“Everyone knows Barnabas was eccentric,” snapped her husband. “Go on, Harwood.”

His Will was going to confirm everyone’s opinion of his eccentricity, Sir Barnabas thought with relish.

The lawyer went on to list minor bequests to butler, housekeeper, valet, cook, bailiff, coachman, head groom, and head gardener. All appeared satisfied. Though no warmth had entered into their relationship, Sir Barnabas had always paid them well, and they had served him well, for he tolerated no less.

Dismissing the servants, Harwood moved on to the last item on the first page. “Er-hem.” He turned pink. “‘To my friend and counsellor, William Harwood,’ hm-hm, ‘the sum of five hundred guineas,’ er, yes, most generous, ‘provided he shall at once take up residence at Addlescombe Manor and there reside as long as may prove necessary to superintend the implementation of the further terms of this, my Will and Testament, in no case to exceed a period of six months.’ Er-hem, yes.”

“What the deuce?” Neville blustered. Since his brother’s demise the new baronet had behaved as if Addlescombe belonged to him. To have an uninvited guest forced upon him added to the unease caused by the unexpected arrival of his unknown niece.

“Terms?” Euphemia shrilled. “What terms?”

“Sir Barnabas set certain conditions to be fulfilled before the remaining legacies are executed.”

“Conditions!”

The lawyer cast a reproachful glance towards the inkstand as his dead friend and client cackled.

Poor Sophie was confused, as usual, Sir Barnabas noted. Miles had adopted an unconvincing pose of boredom, while Nerissa was trying to look as if her head was in the clouds, her mind elsewhere. However, the pair would soon give him their full attention, and the rest already wore altogether satisfactory expressions of surprise and alarm.

The late baronet hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for years.

Chapter 3

Nerissa struggled to keep her eyes open. She wished she had consumed the core of Mr Courtenay’s apple, for the rumbling of her stomach must surely be audible to him, if not to everyone in the room.

She peeped sideways at him. If he heard the gurgles and groans, he was politely ignoring them. In fact, he was gazing at the picture over the mantelpiece with an air of utter boredom.

It was a boring picture she decided, a still-life of peaches, wine bottles, and a dead fish. If she went on looking at it any longer, she was certain to fall asleep. She scanned the room. Apart from the fireplace, the door, and two windows with red brocade curtains, all four walls were lined with ceiling-high bookshelves.

A treasurehouse of calf-bound, gold-tooled books, and most of them not plays! She had learned her letters from plays. At home in York the small house was full of books of plays, scripts and manuscripts and parts of plays. She’d like to sample these shelves, if she was permitted to stay long enough. If she could only keep her eyes open long enough.

Blinking, she returned to contemplating the gentleman seated beside her.

He wasn’t at all handsome, not to compare to Lucian Gossett. His nose was a trifle crooked, his dark brows too heavy, his bristly jaw too square. Nor was he as tall as Lucian. She had to admit, however, that there was something rather dashing about the combination of black hair and blue eyes, even with the addition of a day’s growth of beard.

His clothes, though plain and travel-stained, were of good quality cloth and well made, a cut above the showy but shoddy garb favoured by theatrical people. She recalled that the vehicle he had taken her up in was no shabby gig but an elegant curricle. The very fact that he had rescued her suggested that he did not regard her as a rival. Mr Courtenay had no desperate need of his godfather’s fortune, she concluded. He must have dashed down from London just to show his respect for the deceased.

She, to the contrary, needed every penny of whatever small sum might have been left her. The proceedings so far gave her the impression that she had been invited as much to tease the residents of the manor as for any serious purpose. If Sir Barnabas was capable of such malice, he had probably directed it equally at his granddaughter. She dared not let her hopes rise too high.

All the same, she really must try to concentrate upon the endless reading of the Will.

“‘The following bequests subject to the conditions hereinafter set down:’“ droned the lawyer. “‘To my nephew the Reverend Raymond Reece, confirmation in the living of the church of St Botulph in Addlescombe village, and a supplement of twenty pounds per annum to the stipend thereof.’“

“Twenty pounds,” exclaimed the parson in disgust, “and upon conditions!” He brightened--momentarily--as Mr Harwood continued.

“‘In addition, to be expended in furnishing the vicarage, the sum of ten pounds. As my nephew Reece has eaten well at my expense for fifteen years, he has no doubt saved sufficient funds to adequately supplement this amount.’“

The dome of Mr Reece’s head turned crimson beneath the carefully arranged strands of hair. “‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt,’“ he squawked. “‘Consider the lilies of the field.’“

Mr Harwood regarded him sternly over his spectacles. “If you mean to indicate that you have not saved your stipend, sir, I fear there is nothing to be done. Pray permit me to continue. ‘To my cousin Euphemia Chidwell, two hundred pounds per annum, that she may rent a cottage and hire a servant of her own to harass, to the relief of mine.’“

A wordless choking sound emanated from the stout lady in purple. Cousin Euphemia Chidwell, Nerissa repeated to herself, attempting to sort out her new relatives. The Reverend Mr Reece’s introductions had only served to confuse her. Cousin Euphemia, harasser of servants, was the one who had taken her for Mr Courtenay’s convenient and demanded her expulsion. She rather thought she did not care for Cousin Euphemia.

“‘I consider this adequate since she is certain to browbeat her sister, Sophronia Datchett, to whom I hereby leave a like income, into sharing her household.’“

Cousin Sophronia was the plump little lady in lavender, now bleating in mingled gratitude and dismay. “How very kind of dear Cousin Barnabas. Indeed, Effie, you know I shall do whatever you think right.”

“I should hope so, Sophie,” snorted her sister. “A proper mull you always make of things if left to yourself. But really, a cottage! Impossible.”

Nerissa only wished she could be sure of so much as two hundred pounds a year.

“‘To my niece, Matilda, the choice of any horse in my stables, one hundred pounds per annum, and upon her marriage...”

A neigh of protest rose from the front row.

Nerissa’s attention wandered again. Her late grandfather clearly delighted in oversetting his heirs, and her expectations were at a low ebb. He had probably left his fortune to an orphanage.

Would Mr Courtenay take her back to Riddlebourne? After the unplanned extra night in London, had she enough in her purse for the fare to York? Would she be invited to stay for luncheon? If not, she’d find her way to the kitchens and beg some bread and cheese and a glass of milk before she left.

She looked up, startled, as Mr Courtenay nudged her arm. He handed her a handkerchief spread open to reveal two crumbling biscuits.

“I just remembered I had them in my pocket,” he whispered.

“Thank you, sir!” As she silently nibbled, resisting the urge to crunch them up, she noticed a darn in one corner of the handkerchief.

A swift glance at Mr Courtenay disclosed what she had missed before. The elbows of his brown coat were threadbare and the toes of his boots were scuffed beneath the blacking. So he did need a substantial inheritance after all, which made it all the kinder of him to ensure her arrival at Addlescombe on time.

She very much feared they were both to be disappointed.

She had missed some of Mr Harwood’s reading. Aubrey Philpott was now looking as disgruntled as his somehow fossilized face permitted. At first she had been surprised by his youth, but then the eye of experience had discerned the artificially brassy tint of his hair, the lines beneath the carefully applied face-powder. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

“‘To my sister-in-law, Jane, my mother’s topaz parure, a set of hideous objects which she has long coveted although they render her still sallower than the hazard of nature.’ I beg your pardon, Lady Philpott, but I am required to read every word,” Mr Harwood apologised.

Lady Philpott moaned. Her husband hushed her, leaning forward in eager anticipation.

“Yes, yes, man, go on.”

“To my brother Neville, who sold his house in order to have an excuse to batten on me forever,...”

As the lawyer read, Nerissa studied her uncle. Sir Neville was a tall, thin man in his sixties whose receding chin and forehead gave him an air of ineptitude. At present, however, he radiated confidence, suggesting he had dismissed the possibility of his brother leaving the estate to a female or outside the family.

No doubt his confidence was justified, Nerissa reflected regretfully. He was the new baronet and Addlescombe was probably entailed upon the heir to the title, though Mama hadn’t been sure of that.

Again, woolgathering, she had missed Mr Harwood’s words. Their import was easy to guess from the incredulous fury that distorted Sir Neville’s fishlike features. She was aware of Mr Courtenay abruptly sitting upright beside her as the baronet’s mouth opened and shut soundlessly.

“That’s all?” he croaked at last. “But... Addlescombe! And there must be at least a hundred thousand in Consols! What the deuce?”

Nerissa and Mr Courtenay exchanged a glance in which hope was suddenly kindled.

“Please, Sir Neville,” said Mr Harwood unhappily, “I assure you I had very little influence upon your late brother when it came to writing his Will. I succeeded in reversing his original intention of completely cutting out you and your immediate family on the grounds that he has supported you.... But you are anxious to hear the remaining provisions. Allow me.” He cleared his throat.