Chapter 2
Chapter Two
She called the solicitor at nine o'clock sharp.
The number was on the letterhead she'd been given back in the hospital.
It was the same firm that had managed her father's affairs, and probably her grandfather’s, too.
She'd written out what she wanted to say on the back of an envelope because her hands were unsteady and she didn't trust herself not to ramble.
"Mr. Whitfield can see you at half past eleven," the woman said. "Can you get to Cheltenham?"
"I'll be there."
She hung up and looked at the phone in her hand. That had been easy. Almost too easy. In her experience, professionals who could see you the same day were either very good at their jobs or desperate for the work.
Rowan was still in the kitchen when she came back downstairs, showered, dressed, and armored in the pink sweater.
He'd washed the breakfast dishes. He was standing at the counter with her lists—the garden lists, the greenhouse sketches, and the pages and pages of plans that meant nothing to her now that it was all at risk of disappearing.
"I have an appointment with the solicitor," she said. "In Cheltenham."
He looked up. "I'll drive you."
She didn't argue. She didn't have a car, and the bus would take most of the day. She was too tired to act like pride was more important than being practical.
“Thank you.”
The drive took forty minutes through gray country. The hedgerows were bare, the fields beige, and a fine rain started, streaking the windshield. Dreary. That was the only word she could put to it. They didn't talk much.
The solicitor’s office was nothing like some of the flashy attorneys’ offices back in the States.
The waiting room had four chairs and a framed print of a hunt scene.
Leah sat with her coat on her lap and her envelope of notes in her hand.
Rowan sat beside her, quiet, his hands folded between his knees.
Mr. Whitfield was sixtyish, silver-haired, with reading glasses hanging from a cord around his neck. He reminded her of a retired grandfather, not at all like the polished attorneys she’d seen on billboards.
He shook her hand and said he'd known her father for a long time and was sorry for her loss. He greeted Rowan with a handshake. Leah gathered they knew each other. Of course they did. Everyone was connected to everyone, whether she liked it or not.
"I received a letter from Mrs. Hargrove's solicitors last week," Whitfield said, once they were seated.
"I was going to write to you this week. You've saved me the postage.
" He settled his glasses on his nose and opened a folder.
"They've raised a query regarding the succession language in the deed, and they've requested documentation concerning your parents' marriage. "
"What exactly is the language?" Leah asked.
He turned the folder so she could see.
"It was written in the eighteen hundreds," Whitfield said.
"It's been carried forward in every transfer since, because nobody ever wanted to pay a solicitor to redraft what had always worked without trouble.
" He took the glasses off again. "Your grandfather never questioned it.
Your father never questioned it. Until recently, no one had questioned it. "
"What does ‘legitimate’ mean?" Leah asked. "Legally. In 1983. Not 1883."
"That is precisely the argument." For a moment, he almost looked approving.
"A marriage valid where it was celebrated—Nevada, in this case—is generally recognized in England.
But recognized is not the same as registered.
A challenge doesn't have to succeed to do damage.
It only has to survive long enough to exhaust you. And your finances."
"There it is," she said. "She doesn't have to win. She just has to make it expensive. She knows I drained the account to pay off her husband."
"It is a tactic as old as litigation itself," Whitfield said. "Particularly when one party has money and the other does not."
"Can she win?"
Whitfield was quiet for a moment.
"I don't believe so," he said. "The will names you. The trust names you. The deed transfer names you. I arranged the trust myself. The plane ticket. Everything. He was not a man guessing at his own daughter." He paused. "But I'd be lying to you if I said a challenge was impossible.”
She forced herself to stay calm. She thought about all her plans and how she might finally be settled, only to have it all taken away again.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Get proof.”
“How? A DNA test? He’s…dead.”
"The marriage certificate—you have it?"
"I found it in the library."
That earned her a faint smile. "Registration.
British nationals marrying abroad could register the marriage with the consulate.
It wasn't required, but it created an official record here.
If your father registered it, the record would have been forwarded to the General Register Office. I can make that inquiry."
"And if he didn't?"
"Then we’ll need to find another way to prove the marriage. Now for the harder question." He looked at her over his glasses. "Does your birth certificate list your father?"
Leah opened her mouth to say yes and then closed it.
She didn't know.
She had a birth certificate. She'd used it her whole life.
“I have one, but I don’t know if it’s real. I never knew I was born in England. Or who my father was. I’m not sure if it would hold up.”
“If it doesn't, we need to know that before they do.
" He made a note. "And there's one more avenue.
This firm has served your family for three generations.
If your father ever sought advice about the marriage—registering it, your mother's immigration status, anything at all—there will be a file note.
The old files are in storage. I'll have them pulled. "
"How long do we have?" she asked.
"A query isn’t the same as a claim," he said. "They've only asked questions so far. Filing a real challenge takes longer and costs them money. It’ll be weeks at least, probably months.” He closed the folder. "Don't spend that time just hoping, Miss Ellsworth. Use it to dig for answers."
She asked the question she'd been dreading since the waiting room. "What is this going to cost?"
Whitfield looked at her for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair.
"Your father paid his bills on time for forty years," he said. "Finding paper is cheap. Court is expensive. Let's find the paper and keep it cheap." He stood, and they stood. He shook her hand again at the door. "He spoke of you," he added.
“He didn’t know me,” she said.
She didn’t mean to sound rude, but it was true. She was still upset that he had never tried to talk to her.
She blinked back tears on the way back to the truck. Rowan didn't say anything, just fell into step beside her and opened the truck door for her when they reached it.
She stared out the window and ran through all the what-ifs. Life taught her to brace for the worst. If Madeline's money outlasted her nerve, she could be out of that house by Christmas. Homeless in a matter of weeks—again.
She'd survived worse. But she had actually allowed herself to think that those days were behind her.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Not again. She was not going to be evicted from her own father's house by a woman with a personal vendetta.
When they got back, she went straight to the library. Her laptop was still open on the desk where she'd left it, the half-finished business plan on the screen. She looked at it for a long moment. Then she closed the lid.
Rowan stood in the doorway. "You're not quitting."
"I'm not quitting. I'm pausing." She took a deep breath. "There's no point ordering bulbs for a garden I might not own by spring." She looked around the library. "Every plan I make from here forward depends on one question. So we answer the question first."
He didn't argue.
She took a breath.
"I understand why you do it," she said. "The managing.
The decision about what I can handle and when.
You've spent your whole life taking care of this place and the people in it.
You took care of my father. It's who you are.
I get it. I do." She kept her voice level.
"But it has to stop. With me, it has to stop.
No more deciding on my behalf. No more protecting me from my life.
If it's mine to know, I need to know it.
Even when it's bad. Especially when it's bad. "
He nodded. "I know. I'm sorry."
"I know you are," she said. "I'm still angry."
"All right."
"That's going to take a minute. I'm not going to pretend otherwise."
He offered a small smile. “Expected.”
“We're too old to let one bad night ruin the best thing we have.
" She forced herself to meet his eyes. "Last night happened.
I don't regret it. I want to see where this goes. But from now on, I need honesty. Total honesty. If I have broccoli in my teeth, tell me. If my zipper’s down or my butt looks big, tell me. Everything. That's the deal."
He chuckled. “I could not possibly be rude.”
“I’m too old to be offended by the truth,” she said with a sigh. “I mean, I’m not asking you to insult me, but just be straight. Trust me, there is little you could do or say that I haven’t heard before. I survived then; I’ll survive now.”
"Deal," he said.
"I'm not very good at asking for help," she added. "So we're both going to have to learn some new tricks."
"That is a fair assessment of the situation."
They went to the kitchen. It was what they did—every plan they'd ever made had happened at that table. So many lists. They sat down side by side with a blank page between them, and she wrote PROOF at the top in capital letters.
"Birth certificate," she said, and wrote it down. "I have one. Somewhere. It's in the document folder I brought from Seattle—passport, birth certificate, all of it in one of the boxes upstairs.”
"Marriage certificate," Rowan said.
"We have it. I'll photograph it and put the original somewhere safe." She wrote it down. "Somewhere that isn't between the pages of a book, no offense to my father's filing system."
He chuckled. “I should have bought him a filing cabinet.”
"I think the library requires a complete and thorough inspection. I mean every book. Every box. There are boxes in my father’s closet. There’s the desk. I’ve been through it, but not enough.”
“I’ll help,” he said.
“He kept everything,” she said. “You mentioned that during our first week together. He saved ticket stubs, receipts, and concert programs. He even kept her clothes, Rowan. For forty years. Someone like that wouldn't leave the most important question of his life undocumented. Did he ever, even once, say he didn’t believe I was legitimate?”
“Not once.”
“What if…”
She thought back to what she knew, which wasn’t much. “What if he isn’t my biological father?” she whispered.