A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  Elspet sighed and glanced down river at the huge galleons moving imperceptibly closer. While she waited, and she knew Zachary to be there in the city, there was still hope, she knew. England seemed to be a mirage after so long in Spain and she feared her life might disappear altogether if she did not get home soon.

  Mr Wilmot had hurried right into the sun to get a closer look, but she and Martha hung back impatiently in the shade. In the baked mudflats near the river stood herds of pack-mules waiting to unload the coffers of bullion, gold destined straight for the King, where it would be melted into coin. To protect this mighty treasure, ranks of guards with gleaming helmets, musketeers and pikemen fidgeted in rows along the quay.

  The fleet was enormous, each laden vessel guarded by armed galleons, themselves huge hulks of timber and iron with cannon protruding from the bows. No wind for sail today, so the progress was slow as the ships were rowed in inch by inch past the sandbank at the mouth of the greenish river.

  Like wasps around a crust of bread, a frenzy of activity buzzed around each vessel. Moorish slaves appeared to help lug the coffers on to waiting carts. The men lined up into belay rows; casks and crates jostled down the line, followed by baskets of more exotic goods such as sugar, patatas, pineapples, vanilla and chilli-pods. There were also slaves, black as pepper, blinking and stumbling into the sunlight, screwing their eyes into slits as they looked in awe at the gathered population.

  A consignment of skins brought an unwelcome image of Hugh Bradstone to mind. Elspet cringed with humiliation.

  Had she not problems enough, without dwelling on him?

  Some of the goods went straight to auction on the spot. Mr Wilmot had made his way to where men were unrolling brightly coloured bales of woven cloth. The heat burned the back of her neck. She watched as he stood a little to the outside of the group, a sombre figure in his dark English doublet, watching as the cloths were bartered and sold.

  When he returned to her side he said excitedly, ‘If I was your brother, I would want to invest in some of that cloth. I’ve never seen designs like it. And they sold it so cheap. I’ve just worked it out – less than two pence a yard! No wonder the Flemish and the French are flocking here.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said drily, ‘but we won’t be investing in anything unless we can persuade him to keep the business. I’m tired of waiting. It is frustrating to dawdle here when I know he is within a mile of where I’m standing. We will call at his house and be done with it.’ She moved towards one of the tall palms where some other traders had just vacated the shade. ‘Sorry, Mr Wilmot, but I simply can’t bear to wait any longer.’

  ‘I thought it best to be polite,’ Wilmot said, ‘to observe the English custom; it might ensure us a more reasonable reception.’

  She snapped her sunshade closed and reached for the fan at her waist instead. ‘Mr Wilmot, they tell me my so-called brother was brought up by a whore on Cheapside, and made his living thieving and fighting. You are wasting your proprieties on him. I have made up my mind. I shall go this evening, whether you will accompany me or no.’

  Mr Wilmot opened and closed his mouth at her forthrightness, and flapped his hat ineffectually in front of his face. The white gnats that swarmed in the sun were bothering him. The cloud of insects cleared, but immediately re-formed. ‘As you wish, Mistress Leviston,’ he said tersely. ‘But I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  Chapter 28

  ‘More vigour!’ Guido called over Zachary’s shoulder. ‘Do you want a blade with no energy?’

  Zachary rubbed harder at the blade resting on the leather on his lap. But when Guido moved away, Zachary slowed again. What was the point if he could not get more training? What use was a splendid sword when he had nowhere to practise its use?

  ‘What ails you, friend?’ Gabriel had noticed his lacklustre mood.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something does. You have a face as long as a mule. Did you go to Rodriguez?’

  He nodded. He was not going to tell anyone of his humiliation. Of how he walked home drenched through, steaming in the heat, the flies buzzing round his shoulders, and how he had to plunge himself and his best clothes into the Guadalquivir before he dared come out again. And that his heart beat fast with fear that one of Rodriguez’s men might be round the corner.

  ‘He didn’t take you, did he?’ Gabriel sucked in his cheeks. ‘Shame. I didn’t tell you before, but I know he favours the big men. And he doesn’t like foreigners.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with my size,’ he snapped. ‘He’s no room, that’s all.’

  Gabriel gave him a hurt look and moved away.

  Zachary tipped the powder on to the glass-cloth and rubbed at the metal half-heartedly.

  Guido was over in a trice. Zachary swore there was nothing that man did not see. He had eyes in his backside. He stood right in front of him with his big belly, feet planted, and said, ‘Whatever ails you, you must leave it outside my door. There is no place for it here. Your sword is your life, and whenever you have need to use it, then there will be strife enough. What point to make more enemies?’

  Zachary was suitably chastised. He thought he could walk free here in Spain, but this morning he had to keep checking that Rodriguez or his spies were not somewhere on the street. He had touched wood so many times, his fingers were almost sore with it. Yet he seemed to have had enemies all his life, had always walked with one hand on his sword, and ears and eyes taut as bowstrings. Why, even his own family were his enemies.

  He polished away at his blade, distracted by his inner vision of Kit and Saul lying in wait for him round the corner of the street. He remembered how they’d jump him and then Saul would sit astride him crowing while Kit tore out clumps of his hair and waved it before his face. It hurt like hell, and made his eyes water, but his brothers knew damn well it wasn’t a wound you could easily see.

  They had lots of tricks like that, stamping ‘accidentally’ on fingers or toes, frisking him for the day’s pickings. He learned to avoid them, to be wily and cunning, for he could never have told his mother they were bullying him, it would hurt her too much. And it was a matter of pride. At least he’d never been a tattle-tale.

  But Rodriguez had turned him into that small whimpering boy again. With it came a feeling of impotence, and an anger he didn’t know what to do with. The only thing that had ever helped him had been to practise and practise with his rapier, fantasizing all the while that one day he’d get back at his tormentors. One day they’d see that he was a master of the sword and he was the one wielding the power.

  He put down the cloth and stretched his fingers that were still a little stiff in the joints. It seemed he was just as feeble as he’d always been. How stupid was he, to challenge one of Rodriguez’s men? He’d probably die if they saw him again.

  He sighed and glanced over at Gabriel, who was bent low over the furnace turning a metal bar in the heat. Gabriel had only been trying to help. Zachary wished he had not spoken to him in such an offhand way. Guido was right; he needed all the friends he could muster.

  Next time Gabriel passed Zachary touched him on the arm and said, ‘If I offended you earlier, beg pardon. I’m like a baited bull this morning.’

  Gabriel sat down at the bench next to him, and said, ‘You were disappointed that Rodriguez did not take you on, it’s only natural. Never mind. I know how to bring the smile back to your face – you can come with me to the tavern tonight – there will be dancing and music and . . .’ he winked, ‘beautiful women.’ He mimed blowing on his fingers as if they were red-hot.

  ‘Only if you let me pay.’

  ‘You paid last time. My turn.’

  ‘No. I pay, or I don’t come.’

  ‘Come into money, have you?’

  ‘I had some news from England – a small legacy.’

  Gabriel’s face broke into a grin. ‘Then what in hell are you looking so glum for! Anyone would think you had lost a fortune, not gained one! Let’s go out and celebrate.’


  It was impossible not to be taken with Gabriel’s enthusiasm. ‘It sounds good. Tell me how to get to the place then, from the Calle de Virgenes.’

  ‘I’ll call by and fetch you.’

  ‘No – no, don’t do that, I’ll meet you there.’ Gabriel might find his lodgings too lofty and it would drive a wedge between them.

  ‘The Corral del Toro, then, ten of the clock. It’s in the gitaneria in Triana. You will have to get there by crossing the river.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll be there.’

  That evening Ana fetched boiled water and Zachary scrubbed himself down with a sponge and a linen cloth. He was still shirtless when there was a hammering on the door. Ana went to answer it and he heard her say, ‘Bien. Momento por favor.’ But then there was the low voice of a woman in the lobby below. He walked over to the balcony, still towelling himself, and peered over. But he saw nothing, no horses, no gig or carriage.

  A few moments later, footsteps sounded on the stairs outside, and the door burst open. He did not recognize the man at first but the woman he knew straight away. His mouth fell open.

  He snatched up his shirt and bundled it on over his head, to buy a few moments to regain composure.

  ‘Cousin Elspet,’ he said. She could not be here in Spain.

  ‘You are not my cousin, you are my half-brother, or so they tell me. We tired of waiting for you to deign to give us a moment of your precious time. We have travelled all the way here at some considerable inconvenience and—’

  ‘You want to talk money,’ Zachary said, cutting her off before she could get wind in her sails.

  The man stepped forward, and only then did he realize he knew him – it was Wilmot, the overseer, except that he had grown thin and his face was peeling from the sun. He stared at him, saw how the Spanish heat would torment blond men such as he.

  ‘Mr Deane,’ he began, ‘we would like to come to an arrangement—’

  ‘Arrangement be damned. We are not in England now.’ English words already sounded strange on his tongue, thick like soup. Zachary pulled back his shoulders and stood tall. ‘You are not in my house by invitation, so please leave.’

  They held their ground, as he thought they would, so he fastened the strings on his shirt and reached for his tunic. He wished he did not still look as though he had already lost a fight.

  ‘Mr Deane, be reasonable. We have travelled all the way from England. Surely as a fellow countryman, you would at least do us the courtesy of hearing us out.’

  ‘As you can see, I am hardly dressed for company. Mistress Leviston has just told me why you are here, Mr Wilmot, and I am not a simpleton. Greeting has my instructions and there is nothing—’

  Elspet had perched herself on the only chair by the open casement, and glared at Wilmot who interrupted: ‘But we understood from Mr Leviston that it would be Mistress Leviston who would inherit the business, and that it would carry on as usual. Won’t you reconsider? If you do not want to look to the warehouses yourself, then you could put in an overseer –’

  ‘Like yourself, I suppose?’

  ‘No, no. I didn’t mean that – it’s just there are many men and their wives depending on the income from Leviston’s Lace. I am here for them.’

  ‘Well, that sounds very noble. But I do not want to run a lace business, Mr Wilmot. Why should I? Leviston left half of it to me, and I will do with my portion as I please.’

  Elspet got up and stepped forward. Her eyes were glittering. He wondered if she was about to cry. ‘What did you say to him? How did you persuade my father to leave you the house?’

  Wilmot put a hand on the back of Elspet’s chair, as if his legs would not hold him. ‘Don’t, Elspet. Let me negotiate.’

  ‘No. I want him to hear what it means.’

  Zachary braced himself. She approached him until her eyes were level with his own. ‘I took care of Father these last seven years since Mother died. I mended his hose, starched his collars, sat with him when he was ill. Where were you then? If you are his son, where have you been all this time? Answer me!’

  Zachary turned away, he felt his stomach contract. She had hit on a truth and it made him wince.

  She followed him. She was blazing. Her white knuckles gripped tight to the folds of her skirt, her cheeks were fired with red. ‘Who wrote the letters to the lacemakers?’ she cried. ‘Who told him what was fashionable, what would sell?’ She paused, before balling her fists in frustration. ‘He had no idea. He was a man. Men have no idea . . .’ She struggled to spit out the words. ‘But for me my father would have had no damned business. And now you crawl your way into our lives and expect me just to stand aside whilst you reap all the profit by it. Well—’

  Wilmot seemed to have regained his strength and grasped her by the shoulders. ‘Elspet – Mistress Leviston, enough. Shouting will do no good.’ He pushed her down on to the chair. Her chest rose and fell in her bodice as she tried to regain control.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Wilmot said wearily. ‘Mr Deane, we have had a long, arduous journey, and the heat makes fools of us. Mistress Leviston did not mean to be rude.’ He smiled in a placatory manner. ‘Let us sit and talk this through like reasonable men.’

  Zachary did not want discussion, he just wanted them to go. Out of this house and out of his life. ‘I have already said, Mr Wilmot, I am not negotiating. I instructed Greeting to sell. The matter is closed. And as for Mistress Leviston . . . well, I assume she is married now, let her husband look to her. I am no charity to hand out alms.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Elspet leapt to her feet, her hand raised as if she would strike him.

  ‘She is not to be married,’ Wilmot said. Elspet turned away.

  Zachary seized on his words and lashed out at her back, ‘So your furrier changed his mind?’ She turned back to say something, but he blundered on, ‘He’s found a better match elsewhere?’ The words were out before he could prevent them, and too late he caught the wounded look in her eyes.

  Her silence and discomfiture showed him he was right. Immediately, he felt a sliver of remorse. He had not truly meant to belittle her in this way. She had provoked him, cornered him. He always struck out when he was cornered. Now he felt like a dog. Why did they have to come? Hang it all, he had done nothing wrong. If her father was fool enough to leave him half his estate, there was not a damned thing he could do about it. But he hadn’t predicted this; that the furrier would pull out.

  Wilmot offered Elspet a kerchief and persuaded her to sit. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it has been a shock for us all. There are some things you need to know about the business, Mr Deane, and I make no bones about it, it would be to your advantage to wait a while before selling.’ He approached Zachary and held out his hand. ‘Why don’t we two meet tomorrow at the tavern by the cathedral; you know it?’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Shall we say six o’clock?’

  ‘You will meet without me?’ Elspet asked.

  ‘Best that way,’ Wilmot announced, and he was rewarded by a look of pure venom.

  ‘But why not now? It is surely a simple thing to—’

  ‘I have a prior engagement,’ Zachary said. ‘As you can see, I am dressing to go out. It must wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you will be there?’ Wilmot said.

  Zachary sighed and nodded, having no intention of it. ‘Ana!’ He called for her though he knew she would only be on the stairs, listening as usual. Ana held the door open and Wilmot gestured for Elspet to go first. ‘Till tomorrow then,’ he said.

  Elspet swept by, her chin held high. She clearly could not bring herself to look at him, but her voice protested at Wilmot as they went down the stairs. Poor man, thought Zachary, he must have suffered that all the way from England.

  When they had gone he sat on the balcony in the gathering dusk and pondered what to do. He leaned his arms on the warm metal railings and scanned the passing heads with unseeing eyes. He had never expected Elspet Leviston to have the courage to come he
re to Spain. That hadn’t been in the plan at all. It was awkward. And if she was not married, well, she would need to live somewhere, he could see that.

  She would manage somehow – women like her could always find some gentleman to give them house room – if she would let go of her pride. Poverty leeched the pride out of everyone, as he well knew. And he wagered that his lily-white cousin had never had hardship the way he had suffered it. Did she ever scrape a rind of bread from the gutter and keep it from the hands of two bullying brothers? No, from the look of it, her childhood had been soft quilts and feather mattresses, silver cutlery and leather books.

  Below him a family passed by. The man had his arm hooked into his wife’s elbow. Two young girls clung to her hooped skirt and scampered to keep up. The wife looked up at Zachary briefly and smiled a greeting before sauntering on.

  It gave him a pang of jealousy to see a family like that, bonded together as if nothing could ever divide them. He had never belonged anywhere. When he was in London, Elspet had seemed like an unwelcome distraction and he had never thought of her as anything to do with him; she had not figured in his view of Leviston as family. Now Wilmot was acting as if Elspet was somehow Zachary’s responsibility, but he had never been her kin, he knew. All that was a lie. He sighed. Obviously he could not have it cut both ways.

  As he fastened on his doublet, he thought of his mother and hardened his resolve. The wheel of fortune had come round; that was all. Time for his chance at a fat life at last. And Wilmot, well, he would be able to find another position. He was not too old and a man of his experience should be well-placed to pick up something else. After all, his mother had waited long enough for Leviston to open his purse.

  He pictured his uncle’s face smiling in satisfaction as Zachary pretended interest in his bobbins and bales, saw again the age-spots and the characteristic mole on his chin just above where his beard started, remembered how he used to fold the bread into a square before popping it in his mouth.