The Inheritance (5 page)

By the time
the carriage pulled into the long road private road that led to her
Uncle's grand house, Hanley Hall, Elizabeth's bouts of sobbing had
passed, leaving her silent and sad. Peering out the window she
looked fondly upon the familiar grounds. Nothing had changed since
she had been there last. Had it been eight months? Nine months? She
had to make it up to him. All those months and no visits! She would
not leave his side until he was completely well, and she convinced
herself she would nurse him back to spectacular health.

The moment the
carriage came to a stop she was climbing out and racing up the wide
steps to the open doors that greeted her. The head housekeeper, Mrs
Danvers, and the butler, Carstairs, were waiting, along with
several footmen who immediately headed to the carriage.

"Miss
Elizabeth," Mrs Danvers said warmly, "your Uncle will be so pleased
to see you. He has been asking for you all morning.'

"Thank you,
Mrs Danvers. Please take me to him right away," she said, doing her
best to control her anxious impatience.

Mrs Danvers
had found the young Elizabeth an impossible child and not much
better as she had grown into adolescence, but the young lady
standing in front of her bore no resemblance to the memory. This
Elizabeth was surprisingly polite and soft spoken.

"Of course,"
she replied. "If you'll please follow me."

Pulling off
her hat as she followed the housekeeper up the stairs, she shook
her head and ran her fingers through her long, wavy auburn hair.
She had left her house in such a rush Grace had no time to twirl it
up and around her head. They turned left at the top of the stairs
and headed down the long hallway towards the double doors at the
very end. Elizabeth couldn't help but recall how much fun she would
have in the passageway, running up and down, squealing and laughing
as her uncle chased her with a very large toy lion.

"He's going to
eat you!" he would cry. "Lions like to eat little girls for
lunch!"

When he caught
her, which he always would, the large stuffed lion would tickle her
until her stomach hurt so bad she thought she would break.

Mrs Danvers
opened the doors and Elizabeth stepped into her Uncle's bedchamber.
It was dark, the heavy velvet burgundy curtains pulled closed,
allowing but a fragment of light that filtered through a tiny crack
where the drapes met in the middle.

"Miss
Elizabeth is here, Sir," Mrs Danvers announced, walking past her
and softly approaching the bed.

"Where?
Where?"

His voice was
weak - frail - nothing at all like her uncle's voice. It couldn't
possibly be him in the bed. Frightened, she moved quickly across to
his bedside where she stood momentarily in shock. Lying before her
was a shell of the once handsome, elegant man. Letting out a cry of
fear and sorrow, she fell upon his chest.

"Uncle. I'm
here, Uncle. Now you must be well. I shall do whatever it takes to
make you well," she cried.

She felt his
thin, weak arm wrap gently around her back.

"My dear,
sweet Elizabeth," he said, his voice broken and frail.

Raising
herself up, tears flowing freely, she took his hand and pressed her
lips against his fingers with urgent, frightened kisses.

"Uncle, what
can I do?"

"Elizabeth -
you must listen to me. I don't think I will be here much
longer."

"No!" she
exclaimed. "Don't say that. You will. You will. I cannot bear that
you might leave me."

Mrs Danvers,
standing slightly back and to one side, stepped forward and touched
Elizabeth on the shoulder. The young woman was beside herself and
she didn't know quite what to do. A sound at the door caught her
attention, and to her relief she saw Elizabeth's father.

"I say, I
say," he said, moving to Elizabeth's side.

"George,"
Alfred croaked. "So happy you're here."

Elizabeth's
father was stunned. He'd had no idea his brother was so ill. He was
a shadow of his former self, with a sallow grey pallor and his skin
appeared to be stretched across the bones of his face.

"Alfred," he
replied. "Dear brother. What doctors can I send for?"

Alfred lifted
his free hand and waved it - the feeble motion breaking George's
heart.

"Doctors are
finished," he mumbled. "But you must - you must listen carefully.
Elizabeth—"

"Yes, Uncle.
I'm here," she sobbed, holding his hand, trying not to squeeze it
too tightly.

"Elizabeth I
have made a will - it's there. On my desk. By the window," he said,
his voice slow and barely audible.

"I don't care
about any silly will. I just care about you and you must be
better!"

"Elizabeth.
Let your uncle talk," her father scolded gently.

She looked up
at him, eternally grateful he was there.

"I'm sorry,
Papa," she quivered. "I just can't bear it."

"I know my
dear," he replied, patting her back. "I know."

"What is it
Uncle Alf? I'm so sorry," she apologized, fighting her tears. "What
must you tell me?"

Her uncle had
closed his eyes, and for a brief moment panic clutched her
heart.

"Uncle!" she
said, tightening her grip around his hand.

Slowly he
lifted his lids.

"Yes, my
dearest. There's a will. On the desk. By the window," he repeated,
his voice slow and barely a whisper. "Elizabeth, you saved me - you
saved my heart."

Elizabeth
started to say that he was wrong. That he had saved her. After her
mother became bedridden he had brought sunshine and normalcy back
into her world, but caught herself, remembering her father's tender
reprimand.

"This house -
my wife's house - my baby's house - it's yours now, Elizabeth. It's
been yours since you were a child. And a fortune. It's all in the
will."

Elizabeth's
throat was hot and constricted to the point she couldn't speak. She
looked up at her father, confused and questioning. What was he
saying? Was he delirious?

"My dear," he
whispered. Elizabeth felt the shadow of a tug on her hand and
realized her dying uncle was attempting to pull her forward. Trying
not to let out the wail that was forming deep inside her, she
leaned her head down, placing her ear at his lips.

"I love you -
I shall watch over you..."

And he was
still.

The two weeks
that followed Alfred's death Elizabeth wandered through life in a
fog. She had lost her mother and now her dear Uncle Alf. The grief
was almost more than she could bear.

When her
father attempted to explain the enormous wealth she now possessed
she would sit quietly and listen, but it was apparent she wasn't
processing any of the information. She had no appetite, and if she
wasn't down at the stables petting the horses or off on a ride, she
could be found in her Uncle's bed chamber staring out the
window.

When James
received word that Alfred had passed he sent a message to Lord
Michael who immediately responded offering his heartfelt
condolences, including a separate note for Elizabeth. James decided
to deliver the note in person. He needed to spend some time with
his father anyway. There were urgent business matters that needed
attention.

When he
arrived at Hanley Hall he was shocked to find his sister forlorn
and lacklustre. There was no sparkle in her eye and she had lost
considerable weight in a very short amount of time. James
immediately sent word to Lord Michael asking if there was any
possibility he could journey to the estate and attend his sister.
It was the only course of action James could think of.

When the
letter from James arrived at his office in the heart of London,
Lord Michael was already considering the way in which he might be
able to lighten the heavy load of his many business interests.
While his financial prowess had brought him great success, it also
brought with it the burden of responsibility and time consuming
duties, even though he had an astute man who did his various
accounts, and two young apprentices who worked in his office.

The news in
the letter reinforced his desire to free himself as much as he was
able. How could he take a week - or more - to journey to the
country and take care of his dearest Elizabeth? Staring at the
workload on his desk it seemed impossible. He felt trapped and
irritated. She needed him and he didn't know how he could manage
it.

But there was
another reason he wanted some relief.

When Elizabeth
had been rushed off to see her ailing uncle, Lord Michael himself
was in a bad way. The doctors could not tell him if it had been his
dinner or some nefarious germ that had entered his system, but he
had been violently ill for five full days.

When he was
finally able to leave the Manor and travel back to the city he was
still weak and had found the trip most arduous, and the enormity of
the untended work that faced him was almost overwhelming. As a
younger man he would have ploughed through it, burning the midnight
oil, but his desire to work tirelessly was subsiding. He had made
his fortune. It was time to enjoy it.

Poor Elizabeth. He stared at the note.
Inconsolable - not eating - barely speaking
. She needed him and he cared for her very deeply. She was a
delightful creature. Passionate and headstrong, which was a
blessing given his proclivities, very pretty and delightful
company.

Feeling
peckish he decided to walk to the local bakery for a light lunch.
Since his illness he found small amounts throughout the day was the
best course. Some bread and cheese, perhaps a pastry and a nice cup
of tea would see him right. As he rose from his desk and donned his
coat he recalled how charming it had been to spank her beautiful
bottom with his shoe. He realized, with a start, that it was the
first time he'd had any stirring in his loins since that night. He
sighed with relief. He must be on the mend, and in that moment
became all too aware of how much he missed her.

He wandered
down the short distance to the tea shoppe. It was owned by a
married couple, Meg and Tom McNeil. Meg would serve and Tom was the
baker. Lord Michael had been a frequent customer since he acquired
his office several years before.

They were both
rotund and jolly and appeared to have a very happy time together.
When he entered however, he discovered they were in the middle of a
squabble. They weren't visible but the angry words could be clearly
heard from behind the curtain that separated the bakery from the
front counter. Lord Michael glanced around. The few tables in the
small establishment were empty.

There was a
bell on the counter, and he was unsure whether to ring it and
interrupt their argument or discreetly depart. He was on the verge
of doing the latter when he heard something that changed his
mind.

"I've a good
mind to wallop you lass," he heard Tom bark.

"Try it and
you'll be sorry," Meg snapped back.

"Those buns
needed five more minutes! I'm the baker and I'm your husband. You
must listen to me woman."

"I'll not
Thomas McNeil," Meg shrilled back at him. "If I want a bun hot from
the oven I'll be helpin' myself."

Lord Michael
felt himself grow tall, like an animal facing its prey. Tom needed
his help, immediately. He rang the bell. He heard hushed whispers
and a moment later Meg, red-faced and slightly out of breath,
slipped through the curtain.

"Lord
Michael," she beamed, "'tis always a pleasure. What will you be
having today?"

"If you would
be so kind, a pot of tea, some bread and cheese, and a pastry. And
while you are preparing it might I have a word with your good
husband?"

"Why
certainly, Sir. Thomas!" she called, bustling back through the
curtain.

Lord Michael
walked to the table furthest from the counter, nestled in a private
corner away from the window. Thomas McNeil, also red-faced and
clearly unsettled, appeared behind the counter, and spotting Lord
Michael ambled his large frame towards him. He was a robust man,
tall and strong, with a belly from years of tasting his delicious
creations.

"Sir," he said
smiling, extending his hand. "How may I be of service?"

"Won't you sit
down?" Lord Michael offered.

The man was
surprised by his offer, and hesitant, but Lord Michael gestured a
second time and Tom took a seat.

"I must say
I'm curious. What would a businessman like yourself want with the
likes of me?"

"Forgive me if
I am being impertinent, Tom," Lord Michael began carefully, "but I
couldn't help overhearing the heated conversation you were having
with your wife."

Tom shook his
head.

"I'm very
sorry. I did not mean for anyone to be disturbed by our squabbling.
I do apologize. Over the last year she has become very - well -
what's the word Sir? She wants to argue with me all the time."

"I am not
looking for any kind of apology," Lord Michael said softly. "Quite
the opposite in fact. I wish only to help you."

"Help me?"
asked the astonished man. "But how can you help me?"

"Would you be
shocked - or even offended - if I was to suggest that all your wife
requires is a decent dose of discipline now and then?"

Lord Michael
watched Tom's eyes widen in surprise. He leaned forward and
whispered, "It would not, Sir, and I have been considering that
very thing. I just don't know how to - how to - begin."

"Excellent,"
Lord Michael said, sitting back in his chair, and seeing Meg
waddling towards them carrying his lunch on a tray he shot Tom a
furtive glance of warning. Tom had been leaning across the table
and immediately sat straight.

"Here you are,
Sir," she said happily. "That's a nice jam tart for your pastry.
Tom made them fresh this morning."