The Kilternan Legacy

by Anne McCaffrey

  She dragged clothing out of the back of the Austin, and, with her arms full, she paused once more by the window. “Ann’s related, too, you know.”

  Before I could ask how, why, when, where, because I was quite delighted to claim a relationship with Ann Purdee, Winnie was off down the lane at a shamble-run.

  “Well, will surprises never cease!” said Snow, grinning with delight.

  “Mom, get the hell outa here before someone else descends on us,” said Simon in a long-suffering tone of voice.

  We did.

  Chapter 8

  “YOUR POSITION is somewhat difficult in this, Mrs. Teasey,” Michael Noonan said as he began riffling through a bulky file of papers. “In September of last year, the elder Mr. Fancy informed your aunt that he was relinquishing the cottage, but he did not hand over the key. Your aunt telephoned him at his new address, and he said he’d mail it to her, only he never did so. By then George Boardman had offered her three thousand pounds.

  “After your aunt suffered the first stroke, she asked me to press Fahey for the key. He again refused, saying …” Mr. Noonan cleared his throat and gave us an expurgated edition of the saying. “… He’d changed his mind and would keep the cottage as a summer residence. Legally he is not entitled to do so, since he is a veteran, living now in veterans’ housing, and he can’t hold two properties at once.”

  “Can’t you evict people here in Ireland for non-payment of rent?” asked Snow.

  “But of course you can. However, Fahey has paid the rent on the cottage until September. The amount is twelve pounds per annum.”

  “Twelve pounds? And Great-great was offered three thousand?” Snow’s practical mind rebelled.

  “In addition, he is claiming the amount that he had paid out for a new roof.”

  “To be blunt about it, is he by any chance blackmailing us for a lump sum, after which he’d quit?” I asked.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Don’t let him get away with it, Mom. The way they’ve left the place, they ought to pay us to get out of the lease.”

  “Slaney’s is worse,” said Snow.

  “But Slaney is not the leaseholder,” Michael Noonan explained. “His mother is. And the rent has been overdue since Tom Slaney returned.”

  “Since he returned?”

  “He’s a thoroughly bad lot, drinks heavily, is out of work more often than he’s in, but his mother was Miss Teasey’s cook until she became too feeble. Then she stayed on in the cottage.”

  “Aunt Irene said nothing about keeping on the tenant in that cottage,” I said.

  “Not surprising. Old Mrs. Slaney was very ill last winter, and not expected to last. Of course, you can do as you wish. Actually, it might be a blessing to put the old lady in an old-people’s home, out of the reach of her son.”

  “I’d have to think about that,” I said, feeling Ugly American.

  “The Cuniffs in Lark are no problem. The rent is paid monthly by banker’s order into your aunt’s account, and there’s never been a lapse.”

  “How much do they pay?” asked Snow.

  “Seven pounds a month.”

  “That’s still not much against a purchase price of three thousand pounds. You’d get more interest with your money in a savings account. Or would you?”

  “Good heavens, Snow. What will Mr. Noonan think?”

  “That Americans raise their children to be practical, Mrs. Teasey,” he replied, with a twinkle in his eyes. “She’s right, you know. The rents are absurd, due partly to the Rent Control Act and partly to your aunt, who had her own reasons.”

  “Which she didn’t vouchsafe to us, and no one else will tell us.”

  “As soon as the will has been probated, you can sell any of those cottages and let the new owner worry about eviction. And as for Brian Kelley, that may be all wind and stuff. He even badgered your great-aunt when she was in hospital—until T’ornton”—he dropped h’s too—“turfed him out.”

  “Mr. Noonan, in my situation, about which none of the relatives are happy, could probate be contested? Aside from Brian Kelley’s threats, I mean.”

  Reluctantly he conceded that it could.

  “Because I’ve been getting clues.”

  “We’ve been inundated by elderly disapproving auntie relatives,” explained Snow, with complete disgust.

  Michael Noonan’s expressive lips twitched, suggesting that he knew exactly whom she meant.

  “We’ve been commanded to a family tea on Sunday, at half past four,” my daughter continued. “It seems we’ve cousins our ages.” She sounded so thoroughly bored that Michael Noonan did chuckle.

  “Well, Mr. Noonan? I’ve already had broad hints that, when I go back to the States, Jimmy and Maeve might be willing to caretake the house for me, or buy it, and that once ‘those’ tenants have been chucked out of the cottages, decent rents might be earned. And they know tenants who are desirable, respectable, and solvent.”

  “We do things a little differently in Ireland, Mrs. Teasey,”

  “I’ve been apprised of that fact too.”

  “Please. I can appreciate how uncomfortable it could be for you but, as my client, you should be aware that there is a very good chance that one or another of your great-aunt’s relatives may decide to contest the will formally—unless you’d be willing to seem to give them what they want until probate has been secured.”

  “I gather they think I have to sell it to pay the death duties, so they’re counting on my accepting a very low offer.”

  Michael Noonan chuckled again as he leaned forward across his desk in a decisive manner. “Fair enough. Give them no indication to the contrary. The trust fund is not public information. And if they become too insistent, refer them to me.”

  I sighed. Snow, however, gave one of her giggles, and then composed her face into a mask oddly resembling her Great-great-auntie Alice.

  “That young man is too bold by half!” she said, in such an excellent imitation that Mr. Noonan roared with laughter. “You’ve met her!”

  I’m just no good at dissembling, Mr. Noonan,” I said, worried.

  “Ah, Mom, it’ll be fun stringing them along. You let me and Simon handle it.”

  Our solicitor cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Snow went on, “children are seen and not heard in Ireland, but that’s an advantage.”

  “Mom?” said Simon in that “she’s off again” tone.

  “Oh, Sim, we’ll help Mother. I mean, you don’t want Auntie Alice’s Maeve in our house, do you?”

  “Actually, Mrs. Teasey, simply say that you can do nothing until the will is probated.”

  However, I saw Michael Noonan and my conniving daughter exchange understanding glances.

  “Naw, Mom, just slide away from the question,” said Simon, making the proper gesture with his hand. ‘You do that very well.”

  I knew what he meant, and I could evade very well. Teddie taught me how, but I didn’t want to discuss that any more.

  “Mr. Noonan, there was mention in the will of the Brandel trust.”

  “That’s the one Great-great-auntie Alice wants you to break,” said Snow to me.

  “She couldn’t an’ she wanted to, Miss Stanford,” said Michael Noonan, the sharpness in his tone directed against Aunt Alice. “The Ladies Brandel are sisters, very old friends of your great-aunt’s,” and it was patent that he thought them charming. “They’re well into their nineties, and as spry as sparrows. Both have their eyesight and hearing, and although they walk slowly, they still get about under their own steam.”

  “They’re not relatives?” asked Snow, hopefully but suspiciously.

  “Not at all!” He rocked back and forth in his chair. “No, they’re devotees of Gilbert and Sullivan. I believe that they encouraged your aunt when she was first considering a stage career. I know that she always sent them tickets to the Rathmines-Rathgar G-and-S shows, said they’d been going since Gilbert first met Sullivan. For t
hem not to see their annual operettas would mean that the end of the world had at last come. Irene Teasey inaugurated the trust under my father. I believe she discovered that they were existing on the produce of their garden patch and tinned cat food.”

  “But—but—” Snow was sputtering with indignation. “What about welfare?”

  “The Brandel Ladies dispensed charity, Miss Stanford, they didn’t receive it.” You could see that he was repeating someone else’s gently intoned dictum.

  “But old-age assistance isn’t charity.”

  “In their book, the same thing.” He gave a very gentle shudder at such a degrading notion. Mr. Noonan was unfolding as a very interesting personality. “Such Old World principles are very much alive in Ireland, Miss Stanford. There’s never a winter goes by but some elderly person is discovered dead of starvation, too proud to appeal to the agencies set up to help.”

  “And my aunt helped?” I asked.

  “Subtly. She unearthed a distant cousin. That was necessary, because there’s nothing stupid about the Ladies Maud and Mary Brandel.”

  “It would be Maud and Mary,” said Snow, with an appreciative giggle. “And are they really ‘ladies’?”

  “Oh, indeed they are. They consulted the family Bible,” Mr. Noonan continued, “to see if there was indeed a Robert Esquith Brandel. Of course, there was, because Irene had done her research first. He had just died. Without a will, too. So Irene Teasey and my father connived to set up a fund, allegedly the estate of this deceased cousin. The monies came from several sources, actually, all masterminded by Miss Teasey: benefit performances, their legal old-age pension, which my father applied for without their knowledge, and some”—he gave that sly grin again—“windfalls which Miss Teasey contributed.”

  “And they’ve never caught on?” asked Snow. “I like that. I think I’d’ve loved my Great-great-aunt Irene, Mother.”

  “Me too.”

  “It is a grave shame you never met,” said Mr. Noonan, and then rattled his papers as if he’d said too much.

  “Can we meet the Brandels?” I asked, as much to rescue him as to divert my returned sense of guilt.

  “I do wish you would. In fact, you should, as you now administer the trust. However, you must never reveal that.”

  “Will Aunt Alice spill the beans?” asked Snow, horrified.

  “I’m inclined to doubt that she is received by the Ladies Brandel,” said Mr. Noonan blandly. “Miss Teasey, of course, had the excuse of long acquaintanceship and a mutual interest in G and S.”

  “Mother sang G and S in the States,” said Snow with the air of one springing a tremendous surprise.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You do?” Snow was utterly downed.

  “Miss Teasey told me. And, as her heiress and also someone keen on G and S, it would be quite normal for you to pay them a call. Incidentally, the G and S Society here is very good. They give a season every year in December.”

  “Mom, think of the effect if Irene Teasey appeared again.” Snow’s eyes went round in anticipation of the reaction.

  “For mercy’s sake, Snow, we won’t be here in December. But, Mr. Noonan, suppose they do contest the will…”

  “Let’s worry about that if they do, Mrs. Teasey.” Just then is phone rang. “Yes, please, tell them I’ll be with them shortly.” he turned back to me. “They might try to contest the will but succeeding is another matter entirely.”

  “How long would probate take?”

  “A month or two more, with luck.”

  “Good heavens. That long?”

  “In Ireland, the only thing that moves quickly is the weather.” He shook my hand, very warmly, and Snow’s, with a grin, and Simon’s, man-to-man. “Don’t hesitate to ring me if you’ve anything else that puzzles you about the way we do things in Ireland.”

  “Where do the Ladies Brandel live?” asked Simon. Mr. Noonan grinned. “In Stepaside, in a cottage called Innisfree. It’s rose-covered, with a blue gate set in a yew hedge.” There followed a rather complicated set of directions, ending with the usual “You can’t miss it.”

  I could and did. As Simon pointed out the third time we retraced the route, if we’d been walking we’d’ve seen the neat little gate, but in a car, zip, turn your head, and you’re past.

  One of the Ladies was in the garden, weeding the roses, and the other quickly appeared from the house. They were undeniably twins: Lady Maud the elder, we were soon apprised. They were tiny, coming no higher than Snow’s shoulder, with bright faces, smooth-skinned despite their advanced years, and sparkling eyes that twinkled young. Their welcome, when they discovered our identity (indeed, once the twins appeared, they seemed to assume who we must be), was ecstatic.

  “But, my dear, I nearly fainted when I heard your voice … that dear familiar tone …” I think it was Lady Maud—yes, Lady Maud had been weeding …

  “So like dear Irene’s. How extraordinary!” Lady Mary chimed in, her voice slightly deeper than her sister’s. “That’s why I rushed to the door. Because, although we know dear Irene has passed on,” and there was a delicate dab at her eyes, “you sounded so like her … The heart does hope …”

  “We do miss her visits so much …”

  Nothing would do but that we come in and take a cup of tea.

  “One only needs the excuse, my dears, and I’ve done my chore for the day,” said Lady Maud, briskly stripping off her gardening gloves and placing them neatly in the wicker basket with her tools. “If you’d just drop these in the potting shed, dear,” and she handed the basket to Simon, who trotted off. “On the bench, dear boy,” she called after him, then beamed at me. “Such a nice child. So kind, so handsome.”

  I caught Snow’s eyes as we entered, for I had a feeling of Brobdingnagian trespass into another era, a wonderland. Everything in the room was scaled to the size of its residents, from the diminutive Victorian sofa and chairs to the slightly lower tables with their exquisite pieces of Dresden china and silver ornaments. Even the fireplace was miniature.

  As one, Snow and I moved to the sofa, which looked sturdier than the delicate chairs. A miniature Empire clock daintily chimed the half-hour. Before I could summon up a reason not to partake of their hospitality, Lady Mary and Lady Maud had each brought out a small tray, one with tea accouterments, the other with plates of bread and butter (sliced by the millimeter), fruitcake, and tiny iced lady cakes.

  Simon loomed massively in the doorway and instinctively seemed to fold up his large and manly frame. I didn’t know how to warn him tactfully from the delicate furniture but then Lady Maud was having him clear one small table for the tea and place another on her right for the goodies.

  Lady Maud smiled her thanks. “Such a nicely mannered young man, you must be very proud of him, Mrs. Teasey—or do we still address you as ‘Mrs. Stanford’?”

  “Don’t you remember, Maud dear? Young Irene resumed her maiden name,” said Lady Mary, her smile approving. “Remember how thrilled Irene was. Such a compliment, my dear, you’ve no idea how gratified Irene was that you wanted to be Irene Teasey again.” Lady Mary spoke with a lilting quality.

  “It’s almost as if—if you’ll pardon me, dear Mrs. Teasey—Queen Irene is dead! Long live Queen Irene!” Lady Maud’s tiny hand was raised in a regal gesture.

  “Long live the queen on her queendom!” cried Simon and Snow with outrageous spontaneity, and the Sisters Brandel applauded, their small hands pattering.

  “Irene was overjoyed, my dear,” said Lady Maud, her lovely eyes swimming with unshed tears, “to think that you too would occupy her queendom.”

  “I’m actually very humble and embarrassed, Lady Maud,” I said, because I’d become increasingly uncomfortable in the midst of this gentle jubilation. “I mean, I’d never even met my great-aunt. And for her to leave me everything …”

  “To whom else would she leave her queendom?” they demanded in indignant duet.

  “To those grasping sisters?” asked Lady Maud. />
  “Or their namby-pamby daughters?” Lady Mary was appalled.

  “Now, Mary, there’s that quite charming child …”

  “She’s a granddaughter.”

  “Of course, how could I forget…”

  “When you’ve seen as many generations as you must have” said Snow, “it must be awfully difficult to keep them straight.”

  “The two ladies beamed at my daughter; then Lady Mary leaned over and patted one of the long black curls.

  “Snow White—how very, very like the illustrations in our nursery books, so many years ago.”

  Snow was startled. “How did you know my nickname?”

  “Oh, my dear child, we know so much about you.” Lady Mary’s twinkle now included Simon. “So to speak, we are very close despite only meeting today. Twins are that way, you must know.”

  Then all four of them began one of those disjointed dialogues in what I had long ago termed “twin short-speech.” For a bit I was totally ignored, and pleased to be.

  “My dear, if you had to be burdened with children,” said Lady Maud, “at least you managed the felicity of twins. In our day it was a shocking breech of etiquette for any well-born lady to produce twins.”

  “Nanny was mortified,” said Lady Mary.

  “Not half as much as Papa,” added Lady Maud, and there was a dry, almost harsh quality to her voice. She turned to me. “You must never reproach yourself, my dear, over the terms of Irene’s will. Ah, I see it has worried you.”

  “I had no idea of her intentions.”

  “She didn’t intend that you should, my dear Irene … if I may …” Lady Mary picked up the conversation, laying a gentle hand on mine for permission to address me familiarly. “She wanted it to be such a surprise. A welcome surprise. Your being another Irene Teasey, your children, not to mention the fact that you too had sung Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, all and every single one of these considerations served to reinforce her sense of the fitness of her bequest.”