That They Might Lovely Be

by David Matthews

  As the two women left the yellow boudoir, Robert Kingsnorth screwed the top on his bottle of indelible, black ink. He imagined he would see those two witnesses’ signatures, black in stark contrast to the ivory paper, imprinted forever on his mind’s eye. It was done and, for the time being at least, there was nothing else to do. If Lady Margery lived on, and retained her faculties, it might be that a change could be effected. In time, things might come to light that would render this obsession of hers, even in her own eyes, ridiculous. It was possible. But he was not hopeful. He had called on Dr. Furnival on his way to Mount Benjamin and the medical man had been clear: he quite expected Lady Margery to suffer another stroke. It was nearly always the way. And the second stroke would either kill her immediately or incapacitate her for a brief period before she died. She was an elderly woman and simply did not have the strength to thwart the inevitable.

  ‘Thank you, Robert. I have had Mrs. Childs write … to Edward Tallis, the partner at Duguid and … Waterson’s. He knows I have made a new … will and that it is in your … possession.’

  ‘I’m not sure that was necessary, Lady Margery.’

  ‘What I choose to do … I do. He is a … Trustee … needs to know.’

  ‘And have you told him what is in your new will?’

  ‘My business.’

  ‘Of course. What of Mrs. Cordingley? She too is a Trustee. Have you told her also?’

  ‘I shall tell her … perhaps. When she returns to … Dunchurch. She is attending to my … grandson’s education. Not the school I’d have … chosen. But there is a great deal … I’d not have chosen. At least … rectified … some influence asserted. I intend … I intend, Robert … to recover. I have a reason now … you see … to recover … to recover everything … Old England…’

  He sat by her bedside for the best part of an hour listening to all she intended to do, once she had thrown off the dragging burden of her debility. Her capacity for self-delusion was extraordinary. It filled him with a grudging admiration. In her own mind, she was indomitable and utterly heedless of the fact that she only existed within a structure of bone and muscle and blood which was rapidly and irreversibly disintegrating.

  When she finally dozed, he called Nurse Hillier who took his place. He reiterated his instructions that if there were any deterioration, he and his wife or her sisters had to be summoned immediately. He hinted too that the signature she had given that afternoon might not be the last that was needed.

  ‘A codicil,’ he explained, ‘something of that nature, you know. Lady Margery will be giving consideration to amendments. So she has led me to believe.’

  Tuesday, 24 September 1930

  It had been one of those early autumn days when everything was burnished. The last scents of summer gardens were made more lovely because they could be smelled against the deeper notes of autumn. Leaves were beginning to fall but only gently, sedately. The year had reached its maturity but was still turned to face its youth and the halcyon days of summer. There should be no thought, not yet, of winter and the inevitable decline into thin, grey cold.

  Nothing of this burnished tranquility, however, was appreciated in the Kingsnorth residence. Lillian Kingsnorth was standing in the broad bay window of her house in Canterbury. Even the heavy lace curtains could not filter out the afternoon sun and she feared lest it bleached her antimacassars. Nor could the solid complacence of the house quite stifle the tedious repetition of the cathedral bells’ changes as the ringers practised their routines. She had been driven into the bay in retreat from the ferocious exchange in which her husband and eldest sister were engaged. These were the two people who shaped Lillian Kingsnorth’s life. She took her cue from them; it was they who nudged or instructed her. To have them now at loggerheads was intolerable.

  She had been familiar with Ada’s petulant rages for as long as she could remember. She knew she ought, by now, to be inured against them. Vera and Dolly were. They simply snapped their fingers in Ada’s face and continued to please themselves. Lillian was not so hardy. Perhaps it was the fact that she was the youngest of the four sisters that had given her greater exposure to Ada. Perhaps her comparative youth when her parents had both died so suddenly of the Spanish influenza had meant that she had leaned on Ada in a way that Dolly and Vera had not. Either way, she had never found herself entirely free from the pull that Ada exerted. Even after her marriage, when one might have expected her to orbit a new sun in a perfect circle, Ada dragged her into an elliptical course.

  Robert never seemed to mind. They were first cousins, of course, so he had always known Ada. Lillian thought that he appreciated her ties to her eldest sibling, sensing as she did that, one day, having Ada as an ally would be to their benefit. Ada had a worldy wisdom and strength of mind. But Lillian had known, ever since she was a little girl, that Ada never forgot and never forgave. To see Ada’s fury now levelled at Robert terrified Lillian. If Ada vanquished him, she would be left undefended.

  He was a Kingsnorth and stood, as far as anyone could, in their father’s shoes. He was the epitome of respectability and was unimpeachably gentlemanly. On this, Lillian’s unremarkable, conventional married life had been built. His smoothness, however, left nothing for Ada to pick at. It drove her to be more brutal. What gripped Lillian now was the terror that, pitted against each other, it would be Ada who would eventually be victorious. Robert would be beaten. And Ada would never allow her triumph to slacken; the price of surrender would be extortionate and, compounded with crippling rates of interest, would emasculate him and leave her, Lillian, as defenceless as those silly, flighty chits she had seen haunting the backstreets behind the theatre in Canterbury.

  Robert was seldom angry with Lillian. He could be exasperated by her at times but that, in itself, was an admission that anger would be pointless. However, Lillian knew her husband well enough to know that the angrier he was the more urbane he became. She could think of nothing more likely to antagonise Ada than the way he had of shrugging and wafting his arms about as if nothing Ada said could have any possible substance.

  Ada was white with fury. She had kept herself under control during the afternoon when Lillian had broken Robert’s confidence and told her the gist of her aunt’s will. Once Robert was home from the firm, standing before her very eyes as the self-confessed agent of this appalling betrayal of family interests, Ada exploded under the fermentation of her indignation.

  ‘Stop waving your arms in my face, Robert. You can’t bat me away. You have done something unforgiveable and you will pay.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ada.’

  How did he dare? Lillian felt sick with apprehension. The thin, pitying smile which her husband turned on Ada had an extraordinary effect. It was like lighting a touch-paper. Incandescent, she lost any dignity that she might otherwise have had. He is right, thought Lillian. She is ridiculous. The more Ada screamed, the more Lillian realised that Robert would not be subjugated by such primitive anger. Ada’s raging armed him.

  ‘I will not, will not, will not be abused!’

  ‘“Ridiculous? “Naïve?” “Spent?” How would you describe yourself, Ada?’

  ‘You seem to forget. Your own behaviour has been despicable.’

  ‘You’re quite right. I committed the unpardonable error of talking to my wife. I made the most obvious mistake of all: I thought that I could unburden some of the weight of my professional responsibility. I thought that a husband could count on his wife’s discretion. Yes, you’re absolutely right! Of course,’ he added with poisonous sarcasm, ‘It is all my fault and your misguided interference has nothing to do with it!’

  ‘Robert!’ begged Lillian, appalled by this description of her betrayal, ‘I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to tell Ada.’

  It was Ada who now turned on her.

  ‘Well then, you’re a far sillier, weaker creature than I took you for, Lillian. Though that would be difficult to imagine. If you didn’t mean to tell me about Aunt Margery’s will — if any
thing is ridiculous, that is — then why did you bring the topic up? You were bursting to tell me. Bursting! It would have been unseemly if it had not been so important.’

  ‘Don’t let her upset you, Lillian. Not more than you deserve, at any rate.’

  ‘Robert! Please don’t be so beastly!’

  ‘Don’t think that you can drive a wedge between Lillian and me, Robert. Your wife showed a commendable sense of duty to her family in talking to me. If you imagined she could have done anything other than tell her own sisters what you were plotting, then you’re the naïve one.’

  Lillian shuddered at the thought that Ada was already beginning to assert her influence over her. She had always known that Ada had seen her marriage as a betrayal; she would twist this crisis into a means to reclaim her. Lillian whimpered. What would Ada do to her? For there was no doubt, in the younger sister’s mind, that she would have to endure some scorching penance for her apostasy?

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Robert’s smile, levied at his sister-in-law was grotesque. ‘I can probably be charged with naïveté: the naïveté of a fond husband, prepared to honour his wife with the occasional confidence. But “plotting”? I resent your accusation. I have not plotted anything. Lady Margery was perfectly entitled to bequeath the estate to whomsoever she chose. As her solicitor, I was obliged to fulfill her wishes.’

  ‘Rubbish. You had a responsibility to advise her. You didn’t or if you did you conspired with a sick old woman, in the throes of some warped fasntasy, against your wife’s own family and the natural heirs. Either way, you were at fault.’

  ‘Thank you, once again, for making your opinion so clear, Ada.’

  ‘The mystery is why.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Oh, Robert, please stop smiling,’ begged Lillian, ‘I hate it when you smile like that. It makes the skin go tight across your forehead. It scares me. Please do not be so furious with me.’

  ‘I am not furious, Lillian. I am dreadfully disappointed in you. But I am bemused by your sister. She does not seem to understand that my reputation as a solicitor is a matter of considerable importance to me and, I am sure I may add, to you and our children. Perhaps Ada struggles to grasp the responsibilities that men who have a profession have to honour. For all that he is an alderman, Perch is an ironmonger. Trade is not a profession. Perhaps I should not expect her to follow my reasoning…’

  ‘How dare you talk about me in that insulting way as if I were not here!’

  ‘Well, Ada, it comes down to this: I cannot, I will not compromise my professional integrity further for the sake of gratifying some fantasy of yours and Vera’s and Dolly’s to inherit the Cordingley estates. Mount Benjamin is Lady Margery’s. It has been absolutely since Geoffrey’s death. She can will it wherever she chooses and unless she is of unsound mind, there is nothing I, as her solicitor, can do about it. Nothing. Nothing at all, my dear Ada. And if I refuse to comply with her instructions, then she will simply employ another firm of solicitors to carry them out. As it is, she has already approached Waterson and Duguid to act as Trustees until the boy comes of age—to prevent a conflict of interests. This is quite proper. And not the action of a woman who does not know what she is about. No! Do not interrupt me! I was wrong to divulge to Lillian what I had learned of Lady Margery’s affairs. She was wrong to talk to you. Your reaction is futile and that last outburst of temper has merely succeeded in waking the children. I shall go and settle them.’

  He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Ada was still. Lillian wondered if he had succeeded in blunting the barbed antagonism that had enveloped them. Or was it that her sister had merely exhausted herself. Lillian sought to calm things still further.

  ‘Robert is a wonderful father. He dotes on my darlings.’

  ‘Being a doting father will not help him or you now if this wicked, wicked will, this crime against us is allowed to go unchallenged. Uncle Henry left everything in order. We were named as beneficiaries. Aunt Margery understood that. It was only when this wretched family, these Simmondses, started inveigling themselves into her confidence that she swerved away from everything that was right and proper. And, for the life of me, I cannot understand how Robert can stand to one side so calmly and let them get away with it.’

  Lillian said nothing. She would let her sister brood in silence while they waited for Robert to return. He soon did so.

  ‘Oh, Robert, have the children gone back to sleep?’

  ‘They have. I gave them a kiss and told them that everything is alright.’

  ‘If only that were the case,’ muttered Ada.

  ‘I agree with you, Ada, that, from your point of view, from the Cordingley point of view, this is a bad business. I do understand. And I am going to apologise if I have spoken intemperately. But you have to understand the precariousness of how things sit. I am going to tell you what I have done. I am going to take that risk and I am going to ask you, you and Lillian, to promise that this goes no further, not even to Dolly and Vera.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Do I have your word that you accept I am talking in confidence? And Lillian? You will be sorely tempted, I know, some time or another, after the funeral, or at the reading of the will, or later as you brood on the injustice of it all to voice your opinion, to rail and pronounce. You must not. Well? Do I have your word?’

  ‘Of course, Robert.’

  ‘And you, Ada?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Then I suggest we call a truce. You’ll take a glass of ginger wine, Ada?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Robert Kingsnorth took his time deploying the decanters and glasses. He reminded himself of the calm sagacity he had seen some experienced judges demonstrating when required to sum up a complex case. He would allow himself to be neither hurried nor harried. He would manage the affair and ensure that his irritating sister-in-law was kept in her place.

  ‘Let me explain. I was not wholly surprised to get the summons that Lady Margery wanted to revise her will. However, I assumed that what she had in mind would be a few nominal bequests, perhaps to household servants, perhaps to the nurse, in recognition of the services she had received during her life and during her illness. She must have guessed she had not much longer to live. It was quite clear to me that her mind was sound. Though the business of setting up a Trust for the Simmonds boy seemed somewhat out of character and was a shock to me, others saw it as an understandably generous act from a benefactress after a sudden confrontation with her own mortality. She knew perfectly well what she was doing. And you know yourselves that, although her speech was slurred, what she wanted to say was perfectly intelligible. No one could have argued that she did not know what she wanted. You are mistaken to assume that I did not remonstrate most urgently with her when she told me of the radical change she wished to make.’

  ‘You can’t have pressed your point particularly hard.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, Ada, you were not there and have nothing to support that assertion.’

  ‘Please, Ada, let Robert finish.’

  ‘Ultimately, I could have refused to draw up Lady Margery’s will in accordance with her new wishes. She would simply have dismissed Kingsnorth and Kingsnorth and employed Tallis from Waterson and Duguid instead. I should have lost whatever advantage I might have had.’

  ‘What advantage was that?’

  ‘The opportunity to word the will as I chose. The opportunity, I have to say, to draw up an appallingly ambiguous document which is an affront to my profession. I have risked a great deal for you, Ada, for you, Lillian, for Dolly and Vera.’

  ‘But, Robert, what did you do? I can’t imagine, darling, what you mean?’

  ‘You know that, when Geoffrey died, in accordance with your Uncle Henry’s wishes, the entire estate of Mount Benjamin reverted exclusively to Lady Margery. She made no secret of her preference that, on her death, the estate should be sold— preferably in its entirety—to someone with an interest in running the estat
e and overseeing village life in the way that she believed was the English way. The proceeds were to be divided between her husband’s nieces, as you are aware. But all of that was based upon Geoffrey having died without issue.’

  ‘Which I, for one, never expected to be in question. I knew him better than either of you.’

  ‘Nobody expected there to be a child. Indeed, I don’t believe there is an heir, even now. But the fact remains that Lady Margery did come to believe that Geoffrey had fathered a child and that that child was Bertie Simmonds.’

  ‘But who planted such a notion? The Simmonds family themselves. Who else? Anstace? How could Aunt Margery have been so gullible, so duped? There can’t be any evidence. It’s a complete fabrication.’

  ‘There is no evidence but she is certain. And I do not believe there has been an outright denial.’

  ‘You see! Connivance and trickery! Subtle infiltration!’

  ‘I was conscious of the fact that there was possibly very little time but procrastination could have been disastrous. Your aunt was perfectly capable (she as good as told me so, if I was obdurate) even of summoning Nurse Hiller and Mrs. Childs, the minute I left the room, and obliging them to sign a hastily drawn-up, handwritten last will and testament. Acting promptly was imperative. And so I drew up the will she wanted, bequeathing everything apart from the small, conventional legacies, to the Trust set up exclusively for Bertie Simmonds. But this is the critical part. I inserted the clause “whom I regard as my grandson” to describe Bertie Simmonds. Lady Margery accepted this as the justification for her will; she believed that this would help frustrate any objections which might be raised in the future. For my part, the phrase leaves open future objections on the basis that, if proof can be found that Bertie Simmonds is not Geoffrey Cordingley’s son, the basis of this extraordinary will be fundamentally shaken. The ambiguity—a solicitor’s bête noir— is our, is your only hope. Bertie Simmonds inherits but the Cordingley heirs also have an open route to challenge his legacy. The Trust ensures that no one else can benefit from his inheritance in the meantime. Indeed, the boy’s scope to access funds is also controlled and not just by Mrs. Cordingley (whom you may not wholly trust) but also by a second firm of solicitors. I put it to you that the outcome, which I have engineered, is the best that the Cordingley heirs could expect.’