Jonas understood the concern he detected in her questioning expression. His visits to the kitchen were rare, and entering Mrs. Atwell’s domain naturally gave rise to apprehension. He glanced about the kitchen. Theresa was nowhere in sight. “I thought you might have a pitcher of lemonade.” He touched a finger to his throat. “I’m feeling a bit parched.”
Mrs. Atwell wiped her hands on her apron. “I can bring a tray to the library or the veranda if you’d like.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your work. Where’s Mrs. O’Malley’s daughter? Perhaps she could bring the tray.”
“She should return in a few minutes. She was helping her mother press linens, but I don’t mind stopping to prepare a cool drink for you.”
He waved her back to the worktable. “I wouldn’t think of it. Just have Theresa bring it to the veranda when she returns. There’s no hurry.” He didn’t wait for the older woman to object before leaving. He knew his servants well enough to realize Mrs. Atwell would prepare the tray, and if Theresa hadn’t returned to the kitchen in short order, Mrs. Atwell would go and find her. He’d made his wishes known; he expected them to be met.
He stopped in the library long enough to retrieve a book from the shelf. He didn’t want to read, merely present the appearance of a man relaxing with a book and anxious for a glass of lemonade. He chose a chair near the distant railing, where he could see if anyone approached.
Though he’d already checked his watch three times, only twenty minutes passed before Theresa approached with a pitcher of lemonade, a tall glass, and a small plate of dainty cookies.
She placed the tray on the glass-topped wicker table. “Would you like me to pour your lemonade, Mr. Broadmoor?”
“Yes. Then please sit down,” he said, indicating the chair directly beside him. The fact that Theresa’s hand shook when she lifted the pitcher didn’t surprise Jonas. In varying degrees, he had an unsettling effect upon all of the Broadmoor servants. It was a fact that pleased him. He waited in silence until she poured his drink. He took a sip and nodded his approval.
“Is there something else I can fetch for you, sir?”
“No. However, I was wondering if you would be interested in making a bit of extra money.”
She gasped and touched her hand to her heart. “I am not that kind of girl, Mr. Broadmoor.”
“Of course you’re not, Theresa, but I think you’re a young lady who would be willing to help me play a trick on someone.” He watched her and could see she was weighing the possibilities. “Would you like to hear more?”
She inched forward on her chair. “Yes.”
“First, you must promise that our little talk be kept a secret. If you should tell anyone, it could mean that both you and your mother would find yourselves unemployed. Do I make myself clear?”
She gave him a somber nod.
“I want you to devise a plan by which Fanny will see you and Michael sharing an intimate moment—a kiss or embrace, whatever you prefer.”
Theresa bent forward and rested her arms across her thighs. “You want Fanny to think Michael and I are in love with each other?”
“Something like that. Are you interested?”
She rubbed her hands together and giggled. “This sounds as though it could prove to be a great deal of fun! And I believe I am just the person to help you—if the price is right.”
Jonas frowned. Moments ago, the girl’s hand had been shaking while she poured his lemonade, and now she was going to attempt to haggle over her price. She had best not get greedy or he’d have her off the island by nightfall and her mother along with her!
“Why don’t you tell me what price you believe is right, Theresa.” He waited, pleased when she appeared baffled. Exactly what Jonas had hoped for.
“Fifty cents?” Her voice quivered.
He nodded. The silly girl would have gotten much more had she kept her mouth shut. He’d been prepared to give her a dollar. “We have a bargain. Now, off with you to the kitchen before your mother or Mrs. Atwell comes looking for you. And remember, not a word of this to anyone, Theresa.”
18
Monday, August 2, 1897
Mortimer Fillmore looked old. Had there been a mirror close at hand, Jonas would have checked his own appearance. Mortimer was only a few years older than Jonas, but the man appeared ancient. A light breeze drifted from off the water, and wisps of white hair splayed about the lawyer’s head like arthritic fingers. He relied upon a hand-carved walking stick to aid in his climb up the sloping grass embankment from the boathouse. The sight of his decrepit lawyer was enough to make Jonas consider his own mortality.
Mortimer had ascended half the distance to the house when Jonas spotted the man’s older son and partner, Vincent, hurrying after his father. He pointed to his arm and the older man leaned heavily upon his son. Jonas doubted whether his own sons would ever show him such compassion or concern.
He stood and waved to the two men. “Welcome! I’m pleased you were willing to come out here and keep me company for an afternoon.”
Mortimer’s chest heaved, and he gasped for air as he dropped into the wicker settee on the lower veranda. “I need to rest a few minutes.” He signaled for his son to sit down while he continued inhaling great gulps of air.
Vincent offered Jonas an apologetic look. “I attempted to convince him he didn’t need to come out here. He’s been ill this past week. I told him you would understand and that I could relay any information to him later today, but he insisted.”
“Quit talking about me as though I’m still in Rochester, Vincent.” Mortimer glanced at Jonas. “The doctor says it’s my lungs, but what do doctors know? They take my money, but their guess usually isn’t any better than my own.”
Jonas laughed and agreed, but there was little doubt Mortimer was suffering from some debilitating illness. “I won’t ask you to make any further trips to the island until you’re feeling better, Mortimer. You need to get well, my friend.” He patted the older lawyer’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go into the library, where you’ll be more comfortable, and I’ll have one of the servants bring some refreshments. Are you hungry?”
The men followed him into the library. When they’d finished their refreshments and Theresa had cleared away the trays, Jonas closed the doors. “Let me tell you why I’ve brought you here.” Both men came to attention, the younger of the two pulling out a pencil and paper, poised to jot down notes. Jonas appreciated Vincent’s attention to detail, but he shook his head. “Don’t make notations, Vincent. I don’t want this conversation committed to writing.”
Vincent immediately returned the paper and pencil to his leather case. “I didn’t want to forget anything you might want completed upon our return to Rochester.”
“Quite all right, Vincent, but you won’t forget today’s conversation, for I’ve brought you here to gain your ideas rather than assign any specific tasks.” Jonas leaned back into the thick padding of his leather chair and explained that the family had left for a trip to Brockville.
“Off to spend your money shopping for new gowns and baubles, I suppose,” Mortimer said.
“And to visit a few of the familiar sights they used to visit when my mother was alive. She instilled a love of the town in most of them. I didn’t object, for I wanted to meet privately with you, and I had promised Victoria I would spend at least one entire week on the island.” He chuckled. “She was unhappy with me when she discovered I’d chosen the week they would be in Brockville. I believe she may return early, just because I’m here.”
“Women! Who can figure them out?” Mortimer coughed and wheezed, finally taking a drink of water before settling back in his chair. “What kind of ideas do you want to discuss, Jonas?”
“I continue to feel an enormous sense of discomfort concerning my niece’s inheritance. I’ve developed a plan whereby I’ll be able to appropriate a portion of her money by simply falsifying paper work to show poor investments. However, it’s the bulk of her estate that concern
s me. Although I’m attempting to find her a malleable husband who will give me authority over the money, Fanny has been less than cooperative. Thus far she’s shown no interest whatsoever in any of the young men I’ve brought here.”
Mortimer offered his son a sideways glance. “Too bad Vincent is married. Otherwise, this could be easily remedied. I’m sure he’d be able to sweep the girl off her feet.”
Vincent tugged at his collar and glowered at his father. “No need to discuss that idea any further.”
“Then let’s discuss some ideas of how I can gain control of her funds once she reaches legal age. She’s an obstinate girl.
There’s no way of knowing if I’ll convince her to marry.” Jonas lifted the lid of his humidor. “Cigar?”
Mortimer reached toward the desk, only to have Vincent grasp his hand. “No cigars, Father.”
Jonas removed one of the fat cigars and lovingly passed it beneath his nose. He inhaled the scent and offered an appreciative sigh.
Vincent massaged his forehead. “More important, you need to consider what would happen to all of that money if Fanny should attain legal age and remain unmarried. Who would ultimately receive her estate? Is she intelligent enough to seek legal advice and prepare a will once she’s attained the age of majority? Depending upon her social mores, she could elect to bequeath her estate to a church or a charitable group.”
Mortimer inched forward in his chair and pointed at Jonas. “That’s not so farfetched, considering the fact that Quincy has nearly bankrupted himself with his Home for the Friendless. Fanny might decide to leave her money to such an institution. They tell me this sort of thing runs in families.”
Mouth agape, Vincent stared at his father. “Don’t be ridiculous, Father. We’re talking about bequeathing money to a charity, not some mental disease.”
“Nearly the same thing, don’t you agree, Jonas?” Mortimer cackled.
“In most cases. Of course there are rare occasions when money to the proper charity can yield great benefit. However, this would not be one of those instances. My brother has squandered far too much of the Broadmoor fortune.”
Mortimer rubbed his arthritic hands together. “Let’s hope you have more control over that girl than you do over your brother. He’s a disgrace, Jonas.”
Vincent momentarily buried his face in his hands. “I’m beginning to think you’re suffering from a lack of oxygen to your brain, Father. Your insults are uncalled for. What has come over you?”
Mortimer shrugged. “Merely speaking the truth and attempting to help Jonas with a plan. What do you propose?”
Vincent rubbed his forehead again. “It’s truly a conundrum. I could prepare a will for her, but she’s not of legal age to sign such a document—it wouldn’t be binding in the court.”
Jonas perked to attention. “But it would show clear intent that Fanny had planned for the estate to come to me, and you or your father could obtain the services of one of those friendly judges. That process might lead to an agreeable outcome.”
Mortimer frowned. “I suppose it could work, but we’ll probably all be dead before the girl—you had best continue working toward arranging a proper marriage partner.”
Jonas nodded slowly. “You’re absolutely correct, Mortimer.”
Mortimer thumped his cane on the floor. “Well, of course I am.”
“Please, Father, Jonas and I need to discuss the idea of a will in further detail. If Fanny should predecease you, do you think your brother or other family members would protest the document and attempt to have the document set aside, based upon Fanny’s tender years?”
Jonas considered the matter for several minutes. He knew there would be a hue and cry if he were to receive the share allocated to Fanny. Most of the family coveted her money as much as he did. Money had set the relatives against each other for years. Jonas found it rather entertaining. “What if the will provides a clause in which Fanny acknowledges her tender years? It could further state that she fully understands the terms, and it is her desire to name me as her sole heir. Perhaps a judge would then be willing to overrule any protests.”
Vincent jumped up from his chair and paced in front of the windows. “Yes, I like that idea. And we could have a clause specifically stating that even though the document has been drawn and signed while in her tender years, she desires for it to remain her final declaration until set aside in writing.”
“Yes! I believe we’re on to something. How soon could you have the document delivered to me?”
Vincent glanced at his father. Mortimer had nodded off. “I want to be certain nothing is overlooked. Would next weekend suffice?”
“Yes, but have it delivered by a courier. With the family here, another visit might give rise to questions.”
“Tell me, Jonas, how will you persuade her to sign the document? If she’s as bright as you indicate, won’t she insist upon reading the contents?”
“I’ll be giving that matter thought. In the interim we need to consider every possible method to have the girl disinherited. Then my father’s bequest to her could be easily set aside. Surely we can think of something.”
Vincent shook his head. “I don’t see how she could possibly be disinherited, Jonas.”
Mortimer jerked to attention. “Nothing’s impossible where money’s involved. Right, Jonas?”
“You are entirely correct, Mortimer.”
Theresa descended the stairs, her feet striking each step with a heavy thud. Since reaching her agreement with Jonas Broadmoor, she had done her utmost to capture Michael’s interest. She’d been to the boathouse more times than she cared to think about, and she’d attempted to use her feminine wiles on each occasion. Although Michael had answered her questions and was cordial during her visits, he always shied away from her advances.
The previous day she’d even attempted to lure him away from his work under the guise of a fishing expedition. After packing what she considered a delightful picnic lunch and securing her mother’s permission to be gone for the afternoon, Theresa had gone to the boathouse filled with anticipation. With Fanny and the other women away for their shopping excursion in Canada, she’d decided the time alone would give her an opportunity to begin her seduction. But Michael had steadfastly refused. His excuses were as numerous as legs on a centipede.
After an hour of cajoling, she’d finally dumped the contents of the picnic basket into the water. Seeing their lunch enter the murky water had been the only thing that had evoked any emotion from the man. He’d been aghast to see the traces of crusty chicken sandwiches floating on the water, but he hadn’t even noticed that he’d wounded her feelings. She’d never faced such difficulty luring a man. His constant refusals were taking their toll on her ego. If she was going to succeed with Michael, she needed help—a desperate thought.
Theresa plodded down the hallway toward the kitchen. Her mother would be going over the day’s schedule with Mrs. At-well and would expect to see her. The voices of the two women drifted into the hallway, and Theresa quickened her step. The older women might offer some insight, especially Michael’s mother.
Entering the kitchen, she forced a bright smile. “Good morning,” she said in her cheeriest voice.
A hint of suspicion immediately shone in her mother’s eyes. “Is that my daughter? Cheerful so early in the morning?”
Theresa frowned. “I’m usually cheerful in the morning.”
Her mother laughed, shook her head, and immediately returned to her discussion with Mrs. Atwell. Theresa quietly listened while the two women prepared a lengthy shopping list for the following week.
Mrs. Atwell ran the tip of her pencil down the list and gave an affirmative nod. “I believe we’ve thought of everything. I’ll give Michael our list and send him to Clayton tomorrow morning.”
Theresa stepped closer and reviewed the menus the two ladies had prepared for the following week. “Which one of these meals is Michael’s favorite?”
Mrs. Atwell appeared confused. �
�None of them. Michael prefers the more common fare I’ve been serving this week while the family’s been in Brockville. Thus far, Mr. Jonas hasn’t voiced an objection,” she said with a grin. “I think Mr. Jonas prefers butter-browned fresh fish and fried potatoes more than the fancy dishes we serve when the missus is in the house.”
“And what about dessert? Does Michael prefer your pies or one of your lovely cakes?”
Mrs. Atwell dipped out a cup of flour and sifted it into a crock. “Why all this interest in what Michael enjoys for his meals? Are you planning on assuming my kitchen duties?” She pointed toward the crock. “If so, you can begin by mixing up the dough for this evening’s dinner rolls.”
Theresa laughed. “I don’t think you want me making the rolls, Mrs. Atwell. They’d likely come out of the oven as flat as pancakes.”
“Then why the interest in what Michael likes to eat?”
Theresa plunged forward. “Well, don’t tell him I said so, but I think your son is most interesting.” She pressed her fingers to her dark tresses. “Although most men tell me I’m quite pretty and seemingly enjoy my company, Michael completely ignores me. I don’t know what I’ve done that has caused him to behave in such a standoffish manner.”
The older woman brushed the flour from her hands. “Michael’s behavior has nothing to do with you or your fine looks, Theresa. Michael has eyes for only one woman. And after all these years, I doubt he’ll be tempted by the sway of your hips or a fashionable hairstyle.”
Theresa’s mother clucked her tongue. “You had better encourage him to keep on looking, Maggie. We both know he’s never going to have that one.”
Mrs. Atwell finished mixing the dough and plopped it onto the wooden worktable. She plunged her fingers into the heavy dough. “What’s a mother to do? He’s a grown man, and he knows she’s out of his reach, but it doesn’t change his feelings.”
Theresa turned and exited through the kitchen door leading to the back lawn. Let the two women argue about Michael. They weren’t going to offer any help to her predicament. She circled the house, her thoughts a jumble of confusion. If she failed Mr. Broadmoor, he’d likely fire her. Worse yet, he might discharge her mother, too.
A Daughter's Inheritance Page 19
