by Cheryl Bolen
“My wife was indeed aggrieved over the terms of her uncle’s will. She was led to believe Mr. Hastings wished to groom her to relieve him of some of his duties.”
“It is my opinion,” she said shyly, “that Uncle Simon wished to see the world during his later years. . .” Her voice trailed off. Tears sprang to her eyes, tears for Uncle Simon and the dreams he had never been able to achieve. She managed to control herself from dissolving into a watering pot.
“I’m not surprised. He loved to talk about the world. He’d always wanted to see India.” Mr. Faukes grew solemn. “Such a pity. He was in the prime of his life. I don’t need to tell you how much I miss him. We met when he was but nineteen, and I was one-and-twenty. We accomplished many of our dreams.”
“Did Mr. Hastings tell you he intended to leave his share of the company to Mr. Ashburnham?” Adam asked.
Mr. Faukes shrugged, his lips pursed. “It was my impression as of late that he intended to leave everything to Miss Hastings, er, Mrs. Birmingham.”
Adam nodded pensively. “Can you think of anything that would have changed his mind?”
Mr. Faukes thought for a moment, shaking his head. “Not to my knowledge.”
“He was close to Ashburnham?” Adam asked.
“We’re both close to him. We work together six days a week, and he’s capable for one not of the highest intelligence.”
That would explain the comment in Uncle Simon’s letter about stupid people.
“Let me ask you this,” Adam said. “Can you tell me who Jonathan Booker and Sidney Wolf are?”
Mr. Faukes’ brows dipped as he appeared deep in contemplation. Then he slowly shook his head.
Adam expressed his thanks to Mr. Faukes and left. To her surprise, he choose not to interview James Ashburnham.
Once they had returned to the carriage, she asked, “Who are Jonathan Booker and Sidney Wolf?”
“The two witnesses to your uncle’s will.”
Chapter 9
"Where are we going?" his wife asked.
"To my solicitor's." He felt guilty that his obsession to investigate Hastings' will was keeping him from showing his bride the delights of London.
"For his advice on Uncle's will?"
"Yes." He peered from the window, glad they were ensconced in the coach on this blustery, gray day. At least it wasn't raining.
"Are you sure it's permissible for you to spend so much time away from your business?"
A smile eased across his face. "This is, after all, my honeymoon. Am I not entitled to time off from work?" He clasped her hand. "Our honeymoon. And I mean to show you some of London's sights. Tell me a place that holds allure for you."
She considered his question for a moment. "I should like to see Westminster Abbey."
Her response surprised him. "What is it about the place that appeals to you?"
She giggled. "Because I have an active imagination, I will be able to stand in the nave while my mind conjures a vision of kings' lavish coronations. I'll fancy myself one of those coronet-wearing peeresses who have a clear view of the sovereign slowly moving toward the altar, long robes flowing behind him, then departing the same route with an enormous crown on the royal head.
"And there's a maudlin streak in me that has always sought to see where the country's great statesmen and authors are buried. Ridiculous, I know."
"Not at all. Now for my confession." He paused as she looked up anxiously. "I've never been to Westminster Abbey. Your description has now kindled my desire to go there."
Since they had wed he'd taken up the practice of sitting next to her rather than across from her in the carriage. It was not at all unpleasant. He attributed the pleasant sensation to the light rose scent he had come to associate with her.
They crossed the Thames and before long were back in Holborn. His solicitor, Donald Emmott, did business in a building not more than a three-minute drive from Wycliff's establishment.
At Emmott's place of business, Adam and Emma disembarked and entered the building. In spite of the many years Emmott had worked for Adam and his brothers, this was the first time one of them had ever come here. When men were as wealthy as the Birminghams, those in their employ always came to them.
Adam's late father, who was the shrewdest man he'd ever known—despite not being a gentleman—had selected Emmott many years ago, and the solicitor's professionalism could not be surpassed.
As soon as Adam announced himself to Emmott's clerk, the solicitor fairly flew from his office to greet him. (Actually a man of Emmott's advanced years did not exactly fly, but he hobbled at a fast clip.)
Though the man must be close to eighty, his voice was strong and clear when he greeted Adam. Smiling broadly, he then turned to Emma. "And this young lady must be your lovely bride. I am, indeed, honored that Mr. and Mrs. Adam Birmingham have entered my establishment."
"Thank you, sir, for the friendly greeting," Adam said. "There's a matter regarding my wife's relative that we wish to ask you about."
"Please come into my office."
Unlike Wycliff, Adam's solicitor did not put a large desk between him and his clients. Emmott sat on an armchair near a cozy velvet sofa and invited the newlyweds to sit on the sofa. "Now what is the problem?" he asked. His white eyebrows dipped in concern.
Adam showed him Emma's letter from her uncle, explained that the uncle died before she arrived, and revealed his suspicions about the new will.
Emmott placed spectacles on his nose and quickly looked over it. Eyeing Emma, he asked, "May I keep this for a short time?"
She nodded her consent.
The solicitor then regarded Adam. "I believe you have every right to be skeptical. In fact, I'm shocked over Wycliff's unprofessionalism. If one of my living clients sent me a new will, I would demand they do it over under my supervision. Home-made wills are too easy to break."
"Break?" Emma asked. "Do you mean I can challenge the new will?"
"Indeed you can," Emmott said.
"Then will you?" Adam asked the solicitor.
"I will immediately. The challenge will have to be done in Miss, er, Mrs. Birmingham's name."
Adam was relieved. "I was hoping this was something you'd be able to do. We'd prefer that the so-called new owner not take possession of my wife's uncle's house."
She nodded. "It's next door to us."
"I wouldn't want a scoundrel living next door to me, either," the solicitor said.
"We don't know he's a scoundrel," she offered.
Adam was not as charitable as his wife.
Emmott stood. "Allow me to get your signature on some papers, Mrs. Birmingham. It will take a moment to prepare the documents."
Ten minutes later, Adam and his wife were ready to leave when Emmott said, "I have worked with a man who's an expert in detecting forged handwriting. I want him to compare your uncle's letter to the new will."
Adam pursed his lips. "I would like to see some samples of Ashburnham's handwriting to compare also. Perhaps I'll place a large order for Ceylon Tea."
Emmott nodded. "If Ashburnham's hand is the same which prepared the new will, our Mr. Coyle will most certainly be able to determine that."
"I had no idea there was such a thing as a handwriting expert," Emma said.
"It's yet to stand up in court, to my knowledge, but it can be most helpful in ferreting out fraud."
"What's next?" Adam asked.
"Since I am acquainted with Wycliff, I'm going to go around to his establishment, explain that I’ve been retained by Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham, and ask to see the new will."
Adam thanked him, shook his hand, and left.
When they returned to the carriage, he directed the coachman to take them to Westminster Abbey, then turned to his wife. "How did you like Emmott?"
She frowned. "I wish Uncle Simon had employed him instead of Mr. Wycliff—not that Mr. Wycliff did not seem to be very nice."
What a sweet nature his Emma possessed. His? Why did he think on th
is woman he barely knew as his? Granted, he did seem to have taken her under his care in much the same way one did a lost puppy. And, according to the law, she was now his. How daunting.
He settled against the seat back. "Now, my dear wife, I begin your exploration of London with a visit to Westminster Abbey."
She seemed impossibly young as she looked up at him, not at all like a woman who would attain her majority within a year. "Just riding along in your coach, taking in the sights and sounds of the Capital is amusement enough for me. I could never, ever tire of London. It's the most exhilarating place on earth, is it not?"
"I have little basis for comparison, but I believe you're right. At least that's what I am told. My brother William has traveled to every European capital, and he assures me that nothing compares to London in every respect, particularly in its vastness."
She sighed. "I wonder if I'll ever know my way around."
He squeezed her hand. "You won't need to. You will always have a skilled coachman at your beck and call."
A look of admiration swept across her sweet little face. "Because I've had the good fortune to wed the wealthy Mr. Birmingham."
It had always been his fear that a woman would marry him for his fortune. That was most undoubtedly the case at present, but it no longer mattered to him. It wasn't as if it were to be a real marriage. It wasn't as if he were going to fall in love with her. He was happy his fortune would help her achieve her dreams. Lord knows his dreams had been snuffed when Maria left him. He fleetingly thought of Maria's beauty, of her angel-like voice when she sung arias. He tried to recall any plans he'd ever had of making her his wife. Unaccountably, it had never crossed his mind to marry her. Even though he loved her very much. Was that Nick's influence? Nick had always stressed that gentlemen did not marry women like Maria.
Even in the early days of their love affair, he had been aware that Maria had taken many lovers before him. It hadn't bothered the callow youth he'd been. He'd rather fancied being with an experienced woman to polish off his . . . accomplishments. Now he was startlingly aware of her matrimonial ineligibility. And it bothered him. Because now he didn't care. He only wanted her back. Even if she had wed her Italian nobleman.
If she were to return now and beg his forgiveness, he would not only forgive her, he would marry her without a moment's hesitation.
Then he suddenly realized he would never be able to marry Maria. He was a married man. Even though Emma did not love him, he could not reject her. She was like an abused pup for whom he felt solely responsible.
He could not deny Emma evoked tender feelings in him. Not romantic feelings. Just tender feelings.
By the time they reached at Westminster Abbey he was mired in a morose mood. That she acted like an excited child, flitting from one section to the other, helped him shed his foul humor. He had thought she might be drawn to Poet's Corner, but the final resting place that mesmerized her the most was the plot where Pitt the Younger was buried. She stood there, observing it, a solemn look upon her face. "Our country's youngest-ever leader. How remarkable," she said somberly. "How tragic that he died in office at such a young age."
Adam swallowed. "Only six-and-forty. It was amazing that he took the highest office in the British Isles at the tender age of four-and-twenty."
She nodded. "I remember when he died, my Aunt Harriett cried. I had never before seen my aunt cry. In fact, I had never before seen her show emotion."
He frowned. "She must have been a Tory."
She whirled at him. "Whether he was a Tory or a Whig does not signify, sir. He was our country's leader, and his death left a huge void."
He held up a flattened palm. "I'm not arguing with you. It just so happens that the Birminghams have always supported Whigs. In fact, Nick has been persuaded by our brother-in-law, Lord Agar, to stand for Parliament as a Whig."
A huge smile brightened her face. "Capital! It's thrilling to think I shall be related, by marriage, to a Member of Parliament. We must help in his electioneering."
"All of us plan to. See, another good reason for me to marry. One more person to get behind my brother's candidacy."
"At least he has the fortune to wage a good campaign."
Adam nodded. "And Agar has always controlled the seat in Doncaster."
He moved to stand by the tomb of Charles James Fox.
"I really think the colonists have done this electioneering thing better than us," she said. "In their country, a man must represent the geographical area in which he lives. It's really quite silly that Nick will represent a district hundreds of miles from his home."
He was surprised—pleasantly so—that this young woman knew so much about political theory. The opinion she'd just voiced happened to echo his own. But that in no way diminished his desire to see Nick representing Newcastle in the House of Commons.
He nodded. "Perhaps one day our leaders will become enlightened."
Her gaze dropped to the final resting place of Charles James Fox. "Such a pity that two of our greatest statesmen ever died the same year."
"Yes," she agreed, her voice solemn. "At the time I felt as if a dark cloud hung over our country. I thought we would never again prosper, never again be led by such able leaders."
She placed a dainty gloved hand on his sleeve and spoke softly. "But time marches on, and fears subside, do they not?"
"They do."
"As does heartache," she said in a gentle voice that was barely audible.
He wished to God people would quit telling him he'd soon be over the broken heart Maria had inflicted upon him. That just could not be. No woman would ever again own his heart.
"I'm in such awe," she said excitedly. "To think I'm standing in the very place where centuries worth of kings have been crowned. I daresay this building looks much as it did during medieval times."
Having spent most of his life in London, he was seeing the metropolis with fresh eyes. This young woman was giving him a renewed appreciation of the city of his birth. He'd never realized how fortunate he was to live in a huge, diversified city in which so much significant history had left its mark.
"Tell me," she said. "Have you always lived in the Capital?"
He shrugged. "Once my father's fortune was secured, he purchased the requisite country estate. We went there a few times a year, though our principal residence was in London. South of the River Thames."
"That is not in the fashionable area, is it?"
"Not at all."
"Does your mother still live there?"
He shook his head. "My mother prefers the country. When she's not visiting her children —each of us maintains rooms for her—she lives at Great Acres."
He took her hand. "You've now met three of her four offspring. We were all raised to mimic the higher classes, according to my father's wishes. Our parents were . . . are . . . not of the same upbringing. I am preparing you for meeting my mother. Her voice is not cultured. She is far removed from what her children were created to be. She's not even Church of England!"
"I'm sure I will love her—even if she is an atheist."
He chuckled. "She's not an atheist—quite the opposite. She's a Methodist."
"Then you were raised a Christian?" A look of incredulity swept across her face.
"I hate to disavow your misconception about me—though I do confess that as an adult I've relaxed my religious fervor."
She let out an audible swish of her lungs. "I am happy you are not an atheist. "
"I beg you not say anything to my mother about my . . . infrequent church going. She is still having a difficult time accepting that her children are all Church of England." He gave a mock shudder. "Mama is exceedingly stern and terribly religious."
She smiled. "I believe, sir, you must be describing my Aunt Harriett! Though my aunt used the most pompous upper-class accent and would never attend a service that was not Church of England."
"I must not be nearly as charitable as you for I cannot say I'm sure I would have loved yo
ur aunt."
She giggled. "If I didn't owe her so much for raising me when I became orphaned, I probably wouldn't have loved her either. Sadly, I am probably the only living person who ever had tender feelings for my exceedingly stern aunt."
His brows lowered. "How did our conversation move to such topics?"
"I asked if you'd always lived in London."
She was blessed with a remarkable memory. "So you did." He offered his arm. "Have you seen enough?"
"I think so. It's not as if we can't come back." She stopped in her stride and looked up at him. "Though I know I will not normally be able to hoard your precious time."
He patted her hand. "I enjoy showing you London. You are aware of Dr. Johnson's remark about our city?"
She nodded. "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life."
She must be well read, too. "I suppose one has little to do in Upper Barrington other than reading."
"Provided one can get one's hands on great books. We have no lending library there, and the price of new books is steep. Fortunately, Sir Arthur allows me free use of his library."
"Then I daresay you've been subjected to tomes by long-dead Romans and Greeks."
"How right you are!"
"Where would you like to go next?" he asked as they moved out into the windy day.
"Do you suppose we could ride in Hyde Park?"
"We could, but it will be sparsely populated on so gray a day." And he would much rather display his new wife there after her fashionable new dresses were delivered. At least they would be inside a closed carriage today.
"I should still like to see it. If I knew anyone, I should be most woefully anxious to show off my handsome new husband."
Handsome new husband? He was never comfortable when hearing himself described as handsome. Nor was he comfortable being this woman's husband. Things had happened so quickly he had a difficult time adjusting to being a married man, to putting another's welfare over his own. He'd always been exceedingly selfish.
For Emma's sake, he hoped he did not revert to his former self. She had no one else in this huge, strange city.
