St. James settled a little deeper into his chair, and his gold eyes moved to over one shoulder of Bickerstaff. “If Andrew were to die prematurely and his mother were to live, would not everything be returned to her?” he pondered. “Why, indeed, would they be stripped from her to begin with on the event of my marriage?”
Bickerstaff shrugged. “It is all rather odd, milord. But there is no mention in the will of Lady Lydia receiving anything upon her son's demise, if it were to happen. As I read, all of the inheritance that would go to your cousin Andrew is to instead remain in your hands and your future descendents' hands. Including, and I do not know if it were made clear here, but believe me, upon reviewing the will in entirety it is clear, are several major holdings, assets, properties and accounts that were brought to the marriage by Lady Lydia.”
St. James eyes snapped back to the Barrister at this pronouncement and his eyebrows made a deep furrow in his forehead. “That is preposterous. Archaic. It is still law that a woman's holdings become those of her husband's, but it is normally practiced that such holdings are held independent from the husband's, and are returned to the wife if the husband precedes her in death, am I correct on this? Regardless even of a male heir?”
“That is the standard practice, milord, but, as you can see in this case, still entirely dependent upon the discretion of the husband involved.”
“Interesting,” St. James reflected. “Tell me, was my uncle's will always set up in such a manner, or had it been changed, perhaps shortly before his death?”
Bickerstaff shook his head. “I wouldn't know that, milord. All we have is the most recent copy, which,” and he flipped through many pages until he reached the end of the will, “by-the-by! Is dated just two months before he died!!”
St. James raised a brow. “I wonder what the one prior to this one read. Very well, Bickerstaff. To recap: if I marry, I will have the added responsibility of overseeing my cousin's inheritance in its entirety until he himself marries?”
“Yes, milord. And I do not mean to be in poor taste but if something were to happen to your cousin, well, you can see that it would benefit you.”
“My uncle must have had a great deal of faith in my integrity,” St. James mused.
“Well, milord,” Bickerstaff interrupted, shuffling that pile of papers to the side and replacing it with another pile, “which brings us back to your own will. As you can see, I need to know what provisions I should put in here concerning your cousin if you should die and he is not yet married. Do you not think it would be more prudent to hand control back over to his mother until his marriage? Surely you do not wish to burden your new wife with this responsibility in addition to all that she will shoulder as it is? In fact, I would heartily recommend that you place some trustworthy male in charge of everything, and simply give her life's use of your homes, unless of course she marries again, and a monthly allowance. It is how it is done, you know.”
“Normally, yes.” St. James hesitated for just the briefest of seconds, then said, “But I wish it to be as I had written in my letter. Miss Murdock will have sole control and ownership of my estates, to be dealt with as she sees fit in the event that I have no heir, and to act as custodian over them, if I do have an heir, until such time that she feels he is capable of taking over that responsibility.”
“Milord,” Bickerstaff gasped, making his thin chest rise and fall in alarm, “you realize what you are saying? Why she could squander every penny you own! And God only knows, if there is anything to pass on when she dies, whom she will leave it to.”
St. James gave an infuriating grin. “Well, I shall not care at any rate, as I shall be dead. But there, Bickerstaff, I do not mean to send you into an apoplexy. Look at it this way. Perhaps you will be able to woo her and wed her yourself, and then you may keep a tight rein on all that I own for yourself instead of for an unappreciative bugger like me.”
Bickerstaff could not quite see the humor in his client's words. He drew himself up with indignation in his seat. “I did business with your father for nearly twenty years before his death, and I have done business for all these years since his death with you, milord. If you do not know my character by now, then I can only say that I am a great deal affronted.”
“Then you must accept my apologies,” St. James said. “For I in no way wish to call into question your principles or your honor.”
“Thank you, milord,” Bickerstaff said with great dignity. “That means a great deal to me.”
“And it means a great deal to me to not be forced to meet you at dawn when you called me out for besmirching your name,” St. James added, deflating his solicitor's dignity.
That man said, “Well, uh, yes. Quite, milord,” and his old hand shook for a second as he fussed with the papers in front of him. Then with a defiant look from his old eyes, he said, “You are very lucky, indeed, that I have such a forgiving nature.”
“Indeed,” St. James agreed, “for then it would be known that I am a coward when I was forced to flee the country rather than meet my nemeses and possibly die. I do thank you, Bickerstaff.”
“Bah,” the old man said. “You are as insolent as you were when you visited my office still on your father's knee. Now if you are through badgering an old and, I might add, busy man, you may leave this in my hands. But about your cousin's inheritance, milord. . . ?”
“That, as I had no prior knowledge upon it, I shall have to think about. I will stop around tomorrow or the following day to let you know. Is it possible for you to continue with the rest as I have indicated?”
“Yes. Reluctantly, but yes,” Bickerstaff agreed.
“Good. And there is one other small matter. I should like to set up an allowance for Squire Edward Murdock of Chestershire. A hundred pounds a month I should think. This will go toward procureing him a proper staff for his house, the maintenance of his household, and add any sum that is needed in order to procure immediate repairs on his home. Should this cover everything adequately and yet give him a respectable sum in order for him to keep himself entertained?”
“I should say so, milord,” Bickerstaff said as he jotted down these notes.
“These arrangements are to start immediately. If you write it up quickly just as I said, I will sign it now.”
“Yes, milord. That will get us started. Of course, I shall have to draw up something more legal for you to sign on your return, including event of your death, or if, as I take it you have not yet had that happy occasion you anticipated having last night with Miss Murdock, there is some reason why this marriage does not come off, the cancellation of this allowance.”
“There will be no cancellation, Barrister. It is as I have said until the date of his death. In fact, you can add that if for some reason I do not marry Miss Murdock, which I find extremely unlikely that I do not, but in that event, the allowance will be transferred to her until her death.”
“What if she marries another, milord?” Bickerstaff persisted, pausing in his writing.
“It does not matter, man,” St. James replied in impatience. “She is to get the money with no exclusions. Really, Charles, you act as though the money were coming out of your pocket instead of my own. Which, by-the-by, reminds me. You will be receiving bills from dressmakers and the such in her name. You are to pay them, and anything else that is billed in her name. Oh, and a bill for a new coat, I imagine, will be coming in from Lord Tempton. Pay it also, please.”
“Anything else, milord?” Bickerstaff sighed.
“No. I think that should cover it. For now. Unless you have any further questions, I will leave now and be around in a day or two.”
“Sign here, milord,” Bickerstaff advised, finishing his writing for the Squire's pension with a flourish. St. James scrawled his signature.
“Very well,” he said. “Good day, Barrister.”
“Good day, milord,” Bickerstaff said, and then muttered to himself as the door closed behind the duke and he glanced over the two pages of notes he had taken
in the past hour, “I pray you know what you are doing. Ten to one all this work will be for nothing for you will come in tomorrow and reverse everything.” He glanced at the words he had written with a large question mark after them. “Very odd, though, about his uncle's will.”
St. James came out onto the street, tipped the lad who had held his horse an extra hapenny, and mounted the skittish stallion. Then glancing down at the boy who had held his horse, he said, “I'll give you a crown, lad, if you run a message for me.”
“Aye, gov'ner,” the boy said. “I'll run me legs off for a crown. Clear across London if you wish.”
“No,” the duke smiled, “t'is not that far. Can you read an address if I jot it down?”
“Aye, and I know's me way all right. Gov'ner,” he added as a quick after thought and tugged at his hair in respect.
“Good,” St. James said and pulled a small pad of paper from one of his many pockets and a small lead pencil. On it he wrote: Tyler, will be at Barrister Collins' office on Bedford street. By the by, have the kitchens give this boy something to eat, and as I can see we are going to be sending a lot of messages, see if he would like a permanent post as my messenger boy, assuming of course, that you receive this in good order. St. J.
He folded the paper, printed the address on the back of it so that the boy could read it easily. “Read it back to me, lad, so I know that you understand,” he said, handing the note to the boy.
“Aye, gov'ner.” He squinted but his reading was clear if somewhat slow. “15 Heffington Drive, home of the Dowager Duchess of St. James. The stables. Groom Tyler, man of Duke of St. James.” The boy looked up at the end of this and said, “Are you him, m'lord? The Duke, I mean?”
“Aye,” St. James said in somber reply, mimicking the boy's oft said response. “T'is I.”
“Coo, m'lord,” the boy said, tugging at his bangs. “Coo. I'll run quick, I will. For me mother says you're an evil one you are, and that you'll come for me in the night if I don't do as she says!”
“Be off with you then, lad,” St. James said with a laugh. “And here, do not forget your crown!”
The boy bobbed again. “Thank you, m'lord. You may think of t'as already there, m'lord.” With that he was off, darting across the street and causing St. James a moment of true terror as he dove between oncoming wagons, causing several drivers to curse at the imp running loose amongst them and startling their horses. Then he was across the street, and as he was headed in the right direction, St. James shook his head as he watched the slight, dirty figure
disappear, and then turned his horse toward Bedford street.
Chapter Eleven
By tea time, Miss Murdock was feeling composed, if just a little flattened by the depressing strength of her now sorted out convictions. She was preoccupied as she entered the salon, finding the Duchess, Lady Lydia, and Andrew already in presence, by the problem of how to, in fact, beg audience with St. James in order to put forth her carefully thought out arguments.
“Miss Murdock,” Andrew said, rising upon her arrival. He came forward, took her hand in his own and bowed over it. “I am so very glad to see you feeling better.”
“What is this?” the Dowager asked as Miss Murdock thanked Earl Larrimer and agreed that she was, indeed, feeling better. “Have you not been well, Miss Murdock?”
“I had the headache earlier, but I am feeling much better now, thank you,” Miss Murdock answered the old lady with as much brightness as she could muster. “It was really a small thing and a quiet time in my room was all that I needed. And I must confess, I dozed, for I was still frightfully tired.” She paused there, wanting to ask if the old Dowager knew when St. James was expected to be seen again, but hesitating as she was certain that the request would be construed in the wrong way.
Lady Lydia, however, interrupted the brief silent spot by saying as she put aside her petit point and Ashton brought in the tea tray, “Well, Miss Murdock, I must say that you certainly look much more presentable than this morning. I am afraid, however,” she said in her prim, disapproving manner, “that my mother-in-law has chosen less wisely than I should have, for those red and white stripes merely intensify how very unfashionably dark you are.”
“Do you think so?” the Dowager asked. “We have been hugely successful then. Thank you so much, Lydia.”
Lydia, frowning in confusion at the obvious satisfaction the old Dowager had gotten from her remark, went on to observe, “I do hope that Lady Lenora has something in mind for your hair. That bun is much too provincial. Really, Miss Murdock,” she went on without pause, “after reflection, I have come to the conclusion that since St. James has not developed any sort of attachment for you, then his motivation must have been for you to come to London in the hopes that some lesser person would find you attractive. It would only be prudent for you to make the best of what little you have to offer.”
As Miss Murdock's cheeks burned at these remarks, Andrew turned on his mother and exclaimed, “Mother! That is the most indiscreet, unkind thing to say, and quite inaccurate. I assure you, Miss Murdock is extremely attractive in her way, and I see no reason why you would want to make her feel as though she will go begging for a suitor.” And he glared at Lady Lydia from his pale blue eyes.
“Well!” Lady Lydia said. “I am certain I did not mean to give that impression at all! And I must say that I had not realized fashion had changed so much from when I was a girl.” She patted her gray streaked blonde hair and settled her admirable figure into a better posture upon the settee. “Come sit with me, Miss Murdock, and we shall see, at least, if you are capable of pouring the tea in the proper manner.” She twitched her crinolined skirts into a somewhat smaller pool about her to enable Miss Murdock room to sit.
Miss Murdock glanced at the Dowager, as it was, in fact, her place to designate who would pour the tea, but she merely nodded to her and said, “That will be fine, Miss Murdock.”
So Miss Murdock seated herself with her normal serenity beside Lady Lydia, who, she thought with small satisfaction, at least could not say that she was graceless as well as unattractive, and went through the rather fussy, ceremonial procedure without flaw and unruffled.
“Well!” Lady Lydia said, sounding surprised, as the cups and plates were handed out and everyone settled back to sip, nibble and converse. Andrew took the chair to one side of his grandmother's large, regal, wing-backed one as his mother continued, “At least you can not be faulted on your tea-pouring skills.”
“Yes, thank you,” Miss Murdock replied. Some imp inside of her made her add, “But I do have the deplorable habit of getting sooty when I am cooking at the stove.” To which Lady Lydia choked on her tea.
“Well done,” Andrew encouraged.
Lady Lydia said, “Most improper, Miss Murdock!”
“But I think starving would be much more improper, would it not, Lady Lydia?” Miss Murdock replied with wide-eyed surprise.
“Indeed, it would, child,” the Dowager agreed, much to Lady Lydia's disgust. “For one could not hold the teacup properly if emaciated to such a degree of weakness.”
“And that is another thing,” Lady Lydia broke in, seeing an opportunity and seizing it. “I have noticed, Miss Murdock, that your arms are a little. . . less soft than is desirable. You must make an active effort to not be lifting anything of consequence for no husband will want a wife that does not appear to be properly helpless and weak.”
“Nonsense, mother!” Andrew broke in, his eyes twinkling. “However shall she ride to hounds if she is not able to properly control her mount?”
“Ride to hounds?!” his mother asked in a scandalized voice. “Oh, no, Miss Murdock,” she turned on that young visitor, her voice pleading as though she thought Miss Murdock's very soul were in danger. “I know that there are a few, very few, women of the peerage that partake in that activity, but I must tell you, they are in danger of doing their reputations irreparable harm! It is quite unseemly, and I dare say that none of them partook in such an
activity before they were married, and had their husbands been aware of it before they were married—well, my dear! I shouldn't even need to tell you that they would not have made the match they made.”
“Indeed, I do not ride to hounds, Lady Lydia,” Miss Murdock told her with perfect honesty. “And it was unkind of Andrew—Earl Larrimer to say such a thing,” and she shot that laughing young man a rebuking look. “No, I am much more happy to ride on the track than to chase some poor fox around.”
“Ride on the track?” Lady Lydia pronounced in utter disbelief. “You can not mean to tell me that you race?!”
“Oh, no, ma'am!” Miss Murdock hastened to say. “Even I am aware that is beyond the recall. No, no. I merely train.”
“Merely. . . train,” Lady Lydia said, her outrage so complete that she was nearly in shock with it. “Oh, my, what ever shall we do with her?” she moaned to her mother-in-law.
“Do?” Lady Lenora asked, nibbling at a cake. “Why should we do anything? The girl is quite all right, I say. Better than these nambypamby's that go about nowadays, fluttering and swooning. In my day, a man wanted a woman with some backbone to her, not a near invalid afraid to even go out in the sun.”
“Oh, my. Oh, my,” Lady Lydia moaned. “It is all going to be quite hopeless. Quite hopeless.”
“Oh, fear not, mother,” Andrew told her. “I for one think she will be smashingly popular this season. I dare say every other man my age is dreadfully bored with the women that are pranced before us with each year's coming out. Dull as ditchwater, all of them, with more hair than wit. Why, when I stand up with one to dance, I am always left to feel as though I am dancing with someone who does not even speak my language, so difficult it is to converse with them. At least with Miss Murdock, I can say what I please without fear of sending her into a faint. Well,” he amended, “almost anything.”
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