Betina Krahn (6 page)

“My plans for the money are perfectly in keeping with the wishes my aunt Olivia expressed in her will,” she continued. “She knew and approved of my interest in helping others. She would have applauded my intention to rebuild the factory and to use it to produce sensible clothing. In fact, Your Honor, my aunt was a personal friend of those forward-thinking Americans, Dr. Mary Walker and Mrs. Amelia Bloomer. For the last two decades my aunt Olivia wore ‘female trousers’ herself.”

“Did she indeed?” Sir William rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked down at the documents attached to the briefs submitted by both parties. “I have read the will of Olivia Duncan. It seems straightforward and sensible. Miss Duncan is to have the balance of her estate with no entailments, codicils, or conditions attached. And there is a clear humanitarian bent to the wording.”

Cole grinned as his irascible old uncle responded to Miss Duncan’s cleverness and heartfelt convictions.
He’s on the fence, sweetheart. Give him one last nudge and make it good,
Cole thought.
Something sentimental but smart
. What were the odds
that she could come up with something that would qualify on both counts?

“Your Honor—”Just as she started to speak, Farnsworth came forward with a stack of documents nearly two feet high, brandishing them before the bench and then depositing them with a flourish on the desk of the court clerk.

“Your Honor, we have thoroughly studied the matter, including the deceptively simple wording of the will and the relevant applications of testamentary law. We submit these documents for your consideration, along with the correspondence from the agents we asked to investigate this village and those Miss Duncan has contracted with to perform work on the St. Crispin factory.”

Madeline Duncan stared in visible shock at the documents. They had used their considerable resources to amass a case against her, and Cole saw her shoulders round as the significance of that mountain of legal paper settled on them. He felt an odd tug of sympathy in his chest.

Hopeless,
he thought. They had law and precedent and worldly prudence on their side, and this was a place where such things held sway. Below him, Madeline straightened and approached the bench.

“By all means, Your Honor, do read and study the evidence they have compiled against me,” she said in a voice constricted by earnestness. “But as you do, keep in mind that the things that truly matter in this case will never be found in tallies of figures and interpretations of dusty legal codes. What matters is what my aunt Olivia wanted in creating her will. What matters is that she wanted to help her fellow human beings and said so. What matters is that she entrusted me not only with her fortune, but with her desire to help others. She willed to me not just her money, but her hopes, her aspirations … her beloved ideals.

“Let me ask you something, Your Honor.” She grasped the edge of the judicial bench and looked up at him intently.
“If you suddenly—today—came into a million pounds, what would you do with it?”

The courtroom grew abruptly quiet as all strained to hear both her question and Sir William’s reply.

“Would you indulge in brandy and cigars … fine meals … a new suit of clothes? How many suits could you buy before buying a suit gave you no more pleasure? When you had a surfeit of brandy and cigars and suits … what then? At some point there would be more money than you had needs or desires. Would you then be under any moral obligation to help others? To share your good luck? To do something decent and worthwhile with the fortune you were given? I believe I am. Aunt Olivia believed so too. She left me a letter to be opened after her death.”

She reached into her pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. Opening it, she introduced it into evidence with the court clerk, as Farnsworth had done, and the clerk immediately handed it to Sir William.

What a quick study you are, Miss Duncan
.

“As you can see, she asked me the same question I just asked you. And she did so because she knew my answer would be … what I would choose for myself and for my fellow human beings.”

Cole found himself nodding. That arresting question, the letter, and Madeline Duncan’s heartfelt entreaty should prove damn near irresistible for an aging, gout-riddled man with a penchant for poking around in other people’s souls. Miss Duncan had laid out her dreams, her values, and her passions for the old man’s judgment.

Sentimental and smart. An inspired gambit, sweetheart. You may have just evened the score
.

After a moment’s silence Sir William stirred. Glowering at all parties, he announced: “I’ve heard enough. I shall return presently to deliver my decision.”

The court stared in shock and staggered to its feet as the
justice gathered up his papers, rose, and hobbled from the bench.

Ecklesbery, Townshend, and Dunwoody erupted all at once as Sir William cleared the door.

“This is unheard of—unconscionable—unthinkable!”

“He hasn’t read a single brief!”

“It’s an outrage, it is!”

Cole was as surprised as the defendants by his uncle’s abrupt declaration. Watching Farnsworth try to calm his clients, he couldn’t help enjoying their outrage. Clearly, they had counted on the legal process not only for a verdict, but also for a substantial delay. Chancery courts were generally known to move at the pace of a snail on hot pavement. Despite recent reform attempts, it was common for an inheritance case to take a year or two to complete. Madeline Duncan’s solicitors had obviously been counting on frustration and endless continuances to wear down her enthusiasm for her absurd plan.

As he watched the plaintiff conferring with her barrister, it struck him how surprisingly intriguing her wretched case was. Her petition was a legal lost cause, of that he had no doubt. Trusteeships were established to prevent precisely the sort of ruinous tangent Miss Duncan seemed hell-bent on pursuing. They were held to be nearly inviolate by the courts.

People who inherited fortunes were prone to spend the money on things they would almost certainly later regret. Most went on buying sprees and socialized recklessly, some drank to excess, gambled, and took up with flashy companions who tried to relieve them of the burden of their newfound wealth. An ill-fated few acquired a taste for even deeper vices—games and manipulations, an endless quest for sensation, a descent into the world of the flesh.

Miss Duncan, on the other hand, suffered not from hedonism, but from idealism run amok. From all appearances she was a true believer, convinced of the goodness and redemptive possibilities in humankind.

Cole’s jaw tensed as he studied her with that unsettling thought in mind. In the end, he realized, her devotion to her own impossible ideals would likely prove more dangerous to her than a bout of self-indulgence. Like most idealists, she would refuse to see the world as it really was—the rampant disease, decay, and avarice all around her. She would wear herself down to bare bones, doggedly pursuing her vision of mankind’s “nobility,” until her fellow humans drained every last drop of substance from her and left her as destitute and disillusioned as they were.

Ridiculous female,
he thought, staring at her with new eyes.
Why don’t you just do as they say?

Get a corset
.

Find a man
.

Have a brood of red-haired brats.…

With each moment that passed, the suspense thickened and the atmosphere in the courtroom became more charged. Ecklesbery, Townshend, and Dunwoody conferred with barrister Farnsworth in jealously guarded whispers, casting glowers Madeline’s way while she sat primly by her dozing lawyer, refusing to look at her opponents and seeming confident she would soon receive the court’s approbation and her money.

Inwardly, however, she was far from certain that her suit would succeed. From the start she had understood that her fate would depend primarily upon the justice assigned to hear her case. And she’d had either the fortune or the misfortune to come before crotchety old Sir William Rayburn. Protected by judicial privilege, reputation, and seniority, he took liberties with courtroom decorum, the barristers appearing before him, and social propriety. He was gouty and rude and impatient with both man and God. And he might just be the answer to her prayers. Who else but a cantankerous old eccentric would dare deliver a
judgment against the cream of London’s legal establishment? Who else but an aging man with plenty of regrets, misspent years, and long-dead ambitions would dare give legal sanction to her headlong pursuit of a dream?

Her nervous sigh was in reality a prayer for a favorable verdict. Without one, she might well find herself in the poor-house before long. In the last three months she had spent herself into something of a financial fix.

Anticipating the release of her money, she had begun work on the factory in St. Crispin, recruiting workers and resettling them in the deserted village. There were a thousand details to attend—endless renovations, hiring, purchase of equipment, transportation, permits, agreements with suppliers—and every one of them seemed to require crossing someone’s palm with silver. Soon she had spent both her first year’s income and the wardrobe money her solicitors had provided, hoping to pacify her. When they learned she had gone ahead with her plans despite their disapproval, they stopped releasing the funds they held in trust, and she had been forced to use her last personal funds—a small legacy from her deceased parents.

Now her financial resources were depleted. Work on her factory had come to a dismal halt, and things would stay halted and dismal unless she prevailed in this proceeding. She caught a glimpse of scarlet at the door and her heart began to pound; Sir William was thudding back into the courtroom. Rising with the rest of the court, she tried in vain to read some sign of her fate in the old man’s countenance as he maneuvered into the great chair behind the bench.

“Beauty,” Sir William declared after a lengthy pause, dropping each word as if it were a pearl, “is said to reside in the eye of the beholder. The same might also be said of pomposity, vulgarity, absurdity … decency, generosity, and idealism. All are judgments that depend upon the viewer’s values and standards. No doubt, at each of the great advancements of mankind there were people present who labeled the proceedings
reckless, ridiculous, or even profane. And yet, miraculously, there have always been those courageous few who were willing to risk much to give something beyond the ordinary to their fellow humans. We have them to thank for our continued progress as a species.”

He leaned forward on the bench to stare at Madeline, and she tried not to flinch under his piercing examination. “I have no way of knowing whether Madeline Duncan is a great visionary, a garden-variety prodigal with a novel approach to wasting a fortune, or a most peculiar species of lunatic.” He turned to glare at the defendants. “But I do know that idealism—however naive or out of fashion—is most assuredly
not
the same as incompetence or irresponsibility.”

Ecklesbery, Townshend, and Dunwoody cast looks of alarm at barrister Farnsworth as, before their eyes, Sir William’s fleshy face transformed into a mask of judicial hauteur.

“It is the judgment of this court that Miss Olivia Duncan was perfectly clear with regard to her final wishes. There is no need for protracted examination, interpretation, or elaboration of the documents. The funds and properties belong fully and irrevocably to Madeline Duncan. However, mindful of the responsibilities of Ecklesbery, Townshend, and Dumwoody as trustees, it is the ruling of this court that Messrs. Ecklesbery, Townshend, and et ceteras release up to one quarter of the estate for Miss Duncan’s use.”

Stunned silence greeted his decree. Savoring the drama of the moment, he turned to Madeline with a smile. “I’ve a mind to see Miss Duncan’s ‘reformed garments.’ God knows, there must be
something
better to garb the human form than torturous lacer-uppers and strangulating collars.” He gave his own neckpiece a restive tug. “I am giving her the chance to construct both her clothing and her factory.…”

Madeline gasped and reached for Sir Richard’s hands, squeezing them. The first flush of jubilation at having won the right to the money was so heady that it took her a moment to realize there was a codicil to Sir William’s approval.

“…  under reasonable and prudent constraint,” he continued. “The court shall appoint a fair and impartial overseer, an agent of the court whose duty it will be to report to the court on the progress of her factory and production. Said overseer shall have the authority to approve or disapprove capital expenditures and the weighty responsibility to protect Madeline Duncan from her own magnanimous impulses.”

The court began to buzz, then to hum, and finally broke into a roar of voices.

“Objection!” Farnsworth was on his feet in a shot, and Ecklesbery, Townshend, and Dunwoody sprang up behind their counsel.

“This is an outrage!”

“Preposterous!”

“Utterly without precedent!”

Madeline rose an instant later, no less appalled than they were by Sir William’s decision. An overseer? She was to have a court-appointed interloper to say her yea and nay on every detail? Evaluating her every movement? Reporting on her to the court? “Sir Richard”—she seized the old gentleman by the arm and tried to get him to his feet—“you must object. Tell him that I don’t need to be overseen!”