Chapter 5
Cecilia
CECILIA EMERGES LATE FROM her room in the morning.
She has missed breakfast, claiming a headache kept her in bed.
It has: her ears throb badly, though she has iced them, and she cannot bear to look at them in the mirror.
Mired in thought since leaving the Jermyn Street Gallery yesterday, she feels strongly in need of a hot bath to scrape the last of Mr King from her.
She can feel his eyes on her still, the touch of his hand at her waist.
Leo is in the parlour, stretched out on the settee, reading a document.
‘Not at the office today?’ she asks.
‘I do get some time off, you know,’ he says. ‘But as it happens, I’d left some papers at home, so I have to crib them now before meeting some terribly clever fellows who are likely to eat me alive.’
‘I see. Where’s Mother?’
‘Claudine called her round to discuss some crisis or another. The cook used lemon instead of lime in the ices, or the haberdasher’s sent half a yard of Belgian lace instead of French, perhaps.’
Cecilia pictures the bath she could have drawn in a peacefully empty house, how long she could spend reading in hot water until it felt as though her whole body slipped off her like meat from the bone.
But Leo is here – they are in private – and she will use the opportunity that has presented itself.
‘Were you there when Lydia’s will was read?’ she asks, leaning against the doorframe.
Leo twists to look at her. ‘What a bizarre question. Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m curious. Neither Odette nor I were here, so I wondered about it.’
‘What’s there to wonder about? It’s a will. Entirely typical, run-of-the-mill stuff.’
‘There wasn’t—’ Cecilia catches herself.
‘Wasn’t what?’
‘I don’t suppose Aunt Lydia made any unexpected gifts in her will?’
Leo snorts. ‘Hoping to have snagged something? Sorry, Cessy – you weren’t mentioned once. Everything goes to Uncle George as her husband.’
‘Nothing to Odette?’
‘Bits and pieces, but it’s all held in trust until she reaches twenty-one.’
Cecilia considers. ‘How does it work if, say, Lydia was in the process of selling some of her work when she died? What would happen to the money?’
Leo begins to pack away his papers. ‘That would be a matter for the estate. Once you get a grant of probate from the courts, the will usually names an executor who will sort out the estate of whoever snuffed their glim, so to speak. That means totting up all debts and assets and settling the bill. Then they’re in charge of distributing what’s left as per the will.
So I suppose in that case, the executor would finalise the sale and add the money to the estate’s assets. ’
‘And if the money had been verbally promised?’
Leo fastens his briefcase and sits back. ‘Then you’re out of luck, Cessy. I don’t know what Aunt Lydia promised you, but everything reverts to her estate, and that’s that.’
‘Oh.’ Cecilia sits down in an armchair, staring at the spread of her skirts over her knees. ‘She didn’t promise me anything. It’s Odette I’m asking for.’
Leo winds his scarf around his neck and fetches his walking stick and top hat. ‘Then there’s no problem, is there? Everything has gone to Uncle George, and he’ll give her any money she needs, surely.’
Cecilia turns the problem over in her mind. It makes sense, and yet it doesn’t. ‘Is Uncle George the executor?’
‘Oh, no, it had been their old family solicitor, but when Aunt Lydia fell ill she updated her will – standard stuff, but Claudine asked me to take a look, to help her sister with the more onerous odds and ends, that sort of thing. And, as part of that, Lydia named Claudine the new executor.’
‘Claudine,’ echoes Cecilia, numb.
‘She’s been very efficient about it all. Uncle George would hardly have had the time what with all the demands of Parliament.’ Leo puts his hat and coat on and pats her on the shoulder. ‘Stop fretting. Mother is doing what she does best and ingratiating herself with old Claudine. It’s all in hand.’
Cecilia looks at the cotton of her skirt, the weave of the fabric and the places where the print has been poorly applied, smudging an acanthus leaf into a blur.
There is an anxious tightness to her chest that she cannot place.
Everything feels fragile, like the world is made of tissue-thin china and she is tied into hobnail boots.
There is no way for her to move without breaking something.
It is so clever a ploy that she does not know what to think.
As Lydia’s executor, Claudine has control of everything – and yet it’s a role that casts so little suspicion on herself.
If Claudine had encouraged Lydia to change her will to benefit her, it would have been so obviously mercenary.
And if she was already planning to marry George, the money would all go to him anyway.
As executor, she can tidy up any loose ends and cut Odette out entirely.
She wins whatever happens.
How neatly Claudine has plotted it all.
Because Claudine always intended to marry George. Cecilia is certain of that now.
‘And I haven’t forgotten the so-called blackmail business, if that’s what you’re worked up about.
Of course, I need to know what’s going on, so I appreciate you telling me about that, but it’s dealt with.
Mother and I will manage the money situation, and Claudine, and you will work on behaving like a normal girl. How about that?’
‘I hate you,’ she says miserably and sinks into the chair.
‘And I you, Mousy.’ He pauses and pats her shoulder. ‘It will be all right. I promise. Just hold your nerve.’
She accepts the comfort. He is infuriating, but he is her brother, and that means something.
‘Mother managed to square things up when Father died – we can do it again now,’ he says.
When Father died and they lost all their money. The same time that Claudine’s engagement to George fell apart and she left for the Continent.
Wait.
It comes together so suddenly that Cecilia cannot believe she did not see it before.
Claudine went abroad the year Father died.
That is what Leo said before. That is the thought that caught in her mind.
Their father died while Penelope was pregnant with Cecilia – this is a fact she knows. Which means Claudine’s engagement was broken off while Penelope was pregnant. But Cecilia is only a few months older than Odette – so Lydia must have been pregnant at the same time or very soon after.
Oh. Oh.
Claudine and George. Lydia and George.
How long has Claudine been planning her revenge?
The front door bangs in the hallway, and the parlour door opens to admit Penelope and Claudine, as if they have been summoned.
Penelope goes straight to her son. ‘Ah, there you are, Leo. We’d like a word with you.’
Cecilia freezes in her chair, rotten through with fear. Claudine looks so ordinary where she stands: a human face, human mouth quirked in impatience, human hand upon the doorframe.
‘Can it wait?’ asks Leo. ‘I’m overdue at the office.’
‘It cannot,’ says Claudine.
It is the first time Cecilia has seen Claudine look anything other than calm and controlled. She is pale with – anger? Fear? Cecilia is unsure – and moves in jerky, impatient movements.
‘I suppose if it’s urgent,’ says Leo.
Penelope rounds on her next. ‘Cecilia. Do you have some matters of your own to attend to?’
‘My own matters?’ Cecilia begins, but from her mother’s expression, she understands the meaning below the words.
Get out.
Cecilia leaves, and Penelope shuts the door behind her.
All glass, everywhere – porcelain so thin the light shines through.
Cecilia sits at the top of the stairs, folded into shadows. The voices in the parlour are low and constant. Only a few words reach her.
Erratic behaviour. A rest cure. Odette.
She was mistaken before. She had thought the world fragile but intact, and that, if she moved ever so gently, she might find a way through it.
But it is too late. It is shattered, and she will cut herself whichever way she turns.