by Blythe Baker
I nodded. “Yes, a woman does a lot of growing in ten years. What point are you trying to make?”
Edward smiled. “My point is that you had the dates wrong. We have not seen one another in twelve years.”
He was looking down at me with his toothy grin, and I could tell he thought he’d caught me in a trap. Edward was the only member of the family who suspected something was off about my story, and I couldn’t allow him to grow more suspicious. If I allowed myself to be even slightly nervous, he would sense it. So, I laughed.
“What is two years compared to a decade?” I asked, still laughing. “Can you really fault me for rounding down?”
“Normally, no,” he said, tilting his head to the side as though he were studying me. “But the two years were very important to you when you came for your last visit before leaving for India. You wrote me while I was at school, lamenting how long it had been since you’d last seen me. I am only surprised you have forgotten your anguish so quickly.”
“Ten years is not so quick,” I said.
He pursed his lips. “I suppose you are right. Time does make strangers of us all. Hopefully we will be as close as we once were.”
I reached out, closing the distance between us, and laid my hand on his shoulder. Edward visibly flinched as we touched but did not move away. “I’m sure we will, cousin.”
We stared at one another for a moment, and I sensed we were vying for power, each pulling on the end of a long rope, trying to topple the other over. In the end, Edward looked away first. He stepped away from my hand and turned towards the stairs. His room was on the first floor, putting a distance between us I was grateful for.
“Goodnight, Rose,” he said over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. “I hope you’ll sleep well.”
I gladly closed myself in my bedroom and sank back against the thick wooden door. Was Edward simply trying to unbalance me or did he truly have suspicions I was not who I claimed to be? I knew he wanted my inheritance, but would his desire for the money be enough for him to try and create doubt about my identity?
Surely not.
Or at least, I hoped not.
I prepared for bed, worrying constantly of what would become of me and my plan should my identity be revealed. After tossing and turning for nearly an hour, I fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of Edward’s smile, his face twisting and turning until I was looking down at Frederick Grossmith.
7
I walked into the family solicitor’s office mid-morning. Lord Ashton held the door open for me, and I stepped inside, followed by Lady Ashton. Edward had asked to join us, but his father had put a stop to the idea. I had not been privy to the full conversation, but their whispered tones had found me as I was standing in the entrance hall to the house, and it sounded heated. I suspected it had something to do with Edward’s behavior at dinner the night before. Lord Ashton may not have reprimanded his adult son for acting like a child in their home, but he would not allow himself or his family to be embarrassed while in public. So, thankfully, I was accompanied only by my aunt and uncle.
The office was run-down, but clean. Paint was chipping off the walls in the waiting room and the stain on the receptionist’s desk had long ago begun to fade. The wood floors were heavily worn where foot traffic was heaviest, and the solicitor’s name—Wilfred Barnett—was stenciled onto a fading wooden sign that hung predominantly in the lobby.
“Are you nervous?” Lady Ashton asked. “Because there is no reason to be nervous. None at all. This is just a meeting to sign paperwork and discuss the next steps.”
“No, I’m fine,” I said truthfully. If Edward had joined us, I would have been concerned about what he may or may not have had hiding up his sleeve, but I trusted my aunt and uncle to see my inheritance given to me without a fight.
“Good, good,” Lady Ashton said, her breathing slightly erratic. “Because Mr. Barnett is a good man. Lawyers receive a bad reputation, but they are people just like the rest of us.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far. Have you ever had dinner with a lawyer?” Lord Ashton laughed and then turned to his wife. “Dear, your fidgeting is enough to make anyone nervous.”
Lady Ashton’s foot had been shaking since the moment we’d sat down. I didn’t know her well enough yet to be familiar with her usual countenance, but she did seem slightly more anxious than she had the day before.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “All this official business makes me nervous. I wish we could handle family affairs without the help of strangers.”
“Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if there was no legal documentation?” Lord Ashton asked, incredulous. “Brother would kill brother for the chance at a fortune.”
Lady Ashton gasped. “Surely you don’t mean that, dear.”
“I do not mean myself,” he said. “But there are many families less loving than ours who would do anything to get rich quick.”
I had to wonder whether Lord Ashton was thinking of his own son in the same way I was. If it weren’t for Wilfred Barnett, I suspected Edward would have betrayed just about anyone to get his hands on the Beckingham fortune.
“Miss Rose Beckingham?” The receptionist stood up from behind her desk and smiled at me. Her brown hair fell in loose waves down to her shoulders, and she wore a starched gray dress that gave her a slim, boxy shape, pairing it with a cream white sweater partly buttoned. “Mr. Barnett is ready for you.”
She led us into an office that was nearly the same size as the waiting room. Bookshelves lined the two side walls, filled from floor to ceiling with large leather volumes and bronze busts of various men throughout history. Wilfred Barnett sat behind his desk, looking wide and important, his hands folded in front of him.
“Welcome, welcome. Come in, come in,” he said, repeating everything twice.
“Thank you, thank you,” I said, unable to help myself as I took one of the wooden chairs across from his desk. Lord and Lady Ashton sat on either side of me.
“I understand we are here about the subject of Miss Beckingham’s inheritance?” Mr. Barnett asked, licking his thumb and flipping through a pile of papers on his desk.
“Yes, that is correct,” Lord Ashton said.
As he flipped through the documents, Wilfred’s eyebrows rose. “I thought you were dead,” he said, looking up at me.
I smiled, but Mr. Barnett continued to stare at me, and I understood he wanted me to make some form of response. I stumbled. “Um…well…I’m not,” was the best I could manage.
“Clearly,” he said, nodding and returning his focus to the documents before him.
“Now, the good news is that you are alive and very capable of claiming your inheritance.”
“Yes, that is good news,” I said, resisting the temptation to roll my eyes.
“The bad news,” he continued, “is that, according to these documents, you are unmarried?”
Lord Ashton shifted in his chair next to me.
“Correct. I am not married.”
Mr. Barnett puckered his lips and shook his head, disappointed. “You will be unable to claim the full breadth of your family’s fortune until you are married.”
It felt as though someone were squeezing my chest, forcing the breath from my lungs. “What?” I gasped, trying to be certain Mr. Barnett had actually said what I thought he’d said.
He skimmed over the documents once more quickly, laid them down, and then looked at me, his hands folded over the pages in front of him. “Yes, I’m afraid your father’s will contains a rather old fashioned stipulation that you must be married to claim your inheritance. Until then, you will be offered a monthly allowance that will cover your basic needs and expenses.”
“This is nonsense,” I said, sitting forward and reaching for the papers.
“Now, Rose,” Lady Ashton said, reaching for my arm.
I shook her off. “Why would he do something like this?”
“You’ll find it is actually quite common—or it used to
be in the old days,” Mr. Barnett said.
Lord Ashton hummed in agreement. “Fathers want their daughters to marry and carry on the bloodline, Rose, especially when there is a family fortune at stake and only one heir to inherit.”
I looked at him, mouth open. “If Catherine were to find herself a spinster, would you wish to condemn her further by ensuring she remain a poor one? That does not seem like a father’s love in action to me.”
Lord Ashton’s face went red, but just as he opened his mouth, Lady Ashton stood up and grabbed my shoulder. “You are upset, Rose. We understand. But I am afraid there is nothing we can do on the matter. The only person who could change the will has died. As it is, you will receive your allowance until you are married. And that shall be the end of it.”
I wanted to argue, but I could see it would do no good. Lady Ashton was right. No one there could help me, and when Mr. Barnett revealed what my monthly allowance would be, I realized things were not quite as dire as they had seemed. Though the stipulation that I marry to receive my money was antiquated, I could live quite well on the money I would be allowed. Growing up poor had made me more than capable of managing my money, a skill most women inheriting their family’s fortunes did not have.
By the time we left the office, having signed all the necessary forms and made arrangements for my allowance to be delivered to Ashton House until further notice, Lord Ashton’s temper had cooled considerably.
“You are more than welcome to make your home with us, Rose,” Lord Ashton said, looking straight ahead as he spoke, rather than making eye contact with me.
“Yes,” Lady Ashton said, shaking her head so hard I thought it would fall off and roll across the wooden floor. “We would love to have you as long as you would like.”
I smiled at them both in thanks. Though I had grown quite fond of the couple in the two days I’d known them, I knew I wouldn’t be able to remain living with them. The first issue was that, no matter how good my deception was, they were not actually my relatives. Time would certainly make me complacent and the more time I spent with the London Beckinghams, the more time they would have to ascertain that I did not know as much about their family or my past as I should. It would be better for me to make my home elsewhere and visit them frequently. Especially with Edward nosing around, trying to trip me up at every turn. So far, I had been able to brush away his questions and doubts easily enough, but my constant presence would only make him more persistent in finding some reason why he should be the inheritor of my money.
As we left the solicitor’s office, I was struck by how much warmer the day had become. The sun had decided to make a rare appearance from behind the slate gray clouds and I looked up, eyes closed, trying to soak in the warmth before it disappeared. I must have found the warmth a bit too comforting, because my breathing deepened and my body relaxed enough that my purse dropped from my hands and fell onto the cement.
“No worries, Miss Rose, I will get that for you.” The chauffeur, George, was coming around the front of the car to open the door for me. He had sped up as he noticed me stooping to pick up my purse.
Usually, I would have assured him I was capable of doing it myself, but I knew it would raise the suspicions of the Beckinghams, so I simply stood back and allowed George to return my purse to me.
He never met my eyes as he stooped down and handed me my bag, and as he reached out to open the door for me, I noticed the tremble in his hands. He wore thick driving gloves. The leather was a rich brown color with tan stitching, and they looked to be quite expensive. I wondered whether the Beckinghams supplied his driving gloves or whether he had purchased them himself.
I followed Lord and Lady Ashton into the car and smiled at George through the window as he closed the door. He pulled his lips into a nervous twitch that could technically be classified as a smile, and then walked around the car.
As we moved through London, back to the Beckingham home, I couldn’t stop thinking on George’s gloves. Certainly, all chauffeurs wore driving gloves of some kind. At least, chauffeurs of respectable families probably did. So why was I so fixated on George’s gloves? It wasn’t until we were home and I was climbing out of the car, George dutifully holding the door open for me, that I thought back to the previous morning. To the smear of blood on the door handle and George’s bare hands.
I hadn’t noticed the gloves the previous morning because he hadn’t been wearing them. That alone was no cause for alarm, but it made me wonder whether the blood I’d seen on the door handle had truly been my overactive imagination, as I’d thought at the time, or whether it had actually been there. George had been late to pick me up and he’d been in the area where the fight and murder occurred. Could he have killed Frederick for reasons unknown and then hurried to drive me to Ashton House, stuffing his bloodied gloves in his pocket to clean later?
I shook my head, trying to dispel the thin theory. It was ridiculous. For one thing, the victim had been shot, presumably from some distance, making it unlikely that blood would have gotten onto the hands of his killer. Anyway, I was seeing clues where there were none to be found. It was likely not required for George to wear his gloves all the time, so it shouldn’t be unusual for him to be seen barehanded. And making the leap from missing gloves to committing a murder was quite extreme. It was more likely that in his haste to hurry and pick me up, he had forgotten his gloves. After all, people who are late are significantly more likely to be moving in a hurry and forget things.
“Thank you, George,” Lady Ashton said as she slipped out of the car and straightened her bucket hat on her hat.
George tipped his hat to his employer, bending forward to reveal the top of his auburn head.
“Yes, thank you, George,” I said, smiling at him.
George tipped his hat to me much less eagerly than he had to Lady Ashton, and when his eyes finally did meet mine, he cast them quickly back to the ground.
Someone so nervous could never be a murderer, I thought to myself. However, wouldn’t someone who had committed a murder have good reason to be nervous?
My mind went on like that, debating back and forth the likelihood of George the chauffeur being a murderer, until I met Lady Ashton and Catherine for mid-afternoon tea.
8
Catherine arrived to tea a few minutes after I did, looking radiant. She had changed into a shimmering tea gown that cut off mid-calf and floated weightlessly around her body. She paired the ensemble with a silver headband around her blonde hair and a long string of pearls.
“You look like one of those flapper girls,” Lady Ashton said, though her tone hinted that she did not deem ‘flapper’ to be a compliment.
“Thank you, mother,” Catherine said with a wicked smile, taking her seat.
I hadn’t bothered to change out of the pale pink dress I’d slipped on that morning, which did not go unnoticed by Catherine.
“Were you not aware we always have afternoon tea?” she asked, eying my ensemble up and down, a sneer on her face.
“I was quite aware,” I said, smiling. “I simply forgot how often women in London change their clothes.”
The sentence was unassuming enough, but I knew Catherine understood the criticism I’d laced through each word. She was a woman who knew how to smile and laugh all the while planning to plunge her dessert fork into your back. Two could play that game.
The conversation quickly shifted to more banal topics. Lady Ashton spoke of her friends and their children, giving a large amount of attention to the eldest sons.
“Did you know Hugh Anderson is studying to become a doctor?” she asked, nudging her daughter, eyebrows raised. “He is quite handsome.”
“You think every man is quite handsome,” Catherine said. “Especially if his dead relatives leave him comfortably situated.”
Lady Ashton reared back as though she’d been slapped. “You make me out to be a snob, Cat. Do you think so little of your mother?”
Catherine smiled, not at all put off by her mo
ther’s hurt feelings. “No. In fact, I think highly enough of you to know you are a master manipulator. You want to guilt me out of my opinion, but it cannot be done. I formed my view of you long ago, and little can be done to sway me.”
Lady Ashton took a sip of her tea, but it appeared she only did so to try and hide her smile. It was a wonder to me that two women, regardless of their familial connection, as different as Lady Ashton and Catherine could ever get along. Yet, they carried the conversation through the first two cups of tea and the first plate of scones while I sat back and listened. I had never been permitted to take tea with Rose in India, though I had often sat quietly in the corner should she need anything. The view from the table was much different than the one from the corner.
“I shouldn’t eat another bite,” Lady Ashton said as a silver tray of tarts were brought out and set in the center of the table. Despite her words, she reached for a berry tart and took a dainty bite, groaning in pleasure as it passed her lips.
“We ought to hire a less accomplished cook,” Catherine said. “I will need a new wardrobe if the desserts continue to be this delicious.”
Then, both women looked over at me. Clearly, it was my turn to compliment the food. That was difficult, however, seeing as I hadn’t eaten anything in the last twenty minutes.
“Rose, are you not going to have any of the tarts?” Lady Ashton asked.
I placed a hand on my stomach and shook my head. “I am beyond full from the scones. They were delicious, though, so I suspect the tarts are equally as good.”
“They are better,” Catherine said, picking one up and handing it to me. My first instinct was to pull away from her, certain she must have poisoned it, but she seemed to be experiencing a moment of genuine kindness. Her eyes were bright and kind. For the first time, I realized she had Lady Ashton’s eyes.
