An Unwelcome Suitor (Entangled Inheritance Book 4)

by Ashtyn Newbold

  I sat forward in my chair. “What is the matter?”

  Dr. Pembroke rubbed a hand over one side of his face and hair, setting the dark waves on the left askew. Several seconds passed. He still did not answer me.

  Why was he so intent on silence? Curiosity prickled against my resolve to stay in my chair and stay silent. Aunt Augusta stared up at him, her face grim. “Has my condition worsened?”

  The physician visibly swallowed, his gaze fixed on his leather bag. “It continues to worsen with each visit. There is a substantial amount of liquid in your lungs, and your heart is weak. You must see to putting your affairs in order, for you will be dead within a fortnight. There is nothing more that can be done.” His voice and expression were cold and hard. Even more than his blunt words, his manner struck a chord of anger inside me.

  Dead within a fortnight? Aside from her cough, Aunt Augusta still appeared quite spry. She had grown rather thin, and her mind was not as sharp as it once was, but a fortnight? I did not believe him. He was far too young and new to his practice to discern such a thing. And he had spoken with such resoluteness, such coldness. Did he not have sympathy to speak more gently in the company of his patient’s relatives? Did he not know how it felt to lose a loved one? The decorum Aunt Augusta had described him to have was lacking in spades.

  Martha gave a quiet sob beside me. Tears dotted her cheeks, and she hid her face from view.

  I stood, my legs shaking. “Doctor.”

  He glanced up wearily, as if burdened to have to address me. “Yes?”

  “Her situation cannot be so dire. Just yesterday she walked the entire flight of stairs to her room without assistance. She still eats a hearty amount, and her—”

  “Dead. Within a fortnight, if not less.” Dr. Pembroke’s gaze burned through me.

  Aunt Augusta seemed to have shrunk even more into her pillows. I wanted to gasp in outrage. What an unsympathetic, hateful man! My heart swirled with a mixture of grief, anger, and resentment. I could not help but give in to the anger. My throat tightened with unshed tears, but I refused to cry in front of him. My words burst out of my mouth like one of Aunt Augusta’s coughs.

  “Your frankness is unsettling, sir. Look what you have made of my sister.” I gestured at Martha, my arm shaking. “Could you have spoken less freely? One in your profession ought to provide the ill and their families with a measure of comfort and offer at least a small exhibition of regret over their circumstances.”

  “Eliza!” Aunt Augusta gasped, sending herself into another fit of those dreadful, rattling coughs.

  Dr. Pembroke’s mouth hardened, his eyes sharp. “I cannot with integrity give a longer estimation than two weeks.”

  I set my jaw. “You might try to soften your words for my aunt’s sake.”

  “It seems it would be more for your sake than hers. I do not speak with the chance that I will be misunderstood. Would you rather she die without warning?”

  I swallowed, my fists tightening. The courtesy of a warning was something I had never been given, so I should have been grateful. But two weeks was not enough time to say goodbye to Aunt Augusta. Two weeks was not enough time to memorize her every action, feature, and sound for safekeeping. Perhaps a warning of death was not a courtesy at all, but a curse. I could not imagine how to formulate a farewell to someone I loved. Words would not be enough.

  “Sit down, Eliza,” Juliana whispered from beside me.

  I could not sit down. My lungs felt constricted, my breaths shallow. “Is there really nothing you can do?”

  He clasped his hands on the bed, one eyebrow raising as he spoke. “I have done all I can. Her death will pass, and you will recover.”

  “Recover?” I gave a hard laugh, tears burning against my eyes. “One does not recover from the loss of a loved one. It is not like catching a cold. Surely you have never lost a person that you love to speak of death so loosely. How can you be so unfeeling?” I felt Aunt Augusta’s disapproval seeping through my skin.

  Dr. Pembroke’s eyes flashed with anger. “You may call me frank, Miss Elizabeth, but never unfeeling.”

  My heart pounded and ached. Emotion clawed at my throat, so much so that I could not speak another word. My anger toward him did not lessen, though his words had certainly put me to shame. Grief had never reacted well with me, and Juliana knew that better than anyone. She pulled on the back of my skirts, and I dropped back into my chair.

  Dr. Pembroke tore his gaze away from me with a regretful sigh. “My apologies, Mrs. Cluett.” He took her outstretched hand. “I hope to make the rest of your life as comfortable as I am able.”

  Aunt Augusta shot me a glare before regarding him with an adoring gaze. “You mustn’t apologize. Eliza’s impertinence is simply not to be borne, especially by one as amiable as yourself.”

  Amiable? Why did Aunt Augusta care so much for him, especially after he had spoken so bluntly about her death? Heat from both shame and anger crept up my neck and tingled on the tips of my ears.

  Aunt Augusta clasped his hand between both of hers. “Please allow me to pay you above my standard rate.” With a look of determination, she released his hand. “I will be sure to recommend you to all of my friends.”

  “That is no way to spend the last of your days. Spend it with your great-nieces.” His gaze flicked in my direction. “They love you very much.”

  Grief struck me again, fierce and shocking. I swallowed in an attempt to clear the tightness in my throat. My face still burned as Dr. Pembroke took his leave, offering another curt bow before exiting the room. Why could I not control my tongue?

  The air fell silent, and I could hear each pulse of my heart in my ears, a warning of the scolding that was coming.

  “Elizabeth Hannah Watts.” Aunt Augusta’s voice carried a tremor of disappointment. “How dare you speak to my physician in such an impertinent manner. I am appalled.”

  “Forgive me, Aunt Augusta. Please, I was just so very upset. I did not wish to hear the words he so bluntly offered.” Sneaking an insult toward Dr. Pembroke in my apology had not been wise.

  Aunt Augusta made a sound that resembled a snarl. “You seem as though you did not like him at all. He was simply being honest.”

  “To a fault.” I shook my head hard. “I could not bear it. That is to say, I did not like him at all.” My voice cracked. “After the news he just delivered, I should think my opinion of your physician is to be the least of our concern.”

  Juliana covered my hand with hers, giving it a squeeze.

  Aunt Augusta did not seem half as concerned over her looming death than she did over my lack of adoration for her physician. I desperately hoped her obsession with Dr. Pembroke would fade enough in the coming days that I could enjoy a conversation with her that did not include that hateful man. I was still not certain I believed the young physician’s assessment of Aunt Augusta’s condition. The physicians I had known in my life had been white-haired and wise, well-practiced. He was young and dark and far too handsome to trust.

  “What say you, Juliana? Did you like him?” Aunt Augusta’s eyes were sharp.

  Juliana, ever the peace-maker, nodded. Her lips parted just enough to let two words escape. “Very much.”

  “Did you now?” Aunt Augusta’s gloomy expression faded, her thin mouth spreading into a grin. “He is quite handsome and intelligent, is he not?”

  I cast my eyes heavenward, guessing the exact phrasing of Juliana’s agreement before she spoke it.

  “He is, very much so.”

  I sighed. She could never leave anyone in displeasure.

  A pleased expression flooded over Aunt Augusta’s wrinkled face, a gleam of mischief shining in her eyes. I could not begin to wonder at what it meant. I admired Juliana for speaking with the intention to give our great-aunt peace. I wished I had the calm composure of my elder sister, always in control of my words and reactions.

  Juliana pushed away from her chair. The white muslin of her skirts rustled as she walked to Aunt Au
gusta’s side, taking the place where Dr. Pembroke had just been.

  Martha and I followed, kneeling down at her bedside.

  “Why have you not told us you were so very ill?” Juliana asked in a quiet voice.

  Aunt Augusta smacked her lips. “I do not wish to be coddled. I have already outlived my three siblings, my two sons, and my husband, so I am resigned to my fate. Do not worry over me. I will ensure that you are all well off. Yes, all those I care for will be quite taken care of.”

  The inheritance. Brookhaven would be ours. Juliana and Gilbert would manage the household. Aunt Augusta had not yet been made aware of Juliana’s secret courtship, and now… was it necessary to tell her? If it was true that Aunt Augusta only had a week or two to live, it would only cause her disappointment in her last days to learn that Juliana would never marry Dr. Pembroke. It seemed that Juliana’s secret love would remain as such until Aunt Augusta’s departure from our lives.

  Aunt Augusta nestled her head into her pillows. “I will speak with my solicitor, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk this week to make my will final.”

  She had already put forth a great deal of work into her will in recent years to ensure we would inherit the estate. I looked at her, confused. “Is it not already final?”

  “Oh, there is just one small alteration I wish to make. It is nothing that concerns you, Eliza.” Aunt Augusta had not stopped smiling, which I found quite strange in the face of the news she had just received. Was she pleased to have the opportunity to speak with Mr. Tuttle-Kirk? She esteemed him highly, which was not a surprise. I stared at her, but eventually excused her rapturous grin to madness.

  She let out a sound that was half giggle, half cough. “Pray, Eliza, fetch me a cup of water. I am positively parched.”

  Chapter 4

  Being wrong had never hurt so acutely as the night Aunt Augusta died, precisely two weeks after Dr. Pembroke’s visit. Dr. Pembroke had been right, and that made me all the more upset.

  He had come on two more visits leading up to her death, and I had stayed in my room, too ashamed and angry to face the man. Speaking with Aunt Augusta following his visits was almost just as painful. I was tired of hearing her physician praised to the winds. Yet I could not help but continue each conversation with her, for I knew it would be one of our last.

  I sat in the carriage with Juliana and Martha on our way to London. As instructed by Brookhaven’s steward, it was important to visit the office of Tuttle-Kirk and Associates for the reading of her will. My incorrigible cousin, Mr. Yeatman, would be there too. Little did he know that he was about to be vastly disappointed with the contents of the will. I watched my clasped hands bounce on my lap with the motion of the ride. My pale skin stood out against the black of my mourning dress. Fortunately, I had not grown too much since the deaths of my parents, so my old mourning clothes, as plentiful as they were, sufficed after just a few alterations.

  “I miss Aunt Augusta’s humming,” Martha said, staring at the unoccupied striped cushion beside her. “Do you remember how accurate her pitch was?”

  A smile tugged at my lips. “She could not miss a note.”

  Juliana glanced up from her book, a wistful expression on her face. “When she was not humming, she was presenting us with a list of all the eligible gentlemen in the county.”

  “Or scolding our lack of acceptable posture.”

  Juliana laughed, the brightness of her face giving much reprieve from the black ribbon of her bonnet. If only Aunt Augusta’s death had not come at the time that Juliana was meant to be the happiest. The understanding between her and Gilbert was as close to an official engagement as it could be, and they were simply waiting to marry until Juliana was out of mourning. As sisters, we had determined a respectable mourning period for Aunt Augusta to be three months. During that time we would decline all social invitations, and our neighbors would be sympathetic enough to allow us to grieve privately. Of course, Juliana would adhere strictly to it before planning her wedding.

  Martha had been let in on the secret just two days before, in an attempt to bring a hint of joy to the heavy hearts we all bore. Martha’s excitement for Juliana had rivaled my own. A wedding would do much to brighten our spirits.

  The streets of London were as crowded as usual, and I dreaded stepping out into the stench and noise. I had always preferred the country to town life and was grateful to have Brookhaven to Juliana’s name so I could remain in the country. The reading of the will would simply confirm it. I could not deny the pleasure I would have at seeing Mr. Yeatman denied the property. Did he know that he had been disinherited? He still had two other estates in Kent, but his greed would not enjoy being denied a third. Brookhaven was grander than the other two.

  When the carriage stopped on the street, we stepped down to the cobblestones. I nearly tripped, cursing the heaviness of the bombazine fabric of my mourning dress. The clattering of hooves and grinding of wheels filled the stuffy air, and when I saw what lay on the ground where the horses stood, I made sure not to breathe through my nose.

  The office of Tuttle-Kirk and Associates was clearly marked, so we found it with ease. The clerk awaited us, holding the door open. I paused in the doorway, scanning the interior with misgiving. I had never seen a business so disorganized. The clerk led us to the front office, and the moment he opened the door, I decided that the mess in the hallway did not compare at all. One half of the office—the half in front of the desk, was pristine, lined with chairs and polished floors. The other half—the half behind the desk, was overflowing with stacks of papers, so many that the surface of the desk could not be seen. There seemed to be no organization to the documents, and the shelves flanking the desk were covered in haphazardly placed books.

  Contrary to the messiness of the desk, the elderly man sitting behind it was quite neat in appearance. A pair of spectacles rested on his long nose, which acted as a hat to his bushy white mustache. “Welcome, you must be the misses Watts. Mr. John Tuttle-Kirk, at your service.” The mustache wiggled as he spoke, reminding me of Aunt Augusta’s white curls as they poked out of her cap. “Do come in, come in.”

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk quickly shifted around a few of his papers before deciding to leave them in their place. He crossed the room to meet us. I noted a slight flush to his cheeks and a sheen of perspiration on his brow. Only by the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes could I tell he was smiling, for his mouth was entirely hidden by the white bristles. “It is a pleasure to meet you, truly a pleasure. Mrs. Cluett was an exemplary woman, and I offer my sincere condolences.”

  Juliana thanked him while I continued to study the signs of discomfort on the solicitor’s face. His eyes darted nervously at the door, but he maintained his smile.

  The door creaked open behind us and I turned, my stomach roiling with distaste. Mr. Yeatman stepped into the room, spinning a quizzing glass on his fingertip. His straight blond hair was disheveled, an attempt at the Brutus style, no doubt. His lips twisted in his characteristic smirk. “Good afternoon, my lovely cousins. It is a pleasure to see you. Though not as pleasurable under the present circumstances.” With his lips twisted in a smirk and his eyes dancing with greed, he showed no sign of regret over his great-aunt’s passing. Surely he had been awaiting it eagerly for years. My teeth gritted as I watched him saunter closer. Mr. Yeatman was known for his rakish habits, and his flirtations with Juliana and myself had been vomit inducing.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Yeatman.” Juliana gave a brief curtsy in greeting before turning to me with a look of vexation. I could see a hint of satisfaction in her eyes, likely for the same reason I felt it—Mr. Yeatman would leave this office quite fit to be tied.

  I curtsied, but said nothing. Mr. Yeatman held his quizzing glass up to his eye as he approached me. “My cousin Lizzie has grown even more handsome since my last visit.” His small chocolate eyes, magnified slightly by his glass, were most unpleasant. And I despised being called Lizzie.

  I opted not to acknowledge his words and tried to ignore t
he writhing in my stomach.

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk cleared his throat. “Please be seated, everyone. I hope you find the chairs comfortable.” He stepped around his desk, shuffling through a stack of papers. He seemed to find what he needed within seconds, which was a shock considering the state of his desk.

  I sat between Juliana and Martha, glad that Mr. Yeatman chose a seat beside the door. He likely planned to escape happily with his inheritance once the reading was over. Oh, would he be disappointed. If nothing else, that gave me reason to smile today. Aunt Augusta would have scolded me for my spiteful thoughts. While she found Mr. Yeatman incorrigible, she still did not believe in deliberate malice.

  I tapped my boots together, waiting for Mr. Tuttle-Kirk’s voice.

  He held a document in front of his spectacles. As he set it back down on his desk, he dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, smiling for no apparent reason. The room fell silent; my own pulse was the only sound I could hear. What was the solicitor waiting for? I did not like the look of masked anxiety on his face. One could only hide so much behind a smile, and even less behind a manicured mustache—no matter how large.

  We had been asked to arrive at two o’clock, and it was nearly ten after the hour. Mr. Tuttle-Kirk straightened a stack of papers before glancing at the clock. “The reading will commence once the final guest arrives.”

  “Final g—” I sat forward, my blood freezing as the door opened and I saw the man standing behind it. No. No, no, no.

  “Ah, Dr. Pembroke, you have made it.” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk rose to shake his hand.

  The muscles in my jaw tightened as I watched the physician walk into the room. His expression was as dazed as my own. He held his top hat, twisting the brim between his hands. What was he doing here? My own palms began to perspire at a rate that challenged Mr. Tuttle-Kirk’s forehead. I found Juliana’s gaze, her features reflecting the surprise I felt.