Patriot's Pride

by Penelope Marzec

  Mrs. Ulery bustled off to the kitchen. “The poor girl needs a cup of tea,” she whispered to Derrick.

  He wondered if Mrs. Ulery had taken a nip of her whiskey to settle her own nerves.

  “I’ll help you.” Margaret followed the older woman.

  Derrick assisted Mr. Tinton and Mr. Willis in arranging chairs in the study. Lord Isaac fussed.

  “Don’t open the window. I don’t care how hot it is, I can’t stand those beastly flies,” his lordship commanded. “The wingchair is for me, it’s the only decent seat here. The rest of the chairs are more suitable for the dungeon.” He snickered as if he thought his comment rather hilarious.

  Derrick doubted he had ever met a more obnoxious man.

  Mr. Willis opened his writing desk and set out a pot of ink. He examined several quills and proceeded to sharpen a few with his knife.

  Mr. Tinton took out a large sheaf of papers, put on his spectacles, and sat at the chair behind the desk.

  The women returned with the tea. Mrs. Ulery passed cups passed around and poured the tea.

  “Theo wrangled some milk from the farmer, too,” Mrs. Ulery announced as she offered it to everyone.

  Mr. Tinton drew Derrick and Mrs. Ulery aside. “Only one of you may remain with Miss Margaret for the reading.”

  Mrs. Ulery nodded. “Since Doctor Fortune is a great deal more muscular than I, he should stay. If Miss Margaret faints, he can pick her up.”

  “Have you a weapon?” Tinton whispered to Derrick.

  Derrick nodded, though his gut twisted. Was this to be a war or the reading of a will? Or both?

  “Keep your firearm at the ready,” Tinton advised.

  Derrick’s alarm intensified. Was Margaret in danger? Sweat ran down his brow.

  He went out to where his horse waited, since he had placed his pistol in the saddlebag. After retrieving it, he returned to the study.

  Mrs. Ulery left the room. Mr. Tinton locked the door.

  The guards remained standing, but everyone else sat—Margaret to Derrick’s left and Lord Isaac to his right.

  Mr. Tinton started reading, in a dull, dry tone, the typical beginning of a last will and testament, but soon the document began to read more like a story, an account of a man who realized his mistake and longed to make amends.

  A sudden shiver inched across Derrick’s shoulders. Every nerve in his body was on edge.

  “I was able to bear the death of my wife, for I still had Harriet,” the old earl had written. “…but when she left due to my own stubbornness, fury filled me with wrath. Everything Harriet touched, I ordered to be burned.”

  “He burned it!” Lord Isaac exclaimed. “All of it? The portraits of our ancestors?”

  Mr. Tinton nodded. “Yes. Now please be quiet while I finish.”

  Lord Isaac appeared ready to cry.

  Margaret lowered her head. Heaviness centered in Derrick’s chest. He knew she had hoped to obtain a portrait of her mother. He reached out and squeezed her hand for a moment. After taking in a ragged breath, she lifted her head again. He didn’t see any tears on her cheek. He certainly hoped her grandfather had left something for her.

  He wished he had a portrait of Margaret, even a small miniature he could look at now and then when he needed some sunshine in his heart. He wondered if he might ask her to have one painted for him.

  Mr. Tinton took a sip of tea and continued, “In time, there was little left, and one day, I finally came to my senses and realized the vast emptiness of it all. It was then the Lord began to fill up the hollow desolation. I had ignored the Lord, but He did not forget me. He touched me through people like old Bert, the innkeeper, who I never could beat in a game of draughts, but to whom I wish to bequeath a hundred pounds a year, along with the same amount for his granddaughter.

  “Then there’s the farmer by the creek. He quoted scriptures and explained them to me better than any vicar. I told him all his words glistened in my mind like pure jewels. A few times, I gave him some precious gems, but now I wish to bequeath to him the ones in the safe in the solicitor’s office.”

  And so it went…

  The old earl bequeathed his wealth away to the souls who had guided him back to the path of righteousness.

  Derrick sat as stiff as a statue. He knew about the void of meaninglessness. Why had he lived? Why had Julian died? Though he hadn’t burned all his possessions, the gnawing ache of loneliness and despair left him with a hollowness inside that reminded him of this empty castle, a barren wasteland of stone holding the winter’s chill even in the summer, a desolate mausoleum haunted with agonizing memories.

  Derrick denied the Lord, for He had not granted him the one thing he most desired when he needed it. Julian had died. Nothing could bring his brother back. Not prayer and not a righteous life.

  The emptiness remained and weighed upon him. He’d thought to replace it with his work—to find a way to save others from the terrible fate of sepsis. A thin shadow of doubt edged into his heart. Would finding a cure heal him? What if he did not succeed in his goal?

  Mr. Tinton cleared his throat and went on, “I am forced to bestow Broadcraft Hall, along with my title, to my cousin, Lord Isaac Whittington. He’s been waiting for it for a long time. That much should please him.”

  Lord Isaac jumped up. “What of his fortune?”

  “You must control your outburst, Lord Whittington,” reprimanded Mr. Willis.

  “I am the lone heir! He cannot give all his wealth away to innkeepers and farmers,” Lord Isaac screamed. “What of her—the daughter of a rebel—a traitor? What does she get?” He pointed a finger at Margaret.

  Derrick’s hand slid to the hilt of his pistol. If that lace-encrusted fop touched a hair on Margaret’s head, he would blast him to Hades.

  “Sit down, Lord Whittington, or we will be forced to insist you leave the room,” Mr. Tinton’s voice rose.

  Lord Isaac took his seat, but his face blazed with the heat of anger.

  Mr. Tinton drank the remainder of his tea before continuing, “When I married my blessed wife, she did not add her dowry to the entail of the estate. I invested the money, intending to provide a secure future for my daughter. However, she married a commoner and left England. Still, my investments continued to do well. I mourned the tragic loss of my daughter, and regret I did not help her. I can do little for her now to make amends, but I wish to plant a garden in her name with a small monument near the river where she lost her life.

  “As for my granddaughters, I wish we could have spent time together, but the war and my age made travel impossible. Their letters brought me much joy. They have been an answer to my prayers. Despite my sins, I received a generous blessing in them, and I am grateful to the Lord for His kindness.”

  “They are to receive my remaining assets, which are not part of the entail. I trust it will bring some comfort to them.”

  Derrick glanced at Lord Isaac. The man’s eyes glowed with fury.

  “How much are those assets worth at this point?” Lord Isaac asked.

  Mr. Tinton looked at Mr. Willis and raised his eyebrows. Mr. Willis opened up the writing desk and shuffled through some papers until he located one and pulled it out.

  “All of this depends, of course, on certain losses, adjustments, expenses and fees, along with the sale of the remaining holdings. We’ve already turned most of them over in the last six months, but roughly—as near as I can figure—two hundred thousand pounds, which is to be divided evenly between the two granddaughters,” Mr. Willis said.

  Lord Isaac stood. “This little farmer’s daughter with no education and no breeding gets to take British pounds home to a place filled with vipers of rebellion and treason, and I get not one shilling. How will I be able to restore Broadcraft Hall?”

  “Perhaps you could become a resurrectionist,” Derrick stated softly. “I hear they do well.”

  Lord Isaac pulled a small Queen Anne pistol from his pocket and aimed it at Derrick.

  Margaret g
asped, “No!”

  Derrick said nothing and did not move a muscle. If he took out his pistol, his lordship would react by pressing the trigger.

  “This is a small weapon, but still deadly,” Lord Isaac sneered.

  The guards aimed their muskets at Lord Isaac.

  “I suggest you put away your pistol, Lord Whittington, else our men will ruin your exquisite suit,” Mr. Tinton commanded with as much steel as any fine blade.

  Lord Isaac growled and shoved the weapon into his pocket. “Do not tempt me again.” He glared at Derrick with hatred.

  Derrick clenched his hands. He wanted to blacken the man’s eyes, but he fought his inclination.

  “There is one stipulation in regards to Miss McGowan, Mr. Willis,” Mr. Tinton used a stern tone and directed his gaze at his associate.

  “Oh, I quite forgot with all this…this bravado.” Mr. Willis’s finger shook as he ran it down the document. “Here it is. This was added a week before his death. ‘If Agnes and her husband are able to come to Broadcraft Hall for the reading of the will, they may receive all of the bank notes at once. However, if Margaret is still unmarried and arrives instead, the money is to be held in trust for her until she marries a man in England. My solicitor will provide her with any necessities she needs during her stay, drawn from the account. Once she is married, the bank notes shall be released.’”

  “No!” Margaret stood. “I may not be educated, but I know how to keep accounts.” Her voice sounded high and reedy.

  “That old buffoon!” shouted Lord Isaac. “Am I supposed to marry that whey-faced chit to collect the money?”

  Derrick glanced at Margaret’s pale, pinched face. Would she faint? She had come all this way and now she must wed some English stranger if she wanted to take possession of her inheritance.

  “Mr. Willis, please continue,” Mr. Tinton urged.

  “I will if I am not interrupted,” Mr. Willis complained. “Here the earl stated, ‘My granddaughter is not to marry Lord Isaac. Once she is properly presented to society, she should have no trouble finding a suitable spouse.’”

  “I want to go home,” Margaret moaned. “I don’t want to marry a stranger here.”

  Derrick took her hand and squeezed it. “Sit. I’m sure your grandfather meant well. He undoubtedly worried about your protection. England can be a dangerous country.”

  “He always wanted to foil all my plans,” Lord Isaac growled. “I will not suffer such an indignity.”

  Mr. Tinton stood. “To reiterate, Lord Whittington inherits Broadcraft Hall, which includes all the property and outbuildings surrounding it, and, of course, he receives the title. The McGowan sisters, Agnes and Margaret, inherit the proceeds from the old earl’s investments, although Margaret is to marry before she can take possession of the money. There will be a garden with a monument built at the site of Harriet McGowan’s death. A variety of people are bequeathed varying amounts or given the jewels we hold in our safe.”

  Mr. Willis picked up a quill. “We are done with this reading. I will show you where to sign the papers.”

  “No. I refuse to sign it!” Lord Isaac threatened. “I will contest it. Not a single shilling should go to anyone coming from the colonies, that hotbed of revolutionaries.”

  “It’s a country now,” Derrick remonstrated.

  “You have the right to contest the will, Lord Whittington, but the old earl planned for your vehement opposition and put measures in place to guarantee his wealth is distributed according to his wishes,” stated Mr. Tinton. “In short, you cannot win.” He picked up the key and unlocked the door.

  Lord Isaac stormed out.

  “That man is not to be trusted.” Mr. Willis sighed.

  “You should not stay here, Miss McGowan,” suggested Mr. Tinton.

  “Where can I go?” She twisted a handkerchief into a knot.

  Derrick stilled her anxious fingers with his hand. “Didn’t you say you were supposed to visit your brother-in-law’s mother, a dowager duchess?”

  “I intended only to make a brief call,” she said. “Mrs. Ulery and I do not own an adequate wardrobe, since we left our trunks behind when we were accosted by the highwaymen. I have nothing suitable for a fine dinner in a castle.”

  “We can advance you as much as you’ll need, whether or not Lord Whittington contests the will,” Mr. Tinton informed her. “Your grandfather made careful provisions, and it is necessary for a woman to dress in proper attire if she is to be presented in society.”

  “I do not want to be paraded around like some—some bauble.” Margaret stamped her foot, but she did not appear angry. Her eyes welled with tears.

  Derrick’s emotions whirled. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to rip up the will. He wanted to clasp Margaret to his chest and never let her go.

  Mrs. Ulery walked into the room, “From the way Lord Whittington stormed out of here, I must assume he wasn’t happy with his inheritance.”

  “No, indeed, he was not,” Derrick muttered through tight lips. “At one point, he threatened me with his Queen Anne pistol because I said something which displeased him.”

  Mrs. Ulery’s eyes grew wide. “He intended to shoot you with everyone in here?”

  “The new earl has a short fuse. Please, convince Margaret to stay at Dalfour Castle with the dowager duchess.” If the widow didn’t convince her, he would drag her to the castle himself.

  “Can you take this dratted splint off my arm first?” she asked.

  “If you promise to keep it in the sling for a few more weeks, and if you share some of your whiskey with me,” he stated. “His lordship sorely tested me.”

  Margaret’s small, delicate hand squeezed his. “I cannot thank you enough for everything.”

  “Promise me you will enjoy your sojourn in English society.” He caressed her with his gaze, hating to leave her and longing to drink in more of her sweetness. “Perhaps a duke will fall in love with you and make you a true lady.”

  “Lady Sunshine is good enough for me.” Her tremulous smile graced him with warmth and melted a soft spot in his heart.

  He had grown used to having her near. Thoughts of her, during those few days in London, had consumed him. When he’d found her book on the dead highwayman, panic had gripped him. Must he now continually worry about her because Lord Isaac was a vindictive and vengeful man? What if the Englishman she married did not treat her well? What if he beat her?

  He would never have a chance to win her for himself. Did it matter? He was to study with John Hunter and find a cure for sepsis.

  “I will see you to Dalfour Castle.” He swallowed the despair rising in his throat.

  Her face lit up. “Thank you. It would be a wonderful kindness for you to go along with us.”

  “Aye, especially since you never know who is waiting around the next corner,” Mrs. Ulery stated. “This country has changed since I was a young girl—and not for the better. As we’ll be going through Sudbury on our way to Dalfour Castle, may I stop to visit my brother?”

  “Of course,” Margaret replied. “That was to be part of this journey.”

  “I daresay we should all hurry along before Lord Isaac’s decorators show up,” Mr. Tinton announced. “Since you’ll be in Sudbury, you must also stop in at our office where we can give you a necessary allowance.”

  “I like the idea of traveling with armed guards,” Mrs. Ulery smiled.

  “I wondered if Lord Isaac’s liveried servants had weapons, too,” Derrick mused.

  “Do you mean these?” Theo came into the room and set three muskets down on the desk. “The servants took a nap. They snored so loud, they never heard me sneak up on them. I figured it might be helpful to acquire some extra weapons in case we are waylaid by highwaymen.”

  “But…you’ve stolen them,” Margaret protested.

  “Not exactly,” Theo stated. “I’ve removed them which will prevent them from shooting us in the back when we pull out of here.”

  “Good point,” Derr
ick ruffled the boy’s hair. “Since those men work for Lord Isaac, and since he’s already pulled a gun on me, I think keeping the balance of weapons on our side is an excellent strategy.”

  “We shall hand them to the constable in Sudbury and he can decide what to do with them,” Mr. Tinton suggested.

  “Lord Isaac does appear to be rather unstable,” Margaret agreed.

  “He’s a lunatic,” Mrs. Ulery added.

  Derrick didn’t say anything, but he wondered if his lordship was far worse than a lunatic. Could he be a murderer?

  * * *

  Mrs. Ulery could not contain her excitement on the road to Sudbury. Wreathed with a wide smile, her face glowed with happiness.

  “I hope my brother hasn’t changed. I cannot wait to see him,” she laughed. “He was such a sweet boy and smart as a whip. I hated to leave him, but my husband insisted upon moving to the colonies. We had a good life, to be sure, but I missed my little Bobby.”

  Margaret barely listened to her companion. She kept tying her handkerchief in knots. Lord Isaac was mad. Without the guards, he would have shot Derrick. His arrogance had nearly got him killed. She intended to reprimand him for inflaming Lord Isaac’s temper. Derrick needed to learn to hold his tongue. He should go back to London where he’d be safer.

  Her spirits sunk lower as she contemplated her marriage with an English stranger. Why did her grandfather include such an offensive clause in his will? She had written to him about the success of her baking business. Didn’t he realize she kept careful accounts?

  Yes, there were dangers, but for men as well as woman. Nobody was safe. How could she trust a man she hardly knew? Would an Englishman be willing to travel back home with her?

  She knew Derrick. She had come to trust him, but he wasn’t English and he had plans to study with John Hunter.

  “You’ve ripped your handkerchief,” Mrs. Ulery pointed out.

  Margaret glanced at the small linen square in her hands and her lip trembled. “I shall mend it tonight.”

  “It’s beyond mending,” Mrs. Ulery commented. “Next time you’re upset, twist a piece of leather with your fingers.”

  Margaret nodded, unable to speak, for she had to swallow the lump in her throat.