She had dressed, on purpose, as quietly as possible, in a rather unfashionable blue cloak she had brought from home, but just the same her appearance caused a stir in the outer office, where a group of very young men stopped then careful engrossing to look at her open-mouthed.
“Miss Telfair.” She had rehearsed what she would say, but her hands were damp on her reticule just the same. “To see Mr. Presse.”
“By appointment?” asked the antique clerk who had risen to greet her.
“No.” She was sure he knew she had none.
He rubbed dry, white hands dubiously. “Which Mr. Presse?”
This was a facer, but not entirely unexpected. “The one who handled Mrs. Helen Stott’s affairs.”
“Ah.” The clerk’s eyes were bright with intelligence in his withered face. “That would be Mr. Horace Presse.”
“Thank you. If I might see him? With apologies, of course, for my failure to make an appointment?”
There was a kind of rustle among the young men, who had apparently resumed their writing. A pen fell to the floor. “That would be difficult,” said the clerk. “Mr. Presse has been dead fifteen years.”
“Has he?” Was the clerk merely old and obstructive, or actively hostile? Helen drew up to her rather considerable height and looked at him with, she hoped, the expression she had seen old Lady Spencer use with withering effect on Mr. Fysshe. “In that case,” she said, “I think perhaps by now that someone might have taken over his business. I will see him, if you please, and the sooner the better.”
“Mr. Furnival, that would be.” The clerk’s tone, and a sympathetic rustle from the young scribes, told her that she had scored a moral victory. “I’ll just step up and find out if by any fortunate chance he is free. If you will take a seat, miss?” Grudgingly, he opened the door of a small, dark waiting room and left her to the thought that aristocratic clients presumably were never kept waiting. This was a place for humble petitioners to cool their heels.
She did not, however, have to wait long. A clatter of footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs could hardly herald the aged clerk. The door swung open and a surprisingly young, fair-faced man bounced into the room. “Miss Telfair!” He held out a warm hand. “I am delighted to see you. I have been meaning to . . . But it’s all quite remarkably difficult. If you will have the goodness to step up to my office . . . It’s not very elegant, I’m afraid.”
“Neither am I,” said Helen, liking him.
“Very sensible,” He was ushering her upstairs, past the visibly interested scribes. “Your maid is outside, I take it, in the carriage,”
She did not answer until he had led the way down a long corridor and into a very small room at the back of the building. Then, “I came by myself,” she said.
“Enterprising, if unusual.” He dusted a chair with his handkerchief and pulled it forward to face his antique desk. “As the most junior of partners,” he apologised, “I am seldom so fortunate as to have visitors like yourself. But let me say again how delighted I am to see you. I have beaten my brains for means of getting in touch with you, since I read that you were in town with Mrs. Standish, and I confess, I’ve been gravelled.”
“But surely,” said Helen, “it would have been simple enough.”
“It’s in the will, you see.” He had sat down facing her, but now jumped up again to fetch a file from a cabinet even more antique than his desk. “Of all the devilish documents. . . . I beg your pardon, Miss Telfair, but how old Presse came to draw it up is beyond me. He must have been in his second childhood. Here we are.” He produced a faded parchment. “I doubt if you could either read or understand it. . . . Besides, if you’ll just forgive me while I refresh my memory. . . . Yes, quite as bad as I thought. Do you know anything about the background, Miss Telfair?”
“Not much. And, by the way, you have not asked me to prove that I am indeed Miss Telfair.”
“I don’t need to.” His tone held respect for her point. “When I read that you were in town I made a point of looking out for you. Naturally, as a miserable scrivener I do not attend the ton parties, but I have friends who do. It was easy enough to learn when Mrs. Standish was taking a party to the opera, and easier still to decide which was Miss Charlotte and which Miss Telfair.”
“I see.” In her turn, she was impressed with him. “Thank you.”
“No trouble,” he said. “I enjoy the opera. And now, this wretched will.” He tapped it with an irritated finger. “In her later years, as you may or may not know, Mrs. Stott—Miss Helen Glendale that was—quarrelled with her entire family. She had inherited a rather pleasant competence from her husband, Mr. Stott. An unfortunate surname that was, I understand, a matter of jest with the other Glendales. Also, he was in trade, in quite a thriving way of business, but not precisely an elegant one.”
“I see,” said Helen. “So the family twitted her with the source of her money.”
“Just so.” Again he was pleased with her. “And at the same time let it be known that they expected to inherit. She was the eldest by some years, and childless. A lady of considerable character, I suspect.” He laughed. “She must have been, to make Horace Presse draw up this will.”
“Do explain.”
“She wanted no one to know what she had done with her money. Well, of course, on the face of it, that was impossible. Wills are publicly read, and on file for anyone to inspect.”
“Yes. So what did she do?”
“She made a double will. The public one was simple enough. It left everything of which she could die possessed to a clerical friend of hers, to be used”—he ran a finger quickly down the faded document, and quoted— “for the charitable relief of deserving females.”
“Females!” Helen was delighted with this sidelight on her great-aunt.
“Just so. Mr. Presse told me that there was a quite appalling scene when the will was read. The family tried all they could to shake it, but they failed, and failed also to discover the existence of what I might call the secondary or secret testament. Its terms are entirely different. The clerical gentleman was to administer the estate as trustee . . . for you. Until you reach the age of twenty-one, half the income is, in fact, to be used for the relief of deserving females. You will, I am sure, understand the purpose of that. Mrs. Stott had suffered for most of her life from the burden of her money; she did not wish you to be so burdened, and she knew her family. So money must be seen to be disbursed on—”
“Deserving females,” supplied Helen helpfully.
“Precisely. When you come of age, you inherit the whole, absolutely; or rather”—for the first time he showed signs of nervousness—“on two conditions.”
“And they are?”
“The first, that the secret has been kept.” He looked, for a moment, unhappy. “I do hope, Miss Telfair, that you have kept it. Our instructions were that either we or the trustee should inform you at such time as we thought fit. I take it that Mr. Tillingdon has, in fact, done so.”
“No. It was his sister.” A great many odd little things were falling into place, “Mr. Tillingdon moved to Up Harting to keep an eye on me?” And, a logical deduction: “It must be quite a pleasant competence.”
“He gets his expenses. They have been”—he paused for a moment—“quite considerable. But within the terms of the trust,” he hastened to reassure her.
“I see.” She could not help laughing. “I always thought Mr. Tillingdon such a wonderfully generous man. His benefactions to the distressed ladies of his parish have been a byword for as long as I can remember. But,” anxiously, “will Miss Tillingdon’s knowledge invalidate the trust?”
“No, I’m glad to say. Horace Presse had the wits to insert a special clause about her. He obviously thought it inevitable that, living as she always has with her brother, she would learn at least something of the facts of the case. But what else did she tell you?”
It came out sharply, a crucial question. Luckily, it was also easy to answer. “Nothing. I am quite
sure that is all she knew.”
“Simply that you are your great-aunt’s heir?”
“Yes.”
“She did not even advise you to say nothing about it?”
“No, it’s lucky for me, is it not, that there was no need.”
“It most certainly is. She is your friend, I take it?” And, as Helen nodded, “Then we can assume that she told you all she knew.”
“I’m sure we can. What happens, by the way, to the money if I don’t get it?”
“It is to be used to found a home for aged or infirm governesses.”
“And a very good idea too. But just the same I shall make every effort to keep my secret. And what, pray, is the other condition?”
Now Mr. Furnival looked very unhappy indeed. “That, I fear, I am not at liberty to tell you.”
“Oh dear,” said Helen.
“Just so. I told you it was a deplorable will.” He looked it over again with disfavour. “On the other hand,” more cheerfully, “I think I can honestly tell you that it is not a condition that is likely to affect you.”
“Ah,” said Helen, “so it’s not something about my possible marriage, for instance.” She read his agreement in his face. “Not that I intend to,” she added.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” And then, aware of her glance of quick enquiry, “No, no . . . pray don’t misunderstand me . . . nothing of that kind.” He rose to his feet. “Miss Telfair, I hope you will forgive me if I say that it is time we ended this conversation. I shall look forward to a long and happy association in the future. In the present, I think I have said all that can safely be said. May I say again what a pleasure it has been to meet you? You are returning shortly to Up Harting?” She nodded. “Perhaps you would be so good as to let me know of any future changes of address?”
“I shall indeed.” She held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Furnival. Of course, I long to stay here and play guessing games with you, but I can see it might be a dangerous indulgence. Perhaps you would be so good as to have your clerk call me a chair?”
Left alone, Mr. Furnival mopped his forehead. “And only seventeen,” he reminded himself. “Phew.” He carefully returned the will to its file. At least he thought, her inheritance should be safe enough.
The King’s birthday had come and gone, and people were leaving town daily. The Standishes were planning a visit to Weymouth, a seaside resort made popular by the King’s patronage, and there was a half suggestion that they should make a detour and take Helen home to Up Harting on their way.
She escaped this with relief, and reached home as she had left it, chaperoned by her aunt’s second maid on the stagecoach. There had been a fond, unusually lucid farewell from Charlotte, and a chilly one from Mrs. Standish. “Give my apologies to your mother,” were that lady’s last words.
It was disconcerting to find that these were hardly needed. Helen’s absence had taught her parents how useful she was as unpaid housekeeper, and though her father inevitably jibed at her for her failure to catch a husband he was glad enough to have her firm hand in control of his household once more. As for Mrs. Telfair, she burst into tears at sight of her daughter and took to her bed.
The household was indeed in a bad way. The great spring wash had not been done, and neither had the spring cleaning. The decanters were filthy, and the cook was having a tempestuous affair with the coachman. One of the housemaids was pregnant and would not say by whom, and Captain Telfair’s valet had taken to helping himself liberally to his master’s port. As soon as she could get away, Helen hurried to the vicarage, to scandalise Miss Tillingdon by describing her visit to the lawyers, and ask eagerly whether her friend had known about Mrs. Stott’s extraordinary will.
“Good gracious, no,” said Miss Tillingdon. “I only knew you were the heiress because my brother said something once, when he was not feeling quite the thing.” It was the nearest she ever came to mentioning her brother’s drinking habits.
It was also what Helen had expected, but a blow just the same. “That’s a pity. I had hoped you might have some clue about that secret condition of my great aunt’s. It would be sad to lose it all just for not knowing. I must say, I do find myself in agreement with Mr. Furnival about that will.”
“Yes,” wailed Miss Tillingdon, “but what are we to do?”
“Wait,” said Helen. “Hope for the best, and, in your case, listen with all your ears to everything your brother says, in the hope he may unwittingly give us another clue. It’s only four years after all,” bracingly, “and then, if all goes well, we’ll have our cottage in the country, you and I.”
“Only four years!” It was less a wail than a hiccough. “I don’t know how I shall bear it.”
“You will have to,” said Helen.
Chapter 4
TROUBLE with Spain threatened war that summer, and Captain Telfair had his uniforms out and ready once more, but to his disappointment, and Helen’s, nothing came of it. She thought that if she could have her mother to herself for a while, she might do something for her shattered nerves and consequent ill health, but Captain Telfair would not even consider the trip to Bath she suggested, throwing it in her teeth that he could not afford it after the wasted expense of her season.
The London visit soon had the unreality of a dream, its only tangible result a rather erratic correspondence with Charlotte Standish. It was from her that Helen learned, next year, that her angel had achieved respectability at last. On a visit to London, Sir William Hamilton had quietly married the young lady who had been his “guest” in Naples for the last five years. Helen was at once amazed and delighted. She never crossed Uppark to visit the vicarage without thinking of the angel with the warm heart and the strong accent. It was good to think that Emma Hart had actually achieved a recovery from that disastrous beginning of hers. “Of course,” wrote Charlotte, “our Queen will not receive her, but it may be otherwise in Naples.”
Sir William and the new Lady Hamilton, Charlotte reported, were returning to Naples by way of Paris, still a mecca for English tourists, despite the revolutionary changes that had begun with the fall of the Bastille two years before.
“Just think,” Helen told Miss Tillingdon, “Queen Marie Antoinette actually received Lady Hamilton.”
“Good gracious!” Miss Tillingdon was always a little shocked by Helen’s interest in the one-time Emmy Hart. She believed that women should be liberated, but not, perhaps, quite so liberated as Lady Hamilton. “I expect,” she said now, after thinking it over, “that the Queen of France wished to send messages to her sister, the Queen of Naples.”
“Very likely,” Helen agreed. “In which case, no doubt, the Queen of Naples, too, will receive Lady Hamilton.”
“Our Queen never will,” said Miss Tillingdon.
“It’s monstrous,” said Helen. “And there’s Sir Harry goes wherever he pleases. No one holds it against him.”
“My dear Helen!” As she got older, Miss Tillingdon’s views were growing noticeably less liberal. Now she looked anxiously at her young friend. “I worry about you sometimes,” she said. “Since you were in London, you behave as if you were thirty, not eighteen.”
“I sometimes feel a hundred.” Helen could not help remembering Charlotte’s last letter, with its casual reference to a farewell visit from Charles Scroope, on his way to join his ship. With an effort, she made her tone more cheerful. “Never mind. I promise to get younger, year by year, once we are settled in our cottage.” And yet, did she entirely believe in that cottage? Nothing she saw at home had altered her determination never to marry, but she did, guiltily, sometimes wonder what it would be like to spend the rest of her life tête à tête with Mary Tillingdon.
Seventeen-ninety-two brought terror and massacre to France. Charlotte wrote that Lord Gower had been recalled as ambassador at the French Court, and, in a scribbled postscript, that Helen’s old friend Charles Scroope, who had made rapid progress in the navy, had distinguished himself under Lord Cornwallis on the East Indian St
ation, and been promoted lieutenant. This was not a piece of news with which to regale Captain Telfair, who had himself applied unsuccessfully to serve under Lord Cornwallis. But it pleased Helen, who could not help a curious feeling of responsibility about Charles Scroope’s career. How glad he must be, she told herself, that she had refused that rash offer of his, and left him free to make his own way in the world.
But the news made her curiously restless. The trouble was that she envied him. He could carve out his own career, while she must stay at home, acting nurse to her mother, and housekeeper to her father, and waiting for a dead woman’s money. Which, in the end, she might not get. She had tried in vain to inspire Miss Tillingdon with the courage to embark on a tactful cross-examination of her brother about Helen Stott’s will. Mary Tillingdon was not cut out for a conspirator, and her one attempt at a leading question had secured her so resounding a setdown from her brother that she tearfully refused to try again. It was no use Helen’s telling her that their whole future together might be at stake. She simply could not do it.
Mary Tillingdon had been shocked and shaken by the news that their idol Mary Wollstonecraft was in Paris, watching the bloody activities of the revolutionaries. Here, as in the case of Emma Hamilton, she found that there were limits to the amount of female liberation she could admire. At first, Helen was inclined to disagree with her, but as the news from France went from bad to worse, she too stopped calling the French insurgents revolutionaries, and called them murderers instead. Their King and Queen were in prison now, and that monstrous invention, the guillotine, at its dreadful work. But still Helen could not approve of the manifesto of the Duke of Brunswick, who was leading an army of the European powers against France. “To threaten to burn every house in Paris if they hurt the King is merely to harden them against him,” she told Miss Tillingdon. “No good will come of it, I am sure.”
“But how can the French possibly resist the Duke?” asked Miss Tillingdon. “A rabble like that! His army will cut through France like a knife through butter.”
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