by Janette Oke
“Why, whatever does she mean?” she managed to ask.
The attorney stopped reading to look at the girl.
“She never discussed it with you?” he asked simply.
“No,” said Belinda, shaking her head emphatically. “No, she never said a word.”
“She means—just as it says—that to you she leaves everything that hasn’t been previously disposed of.”
“But . . . but . . . what is that? I don’t understand. . . .”
“I’m afraid it is much more than we can go into just now,” answered the magistrate. “The house, the investments, the bank account. We will specify all of it in detail for you in due time.”
“The house?” gasped Belinda. “This house?”
The man nodded. He seemed to be rather enjoying the effect he was having on the young woman.
“This house.” He looked as though he was having a difficult time keeping the composure befitting his position.
“Oh my!” said Belinda, her hands to her lips as she leaned back helplessly in her chair. “Oh my. There must be . . . there must be some mistake. Why, whatever in the world would I do with . . . with this house?”
She closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead, hoping that the room would soon stop spinning.
Thirteen
Decisions
“I . . . I think I need a few minutes alone,” Belinda managed, and it looked like the elder solicitor smiled in spite of himself.
“Of course,” he answered in a fatherly tone. “Of course. I hadn’t realized all this would be such a shock to you. We’ll come back tomorrow . . . say, two o’clock?”
Belinda managed a nod in agreement.
“Windsor will show you out,” she said numbly and fumbled for the doorknob.
Belinda fled to the coolness of the gardens, her head spinning, her brain dazed. She sank onto a white wrought-iron bench beneath a lilac bush and stared unseeingly ahead, trying to clear her muddled brain so she could sort through what she had just been told.
This bush was covered with blossoms this spring, she murmured to herself. Such a strange thought under the circumstances. Belinda reached a hand to the greenery, fingering a leaf. There’s nothing here now . . . nothing. You wouldn’t even know it had ever bloomed. Thomas has clipped all the seedpods.
“How time changes,” she whispered. “Seasons come and go . . . life begins and stops. A person has such a short time to make any impression on the world.”
It could have been a morbid thought, but to Belinda it began her thinking process toward a plan. It helped her to put things into proper perspective. It helped to clear her foggy brain.
“And now I have this . . . this to contend with,” she said, speaking aloud in the quiet garden. “I was going home. Had my mind all made up, and now . . . now I’m trapped . . . there’s no other way to say it.” Belinda paused to stare mournfully at the lilac bush.
“She . . . she didn’t intend for it to be a burden,” she continued. “Aunt Virgie didn’t mean to force me into a difficult circumstance. She thought she was doing me a favor . . . giving me an honor. But it isn’t so. I don’t want her house . . . or her money. I never wanted it. I stayed because she was here and needed me. And now . . . now I am still not free to go.”
Belinda lowered her head into her hands and began to weep. “Oh, dear,” she cried. “Oh, dear Lord. What do I do now? What do I do now?”
With heavy steps and a heavier heart, Belinda found her way to her room. She sat numbly by the window with her Bible. A favorite psalm helped to quiet her heart, and then she prayed. When she arose she washed her face, made sure her hair was in place, and went to the north parlor, where she rang the bell and waited for Windsor. She felt a bit shaky inside, but her lips were firm in determination.
“Windsor, summon the staff, please,” she ordered.
It was only a matter of minutes before they all stood before her. Belinda hardly knew where to begin.
“I suppose you know that an attorney paid us a visit today,” she began. There was no reaction, and Belinda knew that the household had been well aware of the fact.
“Well, he brought some startling news,” Belinda went on. “He read a portion of . . . of Madam’s will.”
Silence.
“In it she made provision for each of you. I’m sure that the matter will be presented to each of you at the proper time and circumstance. The will also said that . . . that she left the house and . . . and other things . . . to me.”
No one in the room seemed surprised. There were a few murmurs of acceptance, even approval.
“Well, I have no idea—none whatsoever—of how to run a house such as this. But together we’ll manage somehow. I just felt that . . . that each of you deserved to know how things stand. You all will have your positions . . . as in the past. There will be no dismissals or rearranging of duties . . . unless any of you prefer to find something else.”
Belinda looked nervously around the circle. Heads nodded, and she saw relief on some faces.
“Well . . . that’s all I have to say . . . for the moment,” she concluded. “You may . . . may . . .” Belinda floundered. How did one excuse the staff?
“Thank you,” she finally said. “That is all.”
The staff understood they could now leave and moved toward the door. All but Windsor. He stood at stiff attention until the others had left and then approached Belinda. With a slight bow he addressed her. “Would you care for tea now . . . m’lady?”
Belinda had never been so addressed before. She understood immediately what Windsor intended. She was now the mistress of the manor. He and the staff would treat her accordingly. Her word was now rule.
The idea made her flustered. It was hard for her to find her tongue. “Why . . . why . . . yes, please. That would be fine,” she managed to answer.
Belinda accepted the tea from the hand of the butler a few moments later. She didn’t feel like sipping tea. She felt even less like tasting the tea biscuits that accompanied it, but she went through the motions.
Am I to sit each day, pretending to be something I’m not? she thought, sorrow and frustration churning through her. I will go stark mad. No company. No duties. Nothing of worth accomplished. How will I ever bear such a life?
Belinda shook her head sadly, set aside her teacup, and slowly went back to her room.
The two attorneys returned the next day as promised. After time with Belinda, during which more details of the will were explained, the entire staff was called so that the portion of the will outlining their future provisions could be read to them. Belinda noticed some tears and heard such comments as, “She was so thoughtful,” “Such a dear thing,” and “My, how we will miss her.”
Belinda had gone into a new kind of shock. On her young and inexperienced shoulders fell the task of running a large estate. An estate she had not asked for—one she did not wish to have. Yet she knew she could not walk out on the new responsibility after having been entrusted with it in good faith. To do so would be an offense to the memory of the deceased and to the staff Mrs. Stafford-Smyth implicitly assigned to her care. But what am I to do? Belinda asked herself over and over. Grow old in this big house . . . all by myself?
A few mornings later Sarah came to her hesitantly. “M’lady,” she said somewhat warily, “I was sent by Pottah to clean M’lady’s—Madam’s rooms—and I picked up her Bible and this fell out. It’s addressed to you. I . . . I thought you should see it . . . m’lady.”
Belinda reached for the envelope. It did bear her name.
She stood staring down at the handwriting of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, fearful to open it, yet knowing she must. She reached for a letter opener from her desk and carefully slit the envelope, lifting from it a sheet of paper. Belinda’s hands were trembling as she held the carefully penned note.
My dear Belinda:
I have no idea when you might be reading this, for at the moment of writing I feel just fine. However, I am reminded
that at my age, one must always be prepared.
I have talked with my barrister again today, and I believe that we have all things in order. I realize that parts of my will might be a shock to you.
Had things been different, I would have left more of the responsibilities to my grandsons, but never mind that.
I am leaving most of what has been accumulated in my name to you, dear. This is not to be an “albatross” but a means for ministering. I know that you will, with your good sense, find a way to use it wisely. I leave all of the decisions to you. I trust you completely.
And, my dear, feel no grief or sorrow for me. I have gone to a much better place—thanks to your constant prompting that caused me to recognize the truth.
I have loved you as a daughter. I thank you for your love for me. You have filled the lonely days of an old woman with meaning—and a reason for living. I could never, never repay you.
All my love,
Virginia Stafford-Smyth
Belinda’s eyes were so tear filled she could hardly decipher the last few paragraphs. She could hear the writer’s beloved voice in the words on the page. As she grasped the letter, a terrible loneliness for Aunt Virgie besieged her.
She turned back to the penned lines again and reread the letter.
“This is not to be an ‘albatross’ but a means for ministering,” she read aloud. “What did she mean?” Belinda wondered. “What was she trying to tell me?”
And then it came to her in a flash of insight. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was not demanding that she stay in the house—had not even expected her to do so. She had left the house and funds to Belinda so she would put it to some good use. Of course! It would be selfish—and foolish—to let this huge home and all the rooms sit idle and empty when so many people need a roof over their heads. There is some way—there has to be some way—that it can be used to help people.
Belinda couldn’t help but smile as a new excitement burned in her heart.
“I need to have a good talk with an attorney,” she said to herself. “I’m going to need lots of ideas and help to get this going properly.”
Belinda felt she should share her ideas with the household staff. After all, their future was involved in her plans, as well. She called them together again after the evening meal.
“Sarah found a letter this morning while cleaning Madam’s rooms,” she began. “It was addressed to me, but I think you all deserve to hear it,” and Belinda proceeded to read the message. She skipped a paragraph or two, since those sections were personal and were not pertinent to the mandate she—and they—had been given.
The staff listened attentively while Belinda read, but it didn’t look like any of them felt there were any new revelations. Belinda was forced to explain—as she had known she would—her understanding of the line about the “albatross” and the “means for ministering.”
“Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had no intention of my keeping this beautiful big house to waste on my own comfort,” Belinda informed them. “She wanted me to use it to help others.”
Questioning eyes turned toward her. She hurried on. “Now, I have no clear idea how to do that at present. I’m going to need the help of a law firm to discover just what can be done and what would be advised. I just wanted you all to know that I plan to find some way to share the manor with others.”
Expressions of both interest and consternation filled the faces arrayed in front of Belinda.
“I want you to know, too,” she continued, undaunted, “that I won’t make any final decision until we have discussed it together. It is your home, too. I want you all to be in agreement with what is done here.”
The ones who were anxious looked a bit relieved by the time Belinda dismissed them. She could imagine that there was a good deal of discussion once they reached the back rooms.
Belinda was weary . . . very weary. There had been so much happening in her life in the last few weeks. And now she had to begin a serious search of Boston for the proper attorney. She dreaded the ordeal, but she would start first thing in the morning.
Belinda had Windsor take her directly to the law firm that had represented Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. Windsor had phoned ahead for an appointment, and Mr. Dalgardy, who had visited the manor with the will, greeted her in his office.
“And how may I serve you?” he asked graciously.
“It’s concerning the will of Mrs. Virginia Stafford-Smyth,” Belinda began.
“Yes. I assumed it was,” the learned man nodded.
“Well, I—that is, you see the will—it doesn’t say that I must keep the house. It just says that I have been left the house.”
“I don’t understand,” said the man with a frown.
“Well,” Belinda went on, “I also have a letter, you see . . .”
“Could I see the letter?”
“Well, I . . . I didn’t bring it with me. It was a personal letter,” stammered Belinda.
“Was it from the deceased?” asked the gentleman, “or some other party?”
“Oh, the deceased—for sure. I recognized her handwriting at once.”
“I will need to see the letter, I’m afraid, if I am to verify that,” the man replied distantly.
“Well, it doesn’t change the will any. I mean . . . it just . . . it just explains some things . . . to me,” Belinda hastily explained.
The man just continued to frown.
“Well, what I mean is . . . I don’t think Mrs. Stafford-Smyth expected me to just . . . just live at the manor . . . all alone and . . . and selfishly. I think she meant for me to use it in some way . . . to help others.”
Mr. Dalgardy looked doubtful, but he nodded for Belinda to go on.
“Well, I . . . I need to know what one could do with such a house. How one could put it to good use without . . . without destroying what . . . what it is now. And the staff . . . they still need to be able to carry on there as before, you see.”
“You want it turned into a public museum?” asked the man.
“Oh no. No, not at all. I don’t think Aunt Virgie—Mrs. Stafford-Smyth—had that in mind at all.”
“Then, what did she have in mind?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure. But it would mean helping people . . . I am sure of that. But I don’t know what possibilities there are. That’s why I need direction . . . advice. I need to know what the city would allow . . . what options one would have.”
“I see,” said the gentleman, shaking his head slowly.
Belinda was confused. His lips seemed to be saying one thing and his head quite another.
He rose from his chair and cleared his throat. “If you wish the house used to support charity,” he began stiffly, “you can always sell it and donate the proceeds.”
“But that wouldn’t include the staff, you see,” Belinda argued.
“They could be given an adequate pension,” he maintained.
“Oh, but the house is their home . . . has been for ever so many years. I don’t think—”
“I’m sorry,” the attorney interrupted, standing, “that’s the only way I could help you.”
Belinda realized she was being dismissed.
She rose shakily to her feet. “I . . . I see,” she murmured as she straightened her skirt and lifted her parasol. She was almost out the door before the man called after her, “If you decide you’d like to sell, I might be able to find a buyer.”
Belinda lifted her chin and sailed out the door. Over my dead body, she fumed inwardly. I’ll never sell Marshall Manor right out from under the entire staff. There must be something else. . . .
Fourteen
The Task
Keen disappointment colored Belinda’s voice as she relayed to Windsor the news of her visit with the attorney. She didn’t know where to turn next. But Windsor did not seem to be daunted.
“Did you ask Mr. Dalgardy if there was another law firm he might recommend?” he asked Belinda.
She shook her head. “I didn’t even think of it,” she a
dmitted. “I guess I was just too . . . too upset when he talked of selling Marshall Manor. Why, I shouldn’t be surprised but that he had his eye on it himself,” she said somewhat indignantly.
Windsor made no reply, just nodded in agreement.
“Well, I suppose we must just go from law office to law office,” the butler said matter-of-factly. “I know of no shortcuts.”
Belinda sighed.
The day was getting hot. She was glad she had brought her parasol.
“Will we need appointments?” she asked uneasily. “If we have to make an appointment with each law firm, we could be at this for months.”
“Usually,” Windsor replied, “but they might give some information. At least we could get the name of whom to call from the secretary.”
Belinda nodded. “How shall I do it?” she asked.
“Well, m’lady, if you like, I will take those two offices across the street. You try the one at hand. I will ask for information on your behalf, and you could ask if this one is interested in governing your affairs.”
Belinda nodded. It sounded simple enough. She gathered up her skirts for the long climb up the stairs to her assigned firm. She could see their sign: Browne, Browne and Thorsby, Barristers and Solicitors.
By the time she reached the office door, she was breathless and perspiring. She paused long enough to wipe her brow, regain her composure, and then tapped on the door.
“Come in,” a male voice invited.
Belinda trembled slightly as she approached the large, littered desk. She tried to remember how Windsor had suggested she express her case, but she couldn’t.
“I’m Belinda—Miss Davis,” she said. “I am looking for a barrister—an attorney who will help me . . . with the . . . the administration of an estate.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the man asked curtly, peering sternly over his glasses.
“No . . . I . . .”