The Locket of Dreams (19 page)

Sophie wrinkled her nose, thinking of her own father, who could not earn a living at the moment. It was lucky her mum was working, or they would be much worse off. She felt the familiar ache of a headache coming on and rubbed her forehead gingerly.

‘That’s not very fair,’ complained Jessica.

‘I think you girls are very lucky growing up now,’ declared Nonnie. ‘You can do or be anything in life that you choose. The world is your oyster!’

Nonnie kissed each girl on top of her head, then picked up her book and began to read.

Sophie lay down on her towel, stretching her tense shoulders and concentrating on pushing her headache away. Her hand slipped inside her bag, where she had hidden Eliza’s locket.

With the locket clutched loosely in her hand, Sophie gradually dozed, lulled by the monotonous sound of cicadas tik-tik-tikking in the trees and the lazy heat of the summer day.

‘Charlotte,’ called Annie. ‘Charlotte.’

Charlotte came running in from the garden, carrying a posy of freshly cut roses for the table. ‘Charlotte, I have just received a letter from Mr Thompson, our lawyer,’ announced Annie, waving the note. ‘Edward wrote to him some weeks ago enquiring about the legal situation with your uncle and Dungorm estate. Mr Thompson says he will be in Dalesford tomorrow and is free to see us. Would you like me to organise a meeting?’

Charlotte thought for a moment, conflicting emotions running through her mind: grief, homesickness, betrayal and confusion.

‘Yes, please, Annie.’

Annie reached for a pen, dipped it in the ink pot and started to write the reply.

‘Unfortunately Edward will not be able to come with us,’ sighed Annie. ‘He is so busy with the shearing. We will
just have to go by ourselves. I think you should bring any papers you have, or anything you think will help clarify the situation.’

Charlotte thought of her box of treasures. She did not have any papers, just her journal and Papa’s book of poetry, but she would take them anyway.

When Sophie returned to Rosedale the next afternoon, Pot had harnessed the pair of bay draught horses and hitched them to the buggy. Another pony was standing already saddled.

As suggested by Annie, Charlotte and Nell wore their dark riding habits, but carried their best white dresses safely packed in a bag. Charlotte also carried her oak box carved with the figure of a stag outlined against the rising full moon. As always, Charlotte wore her mother’s locket tucked inside her collar.

‘Thank you, Pot,’ said Annie, climbing up onto the buggy seat and taking the reins. ‘Put the bag in the back, girls, and climb up.’

The girls scrambled up, took a seat on either side of Annie and stowed their bag in the back. Charlotte sat carefully nursing her precious treasure box in her lap.

‘Giddy-up, boys,’ called Annie, cracking the whip and shaking the reins. Sophie quickly zoomed onto the back of the buggy and made herself comfortable next to the bag of dresses.

It was a beautiful afternoon. The horses trotted down the valley, with Pot riding behind on one of the station ponies.

The vehicle lurched and bumped over the wheel ruts, blowing up dust, past a couple of the shepherds herding their flocks of sheep.

After about an hour, Annie steered the buggy off the track and pulled up near some trees.

‘Pot, could you please mind the horses?’ asked Annie. ‘Come on girls, bring the bags. We need to make ourselves look presentable.’

Charlotte and Nell smiled at each other. They certainly were in no fit state to go to a meeting with a lawyer in town. Their hair was knotty and wind-blown under their bonnets. Nell had a streak of dirt on her face and their riding habits and boots were dusty.

Sophie mischievously tweaked one of Nell’s tangled curls. Nell smoothed it back with her fingers.

Annie led the way down to the rivulet. She took the three dresses out of the bag, shook them carefully and draped them over a branch. Next she pulled out cloths, ribbons, a comb, a hairbrush and a small looking glass. Charlotte carried her oak box with her and carefully placed it on a rock.

The three of them washed their faces, hands and necks in the rivulet, then Annie tidied all their hair with the comb and brush. Sophie fingered Annie’s fine silk dress draped over the branch, admiring its delicate lace and pretty ribbons.

The girls changed from their dusty dresses into fresh white gowns tied with new blue ribbons. They smiled at each other, enjoying the transformation in that incongruous setting.

Annie slipped on her own gown, fastening her best gold-and-ruby brooch at the throat. Charlotte helped her with the tiny buttons at the back of her gown.

‘We look like we are going visiting in Edinburgh, not
gallivanting around the bush in a buggy,’ joked Charlotte, holding her skirts and executing a deep curtsey.

‘You both look gorgeous,’ commented Annie.

The three immaculately dressed ladies climbed back into the buggy and sedately trotted the last two miles to Dalesford. The girls had not visited the local town before, so were intrigued to see the people bustling about their business, dogs running in the dusty street and barefoot children playing.

Annie pulled up outside one of the few brick buildings. Pot dismounted and tethered first his horse, then the draught horses, to the hitching post in the street. Pot stayed outside, sitting in the shade and watching the horses and buggy, while Annie led the girls inside.

They were shown into the lawyer’s large office. A tall man wearing a three-piece suit rose and bowed politely as they entered.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Thompson,’ said Annie.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs McLaughlin,’ Mr Thompson said. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Charlotte, Miss Eleanor. Please take a seat.’

Annie sat down on the middle chair, while Nell and Charlotte sat on either side of her, Charlotte clutching her oak box on her lap. Sophie floated over near the window.

‘I have read the letter that Mr McLaughlin wrote to me, and also a letter which your uncle, Roderick Mackenzie, sent to Mr McLaughlin outlining his plans for your future,’ began Mr Thompson, resuming his own seat behind the large desk.

Mr Thompson picked up the pages in front of him and flicked through them. Sophie peeked over his shoulder, reading the pages.

‘I will outline the situation to you as simply as I can,’ promised Mr Thompson.

‘According to Scottish inheritance laws, the estate of Dungorm automatically passes to the closest male relative, which in this case is your uncle, Roderick Mackenzie, and in time it will pass to his son. If your brother Alexander had survived, the estate would have passed to him.’

Charlotte gasped, as though she had been struck. She had been so sure that the lawyer would say that Dungorm should belong to her and Nell. Her mind reeled in confusion.

‘But my father’s will – I saw Uncle Roderick burn it,’ blurted Charlotte, clutching the box tighter.

‘Are you sure it was a will? Did you read it?’ asked Mr Thompson.

‘Nooo,’ admitted Charlotte. ‘But it looked official and important.’

‘It may have been a contract, a business letter or anything at all. However, whether it was a will or not makes very little difference,’ continued Mr Thompson.

‘A heritable estate such as Dungorm, which has been in the Mackenzie family for generations, must be inherited by the closest male relative, usually the eldest son.

‘If a man, such as your father, dies without a son, the law says the estate will go to his younger brother. It is called the law of primogeniture. If your father had bought the estate himself, he could have left it to whomever he chose.’

Mr Thompson paused to let this information sink in. Nell sighed and slumped forward. Charlotte felt numb with shock and disappointment. Annie took first Nell’s then Charlotte’s hand and squeezed them gently.

‘Well, now we know the true situation, girls,’ comforted Annie.

‘However, it is not all bad news, Miss Charlotte. This law relates to the actual heritable estate, but there is also your father’s moveable property: all the furniture, books, jewellery and household effects.

‘I will not go into all the legal terminology, but what it means is that by law, the bairns – that is you and Nell – each receive one quarter of your parents’ goods and investments; the remaining half goes to your uncle.’

Nell looked at Charlotte, confused.

Mr Thompson picked up one of the letters, which was written in Uncle Roderick’s flourishing handwriting. Sophie had trouble reading the swirly letters.

‘Your uncle has indicated in this letter that he has sold your share of the jewellery, goods and furniture. A portion has been set aside to pay for your education and living expenses here in Australia until you grow up; the remaining money has been invested in trust until you come of age.

‘This means that when you are twenty-one, you will both be wealthy young women.’

Annie nodded to Charlotte, confirming the news. Sophie started in surprise.

‘But what if we did not want our goods sold?’ cried Charlotte, her hands clenched around her box. ‘What if we wanted to keep them? What do we want with money when we have nothing left of our parents? What of my mother’s jewellery? I suppose
he
sold it to Aunt
Arabella
for a pittance. How can he do this to us?’

Nell looked upset and hung her head, twisting her hands. Mr Thompson looked grave and played with his pen.

‘Roderick Mackenzie is your guardian and executor of your father’s estate. He can manage your inheritance however he sees fit. I am afraid neither you nor Miss Eleanor has any say in the matter.’

Charlotte slumped, all the fight gone from her. It was final. Dungorm was gone. It was all gone.

Mr Thompson picked up the letter, weighing it in his hands, making a decision.

‘There is one more thing,’ added Mr Thompson. ‘Your uncle mentioned the possibility that one day you, Charlotte, might return to Dungorm.’

Charlotte’s pulse quickened and she sat up straight, her fingers playing with the gold locket around her neck. Perhaps there was still hope after all?

‘Me? But not Nell?’

‘Your uncle mentioned the possibility that when you are older you might marry your cousin, Roddy Mackenzie, and return to Dungorm as his wife.’

Charlotte thought with disgust of her horrible, bullying cousin, with his sly pinches and cruel taunts.

‘Never,’ insisted Charlotte, shivering violently.

‘What a dreadful idea, Charlotte,’ cried Nell. ‘As if you ever could.’

The shock and disappointment of the lawyer’s news suddenly washed over Charlotte and two huge tears rolled down her face. Annie took a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to Charlotte, patting her hand.

‘There, there, Charlotte,’ soothed Annie. ‘Please do not cry. Everything will be fine.’

Mr Thompson picked up the letters from the desk and
handed them to Annie, who folded them and put them away in her reticule, with a nod.

‘I am sorry, Miss Charlotte,’ apologised the lawyer, rising to his feet. ‘I know you were hoping for different news. Perhaps we should give you a moment to compose yourself?’

Mr Thompson showed Annie to the door, Nell following. Sophie stayed behind.

‘Thank you, Mr Thompson, for your advice,’ replied Annie, as they walked across the office. ‘We will wait for you in the front room, Charlotte. Come out when you are ready.’

Charlotte sat still, tears rolling down her face. She could hear Annie and Mr Thompson chatting outside. She sat for a moment feeling totally miserable, holding her box. Sophie sat down on the chair vacated by Annie and stroked Charlotte’s arm, making her shiver.

Using the gold key, Charlotte unlocked the box and emptied her ‘treasures’ out onto the desk: the red pebble, the swatch of tartan, the sprig of heather and the poems of Robbie Burns.

Charlotte’s mother’s gold locket swung free and glinted in the light. Sophie held the identical locket around her own neck.

Charlotte picked at a corner of the violet silk lining and carefully peeled it away from the base. Then she used the reverse end of the gold key – a flat, rounded loop – to slide down between the timber base and the side of the box.

The key levered up the base to reveal a hidden cavity in the bottom of the box. Sophie froze.

Two objects were hidden there: Charlotte’s black leather-bound journal and a tightly wrapped wad of cloth. Charlotte unwrapped the cloth to reveal a flash of blue fire and a dazzle of white.

The Star of Serendib, Eliza’s wedding ring.

Sophie gasped in surprise and delight. Eliza’s ring had not been thrown in the loch or found by Aunt Arabella. It had been hidden in a secret compartment in the oak box all this time.

Charlotte held the cornflower-blue sapphire up then slipped it onto her middle finger. The ring was too loose for her finger and slipped around with its weight.

‘The Star of Serendib,’ Charlotte murmured to herself. ‘I wonder if it is indeed a lucky talisman? It does not seem to have brought us much fortune yet.’

‘I think it will, Charlotte,’ whispered Sophie in answer.

Charlotte smiled as though she had heard, slipped the ring off, wrapped it and put everything away, locking the box once more. She scrubbed her face with Annie’s handkerchief and stood up, her back and shoulders straight, and walked out to join the others.

‘Be careful on the way home,’ warned Mr Thompson. ‘There is a band of bushrangers, Captain Lightning and his gang, that have been making raids on travellers in the district around Dalesford. Last week they killed a native constable while robbing the mail coach.’

‘Indeed?’ replied Annie, glancing at the girls with concern. ‘Surely they will not still be in the district. The police must be looking high and low for them.’

‘I believe so,’ agreed Mr Thompson. ‘Ah, here is Miss Charlotte.’

Mr Thompson showed them into the street, where Pot was waiting with the horses and buggy.

No-one talked on the ten-mile journey home, Pot jogging behind on his shaggy piebald pony. Everyone felt jaded and exhausted after the meeting with the lawyer.