Chapter 31 #2
“Ten thousand pounds,” I supplemented.
“That’s my eight thousand pounds,” Sophonisba snarled. “He promised that sum to me.”
No one responded. What could we say?
Item. All my goods, chattel, leases, plate, jewels, and household stuff whatsoever, after my debts and legacies are paid and my funeral expenses discharged, shall be bequeathed to my heir and the children of his flesh, with the counsel that it is his Christian duty to maintain the household staff in the London townhouse, the Scottish estate, and Burnsby Lodge.
I commend to my heir the care of three females living at the time of this will in Burnsby Lodge, Scotland, herein identified and sometimes known as Mima Burnsby, Ophelia Burnsby, and Sophonisba Ainsworth.
Sophonisba drew in a harsh breath, her expression one of black, incredulous rage. My stomach curled into a sympathetic knot; I was unsurprised, considering the contempt Burnsby had always expressed toward fallen women.
I hereby revoke all former wills and publish this to be my last will and testament. In witness whereof I have hereunto put my hand the day and year first above written.
“That’s it?” Sophonisba demanded.
“Yes.” Godric folded the paper. “It appears to have been duly witnessed and registered. The will must pass through probate, but I see no irregularities that would cause difficulty for a judge.”
“Bunny always told me that after he died, I could produce the paper behind the portrait and receive eight thousand pounds,” Sophonisba burst out.
Silence followed. An expression of sympathy would be unwelcome, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“As we all know, that was a falsehood,” Godric said, not unkindly. “Your claim to be Burnsby’s current wife would have been investigated and found to be untrue. The fact that he included you by name in his will and commended you to the care of his heir would have substantiated the ruling.”
“Bunny admitted that I had never been his wife.” One tear ran down Sophonisba’s cheek, the more convincing for its singularity. “When I brought up my eight thousand pounds, he promised, promised, that he’d made provision in his will despite not being married to me. He promised.”
Another painful silence.
“Yet he left me nothing, after promising that he had left me eight thousand pounds, never mind the fact I wasn’t his wife.
That was a lie, another lie!” Her voice flamed with rage.
“He left me less than nothing, because he knew that everyone in this blasted abbey detested me. He knew that his heir would throw me out!”
With a savage gesture, she reached up and wrenched off her veil.
“That does appear to be the case,” Godric said.
“Bunny was an ass!” Sophonisba had started panting, her bosom heaving so much that I feared her bodice might well split at the seams. I drew my shawl to my lap, readily available in the event of sartorial disaster.
“I agree,” I offered.
“My mother told me that, and it was true,” she burst out. “All these years later, I still believed him. I still . . . I still . . .” Tears rolled down her face; she used her veil to blot them.
She still loved him, obviously.
“I was a cretin to have believed him, from that first moment when he promised to marry me and make me a lady.”
Godric handed her a spotless handkerchief.
Everyone was as silent as a school of carp floating in a pond.
“Lord Burnsby shouldn’t have lied. He should have appreciated and rewarded your loyalty,” I said, feeling more awkward by the moment.
Sophonisba didn’t appreciate my support. She shot me a venomous glare and said, “You’re the worst of all four wives.”
“On what grounds?” Colette asked. “I’m sure we all regret that Burnsby was despicable enough to seduce you.
Yet if my husband brought me face-to-face with his mistress, that woman would find herself sitting on her arse in the snow directly, particularly if said mistress dared insult me to my face.
Evie has shown remarkable forbearance in allowing you to reside under her roof in the last weeks. ”
Lance drew his wife closer and kissed her forehead. “I suspect your husband would also be floundering in a snowbank. Thankfully, I have no mistress.”
“I know that,” Colette said. “I’m making a point. I believe Evie is the best of Burnsby’s wives. Hecuba and Alice were flattened by his bullying, whereas Evie kept her dignity. She spoke to you civilly, Miss Ainsworth.”
“Burnsby wasn’t kind to any of his wives,” Mima put in, from the window seat.
“She didn’t weep a single tear for her husband,” Sophonisba hissed, nodding at me. “She married again before his body was blessed, while it was still warm.”
“Actually, my father’s body was surely frozen by this morning.” Lance was clearly enjoying himself.
I threw him a reproving glance. “You are correct in your assessment of my emotion, Miss Ainsworth. I honor your grief, but I don’t share it. To my mind, Burnsby was an abusive ruffian in gentleman’s guise, a brute who treated women like chattel. I will never shed a tear for him.”
“Bunny told me how unkind and unfeeling you were toward him. He found you cold, boring, and tedious. He told me that you tried to avoid his seventieth birthday party altogether.” She began heaving with sobs again.
(What she said next sounds absurd, but my account is truthful.)
“He was looking forward to a birthday dingbangle, but he was so fraught that he could scarcely perform.”
Dingbangle? Her voice was muffled by the handkerchief. I turned to my husband with an inquiring look.
Godric’s mouth was so firm that I knew that he was choking back a smile, implying that “dingbangling” was a verb relating to the noun “rumpy-pumpy.” It wasn’t the moment to clarify, but I felt a wave of relief that Ophelia wasn’t in the room.
Hopefully she didn’t already know these arcane terms for sexual congress.
“He— He loved Christmas so mu-mu-much,” Sophonisba bawled.
“Perhaps it’s fitting that he died on the night,” Colette observed.
The conversation wasn’t getting us anywhere. I cleared my throat. “It seems I inherited thousands of pounds, but perhaps—”
Sophonisba’s face had been buried in Godric’s handkerchief, but her head jerked up. “No, you didn’t!” she squealed.
“Burnsby treated you with regrettable dishonesty,” Godric told her patiently. “However, you have no legal claim against his estate.”
“Her wedding is as false as mine!” She pointed at me with a shaking forefinger.
“My marriage was invalid?” I exclaimed, thinking back to my abortive wedding ceremony. “I married Burnsby by special license, and my father served as witness along with the verger.” My eyes widened. “Was the special license a forgery?”
“I doubt it,” Godric said. “You described your father as irate at your decision to marry Burnsby. He would have examined the license.”
I shook my head, remembering the whiskey that my father had downed before I forced him into the carriage to attend my wedding.
“He was focused on my jointure and refused to leave the church until Burnsby wrote a codicil to his will, witnessed by himself and the verger, leaving me the larger sum. I don’t think my father paid any attention to the license. ”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Colette cried. “Déjà vu! We played out this script on Christmas. Evie is Burnsby’s rightful widow.”
“No, she isn’t,” Sophonisba spat. “She is!”
Our heads all swung in the direction of her index finger. “Are you saying that Mima was also married to Burnsby?” I gasped.
(More like a screech, if I’m honest.)