A Scandalous Arrangement (28 page)

“Miss Wynne, are you all right? Peggy, bring a glass of water, then run to the house and see if Mrs. Wynne is available.”

It was Mr. Timmins, taking control, as usual. “Leave me alone, I don’t…”

“You’ve had a shock. Here, take a sip of this.” The rim of a glass was pressed to her lips, and Victoria drank obediently from it.

“Maybe some smelling salts…” Another voice, gruff, a stranger.

“No, she’s coming round. For goodness’ sake, man, could you not have delivered the news more gently? Did you have to just blurt it out like that?” Victoria was puzzled; Mr. Timmins sounded almost angry. She had never observed so much as a ripple of annoyance from the man before.

What news? What were they… Oh, God!
The awful recollection slammed back into her consciousness, relentless, inescapable. Oh, dear Lord, what had happened?

She resisted the relentless pull of reality as long as she could, but eventually had to surrender. Two concerned faces peered at her as she opened her eyes. Mr. Timmins held the glass. She reached for it, took a long gulp, swallowed, then turned to Mr. Catchpole.

“What… What happened? How…?”

“A tropical storm in the Gulf of Mexico. The
Luciana
was two days out of port when it struck. I gather they had little warning. The ship turned over in heavy seas and sank in just minutes. There were survivors. Twelve men were picked up from the sea by other vessels who heeded the distress call, but Mr. Luke was not among them. We must assume he went down with the ship. I am sorry.” He recited the explanation almost by rote. Victoria mused that he must have had some practice. How many other people had he told this to, before her? How many others were far more significant in Adam Luke’s circle than she was? Would ever be, now?

Still she tried. “No, it is not possible. He must have survived. Perhaps he was on another vessel…”

“One of the survivors, the first mate, confirms Mr. Luke was on board the
Luciana
. I wish it were otherwise, but…” He dug his handkerchief from his pocket and set to with the nose-blowing again. Then he wiped his eyes. “I really am very sorry. I held Mr. Luke in high regard myself, very much so. He was my client for several years, and I will miss him.”

Mr. Timmins produced his own handkerchief and thrust it into Victoria’s hands, but there were no tears. Not yet. She was stunned, disbelieving, yet knowing it was true. This awful, unimaginable tragedy, the one thing she never considered, not for a second. It had happened. Adam Luke had been larger than life. Now he was dead.

Dead.

What would she do? How could she cope? How would she be able to go on?

“Miss Wynne, you need not be concerned about the mill. Mr. Luke left that settled. In fact, he left all his affairs in good order.”

Not quite all.
The thought fluttered uselessly through her head but Victoria kept any remark to herself.

Mr. Catchpole continued. “Mr. Luke came to see me a few days before he sailed for America. He had various matters he wished to discuss, arrangements to make. It is as well he did, given, given…”

“Quite,” interrupted Mr. Timmins. “But perhaps you could leave us now. Miss Wynne is clearly distressed.”

“Of course, of course. It has been a shock, for us all. There are matters I must discuss with you, Miss Wynne, important issues we need to settle, but those can wait. I have secured lodgings at an inn close to the station. Perhaps I can call on you tomorrow?”

She did not answer. Could not. She had forgotten how. Her mind was emptied, a blank.

“Yes, tomorrow perhaps. Or the next day. I will send a note when Miss Wynne is feeling more herself.” Mr. Timmins ushered the lawyer from the office just as Peggy arrived, a breathless Hester Wynne at her heels.

“Sweetheart! My poor, precious baby. I am here…” Mrs. Wynne rushed to Victoria’s side and gathered her in her arms. Victoria buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, and at last she wept.

* * *

She didn’t stop crying for days. Two days at least, maybe three. Victoria lost track of time as she locked herself away in her room, alternately sobbing and staring into space. She kept her curtains closed, the room in near darkness as she lay in the gloom and waited for this madness to end.

Her mother was a frequent visitor, and Victoria would sob in her arms. Georgina brought food, and Victoria’s favourite books. She offered to paint a likeliness of Mr. Luke, from a photograph perhaps, if she had one. Victoria wept even more; she had no pictures, nothing to remember him by apart from his unborn child.

It was Mrs. Wynne who finally dragged her from her grief-induced stupor. Victoria groaned as Hester swept into the room and marched past the bed where she huddled. Striding to the window, her mother dragged back the heavy curtains to let the light flood in. Victoria shoved her head under her pillow, determined to avoid any meaningful contact with reality for as long as humanly possible.

She had underestimated her mother’s tenacity. Hester perched on the end of her bed to wait her out. The outcome was inevitable.

“What time is it?” Victoria emerged, blinking.

“Just after eleven-thirty. Shall I ask Mrs. Bridger to make up a tray for you? I believe she has an excellent batch of macaroons today.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know that, but you must eat. You know why.”

“I told you—”

“You are eating for two. You must take care of yourself.”

Victoria sat up straight. “How did you find out? About the baby?”

“I’ve had several of my own, the three of you who lived and two more who did not. But just to make sure, following Mr. Luke’s last visit I took the precaution of asking our laundress to alert me if you required extra linens. You have not, not for two months, so I arrived at the most likely explanation for that.” Hester came to sit alongside Victoria and reached for her daughter’s hand. “So, we are to have a baby in the house then?”

Victoria bowed her head, grief for the child’s lost father nearly swamping her. Was it possible to simply die of grief? She had heard of people expiring of a broken heart but dismissed such fanciful notions as the stuff of romantic fantasy, the sort of things that she might read about in penny novels if she had time to bother with such nonsense. This was real life. Her life, but she felt like death, wanted to just not be here anymore. Could it be true then? Was this it?

“Victoria? The baby?”

“What?”

“You are to have a baby? Yes?”

“Yes. In about seven months’ time.” She raised her eyes to meet her mother’s concerned gaze. “Are you angry?”
Did any of that matter anyway? Did anything at all matter now?

“I like babies. And as for being angry, this is no one’s business but ours. I take it the news is not unwelcome to you?”

Victoria shook her head, surprised to note that she felt a stirring of interest. “I wanted to conceive. I particularly asked Adam not to, to… to do whatever he would have. He did offer.”

“I should hope he did. He was a gentleman.” Hester broke off whatever else she might have said to take Victoria in her arms again. The merest mention of Adam’s name was enough to send the poor child into a fit of weeping. She waited until the sobs subsided. “My sweet, I know you are hurting but we need to look to the future. You need to eat, you need to come back among us. You are loved, cared for. You are grieving now, and I do understand why, but it will pass. I swear to you, it will feel better, eventually. But you owe it to your child to rally if you can.”

Victoria knew her mother was right. No matter how tempting her darkened bedroom, it would not do. Her heart might not be in it, but her head could be a stern taskmaster when called for. With an effort, she nodded. “Yes, I know that. Please thank Mrs. Bridger. I would like a macaroon, and perhaps some tea.”

“Of course. And I will have hot water brought up so you may bathe.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you get dressed later, perhaps join us in the drawing room before tea?”

“I’m not sure…”

“I would like you to. If you could?”

“Very well. Before tea.”

Hester stood. “Oh, and that lawyer is still wanting to talk to you.”

Victoria frowned, not wishing to ever see Horace Catchpole again if she could help it. The man haunted her darkest moments. “Must I?”

“He says it is imperative, but he is prepared to wait until you are ready. Mr. Catchpole is a patient man. He went back to London for few days, but has returned. He seems most eager.”

A few days? How could that be possible?
“What day is it now, mother?”

“It is Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? But how? I mean, how long since…”

“It was last Wednesday that you heard the news. You have been closeted in here since then, almost a week. And it is high time you came out—just as far as the drawing room.”

“A week! But, who is looking after the mill?”

“Oliver is very capable. You did well to make him manager.”

“Oliver? Who…?”

“Your Mr. Timmins. Oliver Timmins. And little Peggy. They are doing a wonderful job. Everyone is, while you recover. They will be delighted to have you back, in time, but they can manage.”

“I never knew his Christian name. All these years, I never knew that.”

“I’m sure you did, you just did not have a use for it until now. I’ll see to your bath. And I’ll send word to Mr. Catchpole that he may call to see you tomorrow, shall I?”

Victoria gritted her teeth. It seemed Mr. Catchpole was not to be avoided. “Yes. Yes, tomorrow will be fine.”

* * *

“Good afternoon. I am sorry to disturb you, but I do appreciate you agreeing to see me.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Catchpole. That is quite all right. I apologise that you have been made to wait so long.” Victoria managed to keep her voice level, controlled as the lawyer settled in one of her mother’s fine chairs. Still not feeling up to leaving the house, Victoria had agreed to meet with Mr. Catchpole in the drawing room rather than in her office. He selected a sheaf of papers from his bulging briefcase and deposited them on the low table before him.

Hester Wynne had shown their visitor into the room herself then directed the laying out of a tea tray. Satisfied that the social pleasantries were concluded, she excused herself.

“Please, could you stay, mother?” Victoria had not intended to ask, but suddenly had no wish to be alone with the solicitor. Who knew what further dismal tidings he might have to impart? Her bargain with Adam had not been concluded, had hardly commenced in fact. She was probably right back where she had started as far as her mill was concerned.

“Of course.” Mrs. Wynne resumed her seat beside Victoria on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap.

“You have pressing matters to discuss with me, I gather?” Victoria attempted her most professional expression. She may have pulled it off as the lawyer shuffled his papers and selected the top few to deal with first.

“Ahem, yes. Yes, there are number of issues. The most straightforward of these is the question of the mill. Wynne’s Weaving Mill, to be exact.”

Victoria tensed.

Mr. Catchpole offered her a quick smile. “Mr. Luke left instructions that in the event of his death Wynne’s Weaving Mill was to pass to you, Miss Wynne, in its entirety. The building, business, all associated premises… by which he meant the workers’ cottages I understand. They are yours. I have taken the liberty of drawing up the papers you will need to sign.” He paused to hand her a small stack of legal documents. “Perhaps you could find time to review these later, and return the signed copies to me in order to finalise matters. Congratulations, Miss Wynne. You are a wealthy woman.”

Victoria gaped at him. She made no move to take the papers. “Me? He left it to me? My mill?”

“He did, Miss Wynne. All of it.”

“But, I did not know him that well.”

“You knew him well enough, my dear.” Hester leaned forward to take the documents. “My daughter has had a shock. I will see to it she signs these and get them back to you.”

The lawyer relinquished the contract into Hester’s safekeeping. “Thank you, Mrs. Wynne. There is no hurry, just when… well, when you can.”

He made no move to leave. Both women watched him in silence as he extracted further documents from the pile before him. “I know from your remarks just now you considered Mr. Luke to be but a business acquaintance, but he seems to have held you in very high regard, Miss Wynne. He has made further requests of you in his will. I confess I was surprised when he issued his instructions to me, but he was most emphatic…”

“Instructions, Mr. Catchpole?” Victoria levelled her gaze at the man. “What instructions?”

“He has asked that you be his executor. Along with me.”

“The executor of his will? Me?”

“Indeed, Miss Wynne. He appointed you and me joint executors. I understood that he intended to discuss the matter with you, but I gather he did not do that?”

She shook her head. “No, he never mentioned such a thing.”

“I see. Of course, you are under no obligation to accept the responsibility, but it was Mr. Luke’s wish that you do so. I would ask that you at least consider it. I can assure you that his affairs are not especially complex. The role would not be onerous, on the whole.”

“But, Adam was rich. Very rich. He had many business interests. Investments. A shipping line…”

“He did, that is true, but I am fully conversant with all his financial affairs and I am able to offer any guidance or information you may need.”

“I do not understand, why would I need your guidance? Surely it is merely a matter of disposal. His estate will be dispersed among his beneficiaries. His family.”

“Not exactly.” The lawyer shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “It would have been far preferable had Mr. Luke found an opportunity to discuss his wishes with you, but I will endeavour to explain. I know this was a matter of the most profound importance to him.” Mr. Catchpole looked from Victoria to Hester, then back again. “Apart from yourself in the matter of the mill, there are few beneficiaries. Mr. Luke left five thousand pounds to his housekeeper, a Mrs. Jennings, and twenty thousand pounds to his sister-in-law, Mrs. Winters.”