Carpenter's Inheritance

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “As I said, it’s my calling,” Lucinda said with complete conviction. “Bells have practiced law since the commonwealths of Virginia and Massachusetts were colonies.”

  “Your calling, or your inheritance?”

  Lucinda blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you do this because you love it or because you think you have a duty to do it?”

  “Why do they have to be different?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Samantha’s lower lip quivered and she glanced away. “I never had a calling, unless it was to be a wife and mother, perhaps, but that was denied me when Matt chose land over elopement.”

  Lucinda flinched. “That sounds ignoble of him.”

  “It does, without all the facts. But I know he was thinking of what was best for me. I don’t know how to be poor. And Mother needs me.” Samantha sighed. “Perhaps one day the Lord will provide me with someone else to love.”

  “He will.”

  Samantha still held feelings for Matthew, whatever she claimed. Another reason for Lucinda not to form an attachment to him—she didn’t want him coming between her and her friendship with Samantha.

  “I know He will. And don’t go thinking I still care for Matthew. Not that way, anyway.” She strode to the window. “The rain has stopped. I should be going.” She gathered her coat, hat, and gloves and departed to where her carriage waited for her.

  ❧

  Lucinda sat on her sofa and read through John Paul’s story. Though badly spelled, and with poor sentence structure, the meaning was clear. John Paul had reason to believe his stepfather and guardian, Mayor Vincent Woodcocks, was systematically embezzling from the boy’s inheritance, left him by his father. He wanted help getting control of his fortune before it was gone.

  Before the youth returned, Lucinda delved into her law books until she had an answer for him.

  “I can help you,” she told John Paul. “We need to petition for you to be emancipated from your guardian.”

  “Like a slave?”

  “Something like that. You don’t have many more rights than slaves did, not until you’re twenty-one. That he strikes you about the face and head, and with proof of his embezzlement, we can get that done and perhaps even get some of your money back, provided he hasn’t spent it. There’s just one problem, and that’s more for me than you.”

  “I know.” John Paul’s face slackened. “My parents already despise you.”

  “Why?” She may as well ask.

  “I think they’re afraid. They know that I could never go to Roger Stagpole, and they ran the other one out of town—the man who had an office before you. But you won’t go, no matter how they try to frighten you off.”

  “In other words,” Lucinda said, feeling more than a little queasy, “I’m a threat.”

  eleven

  The last person Matt expected to see enter his workshop was Samantha Howard. Yet as he rubbed the final coat of oil into Lucinda’s second office chair, a knock sounded on the door, and Samantha strode in as though she was used to doing so on a regular basis.

  “You aren’t supposed to talk to me,” he said reflexively.

  “You’re not supposed to talk to me.” Sarah dropped her coat onto a new piece for him—a sofa for two just awaiting cushions on the seat and back to make it comfortable. “Isn’t that what you traded for land?”

  “We had no future, Miss Howard. It would have ended eventually, so I took the land your father was willing to buy me.”

  Samantha laughed. “Mercenary, aren’t we?”

  Matt shrugged. “I like to think of it as wise.”

  “It’s one reason why I found you so refreshing. But now you have found someone else, and I’m happy for you.”

  “No, I haven’t found someone else.” Matt moved his cloth in regular swirls along the rich maple grain, making the wood glow as though it contained an inner fire. He didn’t look at Samantha. “I am happy I can be friends with Miss Lucinda, but I know I’m not good enough for her.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “She’s like you—family and land and a history. Her kind don’t marry my kind.”

  “She’s not like that, you know.” Samantha approached the settee and ran her hand across its sleigh back. “She wouldn’t be a lady lawyer here if she thought the way society thinks. She’s more like the Floyd ladies—thinking women should be equal with men.”

  “So probably doesn’t want a husband at all.”

  “Which is why she went to dinner with you last Sunday night instead of going home with me.”

  That memory still sent a thrill through him, but he responded, “Yes, she’s lonely. I expect I flatter the female side of her.”

  “Oh, Matt.” Samantha sighed, paused behind him, and touched his shoulder.

  Once upon a time, that light brush of her fingers would have dissolved his insides like varnish under turpentine. Now he merely experienced the comfort of knowing Samantha was still a friend, as she had been when they were young and didn’t think they were in love.

  Which, of course, they weren’t. He’d been infatuated with her poise, her beauty, her attention to the poor carpenter’s apprentice. If he’d truly loved her, he would have said forget it to her father’s bribe and asked for land far from Loveland and the humiliation of everyone there knowing his history.

  If everyone knew his history correctly.

  Those papers, now safely hidden behind a loose brick in his kitchen fireplace, still puzzled him, but he hesitated before asking for Lucinda’s assistance. Helping him could ruin her chances for success.

  “Lucinda likes you a great deal,” Samantha continued as she made a circuit of the workshop. “She talks about you with such warmth, it nearly makes me blush.”

  Matt made a wordless noise in the back of his throat.

  Samantha stomped her foot in its leather shoe, sweeping her skirt’s lacy ruffles, completely inappropriate for a carpentry shop. She would gather sawdust and have to explain it to her mother. Her mother would guess where the particles had originated.

  “Have a care,” Matt said. “You’re getting your skirt dirty.”

  Samantha glanced down, lifted her gown, and shook it. “It doesn’t matter. I’m more than old enough to make my own decisions in whom I speak to. And so is Lucinda. If she wants to spend her time with you, she will. But only if you give her the opportunity.”

  “Ah, I sense you’re ready to tell me why you’re here.” He glanced up, polishing ceased.

  “I am.” Samantha faced him, her hands folded together at her tiny waist. “She needs an escort to the Christmas ball.”

  “No.”

  “Matthew—”

  “I’m not going to do that to her, walk in with her on my arm and have her lowered to my lev—”

  “It’s not lowering, Matthew. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Samantha sighed. “If you don’t take her, she will be home alone during the festivities, and she spends enough time alone.”

  He pictured her seated behind her desk, head bent over a heavy law book or a paper of some sort. She might have a cup of tea at her side, but none of the cafés or restaurants would be open for her to find a hot meal. The hot food would be at the festival, and then the ball. She would nibble on what she had in the house. She’d be pretty hungry, not to mention lonely.

  He knew loneliness.

  “All right.” He stood and gazed down at Samantha. “I’ll see if I can persuade her to go.”

  “Thank you.” She touched his face with her fingertips, gathered her coat, and swept out the door.

  ❧

  So how to persuade her?

  Matt pondered the question as he finished a settle for a farmer and then left for work at the mayor’s house. When he arrived, Mrs. Woodcocks stood in the kitchen consulting with the cook. He took a good look at her, examining her features for anything familiar, but saw only one possibility—the set of her chin. It was unusually square for a female, making her handsome rather th
an pretty.

  He had a square chin that fit much better on a male face.

  And her hair glowed a rich chocolate brown, though she was in her midforties at the least. Only the merest hint of gray touched a few threads in her glossy coiffure, accenting the deep brown rather than detracting from it.

  His hair was that dark and shiny.

  But so were many other people’s, too. He needed to work, not speculate.

  He excused himself and lugged his tools through the house to the library. Today was likely to be his last day on the job. Today, he merely needed to inspect the paneling for any flaws in the finish and carving.

  “Very nice work, Mr. Templin.” Mrs. Woodcocks sailed into the library behind him. “We’re quite amazed and pleased. Maybe I’ll have you replace the paneling in the dining room next. It seems dark for a room that never gets sunlight.”

  “I’d be happy to do that for you, ma’am.” He didn’t rise from where he crouched on the floor, so he wouldn’t tower over her.

  “How much do we owe you? I’ll get your pay immediately.”

  “Thank you.” He named his fee.

  Without a fuss, she nodded and left the room. A few minutes later, she arrived with an envelope, thanked him again, and swept away on a cloud of some flowery scent.

  She was so kind and generous, he didn’t understand why she’d taken such a hostile attitude toward Lucinda. It didn’t make sense. She wasn’t hostile toward the Floyd ladies. Of course, they were of an old family with lots of money, but Lucinda was from an old family, too.

  Baffled, he looked in the envelope and saw how generous she’d been. His entire fee had been paid, along with a sizable bonus. And she wanted him to do more work. Did she truly want more changes to her house, or was it guilt work? Even after two months of pondering those papers, he couldn’t believe they were real. Surely no one could keep up a lie like that for nearly twenty years.

  Time to stop contemplating and take action.

  He arrived at Lucinda’s office the following day to ask if he could do just that. He hadn’t seen her for nearly a week and took the steps two at a time. He raised his hand to knock, but heard voices beyond the door, female voices, their words indistinct. One sounded agitated, even weepy. Not Lucinda. Her tones soothed—calm, gentle, and kind. The voices faded. He pictured her taking the other woman back to her quarters and serving her tea.

  When he no longer heard the voices, he knocked and then stepped into the office. It was deserted, but now he heard the murmur from beyond the inner door, an unfamiliar female voice, calmer but still broken. A bell lay on the corner of the desk, and he rang it.

  Lucinda emerged at once. “Matt.” She closed the door behind her and offered him a shy smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “It’s good to see you.” He cleared his throat and ran his gaze over her face, trying to remember why he was there.

  Her cheeks grew a becoming pink. “You, too. It’s been awhile.”

  “I haven’t been in town, and the days are so short now, coming in at night is difficult.” The ten feet or so between them felt like a mile. He took a step toward her. “I, um, you have someone here.”

  “It’s all right. She’s resting.” She closed the distance between them and held out her hands. “To what do I owe a visit today?”

  “I needed to see you.” He took her hands in his, and his heart lurched. Inside his coat, papers crackled, papers he’d brought just in case. “Are you warm enough here?”

  “Mostly. There is a draft.”

  “Draft? From the door. Of course. That’s another reason why I’m here.” He strode to the door. “I want to measure for building your vestibule. Mr. Shannon says it’s all right.”

  “So you really came here to work.” Disappointment pouted her lips.

  Her mouth, something he shouldn’t look at for long, as it gave him ideas it shouldn’t. He shifted his gaze to her face, but her cheeks were growing pinker. Heat stole up his neck, too. “I thought maybe I could borrow one of your law books.”

  “Of course you may borrow a book.” She trotted to the row of shelves. “What sort of law book would you like to read?”

  “Do you have anything about inheritance law?”

  “Ye–es.” Her dark gold eyebrows arched in a question.

  He shrugged. “Just curious.” The papers crackled in his pocket, giving the lie to what he said. He removed them from his coat’s inner pocket to lay them on the desk. “No, I have a specific question. Will you read these for me? I—I can pay you.”

  “You’d better not. That would make you a client, and then you couldn’t, we couldn’t. . .I suppose it’s all right amongst friends.”

  Friends? Did she honestly believe they were only friends? He must convince her otherwise.

  He reached for the papers. “Never mind it. It’ll make trouble for you here.”

  Her head shot up. “Trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? How? I mean, the mayor’s wife has reason to dislike me already.”

  Matt started. “You know why she does?”

  “I do, but it was told me in confidence by a client, so I can’t say.”

  “Then you want nothing to do with this. I was afraid of that, but Stagpole isn’t trustworthy in this, and I’d rather not travel elsewhere to find an attorney, who, for all I know, will be part of Stagpole’s crowd. I thought you, being a lady lawyer. . .”

  She laughed, the sound like a clear note among discordant tones. “You figure a lady lawyer wouldn’t be welcome, golfing or smoking cigars.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re right. So let me have a look at those.” She held out her hand. “And now, I’m very sorry, but I need to get back to my client.”

  Matt placed the papers in her hand. She reached for them. When their fingers touched, Matt curled his fingers around hers, held her hand, held her gaze.

  “Just friends?” he murmured.

  “Matt, I—”

  He released her hand and grazed her cheek with his knuckle. “We’ll talk later, when you don’t have a client. I’ll be in town all day.”

  She cradled her hand in the other. “When will I see you to work on the vestibule?”

  “Tomorrow. Unless you come to Gertie’s tonight.”

  “I may do that. It’s awfully cold. Some hot soup would be fine before I turn in for the night.” With a nod and a rustle of her skirts, she swept into the inner room.

  Matt watched her go, then turned and departed just as the first flakes of snow began to fall.

  twelve

  Lucinda stared from the door, picturing Matt’s broad back as he descended the steps, each footfall firm and echoing on the wooden treads. Around her, the room felt empty, cold. She felt empty, cold.

  She glanced at the papers he’d left behind, entrusted to her. Her fingers twitched with a nearly irrepressible urge to pick up the sheaf of vellum and read each word to find out why in the world Matthew Templin, carpenter, needed an attorney.

  She did pick up the pages—and slid them into a desk drawer. Another client awaited her in the living room.

  Lucinda crossed the office and pushed open the inner door. Parthina Carr, a faded replica of her cousin Gertie, raised her head and smiled. She was wispy rather than thin, with colorless eyes and hair, but her smile was as warm as her cousin’s.

  “Thank you for your patience with me, Miss Bell. You’re terribly kind. Now then, you won’t give up on my case?”

  “Of course not. It will just take more letters. At least they’re responding, and rather quickly.”

  “That’s further than I’ve gotten before.”

  “People tend to take notice when they receive letters from lawyers. They don’t want to go to court over something like denying a widow her pension. It makes them look bad, and politicians don’t like to be made to look bad.”

  Mrs. Carr chuckled. “Isn’t that the truth? They only want to make others look bad.” Her face cloude
d. “They won’t do anything like that to me, will they?”

  “No, ma’am. No one wants to torment a widow that way.” Lucinda grimaced. “Ignoring her is quite different from public ridicule. But they won’t ignore me.”

  She hoped. Female lawyers often got ignored as not being truly in the profession like men. Still, she would fight as hard as she needed to. This woman’s story was tragic. With her husband dead in a tunnel-building project through no fault of his own, Mrs. Carr was left without any means of support and two children to bring up. Gertie helped where she could. So did other relatives. But most of them didn’t have a great deal of money either, the economy not being in the best of conditions that year. Mrs. Carr needed and deserved the pension owed her as the widow of a man injured or killed on the job. Lucinda would make certain Mrs. Carr received that pension.

  “I’ll work on it today,” Lucinda said. “Would you like to stay here longer, or return to Gertie’s?”

  “I’ll be on my way to Gertie’s. Looks like snow out there.”

  Indeed, beyond the window Lucinda hadn’t glanced through in hours, snow plummeted in slanting ribbons of white. She stopped herself the second before a groan escaped from her lips. “And windy, I’m afraid. Would you like me to walk with you?”

  She didn’t want to. She wanted to read Matt’s paperwork. If she went to Gertie’s, she would stay for the warmth of the kitchen fire, the hot food and coffee Gertie would set before her, the companionship, and Lucinda would get nothing done. At the same time, Mrs. Carr appeared so frail, though she couldn’t be more than a dozen years older than Lucinda, that she didn’t want the older woman walking down potentially slippery sidewalks.

  But Mrs. Carr shook her head. “I’ll be all right. I have walking boots on.”

  But not warm walking boots.

  Lucinda glanced to the armoire, where her own sturdy boots resided. “I’ll come anyway.” She smiled. “You know what Proverbs says about one holding the other up.”

  “You’re right in that.” Mrs. Carr laughed and began to tug on her coat, also shockingly shabby.