A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  Elspet shifted on the bench to move out of the filtering sun. Mr Wilmot was angry; he slapped a broadsheet from his satchel at the buzzing flies, and huffed and puffed, and it made her even more uneasy. After the men had gone back inside they waited hour after hour, and Martha dozed against the wall like a brown mouse, her bodice strings loosened and her mouth hanging half-open.

  ‘It was nice of the fencing master to offer us refreshment,’ Wilmot said, after a while. He untied his ruff to let some air get to his neck.

  ‘Yes, he was very generous,’ she said, thinking what a fine, imposing figure the fencing master was.

  ‘Your cousin is not going to change his mind. You must face it, Mistress Leviston. I see no point in us waiting here. We should go home.’

  ‘I have told him I will wait and I meant it.’

  ‘But he is as stubborn as you are yourself!’

  She flushed. ‘You can go if you wish.’

  Wilmot stood uncertainly, sighed, and then leaned back against the wall.

  She could not give up, not now. Not after all she’d been through on the journey. It was to be a battle of wills, that much was clear. She pressed her lips together and folded her arms. Well, so be it, he would see that she was not for moving.

  In the afternoon, the yard remained quiet, the only noise the sound of chopping on a wooden board from the kitchen window behind. The smell of rosemary drifted on the warm air.

  Mr Wilmot would not keep still despite the piercing heat, and paced up and down by the wall, peering out into the street and then looking up at the windows. When the sun crept lower and Zachary and the others still did not appear, he started to get agitated, but she ignored it. At the sound of the clash of rapiers and feet scuffing on the wooden floor from the balcony above, he caught her eye as if to say would she not give up waiting, but she set her mouth and looked away.

  What if Wilmot was right, and Zachary were to stick to his word? She would be waiting for nothing. Time passed. She drew out her rosary beads and threaded them between her fingers for comfort; they rattled on her lap, pale against her dark skirts.

  ‘Mistress Leviston.’ Mr Wilmot interrupted her thoughts. She turned to look at him again. He was very pale now, unlike his usual florid complexion. He swayed before her. ‘I must get indoors. It’s the heat, I think it’s making me ill.’

  She immediately stood so that he could sit, but he shook his head.

  ‘No, I must go and lie down. I am reluctant to leave you but I must go to our lodgings. You must give up this nonsensical vigil, and . . .’ he swallowed, staggered to the bench and collapsed on to it, head in hands.

  The back of his coat was dark with wet. Martha, with the sixth sense that servants have, was at his side in a moment. ‘I’ll find a pump,’ she said, ‘fetch water, and something cool to drink.’

  As she was about to go, Mr Wilmot leaned forward and retched over his shoes.

  Elspet and Martha hurried to the kitchen door and thumped loudly. An older woman in a Moorish veil opened the door and Elspet managed to explain with much gesticulating, and Martha anxiously peering from behind. The woman took one look across to Mr Wilmot and bustled over on her bare feet, calling behind her, ‘Luisa!’

  A girl came running out, wiping her hands on her apron, full of advice and concern when she saw Mr Wilmot slumped forward over his knees.

  Elspet helped him out of his coat, which was wringing with sweat. The old woman flapped her arms at the mess in the yard and ran away to fetch a pail and a broom to clean up. Luisa pulled open the door to the street and yelled something unintelligible, but Mr Wilmot let it all happen round him, as if he was barely there. Before they knew it, a donkey and cart had appeared to take him home and Martha and Luisa helped Mr Wilmot up. They asked if Elspet would go with him.

  There was a long moment’s pause, but she shook her head.

  ‘I wait,’ she said, ‘for Mr Deane. He is a student, with Señor Alvarez.’ They stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘You go,’ Luisa said.

  ‘No,’ she said, feeling guilt like a needle in her stomach, ‘I wait.’ She looked away from their accusing eyes.

  A servant was fetched to go with Mr Wilmot and Martha, and the clatter of the donkey and trap faded into the sounds of the hawkers’ cries, the church bells and the rattle of other more distant wheels. The old woman whispered to Luisa and shook her head, disapproving. Luisa eyed Elspet with suspicion before going back indoors. Elspet sat back miserably to wait.

  Shortly after, Luisa – now minus her apron and with her long hair let loose from its knot – hurried past. She nodded briefly at her as she left. ‘I hope your poor friend feels better soon,’ she said pointedly in Spanish.

  ‘Thank you,’ Elspet said, feeling conscience-stricken.

  Luisa ignored her and opened the door to the street and slipped through. She moved like a cat on her bare feet.

  If only I had her grace, Elspet thought. She felt staid and plain in her English boots, the sleeves of her taffeta gown pressed against her arms; the lace on the sleeves was a nuisance, it kept catching on hanging foliage wherever she walked.

  Luisa’s clothes were light and her skirts seemed to flow round her in vivid hues of yellow and red. She wondered how old Luisa was, and realized that they might be the same age, though she felt somehow aged enough to be her dowager aunt. The thought made her sad. After a half-hour Luisa returned with bundles of provisions, but did not speak, just let herself back into the house. Dusk was falling and inside someone had lit candles in the upper rooms. Elspet was alone in the courtyard.

  She had grown stiff from sitting so long, when there was a sudden commotion and a group of men descended the outside steps in a flurry of cloaks. The jangle of metal made her sit up straight. Zachary was bringing up the rear with a tall, moustachioed man. His face was alight with energy, he smiled at his companion and waved his arms in a demonstration of swordplay.

  She leapt up and planted herself at the door to the street. The men cast curious looks her way but passed through. As Zachary went by he dodged past, but she grasped his cloak to stay him. He ripped it from her grasp and pushed in front of his friend.

  ‘Zachary,’ she cried, ‘wait!’ But he had gone into the street.

  She looked out of the door and he was hurrying down the road into the gloom. ‘Zachary Deane!’ she shouted, ‘Zachary Deane! You will talk to me! You will talk to me or . . .’ One of the taller men turned back to look, but they all carried on like bulls, jostling each other down the street. She heard their laughter as they went.

  It was a moment before she could bring herself to move. She was panting as if she had been running. She let out a low moan. She had thought he would listen, if she wanted it enough. Things had always fallen into her lap if she wanted them enough, her father had seen to that. But her impotence was a shock. That she could not control the world, had no influence over her own destiny, that she held no sway over others, least of all Zachary Deane.

  She would have to accept it. That she would lose her home and control of the business. That she must rely on her bastard brother for everything. Mr Wilmot was right, she would have to go back to England.

  England. Homesickness hit her like a fist. She had a longing to be back in the cool chambers at home, with Jakes nosing his big brown head into her lap. She wanted to lift Diver up to her cheek and feel his squirming weight in her arms. The longing was so intense she had to lean against the wall, clutching her arms around her chest.

  ‘Señorita?’

  She looked up to see the white hair of the fencing master. She wiped her eyes, and started to apologize. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘Here.’ He offered a small flask. She shook her head. He uncorked it anyway and handed it to her with a gesture of encouragement. She put it to her lips. Brandy. The sting of it made her cough.

  ‘Ah, better,’ he said. ‘Come, sit a moment.’

  He took her arm and led her back to the bench in the courtyard. His grip was gentle
but firm. She allowed herself to be led. In the shadow of the vines the bench was in a deep cavern of black, but she could still make out the white of his hair and the whites of his eyes, though not his expression.

  ‘We will talk a few moments, then I will ask Luisa to accompany you home.’

  ‘You must wonder—’ she began.

  ‘Tell me about Zachary Deane,’ he interrupted.

  ‘I don’t know how to begin.’

  ‘At the beginning,’ he said.

  So she told him in halting Spanish about how Zachary came to them, how Father’s interest in him turned to obsession, about how she came to find out he was her half-brother. Señor Alvarez said nothing, just let her pour it all out. The fact that her Spanish was simple made it easier. The explanations were halting and spare, and it was easy to talk in the darkness to a stranger. It reminded her of confession, having the listening presence beside her in the dark. She even told him about her father’s mistress. When this evoked no reaction, she confessed her disappointment about her engagement to Hugh Bradstone.

  ‘So you see,’ she finished, ‘I came to try to persuade Zachary not to sell the roof over my head. Please, señor, will you speak with him for me? Persuade him to listen?’

  A pause. ‘I regret, but I cannot do that. I cannot interfere between you. Besides, I have only heard your truth. His might be something else entirely.’

  ‘But I’ve told you the truth!’

  ‘Ah, but truth has a habit of moving about, depending on who owns it. But I was interested to hear what you had to say. I am particularly interested in the parts of their lives my students disown. And Mr Deane is a man of many contradictions, is he not?’

  ‘I hardly know him. He spent more time with Father.’ She heard her voice crack.

  ‘You see him only as an obstacle to your inheritance. For me, well, he is probably one of the ablest students I have ever had. It is exciting for me to teach him. He could be a great swordsman.’ He paused a moment. ‘Yes, he has a feeling for it and the determination. But he does not take instruction well. He resists.’

  ‘He was like that with my father. But don’t ask me about his background because I simply don’t know. He won’t even speak to me about his past.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about him?’

  ‘Only rumours. The servants gossiped when he came to us, as you’d expect.’

  Señor Alvarez surprised her then by saying, ‘I met him in London once, he was asking me about training then, but we were interrupted. I remembered his face, the way his eyes lit up. He must want it badly to come all this way.’

  ‘In London? Oh. I did not know you had been to London.’

  ‘I had some business there, with a wine importer. I have a small vineyard. But the trade routes are too difficult at the moment, so in the end it all came to naught. But I remembered the little English firebrand. He needs discipline, that’s all.’

  Elspet could not have agreed more, though she was too polite to say so.

  Señor Alvarez was still speaking. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I don’t know. Zachary will not listen so I might as well go back to England, I suppose. Though heaven only knows what I shall do, with no home to go to . . .’ She swallowed.

  ‘Don’t rush. From the look of it your companion is not fit to travel. I would wait a few days until he is feeling better. It could be heat-sickness, or worse – the flux – and these maladies can take a few days to come out. If you remain in Seville a few more days you are welcome to come back and try to speak to Mr Deane again. But I’m afraid I cannot help you – it is up to the pair of you to resolve your differences.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for listening. It felt good to talk to someone.’

  ‘I’ll fetch Luisa, she’ll accompany you to a sedan.’ He stood then and went in through the kitchen door, emerging a few moments later with the Morisco girl carrying a lantern. ‘Where do you live?’ Luisa asked.

  ‘Near the new Alameda de Hercules? Across the river.’

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ Alvarez said. ‘Luisa will see you safely to a sedan.’ He lifted his hand in salute and she lifted hers in reply before following the glow of the lantern out into the twisting labyrinth that was Triana.

  Chapter 32

  After Elspet dismissed the bearers and went upstairs, Martha’s anxious face appeared over the banister.

  ‘He’s bad, mistress. Been vomiting, and he can’t keep anything down – not even herb tea. I’ve put a house slave to fanning him, but he looks hot enough to set the sheets afire.’

  She followed Martha to his chamber. Mr Wilmot was shockingly thin, pale as a wraith, now that she saw him lying there in just his shirt. His hair was damp with perspiration. When they had set off from England, he had seemed so solid and present somehow. Now he looked like he was melting to bones. He tossed and turned in a tangle of sheets and called piteously for Dorothy, his wife.

  ‘If he’s no better by the morning, we’ll have to find a doctor,’ Elspet said. Compassion for him washed over her. He had lost his livelihood because of her cousin. And how must it feel to be ill in a place where you cannot understand even the simplest conversation?

  She told the slave to fetch a damp cloth and Elspet sponged his face with a gentle touch over the skin still peeling from the sun. He groaned and pushed her away. After an hour or so she was so tired that her eyelids kept closing and her chin nodded to her chest. Mr Wilmot, too, finally slept.

  The following day, he was no better and, what was worse, Martha had succumbed to the same sickness. Both of them were abed, chamberpots on the sheets beside them.

  She asked at the apothecary’s for the physician, Señor Morcillo, and he called and bled them, and told her they should rest now and drink plenty of warm, weak ale.

  ‘Be assured, señorita. They will soon regain strength now,’ he said. ‘All they need is rest. But the quicksilver and antimony – I’m afraid it is not cheap, so . . .’ And he held out a bill for his fee.

  Elspet fetched her purse. It was worrying how little was left inside.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I have little coin today. Can you come back tomorrow?’

  ‘Very well. I’ll call and see how the señor does. They may need another draught, we’ll see.’ He bowed formally and left.

  When she went to visit Mr Wilmot and Martha in their chambers they groaned and begged to be left in peace.

  She needed money for the physician, and the week’s rent was due. Perhaps Señor Alvarez would have tried to persuade Zachary to see reason after all. A small bird of hope fluttered in her chest. She could do nothing further here; Morcillo seemed to think rest was the best remedy, so she would go to the fencing school again. Besides, Señor Alvarez had been kind, he would not turn her away. The thought of him produced a faint shiver of anticipation.

  Her feet were roasting in the black leather bootees she had been wearing all the way from England, and the undersides were holed now from use. On impulse, on the way to the fencing school she bought a pair of hempen sandals and, hoping her skirts would cover her naked feet, rid herself of the stiff boots.

  Nobody seemed to notice her feet, or that she travelled alone, with no retinue. Everyone was too intent on their own business. She walked with a spring in her step. The sensation of the breeze against her toes was cooling, and it felt a little wanton, even exciting.

  At Señor Alvarez’s she positioned herself in the same spot in the courtyard, just as she had the day before. A silhouette moving at the window informed her that the hawk-eyed swordmaster missed nothing. Luisa arrived with a basket of vegetables and bread balanced on her head and stopped to ask, ‘How is the señor?’

  ‘He is still poorly. My maid Martha too.’

  ‘Oh. They have seen a physician?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Huh.’ She pursed her lips and shook her head dismissively, as though this had answered all her questions. With a smooth movement she hitched the basket on to her hip, pressed the latch o
n the kitchen door, and disappeared into the gloomy interior.

  The yard went quiet, the only sound the scratch of a broom being wielded somewhere in the house. A few moments later, Luisa passed again, minus the basket, waved her arm airily and was gone out of the gate.

  Elspet sat to wait, feeling strangely liberated in her bare feet. From habit she passed her rosary beads through her fingers but she had lost the will to pray. She was nervous, and the fact that she had a few hours’ uninterrupted peace simply made her more restless. Her shoulders stiffened, she rubbed her temples and the back of her neck. But gradually the heat and silence soothed her. Small things took her attention: the curl of a vine leaf, the lace of shadows swaying over her skirts. Finally, to make up for her lost sleep, she dozed a little.

  A noise startled her awake.

  ‘Your companion is still ill?’ Señor Alvarez stood before her.

  She gathered herself hurriedly. ‘I’m afraid so. As is my maid. And I need Zachary to advance me something for the physician,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Señor Alvarez merely stated the fact. ‘If you are set on waiting still, you could use the library where you will be out of harm’s way. The men will be out here soon with their rapiers. Mr Deane will be busy until six o’clock. You may wait to speak with him, but you understand, I do not want the work interrupted.’ He said the word ‘work’ as if it had a capital letter. ‘Only at the midday siesta, or after we are finished in the evening. My apologies – we train long hours, it is necessary to build stamina.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, embarrassed that she was causing a nuisance. ‘Thank you for letting me wait here.’

  He smiled. ‘You are welcome. But come, we will go up. It will be cooler there, and you will find something to occupy you. This way – I’ll show you.’