by Janette Oke
“We do not accept off-the-street business,” the man informed her firmly.
“But I . . . I . . .” began Belinda but stopped at his frank stare. Off the street! she murmured to herself. It sounded so coarse—so vulgar. For one moment she returned the man’s bold look and, her face hot, spun on her heel and left the office.
Down, down the long stairway she descended, her flush heightening with each step.
What a crude way of responding, she muttered to herself. I do hope Windsor is treated with more respect.
But Windsor had fared no better. It was a discouraging report he brought to Belinda.
“I think we’d best go home, m’lady,” he advised. “We will need to spend some time sorting this through if we are to gain admittance.”
Belinda agreed. She was hot and tired. And she was in no mood to be patronized and put down any further today.
She did not even notice the beauty of the fall day as the carriage wound its way through the city streets and back to the grand home sitting in the well-to-do section of town.
They spent a great deal of time making calls, following up one possibility after another, making trips to the inner city and rapping on doors and ringing doorbells. But to Belinda’s thinking, they were no nearer to solving their dilemma than when they began. She was beginning to feel they might as well give up when the minister of the church made an afternoon call.
“I understand that Marshall Manor has been left in your capable hands,” he commented with a charming smile.
And maybe you are wishing to make sure that you and your church stand in favorable light, Belinda thought but did not say. She quickly chided herself for even thinking such thoughts. After all, he was a man of the cloth, and it was due to his sermon that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had made peace with her God before her death. He was, Belinda admitted, preaching from the Holy Scripture, even if his application was ineffectual, to her way of thinking.
She nodded silently, waiting for the man to go on.
“We at the church just want you to know that, as Mrs. Stafford-Smyth before you, we value you as a member of our congregation. And if there is ever any way we can be of service—”
“As a matter of fact,” Belinda interrupted on sudden impulse, “there might be a way. I am in need of an attorney. As you can imagine, this . . . this house and estate . . . well, they involve a great many decisions. And . . . well, I’m not really used to making such judgments on my own. I feel the need for a good attorney to help me in such matters. Would you know of anyone who might be interested in helping me?”
“I . . . I think I might be able to help you,” he said with only slight hesitation. “I’ll do some inquiring and see what I can discover.”
Belinda thanked him sincerely, and the parson went on his way.
And so it was that three days later there was another caller at Marshall Manor.
Windsor opened the door and waited while the man gazed around himself admiring the wonderful face of the building, the lovely lawns, and the flower beds. Windsor cleared his throat, and the man produced a card. “The Reverend Arthur Goodbody informed me that the lady of the house is seeking legal advice,” he told Windsor, and Windsor nodded, stepped aside, and ushered the man in.
“I shall call M’lady,” he said. “You may wait in the library.”
The attorney smiled, followed the butler, and accepted a seat as indicated.
Belinda could hardly believe the good news Windsor brought to her as he handed her the attorney’s card.
“The parson has sent him, m’lady,” he explained.
“Oh, bless his soul!” exclaimed Belinda. “I had most given up,” and she hastened to the library to meet the gentleman.
When Belinda entered the room, she could feel her face was flushed from her rapid descent of the stairway. The attorney was sitting in the chair and staring at the thousands of books displayed on the shelves, looking appropriately impressed. He rose to his feet as manners dictated, but then a frown replaced the expression of admiration.
“I’m Belinda—Miss Davis,” Belinda said with a smile. “And you are”—she referred to the card in her hand—“Keats, Cross and Newman,” she read out loud and then smiled again. “Which one?” she asked frankly.
“The . . . the Keats one,” the man answered haltingly. “Anthony Keats.”
“I’m so pleased you have consented to offer your services,” Belinda began and then realized they were still standing. “Please be seated,” she said, then walked behind the big oak desk and sat down in the chair.
The man looked bewildered, but he sat down.
“I guess I should explain—briefly,” Belinda went on. “I want to put this property to good use. But I don’t know how to go about it properly. And I don’t know my options—my limits. I need legal aid—advice—to help with some major decisions.”
“I see,” returned the gentleman, but he didn’t sound as if he saw at all.
“It’s a large house—very big. I haven’t even counted the bedrooms,” Belinda continued, feeling embarrassed. “Of course some of them are needed by the staff. The staff is to stay on,” she hurriedly explained. “This . . . this is their home, too.”
The man nodded.
“Of course, I won’t be here. I plan to go home just as soon . . . just as soon as I can get this all settled.”
“Could I speak with the homeowner?” the man asked cautiously.
Belinda felt her cheeks grow warm again. “I am the owner,” she maintained. “That’s why I have called you here.”
“Ma’am,” the attorney said, stopping Belinda cold, “this is a legal matter. I will need some legal papers.”
“Like . . . ?”
“A deed.”
“Oh, you mean to the house? Yes, I have it now. It was just delivered last week. It is right here,” and Belinda crossed to a safe in the wall. When she had opened it with a click, Belinda removed some documents and handed them to the lawyer. He studied each carefully, his eyes darting from the papers to Belinda and back again.
“How did you obtain the house?” he finally asked her.
“Aunt Virgie—Mrs. Stafford-Smyth—left it to me in her will.”
“Your . . . your aunt?”
“Well, not my aunt—not legally. I just called her Aunt Virgie. I worked for her. I was her nurse . . . and her friend,” Belinda explained.
The frown on the lawyer’s face deepened. “And now you wish to dispose of the house?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Belinda.
“Because you can’t afford to maintain it?” questioned the man.
It was Belinda’s turn to frown.
“Do you need the money?” the lawyer asked outright.
“Oh no,” Belinda hastened to inform him. “She left a good deal of money along with the house.”
The attorney took a deep breath. “You . . . you just wish to be rid of it? To sell?”
“Oh, I don’t want to sell,” Belinda told him. “My, no. I would never sell Marshall Manor. I just want to . . . to put it to good use. Aunt Virgie said I could—in her letter.”
The attorney looked perplexed. Belinda smiled. “Perhaps we should start over,” she offered. “We both seem confused.”
The man laughed then. “Perhaps we should.”
“Here,” said Belinda, handing him a package. “Here is the will—and the letter. Read it while I ring for some tea. I feel in need of some. Perhaps you would join me.”
Belinda gave Mr. Keats plenty of time to study the legal document and the note. When he laid it aside and removed his spectacles, Belinda began again. “Do you understand now?”
“Understand? No. But things are certainly in order. You have the will, the deed. You are free to do whatever you wish with the property.”
That much was good news to Belinda.
Windsor brought the tea tray, and Belinda poured and served the beverage to the gentleman.
“Now, what I need to know is, what ways are there fo
r me to put this house to good use?” she asked after they each had taken a sip of tea.
“You mean—like a public museum, with an entrance fee?”
Belinda shook her head impatiently. Why does everyone think that I want to use it for income? she muttered inwardly. I have no intention of desecrating Aunt Virgie’s home for money. To the gentleman before her she said, “I want to use the home for good. As a means of ministry—just like Aunt Virgie said in the letter.”
“In . . . in what manner, ma’am—er, miss?”
“I don’t know,” responded Belinda. “That’s why I need your advice.”
“I see,” said the gentleman, sounding a bit impatient himself.
There was a moment of silence.
“It would help me tremendously, miss, if I had some . . . some idea as to what you have in mind,” Mr. Keats stated at last.
“Well . . . well, I don’t know exactly,” responded Belinda. “But . . . it seems to me that with so many homeless on the streets and all of these lovely rooms here that . . . well, that there should be some way to get the two together.”
The man looked shocked. “You mean . . . like . . . like an overnight hostel?” he queried.
“No, no. Something more permanent than that. So much coming and going would likely ruin the house . . . and run the staff to death. We can’t do anything like that.”
The man seemed relieved.
“But there must be some way to put this lovely place to good use,” determined Belinda. The man rose to his feet and returned the package of legal documents to her. “I’ll look into it,” he promised.
“Oh, thank you,” replied Belinda sincerely. “I was about to give up in despair . . . and I do so much want to get this finalized and return home.”
Mr. Keats cast a glance all around him. “The house is beautiful. Frankly, I can’t imagine your ever wanting to leave it. But I’ll call as soon as I have some ideas,” he assured her, and then Windsor was there to show the man out.
Fifteen
Dinner
“How nice,” murmured Belinda as her eyes quickly scanned the formal invitation in her hand. “It’s from Mrs. Prescott,” she said, lifting her head to speak to Windsor. “She has asked me to dinner next Thursday.”
Windsor gave a slight nod. “You will wish the carriage, m’lady?”
Belinda thought for a moment. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I don’t even know where Mrs. Prescott lives.”
“Mrs. Prescott was never much for entertaining, miss. She came here often, but she was always much too busy—” Windsor caught himself and began to gather up the tea things. “I know the way, m’lady,” he said instead. “I have driven Madam a number of times in the past.”
The mention of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth brought a momentary pain to Belinda’s heart. An evening spent with Celia Prescott might be very difficult. It was bound to bring back many memories of their times together in the past. Belinda wondered if she was quite ready for such an occasion. She stirred restlessly, then rose from her chair and walked to the unlit fireplace. She stood rubbing her hands together in agitation, her eyes staring into the ashes, though actually seeing little. Windsor turned to look at her.
“Maybe I . . . maybe I should just decline the . . . the invitation,” she said hesitantly.
“Madam would not wish that, miss,” Windsor replied softly, evenly.
Belinda looked up quickly, surprised at the unusual voicing of opinion from someone who had carefully withheld such comments in the past.
“No-o,” she conceded. “No . . . I don’t suppose she would. But it’s . . . it’s going to be so sad. . . .”
Windsor nodded.
“Do you miss her terribly much?” Belinda suddenly burst out.
For a moment there was only silence; then Windsor nodded his head. “Most terribly!” he answered, then turned and was gone with the tea things.
Belinda stood looking down into the empty fireplace. Ashes, she thought. Only ashes where once there was a warm and living flame. It’s rather symbolic. Oh, I miss her.
She brushed tears from her eyes and left the fireplace to cross to the window. In the gardens Thomas was working over a flower bed, McIntyre curled up on the lawn beside him, head on paws. The elderly man and his dog seemed such a natural part of the landscape.
Belinda smiled softly. It was a beautiful day and Windsor was right, she admitted. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would not want her to sit at home. She, Belinda, had to get on with life.
She went to the corner desk and settled down to write her acceptance of the dinner invitation. Then she tucked the note into an envelope, left it on the hall table for Windsor to deliver, and went out to the gardens to see Thomas.
Belinda prepared carefully for the dinner engagement. She felt a great deal of excitement after all and no small measure of curiosity. Why was the woman inviting her to dinner? It was true that while Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was living, she regarded Celia Prescott as one of her dearest friends. It was also true that during the time Belinda had lived at Marshall Manor, they had not been invited to the Prescott home. Belinda had heard the ladies refer to times in the past when they had shared dinner or tea at the Prescotts’, but it had seemed that Mrs. Prescott was no longer disposed to formal entertaining. “It just takes so much out of one,” Belinda had once heard Mrs. Prescott tell Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
So why now? Belinda asked herself again. And why me? Perhaps Mrs. Prescott realized how deeply Belinda was missing their dear mutual friend. Or perhaps Mrs. Prescott herself was keenly feeling the loss. At any rate, an evening out will be good, Belinda decided. She attended church services on Sunday and went on an occasional shopping trip, but that was the extent of her outings. Even a beautiful house could become a bit wearisome when she had only the staff to share it with.
Belinda looked at her reflection in the mirror. The dark blue silk was becoming. As Belinda smoothed the rich material over her hips, she remembered a comment Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had once made. “I don’t want anyone ever going into mourning black for me,” she had said. “When people think of me, I want them to think colah. Brightness, not morbid black. You weah colah—blues, greens, crimsons—you heah me, deah?”
Belinda had laughed at the time. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had not looked like a lady about to bid farewell to life. But then she had gone—so suddenly. As Belinda studied her mirrored reflection and the blue silk, she thought again of her former employer’s lighthearted words.
“I know you would approve, Aunt Virgie,” Belinda whispered softly. “But will others understand?”
Belinda sighed. Celia Prescott might not understand.
Belinda rang for Ella. Tonight I will have my hair styled, she decided.
Windsor was waiting when Belinda came down. The evening was warm and the air heavy with the scent of flowers when she climbed aboard the carriage. She was tempted to tell Windsor to just drive—anywhere. It was good to be out. It was good to soak in the loveliness of the neighborhood gardens. It was good to just escape for a few moments and forget the heaviness of her heart. She realized she was actually looking forward to conversation around the dinner table—even if the other guests would be three or four times her age. One of the things she dreaded most about each day was eating dinner all alone.
Soon the carriage was pulling up before a wide entrance. Belinda stared at the ornate columns, the blue-gray shutters, the windows long and lean, the lines graceful. It was a pretty house—though not nearly as magnificent as Marshall Manor.
Windsor assisted Belinda from the carriage. “I shall pass the time with Mallone,” he informed her. “Have Chiles ring when you are ready.”
Belinda gave Windsor a brief nod and was soon being admitted by Chiles himself. Mrs. Prescott appeared in the hallway, enthusiastic and light as always.
“My deah girl,” she exclaimed, “how have you been? I’ve been thinking of you—constantly.”
Belinda murmured her thanks and allowed herself to be drawn into the parlor.
> “You look just lovely, my deah,” Mrs. Prescott went on. “Just lovely. And so right. I know how Virgie felt about black. She called it a ‘disgusting colah.’ ” Mrs. Prescott laughed heartily at the recollection.
“But come, my deah,” she said. “I want you to meet someone.”
Mrs. Prescott drew her toward the chairs before the fireplace, and a young man rose to his feet. Belinda had not noticed him when she entered the room. And he certainly had not made his presence known. He looked embarrassed about greeting her now. He extended a hand, quickly pulled it back and tucked it awkwardly behind his back, then slowly began to extend it again.
“Belinda, my nephew, Morton Jamison,” Mrs. Prescott beamed. “Morton, this is the delightful young lady I was telling you about.”
Morton flushed and fully extended his hand. Belinda took it momentarily and gave a customary shake. “How do you do?” she greeted him with a smile. He muttered in return and self-consciously wiped his hand down the length of his dinner jacket.
“Morton is studying at Yale,” went on Mrs. Prescott, and Morton flushed a deeper red.
“I see,” commented Belinda. “How nice.” She attempted an encouraging smile. The young man was really uncomfortably shy. Belinda felt sorry for him and wished to put him at ease.
“Please, please be seated,” she smiled and moved to take a chair herself. With a look of great relief the young man sat down.
“What are you studying?” Belinda inquired.
“I . . . I haven’t really decided,” the young man stammered. “Maybe . . . maybe business . . . maybe law. I . . .”
“Morton has his daddy’s business to run—someday,” cut in Mrs. Prescott. “Right now he’s preparing himself with a broad background.”
Belinda nodded. “I’m sure that’s wise,” she agreed and gave the man another smile.
Belinda found her eyes scanning the room. It would appear that she was early. Other guests had not as yet arrived. Belinda had already decided that she didn’t plan to develop the habit of lateness, as Celia Prescott seemingly had done. She turned back to her hostess, who was speaking again.
