by Dilly Court
She nodded, staring down at her plate. ‘I do hope so.’ But the thought of leaving them had lost some of its appeal.
Despite her eagerness to find her grandmother, Lucy settled into life in the cottage as if she had been born to it. For the first time in her life she was part of a loving family. Meg did everything she could to make her feel welcome and Hester was kind in her brusque, no-nonsense way. The children followed her everywhere, clamouring for her attention, and she responded with genuine affection, but Bram was her idol. He taught her the ways of the forest and showed her how to milk the goat, and where to look for the eggs in the hen coop. Every day brought a fresh wonder to a child brought up in the brick and concrete world of the inner city. Lucy was in a constant state of wonder, learning something new each day, and Bram was an excellent instructor. He made her laugh and he teased her mercilessly, but it was good-natured banter and she took it in her stride. If she had not been so desperate to find Eva she might have been happy to stay in the cottage forever.
The days flew by and everything was prepared for the trip to town, but on Monday morning Meg was suffering from a bout of sickness and did not feel well enough to travel to Epping. Hester had to stay at home and look after the children, which left Bram and Lucy to take the eggs, milk and butter to market and deliver the shirts to the tailor. Bram sat on the driving seat and Lucy huddled in the back of the cart with instructions to keep the milk churn upright if the cart wheels hit a particularly deep rut. Peckham stood up all the way, his ears flapping in the breeze as he leaned his head over the side of the cart.
It took over an hour to reach the market place, having stopped briefly at the tailor’s cottage, but they arrived without mishap and Bram set about selling the produce from the back of the cart. ‘I can do this on my own,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ve got all morning, so there’s no hurry.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out a penny, pressing it into Lucy’s palm. ‘There’s a woman who sells toffee from a stall over yonder. Buy some for yourself and don’t forget to bring some back for me.’
She gave him a shy smile. ‘Ta, Bram. I won’t be long.’
‘Take your time,’ he said airily. ‘If I sell the lot I’ll treat you to a ham roll and a cup of tea. I’m well in with the girl who works on that particular stall.’
Somehow that news did not please Lucy and she hurried off trying not to hate the wretched female who had caught Bram’s eye. She walked round the market place with Peckham trotting dutifully at her side, stopping to make enquiries of any likely-looking traders who might have come across Eva Pocket during their travels, but all her efforts were in vain. She was downhearted and even the purchase of two pokes of toffee failed to raise her spirits. It seemed that her grandmother did not want to be found, and presenting her with the locket had been her way of saying goodbye forever. Head down, Lucy made her way back to the cart. It seemed as though she would spend the rest of her days a virtual prisoner, and even though she could think of no better place to live, she knew she would not rest until she had found her grandmother. Lost in her thoughts, she did not see the familiar lozenge on the side of the carriage, and as she was about to walk past the door opened and Sir William stepped out. ‘Get in,’ he said angrily. ‘You’ve led us all a pretty dance.’ He grabbed her by the arm, sending the toffees flying in all directions.
Chapter Eight
Albemarle Street, London, 1871
LUCY SAT BEHIND the desk in her grandfather’s study. The pile of ledgers and sheaves of bills from tradesmen did not tell a particularly happy story. The chair she was sitting on had once seemed to her like a throne from which Sir William ruled his domain, but now he was dead, and she was no longer a frightened ten-year-old crying for her granny. It was her twenty-first birthday, but there would be no party to celebrate the event, and she doubted if there would be many presents to open. She fingered the silver locket, which always hung round her neck, wondering if Granny was thinking about her on her special day. All her efforts to trace Eva Pocket had come to nothing, and Lucy’s own mother had proved just as elusive. The pain of being abandoned had gradually faded over the years, but it had never completely gone away.
Lucy and her grandfather had come to an uneasy truce, and Miss Wantage had eventually mellowed to such an extent that Lucy had been sorry to say goodbye when her governess left for Yorkshire to take care of an aged parent. Bedwin was older and slower, but he still ruled supreme in the servants’ hall with Mrs Hodges as his second in command. Arch-enemy Susan had been dismissed for what had been described as ‘lewd behaviour’ soon after Lucy returned from her brief sojourn in Essex. Martha had also left, having been a bit too free with her favours and found herself in the family way at fourteen. Sir William had put pressure on James, the alleged father, who had married Martha, albeit reluctantly, and was now the proud father of three small children with another due at any moment. With her tormentors gone Lucy had gradually settled down to her new life.
She glanced at the longcase clock, which she had always disliked. It stood against a wall at the side of the desk, and when she was younger she had been convinced that it glared at her from its great height and at any moment might pounce and trap her in its coffin-like body. She knew now that it had been her fertile imagination running away with her, but even so her antipathy towards the clock persisted. It would, she decided, be the first thing to go to the auction house, and she would replace it with a pretty little ormolu timepiece which would stand on the mantelshelf. In any case, there were more important matters to think about than childhood fantasies. She had stopped playing the game long ago and now she was taking on the grown-up world. Mr Goldspink, her grandfather’s solicitor, would arrive as the clock chimed the hour. He had visited several times towards the end of Sir William’s long illness and had always been on time, never a minute early, nor a minute late.
At the first stroke there was a knock on the door and Bedwin hobbled into the study, but Mr Goldspink rushed past him, clutching a leather document case in his hand. ‘No need to announce me, my man. Good morning, Miss Marriott.’ He came to a halt in front of the desk, turning his head to glower at Bedwin. ‘What is it? Have you something to say?’
Bedwin looked mildly surprised, like an aged tortoise that had just awakened from hibernation. ‘No, sir. Will there be anything else, Miss Lucy?’
‘Thank you, Bedwin,’ Lucy said hurriedly. ‘That will be all for now, unless Mr Goldspink would care for some refreshment.’
‘No, no, I’m happy to get down to business, Miss Marriott.’
Bedwin bowed stiffly, his aged bones creaking audibly as he left the room.
‘Please be seated, Mr Goldspink.’ Lucy struggled to keep a straight face. The name Yorick Goldspink had always made her want to laugh, and his appearance did not help. His beaky nose and button-black eyes put her in mind of a small bird, and he was inclined to flap and flutter when asked a question he could not immediately answer. She had visions of him pecking food from his plate at dinner and sleeping with his head tucked beneath his arm at night. He was speaking in his chirruping high-pitched voice, and she had to exercise rigid self-control to keep from smiling as he rambled on, quoting past cases in the court of chancery. In the end she had to stop him.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Goldspink, but what has this got to do with my grandfather’s affairs? He told me that he was leaving everything to me.’
He came to a sudden halt, staring at her as if he had forgotten her presence. He put his head on one side. ‘I have Sir William’s will here. You may read it at your leisure.’
‘Can you just tell me what it says?’
He sat down and opened the leather case. ‘He left everything to you, including the estate in Essex and this property.’
‘I’ve never seen the country house, Mr Goldspink. My grandfather closed it up when my grandmother died, and as far as I know he never went there again.’
‘That’s true, but in the circumstances you may wish to sell the house, alt
hough there is a considerable income from the farms on the estate and I’d advise you to think carefully before disposing of any assets. There is also this property and what is left of Sir William’s fortune, which is sadly depleted. Your grandfather made some ill-judged investments and he donated generously to various charities.’ He produced the will and laid it on the desk in front of her.
‘I see,’ Lucy said slowly. ‘So I’m a comparatively rich woman.’
His lips moved soundlessly for a moment, as if he was working himself up to burst into song. ‘You would be, but I’m sorry to say that a certain person has come forward to challenge the will.’
‘Would that be Mr Daubenay by any chance?’ A cold shiver ran down her spine. She had seen very little of Linus over the past few years, and then only fleetingly at social occasions where their paths happened to cross, or when he had paid his annual visit to Albemarle Street on Sir William’s birthday. Linus was not one to give up easily, especially where money was concerned.
Mr Goldspink bobbed his head several times: an annoying habit that grated even more than usual on Lucy’s already stretched nerves. ‘Yes, I’m sorry to say it is he.’
‘But surely Grandfather’s will made it clear that he wanted me to inherit?’
‘There’s no easy way to put this, Miss Marriott. Mr Daubenay’s solicitor has put forward the case that your parents were unmarried and you are not the legitimate heir.’
‘But that’s not true, Mr Goldspink.’
‘Mr Daubenay has a certified copy of your parents’ marriage certificate, Miss Marriott. Unfortunately it proves that your parents were not legally wed until after you were born. I’m afraid that does make things rather difficult when it comes to inheritance.’
‘You mean that I’m a bastard.’
Mr Goldspink’s round cheeks flushed scarlet. ‘I’d hesitate to call it that in front of a lady, but legally he has a case, and he’s determined to follow it through.’
‘Will I have anything, Mr Goldspink?’
‘The court of chancery can take years and costs a great deal of money. I cite the case of Mr William Jennens, sometimes referred to as the miser of Acton, whose will was found in his pocket unsigned when he died suddenly in 1798. His feuding relatives went to court, and the case is still unresolved, which should be a lesson to us all. With your permission I would like to approach Mr Daubenay to see if we can come to a mutually acceptable agreement.’
Dazed by this wordy explanation, Lucy knew she must take his advice. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘That Mr Daubenay should have the country estate together with this property, leaving you with the house in Whitechapel.’
Lucy stared at him, mystified. ‘I don’t know of any house in Whitechapel.’
‘It belonged to your late grandmother and was leased to a merchant who only recently went bankrupt. Unfortunately the house in Leman Street has been badly neglected, but I’ve inspected it and there is nothing that is beyond repair. However, it is situated in what I would call an insalubrious area.’
‘I see.’ Lucy stared at her hands tightly clasped on the tooled-leather surface of the desk. ‘I spent my early years in the East End and the thought of returning there doesn’t scare me, but how do I stand financially, Mr Goldspink?’
‘We won’t know until matters are settled.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I did warn Sir William that he ought to be more prudent, but he chose to ignore my advice. I’ll do what I can, Miss Marriott. You’ll be hearing from me again in the very near future.’
Lucy stood up. ‘What should I do in the meantime?’
‘Continue as you are. There are sufficient funds to pay the servants up to the end of the quarter, although you will have to be careful with your expenditure.’
‘I’m not an extravagant person, Mr Goldspink.’
‘I’m sure you’ll manage very well.’ He picked up his document case. ‘Good day, Miss Marriott. I’ll see myself out.’
Lucy sat for a long time after he had left, wondering what to do for the best. She had grown used to a life of leisure with servants at her beck and call, although she had refused to have a lady’s maid, preferring to look after herself. She had been educated in all things required of a young woman who was destined to marry well, but none of this would help her to earn her own living. She had come from nothing, but to return to a life of poverty would not be easy. And then there was Piers. She conjured up a vision of his suavely handsome face, dark and brooding but saved from being saturnine by the twinkle in his velvet-brown eyes. Piers Northam had been her grandfather’s choice, and at first Lucy had resisted angrily. She was not going to allow anyone to rush her into a marriage of convenience, but somehow Piers had won her over. His undeniable charm, good looks and elegant manners had overcome her prejudice, and they were all but engaged. The announcement would have been made today, on her twenty-first birthday, but Sir William’s sudden decline and demise had made it necessary to cancel the planned celebrations.
Lucy stood up and walked over to the window, gazing abstractedly at the street below. She saw Mr Goldspink scurrying towards Piccadilly, waving frantically to attract the attention of a cabby. Even from above he presented a comic figure, but the news he had just broken was anything but funny. She would have liked to have time to think things over but a brougham, drawn by a pair of bays, pulled up at the kerb. Lucy watched with mixed feelings as Piers alighted, followed by his sister Theodora. She wondered how he would react when he learned that his future wife had almost nothing to bring to the marriage. There was only one way to find out. She went downstairs to greet them, saving Bedwin the painful process of negotiating the stairs for a second time that morning.
Theodora spotted her first. ‘Lucy, darling, how well you look, you poor thing. You’ve had such a dreary time recently.’
‘Dora,’ Piers said sharply. ‘Lucy is in mourning for her grandfather.’
Lucy was suddenly conscious of the severity of her black silk gown and a glimpse of her reflection in one of the tall, gilt-framed mirrors was enough to convince her that she was not looking her best. She had confined her hair in a chignon at the back of her head, but tendrils had escaped and were curling wildly around her face in a frivolous manner quite unsuited to deep mourning. Her normally pink cheeks were pale and there were faint bruise-like smudges underlining her eyes. She managed a smile. ‘It’s lovely to see you both.’ She turned to Bedwin, who was standing very still, clutching Piers’s top hat and cane with a puzzled expression on his lined features, as if he had forgotten why he had taken them. ‘Tea and cake in the drawing room, please, Bedwin.’ She turned to Piers. ‘Or would you prefer Madeira or a glass of sherry?’
‘Tea will suit me very well.’ He proffered his arm. ‘How are you keeping, my dear? It’s been a trying time for you.’
Dora danced on ahead of them. ‘It’s such a pity that your party was cancelled, Lucy. Anyway, we came to wish you well on your birthday, and Piers has a present for you.’
‘Have you, Piers?’ Lucy allowed him to take her arm as they followed Theodora up the sweeping staircase. ‘A present for me? I’d almost forgotten that it was my birthday.’
‘It was going to be a surprise, but my wretched little sister has spoiled the moment,’ Piers said with an indulgent smile.
Dora reached the landing and leaned over the balustrade, pulling a face at her brother. ‘Someone has to cheer poor Lucy up, and it might as well be me, since you’re determined to be a grouch.’ She tossed her head and strutted off towards the drawing room with Lucy and Piers not far behind.
Lucy slipped into the role of hostess, which had been drummed into her by Miss Wantage, who had believed firmly that good manners were of the utmost importance, followed by excellent deportment and the ability to maintain a ladylike appearance even in the direst of circumstances. ‘Do sit down,’ Lucy said, perching on the edge of a sofa upholstered in pale green watered silk. She had only been allowed in the drawing room on Sundays when she was younger, and t
hen she had to sit on one of the less valuable antiques.
Dora sank down on a chair by the fire, sending a meaningful glance at her brother. ‘Go on, Piers. What are you waiting for?’
‘Will you please stop nagging me, Dora? You drive a fellow mad.’ Piers sat beside Lucy, taking her hand in his. ‘I was going to do this at the party, my darling, and I certainly didn’t want to propose to you in front of my wretched sister, but she insisted on accompanying me today.’
Lucy’s heart missed a beat, leaving her breathless. This was not the most romantic setting for a proposal, especially with Dora sitting on the edge of her seat with her hands clasped and a look of expectation on her face. But she had to stop Piers before it was too late. ‘Not now, Piers. There’s something I must tell you.’
His startled expression might have been amusing at any other time, but it was followed by an impatient frown. ‘Can’t it wait, Lucy? I think you know what I was about to say.’
‘It’s only fair to tell you that I’m about to lose everything, Piers. My grandfather’s solicitor left just before you arrived, and the news he gave me was not good.’
Dora clapped her mittened hands to her mouth. ‘Oh dear!’
‘Precisely,’ Lucy said grimly. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, but my grandfather’s finances were shaky when he passed away.’
‘But he must have left you something, darling.’ Piers held her hands, his expression neutral.
‘He left me this house, together with the estate in Essex.’
A smile softened Piers’s handsome features, and he raised her hand to his lips. ‘But that still leaves you a wealthy woman. This house must be worth a small fortune.’
‘I agree, but my father’s cousin, Linus Daubenay is contesting the will.’
Piers frowned, releasing her hand. ‘On what grounds, may I ask?’
‘Yes, do tell,’ Dora said eagerly. ‘It sounds like the plot of a penny dreadful, not that I read such rubbish.’