A ruddy-cheeked lad, flat cap set low on his brow, approached his desk with his hand out. “Where to, sir?”
“Barrister Dalrymple, King’s Court Chambers.” He started to hand over the packet, when Thomas Fitzroy reached out and snatched it away.
“Are you out of your mind?” Fitz rumbled, garnering a black look from the clerk seated a row ahead.
“Are you out of yours?” Will whispered back. “This Jarndyce brief needs to get to Barrister Dalrymp—”
He stiffened. Great heavens! Fitz was right. He’d nearly sent the paperwork to the wrong barrister.
“Thank you, Charlie. That will be all for now.” Fitz dismissed the runner with a nod of his head, then frowned down at Will. “What’s going on? That’s the third error you’ve made in the past hour, and this one could have cost you your job.”
“I know. I…well…it’s complicated.” He laced his hands behind his head and looked up at Fitz—his true friend. His only friend, really, since his fall from grace.
“Complicated?” Fitz snorted. “It always is with you. Let’s have it.”
Will shoved back his stool. Perhaps his friend had a useful thought or two on his current conundrum, for if nothing else, Fitz always had an opinion. “Very well. Come along.”
He wove past their fellow clerks, beyond a wall lined with bookshelves, then skirted the collection of runners waiting for the chance to deliver documents. Out in the corridor, he stopped halfway down and leaned against the wall.
Fitz pulled up alongside of him, practically bouncing on his toes. “I can’t wait to hear this. What is it that has you so befuddled?”
“Remember that tea I told you about, the one Mina Scott agreed to attend with me?”
For a moment, Fitz’s brows drew into a line, then suddenly lifted. “Ahh. That’s right. I completely forgot to ask you about it. I’m afraid it was a late night for me with the King’s Court boys last evening.” He winced and massaged his temple with two fingers. “How did it go?”
Before Will answered, he listed aside and scanned the passageway beyond Fitz’s shoulders. The walls of Temple Court contained an overzealous penchant for gossip—and he’d rather not provide fodder for this week’s feast. Thankfully this early in the day, most clerks were still readying their papers for delivery, and none lurked about here. Even so, he lowered his voice. “Not good at all. Uncle Barlow’s life is in peril if my cousin Percy gets his hands on the old man’s estate. Mina overheard Percy threaten to have Uncle committed to an asylum should he be named heir.”
A growl rumbled in Fitz’s throat. “Your cousin always was a conniving cur.”
“Indeed. And unless I convince Uncle that I am the more deserving beneficiary, there will be nothing I can do to stop him. Knowing Percy, he’s likely already got a physician in his pocket, ready to sign whatever papers are needed to have my uncle committed.”
“Hmm.” Fitz folded his arms. “Then we’ll have to fill your pocket as well.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Even if what you say is true, and your cousin has people in place, that shouldn’t stop you from finding other people to counteract his devious plan. Perhaps there is a loophole in the committal process that can be found. Or maybe there’s some kind of reversal application, or well, I don’t know. But I do know someone who would. Old Kenwig’s the man for you.”
Kenwig? Of course. He should have thought of the elderly barrister himself. The man was more ancient than half the laws on the books. Will rolled his shoulders, the tension in his muscles already loosening. “Is he in today?”
“Only one way to find out. Go on.” Fitz clouted him on the back. “I’ll look over that Jarndyce brief while you’re at it.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.” He took off down the passage.
And Fitz’s voice followed. “I’ll be sure to cash in on that. Tonight. The Golden Egg.”
Will trotted up the stairway. The corridor at the top was far better decorated than that to which the clerks were delegated. His shoes sank into a rug instead of thudding against wooden planks, and light glimmered from brass sconces, not tin. This was a world of silks, not woolens—the world of wealth Elizabeth had aspired to…and won.
Shoving down bitter memories, he strode the length of the corridor, and found the door to Barrister Kenwig’s receiving room open. A good sign, that. He entered, expecting to persuade Kenwig’s personal attendant for an interview with a smile and a coin, if need be. But the tall desk inside and the stool behind it sat empty. Beyond that, the door to the barrister’s inner chamber yawned open. Perhaps the clerk had ducked in to have a word with the old man. Will stepped nearer, straining to listen, but no conversation drifted out. Emboldened, he strode to the threshold and peeped in.
On the other side of a massive desk sat a bulwark of the English legal system. Barrister Kenwig lifted a document in one gnarled hand and a magnifying glass in the other—making one eye appear larger than life, slightly milky but bearing keen intelligence. He wore his wrinkles like a garment, the deep creases on his face in sore need of a good ironing. Though the morning was well advanced, he hadn’t yet donned his black silk robe.
Will rapped on the doorframe, thankful the man hadn’t left for court already. “Pardon me, Barrister. I wonder if I might have a word?”
Kenwig lowered the magnifier and squinted at him. “Ahh, young Master Barlow. Come in. I can spare a few moments.”
“Thank you, sir.” He crossed the length of the chamber, inhaling the scent of musty books and beeswax, and as he drew nearer the man, breathed in an underlying odor of mothballs. He sank into the leather high-back in front of the barrister’s desk. “I shall be brief. There is a hypothetical situation I was discussing with another clerk, one on which I should like your counsel.”
“Very well.” Kenwig reclined, his chair creaking—or maybe his bones. Hard to tell.
Will leaned forward. “Let’s say an elderly gentleman who’s never sired children of his own signs over his estate to another relation. This potential heir is a deviant at heart and has the old man committed to an asylum, thereby effectively taking possession of the man’s money before he is deceased. And this brings me to my question. Is there any way to counteract or reverse that committal before it’s been completely processed?
The barrister’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling, as if an answer might be found in the carved plaster moulding. The mantel clock ticked, and the coals in the grate sank, but Kenwig said nothing.
Nor did Will. He’d learned long ago the best route with the old fellow was to allow him to roam the long corridors of his learned mind.
At length, Kenwig’s gaze lowered to his. “Not before it’s been processed, but afterward, there are two ways. Discharge of a patient can be initiated by the medical superintendent or at the request of the family.”
“Truly?” He stifled a laugh. All he’d have to do was file counter-paperwork? Thank God! A smile twitched his lips.
“It appears this was not so hypothetical after all, hmm?” The barrister tapped a bony finger atop his desk. “Do not tell me you’re the deviant, Mr. Barlow.”
“No, sir.” He glanced back at the door, on the off chance the attendant had returned. The threshold remained empty, but he scooted to the edge of his chair and tempered his tone. “It is my cousin, sir, though he’s not yet officially been named heir. I may still have a chance at that. But if not, at least I know that I would be able to get my uncle released with a simple request.”
Far lighter in spirit than when he’d first entered the chamber, Will stood and dipped his head in a respectful bow. “Thank you for your time, Barrister, and your sage wisdom. A very good day to you.”
“Oh, Mr. Barlow.” The old fellow lifted his finger. “One more thing.”
Will paused, trying to ignore the foreboding twinge in his gut. “Yes, sir?”
“I should mention that while a discharge can be initiated by you, there is no guarantee it shall be gra
nted. That kind of paperwork also needs the signature of the parish magistrate.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Should it?”
The barrister’s thin shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Deviancy is not limited to unscrupulous family members. Tell me, what parish are we speaking of?”
“My uncle’s townhouse is in St. James. His estate, in Harlow.”
“Hmm.” The word vibrated through the room like a faraway roll of thunder.
“Sir?”
“Well, I suppose it would depend upon where the paperwork is drawn up. I cannot speak for Harlow, as I am not well versed in the ethics of Essex law keepers, but I can tell you that the St. James magistrate is not known for his stalwart morals. I’ve heard rumours he is a man for hire. Tell me, Mr. Barlow, on the off chance the Harlow magistrate is of the persuadable variety, who has deeper pockets, you or your cousin?”
Blast! His fingers curled into fists. If Percy inherited, he’d have the larger purse—and the upper hand.
CHAPTER NINE
In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong.
Great Expectations
Mina strolled down Whitewell Street with her friend Effie Gedge. A brisk November wind pushed her from behind. But even so, her steps slowed as she neared the spot where she’d fled from the cab that rainy afternoon a week ago now—before Will could ask about her mother. A heroine would’ve given him some kind of explanation instead of running off like a coward. Oh, what a humbling truth.
Next to her, Effie rattled on about something, but it was hard to focus on her friend’s words with so much guilt muddling her thoughts. Will had stopped by the Golden Egg the day after the tea, and the day after that…and, well, every day. But she’d avoided any sort of detailed conversation with him. The questions in his eyes ran too deep and many. She never should have mentioned her mother. Though she’d been hardly more than seven years old when Mother had died, it was a memory she didn’t often revisit and rarely shared with anyone. What was the point of lifting a rock and staring horrified at the creepy-crawlies beneath?
Oh, Mother. What would it be like to have a soft shoulder to share her burdens with instead of a father who could think of nothing other than the upcoming Christmas Eve party or how to marry her off? She heaved a long, low breath. She’d never know, she supposed, and that was a perpetual ache.
Effie threaded her arm through hers. “That’s the fifth time ye’ve sighed since we left the ribbon shop, love.”
She matched her pace to Effie’s and glanced sideways at her friend. “Hmm?”
“Have ye heard a word I’ve said?”
“Of course. You were saying how Mrs. Lane’s new babe is the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen.”
Effie frowned. “That was before the ribbon shop.”
“Then you remarked on how exceptionally attentive Mr. Lane is to his wife and new son.”
“That was inside the ribbon shop.”
“Then you said that baby Benjamin is the sweetest thing ever and…er…something more about your employer.” She released Effie’s arm and lifted her skirts to avoid the mud. Effie followed suit, and they parted ways to maneuver around a puddle.
As soon as they drew together on the other side, Effie rummaged in her reticule and pulled out an old coin, then reached for Mina’s hand and dropped it into her palm.
What on earth? Mina lifted the piece of gold to eye level. The edges were jagged in a few places. On one side, a big X—or maybe a cross—was embossed. Hard to tell for the wear. How many fingers had rubbed against this bit of metal? The other side sported foreign words, circling the perimeter, unlike any she’d ever seen. “What is this?”
“A second-chance coin. ’Twas once given to me by Mrs. Lane.”
“A what?” She scrunched up her nose at her friend.
“Why, I’m giving ye a second chance, love.”
She studied her friend’s face. Brown eyes the colour of a stout cup of tea peered back at her. What was Effie going on about? Maybe she should have been paying closer attention. “For what exactly do I need a second chance?”
“To tell me what’s really on yer mind.” A passing dray lumbered by, nearly drowning out Effie’s words with its grinding wheels. Her friend stepped nearer. “Ye’ve not been yourself the entire hour we’ve been together, and ye’ve very nicely danced around all my questions. I haven’t much time remaining a’fore I must return to Mrs. Lane with this new lace.” She patted her small parcel. “So, ye best talk fast, my friend.”
The coin warmed against her skin, yet she wasn’t so sure she wanted a second chance to reveal the snarly mess inside her head and heart. Still…it would be a release of sorts. And she hadn’t a truer friend than Effie. She wrapped her fingers tight around the coin for strength. “Very well, but you mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Not to Miss Whymsy and especially not to Miss Minton, for she’d ‘hear, hear’ it all over town. Promise?”
Effie nodded, more solemn than the Reverend Mr. Graves on a Sunday morning. “Upon my word.”
Mina tugged her friend aside, pulling her close to the glass window of Truman’s Tinctures and Powders, well out of the path of pedestrians or curious ears. Even so, she lowered her voice so only Effie might hear. “You know that patron I’ve remarked on a few times over the past year?”
“If ye’re speaking of the dashing Mr. Barlow, your figuring is way off. Few? Pah!” Effie chuckled. “If I only had a farthing for each time you sang the praises of the man, I’d be wealthy as a—”
“You see?” Mina cut her off with a glower. “This is why I haven’t told you anything, for you can’t manage to keep from teasing.”
“All right.” Effie’s mouth rippled as she tried to stifle her grin. “I promise. Not another word.”
With a glance past Effie’s shoulder, she scanned the lane. Several men strode past on long legs, each carrying a paper-wrapped parcel. A stoop-shouldered lady in black shambled by, leaning heavily on a cane. Yet no one appeared to take an interest in her or Effie, so she faced her friend. “Mr. Barlow asked me to attend a tea with him and his uncle. That’s why I had to ask to change our society meeting time last week.”
“Aha! When you slipped out o’ there like a wisp o’ the breeze, I knew something weren’t right.” Effie arched a brow. “Will you soon be going the way of Mary Bowman then?”
“Of course not.” But the thought of such pulsed through her. Despite the shortcomings she’d started to detect in Will, to be his true wife instead of a faux was a dream she wasn’t yet willing to depart with.
“His interest in me isn’t like that,” she continued. “Mr. Barlow is in line to receive an inheritance from his uncle, especially if his Uncle Barlow believes him to be happily married and settled down.”
“And you went”—Effie’s eyes widened—“as his bride?”
“I did. And my! How grand it was.” She closed her eyes, reliving the magnificence of Purcell’s—until Will’s cousins’ faces surfaced, along with their threat against Uncle Barlow. Her eyelids popped open. “Well, it was mostly all grand, except for Will’s awful cousins. Oh, Effie, they are conspiring to commit the dear old man to an asylum.”
Speaking the words aloud breathed life into the monstrous possibility, squeezing her heart. “And you know as well as I what might happen to him there—” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips tight.
“There, there, love.” Effie patted her arm. “I know that’s a blow, considering yer mum—God rest her. But what can ye do?”
“That’s just it. There is something I can do to help, but I’m not sure it’s the right thing.” She heaped another sigh onto her accumulating pile. “Uncle Barlow has invited us all to his townhouse for dinner next week. For the sake of William getting that inheritance, and thereby sparing his uncle from such a fate, I agreed to go. Apparently Uncle Barlow will only see fit to award his estate to an heir who’s firmly rooted i
n faith and family. I am Will’s family, of sorts, leastwise in Uncle Barlow’s eyes. But how shall I tell Father? He’ll never allow me to attend, especially if he discovers I am posing as Will’s bride. Yet if I don’t go, then Will’s cousin might very well become the heir…and Will’s uncle would be committed. It seems there is no good solution.”
“Hmm,” Effie murmured. “That is a dilemma.”
The door to Truman’s swung open, and both of them fell silent until the woman exiting strolled past them.
“I’ve got it.” Effie beamed. “Why don’t ye and Mr. Barlow simply go to his uncle and tell him the truth? If ye reveal the cousins’ wicked plot, why, his uncle is sure to name your Will as heir and be glad of it.”
Her Will? The idea of William Barlow belonging to her alone quickened her breath—but now was definitely not the time for fanciful dreaming. She shook her head. “I said as much to Mr. Barlow, but he thinks we need more evidence than a snippet of overheard conversation.”
“He might be right, I suppose.” Effie pinched the bridge of her nose, and Mina desperately hoped the action would coax out some golden wisdom for her to follow. But Effie merely lowered her hand and angled her head. “Ye’ll just have to tell yer father the truth of things, love.”
She sighed—again. If she kept this up, she’d have no air whatsoever left in her lungs. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Mina.” Compassion infused her friend’s tone, far warmer than the November chill working its way into her bones. “Ye didn’t really need me to tell ye what to do, eh?”
“Yes—I mean no. I mean…I suppose not.” Shoving back another sigh, she straightened her shoulders. Effie was right. Deep down in her gut she’d known the correct course of action but, until now, had been trying to ignore it. And that’s what she loved most about her friend. Effie had a magical way of giving her the courage to look within and dare to hold hands with what she knew to be right.
A Tale of Two Hearts Page 5
