All Good Intentions

by Trudi Johnson

  Jeanne stood and cleared the dishes. “With Clarence Boland as her father, Emily, it’s a wonder she kept herself together at all.”

  * * * * *

  When she stopped at the traffic light on Military Road en route to the hotel for lunch on Monday, Jeanne was preoccupied with thoughts of Lucinda Boland. She was, Jeanne reflected, always a genteel lady, someone more suited to a different era. How could her own brother deny her inheritance? He had his father’s money. Wasn’t that enough? She shook her head in dismay as she pulled into the first available parking spot. I think I’ll name a room at The Sinclair Inn after you, Lucinda. Lucinda’s Room.

  The hotel lobby was busy with tourists. Jeanne made her way around them and down the ramp toward the Cabot Club. Caroline was seated at a table in front of the window.

  “Good day,” Jeanne said, as she glanced around the room to see if there were any familiar faces. “It’s been a while.” She sat comfortably and laid her purse and jacket on the seat next to her.

  Caroline greeted her with a broad smile. “Yes, it has, and so much has happened. My goodness, Brittany told me about the Sinclair house and your plans to make it an inn. She’s thrilled to have such an important job.”

  “I’m certain she’ll be good at it. Once Joe completes the renovations, Brittany and I will begin to work on the interior decorating.”

  “I know it’s exciting at the moment, Jeanne, but are you sure you want to take that on?” She wanted to add that Jeanne had not worked outside the home a day in her life but felt it was best to keep that observation to herself.

  “Absolutely,” Jeanne responded. “I know what I’m doing,” she added confidently. She checked the menu and ordered the soup, butternut squash, then waited, as usual, for Caroline to decide.

  After some thought, Caroline finally chose the stuffed pepper special. “And what about Mr. Gillis? Was he angry when he heard that you weren’t selling the house?”

  “No, he understood,” Jeanne responded. The thought of Kevin made her smile.

  “Really? I thought he’d be livid. After all, it’s a business loss.” Caroline straightened her napkin across her lap. “Not that I care. To be honest, I’m relieved. That’s all you’ll see of him. Good riddance, I say.”

  “Perhaps,” Jeanne responded, and changed the topic. “Now then, I have a question for you. Do you happen to remember Lucinda Boland?”

  “Oh my heavens, yes! She sat in front of us in church for years. I think she passed away in the early ’70s.”

  “Nineteen seventy-five. Tell me everything you know about her.”

  “Tell me why first.”

  “It’s a long story,” Jeanne responded, and related the account of Clarence Boland, his treatment of Edgar Gillis, and Lucinda’s inheritance.

  Caroline listened with fascination. “Isn’t that something? You didn’t know about this? I’m surprised your father didn’t mention it.”

  “According to Emily, he didn’t want me to know. So please tell me what you know.”

  “Let me see, she was a lady, and I mean lady in the old-fashioned sense of the word. She wore the most gorgeous hats and matching gloves. Mother and I used to look forward to Easter Sunday to see what Miss Boland would wear. Her millinery was the place for women to get their hats and gloves and stockings back in the day when they wore such things. I remember at Christmas when the church service was over, she’d turn around in the pew and wish us all the ‘compliments of the season.’ I remember that so plainly. I thought it was the strangest way to say Merry Christmas, but it sounded right coming from her. So proper.” Caroline looked around to see if anyone could hear her. “So, she was supposed to get the house?”

  “Yes. She didn’t leave anyone to inherit her estate. We’ll never know whether she actually knew that the house was supposed to be hers or not. I’m guessing she didn’t.”

  “I barely remember Mr. Boland, Jeanne.” Caroline picked at a dinner roll. “He passed away several years before his sister.”

  Jeanne nodded. “I remember that he and Dora didn’t attend our wedding in 1960.”

  “Was Lucinda there? I can’t recall.”

  “Yes, she was. I still have her wedding gift. A Nottingham lace tablecloth.”

  Caroline leaned forward and smiled coyly. “Jeanne, I remember there were rumours among the folks at church that Lucinda was involved with a man. I think he lived in the States. Mother referred to him as Lucinda’s companion.” Caroline chuckled. “She used to visit him from time to time, and they travelled together to exotic places. It always sounded delightfully salacious to me.” She sat back and sighed. “I was envious. I must ask some of the old dears at church if they can remember anything about her.”

  Jeanne laughed at her friend’s analysis. She laid down her soup spoon and looked out the window at the flower bed filled with miniature purple petunias struggling in the breeze. Their season was almost over. One way or the other, Lucinda’s story will be told, even if it is with Caroline’s predictable embellishment.

  * * * * *

  Early Wednesday morning, Jeanne pushed some fresh soil around her pots of begonias and watered them liberally. The sun was strong, and she was glad that she wore her gardening hat.

  Leah called from the patio. “Jeanne, Mr. Hamlyn is here to see you. Shall I have him come out here?”

  Jeanne was not in the mood for Jonathan or much else dealing with people that day. She reluctantly got up. “Yes, I guess so.” He’ll have to see me on my terms.

  Jonathan stepped down the stone steps. “You’re working hard, Jeanne.”

  “I don’t consider it work,” she replied. “It’s relaxing.” Or at least it was. She waved her hand to indicate that he was welcome to sit in the nearest wicker chair. She sat opposite him. “When I left a message with your office that I wanted to see you, I wasn’t expecting it would be so soon.”

  “I had a meeting across town this morning, so I took the chance that you’d be home. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all.” She released her gardening gloves from her hands and laid them on a nearly table. “I wanted to ask you about something that we found among Father’s papers.”

  “Oh? I thought this had to do with your plan to renovate the Sinclair house.” He shifted nervously in the chair.

  “It does, indirectly,” she said. “Joe’s been through all the files and extracted anything pertinent to the building and renovation of the house. He’s keeping those for his research.”

  “Of course.”

  “He uncovered a will while he was going through them.”

  “Oh,” Jonathan said, not surprised.

  “I take it from your response that you knew it was there.” Jeanne put up her hand, indicating that she was not interested in his explanation. Not yet. “It belonged to Royston Boland, Clarence Boland’s father.”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “How did Father get his hands on the will of Royston Boland?”

  “It was found among some other papers in the house many years ago. Nothing much in there that was important.”

  “Really, Jonathan? The will indicates that the Boland house was left to his sister, Lucinda Boland. I’d say that’s important, wouldn’t you?”

  Jonathan nodded again, deciding that this woman had missed her calling. She would have made a good prosecutor. “That’s a long time ago, Jeanne.”

  “Perhaps so, but it’s meaningful, nonetheless.” Her tone was biting. “The house wasn’t Clarence’s to give to my father and Virginia when they got married.”

  “It’s a matter of interpretation.”

  Jeanne sat up. “Interpretation? That’s interesting. How so? It either was or was not his to give away. How do you see that as a matter of interpretation?”

  “Actually, it was sold to Charles and V
irginia for a nominal fee. It wasn’t given away.”

  “Don’t mince words. Clarence didn’t have the right to do what he did.”

  Jonathan looked around. The setting was too comfortable to argue in. He preferred the surroundings of his office, where he was comfortable speaking his mind. But then, he didn’t want to argue with Jeanne at all. He wanted this to go away. “From what I understand, Clarence made the decision to ensure that the Boland house would remain in the family.” He hoped a calm voice would be contagious.

  “I see. Was he concerned that Lucinda would marry and her husband would own the house?”

  “Perhaps. Or something else.”

  “What else?” she demanded.

  “Lucinda, God rest her soul, was a spinster. By the time her father passed on, she was beyond marrying age . . . and . . .”

  Jeanne interrupted. “What in heaven’s name is ‘marrying age,’ Jonathan, and how does one get beyond it?”

  He was disturbed by her rising anger. “I’m sorry. Those were Virginia’s words, not mine.”

  “Virginia’s words?”

  “Yes. Clarence was gone before I started my practice. Everything I know about the Boland family came from Charles and Virginia.”

  “Finish the story. What you know, or should I say, what you were told.”

  “As I said, Clarence decided when his father died that his sister shouldn’t inherit their home. She didn’t ask about the will, nor did she ever receive a copy of it. I guess she assumed that everything went to her brother. She didn’t question it.”

  “As far as you know.”

  He hesitated, realizing that this was the first time he questioned whether the story he had been told was indeed the truth. “As far as I know.” He looked away. “Then, when Charles went to work for Clarence, he must have impressed his employer. He also knew that his daughter, Virginia, was quite taken with the young man. Apparently, she’d follow him around the store and found reasons to talk to him. When Clarence caught on to this, he called Charles in and they made the arrangement. He would have the house and a substantial sum of money for agreeing to marry Virginia.”

  “Yes, yes, I knew that part,” Jeanne said impatiently. “But what I didn’t know was that it wasn’t Clarence Boland’s house to give away in the first place. So he was the vile person I always thought he was, despite what Virginia told me. But he gave away, or should I say, sold for a “nominal fee,’ a house that didn’t even belong to him.”

  “One assumes that Clarence had the deed put in his name.”

  “You said that the will was found among papers in the house. Be more specific. Where in the house?”

  Jonathan leaned forward, his hand clasped in front of him. He looked toward the ground and watched as ants made their way across the stone steps that made a path around the garden. “It has to do with the staircase.”

  Jeanne looked at him. “The staircase?” she asked, preferring not to reveal what Joe had suggested.

  “The original staircase had cupboards underneath. They were usually locked and only accessible by the owner. The wooden doors fitted in well with the rest of the stairwell and hallway.”

  “I see.”

  “When Edgar Gillis replaced that staircase, obviously he had to take apart the cupboards. He came across several items in an envelope. Believing it was important, he passed it along to Charles, unopened, of course. Edgar had no idea what he was giving Charles. But Charles opened it and read the documents, including a will by Royston Boland. This changed the relationship he had with Clarence, to say the least. It was something that Charles knew he could use.”

  “How so?”

  “He could do what he wanted to do, and that is to ensure that the land in Planter’s Bight got back to the Gillis family, or at least he’d try to get it back to them. Clarence Boland could have nothing to say about it, knowing what his son-in-law had on him.”

  “Ah, another secret held over someone’s head. I must say my family has that strategy perfected.”

  “All families do, Jeanne. It’s not unique to the Sinclairs or the Bolands.” Jonathan shifted in the chair and continued. “Charles bought the Gillis land in Planter’s Bight for a pittance and left it idle. A few years ago, when he tracked down Winterberry Development about other land sales, he learned that Kevin Gillis worked there. He quickly put the property on the market, cheaply, notified someone who worked there, and I guess that individual mentioned it to Kevin. He purchased it. The goal was that Kevin would never know the whole story, just that he could get back his family’s land.”

  “And why haven’t you told me this before? Why in heaven’s name, Jonathan, didn’t you tell me all of this when I asked you about Kevin, about the Gillis property, and why it was bought?”

  “Your father didn’t want you or anyone to know about this. Frankly, I didn’t want to be the one to disclose to you the truth about who really inherited that house from Royston Boland. I know that the house and your father mean so much to you.”

  “All of this is Clarence Boland’s fault,” Jeanne cried. “I wouldn’t blame Father or anyone else.”

  Jonathan looked up at her but didn’t speak. He waited.

  Jeanne took a breath and reflected on his story. “Wait. Father knew that the house belonged to Lucinda since the summer of 1952, and yet he sat back and allowed Clarence to spread terrible stories about Edgar Gillis, stories that would eventually force him to take his family and move away. Why didn’t he use the information to prevent that from happening?”

  “Because, dear Jeanne, that was not the only secret, you recall. It was August 1952. Do you recall where you were at the time?”

  Jeanne looked puzzled. “I’ve been trying to remember. I was a teenager. It’s likely that Emily and I were sent up to Ontario to visit our cousins.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I remember. Father didn’t want us in the house while the renovations were going on.”

  “Yes, and he didn’t want you there, because tensions between him and Clarence had reached the boiling point. They had it out, according to what Charles told me. Your father heard what Boland was doing to poor Edgar and tried to stop him. But Clarence came back at him and threatened to tell everyone about their arranged marriage.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t care how much it would hurt his daughter.”

  “No.”

  “But Clarence didn’t go public with it. He didn’t tell Virginia.”

  “No, your father did.”

  Jeanne felt weak. Her heart pounded as she took in the meaning of his words. “He did,” she said hoarsely. “Father told Virginia.”

  “Yes. That’s correct.”

  Jeanne paused and swallowed hard. “As I recall, Virginia went away to the States somewhere. Boston, perhaps, for the whole summer. I remember it was months before she returned. Emily and I were back to school.”

  Jonathan nodded. “She stayed with family there. Meanwhile, Clarence still had the trump card to hold over Charles. A secret he would let out, if necessary.”

  “Hannah and me.”

  “Precisely,” Jonathan said quietly.

  Jeanne stood from her chair and picked up her gardening gloves but held them in her hands. “One final question, Jonathan. You said that Lucinda didn’t know about the will, nor did she ask about it. That seems strange to me. Surely she would have asked.”

  “Not strange for those years, Jeanne. Women weren’t included in discussions about inheritance and money. Lucinda was a young woman, a spinster, likely spending her time looking for a husband. I assume that her brother told her a story to suit himself and she bought it.”

  “No, Jonathan, I’m not convinced that the time period has so much to do with tradition as it has to do with the woman in question. Not every woman then or now spends their time looking fo
r a husband.” She was clearly bothered by his assessment.

  Jonathan stood and stretched. He wanted to say, like you did. Instead, he chose to end it there. “Perhaps so. In any event, we’ll never know, will we?”

  Bothered by his nonchalant attitude, Jeanne faced Jonathan with perfect posture. “I appreciate that you’ve told me all of this now, although I’m disappointed that you didn’t see fit to tell me before.”

  The word disappointed cut him. He could see in her eyes that their relationship would never be the same.

  “I wish it didn’t have to come out. Some things are better left in the past, in my opinion. After all, who benefits from this information coming out? Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be going. By the way, have you spoken to Joe about the house and the renovations?”

  “Yes,” Jeanne responded. “The contract has been drawn up.”

  “I see. If there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thank you. I’m fine. Will you see yourself out? I’d like to get back to my gardening.”

  “Of course. Good day.” As he walked up the steps, Jonathan turned back momentarily to gaze at a woman he always thought to be remarkable. Despite his strong feelings for her, he had never revealed them. He realized now it was too late.

  * * * * *

  Falcon Cove

  Carrie pushed back the paper on her desk and rested her face in her hands. She was tired, more tired than she’d been in a long time. She sighed and reached for her quilted jacket and slipped it on as she closed the doors behind her. Outside the church, she waved to the men who were staining the exterior of the church hall and headed home.

  Wrapping her jacket around her, she walked down the familiar lane to the road that led to Parsons’ Lane. But at the crossroads she decided to head in the opposite direction around the eastern end of Falcon Cove. Within minutes, she found herself on the boardwalk, recently installed and promoted for tourists. On her left, a field of blueberries bloomed in full colour. She stood for a moment to smell their aroma and promised herself to return tomorrow with a bucket. She followed the trail around a bend and into the warm westerly wind on the far side of the community. Overhead, seagulls squawked and perched momentarily on the shoreline among the kelp-lined rocks.