Chapter Three #2
But, he reminded himself, he did not care. It did not matter. He was not curious about these people.
He had moved on.
Though it was still worth noting that Ruby had not changed a whit. Two seconds into seeing him again and she was already trying to unsettle him with barbed flirtations that felt like a lure on a hook into some unseen trap.
These bloody people.
Mr. Harcourt cleared his throat, withdrawing the first pages of the will.
“‘In the Name of God, Amen. I, Willa Selwyn, of Starling’s Rest in the County of Sussex, Widow, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do make and publish this my last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all former wills by me made. My soul I commend to Almighty God and my body to the earth. To ensure these wishes are executed in both letter and spirit, I appoint Harriet French of Brighton, daughter of my heart, to be the Executrix of this my last Will and Testament.’”
“Oh,” said Hattie, coloring and covering her mouth.
“Hattie?!” said Libba, frowning. “I was always the organizer. Willa knew that.”
“Hush,” said her brother, patting her knee.
Libba swatted his hand away. “It’s true! Hattie has no mind for logistics. She is brilliant but scattered. We all know it.”
“I shouldn’t decline your assistance,” Hattie said softly, blinking at the observation that had been made. “If this is your way of offering it.”
It was enough to make Libba pause and flush a little, giving a quick nod and a wince. Mr. Harcourt did not look at them or otherwise acknowledge the outburst. He did glance up, however, and grimace at Elias directly before continuing.
“‘To my nephew, Elias, Baron Selwyn, I bequeath the lands and fields of the Selwyn barony of in perpetuity: all natural soil and rights appurtenant thereto.’”
“Good show,” said Rhys, looking bored.
“‘To my ward, Harriet French,’” Mr. Harcourt continued, a little louder, “‘I bequeath the dwelling house known as Starling’s Rest, together with all furnishings, chattels, revenues, and appurtenances thereof.
“‘These two inheritances shall remain separate and distinct unless and until the said Elias Selwyn and Harriet French are lawfully joined in matrimony, whereupon the property shall be reconciled and united under one settlement. Should they decline, the manor and lands shall be broken and sold in parcels, the proceeds distributed at my discretion as described in the remainder of this will.’”
There was an extremely long pause, during which the only sound was the rustling of paper as Mr. Harcourt lowered the will and sighed very heavily, as if he’d already had this conversation many times in his mind.
Elias could do little more than laugh, a bark of astounded, incredulous bafflement. “What in God’s name?” he managed. “The house is part of the barony.”
Mr. Harcourt winced. “Shall I explain the legalities here first or continue with the will?”
“Continue,” Ruby said, examining her cuticles in pointed avoidance of her fellow wards’ wide-eyed expressions.
“Please explain,” Hattie said, louder and more strangled than she’d intended. “Please.”
Mr. Harcourt nodded. “The late Lord Selwyn was destitute at the time of his engagement to Miss Willa Starling, who came into the marriage with a sizable dowry and allowance from her father,” he began.
“She initiated construction of the home during their engagement, which means the deeds and completion of the building were drawn up before she joined the baron in matrimony, under her father’s legal ownership.
When her father died, rather than inherit the house directly, the dowager baroness moved its property deed into a trust so that it would not merge with the barony. This was, I’m afraid, very deliberate.”
Elias blinked several times. His chest felt like it might cave in.
“But then Lord Selwyn could just purchase it from me,” Hattie said reasonably. “There is no need for matrimony at all.”
Elias stared at her, unable to form words. He supposed he ought to be agreeing with her. He did agree with her, but there was something a little offensive at how quickly and easily she’d found a way out of the decree to be his.
“I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Harcourt with a sigh.
“The rest of the will outlines a dissolution of the house and outbuildings, save for the Cagneys’ cottage, greenhouse, and livestock environs, should matrimony fail to occur.
The baroness would rather have seen the house torn down than her will subverted. ”
“Her will?” repeated Hattie. “Or her Will?”
“Oh, here she goes,” muttered Rhys, shaking his head and stalking away from her. “Willa’s willing will. Will she?”
“Rhys, stop,” Libba said softly. “Sit down.”
In this interlude, Mr. Harcourt had nudged the stack of letters forward on the low glass table that sat in front of the chaise and sofa. Monica had retrieved them and begun to hand them to those to whom they were addressed, her expression solemn and heavy.
“So we get nothing, then?” Malcolm asked, sounding more curious than offended. “If the land is his and the house is hers.”
“Not at all,” Julian Harcourt corrected, a faint smile on his mouth. “There is a third element of wealth, Mr. Lennox. Money itself.”
Elias pressed his lips together.
He had always known she would spend it all before he could inherit it. He had known because she’d told him so before he’d even turned thirteen. Still, it wasn’t pleasant to hear again, stark and writ in legal binding.
She would force him to come along and watch her pour funds into this investment or that expansion, trying to explain to him how interest compounds or funding automates with symbiotic structures built in tandem.
He’d been too young and too stupid to really listen, at the time, and she’d known it.
“Elias, all I will leave you when I am gone is legacy, not coin. And if you understand it, you will thank me for it, so pay attention!”
He rubbed his fingers over his eyes. He could hear her so clearly, even now. Could see the sun bouncing off her coiled, auburn hair and the way the tip of her nose turned red in unhidden frustration at his ambivalence.
Was she really dead?
“Money with stipulations, I’d wager,” said Ruby Little, glancing up from her fingernails. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Harcourt?”
“Of course it is,” the older man replied with a chuckle. “Shall I proceed?”
Elias nodded his thanks to Miss Thresher, accepting his envelope, which felt heavier than a vessel for simply paper. He ran his fingers over it, feeling inside something metallic and round. Those weights pulled at his ribs again.
Mr. Harcourt was listing gifts for the others, properties she had bought around Brighton. A playhouse for Libba, a pavilion for Rhys, a conjoined shop for Monica and Ruby with an attached laboratory and workshop, a quarter share in a shipping company for Malcolm.
It was odd, but the barrister’s voice almost seemed to melt into Willa’s own shrill delivery as he read her words.
As it went on, Elias was certain she was speaking directly to them, her tone and timbre ringing out loudly in the room.
“‘To Errol Cagney, I leave the greenhouse, gardens, and kennels of Starling’s Rest, with my admiration. You were the only one who never needed reminding where home was,’” she said, through the mouth of Mr. Harcourt.
“‘And all of these things are freely given, on the basis of the following stipulations, met and attended in full.’”
Elias glanced up, frowning, and tore the end off of his own envelope, tilting it forward into his open hand.
The item inside landed, leaving the letter still nestled in its wrapping. It was a ring. A man’s ring. Gold, by the look of it, and poorly kept, dented and tarnished.
It was a simple gold band.
Inside there was an inscription. Elias had to tilt it toward the light, squinting down at it to make out the words etched into the inner ring.
Mea Culpa, it read.
My fault.
“‘And lastly,’” said Willa as Mr. Harcourt, “‘it is my express wish and command that there shall be, in the year of my decease, a Carnival and Exhibition at Starling’s Rest in the manner of those summer showcases once held under my direction. Each of my prodigies, to whom I have given so much, shall contribute their talents to this entertainment, that Brighton may remember me not with mourning, but with marvels.’”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Malcolm said, frowning.
“The showcase?” Errol repeated, blinking rapidly, his voice gone hoarse. “Truly?”
“A carnival for a funeral,” Rhys said, sounding thoughtful. “It is a nice idea.”
Mr. Harcourt smiled despite himself. “‘Furthermore, I direct that each of my said wards, together with my nephew the Baron Selwyn, shall reside within the town of Brighton for one full calendar year following my decease, the better to cement their fortunes, their reputations, and their affections. Should any fail in this, or absent themselves without due cause, their inheritance shall be forfeit and divided amongst the others who remain faithful to both my memory and my mischief.’”
That last part hung in the air.
Monica immediately burst into tears. “Oh, but Berlin,” she moaned. “Oh, my work!”
Libba shot to her feet, shaking her head fervently. “My entire company is in London! Is that not due cause?!”
“A quarter share is lovely,” Malcolm put in, mostly to himself, “but I still have to put in notice at the bank in London.”
“I still belong to the Crown,” Elias put in, closing his fist around the golden ring. “I cannot simply abandon my commission.”
“No,” said Ruby, batting her lashes at him, “but you could sell it, couldn’t you, handsome?”
He grimaced at her.
The only one who was not reacting at all was Harriet French, who stood frozen by the window, glittering in sunlight.
She was staring not at Mr. Harcourt, nor at her fellow wards, nor at the Last Will and Testament, which now sat dormant on the glass table. Her letter hung limply in her hands. Her eyes, that stunning clash of bronze and brass and hazel and gold, were on Elias.
“These matters can be mitigated,” Mr. Harcourt said, raising his hands as though to stamp down the flurry of discontent currently rising in the room.
“You have your letters from the baroness. You have heard her will. Perhaps it is time that we all retreat for a moment and rest and reconvene at dinner to discuss the specifics. Does that sound reasonable?”
It didn’t, as far as Elias was concerned.
None of this sounded reasonable.
But he did it, anyway, because this was Starling’s Rest, and reason was never part of the equation within these walls.
He did it, anyway, because he was home.