Sycamore Hill

The silver teapot was heavy in my unaccustomed hand. I poured the
sweet-smelling brew carefully into a delicate Wedgwood cup. Glancing up
nervously, I watched the ascetic gentleman sitting on the silk-brocade settee
opposite me. His shrewd gray eyes were narrowed as they roved about the large,
elegantly furnished parlor, touching on the most exquisite and expensive of my
guardians’ many possessions.

“Your tea, Mr. Dobson,” I offered quietly. He accepted it with the
faintest smile touching his thin lips. Taking one polite sip, he then set it
aside indifferently.

“Would you care for a sandwich, sir?” I asked deferentially,
lifting a silver platter with open-faced sandwiches delectably displayed by
Roberta’s expert hand. He declined.

The tension grew inside me. I had never played hostess before, and
found sitting in Marcella Haversall’s wing chair a great embarrassment. Death
had not altered my position in this household. I was still the ward thrust
unwelcome upon the Haversalls by my parents’ untimely death. And now my
guardians were dead, both killed in a carriage accident.

I spread my hands in a futile gesture. “I hope you don’t think me
presumptuous.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss McFarland,” Dobson said, his attention
sharpening on me as he came out of his private reverie. “Why should you think
such a thing?”

Explaining would only embarrass both of us more; so I decided to get
to the point of his visit. “You’re here to discuss my guardians’ will, aren’t
you?”

“Yes,” he nodded and then frowned. “This is very difficult.” He
leaned forward, clasping his hands together between his lean legs. He was
having trouble looking at me, and I smiled slightly.

“Please don’t distress yourself about my reaction, Mr. Dobson,” I
told him reassuringly. “I don’t expect an inheritance.”

“No?” Dobson queried, his mouth tightening. “Why not?”

“Why not?” I repeated, taken aback. “Why, because the Haversalls
owe me absolutely nothing. They were remarkably kind to take me in in the first
place. I was only five when my parents died of influenza in New York. I simply
arrived on the Haversalls’ doorstep with a letter from my father and a few
possessions. They fed, clothed and educated me as though I were a... relation.”
I could not say that the Haversalls had loved me. They had always been aloof in
any emotional sense.

“Charles Haversall was your godfather,” Dobson said a trifle
sharply.

“Not a blood relation,” I repeated.

“Am I not correct in my deduction that you have worked for them
since you completed your education? Worked gratis, I might add?”

The Haversalls had asked me to stay with them when I finished
school. I had dreamed of making my own life, but felt dreadfully ungrateful
when they had talked of their need. After all, they had taken me in when I was
a child. They had treated me as their daughter, almost. I was obligated to
repay them in some way, and what they asked seemed paltry in comparison to what
they had done for me.

So I remained. That had been five years ago. There had never been
any discussion of salary, of course. I asked nothing but the room I had
occupied since coming to Boston, the meals I took with them and an occasional,
cherished hour to read. Life had been satisfactory, if not pleasant.

“I owed my guardians a great deal for their kindness to me,” I
said, feeling the explanation should not be necessary. Dobson made a sound in
his throat.

“Most young women of your age are married with families of their
own,” he said.

“I’ve never met any eligible young men, Mr. Dobson.” I smiled.
“Those I have met were not in my social sphere. They would hardly have looked
twice at me.”

“I should think they would have looked more than twice, Miss McFarland.
You are a very attractive young lady.” His compliment was uttered in a most
serious way, and I flushed with embarrassment.

Bradford Dobson sighed. “Did you expect nothing at all?” he asked.

“It wouldn’t be truthful if I said that. I suppose I expect a
small stipend. Not much,” I said hastily. “But enough to allow me modest living
expenses until I can find a position elsewhere.”

Dobson drew a deep breath and then let it out. He stood up and
restlessly paced the room for several moments as though something weighty were
dragging on his mind. I began to feel frightened.

“This is going to be very difficult,” he said more to himself than
to me. His face was paler than when he had first arrived, and his eyes burned
beneath the thick, dark brows. He finally stopped and faced me, shoving his
hands deeply into his pockets.

“The Haversalls made no mention of you in their will, Miss
McFarland. Absolutely no mention at all,” he told me bluntly.

“They left no provision whatsoever?” I managed after a moment.

“None,” he said tersely. His lips were tight. “But... but there is
a small sum of money that belongs to you in the Haversall estate.”

My eyes widened in confusion. “But you just said... I’m afraid I
don’t understand.”

Bradford Dobson let out his breath and muttered something I failed
to hear clearly. He was obviously very upset and was having difficulty speaking
at all.

“Mr. Dobson? Please explain.”

“It’s what’s left of your inheritance.”

I stared at him blankly. “My inheritance?” I repeated, completely
bewildered now. “But, Mr. Dobson, you just said I had no inheritance.”

“Yes, Miss McFarland, you did,” he answered.

“Charles Haversall said that my mother and father left a small sum
to provide for my education. You mean that some of that money is still left for
me?” I asked, hoping for an explanation from him.

“No. I mean that from a very large inheritance from your parents
there remains only a little over one thousand dollars.” He sank down onto the
settee and leaned forward, bringing his face closer. “The letter you spoke
of... the letter you carried when you arrived here, that was a last will and
testament written out by your father before he died. He gave you into Charles
Haversall’s keeping, permitting him trusteeship over your inheritance, which
was to be used on your behalf.”

“But there can’t have been much.”

“There was a fortune,” Dobson said flatly.

“You must be mistaken, Mr. Dobson. You’re suggesting that the
Haversalls stole my inheritance. Why would they do such a thing? They have... a
fortune of their own. Why, they own the factory, this house, a summer house.
You can’t seriously believe they would do such a thing!”

“I’m not suggesting. I’m telling you. They did not have as much
money as people thought. Charles Haversall never was the most enlightened businessman,
I’m afraid. He made some rather disastrous investments early in his career. His
family fortune was depleted years ago.” Dobson stood again, moving away from me
and allowing me time to absorb what he was saying. I felt numb with shock.

“I can’t believe it,” I murmured.

“I suppose Charles Haversall even managed to delude himself that
your money should have been his from the beginning anyway,” Dobson grumbled.

“What... what did you say?” I stammered, looking up at the
solicitor. He turned and looked back at me. He did not say anything for a long
time.

“I’m not sure it will help you, Miss McFarland. But I think you’ve
a right to know everything... from the beginning of the story,” he said
finally. He came back and sat down, facing me with an intent look.

“Charles Haversall ran through most of his family inheritance by
the time he was twenty-five. It was about that time that he made the
acquaintance of your mother, Lavinnia, through business dealings with her
father, George Lambert. Lavinnia was an only child, her mother having died in
childbirth. George Lambert was far from being a well man, and Charles Haversall
expected to court Lavinnia, marry her and therefore solve all his financial
difficulties. But George Lambert was a very astute man, and he recognized
Charles for what he was. Lambert made a deal with him when he saw his daughter
easily swayed by the handsome young charmer. He agreed to pay off all Charles’s
debts in exchange for an agreement that Charles would leave Lavinnia alone.

“For a few years Haversall went along with the plan and kept his
part of the bargain,” Dobson continued. “Then George Lambert died.”

The lawyer paused for a moment, trying to arrange his thoughts
before continuing. “Lavinnia inherited her father’s money, and naturally, Charles
Haversall immediately reappeared. With George Lambert out of the way, he
expected everything to go his way. He courted Lavinnia, and everyone expected
them to marry. They were from the same social sphere and both had been reared
in moneyed backgrounds.

“But Charles made a fatal mistake. He introduced Lavinnia to a
promising young engineer who had come to work for him after immigrating from
Scotland—Terence McFarland, your father.

“I only met him once and very briefly, but I remember him. He had
a quick intelligence and a laugh that was contagious.

I can understand why your mother was drawn to him. Anyway, after
meeting Terence McFarland, Lavinnia lost all interest in Charles Haversall. She
married Terence barely two months after meeting him.” Dobson shook his head as
though amazed at the antics of people.

“It created quite a scandal at the time. I remember it well. To
say that people were astounded by what Lavinnia Lambert had done would be to
put it mildly. Charles Haversall was from a prestigious family and thought to
have unlimited funds behind him. Yet, Lavinnia chose to run off with an unknown
and virtually penniless immigrant. Everyone judged him to be the worst kind of
opportunist.”

Dobson stood up and moved toward the windows. “When they found themselves
unwelcome in Boston society, Terence and Lavinnia McFarland moved to New York.
Your father started his own company there. He was very successful. Very. Unlike
Charles Haversall, Terence McFarland had the Midas touch.” He turned at the
windows and faced me. His expression was shadowed.