A Stockingful of Joy (12 page)

She continued eastward into the old City of London, the financial and merchant district, until a glance at the gray sky showed that it was time to turn back. Though Emma did not worry overmuch about her safety during her walks, she knew better than to risk getting caught on the streets after dark.

On impulse she decided to visit the church on the corner. Like most of the parish churches in the City, it was suffering as residents moved farther from London's center. Still, the church was handsome, and it would be a welcome respite from the cold wind.

Inside, she sat for a few minutes and gave a prayer for her parents. They had died of a fever when Emma was at school in Bath. That terrible shock had been followed by another when she returned home to find that after the debts were paid, there would be no money left. Her amiable father had inherited a modest independence, and spent every penny of it, along with his wife's marriage portion. There would be no income or dowry for his daughter.

The day after Emma's parents had been buried, a letter came from the Dowager Duchess of Warrington. In crisp, formal words, she offered the orphan a home at Harley. Even at fifteen, Emma had known what that meant—a lifetime as a poor relation, entitled to room and board in return for performing menial services for the duchess and other members of the household.

If she'd been pretty, she might have accepted. Many people came to Harley, and there might have been a man willing to marry an attractive girl with no dowry.

But Emma was tall and robust and unremarkable, with dark hair and freckles and eyes of shifting color that never stayed the same long enough to be called gray or green or hazel. If she'd gone to Harley, she would have spent the rest of her life—decades, probably—as an unpaid servant. Inevitably she would be known as Poor Emma. That is, if she were noticed at all.

Luckily there had been another choice. The headmistress of Emma's school offered to let her stay and complete her education in return for helping with the younger students. Within two years, Emma had been a full-fledged teacher.

She quite enjoyed teaching, so when the headmistress retired and sold the school, Emma had become a governess. Usually governesses were older, but it was one profession where plainness was an asset. She'd spent several years with the family of a prosperous doctor. When the daughters no longer needed her, she'd taken her current position with the Garfields.

The Garfields. Emma sighed at the thought as she got to her feet and began to stroll around the church. There was much carved wood, and several fine funeral brasses.

She was almost ready to leave when she discovered a coffin lying in a side chapel. The pine box looked very stark, with no mourners or flowers or even any candles lit. Tucked in the corner where the rail met the wall was a book open to show blank pages. Curiously she looked closer, and saw a note asking those who prayed for the deceased to leave their name and address.

A harried curate emerged from the vestry and walked down the aisle past her. Hesitantly, Emma said, "Excuse me, sir. Who was this man?"

The clergyman paused. "Though Harold Greaves was a resident of this parish, he never came to services, so I know very little about him. He was sixty-six years old. Died of an apoplexy, I believe. He'll be buried tomorrow."

"He had no family?"

"Apparently not." With a nod the curate continued on his way.

Emma stared at the empty condolence book. It seemed unbearably sad that a man should have lived sixty-six years and left no one to grieve.

For a moment she wondered who would mourn her death. Then, ashamed of the self-pity she'd been indulging in since receiving the invitation to Harley, she knelt beside the coffin and prayed for the soul of Harold Greaves. As she did, she imagined him as a small child. Since no infant survived without being fed and washed and tended, there must have been someone who cherished him then. In his sixty-six years, surely he had made some friends. She prayed that he had known his share of happiness and satisfaction, and that his death had been a swift and easy one.

Gradually, a sense of peace came over her. She hoped that meant Mr. Greaves was resting easy. A little stiff from the cold stone floor, she got to her feet. After a moment of struggle with her own selfish impulses, she laid her nosegay on the coffin. For her, there would be other flowers, but not for Harold Greaves. May his soul rest in peace.

Not wanting to leave the pages of the condolence book so desolately blank, she used the pencil lying in the middle to write her name and the address of the Garfields' house. After a moment's thought, she also printed out the words of the Twenty-third Psalm.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me
…

After she finished the psalm, she left the church, walking hastily, for it was almost dark. But the sense of peace stayed with her. It was true that she did not have the comfortable life with husband and family that she had grown up expecting, but she was alive and healthy and she'd never gone hungry.

Counting her blessings, she hurried home.

Five days after Emma received the invitation to Harley, a footman interrupted her French lesson with the two Garfield daughters. "The mistress wants you to come downstairs," he said slyly. "You have a caller."

"For me? How odd." Wondering who could possibly want to see her, Emma got to her feet. "Letty, Isabelle, work on your translations until I return."

Letty rolled her eyes elaborately while her younger sister giggled. The two girls were unrewarding students, interested only in clothing and endless speculations about the men they would someday marry. They were also idle and spoiled by their mother. Emma hoped that in time she would be able to inspire them with some respect for learning, but she wasn't optimistic.

"Maybe Miss Stone has a gentleman caller," Isabelle whispered.

Letty sniffed. "An old thing like her? Hardly."

Emma didn't know if she was supposed to hear the interchange or not, so she decided to ignore it. Still, her color was high when she went downstairs.

Mrs. Garfield was seated in the drawing room with a silver-haired gentleman on the chair opposite. As he got to his feet, she said with obvious disapproval, "Mr. Evans insists that he must speak with you privately about a most important matter." Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I'll have no goings on in my house, miss."

Mr. Evans said in a formidably well-bred voice, "I assure you, Mrs. Garfield, my business with Miss Stone is entirely professional." His tone was enough to rouse Mrs. Garfield and send her from the room. Then he turned to Emma.

"Sir, are we acquainted?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "If so, I'm afraid that I have forgotten the circumstances."

He smiled and looked much more approachable. "We are not acquainted, Miss Stone. I am a solicitor with news I think you will welcome. Please, do sit down. This will take some time."

Welcome news? As Emma settled on the sofa, she tried to think of any aged relations who might have left her a legacy, but without success. The rich Vaughns all had closer kin to leave their money to.

The solicitor resumed his seat. "First, are you the Emma Stone who five days ago left your name in the condolence book of Mr. Harold Greaves at the church of St. Pancras of the Field, in the City?"

Startled, she said, "Yes. I'm sorry, I meant no harm. Is there some family member who was offended by a stranger praying for Mr. Greaves?"

"Quite the contrary. Mr. Greaves was a widower. He and his wife had no children, and there are no other close kin." Mr. Evans paused, his eyes distant. "He and his wife were very close. After she died several years ago, Harold became something of a recluse. They were both good friends of mine as well as clients."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Emma said politely. She managed, barely, not to ask what this had to do with her.

"My friend left a most unusual last will and testament. He said that because he had no surviving family, anyone who freely prayed for his soul would receive 'the sum total of his worldly goods.' " The solicitor smiled. "You were the only one to sign the condolence book. Therefore, Miss Stone, you are the sole heir of Harold Greaves, merchant of London."

"Simply for spending a quarter of an hour in prayer?" Emma said incredulously.

"It was a quarter hour that no one else spent," Mr. Evans pointed out. "Harold always had a great appreciation for disinterested goodness. He would be happy to know that you prayed for no other reason than the simple caring of a good heart."

Emma held very still, trying to absorb the solicitor's announcement. Merely because she had chanced to wander into that small church, then spent a few minutes praying, she was now an heiress. She wondered how much Mr. Greaves had left. It would be a great blessing to have several hundred pounds as a cushion against unemployment or illness. Even fifty pounds would be very welcome.

Mr. Evans said jovially, "Aren't you going to ask how much you will inherit?"

Emma colored. "I'm curious, of course, but it seems rather vulgar to ask. Still, I assume that you would not be here unless there was some amount left after paying Mr. Greaves' funeral expenses."

"There is indeed." Mr. Evans paused portentously. "It's too soon to give an exact figure, but it is safe to say that your inheritance will be slightly in excess of one hundred thousand pounds."

Emma's jaw dropped. Sure she had not heard correctly, she repeated, "You said in excess of… of one hundred pounds?"

The solicitor chuckled. "You didn't mishear. The estate is a little more than one hundred thousand pounds. You are now a very wealthy young woman, Miss Stone."

There was a roaring in Emma's ears, and for a moment she thought she would faint. A hundred thousand pounds! The daughter of the richest banker in Britain had gone to her husband with a dowry of one hundred thousand pounds. It was a fortune worthy of a duke's daughter.

Could this be some kind of dreadful joke at her expense? Her gaze went to the solicitor's face. Sober, respectable, patently honest. Exactly the kind of solicitor that a rich merchant would have. She tried to clear her throat, but her voice still came out as a squeak. "Excuse me, sir. I… I'm having trouble taking this in."

"Naturally. Strokes of fortune such as this are life-changing." He cocked his head to one side. "Do you have any idea what you will do with your inheritance?"

The question focused Emma's churning thoughts. "I wish to tithe a tenth of the amount to charity. For the widows and children of our gallant soldiers who died fighting Napoleon, I think."

"Very proper," Mr. Evans said approvingly. "What else?"

Emma could travel to Italy and Greece and all those wonderful, exotic places that were no more than names on the map. Buy a house, or even an estate. Do a thousand things.

Did she want to do them alone? She realized with shock that she had just been given the chance to obtain the most powerful desire of her heart—a home and family of her own. She could once more have a place where she belonged.

Struggling to control her excitement, Emma said, "I'm going to get myself a husband, Mr. Evans. The best husband money can buy."

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The solicitor blinked at Emma's bald announcement. Then he gave an unprofessional grin. "You're a very direct young lady, Miss Stone. What sort of husband would that be?"

"I'm not that young, Mr. Evans, but I am practical and not at all romantic." At least, not in the last ten years. Once Emma had been as romantic as any young girl. A man's face appeared in her mind. Ruthlessly she suppressed the image. "I want someone of good character who will treat me with kindness and respect. Well-bred. Pleasing to look at, but he needn't be handsome. In fact, it would be much better if he is not."

If a handsome man married a plain woman, everyone would think it was only for money. Emma did not want that to be said of her, even if it was true.

The solicitor gave an approving nod. "In other words, what any wise woman would want in a husband. But you mentioned 'well-bred.' Did you mean a titled aristocrat?" He hesitated, then said with some awkwardness, "Forgive me, but men of that class can be… difficult. There are those who would happily take your money while despising you for being of lower birth."

She raised her chin. "My mother was a Vaughn. No man would dare look down on my birth."

"You are one of the Vaughns of Harley?" Mr. Evans' raised brows were a surprised comment on her status as a little more than an upper servant.

"The relationship is close enough that I am invited to the castle on great occasions," she said dryly, "but not close enough for me to have any money."

As she spoke, Emma suddenly realized that she could accept the Christmas invitation to Harley. That prospect was far more vivid and compelling than the abstract knowledge that she had just inherited a fortune. She could return to the scene of her happiest days, a Vaughn once more. She wanted to laugh aloud with joy.

The solicitor's tone changed from avuncular interest to crisp professionalism. "No matter whom you marry, I suggest that you allow me, or another competent solicitor, to set up a special trust so that, say, half of your capital is reserved to you and your children. Normally a woman's property automatically becomes her husband's when she marries, but a woman of great wealth, such as you are now, often prefers to keep some control in her own hands."

She was now a woman of great wealth. Emma wanted to laugh again, this time in disbelief. "An excellent idea. I've seen women ruined by profligate husbands." She bit her lip. "I have no idea how to manage so much money. Will you act for me, as you did for Mr. Greaves?"

"It would be my honor, and my pleasure," the solicitor said promptly.

"I shall need rather a lot of help, and not only financial." She smiled with wry self-mockery. "Would you be able to use your connections to compile a list of possible husbands? Men who fit the requirements I mentioned earlier, and whose circumstances compel them to seek a rich wife. In other words, the better grade of fortune hunter."