The cook-housekeeper had the front door open already.
“Well, Mrs Staines, that is the old fellow settled in at the churchyard,” Malcolm said.
She smiled at him, patting his arm in a motherly fashion. “Just the will-reading to get through now, Mr Malcolm, and then it will all be over. Goodness, you’re wet! Go and have something to warm you up. It’s all laid out in the parlour.”
All over… that was true enough. The coming night would be his last under the roof of Maitland House, and when he left it, the connection would be severed absolutely. There would be no one left in his life. No family.
The two manservants came rushing in, puffing rather, to receive the gentleman mourners. The hall was already crowded, with a strong smell of damp wool, as they bustled about with dripping hats and greatcoats. Malcolm waited his turn, then followed the others into the parlour.
“Here,” the attorney said, pushing a glass into his hand. “I sent Bird out to buy a couple of decent bottles this morning. There are pastries and meat on the sideboard, too.”
Malcolm shook his head. He had long since lost his appetite for wine, and never wished to regain it.
“I insist. You will need something to fortify you before… well, it would be best.”
For the first time, Malcolm felt a flicker of interest. Before what… the reading of the will? He had no expectations there. Great-uncle Zachariah had a son, after all, and although he had been a ne’er-do-well and a common thief in his youth, no doubt he was a respectable burgher now, and would inherit the house and whatever money had been hoarded away. Not much, he supposed, for the old fellow had never splashed it around.
He took the glass of wine, pretended to take a sip and then ambled over to the sideboard. Tucking the glass behind a bowl of fruit, he found himself a plate and loaded it with as much as it would hold. He might have forsworn intoxicating drink, but food was always acceptable.
“Well, Gage! No doubt we will see more of you during Trinity,” Monk said, clapping him on the back so hard that Malcolm almost choked on the meat ball he was eating. “Another of your talks to the Society would be well received.”
Swallowing hastily, Malcolm said, “I cannot say when I shall next be in Oxford, sir.”
“Now, now, no need to pretend, is there? Surely the house will be yours, and you will be settled here.”
“My great-uncle has a son,” he said stiffly.
“Fell out, I thought. The boy was worthless and Zachariah cut him off without a penny, so I heard.”
“You are misinformed, sir. When Kenneth came out of prison the last time, my great-uncle paid his passage to India and set him up in business out there. He long since forgave him for his youthful follies.”
Monk’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise, but he made no further comment, and Malcolm retreated to a quiet corner to eat in peace, and consider that odd quirk of his great-uncle’s character. For a man who never attended church, and had told his servants never to allow a man of the cloth across the threshold, he had held to remarkably Christian principals. Forgiveness, he had always said, was the mark of civilisation, above any other virtue. But they had never seen eye to eye on that subject and never would, and eventually they had spoken of it no more.
After a while, Mr Colville called the company through to the drawing room for the reading of the will. Two rows of chairs were set out, but Malcolm sat on the window seat, a little apart. The gentlemen took the front row, and behind them Mrs Staines, the manservants and the wizened old gardener, stiff in his Sunday best, who was older than his master but still put in six full days of work every week, and would no doubt continue to do so until he dropped down dead in the asparagus bed.
The attorney sat behind the mahogany card table. If the old man had left Malcolm anything, and surely he must have done, for he would not have been invited else, he hoped it would be that elegant little table, with its interchangeable tops inlaid with mother-of-pearl to mark out chess or backgammon or cribbage boards. Today it was the plain baize, with Colville’s papers laid in a neat pile.
The reading began. The small bequests came first — to the servants, to several charitable institutions, to the Society. A bursary to the college, to support a promising local boy. Then an odd one — ‘To my son, Kenneth Gage, last known address Madras, India, my watch, engraved with my name, given to me by my father, but only on the condition that he comes to collect it himself. If he should be dead, then to his heir, if any, with the same condition. If the watch is unclaimed on the fifth anniversary of my death, then it may be given to whomever resides at Maitland House or otherwise at the discretion of my executors.’
Malcolm had to smile at the old boy’s eccentricity. Would anyone travel all the way from India to claim a watch? It seemed unlikely. But when did he lose touch with Kenneth? Quite some time ago, perhaps, for he had not mentioned him for years.
Mr Colville removed his spectacles. “The remainder of the will concerns only Mr Malcolm Gage, and Mr Monk and I, as executors, are agreed that no other person needs to be privy to the contents at this time.”
That was unexpected. As everyone shuffled out except Colville and Monk, Malcolm weighed up the possibilities. The house… yes, it must be the house and whatever money the old fellow had. But there was some catch, he knew it. Colville’s manner beforehand, suggesting he fortify himself… yes, there must be a condition. Marriage, perhaps, for his great-uncle had been nagging him on that score for years. Or was it more complicated than that? Had his great-uncle left other illegitimate children, besides Kenneth? He was a secretive old buzzard, so anything was possible. But he had left Malcolm something, that much was plain. Something to lift him out of this dreadful grinding poverty. A bubble of hope arose inside him.
“Will you not come a little closer, Mr Gage?” Colville said, gesturing towards the now empty seats in the front row.
Reluctantly, Malcolm lounged across the room and took one of the front seats, arms folded and legs stretched out before him.
Colville looked pained at such casualness, but he replaced his spectacles and picked up his papers again. But then he laid them down, and removed the spectacles.
“Mr Gage, I would ask that you listen carefully to the entirety of what follows and not… hmm, not arrive at any precipitate conclusions. The requirements are complicated, and I must insist that you hear the whole of your great-uncle’s dispositions. Then we may discuss the matter.”
“You terrify me, Colville,” Malcolm said, amused. “What can possibly be so dire in a will? I presume that there are some devious conditions, but what is that to me? Either I will accept them or I will not. Let me hear the worst.”
“But you will not… storm out? Or anything of that nature?”
“I will make every effort not to do so.”
Colville stared at him for a moment, as if trying to assess the likelihood that he would or would not. Eventually, with a sigh, he replaced his spectacles, and began to read.
“‘To my dear great-nephew, Malcolm Augustus Gage, formerly of Lower Maeswood Grove, in the county of Shropshire, and lately master at Harrow School, in the county of Middlesex, I make the following stipulation, that he should make arrangements with his brother, Laurence Adolphus Gage of the said—”
Malcolm jumped to his feet, fists clenched, boiling with rage.
“‘—Lower Maeswood Grove…’ Do please resume your seat, Mr Gage. There is a great deal more, and it is very much to your advantage.”
Yes, he should hear it all, every last miserable word of his great-uncle’s betrayal. Then he would walk out. Slowly he sat.
“‘…of Lower Maeswood Grove in the county of Shropshire, to instruct his son Edward Henry Gage of the same place of residence such that the said Edward Henry Gage shall be admitted to the Society of Gentleman Linguists of Oxford, this task to be accomplished within three months of its commencement and in such a manner that the said Malcolm Augustus Gage resides at all times under the same roof as the said Laurence
Adolphus Gage. If the task thus described is successful and the said Edward Henry Gage is admitted to the said Society within one year of my death, I bequeath to the said Malcolm Augustus Gage my dwellinghouse, known as Maitland House, together with all my household goods furniture plate linen china and personal effects of whatever sort such as may be found within the said dwellinghouse, for his own absolute use and benefit together with nine tenths of all monies held and invested on my behalf by Fletcher and Parsons of Oxford, and the said Edward Henry Gage shall receive the remaining one tenth part of all the monies so described. If the task thus described is not accomplished successfully, the said house and all monies shall be disposed of in charitable bequests at the discretion of my executors.’”
The silence was absolute. Malcolm sat unmoving. A house… nine tenths of the money, which must be worth a few hundred, at least. Independence, the life of a gentleman… he would never be poor again. He should have howled with rage, but oddly he was now calm. Icy calm. The slimy, devious, scheming, treacherous old devil.
“Do you understand, Mr Gage?”
Oh, he understood, all right. He understood perfectly.
“It is a considerable sum,” the attorney said, in a wheedling tone. “Above five and twenty thousand for you and almost three thousand for the boy, even after the other bequests. An income of twelve or thirteen hundred a year.”
So much! That was a shock. The sly old fellow had been hoarding his money then, for he had never spent so much. He had written several books, of course, or perhaps those ships he liked to invest in had been more profitable than he had suspected. Malcolm would have been a wealthy man…
“It is only three months, Mr Gage, and the boy is very able, by all accounts. It should not be a difficult task, and you would have your house and a good income. Enough to live on quite comfortably. Enough to enable you to marry, should you wish.”
Another silence.
“Is it so impossible to spend three months under your brother’s roof?” Monk said. “Come, Gage, what do you say?”
Malcolm rose, looking down on the two men disdainfully.
“No.” He turned and walked towards the door.
“Mr Gage, I think you should—”
“No. A thousand times no. Never.”
He left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him, and went to sit in his room until the dinner hour. Colville left him in peace. They were bound to dine together, for that, too, had been decreed by the dead man, but then Colville would leave and Malcolm would be alone again, as he had been, in truth, for almost half his life.
~~~~~
MAY
The morning had been a rather more enjoyable one than many. A dull Greek lesson had devolved into a long discussion of the Peloponnesian War, with particular reference to the Megarian decrees, which led him to the astonishing but inescapable conclusion that one or two of the scholars had a modicum of intelligence between their ears after all.
One of the porters was awaiting him as he left the room. He gave the discreet cough which all the porters used when they were required to address a master.
“Dr Butler respectfully requests your presence, sir.”
Malcolm grunted an acknowledgement, and made his way directly to the head master’s office. As soon as he entered, he groaned aloud, for there was Colville sitting in front of Butler’s desk, half-smiling in a rueful manner.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Malcolm said, too annoyed to moderate his language. “As if it were not enough to torment me with your letters, now you must approach me here?”
“Do sit down, Gage,” Butler said in pleasant tones. “You make me nervous looming over us in that glowering way.”
Heaving a disgusted sigh, Malcolm took the chair beside Colville.
“I was not aware of the existence of your brother, Gage,” Butler said. “He is older than you, I take it?” Malcolm nodded. “So he got the estate. Was that what the quarrel was about — the inheritance?”
“Good God, no! As if I cared about that!”
“What then? Was it a long time ago?”
Reluctantly, Malcolm said, “Sixteen years.”
“Then it must have been a serious matter, I surmise. Not some trivial boys’ tiff.”
“Not trivial, no,” Malcolm conceded. Then, because Butler looked at him expectantly, he added, “A woman. He stole her from me, and then he killed her.”
“No, no, no,” Colville said, in some agitation. “Such intemperate language, Mr Gage. Your great-uncle told me all about it when he drew up his will. They both wished to marry the same lady, Dr Butler, and Mr Laurence Gage was the one who carried off the prize, so to speak. And later, she died in childbed. A great tragedy, but hardly worth sustaining a feud for so many years, I should have thought.”
“You know nothing about it!” Malcolm said savagely. “She was forced into it! She—” He stopped abruptly. “The details do not matter, but there was no honour in my brother, that is all you need to know. The rift is as much his doing as mine. He would no more welcome me back in his life than I would wish it.”
“Now there you are wrong,” Colville said triumphantly. “I was obliged to write to him, you know, to apprise him of the terms of Mr Zachariah Gage’s will, and he responded with the utmost civility. Let me read you some of it, for it was quite lengthy. Let me see… ah, yes. ‘You may be sure that I will place no obstacle in the way of the proceeding, given the benefit to my son.’ There, you see! He places no obstacle in the way.”
It was hardly a resounding welcome, however, but it mattered not a whit. “Irrelevant, since I have no intention of complying with these outrageous terms. If I wish to quarrel with my brother, then I shall do so, and no effort of Great-uncle Zachariah will prevail upon me to change my mind.”
“Then let me see if my effort will meet with better success,” Butler said placidly. “You are relieved of your post here, Gage. If, in the fullness of time, you return here having attempted your appointed task and assure me as a gentleman that you used your best endeavours, I will offer you your position again. Otherwise, I am afraid I cannot employ a man who displays such a grim example of implacable resentment to the boys. I have never concerned myself with your sense of morality, Gage, nor worried that you were not in Holy Orders like the other masters, but I cannot condone such an unchristian attitude. Attempt to overcome it and you may return here, but otherwise my doors are closed to you. You may stay here tonight and leave tomorrow.”
Malcolm rose and walked out of the room, but it took every ounce of effort not to slam the door behind him.
END OF SAMPLE CHAPTER of Stranger At The Grove. For more information or to buy, go to my website.
Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1) Page 32
