Chapter 10 #2
And then, if for no other reason than to avoid Wealtha’s tantrums, Richard would return to London and shake the dust of Yorkshire from his titled feet.
“Abernathy Blackstock’s will is simplicity itself.” Despite his words, Fremont Wopley hemmed, hawed, fussed, and turned pages as if searching for an arcane passage of Scripture. “Standard language, typical provisions. Ah, here we are.”
He smoothed a hand down a Father Christmas beard, though Richard attributed to the solicitor less benevolence than he would have to Beelzebub.
Wopley cleared his throat. “‘To my firstborn legitimate son, I leave all right, title, and interest in my real properties, including but not limited to Shepherd’s Glen, with its policies, appurtenances, and fixtures, as well as livestock, fungibles, and furnishings, of any kind whatsoever. Should I have more than one legitimate son, specific bequests of one tenant property each, chosen by the eldest brother, shall be inherited by each younger son upon his twenty-first birthday, to be held in trust for him prior to that date.’”
Wopley peered at Richard across the gleaming mahogany table.
“At the time he made this will, Abernathy Blackstock was in his forties. The probability of a lot of sons substantially reducing the acreage of the Glen was not great. We advised monetary settlements instead of turning the younger sons into yeomen, but Abernathy ignored our counsel.”
Richard mustered a slight smile. “Fortunately for me.”
“As you say, my lord. As you say.” Wopley shot a fulminating glance at St. Didier, who sat silently at Richard’s right.
“What of daughters?” Richard asked.
“The same rather standard approach,” Wopley said, shuffling more pages.
“‘To each of my legitimate female issue, I bequeath the sum of one thousand pounds and a portion of the Blackstock jewels, share and share alike, to be divided by aforesaid firstborn son. Each daughter is to have a life estate in the Blackstock dower cottage, which shall be habitably maintained by the heir to Shepherd’s Glen for the benefit of my female heirs.’”
Wopley moved on to another page. “‘In the event I leave no male issue, the Glen is to be sold and its proceeds apportioned among my legitimate daughters, the sums to be held in trust for them in interest-bearing accounts until such time as the ladies are widowed or attain their thirtieth year…’ And he provides a competence for the ladies while they await their thirtieth birthdays.”
Wopley put aside the document. “All very generic, my lord. Curiously so when Blackstock had only the one daughter, upon whom he doted, but then, the estate’s cash reserves have ever been modest.”
Have they really? “I’ll want the original of that will sent to the Glen,” Richard said, “along with any copies you’re holding.”
Wopley’s bushy white brows came down, and he folded his hands over a prosperous paunch.
“Is that wise, my lord? Shepherd’s Glen is somewhat isolated, and an original will is a precious document. We handle such important papers routinely, while the domestics in rural service might use a will left out on a desk blotter to light the hearth some chilly night.”
The Father Christmas smile expressed both humor and dismay at such incompetence. Clearly, Wopley did not take seriously the possibility that Richard had actually reviewed the estate ledgers.
“Why do you suppose Blackstock hadn’t much cash?
” Richard asked. “The Glen is a large, well-run estate and breeds sheep with excellent wool, considering the climate and terrain. Blackstock was not a gambler, he did not invest unwisely, and he had neither an army of poor relations to support nor expensive hobbies.”
None that Richard’s inquiries among the shopkeepers and tenants had been able to discover.
The first hint of caution showed in Wopley’s rheumy eyes.
“Farming is a chancy business, my lord. Having been interested in, shall we say, commercial endeavors, you might be unaware that weather, disease, foreign competition, and market vagaries all conspire to make the farmer’s lot uncertain.
If the harvest fails, the rents are often late or short, when they are paid at all. ”
How would Mabel deal with this old windbag? How had she dealt with him? Because Richard was certain that thankless task had fallen to her.
“And yet, the Glen is for the most part in adequate repair, though the appointments in the house itself have become outdated, if not worn.” Orla’s apartment being the sole fashionable exception.
Wopley made a production of tidying up the several law books left open on the table, perhaps to signal that the clerks were ever at their studies.
“My lord must look to the ladies in residence at the Glen to address domestic details. They were sent a generous allowance each quarter—beyond generous, in my opinion—and it pains me to admit I have no idea where that money went.”
Wopley paused to shake his head, sigh, and tie a red ribbon around Blackstock’s last will and testament.
“We asked for quarterly reports, my lord, though Miss Fielding refused to provide them. She claimed we would have charged the estate to review them, though what conscientious solicitor would request accounts for any other purpose? I regret to posit that the funds might have gone to fripperies and extravagances rather than maintenance of the house itself.”
Fripperies. Heaven preserve the realm from the near occasion of frivolity and fripperies. “How much were the ladies remitted?”
As predicted, Wopley named a sum twice what Mabel had been managing on.
“I believe if my lord were to have a glance at the ledgers we’ve kept—your man retrieved them days ago—you’d see that exact amount regularly reflected in the books.”
“I did have a glance,” Richard said, “and I agree that the sum on your books would have been generous had the ladies ever received it. Instead, they were to make do on half that total. I’ve calculated the difference over the last five years, and the missing funds are substantial on this one item alone. ”
Wopley cocked his head. He frowned. He pursed his lips.
“My lord has apparently been taken in by the distaff. Of course Mrs. Fielding and her kin are trying to see their pin money doubled now that you’ve been located.
One almost can’t blame them, particularly when their schemes are so obvious. The ledgers do not lie, my lord.”
St. Didier appropriated the will from the detritus on the table.
“Wopley,” Richard said, “do you accuse my relatives of dissembling?”
“Of course not, my lord. I’m sure you are laboring under a misapprehension, nothing more.”
St. Didier’s expression went even more blank.
“I do not care for misapprehensions,” Richard said, “nor do I care for solicitors who cast aspersion on women who have been left for years to fend for themselves, while their trusted lawyers did next to nothing to locate the missing head of their family.”
“Now, my lord, that is a mischaracterization of events, at best. We sent inquiries. We examined the estate records and inquired of local authorities. We were diligent, and our efforts were simply unavailing.”
“So diligent,” St. Didier said, “that in years of trying, you never asked Orla Fielding from whence her sister’s letters were posted.”
How had St. Didier lit upon that damning fact?
“A letter can be posted from anywhere,” Wopley retorted. “That proves nothing.”
“Those letters are not evidence offered in a court of law,” Richard said, rising.
“They are puzzle pieces, and you did not bother to examine them. The Glen yet prospers despite your incompetence and sloth. You can tell all and sundry you represented the estate conscientiously, though, in fact, your efforts were abysmal, if not criminal. I have hired a different firm to handle affairs for the Glen. Good day.”
Wopley struggled to his feet. “But, my lord, this is too precipitous! This is not how we in the north tend to our business. The denizens of the City might conduct themselves in fits and flights, but I must ask you to reconsider. Even assembling and organizing the estate documents for transfer to a successor firm will be a significant undertaking. Years and years of receipts, ledgers, correspondence, filings, and pleadings, all requiring a final review and tallying—”
Richard rose. “I had a word with your clerks before you joined us. The trunks of documents should be on their way to the Glen within the hour. Very helpful fellow, your head clerk. Very responsive.”
Very unwilling to swing for the embezzlement that Wopley would doubtless blame on his subordinates.
“You’ve had a narrow escape,” St. Didier said. “Take it and cease blathering.” The very civility of his tone held menace.
Richard led the way from the office, St. Didier at his back. Wopley trailed behind, wringing his pale hands.
“I must protest, my lord, I truly must. We have done our duty to the utmost, with zeal and skill, year after thankless year, and this is our recompense? My lord is too easily swayed by a pack of nattering females who simply cannot manage their coin.”
Richard stopped at the door. “I haven’t much family worth the name.
I take the welfare of that pack of females seriously, and you—as bold a thief as I have ever met, which is bolder than all the imps serving in hell—have just insulted them.
I would have been content to let your business shrivel to a trickle so you’d know what it was to face relentless insufficiency.
So you’d have to fret over each load of coal and every unhappy client.
So that you would suffer the fate you tried to impose on my womenfolk. ”
The clerks at their high desks were unabashedly gawking.
“You’d best retire,” Richard said. “Retire to Rome. It’s affordable, and many of Britain’s failed scoundrels seek refuge there. You’ll fit right in.”
Somebody snickered. Somebody else guffawed. St. Didier’s eyes were dancing.
Richard took his leave, angrier than he could ever recall being, which was saying a great deal.