by Jacksons Way
“Do you have any heirs who you feel properly deserve the proceeds of your estate?”
“Let me save you a race around the course, Vanderhagen,” Jackson said, feeling precious seconds ticking by. “I have a Will already; legal and proper, drawn up under the laws of the Republic of Texas. In it, I name Billy Weathers—whom you knew as William Lindsay MacPhaull—as my sole heir. Now, my lawyer back home is a meticulous sort of fellow and he insisted on covering all kinds of impossible possibilities. Long story short, Vanderhagen, because Billy's dead and dead men can't inherit, all my property goes to any legal heirs Billy might have.”
“The MacPhaull children,” Vanderhagen all but sighed. “I assume in equal parts?”
“I'd guess. Since I didn't know Billy had any children, I didn't see a reason to go about dividing things up.”
“Do you intend to modify the bequeath? Or are you planning to let it stand as it is presently worded?”
“I think it's a mite early for deciding something like that,” Jackson countered, wondering just how Vanderhagen would divide the assets if given the opportunity. “I'll let you know what I've done in the end.”
“I'd be glad to see to the creation of any legal documentation you require. A codicil is all that would be necessary. It's a very simple thing to draw up.”
“Like I said, I'll let you know what I decide.”
Vanderhagen apparently had enough sense to recognize that he wasn't going to get anywhere by pressing the matter and so he nodded, appeared to mull a moment, and then said, “Regardless of your decision on the particulars of the matter, Mr. Stennett, I'm relieved to hear that you intend to do right by William's children. It's a great weight off my heart and shoulders.”
The tone of his voice suggested that he was preparing to leave, forcing Jackson to delay him by asking, “Is there anything else you'd like to talk about? I'd hate for you to haul around any more weight than necessary. As the company attorney, do you need a copy of Billy's Will?”
“You're a good man as well as purposeful, Mr. Stennett,” he responded, wiggling forward on the sofa so that he could effectively leverage his body off it and upright. Puffing from the exertion, he mopped his brow again and added, “No, there's nothing else I need from you. I secured the copy of William's Will from Miss Lindsay this morning while I was at the house. I'll be filing the appropriate documents with the court for the legal acknowledgment of your ownership.”
“Well,” Jackson drawled, leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers, “if you wouldn't mind holding up for just a minute, I have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Vanderhagen.”
“Yes?” he asked, clearly wary about having the shoe put on his foot.
“I have some decisions to make regarding the company assets and it would help if I knew the terms of Richard Patterson's Will. Do you happen to know them? Do you know if he plans to leave anything to Lindsay?”
The wariness evaporated. He stepped closer to the desk and—though it seemed impossible—actually said quietly, “I can't discuss the terms in any specific sense; attorney-client privilege, you understand. I think you may make reasonable assumptions. He values loyal service and the memories of those he's cared for in the course of his life. He is, however, above all else, a compassionate man who remembers his own beginnings and those who haven't been as fortunate in life as he.”
“Thank you,” Jackson offered, not liking the answer, but accepting that the choices were Richard Patterson's and not his to make. “Second question: How long is the court going to take before it formally recognizes my right to make business decisions and execute them?”
“Getting such matters through probate usually takes some time; months at best,” Vanderhagen replied, moving away now that the topic had moved into a less sensitive area. “Were the heirs to contest the provisions of their father's second Will, you might have some difficulties in conducting business, but Miss Lindsay assures me that she has no intention of standing in your way and that she'll execute decisions in your behalf until such time as the court formally recognizes your right to do so.”
Lindsay could make his life a living hell. And she would if she had the money to fight him. Thank God she didn't. Of course, Lindsay wasn't the only card in the deck. “Have you said anything to Henry about the second Will and the unexpected change in his circumstances? Have you said anything to Agatha?”
“My responsibility and primary concern is for the continuation of the MacPhaull Company, Mr. Stennett,” Vanderhagen explained, mopping his brow again. “Henry isn't a particularly intelligent or farsighted man, but he does understand the power to be had in getting access to the company coffers. Agatha will see that in Henry losing control of the company, she'll be losing an ally with similar attitudes toward money. Neither one of them will have any comprehension of the costs involved in contesting their fa- ther's Will. I'm willing to let Miss Lindsay inform and deal with her brother and sister. Should either Henry or Agatha come to me wanting to battle you for control, I'll do my best to dissuade them from the course.”
“And if you can't? Or if they go to another attorney?”
“In either situation, I would hope that you would feel comfortable in allowing me to represent the interests of the MacPhaull Company in court.”
Snakes weren't always bad, Jackson mused. They were good to have around for varmint control. Still, the idea of deliberately putting his fate in Vanderhagen's hands didn't set well. “It'd sure be easier just to shoot Henry and be done with it,” Jack observed dryly.
“You can't!”
Clearly Otis Vanderhagen thought the idea had been seriously suggested. Just as Ben had taken the threat to his tongue. Sweet Jesus. What kind of world did these people live in? What kind of people did they know? “Just kidding, Mr. Vanderhagen.”
“Oh,” he breathed, his entire body sagging downward. He recovered enough to wipe the rivulets of perspiration from his face. Stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, he managed a weak smile and said, “One hears stories about Texans, you understand.”
Jackson nodded slowly. “One hears them about New Yorkers, too.”
Vanderhagen puffed up, yanked his waistcoat down, said coolly, “Mr. Stennett,” and then spun on his heel—an amazing feat of balance for a man of his proportions, Jackson thought as the lawyer half-waddled, half-rolled toward the door.
“Good morning again, Miss Lindsay,” he boomed as he crossed the threshold. “And good day, again.”
Jackson winced and hung his head, softly swearing at his miserable luck. So much for keeping Lindsay from knowing that he'd had a chance to meet with Vanderhagen. He wondered if she'd believe him if he told her that the subject of Richard's Will had never come up. Maybe it would be a kindness to keep her from learning that, while she might get a small bequeath, the bulk of Patterson's estate would be going to charity. Then again, maybe not. Honesty might hurt sometimes, but it was always a better course than lying.
“What stories does one hear about New Yorkers, Mr. Stennett?”
He looked up to find Lindsay standing in the doorway. She was wearing a pale blue dress today and a matching pelisse. The sunlight streaming in the office window glinted off the golden curls peeking out from under the crown of her bonnet. He'd have thought her an angel from on high if it hadn't been for the cool resolution in her eyes.
If a fight was unavoidable, he reminded himself, sometimes it was smarter to fight over something that didn't matter rather than something that did. “Well, I'll tell you,” he drawled, rising from the chair. “Mostly one hears that, aside from taking everything said quite literally and having no real sense of humor, they'd sell their own mothers for a dollar.”
“Actually, the going rate is three dollars,” she countered with the smallest of smiles. “Mothers are in short supply these days.”
“Good ones even more so, I'd guess,” he ventured, wondering why she'd decided not to take offense. “A man could probably get five dollars for one of those.”
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She chuckled softly and nodded.
He saw in her softening an opening, and he seized it. “Lindsay, about yesterday afternoon,” he began.
She held up her gloved hand, her palm toward him. “Let's not talk about it. It had been a horrible day and neither one of us was at our best. Today's a new beginning and I propose that we not start it by looking back.”
“If that's the way you want it,” he acceded, feeling an odd mixture of disappointment and relief.
“Henry sent a message to the house this morning,” she said, her manner easy and light. “Agatha told him about Richard's collapse. He's planning to come by the office at ten to discuss with me the transfer of management. I sent a return note with the messenger, asking him and Edith to dinner this evening and suggesting that we discuss the matter then.”
Ten o'clock? Damnation. “Think he'll hold off?”
“I rather doubt it.”
“Then we need to be somewhere else when he gets here,” Jackson announced, picking his hat up from the corner of the desk with one hand while closing the ledger with the other. “I'm not about to give him the advantage of picking either the time or the place for a showdown. Where would you like to go?”
“I have a social call to make. The junior bookkeeper, Jeb Rutherford, and his wife had their first child very late last night. Jeb sent word to the house this morning. I've made gifts for Lucy and the baby and want to deliver them in person.”
Baby. Fragments of crushing memory stabbed at his awareness. Jackson resolutely blinked them away. Settling his hat on his head, he observed, “Seems it was a busy morning at your house, what with messengers bringing notes from Henry and Jeb, and Vanderhagen snooting around.”
“That's only half of it,” she said lightly, shaking her head—whether in amusement or utter resignation, Jackson couldn't tell. “Richard's cook, Emile, also arrived this morning, vowing that only he can adequately prepare food for him. When I left, he and Primrose were standing in the kitchen, back-to-back, holding rolling pins and preparing to count off paces.
“Then I passed Agatha on the front walk as I was leaving. She spent the night at Henry's and doesn't know if her calendar is free for dinner at home this evening or not. She has a dress fitting at two and an appointment with a jeweler at four.”
“A jeweler,” Jackson repeated quietly. “Where does Agatha think the money for jewelry is going to come from?”
Lindsay raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I have no idea and I didn't pause to ask. I simply wanted to come to the office.”
Suddenly he understood the way Lindsay was feeling about it all. You could either scream for nothing or you could stand back and see the utter ridiculousness of the whole thing. At least the latter course offered some degree of entertainment in what was otherwise a very frustrating situation. Interesting that she'd come to him, though. Why? “So you're saying that you see me as a calm haven of sensibility and reason?”
“I don't think I'd put it quite that way, Mr. Stennett,” she countered, her smile tight. “Perhaps more along the lines of seeing you as being the lesser of all the present evils.”
And one of those evils was Henry, due to arrive at any moment. “Well, evil man that I am,” he rejoined, pulling a sheet of parchment from a desk drawer, “before we leave here, I want you to write a note to Agatha. Ben can see that it's delivered. Tell Agatha that she'll clear her calendar and be at dinner this evening or she'll come home to find the locks changed and her belongings on the street.”
“You can't do that!”
“Yes, I can. And I will. Evil does as evil pleases.” He hefted up the accounting book and started toward the door, saying as he passed her, “I'm taking the ledger to Ben. Get busy and write that note so we can get the hell out of here.”
He was back in seconds, returning through the doorway to the sight of Lindsay leaning over the desk and scribbling away. It was a wondrous combination of curves and draped fabric.
“There will be an ungodly scene at dinner, you know,” she advised him as she continued to write.
Jackson blinked and swallowed. “Which, in accordance with the MacPhaull code of conduct, I will ignore.” And hopefully more effectively than I am your backside. Lord have mercy.
“I'll wager you ten dollars that you can't.”
What on earth were they talking about? Oh, yes, ignoring Agatha's scene. “You're on. Any other bets you want to make about tonight?”
She straightened, holding the note in one hand and gently wafting her other above it to dry the ink. “Another ten says that you contemplate killing Henry before dessert is served.”
“Collecting would require me to be honest,” he pointed out. “I could lie and tell you it never crossed my mind and you couldn't prove otherwise. Not a very smart bet.”
“All right,” she countered confidently. “Then my second ten dollars says that you'll actually try to kill him before dessert. How's that?”
“It's your money,” he replied with a shrug. “I think I ought to tell you, though, that I don't exactly have a hair-trigger temper. It takes a lot to push me over the line.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Stennett, I know my brother and sister and just what behavior they're capable of.” She folded the parchment in half. “I'm putting my faith and money on them.”
“Nudging them along isn't allowed,” he clarified as she handed him the note.
“I won't have to.”
She walked past him and the scent of roses drifted in her wake. It occurred to him that she was certainly less prickly today than she had been yesterday. He followed her, wishing he knew what had led to the slight change in her manner. Whatever it was, he hoped its effects were permanent. Passing sixty days in the company of a woman like this one wouldn't be all that hard to endure.
“The morning mail just arrived, sir.”
“Thank you, Ben.” He accepted the packet and then handed Lindsay's note to her bookkeeper. “Please see that this is delivered immediately to Miss Agatha at MacPhaull House. And if Mr. Henry MacPhaull should make an appearance here at the office, please extend our regrets at missing him, and tell him that we look forward to seeing him and his lovely wife at dinner this evening.”
Ben nodded in acknowledgment and Jackson led the way to the door. Lindsay murmured her thanks when he opened it and then proceeded him out onto the walkway. Her small black carriage sat waiting for them, her driver sitting in the box, reins in black-gloved hands. She paused, looked back over her shoulder, and called to Ben, “If there's an emergency, we'll be at Jeb and Lucy's.”
“I hope we haven't been too long, John,” she called up to her driver as she started toward the waiting vehicle. “It seems that there is always some small detail that can't wait attention.”
He smiled down at her, opened his mouth to reply, but got no further than that.
“I distinctly recall having sent a message that I would arrive at the office this morning at ten.”
The voice was male and haughtily indignant. Jackson saw the driver look away, saw Lindsay stop in her tracks, grab a deep breath, and then slowly turn in the direction from which the voice had come.
A man only slightly taller and less rotund than Otis Vanderhagen stood a mere arm's length away from Lindsay. He wore a finely tailored suit, his graying temples accentuated by the blackness of his bowler hat and the silver threads of his embroidered vest. Fair skin marked him as a man who lived his life indoors, the thin red veins coloring his patrician nose as a man who liked strong spirits. His chin was lifted high so that he surveyed the world from what he obviously considered a position of superiority.
A message that he'd call? Then this had to be Henry, Billy's eldest child and only son. Jackson gauged the distance between himself and Lindsay, between Lindsay and her brother.
“And you did so,” Lindsay said calmly, “on the presumption that I would be here and that a meeting was convenient to me. Unfortunately, by the time your note arrived at the house, I'd a
lready sent one to my junior bookkeeper, Jeb, promising to call on his wife and newborn child this morning. I mentioned that in the note I sent back with your messenger. Did you not receive it?”
“I did,” Henry replied, cocking a brow reproachfully. “That's why I've come earlier than I'd originally planned. There are some matters we must discuss, Lindsay.”
She squared her shoulders and managed a tight smile. “Now is not the time, Henry. I'm sorry.”
Henry went on as though she hadn't said a word. “My architect is demanding payment for his design and for the purchase of building materials. I want a bank draft so the project can begin.”
Jackson watched Lindsay's jaw tighten, watched her draw a long, deep breath. He glanced over at Henry, but the man seemed oblivious to his presence.
“I'm sorry, Henry,” Lindsay said again, more slowly and clearly than before, “but that's impossible. As I've explained before, recent business developments have—”
“I'm not Agatha,” Henry interrupted with a huff, “and I will not tolerate being put on an insultingly meager budget. I am the heir of MacPhaull Company and I won't be denied what is rightfully mine. Neither will I live in a home beneath the standards that accompany my social position.”
Jackson cocked a brow. Apparently the man had absolutely no understanding of reality; he didn't see that his social position was no more substantial than a wisp of smoke and that his financial resources were all but gone. How could a man go through life wearing blinders? Jackson wondered. It was going to be one helluva shock for ol' Henry when he learned that he wasn't the heir of all that he imagined to exist.
Lindsay's smile looked painfully taut as she said, “Standing on a public walkway is no place to discuss business or family matters, Henry. I've invited you and Edith—”
“Never mind,” Henry replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I'll take care of the matter myself next week. Agatha told me all about The Buzzard's collapse. It's long past due and welcome news.”
Lindsay's hands balled into fists at her sides and her blue eyes flashed with furious fire. Her lips compressed into a thin line, she glared at her brother and said nothing. Jackson stood planted where he was, torn between wanting to pound some sense and good manners into Henry and respecting Lindsay's right to deal with her brother in her own way.