Regret Not a Moment (43 page)

The hostile face of Roland’s sister, Regina, was the first sight that greeted Devon upon entering the solicitor’s office the next day. Devon’s sister-in-law—tall, dark, and slender, like Roland—had the formidable demeanor of one accustomed to having her way.

Seated beside Regina was an apologetic-looking young man with a curiously unformed face. This was Roland’s nephew, Percy, and the new Earl of Abersham. Devon knew that Percy was twenty-five years old, but his face had the slightly fleshy roundness of adolescence. The whisper of a mustache that struggled along his upper lip was clearly an attempt to look older, but it was not successful. Devon had the impression that Percy was referred to by others in the family as “Poor Percy.”

Stepping farther into the room, Roland’s solicitor following closely behind, Devon saw that a third person occupied a Regency-style sofa in the corner: Regina’s husband, the only person who had bothered to extend civility to her during the funeral. The man, an older version of Percy, wore a resigned, uninvolved expression.

Regina herself was not physically unattractive. Though she was forty-eight years old, her skin had only the barest trace of wrinkles. These she kept at bay with an unceasing parade of costly ministrations. Regina’s endowments—her good looks, wealth, and high birth—she did not view as providential gifts. Rather, she considered them her due. The minor irritations of everyday life she considered major trials of her strength. Her strength she manifested through browbeating and haranguing so that, ultimately, most of her relationships ended either in angry confrontation or emotional withdrawal. Her husband and son had chosen the latter route. Roland had chosen neither.

Despite Regina’s faults, Roland had genuinely loved her, and she him. After their parents had died, however, Regina had felt it her duty to direct her younger brother in life. He would always gravely agree with her advice, then merrily ignore it. But Roland’s charm was so great, his love for Regina so clearly genuine, that it seemed she could forgive him anything.

Roland’s new wife was another thing entirely. This interloper, this divorcee, this wealthy American was a breed well known in British society. She couldn’t fool Regina with her perfectly tailored, perfectly appropriate slate gray dress. She might look every bit the well-bred lady but she was just another American opportunist panting after a title, like that Simpson woman who had desecrated the crown of England. Regina was girded for battle.

Roland’s solicitor looked from one woman to the other and felt sorry for Roland’s widow. Oswald Lyttleton, a rather cynical servant of the rich who had grown wealthy himself, was not given to sentimentality, but he pitied the beautiful American for the ordeal to come.

He took the young woman by the elbow and walked her across his Persian rug until they stood in front of Regina.

“Countess,” he began, properly addressing Devon, the woman of higher rank, first, “I believe you have already met—”

“Please.” Devon cut him off. Turning her head toward Regina, she extended her hand and said, “I’m afraid we didn’t have much of a chance to speak yesterday. How do you do?”

Regina considered the hand for a moment. Everyone in the room held their breath, afraid that she was about to commit an unpardonable rudeness, but her upbringing finally forced her to take the proffered hand. She did this with the air of a person being handed a dirty diaper.

Lord Lewiston rose and, braving a glare from his wife, gave his sister-in-law a polite greeting. Percy blushed and stammered a brief “How do you do,” cast a worried glance at his mother, and promptly slouched back into his chair.

Lyttleton scuttled behind his desk as though eager to put the barrier between him and the others, bowed his graying head, and cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

“Let me first summarize matters for you by pointing out that the entitlement to Abersham must go to a male heir if such a person exists. In this case, to Percy Lewiston; now, of course Percy Abersham,” he said, with a glance toward the young man. The solicitor turned back to Devon to gauge her reaction, but this was apparently what she had expected, for she only nodded her head.

“Income and rents associated with the estate will also go to Percy Lewiston, as will an additional bequest of fifteen million pounds, to be kept in trust for the upkeep of Abersham.” Lyttleton paused and surveyed the room once more. Lord Lewiston was looking at the ceiling, seemingly detached from the proceeding. Percy had his eyes cast down. The two women, however, stared at the solicitor attentively, waiting for him to continue.

“However…” Lyttleton shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked once more at Devon. He was afraid to look at Regina. He could sense her bristling at the word “however.” Lyttleton fixed his gaze on the document before him and adjusted the bifocals on his nose. “There are some funds independent of the estate that Lord Abersham had the discretion to distribute at will.” Hurrying on, Lyttleton read, “‘I leave the remainder of my personal fortune to my beloved wife, Devon, on the condition that one million pounds of that sum shall be held in trust for my daughter, Francesca, until she attains the age of twenty-one. Trusteeship of said funds shall be held by my wife, Devon. I leave no further instructions as to the guardianship of these monies, for I have every confidence in my wife’s financial and personal judgment.’”

“The remainder of his personal fortune!” cried Regina.

“At this time, some two point two million pounds,” announced the solicitor.

“That’s outrageous! Why should this… this…
person
get a sum like that after being married to him for only a year?”

For the first time, Lord Lewiston entered the fray. “Because, Regina, it is Roland’s will.”

Regina wheeled in her chair to face her husband. “This has nothing to do with you,” she hissed.

Lord Lewiston leaned forward on the sofa and opened his mouth to reply, then apparently thinking better of it, closed it.

“Er… that’s not quite so, Lady Lewiston,” Oswald Lyttleton interjected. “There is a small bequest for Lord Lewiston.” Lyttleton coughed and went on reading. “To my brother-in-law, Sir Archibald Lewiston, I leave my yacht
Wicked Ways
in the hope that he will enjoy a few interludes of pleasure and solitude so necessary to one’s mental well-being.”

“I beg your pardon!” said Regina, seeing this as a barb directed at her. Suddenly she thought of Roland—how he used to tease her, to make her laugh—and she burst into bitter tears. The only person she had ever truly loved and admired was gone. How gay he had been, how amusing! He had loved her, too, as no one had ever done before or since. Certainly not her husband or son. No, those two feeble specimens were more afraid than affectionate, she thought, blaming the victims for what she had made them.

“And to my dear sister, Regina, I leave the remainder of my unentailed possessions, including my house in Belgravia. In addition, I request that my heir allow Regina use of the Abersham jewels for as long as she may live, or until my heir should marry. To my wife, I leave the diamond and emerald ring, necklace, and bracelet that I purchased with unentailed funds as a gift to her. I intend she should keep these items until her death, at which time I would wish to see them bequeathed to our daughter, Francesca.”

“But I know those cost a fortune! He showed them to me!” cried Regina. Snapping her head up from her Brussels lace handkerchief, she saw that Devon was quietly studying her. The young woman’s composure seemed insulting. The American had certainly not loved Roland as she had. She did not deserve his money. And certainly not those jewels!

“You,”
she spat at Devon, “you have taken advantage of a hero. You knew he was going off to war, that he would probably be killed. You saw an opportunity to make a fortune. But I intend to contest this!”

“Regina!” Sir Archie sprang to his feet and strode over to his wife. “You’ve gone too far now! I won’t have this.” He leaned down and took her elbow, almost forcibly bringing her to her feet. “I think you should take a moment in private to refresh yourself.”

“How dare you!” Regina’s face was scarlet with fury as she yanked her arm out of her husband’s grip. Her son cowered in the adjacent chair, wishing he were far, far away. Devon, pale with anger herself, kept her seat and said nothing, afraid that if she spoke she would sink to the level of Regina.

“Regina!” commanded Archie. “Come.”

Astounded by her husband’s newfound forcefulness, and the jerk he gave her elbow, which he had recaptured in a grip of iron, Regina followed him from the room.

“I’m… I’m s-s-sorry,” Percy said, not daring to look directly at Devon.

“Don’t apologize,” Devon said coolly, “you’ve done nothing.”

The solicitor appeared to be very busy moving the papers on his desk from one pile to another. He, too, did not wish to meet Devon’s eyes. So the three sat in silence for several minutes while Regina presumably composed herself.

Indeed, it was a calmer woman who reentered the office, her husband unexpectedly no longer with her. Regina did not sit, but instead walked toward Devon until she was standing directly in front of her chair.

“You”—the word exploded from her mouth like a gunshot—“are an adventuress. I intend to explore every legal means to see that my family is not robbed of what is rightfully ours. If I fail, I intend to ruin you. I will broadcast from every treetop exactly what kind of opportunist you are. You will not be received by anyone here. Furthermore, I will make every effort to ensure that what passes for society in America also rejects you for the low sort of woman that you are.”

Devon coolly arose from her chair, pulling on her black kid gloves. She brushed past Regina and walked to the heavy, carved door that guarded Lyttleton’s office, her back to the others. Then she turned.

“You”
—she swiveled her head to face Regina—“have just thrown away a fortune. You see, I believed, somewhat as you do, that I had no right to such a vast sum after only one year of marriage. Furthermore, contrary to what you may believe, I don’t need it. As a result, I was going to suggest that the money be added to the fund for the upkeep of Abersham. Of course, that’s quite out of the question now. I’ll simply give the money to charity.

“Oh and by the way,” Devon said, almost as an afterthought, “if I hear that you’ve said one word to impugn my reputation, either here or in America, I will sue you for slander. And, rest assured, no one in a courtroom will believe that a woman who gives away her inheritance is the adventuress you describe. So be careful, or you may lose a second fortune.” Devon stood on the threshold for a moment to watch her message sink in. She was satisfied to see Regina’s mouth drop in horror.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Devon said with a half smile, “and, of course, good day to you, Lady Lewiston.”

WILLOWBROOK

1957

“I’M almost as dark as you,” Francesca Somerset-Smith said, holding her arm next to that of the coffee-colored boy.

“Not by a long shot! No matter how long you stay out in the sun!” Jesse denied scornfully.

“By the end of summer I will be,” Francesca declared. Devon’s thirteen-year-old daughter was olive-skinned, more like Roland than Devon. That combined with her springy black tresses gave her an exotic, almost Mediterranean look. She was not as beautiful as her mother had been on the threshold of womanhood. She had none of her mothers innate delicacy. Rather, she was a wiry package of muscles with a slenderness that was the result of endless energy. Still, she was a strikingly attractive child, though she did not believe it. She lamented the fact that, unlike most of the other girls at school, she had yet to develop breasts. She hid her disappointment by clinging to tomboyish pursuits, refusing to be absorbed into the adolescent world of preening and giggling over boys.

Francesca’s best friend was Jesse, the fifteen-year-old son of Jeremiah, Willowbrook’s former top jockey. Forty-two years old now, Jeremiah was retired from his stellar career in racing and was reentering the world of training. He worked closely with Willy and Devon on the development of racehorses, but his main task was to oversee the younger Willowbrook jockeys.

Jeremiah had earned enough money from prize purses to build a large, comfortable home on a parcel of land sold to him by Devon. She had suggested the transaction once it had become apparent that none of the white landowners nearby would sell to a black man, despite his stature in the horse world.

Because of the proximity of their homes, Jesse and Francesca had grown up together and were as comfortable with each other as brother and sister. They shared a love of horses—both wanted to be jockeys—as well as a love for other outdoor pursuits, such as fishing and swimming.

They sat now on the banks of the creek that ran through the valley separating Jeremiah’s land from Devon’s. It was Jesse and Francesca’s favorite spot in summer. On a typical day, they would awaken early, meet on the creek’s bank to go fishing, and then, without bothering to change into bathing suits, they would jump into the water in their shorts and cotton shirts. Once exhausted from the games they played in the water, they would clean and cook their fish, then laze on the banks for a few hours.

“Well, I may not be as dark as you, but I bet I can outrun you to the stables.” Francesca threw out the challenge as part of their daily ritual, though she was never able to outrun Jesse.

No day was without riding, of course, and this they would typically do in the afternoons. They were not allowed to ride any of the Thoroughbreds raced by Willowbrook, but Devon owned several pleasure horses freely available to Jesse. Francesca had her own small mare, Caramel, a thirteen-year-old palomino.

“Hah!” Jesse sprang to his feet. “That’ll be the day! Go on, I’ll give you a head start since you’re just a girl.”

“Just a girl!” Frankie expostulated, jumping up with as much energy as her friend.

“You’re so easy to rile,” Jesse mocked her. “Why do you get so mad about being a girl?”

Frankie turned red with anger and embarrassment. She wished she were a boy so that she wouldn’t have to worry about things like being pretty and growing breasts. Other girls made her feel inferior, with their frilly petticoats, training bras, and beribboned hair.