The Rich Are with You Always

by Malcolm Macdonald

  "You will arrange for Monsieur Colbert to call once again to collect his money. You will arrange that he sees Monsieur and Madame Corneille—especially her. Do this early tomorrow morning when her wits are at their slowest—that sort of creature. Does Colbert know of this so-called wedding?"

  "'E knows it is only fun."

  "You will suggest that it was perhaps not fun. You will suggest that if he wants his money, he must now press very hard for it from the Corneilles—who will probably inherit."

  When Gaston had gone, John, smiling broadly for the first time since his arrival, said, "Thank God you're on our side!"

  "It will drive Madame Custom-house-Goods to distraction," Nora said. "She will not turn to her husband for advice; she clearly considers him a fool. Perhaps…if you were nearby?"

  "How long a fuse do you usually burn?" the doctor asked Nora.

  "Very quick. If it's like the three previous, it'll be before dawn."

  They brought in a daybed for the doctor. He took off his shoes, wrapped his feet in a towel, drank a small glass of brandy, and fell almost at once into a wheezy, bronchitic slumber. Nora dropped into a fitful state, neither truly awake nor truly asleep.

  A further twinge awoke her just before the midwife came. Honorine, the maid from La Gracieuse, was with her.

  Nora sat up, determined not to sleep again until after the birth, thinking that sleep, or even a succession of fitful dozings, might only prolong the labour. She reread part of The Three Musketeers, paragraph by paragraph, first in French from Rodie's copy, then in English from her own. It absorbed but did not tire her mind.

  Fun for all and all for fun! she thought. There would be no more "fun" for years.

  In the small hours John tore up his tenth letter and came back upstairs. He put his ear to her door and heard only the snores of the doctor and midwife and the crisp rustle of a turning page. He went on to the door of the Corneliuses' room.

  "Would I intrude?" he asked.

  Sarah smiled wanly and pointed to the chair on the opposite side of the bed, nearest the door. He went to it and sat down.

  It was not death but the immobility of death that struck him as so incongruous in Tom's face and body. He had never seen them still for above a quarter of a second in life.

  Sarah cleared her throat. The noise prompted him to speak. "There was many a delightful hour he brought me. Aye. And to how many hundred others? Aye, a rare man. You'll be proud to carry his name."

  She nodded.

  Some minutes later he asked. "Will you stay? Or sell up and go back to England?"

  She frowned.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Perhaps you'd not want to talk of it yet awhile."

  "No." She sighed. "It must be faced. The inn, this inn, is not in fact paid for. So there'll be no selling up. Yes, I think I will go back to England. Start again somehow."

  "You will forfeit the deposit you paid."

  There was another long silence before he spoke again. "I have a large sum of money from Mr. Cornelius." And he explained how Tom had brought the money to Stevenson's London office. He did not say how much it was though.

  "It's so like him," she said. "He leaves everything—left everything of that sort for another day. If it was for the comfort of a guest or for the smooth running of the Tabard, nothing could be done too speedily. But if it was accounts or lawyers' work or…"

  "Or getting wed," John fished.

  She smiled, not taking the bait. "He'd put it off and put it off."

  "I hope there is a will."

  "I doubt it," she said.

  He was silent again, but not restful this time. If there was no will, all the rules would change. The church courts would handle the estate, and the Stevensons would be obliged to explain their involvement in what must seem very strange business.

  "Why?" she asked, sensing the tension in him.

  "If he's intestate, you have no power…" He stopped. "Let's talk about it later."

  "No. There has already been too much putting off."

  "Very well. If he's intestate, the ecclesiastical courts will decide what to do with the estate. Not you."

  She sat up at once, white and rigid. "I'd sooner burn every banknote with my own hands than let them touch one pound of it."

  "Ah," he said, astonished at her anger. He gave an embarrassed laugh and shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  "I'm sorry," she said, looking not the least apologetic. "Tell me. I want to know now. You are sure you're right?"

  "Very sure." He was fascinated at the sudden intensity of her interest. "Well, the church courts appoint an administrator, usually the intestate's closest friend. He takes all reasonable steps to alert creditors, who are allowed a year to press any claim. At the end of the year, he divides the remaining estate according to a formula. Real estate goes to an heir, or, failing an heir is forfeited to the crown. Possessions and money go half to the widow, the remainder among the children or other kinsmen. If there be none, half goes to the widow, the rest to the crown."

  "But he has died in France," she said. "His home is here."

  "French law cannot extend to property in England."

  "The ecclesiastical courts!" she said bitterly. "There is no other way?"

  "None. I will do anything lawful or that can be made to appear lawful. Anything you wish," he said, "but only because I conceive the money to be morally yours in any case."

  She sat like a carving, smiling, her eyes on Tom's face once more.

  "And," John went on, "because if, when he handed over the money, your Tom had said, 'Should anything befall me until all our business is legally settled…' I feel no doubt as to how he would have ended that sentence." There was more passion in his voice than he intended—not than he felt, but than he intended. He went on: "And if you had thrown it all away, you'd have done his life, his work, his memory, the biggest insult you could."

  It was her turn to stare at him in silence and astonishment.

  "I may say it now, I suppose. Now that you've come to sense." His smile brought back the warmth between them. She smiled too, as he had not seen her smile since that evening in Boulogne. A secret smile.

  There was a noise from Nora's room. He strained his ears for more. They heard the midwife's voice, then Dr. Grimble's. "I think it's starting," John said.

  "Is it worse for you or for her?"

  "Oh, it's not bad for her. She usually has an easy time. She rides to hounds so much. It gives her the muscle to stay in control."

  "Ah!" Sarah said, embarrassed. "How…how…" She could not think of a suitable adjective.

  But he did not even notice. Every fibre of him waited on each sound from across the corridor. She watched him withdraw in all but body from their room. Suddenly she wanted to help, to do anything to reduce or shorten his anxiety. She could not share it—not as he felt it; and she could not bear to see him shoulder it alone.

  "Shall I go and see?" she asked. "I'll come back and tell you." The intensity of her need to help him astounded her. It was more than a need; it was a compulsion. She stood up.

  The move brought him back to his surroundings. He looked at her, amazed, as he collected himself. "No, no," he said. "It's early yet." With a great act of will he cut himself off from all preoccupation with Nora's room. "So you will go back to England," he said affably, picking up the first bit of their conversation he could remember. "You know you are welcome to stay with us in Yorkshire for as long as you wish. Mrs. Stevenson would be delighted, I'm certain. We both would, but she especially."

  To his—and her—utter dismay she began to cry. He stood up, bewildered. "Come!" he said, trying to be jocular. "Would it be as bad as that!" He moved toward her.

  She laughed through her tears but did not stop crying. "You are so good," she stammered. "Both of you."

  Tentatively, he put a hand on her bowed shoulder and squeezed. "You wouldn't be alone," he said.

  Still hiding her face she stood and leaned into him. "There," he said. "If it's g
rief, don't stint it. Let it go. It will pass." He put an arm around her, hating himself for the erotic urges the move awakened.

  She cried a long time while he stroked her back and spoke trivial comfort. Then, when she had almost wound down, he said, "What do the ecclesiastical courts mean to you?"

  The predawn birds had sung to silence and a band of dark green was eating up into the black of the eastern skyline when the baby gave its first cry. It was neither loud nor startled and it soon ceased.

  John, now standing at the window, grasped the curtain in his fist and held it to his mouth. His lips moved in prayer. There was only silence.

  Sarah stood shakily and went across the corridor. In moments she was back, smiling hugely. "All's well," she said. He did not turn until the words were out. "A boy," she added. "All present and correct."

  He took her hands in his and shook them and shook them again, unable to speak his joy and relief. "A boy!" he said. "That's three in a row."

  Sarah giggled. "He has a little crease in the palm of his hand, in the shape of an anchor. The midwife says you must call him Clément."

  "Clement," John said experimentally, giving it the English pronunciation. "Clement Stevenson. It will do."

  Ten minutes later he was allowed in to see Nora and the boy.

  "You've done it again, love!" he said, his joy once more at a peak.

  She was exhausted but happy, very close to sleep. "I always feel so sorry for you," she told him, barely above a whisper. "Nothing to do but wait. You've done a lot of waiting lately."

  He grinned and patted her hand. "I've done aught more this while," he said. "I had a long jaw with Mrs. Cornelius, who I fancy now sees sense—your way. I fancy too she'll be stopping with us at Thorpe while she finds her feet."

  Nora, too tired to speak her pleasure at this news, gripped his hand, closed her eyes, and smiled. "Do you remember," she asked, "how I joked about 'a birth at a death'? How grim!"

  "He's a grand little fellow," John said, looking at the baby for the first time—a damp, shrivelled, unprepossessing bundle of self-will, he thought. Only his conscious mind, saying yours—your flesh, enabled him to handle the boy with the outward demeanour of a proud parent; but all his love was for Nora.

  "Was it bad?" he asked.

  "Never easier," she said. "He's littler than the other three were."

  "About three weeks early, I'd say," the doctor added. "But he's breathing all right. Bit of glue in his nose but that'll come away."

  A harder, more everyday glint came into her eyes. "Well?" she said, her tone suggesting that he might have raised the subject without her prompting. "How's the old firm of Nature, Fate, and Company?"

  "I've spent the night with Mrs. Cornelius."

  She raised her eyebrows, accepting it as a joke.

  "Yes, I think she'll be coming to stop with us—'indefinitely,' as someone once said."

  "It would solve many problems," she said delicately. "And how is the 'indefinitely' respectable lady?" She did not want to use the name in front of Honorine.

  "As I came in here, a very worried gentleman was being shown into their room." He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her. "I had better go and finish that business."

  Angry but muted voices were coming from the Corneilles' room as he passed the door; they interrupted one another in a way that reminded him of an opera. The vehemence seemed too charged to be real.

  Out in the courtyard his professional eye estimated the number of cobbles at around forty-five thousand. He walked the length and breadth of the yard slowly, heel and toe, idly checking the guess, biding his time.

  Before he had finished, a choleric little man, wrapped tightly in a cloak, came stalking out of the kitchen. He almost bowled John over, muttered a perfunctory "Pardon, M'sieu," and vanished through the archway to the street.

  Less than a minute passed before Madame Corneille, in obvious agitation, walked out into the courtyard. She did not see him, standing in the far corner by the coachhouse door.

  "Congratulate me, Madame!" he called. "I am the father of a fine new son!"

  She came toward him at once, as he had intended. Her congratulations were brisk but warm. "And Mrs. Stevenson, the deary?" she asked.

  "She too is well. In fact, I think it is time for me to return to her." He took one step before she sailed in front of him. When he stopped and looked puzzled, he saw the relief on her face.

  "Did you see that man?" he asked.

  "He came here. He says he is the owner of the inn and he has not been paid."

  John looked calmly at her, saying nothing, waiting for her to reveal more of her state of mind.

  "When I told him I was Thomas's aunt, he wanted me to pay. Me and Corneille!"

  John sighed, hinting at reluctant knowledge.

  "What do we make of it? Please, Monsieur Stevenson, if you have any notion of these affairs, I implore you to help me."

  Her imploring was most professional.

  "Madame," he said, even more reluctant, "I barely know or knew Thomas or Sarah Cornelius. I barely know you." She nodded, losing hope. "But," he added quickly, "I am a man of business. I see…certain signs."

  "What? What signs?" She was so avid he could feel her tremble.

  He took her arm and lowered his voice. "If I tell you," he said, "you will please to take credit for the discovery yourself. Mrs. Stevenson, you see, although she does not really know Sarah either, has naturally formed a great sympathy…"

  "Naturally. Naturally. I understand, m'sieu. Please. Be quick."

  Still reluctant but now grimly committed, he began. "In April, when I last stayed at the Tabard in London, I find that Thomas Cornelius has suddenly sold out and vanished. No one knows where he is. Some say they think he is in the west of England. I think that is odd. Some weeks later, Mrs. Stevenson and I, stopping the night in Boulogne, happen by the merest chance to meet Thomas Cornelius and a former maidservant from the Tabard, whom he introduces as his wife Sarah. That too is odd—or unexpected. He is very happy and he tells us that he has bought this inn at Coutances, and it becomes clear that he himself has deliberately spread this false tale of going to the west of England. Later that same evening, he asked me for some help over money. It was little enough he wanted and I was happy to oblige. And now it turns out that even the inn is not paid for." Madame Corneille hung on every word. "Put these facts together, Madame, and I ask you—does it not explain—or I should say, does it not perhaps explain—Mrs. Cornelius's eagerness to be free of the inheritance?" A flinty, cunning smile parted Madame Corneille's lips. John rammed home the keystone. "Remember that she has made her way in the world entirely by her own…" He waved his fingers, unwilling to supply the word. "She is no fool."

  "Ha!" Madame Corneille sneered. "And nor am I! I said it was a trap. Did I not say so! I was sure of it. A thousand thanks, m'sieu. It was only an instinct with me but I was right. My instinct and your reason, they make the case certain. Ha!"

  "Of course," John added, now beginning to withdraw, "I may be wrong. I may be doing her a great injustice."

  "No!" Madame Corneille was scornful, as if she were now the clever one and John the simpleton. "Not her. Not that one! Believe me, m'sieu. I know them. Oh, yes! Well, we shall stop that little game, just you see!"

  After breakfast Sarah came downstairs, tired and pale, bearing an opened note in her hand.

  "It's very strange," she said to John. "It's almost a legal document. From the Corneilles."

  "They have left," he told her. "I saw them go, quite early."

  "Yes. They say goodbye here. And they renounce entirely and unconditionally any claim they may have as heirs to Thomas. Why? Don't you find that odd? They didn't even wait for the funeral."

  "Not in the least. There was once a man who stood all morning in Lincoln's Inn fields offering to sell a five-pound banknote for a single golden sovereign—a four hundred per cent profit to the buyer."

  "I don't follow you."

  "No one bought. P
eople mistrust altruism and generosity. You frightened those Corneilles."

  She was shocked. "I hope you are wrong."

  "I could wish I were. But you remember that. If ever you want to make it easy for someone to accept your help, always stress the benefits the arrangement will bring to yourself."

  They went upstairs to Nora, who was suckling baby Clement. "Three weeks early and greedy," she said. "He's a Stevenson."

  Sarah sat beside her and admired the baby. "You must be very happy," she said.

  "I would be happier, Mrs. Cornelius, if you would come back to England and stay with us," Nora began. Then, seeing hesitation in Sarah's face, asked her what was wrong.