“Come on.” Will nudged her with his elbow. “Admit it. My cousin is an odious beast.”
“Your words, not mine.”
“Yet you thought so, did you not?”
“Well … I do not normally like to speak ill of people, but there is something—”
“Something?” His brows rose. “That’s putting it mildly. There’s far more than something wrong with Percy. Since we were children, he’s done nothing but browbeat me or anyone else who crosses his path. A learned trait, I suppose, from his father. But you, Mina,” his voice softened. “You were a terribly good sport about the whole thing. Still, I am thankful it’s over. I’ll never expose you to Percy or Alice again.”
“But what about the dinner?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll have a few days to figure it out. At the very least, I could say you simply weren’t feeling up to attending, which wouldn’t be a huge stretch, for Lord knows even I never feel up to rubbing elbows with Percy.”
“But I—”
“No buts about it. I cannot ask you to do more. You’ve been a good friend.”
Friend? Oh, how she wished to be so much more. The cab clattered along and her darker thoughts returned, rattling her as much as the jarring ride. Would her lack of appearance at that dinner cause Uncle Barlow to name Percy his heir? And if Percy were named … she shuddered as his words surfaced in her mind.
“Once the paperwork is signed, I’ll make sure Uncle goes the way of Aunt Prudence.”
“Will.” She shifted on the seat and faced him. “Tell me what happened to your aunt Prudence.”
His eyes narrowed. “How on earth do you know her name? Did Uncle mention something about her?”
“No. I overheard Percy and Alice speaking of her when I went back to find my reticule.”
“Did you?” A glower shadowed his face, and suddenly the cheerful man she adored vanished. “What did they say?”
Plagued by a sudden bout of nerves, she licked her lips. Did he think ill of her for eavesdropping, or had the mention of his cousins darkened his brow?
“Alice said something about paperwork being signed and your uncle going the way of Aunt Prudence. I pray I am wrong on my assumptions, but I must know. What happened to your aunt?”
Lightning flashed in Will’s eyes, and she edged back—which was a trifling distance in a cab of this size.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“My aunt Prudence,” he gritted out, “was committed to an asylum. At the time, Uncle Barlow acted on advice from her physician. Yet she was horribly mistreated in the name of medical science, and by the time he finished the paperwork to have her released, well … it was too late.”
Breathe. Just breathe. But no good. Though Mina tried to ignore them, ghosts from the past rose up and squeezed the air from her lungs. She flung out her hand to grip the side of the cab.
“Mina? Are you ill?”
She trained her gaze on him, slowly bringing him into focus until she could shake the memory of voices screeching to her from across the years. “You cannot allow anyone to put your uncle into an asylum,” she said finally. “You must go to him and reveal what your cousins are plotting.”
He assessed her in silence for a long moment, his jaw grinding the whole while. “I don’t think Uncle Barlow will believe me. My reputation is not pretty in his eyes. He’ll see the attempt as nothing but a scheme to put Percy out of the running.”
She jerked sideways to face him, dropping her reticule and spilling her veil onto the cab’s floor. How was she to make Will realize how important it was for him to take a stand against such an atrocity? “You must try! Your uncle’s life may depend upon it.”
Will stared at her, and only God knew what went on behind those blue eyes of his, now turned to ice. Had she said too much? Been too forceful? Crossed some sort of line she ought not have?
He bent and retrieved her belongings, taking time to brush off a bit of mud from the veil before handing it back. “Trust me, Mina.” His voice was low and weighted with a burden she couldn’t begin to comprehend. “I understand the severity of the situation. My cousins would only deny it should I bring the charge against them. Scraps of overheard whispers are insufficient evidence in a court of law.”
She sank back against the seat, clutching her bag. He was right of course, but that was no comfort. Slowly, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her veil, then forced a steadiness to her voice that she didn’t feel. “Do you not believe me?”
“Nothing of the sort. I know better than most the deviousness of Percy’s character. Blast it!” Lifting his hat, he raked his fingers through his hair. “I need proof, Mina. If I hope to convince Uncle Barlow of Percy’s intent, I’ll need something more concrete than mere hearsay.”
“But if your cousins succeed and put your uncle into an asylum, he won’t survive. The cures used in the name of medicine are enough to kill a healthy person. You heard your uncle’s cough. Shutting him away in a draughty institution would be the end of him.”
Will’s hands curled into fists on his thighs, so unlike his amiable self. “I know,” he breathed out.
She heaved a sigh herself. Of course he’d need something more valid than what she’d overheard. But how else could his cousins be stopped?
The cab slowed, and she pressed her hand to the door, as though by so doing, she could delay her decision. She met Will’s gaze, afraid to hope—yet more afraid not to. “Do you think … is there a chance your uncle Barlow will name you heir at his dinner?”
Will scrubbed his hand over his face. “As much as I’d like to say yes, the truth is I do not know.”
“Are there any other options if Percy is your uncle’s choice? You are a law clerk. Are there not statutes in place to prevent such a heinous act?”
“None.” His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “I’m afraid the legal system is in need of an overhaul in more than one way.”
Why did everything seem to be against that dear old man? She shoved open the door, debating what to do all the while, then faced Will. Icy rain pelted in from outside, and she shivered, though less from the chill than from her decision. “Well then, we will just have to make sure your uncle chooses you over Percy at that dinner.”
Will’s jaw dropped, and for a moment no words came out. “You … you want to go through with this?”
She lifted the veil and covered her face, then clutched her reticule with a death grip.
“We must do everything we can to keep your uncle from being committed to an asylum. No one should ever have to suffer what my mother did.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession, where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and torment of His Majesty’s liege subjects.
The Pickwick Papers
Will stared at the stack of documents in his hands, but he didn’t see them. All he could focus on was the haunted glaze in Mina’s eyes as she’d run out of the cab yesterday. A look so ripe with heartbreak and sorrow, he’d wanted to pull her into his arms and protect her from it—and that was a feeling so new and foreign he still didn’t know what to do with it. Thunderation! He never should have allowed Uncle Barlow to believe he was married. What a tangled web he’d woven.
Giving himself a mental shake, he reached for the bell on his desk and rang it. No sense dwelling on what couldn’t be made right—not yet, anyway. As he waited for a runner to leave the cluster of other errand boys near the door, he determined to go to the Golden Egg as soon as the workday was over and put a smile back onto Mina’s face. It was the least he could do for having troubled her with his family affairs.
Satisfied with his plan of action, he tucked the papers into a courier bag and inhaled his first relaxed breath of the morning. The Temple Court clerks’ room hummed with quiet activity. Papers shuffled. Pen nibs scritch-scratched like little feet running across so many
pages, and the hushed whispers of conferring clerks circled the room, as dry and rustling as leaves caught up in an eddy.
A ruddy-cheeked lad, flat cap set low on his brow, approached his desk with his hand out. “Where to, sir?”
“Barrister Dalrymple, King’s Court Chambers.” He started to hand over the packet, when Thomas Fitzroy reached out and snatched it away.
“Are you out of your mind?” Fitz rumbled, garnering a black look from the clerk seated a row ahead.
“Are you out of yours?” Will whispered back. “This Jarndyce brief needs to get to Barrister Dalrymp—”
He stiffened. Great heavens! Fitz was right. He’d nearly sent the paperwork to the wrong barrister.
“Thank you, Charlie. That will be all for now.” Fitz dismissed the runner with a nod of his head, then frowned down at Will. “What’s going on? That’s the third error you’ve made in the past hour, and this one could have cost you your job.”
“I know. I … well … it’s complicated.” He laced his hands behind his head and looked up at Fitz—his true friend. His only friend, really, since his fall from grace.
“Complicated?” Fitz snorted. “It always is with you. Let’s have it.”
Will shoved back his stool. Perhaps his friend had a useful thought or two on his current conundrum, for if nothing else, Fitz always had an opinion. “Very well. Come along.”
He wove past their fellow clerks, beyond a wall lined with bookshelves, then skirted the collection of runners waiting for the chance to deliver documents. Out in the corridor, he stopped halfway down and leaned against the wall.
Fitz pulled up alongside of him, practically bouncing on his toes. “I can’t wait to hear this. What is it that has you so befuddled?”
“Remember that tea I told you about, the one Mina Scott agreed to attend with me?”
For a moment, Fitz’s brows drew into a line, then suddenly lifted. “Ahh. That’s right. I completely forgot to ask you about it. I’m afraid it was a late night for me with the King’s Court boys last evening.” He winced and massaged his temple with two fingers. “How did it go?”
Before Will answered, he listed aside and scanned the passageway beyond Fitz’s shoulders. The walls of Temple Court contained an overzealous penchant for gossip—and he’d rather not provide fodder for this week’s feast. Thankfully, this early in the day, most clerks were still readying their papers for delivery, and none lurked about here. Even so, he lowered his voice. “Not good at all. Uncle Barlow’s life is in peril if my cousin Percy gets his hands on the old man’s estate. Mina overheard Percy threaten to have Uncle committed to an asylum should he be named heir.”
A growl rumbled in Fitz’s throat. “Your cousin always was a conniving cur.”
“Indeed. And unless I convince Uncle that I am the more deserving beneficiary, there will be nothing I can do to stop him. Knowing Percy, he’s likely already got a physician in his pocket, ready to sign whatever papers are needed to have my uncle committed.”
“Hmm.” Fitz folded his arms. “Then we’ll have to fill your pocket as well.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Even if what you say is true, and your cousin has people in place, that shouldn’t stop you from finding other people to counteract his devious plan. Perhaps there is a loophole in the committal process that can be found. Or maybe there’s some kind of reversal application, or well, I don’t know. But I do know someone who would. Old Kenwig’s the man for you.”
Kenwig? Of course. He should have thought of the elderly barrister himself. The man was more ancient than half the laws on the books. Will rolled his shoulders, the tension in his muscles already loosening. “Is he in today?”
“Only one way to find out. Go on.” Fitz clouted him on the back. “I’ll look over that Jarndyce brief while you’re at it.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.” He took off down the passage.
And Fitz’s voice followed. “I’ll be sure to cash in on that. Tonight. The Golden Egg.”
Will trotted up the stairway. The corridor at the top was far better decorated than that to which the clerks were delegated. His shoes sank into a rug instead of thudding against wooden planks, and light glimmered from brass sconces, not tin. This was a world of silks, not woolens—the world of wealth Elizabeth had aspired to … and won.
Shoving down bitter memories, he strode the length of the corridor, and found the door to Barrister Kenwig’s receiving room open. A good sign, that. He entered, expecting to persuade Kenwig’s personal attendant for an interview with a smile and a coin, if need be. But the tall desk inside and the stool behind it sat empty. Beyond that, the door to the barrister’s inner chamber yawned open. Perhaps the clerk had ducked in to have a word with the old man. Will stepped nearer, straining to listen, but no conversation drifted out. Emboldened, he strode to the threshold and peeped in.
On the other side of a massive desk sat a bulwark of the English legal system. Barrister Kenwig lifted a document in one gnarled hand and a magnifying glass in the other—making one eye appear larger than life, slightly milky but bearing keen intelligence. He wore his wrinkles like a garment, the deep creases on his face in sore need of a good ironing. Though the morning was well advanced, he hadn’t yet donned his black silk robe.
Will rapped on the doorframe, thankful the man hadn’t left for court already. “Pardon me, Barrister. I wonder if I might have a word?”
Kenwig lowered the magnifier and squinted at him. “Ahh, young Master Barlow. Come in. I can spare a few moments.”
“Thank you, sir.” He crossed the length of the chamber, inhaling the scent of musty books and beeswax, and as he drew nearer the man, breathed in an underlying odour of mothballs. He sank into the leather high-back in front of the barrister’s desk. “I shall be brief. There is a hypothetical situation I was discussing with another clerk, one on which I should like your counsel.”
“Very well.” Kenwig reclined, his chair creaking—or maybe his bones. Hard to tell.
Will leaned forward. “Let’s say an elderly gentleman who’s never sired children of his own signs over his estate to another relation. This potential heir is a deviant at heart and has the old man committed to an asylum, thereby effectively taking possession of the man’s money before he is deceased. And this brings me to my question. Is there any way to counteract or reverse that committal before it’s been completely processed?”
The barrister’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling, as if an answer might be found in the carved plaster moulding. The mantel clock ticked, and the coals in the grate sank, but Kenwig said nothing.
Nor did Will. He’d learned long ago the best route with the old fellow was to allow him to roam the long corridors of his learned mind.
At length, Kenwig’s gaze lowered to his. “Not before it’s been processed, but afterward, there are two ways. Discharge of a patient can be initiated by the medical superintendent or at the request of the family.”
“Truly?” He stifled a laugh. All he’d have to do was file counter-paperwork? Thank God! A smile twitched his lips.
“It appears this was not so hypothetical after all, hmm?” The barrister tapped a bony finger atop his desk. “Do not tell me you’re the deviant, Mr. Barlow.”
“No, sir.” He glanced back at the door, on the off chance the attendant had returned. The threshold remained empty, but he scooted to the edge of his chair and tempered his tone. “It is my cousin, sir, though he’s not yet officially been named heir. I may still have a chance at that. But if not, at least I know that I would be able to get my uncle released with a simple request.”
Far lighter in spirit than when he’d first entered the chamber, Will stood and dipped his head in a respectful bow. “Thank you for your time, Barrister, and your sage wisdom. A very good day to you.”
“Oh, Mr. Barlow.” The old fellow lifted his finger. “One more thing.”
Will paused, trying to ignore the foreboding twinge in his gut. “Yes,
sir?”
“I should mention that while a discharge can be initiated by you, there is no guarantee it shall be granted. That kind of paperwork also needs the signature of the parish magistrate.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Should it?”
The barrister’s thin shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Deviancy is not limited to unscrupulous family members. Tell me, what parish are we speaking of?”
“My uncle’s town house is in St. James. His estate, in Harlow.”
“Hmm.” The word vibrated through the room like a faraway roll of thunder.
“Sir?”
“Well, I suppose it would depend upon where the paperwork is drawn up. I cannot speak for Harlow, as I am not well versed in the ethics of Essex law keepers, but I can tell you that the St. James magistrate is not known for his stalwart morals. I’ve heard rumours he is a man for hire. Tell me, Mr. Barlow, on the off chance the Harlow magistrate is of the persuadable variety, who has deeper pockets, you or your cousin?”
Blast! His fingers curled into fists. If Percy inherited, he’d have the larger purse—and the upper hand.
CHAPTER NINE
In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong.
Great Expectations
Mina strolled down Whitewell Street with her friend Effie Gedge. A brisk November wind pushed her from behind. But even so, her steps slowed as she neared the spot where she’d fled from the cab that rainy afternoon a week ago now—before Will could ask about her mother. A heroine would’ve given him some kind of explanation instead of running off like a coward. Oh, what a humbling truth.
Next to her, Effie rattled on about something, but it was hard to focus on her friend’s words with so much guilt muddling her thoughts. Will had stopped by the Golden Egg the day after the tea, and the day after that … and, well, every day. But she’d avoided any sort of detailed conversation with him. The questions in his eyes ran too deep and many. She never should have mentioned her mother. Though she’d been hardly more than seven years old when Mother had died, it was a memory she didn’t often revisit and rarely shared with anyone. What was the point of lifting a rock and staring horrified at the creepy-crawlies beneath?
Once Upon a Dickens Christmas Page 19
