The Taxman Cometh
THE TAXMAN COMETH
MILLICENT
At a certain point we all have to pay…
—ONE WHO DIDN’T
1965–1969
Millicent immediately had understood the crucial mistake she had made at the high tea at Claridge’s, and when she and Lucille were alone, had apologized, trying to course correct. She promised Lucille she would never ask any questions like that again. She didn’t care what a bastard daughter was, she just wanted to be with her.
But Lucille was resolute, promising that the Lycée le Rosey was one of the most exclusive academies in the world and it was a wonderful opportunity that Sir Rodney was providing. They would be together soon, she promised.
A little over a year later, in a small civil ceremony, Lucille Baxter officially became the next Mrs. Goldstone. There were pictures in society columns and dinners thrown by Princess Margaret and Sir Antony Armstrong-Jones, but the squeaky wheel who had been sent away was not invited. Lucille had written, of course, about the engagement and the wedding and had sent a picture in a small silver frame that she instructed Millicent to put in her room as a temporary memento. We’ll take another with the three of us when we’re together, she wrote, promising that they would all spend the summer in Sydney where Millicent would meet Sir Rodney’s three children whose names Millicent didn’t know. Lucille rarely spoke of them. In a universe where history could be rewritten if not erased, those children, much like Millicent, were reminders of past mistakes, and impediments to Lucille’s future.
On the plus side, Millicent had a new guardian, a new narrative, and a new pedigree. And pedigree, at least in the world she now inhabited, was essential. So was survival. While she could have written a letter, begging to come home to Aunt Fifi, Millicent understood this was an opportunity to not only forge her own path but perhaps, eventually, find her own patron.
With that in mind, she took stock of her situation. Her expenses, within reason, were rarely questioned, and were paid by a local accountant. She made a few friends, and on occasion, when invited to their homes, would contact said accountant for plane fare or clothing or anything else required.
The arrangement was comfortable as long as Lucille kept the coffers full. But what if she didn’t? What if she fell so in love with her new life that she didn’t want to be responsible for her old one? Millicent realized that she was a pawn in a game that Lucille was playing halfway across the world, threatening a truth Lucille wanted buried. Late at night Millicent wondered if Lucille might simply cut the purse strings one day, and then where would Millicent be? She needed security, some sort of guarantee that Lucille couldn’t pull the rug out from under her again. And that’s when it occurred to her: if Lucille feared the truth that much, then the truth, perhaps, had currency.
“It doesn’t matter where we come from, Squeak,” Lucille had once told her, “just where we’re going.” But where they came from did matter to Lucille, Millicent knew that now. Though she still wasn’t sure what a bastard daughter was, she was certain that the facts surrounding her past might be the key to her future. And while she had no intention of sharing those facts, whatever they were, she wondered just what her silence would be worth.
Shortly after Lucille had written of her marriage, Millicent asked the local accountant for an airline ticket to London to go with one of her friends to her family home in Hampstead for the weekend. The accountant, after checking with Lucille, provided airfare and spending money—for a new winter coat, and gifts for her friend’s family—reminding her that she was, after all, now related to Sir Rodney Goldstone.
“Act accordingly,” the accountant said, quoting Lucille.
Millicent nodded, took the ticket and the cash, but instead of visiting a friend’s family, made her way to Aunt Fifi, whom she had contacted via post telling her how much she’d missed her, how often she’d tried to get in touch, and explaining that Lucille, who controlled the purse strings, wouldn’t allow it.
Fifi, guilt-ridden over what had transpired and furious at Lucille for keeping them apart, finally provided the truth that Millicent’s sister had so desperately wanted hidden. Sitting in her parlor in her worn floral chairs, Aunt Fifi explained that at the age of thirteen, Lucille had relations with the taxman once, maybe twice, in his Packard, and that was where Millicent had been conceived. He was, Aunt Fifi thought, living in Wales now, but if Millicent wanted to make contact, Fifi believed she had a way to reach him.
There it was: the secret that had been buried and shrouded and scurried away to Switzerland, never to rear its ugly truth. Because if it had, it might just destroy the carefully constructed blueprint designed by the now royally celebrated Mrs. Goldstone. Millicent knew that Sir Rodney, who fashioned himself a family man, might think twice about having a wife who abandoned her child if not in responsibility, then in spirit.
And that made this truth priceless.
That night, while still at Aunt Fifi’s, Millicent went to the cramped bedroom she had once shared with Lucille, memorializing the note she had been writing and rewriting in her head.
Dear Lucille, I have gotten clarity about my past, and apparently yours. I have no interest in sharing it, but I would like to stay at the Lycée until graduation, at which time I would like to discuss a monthly expense account to support me until I can support myself. I am staying with Aunt Fifi and look forward to hearing from you.
She mailed it that afternoon, half expecting Lucille to show up the next day or the day after. But she heard nothing until January of 1965, when Millicent Baxter, fourteen, the same age Lucille had been upon giving birth, was visited at school by a solicitor who explained that her tuition at the Lycée had been extended and prepaid for five additional years, along with an expense account of one hundred pounds monthly.
“But after that,” the solicitor warned, staring her down, “you’re on your own.”
Millicent tried to compose herself, steadying her shaky voice. “I asked for my expenses to continue after graduation,” she said, the words now sticking in the back of her throat, which was suddenly dry.
“ If you agree to our terms,” he continued, “you will receive a one-time-only payment of one hundred thousand pounds.”
Millicent stared, aghast at the fortune her veiled threat had yielded. It was a great deal of money, more than most people have for their whole lives. The solicitor explained that this was all conditioned upon her silence. He pushed a “Separation Agreement” toward her and asked her to sign. After she did, he handed her a note from her sister.
For your future, Lucille had written.
And for yours, Millicent thought.
The truth had bought her time and freedom. But neither would provide long-lasting security. For that, she knew, she needed her own patron. And while she wasn’t quite sure what a patron was or how to find one, she believed the zeros would lead the way.