by Joan Wolf
I would have to raise my rates.
This was a course of action I had been resisting for several years. For one thing, my present rates were not cheap. My particular business had a very high overhead: horses to stable and feed, plus rent to be paid on a house and property large enough to accommodate both horses and clients. As I rarely had more than one client at a time, I had to charge a fairly steep sum in order to cover my costs.
During the two years that Tommy and I had run Deepcote together, we had done quite well. Clients had been more plentiful in those days, with Tommy teaching the men and the boys while I taught the girls. After Tommy died, however, business had fallen off drastically. I had largely kept my female clients, but the men and boys had stopped coming, and my income had plummeted. I was beginning to regain some of the male business—parents who had been pleased with the job I had done with their daughters had started to send me their sons—but I was afraid that if I raised my rates, I would turn away some of the new clients whom I might otherwise attract.
I had learned that while men like Albert Cole might own a vast amount of money, they wouldn’t pay a penny higher than what they judged a product to be worth.
I had just come to the gloomy conclusion that I was going to have to take a chance and raise the rates anyway, when a housemaid came into the room bearing hot chocolate and a pitcher of hot water on a tray.
“Lady Regina has asked me to tell you that breakfast will be put out in the family dining room from nine until ten-thirty, ma’am,” she said as she put the tray down and went to pile more coals upon the fire.
“Thank you,” I said politely.
The maid lifted the tray, put it across my lap, and poured me a cup of chocolate; then she took the pitcher of hot water into the dressing room and poured its contents into the elegant porcelain basin. Next, she returned to the bedroom and asked, “Would you like me to help you get dressed, ma’am?”
“No, thank you,” I said as politely as before.
After a few minutes the maid went away, and I waited for the room to warm up a little more before I got up.
My green merino wool morning dress was plain and serviceable and not nearly as appropriate to the elegance of my surroundings as last night’s blue gown, but it was the best I owned and would have to suffice.
I washed my face in the basin of hot water, then sat before the elegant little dressing table to comb my hair. A little piece was sticking up at my crown where I had slept on it last night, and I dipped my comb in water and damped it down.
My stomach was in a knot, so I breathed deeply and slowly, trying to make myself relax. I shut my eyes.
Please, Dear God, please, I prayed. Don’t let there be anything in George’s will about Nicky’s parentage.
I opened my eyes, put down the comb, stood up, and smoothed the skirt of my dress with slightly trembling hands. Then I straightened my spine and my shoulders and went down the stairs to the family dining room to a breakfast that I knew I would not eat.
I saw immediately that the earl was not present; Lady Regina and Lord Devane were the only people in the dining room when I went in. She gave me a friendly smile and said, “My brother and Mr. Melville are out somewhere on the estate, Mrs. Saunders, and Harriet and her father are breakfasting in her dressing room. The food is set out on the sideboard. Please, help yourself to whatever you would like.”
My first thought was that I had been right about Savile being accustomed to having meat with his breakfast. The sideboard was laden with food; bacon and kidneys and even pork chops were set out along with cooked eggs and a great variety of breads and muffins. I took a muffin and went to sit next to Lady Regina. The footman who had been standing by the sideboard came to fill my cup with coffee.
“Surely that is not enough food, Mrs. Saunders!” Lady Regina exclaimed when she saw my plate.
“I am not very hungry,” I said. “This will be perfectly sufficient, I assure you.”
I took a bite of muffin and drank some coffee.
Lady Regina and Lord Devane were staring at me in a way that I thought was extremely rude. I put down my coffee cup and said evenly, “Is something wrong? Do I have a spot on my face?”
Lady Regina laughed gaily. “Of course not, Mrs. Saunders.”
“The fact is, we are dying of curiosity about you, ma’am,” Lord Devane admitted with a charming smile. “Savile has told us nothing, you see—just that you figure in George’s will and must be present to hear it read.”
“I too am curious about what can be in the will, my lord,” I said quietly.
They exchanged looks, clearly frustrated by their inability to pry any information out of me.
I sipped my coffee and took another small bite of muffin.
“Harriet ain’t happy about your being here,” Devane said, testing to see what my response would be to that.
She was going to be even less happy after the will was read, I thought.
I nodded.
Their frustrated looks deepened.
I have to admit that I might have enjoyed mystifying them had I not been so sick with worry about what would happen in a few hours’ time.
Lady Regina and Lord Devane were too well bred to pursue a subject that was clearly distasteful to me, so we fell back upon that most useful of English topics: the weather.
When I had finished eating, Lady Regina offered to show me the family portraits in the Long Gallery and I accepted her invitation with relief. I would have welcomed anything that would keep my mind from dwelling upon the reading of George’s will.
The Long Gallery was the room just to the south of the family dining room. It was well named, I thought, as I contemplated the three large Persian rugs placed one after the other on the polished parquet floor. The high arched ceiling was painted in richly colored murals. Portraits painted in oil and framed in ornate gilt marched up and down both sides of the lovely, delicate, chestnut-brown paneled walls.
“You see before you the history of the Melville family, their friends and their relations,” Lady Regina said, with a lavish gesture toward the walls. “I will give you the abridged tour since I am sure you don’t want to remain incarcerated in this room for another week.”
I laughed. “The abridged tour will be quite adequate.”
“We will begin, then, with the third baron, who built this castle,” Lady Regina said, leading me to the first picture on the left wall. “He was called Raoul, of course. The first son is always called Raoul. It is a tribute to our ancestor, the Raoul de Melville who came over with the Conqueror.”
I made a noise to indicate that I was impressed.
“He probably wasn’t anything more than an impoverished mercenary,” Lady Regina said candidly. “He made rather a good thing out of his trip to England, though.”
The most fascinating thing I found about our trip around the gallery was not the family history that Lady Regina rattled off so glibly, but the strong likeness that prevailed among the faces of most of the previous earls and that of the present one.
I commented upon this when we reached the portrait of Raoul the Eighth.
“The Melvilles have always bred true,” Lady Regina announced with undisguised pride, just as if she were talking of horses.
I stared at the face of Raoul the Eighth, who was standing before what was clearly the chimneypiece in the Great Hall here at Savile. The defined, dark gold eyebrows were exactly the same as the present Raoul’s, as were the elegant cheekbones and the long, almost sensual mouth. But Raoul the Eighth’s eyes were brown, like Lady Regina’s. I didn’t see a pair of eyes the color of the present earl’s until we stopped before the portrait of an extremely lovely woman.
“My mother,” said Lady Regina with a mixture of affection and pride.
One couldn’t tell what color hair the woman in the portrait had, as it was powdered in the style of the last century, but her eyes were amber-gold.
“She is very beautiful,” I said sincerely.
“A
nd this is my father,” Lady Regina was saying, but my eyes had fastened themselves on the portrait of another lovely young woman. I walked over and stood before it. This woman was dark haired and green eyed, with a long, elegant neck and a slim, extraordinarily graceful body.
Lady Regina saw me looking. “That is Georgiana,” Lady Regina said, “my brother’s wife.”
I looked at that quintessential exquisite aristocrat and remembered how she had died.
“Savile told me she died in childbirth,” I said softly. “How very tragic it must have been for him.”
“It was, of course,” Lady Regina replied. “She was only twenty, and then, he lost the baby, too. He was devastated.”
I could understand. I knew what it was like to lose a spouse. But, unlike Savile, I had my boy.
Georgiana Melville looked down upon us with her cool green eyes.
“Poor girl,” I said, and meant it.
* * * *
Mr. Middleman, George’s solicitor, arrived in time for luncheon, which was a very subdued affair. Afterward, Savile invited us all into the library, a tremendously high-ceilinged room, with a gallery running around the top of it and the bottom walls filled with chestnut wood bookcases. I recognized the portrait over the fireplace as that of the Raoul who had built the house during the reign of King James.
Chairs had been set in a semicircle around a great library desk. The earl seated me at the end of the semicircle and then sat beside me, placing himself in such a way that his big body shielded me from the view of most of the others in the room.
Mr. Middleman was a small, rotund man with a face one wouldn’t remember ten minutes after one had met him. He had the room’s undivided attention, however, as he put on his spectacles and unrolled the official-looking document that was George’s will.
The small amount of luncheon I had eaten was lying like lead in my stomach and I hoped I would not disgrace myself by being sick.
The opening words of the will were ordinary enough. In the usual way, George assured us that he was of sound mind and that the dispositions he was about to make were done of his own free will.
George’s chief possession, of course, had been Devane Hall, but since Devane Hall was entailed, it was not within George’s power to dispose of it. The entail meant that it must go to George’s nearest male relative, and since George and Harriet had no son, that person was his cousin Roger Melville.
This information was briefly stated in the will, and then George bequeathed a sum of his personal money to Roger in order to help him “pay off whatever debts he may have incurred so that he may begin his tenure as Lord Devane with a free mind.”
“Decent of him,” the new Lord Devane said.
“You can be sure that that was Middleman’s idea,” Savile murmured in my ear.
Next came a series of small bequests to old servants.
Then Mr. Middleman glanced at me, and I knew my time had come. I think I might have stopped breathing. All motion stopped among the spectators and the room grew intensely quiet. The little solicitor deliberately pushed his spectacles higher on his nose, then began to read slowly and clearly: “To Nicholas Saunders, son of Abigail and Thomas Saunders, I bequeath the sum of twenty thousand pounds, to be administered for said Nicholas until he reaches his majority by my executor, Raoul Melville, Earl of Savile.”
A roar erupted from the throat of Albert Cole.
Harriet screamed.
My first thought was: “Son of Abigail and Thomas Saunders” Thank God!
“I won’t stand for it! Do you hear me, Savile?” Mr. Cole roared. “That’s my money and I won’t have it given away to any of Devane’s by-blows!”
“I can assure you that I have no trouble hearing you, my dear Cole,” Savile returned acidly. “In fact, you are in danger of permanently damaging my eardrums. Do please moderate your voice.”
My second thought was: Twenty thousand pounds!
“I won’t see a penny of my money given to that witch’s bastard!” Harriet screamed.
“Twenty thousand pounds is a huge amount of money to give away from the estate,” Lord Devane said. “Is it within George’s gift, Mr. Middleman?”
“Yes it is, my lord,” the solicitor returned bluntly. “It is not money from the estate at all. It came from the money settled upon his lordship by Mr. Cole at the time of his marriage to her ladyship.”
Albert Cole had evidently paid highly to get a baron for his daughter.
“And that’s why it ain’t going to his bastard!” Mr. Cole boomed.
Mr. Middleman said sharply, “Lord Devane has made no claim of parentage to this boy, Mr. Cole. In fact, he goes out of his way to name him as the son of Mr. and Mrs. Saunders.”
“You can’t bamboozle me!” Mr. Cole shouted. His face had become alarmingly red. “There’s only one reason Devane is giving money to this brat and that’s because it’s his brat!”
“Papa is right!” Harriet screeched.
I looked at the scene before me with comfortable detachment. Both of the Coles had open mouths and puce faces. Lady Regina looked bemused and was speaking to Lord Devane, who was scowling. I glanced up at the earl’s face and my eyes widened.
He was angry.
“That is quite enough.”
His voice sliced through the room like a sword, creating instant quiet.
He stood up.
“Mrs. Saunders is a guest in my home and I will not have her slandered.”
There was something in his voice that sent a shiver down my spine. I wasn’t surprised when the Coles shut their mouths.
The earl turned to look at the lawyer, who was standing behind the desk. “If I understand you correctly, Middleman, the money that my cousin has bequeathed to Nicholas Saunders was his by law to leave as he chose.”
“That is correct, my lord,” the little solicitor replied.
The earl turned next to regard Albert Cole. “That money was legally settled upon my cousin at the time of his marriage to your daughter, sir. It is not your money. It has not been your money since the marriage settlements were signed.”
Albert Cole twitched.
“I do not ever wish to hear you refer to Nicholas Saunders as a bastard again. Do I make myself clear?”
Albert Cole stared back at Savile. It was perfectly clear to me that he wanted to argue with the earl but was afraid. I didn’t know how Savile was doing it; no one thought that he would physically harm Mr. Cole. Nevertheless, there was no doubt that Albert Cole was thoroughly intimidated.
“Yes, my lord,” he mumbled grudgingly.
Since the situation had suddenly become so dramatic, I decided that now was a good time to make my own announcement.
“There is no need for anyone to fret about Lord Devane’s twenty thousand pounds,” I said. “I am not going to accept it.”
“What!” said Lady Regina. “Are you mad, Mrs. Saunders?”
Probably, I thought glumly.
“Why on earth would you do such a thing?” Lord Devane said in amazement, peering around Savile to get a look at me.
The earl sighed and sat down.
“She’s only saying that,” Harriet announced. “No one would refuse twenty thousand pounds.”
Albert Cole glared at me suspiciously but, still intimidated by Savile, didn’t say anything.
“I have no idea why Lord Devane should make such a provision for my son,” I said firmly. “I am going to refuse it because it leads other people to make incorrect assumptions.”
Here Lady Regina’s brown gaze fell away from my face. Obviously it was not only the Coles who had been making those assumptions.
“I am perfectly able to take care of my own son,” I finished grandly. “I refuse to accept Lord Devane’s legacy.”
Stunned silence descended upon the room.
It was Savile who finally broke it. “If I understand the terms of the will correctly, Middleman,” he said mildly, “the legacy was not left to Mrs. Saunders.”
�
�You are indeed correct, my lord. The legacy was specifically left to Mr. Nicholas Saunders.”
I stared at the lawyer suspiciously. “Are you saying that I cannot refuse it?”
“That is precisely what we are saying,” Savile replied.
I turned my head to glare at him. “But I don’t want it!”
He bent his head a little and said in a soft voice, for my ears only, “It will provide for Nicky’s schooling, Gail.”
I was so furious that I didn’t even notice that “Gail.”
“I am saving money for Nicky’s schooling. I do not want to touch a penny of that money, Savile.”
“If the woman don’t want the money, then don’t give it to her,” boomed Mr. Cole.
Now that Savile’s attention was on me, he had recovered his courage.
Everyone ignored him.
“You have no choice, Mrs. Saunders,” the little lawyer explained to me with commendable patience. “The money is not intended for you but for your son. You do not have the right to refuse it.”
“Very well. I’ll take it and then I’ll give it away,” I said recklessly.
Mr. Cole groaned loudly.
Harriet shrieked.
Lord Devane said with amusement, “This place is fast becoming like a circus.”
Mr. Middleman said, “The money is not yours to administer, Mrs. Saunders. Until Nicholas reaches the age of twenty-one, that responsibility has been given to the Earl of Savile.”
* * * *
I sat in silence as the rest of George’s will was read. It didn’t take very long. The bulk of his personal fortune, about thirty thousand pounds, was left to Harriet and their daughters, Maria, Frances, and Jane.
When Mr. Middleman had finished, I rose, intending to retreat upstairs to my room so that I could think. Savile put a hand under my elbow, however, and said quietly, “Come along to my office, Gail. I want to talk to you.”
This time I did notice the “Gail.”
We walked through the Long Gallery, the family dining room, the formal dining room, the drawing room, the music room, the Great Hall, and the withdrawing room, until finally we were in the room that the earl called his office. It was far less grand than the other rooms I had thus far seen, and I had the distinct impression that this was a place where work was indeed done. The big, old oak desk was covered with papers, all neatly arranged in piles, and several ledger books reposed on what looked like an old refectory table set against a simply paneled wall.
