Betina Krahn (2 page)

“Farrow. Mrs. Theodore Farrow,” the woman said in a
whisper, searching Madeline’s face and seeming to take something from her determined reassurance.

As the lawyers ushered her out into the hall, Madeline saw the young widow collect herself and rise with what seemed a heartened attitude. Only then did her mind turn back to her own situation. Her inheritance. Her own uncertain future.

The second office was even grander than the first. A shaft of sunlight from the tall arched window illuminated a pair of chairs situated before a massive mahogany desk. The Oriental carpets were deep, the wood was polished to a high gloss, and the sun-warmed leather upholstery gave off a musky scent that had a distinctively male character. As she was being seated, a smartly dressed man stepped into that stream of daylight. It took a moment for her to recognize him.

“Gilbert.” She greeted her boyishly handsome cousin with a polite nod to cover her dismay at seeing him here. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Gilbert Duncan had been largely absent during his elderly relative’s last weeks, but naturally he would present himself now, when he had hopes of inheriting a portion of the estate—perhaps even the substantial house that had been Madeline’s only home since she was seven years old. Madeline felt a clutch of anxiety.

“We are indebted to you, Miss Duncan, for your assistance with that unfortunate situation in Townshend’s office.” The dapper Mr. Dunwoody settled into his high-backed leather chair across the desk, and began untying the scarlet ribbons binding the folio of legal papers before him. “Difficult business, the law.” He sighed with a martyred air. “At times downright disagreeable.”

Madeline shifted uncomfortably in her chair and wondered if he was just making an observation or preparing her for what was to come. From the corner of her eye she saw Gilbert take the chair beside hers and noticed the other solicitors posting themselves at Mr. Dunwoody’s right and left.
A gathering of eagles
. She groaned silently.

“Miss Olivia Duncan was a woman of definite ideas,” Dunwoody began. “She insisted upon writing out her will in her own hand and in her own words, subject to advice from legal counsel, of course—she was a very
prudent
woman as well. Let us hear now her final will and testament.” He lifted a document and resettled his rimless spectacles to read: “ ‘I, Olivia Marie Duncan, being of sound mind but deteriorating health, do undertake to set my worldly affairs in order, so that I may leave a legacy to the world which will enrich and improve the lives of my fellow human beings.…’ ”

The words caused breath to catch in Madeline’s throat. She could almost hear the old lady’s once-commanding voice, made papery with age and infirmity, speaking those words. She felt a wave of fresh grief.

Olivia Duncan had been her guardian, teacher, and entire family since her parents’ death many years before in the mission fields of West Africa. She had arrived in England a child of seven years who had been raised in the wilds under primitive conditions. Tall, rod-straight Aunt Olivia had seemed quite severe as she worked to establish “sensible” boundaries for her charge. Madeline had been deathly afraid of the old lady, until she began to catch the glimmer of amusement in the woman’s eyes.

Sensible,
Madeline had come to learn, was the old lady’s credo. She lived it, she preached it, and she prescribed it for her ward with unrelenting zeal. However, as Madeline also learned, Aunt Olivia’s version of “sensible” was sometimes at odds with the rest of society’s notions. Aunt Olivia was one of a kind: an individualist, a bit of a social philosopher, a teacher without peer. She was a
thinker
by nature, with enough insight to realize early on that Madeline’s dynamic personal energy would make her a
doer
. In their years together, Olivia Duncan had helped her determined charge learn to channel her impulse for “doing” into “doing good.”

Surfacing through a flood of memories and emotions, Madeline had difficulty concentrating on what was being
read. She straightened in her chair and shook her head to clear her thoughts, just in time to hear the fateful words: “ ‘To my consummately resourceful grandnephew, Gilbert, I leave the sum of fifty thousand pounds … to be paid out in cash from my accounts in the Bank of England.’ ”

Solicitor Dunwoody paused and looked up at Gilbert. Gilbert’s eyes widened and he gripped the arms of his chair.

“Fifty th-thousand?”
he choked out. “In coin of the realm?
Currency?
”

“The very same,” Dunwoody intoned, adjusting his pince-nez with a prim bit of satisfaction at having delivered an unexpected stroke of fortune. “We shall arrange for a transfer of funds whenever you like. If you will just give us the name of your banker …”

“Fifty thousand!” Gilbert forgot gentlemanly pride and decorum for a moment and bounded up, his face reddening with excitement. “I never expected—my dearest, most
beloved
aunt Olivia! Why, I had no idea!”

Nor, as it happened, did Madeline. Where had Aunt Olivia gotten fifty thousand pounds to leave Gilbert? They had always been frugal regarding household expenses. There had always been good food and wine, books had been purchased, and the salaries of the servants were always promptly paid. But it had all been managed through economies employed elsewhere—she knew because she wrote the drafts that paid the bills! She had never suspected that Aunt Olivia had a fortune saved away for a grandnephew who had been such a stranger to her. After Gilbert resumed his chair, Mr. Dunwoody turned to her with an arch little smile and continued reading.

“ ‘Aside from the above-named bequests to my nephew, to certain charities, and to my faithful servants, the entire remainder of my estate, along with all my love and gratitude, shall go to my beloved grandniece and companion, Madeline Duncan. I am keenly aware of the sacrifices of youth and freedom she has made in caring for me in my declining years.
With this bequest I wish to repay in some small part her generosity.’ ” Dunwoody paused and frowned at the next phrase as he read it. “ ‘My very final bequest, and perhaps my most important, is to the world at large. To my fellow humankind I leave … my niece, Madeline.’ ”

Madeline glanced from one solicitor to the other, trying to read in their faces what was meant by her aunt’s cryptic wording. Her aunt willed her the rest of the estate … and then willed her to the rest of the world? What in heaven did that mean? A thought struck her and her heart began to beat erratically.

“Who does the house belong to?” she asked breathlessly.

Dunwoody chuckled and glanced at his colleagues. “Which house? Scofield Manor in the West Country? The town house in Mayfair? The villa in Florence? Or the plantation mansion in Barbados?”

Madeline stared at him in confusion. “I mean, the house in Bloomsbury, where we—I—live.”

“But of course it is yours. Along with all six others,” Townshend announced, beaming. “And may we be the first to congratulate you on your good fortune, Miss Duncan. We at Ecklesbery, Townshend, and Dunwoody will be pleased to serve you as diligently as we have your dear, departed aunt Olivia. We, of course, have been appointed trustees of the estate … given the charge to oversee your affairs and provide for your needs.”

“Without boasting, Miss Duncan, may I say that our firm has taken meticulous care of your aunt’s business dealings,” the tall fellow, Ecklesbery, said as he tucked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “Under our keeping, her substantial fortune has grown handsomely. You are an extremely wealthy young woman.”

“Wealthy?” Cousin Gilbert came crashing back to reality at last, and turned to stare at her in astonishment.
“Extremely?”

Madeline was shaking her head in disbelief.

“Quite,” Dunwoody replied. “The estate has a number of lucrative properties and investments, and a quite substantial cash reserve—all of which needn’t trouble your pretty head in the least, Miss Duncan. We shall see to it that you have plenty of money for servants and bonnets and new dresses—all the female luxuries and extravagances you could possibly desi—”

Townshend cleared his throat and leaned toward his partner’s ear. “The letter, Sir Edward.”

“Letter? Oh, yes. Your aunt gave us an envelope for you, Miss Duncan. To be opened after her passing.” Dunwoody retrieved it from the folio and handed it to Townshend, who ferried it to Madeline’s hands. “As I was saying, for a woman of such means, your aunt chose to live a curiously frugal existence. We certainly understand—even expect—that you may wish to do things differently.” He cast an eye over her simple woolen cloak. “We can recommend the finest silk drapers and dressmakers and milliners in London. We shall be pleased to see that you have introductions into the very first circles … invitations from the best of families.”

His voice faded from Madeline’s awareness as she stared at her name on the envelope, written in her aunt’s afflicted but still recognizable script. She tore into it and opened the letter with trembling hands. On the page was just one short sentence.

What would you do, Madeline, my dear, if you had a million pounds?

She stared at the words, feeling a complex jumble of emotions: startlement, recognition, incredulity, and finally amusement born of unexpected understanding. The question was the basis of a game she and Aunt Olivia had played many times over the years. In the midst of spring cleaning, or a bit of needlework, or a story being read, the old lady would pause and fix her with a quixotic look and demand to know: “What would you do, Madeline, my dear, if you had a million pounds?”

As a child of ten, her answers had been predictably impractical: buy a pony, a shop full of sweets, featherbeds stacked to the ceiling, and her own private sailing ship to take her anywhere in the world. But as she grew older, her answers had matured. She would buy a grand house … a woodland with a stream so she could give animals a home … a beautiful farm with bountiful gardens and orchards to grow lots of food … eventually a whole village, where she would make the rules and where everyone would work at what they liked and would have plenty of everything and would be happy.

She came abruptly back to her senses and sat forward urgently, gripping the edge of the desk.

“How much is it all worth? Tell me. If you had to reduce it all to a single sum, how much would there be?”

Dunwoody tucked his chin. “Well, I’ve never actually—”

“Quite a little,” Townshend put in with a scowl.

“Quite a
lot,
” Ecklesbery corrected him with a sniff.

“Is it close to a million pounds?” she demanded, her mouth drying and her heart pounding wildly.

Dunwoody resettled his spectacles to give Madeline a much keener look. “It would be in that range, I suppose. We have never thought it necessary to tally all of Miss Duncan’s holdings together in such an … 
indiscriminating
 … manner.”

“A million pounds,” Madeline repeated to herself several times, trying to comprehend what was happening. She stared at the letter—at the black ink undulating across the creamy vellum—and felt curiously as if Aunt Olivia were reaching across the boundaries of mortality to play their game one final time.

On afternoon picnics, when they lay on a blanket in the grass, staring up at the clouds, and on dusky evenings, when they sat in the arbor at twilight, the million-pounds gambit had always seemed Aunt Olivia’s way of making moral instruction and critical thinking exercises palatable to a willful young girl. For each time she asked the question, it would
provoke a challenging discussion, ranging from moral philosophy to social theory, economics to the arts, history to the tenets of the great religions.

Now, staring at that single sentence, it struck Madeline that Aunt Olivia hadn’t been playing a game at all. She had been preparing—
preparing Madeline
—for this very moment.

What will you do, Madeline, my dear, with your million pounds?

Color burst in her cheeks and she swayed on her chair. Townshend bolted instantly for a pillow, Ecklesbery frantically poured a glass of water, and the pair fairly trampled Cousin Gilbert in their rush to her side.

It was no longer a matter of hypothetical debate or philosophical dabbling. Aunt Olivia had given her a million pounds and now wanted to know what she intended to
do
with it. Which of her desires, ideas, and heartfelt convictions would she act upon? Which of her dearest longings and most daring dreams would she choose to pursue? What would she do with her newfound wealth?

Her time?

Her life?

She came to her senses to find Messrs. Townshend and Ecklesbery hovering over her, ready to fan or hydrate her at the first hint of the vapors. Her gentlemen trustees clearly expected her to be overcome by her great fortune, then to plunge deliriously into a torrent of luxurious living. They offered to help her acquire a fashionable wardrobe, develop stylish tastes, take up expensive pastimes, and even cultivate an elite circle of acquaintances. Travel, possessions, luxury, acceptance, even renown—her fortune could buy her virtually anything she desired. And for the first time in her adult life, she was responsible for no one but herself.

She was extraordinarily rich and utterly free.

It was overwhelming. Her chest tightened; she could scarcely get her breath. Feeling alone and uncertain, Madeline gazed down at Aunt Olivia’s final question, searching the old
lady’s script for comfort, for direction. As she eyed those familiar strokes, the constriction around her heart loosened and a sense of calm settled over her.

It was still a game of sorts, she realized—
their game
. She was being given a chance to
do
 … to act on the ideas and realize the dreams she had spun in the cocoon of her life with Aunt Olivia.

Her thoughts raced. A torrent of ideas poured through her mind … a thousand things she could do to improve the lot of her fellow humans … her fellow women … like that poor Mrs. Farrow. It left her tingling with the energy of possibilities, of potential. Slowly, she squared her shoulders and raised her gaze to her aunt’s solicitors.