Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The carriage set them down before a narrow brick building in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, its frontage plain but well kept, the brass plate beside the door polished to a respectable gleam. Elizabeth gathered her reticule more firmly as her uncle offered his arm.
“You need not decide today,” he reminded her as they crossed the pavement.
“I understand.”
The porter admitted them and conducted them up a short flight of stairs to a chamber whose windows overlooked the square. The room was orderly to the point of austerity: shelves of ledgers, a long table of dark wood, three high-backed chairs drawn up behind it.
Three gentlemen rose as Elizabeth entered. The eldest, spare and silver-haired, inclined his head. “Miss Bennet. Mr Gardiner. My name is Rotherdam. Pray, be seated.”
She took the chair indicated; her uncle seated himself at her right.
Mr Rotherdam unfolded a document before him. “Thank you for your reply to our notice, Miss Bennet. We appreciate your attendance to this matter.”
There seemed little she needed to say to that, so she simply inclined her head.
“And you are aware of the nature of the settlement?”
“In outline,” she said. “My uncle has apprised me of its origin and a few rather spare details.”
A faint nod passed among the three. “It is not our wish,” Mr Rotherdam said, “to impose upon you. The instrument is explicit in its provision that acceptance be rendered freely.”
“And personally,” another added.
Elizabeth’s gaze moved between them. “I wondered at that particular insistence in your letter.”
“It is required,” Mr Rotherdam replied. “The founding deed specifies that the eligible steward must signify assent in her own person, and, in the case of acceptance, present herself at Blackscar to assume the charge.”
Her uncle’s hand stilled upon the arm of his chair, then clenched into a light fist.
“At Blackscar,” Elizabeth repeated. “In person?”
“Yes. We are aware, Miss Bennet, that it is no easy distance, particularly this time of year, but that is the term laid out.”
Mr Gardiner cleared his throat gently. “I presume I may accompany my niece in the event she elects to inspect the property.”
“You may travel with her, certainly,” said the third Trustee. “But the declaration itself must be rendered without proxy.”
Elizabeth folded her hands upon her lap. “May I inquire about the details?”
The three exchanged a glance so slight that it might have been accidental. Mr Rotherdam adjusted the paper before him.
“Miss Bennet, you attain your majority in two days’ time.”
Elizabeth nodded. “On the fifteenth.”
“Just so. The settlement specifies that acknowledgment must be rendered within a reasonable period of that date.”
“And what constitutes 'reasonable'?”
“In former generations, the matter was settled within the quarter,” he replied. “We have already allowed for delay.”
“In deference to my sister,” Elizabeth said evenly.
A faint tightening passed across his features. “In deference to circumstance.”
She inclined her head but did not concede the correction. “If I am to decide, I should wish to know what I am deciding upon. You speak of Blackscar as though I ought to picture it. At present, my mind can hardly overcome the rather gothic-sounding name.”
The second Trustee smiled slightly. “It lies upon the Northumberland coast, between Alnwick and the fishing village of Seahaven. A reef extends there some distance from shore. Before the Lantern’s erection, wrecks upon that stretch were... frequent.”
“And widely fatal,” the third gentleman supplied quietly.
“And the tower itself?”
“Raised in the early seventeenth century,” Mr Rotherdam replied. “Repaired at intervals. The stone is sound. The lenses have been replaced more than once.”
Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully. “How extensive is the property?”
Rotherdam gestured to an aged map already laid on his desk and pointed to parts of it with a dry quill.
“I thought you might ask. Here, you see its situation along the coast. And here—” he shifted another paper on top with what looked like an architect’s sketch of the buildings.
“—you see the tower, the keeper’s dwelling adjoining, a private cottage for auxiliary use, and a narrow tract of cliff land sufficient to secure its approach.
The endowment supports its maintenance, supplies for the lighthouse, and wages for its upkeep. ”
She hesitated only slightly before asking, “How many are required to operate it?”
Mr Rotherdam folded his hands. “At present, one.”
“Only one?” Elizabeth repeated.
“Yes.”
There was something in the way he said it—neither defensive nor explanatory—that made her aware she would not be furnished with further particulars.
She regarded them each in turn, then said, “And you consider its oversight by myself urgent? I know nothing of such structures.”
“That is immaterial,” he answered. “But the stewardship has remained unsettled longer than the instrument intended.”
“You expected my sister to assume it.”
“We had every reason to hope she would,” the second Trustee replied. “Her letter to us suggested as much.”
Elizabeth’s head lifted sharply. “Then you know she did not refuse.”
“We know only that the period allowed for her acknowledgment elapsed without formal assent,” Mr Rotherdam said.
Mr Gardiner’s hand moved to rest lightly over hers upon the arm of the chair. She spoke anyway.
“She is not known to be deceased. If she were to present herself—”
“Whatever her intention may have been, the settlement cannot remain indefinitely suspended. The instrument required her declaration within the prescribed period,” he replied, not unkindly.
“That period passed more than a year ago. We have, Miss Bennet, waited with as much patience as prudence allowed, but there are certain necessary measures which must soon be undertaken.”
Her throat closed. She swallowed against it — once, hard — and her fingers tightened on the arm of the chair until the wood grain pressed ridges into her skin.
“The trust requires oversight,” Rotherdam continued gently. “The intent being that the next sister in succession would be disposed to accept what the elder sister could not.”
Her uncle’s hand tightened over hers, but Elizabeth pulled away, folding her hands in her lap.
She did not want his comfort or his restraint just now.
Outside the window, a carriage rolled across the square, its wheels muted against the damp.
She watched it pass. When she turned back, her voice was level.
“A moment ago, you said 'necessary measures.' What do you mean by that, precisely?”
“Construction of another structure to replace the old one, if required. There are funds held in reserve,” Mr Rotherdam said, selecting his words with care.
“The original settlement provided for the maintenance, repairs, and eventual reconstruction of the Lantern, should it become unsafe or obsolete.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “Then why has this not been done?”
“Because the funds are conditional,” he replied. “They may not be released absent formal alteration of the stewardship.”
“What sort of alteration?”
“A modification of the instrument,” said the third Trustee.
“One requiring either the assent of the current steward with the support of the current keeper — which has proved... difficult to procure — or the formal lapse of the female line. As Francine Gardiner produced five daughters... I see you understand the importance one of you may have.”
“So long as the charge remains unclaimed,” Elizabeth said slowly, “you may neither replace nor substantially amend the structure.”
“That is correct, Miss Bennet. And we cannot indefinitely preserve a seventeenth-century tower upon a nineteenth-century coast without authority to act.”
“Well,” she said. “What question can there be? Of course, I will accept. I am not certain of travel at this time of year—Uncle, do you suppose—”
“There is one further provision,” Mr Rotherdam interrupted.
Elizabeth’s attention turned from her uncle back to the three men. “Oh?”
“The steward, upon formal acknowledgment, must reside at Blackscar for the space of one full year.”
She stared. Blinked, glanced from one face to another, and stammered. “A… a year?”
“Yes. The founding instrument required that she dwell upon the property for a full turning of the seasons, that she might understand the charge in its entirety.”
Her hands, which had been folded in her lap, separated.
One went to the arm of the chair. The other pressed flat against her knee.
A year. Gracechurch Street, her uncle’s study, Kitty’s needlework by the hearth, Mary’s scales through the wall at seven each morning—all of it held at a distance she could not cross for twelve months.
“Furthermore...” Rotherdam shifted in his chair until it creaked, and his arm fell heavily over the papers on his desk. “She may not enter into marriage during that probationary year.”
The words were delivered plainly, without flourish. Elizabeth glanced at her uncle but found no denial there. “But... why?”
“It was judged,” the second Trustee clarified, “that no steward ought to assume the office lightly, nor relinquish it hastily under marital influence.”
Elizabeth did not immediately answer. “A year,” she said again, more quietly.
“Yes.”
“And if she does marry before that date? I mean... I have no prospects at present,” she hastened to clarify. “But if I did... what then?”
“Well, the language of the trust says the stewardship is vacated and passes to the next eligible sister, if there is one. If there is not, the endowment for repairs becomes... inaccessible once more to the Trustees.”
Her uncle drew a slow breath beside her.
“If, however, you fulfil the obligations laid upon the steward, including the one-year probationary period, then the stewardship remains in the female line as intended, with heirs of your body standing first consideration over any nieces.”