The Rich Are with You Always (26 page)

  "I'll see he sets off at once," Sarah said.

  Moments later the Corneilles passed on their way to their room. "She's nothing but his mistress," Madame Corneille was saying in hoarse, compelling whisper. "I don't trust that one at all."

"A proper piece of custom-house goods!" John said.

"What's that mean?"

"I mean Madame Corneille—fairly entered and paid for! Many times, I'd say."

  "Of course!" The truth of it struck Nora suddenly. "That's what it is. I thought there was something about her. A harlot—well, well!"

  "And I'd say she flew her flag in London. That's pure Titchbourne Street cockney she speaks. After all, that's how a lot of French girls get their dowries abroad and preserve their reputations at home."

  Nora, undressed now to her chemise, let him help her into bed. "She wants to get their hands on this place—and on Tom Cornelius's money if she can."

  The worry, never far away, began to claim him again. "I suppose they
were
married, Tom and Sarah?"

  "It's not absolutely certain. In any case—French legal proceedings!" She threw her hands up in theatrical horror. "They might even require the actual money to be produced!"

  "We must try to…" he began.

  "We must spare Sarah that at all costs," she said firmly. "Ask Gaston to come here."

  "Gaston?"

  "Yes. I have an idea."

  When Gaston came, she asked him his opinion of Madame Corneille. He gave an evasive answer, so she asked him directly whether he would prefer to work for "that woman" or for herself, Mrs. Stevenson.

  The question merely puzzled him.

  She explained further: "I think I may buy this place instead of Mrs. Cornelius. I believe she will wish to return to England. If I do buy the place, I will leave you here as my manager."

  Gaston smiled. "And 'ow may I be of assistance,
Madame la Patronne
?"

  "You will arrange for Monsieur Colbert to call once again to collect his money. You will arrange that he sees Monsieur and Madame Corneille—especially her. Do this early tomorrow morning when her wits are at their slowest—that sort of creature. Does Colbert know of this so-called wedding?"

  "'E knows it is only fun."

  "You will suggest that it was perhaps
not
fun. You will suggest that if he wants his money, he must now press very hard for it from the Corneilles—who will probably inherit."

  When Gaston had gone, John, smiling broadly for the first time since his arrival, said, "Thank God you're on our side!"

  "It will drive Madame Custom-house-Goods to distraction," Nora said. "She will not turn to her husband for advice; she clearly considers him a fool. Perhaps…if you were nearby?"

"How long a fuse do you usually burn?" the doctor asked Nora.

"Very quick. If it's like the three previous, it'll be before dawn."

  They brought in a daybed for the doctor. He took off his shoes, wrapped his feet in a towel, drank a small glass of brandy, and fell almost at once into a wheezy, bronchitic slumber. Nora dropped into a fitful state, neither truly awake nor truly asleep.

  A further twinge awoke her just before the midwife came. Honorine, the maid from La Gracieuse, was with her.

  Nora sat up, determined not to sleep again until after the birth, thinking that sleep, or even a succession of fitful dozings, might only prolong the labour. She reread part of The Three Musketeers, paragraph by paragraph, first in French from Rodie's copy, then in English from her own. It absorbed but did not tire her mind.

In the small hours John tore up his tenth letter and came back upstairs. He put his ear to her door and heard only the snores of the doctor and midwife and the crisp rustle of a turning page. He went on to the door of the Corneliuses' room.

  "Would I intrude?" he asked.

  Sarah smiled wanly and pointed to the chair on the opposite side of the bed, nearest the door. He went to it and sat down.

  It was not death but the immobility of death that struck him as so incongruous in Tom's face and body. He had never seen them still for above a quarter of a second in life.

  Sarah cleared her throat. The noise prompted him to speak. "There was many a delightful hour he brought me. Aye. And to how many hundred others? Aye, a rare man. You'll be proud to carry his name."

  She nodded.

  Some minutes later he asked. "Will you stay? Or sell up and go back to England?"

  She frowned.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Perhaps you'd not want to talk of it yet awhile."

  "No." She sighed. "It must be faced. The inn, this inn, is not in fact paid for. So there'll be no selling up. Yes, I think I will go back to England. Start again somehow."

  "You will forfeit the deposit you paid."

  There was another long silence before he spoke again. "I have a large sum of money from Mr. Cornelius." And he explained how Tom had brought the money to Stevenson's London office. He did not say how much it was though.

  "It's so like him," she said. "He leaves everything—left everything of that sort for another day. If it was for the comfort of a guest or for the smooth running of the Tabard, nothing could be done too speedily. But if it was accounts or lawyers' work or…"

  "Or getting wed," John fished.

  She smiled, not taking the bait. "He'd put it off and put it off."

  "I hope there is a will."

  "I doubt it," she said.

  He was silent again, but not restful this time. If there was no will, all the rules would change. The church courts would handle the estate, and the Stevensons would be obliged to explain their involvement in what must seem very strange business.

  "Why?" she asked, sensing the tension in him.

  "If he's intestate, you have no power…" He stopped. "Let's talk about it later."

  "No. There has already been too much putting off."

  "Very well. If he's intestate, the ecclesiastical courts will decide what to do with the estate. Not you."

  She sat up at once, white and rigid. "I'd sooner burn every banknote with my own hands than let them touch one pound of it."

  "Ah," he said, astonished at her anger. He gave an embarrassed laugh and shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  "I'm sorry," she said, looking not the least apologetic. "Tell me. I want to know now. You are sure you're right?"

  "Very sure." He was fascinated at the sudden intensity of her interest. "Well, the church courts appoint an administrator, usually the intestate's closest friend. He takes all reasonable steps to alert creditors, who are allowed a year to press any claim. At the end of the year, he divides the remaining estate according to a formula. Real estate goes to an heir, or, failing an heir is forfeited to the crown. Possessions and money go half to the widow, the remainder among the children or other kinsmen. If there be none, half goes to the widow, the rest to the crown."

  "But he has died in France," she said. "His home is here."

  "French law cannot extend to property in England."

  "The ecclesiastical courts!" she said bitterly. "There is no other way?"

  "None. I will do anything lawful or that can be made to appear lawful. Anything you wish," he said, "but only because I conceive the money to be morally yours in any case."

  She sat like a carving, smiling, her eyes on Tom's face once more.

  "And," John went on, "because if, when he handed over the money, your Tom had said, 'Should anything befall me until all our business is legally settled…' I feel no doubt as to how he would have ended that sentence." There was more passion in his voice than he intended—not than he felt, but than he intended. He went on: "And if you had thrown it all away, you'd have done his life, his work, his memory, the biggest insult you could."

  It was her turn to stare at him in silence and astonishment.

  "I may say it now, I suppose. Now that you've come to sense." His smile brought back the warmth between them. She smiled too, as he had not seen her smile since that evening in Boulogne. A secret smile.

  There was a noise from Nora's room. He strained his ears for more. They heard the midwife's voice, then Dr. Grimble's. "I think it's starting," John said.

  "Is it worse for you or for her?"

  "Oh, it's not bad for her. She usually has an easy time. She rides to hounds so much. It gives her the muscle to stay in control."

  "Ah!" Sarah said, embarrassed. "How…how…" She could not think of a suitable adjective.

  But he did not even notice. Every fibre of him waited on each sound from across the corridor. She watched him withdraw in all but body from their room. Suddenly she wanted to help, to do anything to reduce or shorten his anxiety. She could not share it—not as he felt it; and she could not bear to see him shoulder it alone.

  "Shall I go and see?" she asked. "I'll come back and tell you." The intensity of her need to help him astounded her. It was more than a need; it was a compulsion. She stood up.

  The move brought him back to his surroundings. He looked at her, amazed, as he collected himself. "No, no," he said. "It's early yet." With a great act of will he cut himself off from all preoccupation with Nora's room. "So you will go back to England," he said affably, picking up the first bit of their conversation he could remember. "You know you are welcome to stay with us in Yorkshire for as long as you wish. Mrs. Stevenson would be delighted, I'm certain. We both would, but she especially."

  To his—and her—utter dismay she began to cry. He stood up, bewildered. "Come!" he said, trying to be jocular. "Would it be as bad as that!" He moved toward her.

  She laughed through her tears but did not stop crying. "You are so good," she stammered. "Both of you."

  Tentatively, he put a hand on her bowed shoulder and squeezed. "You wouldn't be alone," he said.

  Still hiding her face she stood and leaned into him. "There," he said. "If it's grief, don't stint it. Let it go. It will pass." He put an arm around her, hating himself for the erotic urges the move awakened.

  She cried a long time while he stroked her back and spoke trivial comfort. Then, when she had almost wound down, he said, "What do the ecclesiastical courts mean to you?"