A Divided Inheritance (6 page)

He had only a hazy memory of what his mother had said the night she died. He had been only twelve, so the words in his head were vague, although he had repeated the scene over and over to try to
fix it there. In the morning he had found her lucky talisman – the finger-sized piece of Calvary wood she said was from Christ’s cross – still under her pillow. And with it the
letter. He had kept them both all this time. They were the last of her, and he could not let them go.

His mother had meant well, of course; she was like a dog who would fight wolves for her pups. And Zachary had not been surprised at first that Leviston never appeared, and he had been glad.
Neither had Zachary bothered to look for him. Leviston had always seemed too stiff and formal; Saul and Kit had mocked him, called him Uncle Carbuncle. At least his brothers were familiar, and much
as he hated them, he loved them too, though he would never have owned it. So he had tried to stick with his brothers with never a thought for Leviston, even when he was so hungry he had cried. Even
when his ribs were so black and blue from his brothers’ beatings that he could not stand.

He had almost forgotten about Leviston entirely until a week ago. Until that piece of paper fluttered down in St Paul’s. He had passed those notices nearly every day and had hardly given
them a second glance. Had it not been for the fact that the wind had gusted through the open door and the damned thing had fluttered to his feet, he would not be here now.

Nathaniel Leviston seeks his nephew, Zachary Deane
, he had read with astonishment. The strangeness of the way that paper came into his hand, like a message from above, meant he could
not ignore it; it was surely a sign from heaven. So he had taken himself to Leviston’s notary as the paper suggested, and from there to a meeting with Leviston himself, and to West View
House. All in the space of a few days. Smooth – as if his life was all of a sudden sliding on greased pulleys.

And now, he had probably ruined it all, the one chance he’d ever had to better his lot.

He stepped aside to avoid the scarred beggar on the street corner with his rattling pan, and blinked away the image of his cut-throat brothers who were adept at whipping the pans from men such
as these. Lord knows, he’d tried to make his way like them, through petty thievery and gambling. Though he was skilled it never did pay him much, but kept the wolf from knocking at his door
until he was grown enough to make wagers on his sword-skills. For, if he said it himself, he was a neat hand with a blade.

He walked on up the road, blowing on his hands to warm them, and feeling unaccountably angry. Damn Leviston. Why could he not have just accepted him as his nephew? The only reason he’d
agreed to go to West View House at all was that he needed proper training now from a real master of fence, if he was ever to whip his brothers, and for that he needed more money than he could get
from his usual ‘trade’. He had thought to take a few things the Levistons would not notice once he had got inside the house, and sell them on.

He stopped to let a street-hawker with a tray of breadcakes pass. Perhaps he should abandon the whole idea of living at West View House. It was much more awkward than he thought. The daughter
was obviously suspicious – she’d been going through his things. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to go through life as Leviston’s son; it would be a hard task to sustain and,
besides, it was becoming clear that Leviston would be hard to stomach as a relation.

A voice calling from behind him made his heart sink. He turned reluctantly.

‘I’m sorry.’ It was Leviston, arriving breathless and hatless. He had obviously followed him up the road. ‘That was clumsily done. I’m no use with sweet
words.’ He twisted his hat in his hands. ‘But it is out now, and I cannot withdraw it. I am a fool in matters of the heart, I know. Pray forgive me.’

Zachary paused and waited, his satchel clasped in front of his chest like a barrier. Nobody had ever apologized to him before like that. He did not know how to respond.

Leviston stuttered on, ‘I meant you to know the truth of it. It seemed only fair. But it would be an embarrassment – an embarrassment for us all, were it to be generally
known.’

But you do not know the truth
, thought Zachary, trying to organize his thoughts.

Leviston was still talking. ‘And you must get to know Elspet better before I tell her. That is, if it suits you, I was going to suggest that we ignore what I have told you and continue to
call each other “Nephew” and “Uncle”.’

Zachary grasped at this. ‘I cannot call you “Father”.’ He was adamant.

‘But “Uncle”? Surely you can keep calling me “Uncle”, just as you used to when you were a boy?’

Leviston looked so pathetic standing there, all innocent, big eyes pleading, that Zachary’s nod had happened before he had time to think.

‘Uncle, then,’ Leviston said, patting him on the arm. ‘Come, let us take the carriage home.’

‘But I—’

‘Enough work for one day.’ Leviston linked his arm in Zachary’s. ‘Let’s get home to the house. I can go through the rest of the figures with you there.’

Zachary was not sure if he was disgusted with himself or relieved. What on earth had he done? He would have to go on pretending. But now it was worse; he’d missed his chance to tell the
man the truth. As they strolled together up the street he consoled himself by thinking that if only his mother could see him now, side by side with the sober-cloaked Leviston, she at least would be
smiling a proud smile.

Elspet knocked at the door to her father’s study. Zachary had been in there for more than an hour and she had grown tired of waiting for them to emerge. Father opened the
door and gestured her in. She squeezed in past the trunks piled high with books and the baskets with samples of lace.

‘Pray pardon, Father, but I wanted to talk with you about this month’s figures before we go in to the chambers tomorrow.’ She held out the thick ledger of bound vellum.

‘Ah.’ Father looked uncomfortable. ‘Come in a moment and sit.’ He cleared some cards of dusty cut-work from the only other chair. Zachary was sitting in the one near the
window, the low-backed upholstered chair she usually occupied, a tankard of small beer on the sill next to him.

She sat, and Zachary looked her over.

‘We were just discussing the new bobbin-lace from Milan,’ Father said. ‘It has been selling well, much better than the needle lace.’

‘That’s because it sits flat, Father. The new soft collars demand something that will lie close. Ruffs with picot edges are no longer à la mode. Can I see?’

He handed her a fall of airy lace, almost transparent, but edged with tiny scallops and florets. ‘Oh, yes, it’s beautiful. I can imagine this round a silk collar. How
much?’

‘Ten pence a yard. Not much profit, I fear – many bones, you see, for the making of it.’

‘If there’s not much profit in it coming all the way from Milan, is there no way it could be manufactured here in England?’ Zachary asked.

She smiled at him, thinking that obviously he understood nothing of the lace trade. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The English specialize in tape lace and needle lace. Here, lace-making is a
craft for the poor; it keeps them occupied. In Milan, there are whole factories of makers, almost like a proper guild.’

‘Well, no reason we could not do that here,’ Zachary said, picking up a bone bobbin from the desk and juggling it through the fingers of one hand.

She looked to her Father to catch his eye and garner some support. To set up a factory like that would be an undertaking quite beyond him. He was not as strong as he had been since his narrow
escape from the plague. And his eyesight had deteriorated. Sometimes she had been obliged to quietly instruct Wilmot to return shoddy lace that would never have got past Father in earlier
years.

But he looked away from her, and seized on Zachary’s words with enthusiasm. ‘Now there’s an idea worth thinking about. Expansion. Yes, I like the sound of it.’

‘But, Father, there is enough to do already. We can barely keep up with the orders as it is.’

Zachary was still juggling the bobbin with distracting deftness. ‘Then we need more supply, I would say, to meet demand.’

‘Quite right. It’s an excellent notion. I’ll run it past Wilmot tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Father,’ she said, ‘we’ll do that.’ The overseer would soon throw cold water on Zachary’s impractical idea.

Father paused, ruminating. ‘I was thinking, I don’t think it necessary for you to come to the chambers tomorrow, Elspet.’

‘Tush, Father, I always come with you on Fridays.’

‘And I’m sure there are other more productive things you could be doing than sitting in my chambers hunched over the figures. You should be socializing, calling on other young
ladies, practising your music.’

She glared at Zachary. He was still playing nonchalantly with that infernal bobbin, and ignoring her. She wished he would go, she did not want to argue with Father before him.

‘But how will you manage the figures, Father? Your eyesight is not what it was, and you hardly have time—’

‘There is nothing whatever the matter with my eyesight. I have perfect eyesight. But you should be at home more. The servants need more supervision. Though I’m not saying it was not
pleasant to have your company. But you are not making your way much in society, and you should be able to do things other women of your age do, as Zachary has pointed out. He is quite right, it is
selfish of me to keep you closeted in my chambers.’

Zachary put down the bobbin. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘And there is no need, I shan’t lack company, Zachary will assist me,’ pronounced Father.

Zachary jumped to attention. ‘If Cousin Elspet wants to carry on, then I see no reason why she should not, I was only saying—’

‘It will be a pleasure to have your company, and I’m sure Elspet will fill her time perfectly well with women’s crafts.’

‘But what about my fencing?’ Zachary was frowning now, sitting forward in his chair.

‘There’ll be time enough for that, never fear.’ Father beamed uncharacteristically at them both. ‘So it’s all settled.’

The next day, Zachary bent his head against the wind and hurried away towards the square stone tower of St Paul’s. Another morning with Uncle Leviston had almost finished
him. However did Elspet Leviston stand it? He’d told his uncle he was going to his fencing training but, truth be told, he had yet to find a legal Master of Fence to take him on – at
least, one who had served his proper state apprenticeship, not just a twopenny charlatan. He had hankered after studying with a certified master for so long now that the ache had taken up permanent
residence in his bones.

Leviston had given him a purse for his first lesson, and today he felt like escaping the warehouses and finding a bit of fun. His uncle’s company already stifled him.

Zachary shook the wet off his hat, crossed the threshold of St Paul’s and swaggered inside. The big church was a place he knew every inch of, especially the stone-vaulted ceiling. When he
was small he used to nip and foist there with his brothers – that is relieving country folk of their purses, and taking the pickings back to his mother. She never asked any questions about
where their trimmings came from, but accepted them as a gift, as if they were farm cats bringing back a mouse.

Out of habit he looked at people’s shoes to see where they hailed from. Country folk were the best pickings. When he was younger, he’d pretend to faint, and you could always tell the
country folk by the way they rushed over to see what was amiss. As they bent over, a quick chop would let the moneybag fall like a plum, and up he’d leap and scramble away. A small paring
knife was his first weapon, and it still had a place in his armoury even now, tucked up the lining of his sleeve.

To mark himself out as a gentleman, he threw his cloak over one shoulder to flash its green silk lining, strode down the aisle and looked about for any acquaintances who might fancy a fencing
bout or two. But not his brothers; he didn’t know where Saul and Kit were now and he didn’t want to know. They’d gone off to find their ruffian father, Ben Hagget, and now they
were on the dub with him, like as not. Ben Hagget had beaten them all, his mother included, until they’d fled. And his sons were rent from the same cloth; like father, like son.

Inside the church it was bustle as usual; Paul’s Walk was less like a walk and more like a dodge. It was not long before he spotted John ‘Gin’ Shotterill, already in the
company of two country squires. Gin was trying to persuade them into one of the nearby ordinaries for a game of dice.

‘Hey, Deane, over here!’

Zachary sauntered over to his friend.

‘Allow me to present Mr Ashley and Mr Walker.’

He bowed low to the gentlemen, who seemed relieved to see a diversion.

‘Pleased to meet you both.’

‘We’re just going over to the Green Man for a game of dice,’ Gin said.

‘Good plan. I’ll join you.’ Zachary turned to the one called Ashley, whose woollen stockings and iron-soled boots shouted ‘country’. ‘Been in town
long?’