A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  Hugh approached Wilmot, whom he had met already. The conversation naturally turned to business, but she was too preoccupied to want to join their talk. She took a seat at the end of the table, feeling like a ghost herself.

  Finally, Wilmot approached and said, ‘I have closed the warehouses today as a mark of remembrance. You will wish the trade to carry on tomorrow as usual, will you?’

  ‘I expect so. Do what you think is best. My father trusted your opinion.’

  ‘You are most kind. I take it you will wish trade to continue – under your orders, or those of your future husband of course.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ It was as though she was thinking underwater. She agreed simply because it was easier than to organize her thoughts.

  ‘Good. We will carry on exactly as if Mr Leviston were still there, until you are ready to instruct us. Greeting seems to be in somewhat of a hurry – he has invited all the beneficiaries of your Father’s will to assemble at his chambers, so I will see you the day after tomorrow. As executor, he tells me he has written to your cousin already to inform him of your father’s death.’

  ‘How kind,’ she managed. Wilmot continued to look at her, so she said, ‘It is a shame Mr Greeting could not stay, for I see we have enough biscuit here to feed half the city.’

  ‘Then if you don’t mind me saying, why not do so? I know the custom of funeral dole is a little out of favour, but it would be better than it going to waste. And it would show generosity on your part and increase your father’s good name.’

  ‘I suppose so, it’s just –’

  ‘I know. It’s too much to think of. Don’t worry, I’ll organize it. Show me to the kitchen.’

  Elspet gave a nod to Martha, who led him below stairs.

  Whilst he was gone, Hugh came to say his farewells for he was to travel that night for some business in York. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry to leave you, but I’m afraid I cannot delay. It took my father six months to set up this meeting with the furrier’s guild.’

  She was disappointed he was leaving. She needed someone there, for what exactly she did not know, just someone to be there.

  ‘I will come back as soon as ever I can,’ he said.

  She went to the hall with him and he embraced her, holding her tight to his chest. She was aware that the whole assembly was looking at them through the open door from the dining hall, so she pulled away. ‘Send a message when you have met with Greeting,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the day after tomorrow, so I’ll write perhaps the day after that. Soon, anyway.’

  ‘God bless and keep you.’ Hugh kissed her hand.

  She took her handkerchief from her chatelaine, feeling somewhat tearful, and watched him head out of the front door to his waiting carriage. The chief of the mourners then made their excuses to be gone, seeming to take Hugh’s departure as a cue.

  But Wilmot was as good as his word. Before long, a trestle draped in black had been erected outside on the green with black escutcheons and drapes hastily pulled from inside. Great torches were lit against the impending dark. The servants, clad in their black gloves, cheerfully dispensed the dole to a great crowd, who had been drawn by the ringing of a large handbell. Even the poorest of them feasted on spice cakes and tit-bits of dried fruits washed down with burnt claret or Malaga sack.

  Elspet saw the servants’ flushed and merry expressions from the window, as they jested with their wives and neighbours in the light of the setting sun. Why do they never show me those faces? she thought.

  As she watched, a straggle-haired woman from the widow-house nearby raised up her cup and shouted, ‘A toast to Mr Leviston, a fine and generous gentleman as ever there was!’ And she set to dancing, hitching up her skirts and persuading the next person to cling to her apron, till all were dancing in a long snaking line.

  Elspet looked out, troubled. Pray God the stone was pressed safely down on the grave in the chancel, for if not, Father would surely be turning in it.

  Chapter 13

  ‘So sorry, my dear.’ Greeting pointed vaguely in the direction of the vacant chair in front of him.

  Elspet dipped her head to the assembled gentlemen and made her way past the knot of chairs and curious glances. She knew her eyes were still red with crying, but hoped the veiled cap shadowed her face.

  There was little room to stop to exchange a word, for there were already a number of others bottled together in the stuffy upstairs room for the reading of the will. Why, half of Leviston’s Lace must be there. Mr Wilmot raised his hat to her as she passed to take the chair at the front near Greeting’s desk. Behind her, Martha sidled to the back of the room squeezing past the chairs to sit with the other servants.

  Greeting made a eulogy to her father in which he portrayed him as a big-hearted, affable companion; ‘as genial a fellow as one could hope to meet’ – a portrait which she uncomfortably failed to recognize. Father’s virtues were more subtle than that, one had to look hard to find them, buried as they had been under his books and his Latin and his somewhat laconic exterior. How he would have raised his eyebrow, had he heard himself described as a ‘fellow’! It bothered her that Greeting should have presumed to know her father in this way.

  ‘Well, gentlemen – and Mistress Leviston – we’ll proceed,’ he said.

  He cracked open the well-sealed document before him. There were a lot of legal pronouncements at the beginning, and she half listened with impatience, waiting for him to reach the nub of it. Obviously, Father would have made provision for Wilmot as his second-in-command and, possibly, he would have left portions for the masters of his trading vessels. She knew, however, that he would not have thought to remember Goodwife Archer from Norwich who organized the English lacemakers. Men were apt to forget the women piece-workers whose craft skills underpinned their trade. She began to compile a list in her thoughts, tallying those deserving folk who served Father’s interests and who should be rewarded.

  A sudden hush in the room as Greeting’s voice stopped talking. She looked up. He was staring at her with a quizzical expression on his creased face. He wiped his balding forehead with his sleeve. She glanced around the room. Martha had her hand over her mouth and a frightened look in her eyes. Everyone else was looking at her.

  ‘Pardon me,’ she was alerted by a quivering tension in the air, ‘but would you be so good as to repeat that?’

  Greeting’s eyes flicked down at the document before him. Wilmot pressed his hand on her arm. ‘Leviston’s Lace goes to his son and you both,’ he said gently. ‘The estate entire. To you and to Zachary Deane.’

  She heard the words, but could not make meaning from them. The bafflement must have shown on her face for Wilmot mouthed the words very slowly as if speaking to an infant. ‘Mistress Elspet, you understand – Zachary Deane is not your cousin. He is your brother. Your half-brother. Wish it were not so, but there it is. The business is to go to you both. But not the house. Your father knew you were provided for, see. Read her that sentence again, won’t you, Greeting, about her wedding?’

  Elspet leaned forward to catch Greeting’s voice. He read in a sing-song tone which made her father’s words sound even less like they had issued from his pen. The room was totally still, everyone appeared to be holding their breath.

  ‘. . . as my daughter Joan has no need of worldly goods. My daughter Elspet is provided for by her marriage to Hugh Bradstone, so I bequeath to her the personal things as found in my chamber and twenty pounds as a gift to go to my first grandchild. The business is to be shared equally between said daughter and my only son, Zachary Deane. West View House to go to my son entire, in fitting recompense. May God forgive me for the wrongs I did him and his mother.’

  Martha gasped in the corner of the room. Elspet turned to look and Martha pulled out a kerchief and pressed it to her eyes.

  She must have misunderstood. ‘Are you saying that I am to share my inheritance with my cous
in?’ Her voice echoed in the room.

  ‘My condolences, Mistress Leviston, I can see this is another shock,’ Greeting said, ‘but I am sure your cous –’ he paused and licked his lips, ‘your brother – will be delighted when he hears of his good fortune, and that you will be able to come to an amicable arrangement together . . .’ His voice tailed away as he struggled to find something else to say.

  She smoothed her skirts on her knee with a habitual gesture. She noticed her boots protruding from under her hem, the pattern of stamped holes in the leather. Everything was normal. And yet. She licked her lips, but no words would form. Her mouth was dry as tinder.

  ‘We have sent letters to Mr Deane,’ Greeting said hurriedly. ‘As you are aware, he is on a Grand Tour. We have sent to France and also to Spain, where I am told he is next due to arrive . . . I am sure he will return as soon as he knows what a terrible misfortune has befallen your father, as a good son should.’

  ‘A good son?’ She almost choked on the words. Anger rose in her chest, as suddenly as a wound that spurts blood. She stood up. ‘Oh yes, I am sure he will be back, like the bent penny he is.’

  She approached the desk and was annoyed to see Greeting step back away from her. ‘You had better fetch him home,’ she spat, hardly aware of what she was saying, ‘because I will fight this. I am not giving away my home to some bastard brother.’

  Greeting shook his head. ‘It is watertight, Mistress Leviston. It cannot be revoked.’

  ‘Who signed it?’ She lunged for the paper, but he was too quick and swiped it away from her reaching hand.

  ‘It was I. I and your father’s friend, Mr Tenter.’ He held the parchment aloft.

  ‘Tenter.’ She almost choked on his name. He was sitting behind her. She turned to him, ‘You and Greeting cooked this between you. Why? Why in God’s name? I thought you were a family friend. How could you have stood there and let my father sign this?’

  ‘’Tis not our business to interfere in a man’s wishes. We must abide by what he thinks fitting, if he is the one with the purse, as well you know.’ Tenter nodded around the room as if to garner support from the assembled men.

  She rounded on them all. ‘When was this? This is Zachary’s doing. My father would never have agreed to such a thing without coercion. He pressed him, did he not?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Greeting said, ‘your father told me he was to know nothing about it. I regret to say, I think you will find it is all in order. He altered it only a few weeks ago. Your father was not to know his death would be so sudden. He thought you would be already wed to Mr Bradstone by the time the will would be needed, and that your assets would be enjoined to his. He felt it was a good alliance for all three. And I’m afraid it is binding. At least, as far as the law is con—’

  Another voice interrupted, ‘And have I understood correctly, the lace business – all the warehouses and the stock – they are not to go to his daughter solely, but to the son, Zachary Deane, as well?’ Wilmot attempted to clarify the position.

  ‘That is so. It belongs to both under the law of inheritance. Both must sign for joint ownership before the monies can be released, and before any workers can be hired or dismissed. There can be no disputing it as far—’

  ‘– as the law is concerned.’ Wilmot said this with contempt, but stood and swung his hat on to his head. ‘I trust, Mr Greeting, that you will do all in your power to ensure that Mr Deane returns as soon as possible, and that he will allow Mistress Leviston to remain at West View House until she is married.’

  ‘Well, I . . . yes, yes . . . of course.’

  ‘Now, Mistress Leviston,’ Wilmot spoke directly to her, ‘I suppose neither of us has any need to remain. I suggest you sign for your due settlement and whilst we await the return of Mr Deane, I shall escort you and your maidservant home.’

  ‘If you think I am signing such a travesty, then you can think again. I will not consent to tie my good name to . . . to . . .’ She fixed Greeting with a stony glare. ‘Find my cousin and have him report to my lawyer.’

  ‘Your lawyer’s name?’ Greeting asked.

  She could not answer, for she had no answer. She simply wrenched her cloak from the pegs at the door and, ignoring Wilmot, ran down the stairs. Behind her she heard the ‘tap tap’ of Martha’s wooden-soled shoes as she hurried after her, running to keep up. Elspet was breathless but did not pause until she was in the carriage. She slammed the door shut.

  ‘Drive!’ she ordered Broadbank.

  ‘Where to, mistress?’

  ‘Just drive, damn you.’ He jerked into motion leaving Martha standing gawping on the road.

  His carriage. It was no longer hers. Nothing belonged entirely to her any longer. It would all have to be marched past the eyes of Zachary Deane. A man she loathed and despised. She let the streets pass by her in a blur before Broadbank, obviously thinking she had lost all reason, slowed and stopped. He climbed down and came and peered in at her through the window.

  ‘Mistress?’

  ‘Home,’ she croaked, but the word near choked her. They passed Greeting’s chambers again and stopped. An ashen-faced Martha dragged the door open and slunk into the opposite seat. Elspet could not look at her. The thought of Zachary lording himself in her chambers with his sack-swigging friends was too much to bear. As they approached the front door, she felt for the keys at her waist, like an intruder in her own home. He would not get away with this, she thought. Immediately, this thought was followed by a picture of her father’s face. Oh Father, what in heaven’s name possessed you?

  Chapter 14

  Time went by, and still there was no word from Greeting that her cousin – she would never call him brother – had any plans to return from abroad. She did not dare to hope that some miracle might have occurred and that Zachary had been lost somewhere; that he had been killed on some foreign soil and would never come back.

  During the weeks of waiting she continued to fulfil the household duties, take care of servants’ needs, and listlessly prepare a trousseau for her wedding. She still had not written to tell Hugh. She did not know where to begin. A bastard brother was not something he would be glad she had inherited, of that she was sure.

  The stonemason sent notes and questions about her father’s memorial, but she was too bitter to think of it. Another query had just arrived. She stared at it blankly before tearing it into small pieces and dropping it into the fireplace.

  Though the windows let in shafts of the morning sun, she was still cold. She rubbed her hands together to warm them. How could he have done this to her, her own father? She would never be able to tell Joan that Father must have gone with some other woman, whilst Mother had patiently waited at home. Greeting would give her no more information. But she knew Mother must have known. And the thought that she had known, but had borne it, twisted in her heart.

  Father had become mysterious and unknown; the memory of him as a faithful family man had disintegrated, like food turned to cinders. She heard Jakes scratching and whining at Father’s chamber door again, as if to ask, where is he? She got up and went to look. At first she could not bear to move the dog away, her throat was wrung tight. But when he did not stop his whimpering and scratching at the threshold, she shouted at him and smacked him until he cowered away, his tail between his legs.

  She was instantly sorry, and fussed him and petted him until he licked her hand, looking up at her with his liquid-brown eyes.

  What am I becoming? she thought, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Come on, Jakes lad,’ she said, fondling his ears. She grabbed the leads from the hooks and snapped his on to make up for it, and went to fetch Diver, who bounced up before her just as he always did.

  ‘Will I come too?’ asked Martha, appearing in the hall.

  ‘No, no. I shall just walk to the common and then return. I need a little air. Jakes will guard me, won’t you, lad?’

  ‘Very well, mistress.’

  She let the dogs pull her down the street. She pas
sed a few people but they nodded politely or stepped out of her way with a raise of the hat. When she got to the common she let both dogs off the lead and let them race around after each other in the sunshine. Diver started immediately digging for moles, the earth flying up behind him. She barely saw them, for she was too deep in thought.

  What on earth would Hugh say when he learned he was not to receive this house or business as dower, and that she must have that bastard Zachary Deane’s say-so before she could so much as buy a new pair of bootees? With Father gone there was no man to fight her cause. It was strange, this feeling of rootlessness, as if without a man to vouch for her she was floating somehow unattached to the ground.

  A message came to say Hugh was back in London, but Elspet’s stomach was churning as Hugh’s immaculate carriage drew up a few days later in the yard. He smiled and bowed low as usual on meeting her. He looked more handsome than ever and for a moment her heart lifted just to see him. Martha bobbed from foot to foot in excitement and cast her a complicit wink from behind the door as if to wish her good fortune.

  He was far too much of a gentleman to ask directly after the will, but she knew she must tell him, so she sat him down, mustered her courage, and he listened carefully.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hugh,’ she said. ‘The house is Cousin Zachary’s alone, the business, and all his assets jointly held. We both must sign for them, and nobody can find him. It’s a disaster. Only what is in Father’s chamber is to come direct to me as a keepsake – and I think there is naught of value in it, just his books, his nibs and his timepieces . . .’ Her voice rose as she spoke.

  ‘But it will make little difference to us, surely?’ Hugh said. ‘Zachary is still family, is he not? And you and he were ever cordial, so I see no reason why our two businesses should not continue to grow together just the same. You will be able to visit with him here, whenever you like. And, in truth, I have land and wealth enough. Land and wealth, but no wife.’