A Divided Inheritance (9 page)

‘No. That can’t be right. He must have got the wrong lad—’

Elspet was on her feet without thinking. She threw open the door so that it banged against the wall. Both maids jumped, their eyes wide with shock.

‘Have you finished clearing the table?’ she asked.

They nodded dumbly in unison.

‘Then stop your gossiping out here and return those plates to the kitchen.’

‘Yes, mistress,’ they bleated in chorus, and dived below stairs.

Elspet’s heart was thudding behind her wooden stomacher. Heaven forbid Father had heard any of their scurrilous nonsense. To conjecture, well, that was natural. But to spread malicious
gossip, that was quite another matter. She would not brook servant chatter about the family, not even about Zachary, whatever her own personal thoughts on him were.

She pulled the front door open and called impatiently from the threshold, ‘Pardon me, Father, but I think you will do him no good standing out there. Why don’t you come inside? If
something has happened, someone will surely come to tell us of it.’

‘They may not know where he lodges,’ he protested.

‘But I fear for you; your chest is still weak after your fever. Far better to wait indoors than stand out there in the cold.’

‘I thought he would be back.’ His face was crestfallen, like a small boy.

‘Where did you last see him?’

‘At the Dog and Bucket. He was going to the fencing master.’

‘Then let us send the stable lad to Hanging Sword Alley to see if he can discover where he is.’

‘Do not fuss. But perhaps you’re right. I’ll send a lad out.’

But the stable lad could find no news, and it was the early hours of the morning before Zachary returned. A rapping at the door made Elspet sit up sharp in bed, confused with
sleep. She listened and caught the sound of something clattering. Then curses and the noise of metal scraping on the wall.

She reached for her shawl, grabbed the night lantern and stumbled out on to the gallery. She peered down the stairwell into the shadowy hall. A servant had obviously opened up, despite her
father’s express command that after night curfew the house be barred to entry.

Zachary was slumped against the wall, still wearing his sword and, by the look of it, blind drunk. A flickering candle sconce cast a yellow glow over his crumpled form. He sported a black eye, a
bloody ear and a deep gash to his forehead. His hair was wet and matted to his scalp.

Father must have lain awake all night, for he had been far quicker than her to the hall, and he was still in his nightgown, his face gaunt as Death himself. The manservant and her father
struggled to haul Zachary to his feet, but he resisted them.

She ran down the stairs, but Father waved her away.

‘Go back to bed, Elspet. We can manage.’

‘Shall I—’

He hunched his body over Zachary and shouted urgently over his shoulder, ‘Back to bed, I say!’ He was trying to shield her from the sight of her cousin. It struck her that he was
ashamed. He did not want her to see Zachary like this. ‘Back to bed!’

It was an order, and she obeyed. She watched from behind her chamber door on the upper gallery as they hauled Zachary by the armpits, half stumbling, his boots dragging on the floor, round the
steps to the lower nursery. She was horrified. Father was a penny fool if he intended to put his business in the hands of such a gin-soak. And what if the servants were right? She hardly dared
contemplate what that would mean.

The soles of Zachary’s boots disappeared round the corner and there was a whump as they threw him on to the bed. A shout of protestation, and Father’s voice urging, ‘Lie
down.’

‘The bastards jumped me,’ came Zachary’s voice, slurred and hoarse. ‘It wasn’t a fair fight.’

A few minutes later Father stepped back into the hall, grey-faced and grim, and ascended the stairs to his chamber. He would not catch her eye. Instead he grasped her door handle, and banged the
door closed so hard it was enough to make the lock rattle. She was shut out again. Father clearly thought this was no business of hers.

Elspet could not fathom it. Even after the drama of the night before, Zachary and Father continued with their usual routine of early repast, Mass at Mr Bainbridge’s
house, and then a day at Father’s warehouses and office. Of course she was obliged to wait at home. Apparently Bainbridge thought women in their midst would draw attention to their illegal
comings and goings. But privately she thought it was probably because they did business together afterwards. She pushed away the resentment as she watched them return together at night from her
upstairs window.

Her father was talking animatedly, looking more vibrant than she had seen him in many months, hanging on Zachary’s words. And when Father replied, Zachary cocked his head to one side,
listening, his face all bruised like a prize-fighter. To her chagrin, any disagreement between Zachary and her father had obviously been mended.

The servants whispered to each other as Zachary went by, and cast sidelong looks at each other. She frowned at them, of course, but said nothing. It was hurtful that Father had not taken her
into his confidence about her cousin’s injuries.

Their routine persisted all that week, but Father no longer brought her the books from the business, or asked her advice. She missed going up into town. Things were happening behind closed doors
that she was no longer privy to, and she became consumed with curiosity to know what passed between her father and her cousin.

In the long evenings, whilst the men hid out in her Father’s chamber, she sat before the spitting fire in the kitchen, with Goody Turner and the dogs for company, needle in hand. She was
attempting to adapt one of Mother’s rose-coloured silk suits into a tolerably fashionable style. It was difficult enough to persuade Father to pay attention to the household expenses, let
alone pay any mind to how she was dressed. For a lace importer he had scant idea of how lace should look ruffled around a sleeve, or as a trim on a boned bodice. To him it was just so many yards of
profit.

Earlier in the week she had asked him, ‘Might I have a few pounds to buy stuff for a new gown, Father? Summer is coming and I’m still in last year’s winter wool.’

‘Your apparel seems fine to me, Elspet. But are you going someplace where you will have need of it?’

‘No, Father. It’s just that Mr Bradstone—’

‘I’m sure Bradstone would prefer a sensible wife – one who does not fritter away his hard-earned coin – to a wind-brained woman in the latest gown. You are already a
handsome-looking girl without needing any assistance from the draper.’

So that was that. But it preyed on her mind. The house looked down-at-heel, and it injured her sense of pride. It was not even that she wanted Mr Bradstone to like her – indeed, she rather
hoped he would not; the last thing she wanted was to be married to some boorish northern fur-farmer. But she would like to look as though she was worth marrying, at least, and not be subjected to
his humiliating scorn.

So now she sat painstakingly unpicking and re-seaming the stiff silk sleeves, feeling the cool material slide through her fingers as she sewed. Diver sat on her lap, with his tousled head in the
way as usual, but she had not the heart to move him.

Her enforced solitude gave her plenty of time to think. She pondered over the gossip about Zachary. It couldn’t be true, could it? Did not Father say he and his sister had been estranged?
Perhaps that was a good reason why they had led such separate lives, that she had fallen into some unspeakable low-life. But no, it was too ridiculous. No relation of her straight-laced father
could be involved in any criminal profession; she refused to believe it.

Martha laced her into the rose-coloured bodice and tucked in the ends. ‘You look beautiful, mistress,’ she said, ‘like a flower in a garden.’

‘Thank you, Martha. I’m glad you did not say which flower. Loosestrife, probably; they’re the ones sticking up above all the rest.’

‘No, mistress. A rose. The pink suits you. Just your hair to dress now.’

‘You flatter me. Anyway, no need to spend too long with my hair. Father seems to think Mr Bradstone is a pious recusant who doesn’t want a wife interested in gowns and so
forth.’ She sighed. ‘And anyway, he’s from out of town, where they’ll have no idea of fashion.’

‘Hmm.’ Martha’s grunt was disapproving.

She swivelled round. ‘Oh Martha, don’t tell, but I’m not sure I even want to meet a dull furrier from some out-of-the-way town I’ve never heard of. He’ll probably
smell of old pelts and the tannery.’

‘Let me just pin the lace cap in place, at least. You’d best look respectable.’

She fidgeted as Martha pushed her head back round, then pulled and pinched at the back of her hair.

‘Done,’ Martha said. And it was just in time, for the big bell was ringing and she heard the manservant answer the door. Her father’s falsely genial voice followed, then
Zachary’s slightly nasal tones.

She raised her eyebrows at Martha, who said, ‘Best get on down.’

‘I suppose I have to?’

‘Can’t say, mistress, but Mr Leviston, well, he don’t like to be kept waiting.’

Elspet sighed and tied her shawl tightly around her shoulders. It was not yet summer, and there was a draught blowing in from the bluster outside. She would certainly have need of a wrap in
their hall – Father had asked for the fire to be lit only an hour ago, as usual, despite their guest.

As she descended the stairs with Martha behind her, men’s laughter drifted up. She pushed at the door and Father turned in greeting. But her eyes were fixed on the other two men. Zachary
was dressed in a showy crimson doublet with gold-coloured slashing, surely new. She wished she did not know every item in his trunk. He was pointing out something in the yard to the green-clad
stranger, who had his back to them. Her first thought was, ‘Praise the Lord, but he’s tall.’ He towered over Zachary, and had to stoop to follow the line of the smaller
man’s arm.

‘Mr Bradstone, this is my daughter Elspet.’

Mr Bradstone turned around and smiled. She let her knees bend and heard the rustle of Martha’s skirts as she dipped behind her. Blood rushed to her face. It was as if she was all at once
on fire. For he was surely the finest-looking man she had ever seen. And fashionable. She felt instantly the faded shabbiness of the room, and of her home-sewn gown.

‘At last. Your father has told me so much about you.’ Mr Bradstone smiled and bowed elegantly, removing his feather-trimmed hat and showing a crop of glossy brown hair.

‘Has he?’ she stammered, staring up at him like a fool. He was much taller than she.

Why had not Father told her? But of course, he would not notice. He’d said he was fine-looking, but Hugh Bradstone was not just attractive, he was impossibly handsome. She felt caught,
like a goose in a pen, with all the men staring at her discomfiture. She managed to stumble out a greeting and a curtsey.

‘So it’s finished, is it, Cousin Elspet?’ Zachary said, nodding at the gown.

‘Yes,’ she said, with embarrassment, wishing her cousin would not draw attention to it.

‘Well, it took long enough. But it is a fetching colour on you,’ he said. His tone made her feel as if it certainly was not.

‘Thank you, cousin.’ She twisted her hands together, unable to move, for now everyone was appraising her gown. She hoped to goodness the unpicking marks did not show.

‘Elspet always fills a gown well,’ said Father. ‘She has fashioned the gown herself from an old one of my wife’s.’

She cringed inwardly. Oh Father, she thought, for heaven’s sake do not tell him it is a second-hand gown; what will he think of us? As it was, she was sure Mr Bradstone already thought
them quite behind the times with their chilly chambers and lack of wall-hangings. And she was surely not pretty enough for a man such as he. She could think of nothing to say; she was shrinking
with shame.

‘A seamstress, then? It is very well done,’ Hugh Bradstone said politely to break the silence.

She was of course well aware that he had no option but to say this. Zachary sat down in his chair, looking amused, as if they were putting on a show just for his entertainment. She cast him a
cold look.

Mr Bradstone, however, continued, ‘And is the trim Leviston’s lace?’

Father nodded, and puffed out his chest. ‘Finest anywhere, that. Elspet, come here so Mr Bradstone can see.’

Obediently she approached Mr Bradstone and held out her sleeve.

‘May I?’ He lifted her arm and turned it this way and that. She was aware he must be looking down on the top of her head and the hastily pinned cap. ‘Very fine,’ he said,
and caught her eye. To her surprise, the look contained a twinkle of amusement and plainly said, ‘We must be indulgent to your father.’ When she withdrew her arm the heat of his fingers
still lingered on her skin.

The talk turned to ships and colonies and where the imported fur originated. The men seemed to have forgotten she was there. She fanned herself with the lace ends of her cap to cool her face. It
seemed hours until they all sat down.