A Divided Inheritance (3 page)

‘Good.’ Father exhaled a long sigh. ‘I’ll take Zachary down, and Coleman will help him fetch his trunk from the carriage.’

‘No need,’ Zachary said. ‘It’s paltry few things. I can do it myself.’

‘Coleman will assist you. No point having servants else.’

Zachary was about to speak but then closed his mouth. Instead he gave a curt nod. He cast Elspet a long appraising look before turning and going back out of the door.

When he was out of earshot, Father said, ‘You will grow to like him, I know you will.’

‘I like him already.’

‘No, you don’t. It is written clear as clear on your face. You looked him up and down as though he were a servant you were about to hire.’

Indignation rose up in her. Father had described exactly the way Zachary had looked at her.

‘Come now, he has lost his mother and, by all accounts, his greedy elder brothers have taken his inheritance and left him with nothing but what he stands in. You must be kind, as I know
you are.’

‘I’m sorry if my manner gave offence, Father,’ Elspet said stiffly. ‘How long will he stay?’

‘As long as is needful.’ Father was impatient, ‘Besides, he’s only just arrived.’ He tapped her on the arm, to take his leave of her. ‘I’ll go and
enquire if he has everything he wants.’ He hurried away, and the uneven fall of his footsteps passed through the hall.

As soon as they were out of the door she hurried over to the window and drew the curtain aside. The lining flaked dust into her fingers. Moths had made a feast of the drapes and she had talked
to Father about it, but he never noticed these things. His free time was spent crouched over his tracts in his chamber, or down in the priest cellar like a badger in his lair. She had lost count of
the number of times she had asked for more linen for drapes.

Who was he, this cousin? Where had he come from? Father’s complexion had turned pink as a pig and he had been all a-fluster, most unlike his usual self. He had touched Zachary’s arm
with such warmth. It gave her a pang; since Mother had died, Father had never shown much fatherly fancy to her except in the matter of teaching and correcting. Her family was never so demonstrative
– Father used to think it improper – but perhaps it was what her cousin was used to.

Elspet peered out into the yard, tilting her head to the greenish glass. The carriage was right below her window. Nobody was there yet; the horses were idling, back legs cocked
and resting, heads low. The unsettling thought crossed her mind that perhaps Father considered Zachary to be a suitable match for her. She sincerely hoped not.

The outside door swung open and Cousin Zachary appeared in the yard followed by Coleman and his stable boy. Zachary was right below her as the servants climbed atop for his luggage. He was
somewhat short in stature; she supposed she was as tall as he. Kind folk called her stately or handsome, but nevertheless, she mused, he was still short for a man. He had nice hair though, curling
dark hair just like her own, but not so unruly. Zachary reached up to help with the bags, but Coleman shook his head emphatically at him and Zachary turned away. He folded his arms and scrubbed at
the dirt on the drive with one foot.

Surprisingly, he had only one small trunk, a swordcase for his arms, and a leather satchel – a pitiful amount for a gentleman. Father had said he had been disinherited, and she felt a
moment’s sympathy for him. As she pondered this he looked up and saw her face at the glass. He raised one hand in solemn greeting. Instinctively, she scurried back behind the drapes, but then
chided herself; he had clearly seen her watching, after all. Feeling foolish she went back to the window to return his wave, but the yard was already empty; they had all gone inside.

She paced the floor then, wondering what might be taking place in the lower chambers. So many questions. Why had she never been told of her cousins? She had the impression there were other
brothers older than Zachary. Father said they had stolen his inheritance. What did that mean? She had never heard of any kin on Father’s side. Mother, God rest her soul, had a brother,
Edward, but he had married a Frenchwoman and they had settled in Paris. Father’s family was a whole new mystery.

She could not imagine her father having a sister. In fact, she could not imagine Father had ever been a child at all, that he had ever played or chortled or skipped down the stairs, the way she
and her sister Joan had when they were children.

She smoothed down her skirts and hastened out of her chamber and down to the kitchen to tell Goody Turner the news. When she pushed open the narrow door, Goody Turner was towelling Jakes with a
dishclout and Diver was chewing on the stick now that Jakes had discarded it. Diver jumped up wagging his tail for his pat on the head before returning to the fascination of the splintery
stick.

‘Mistress,’ Turner said.

‘Goody Turner,’ she squatted down next to Jakes where he was spreadeagled on the floor having his stomach rubbed, ‘we have a new cousin.’

‘Look, he found the only puddle in London,’ Turner said, holding out the muddy cloth. Elspet took it and scrubbed at Jakes’s stomach. ‘He’s just arrived. He’s
called Zachary. My cousin.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘He’s going to stay awhile, Father says. He’s in the old nursery.’

Goody Turner’s eyes lit up. She used to be their nursemaid before she was their cook. ‘How old is he?’

‘Oh, old. I mean he’s grown. Sorry. About the same age as I am, I should think. Maybe a little older.’

‘Oh.’ Goody Turner sighed. ‘Will he be wanting his midday meal, then?’ She pushed Diver away from his stick with her foot. ‘If he is, I’ll be needing these
dogs out from under my feet.’

‘Sorry, I’ll take them up. Where’s Martha?’

‘Set to mending the fires, like as not, if your father’s got visitors. Happen it will be nice for Master to have some male company. He’s had a house full of women and maids all
his life.’

‘I’m sure we’ve been company enough.’

‘Hmm.’ Turner did not say it, but Elspet knew what she was thinking. Every Catholic father wants a son, and Mother had done naught but produce girls or stillborns until she lost hold
of her life birthing Lydia. But this was something no one ever dared speak of out loud, even Goody Turner.

Elspet sat down on the floor and scooped Diver into her arms, more to reassure herself than to pet him. Strands of grass still clung to his white fur. She breathed in the familiar comforting
smell of warm dog and wondered about whether Cousin Zachary’s mother had died in childbirth. He had lost his mother too, just like she had, but of course men were better at hiding their
emotions than women.

She remembered the night Mother died as clearly as if it was yesterday, though it was nine years since. She could never forget the sight of Goody Turner blundering past her door, cheeks running
with tears, her hands full of bloody cloths. The terrible animal noises from her mother’s chamber. When the screams finally stopped, her father’s voice echoed, desperate in the sudden
quiet, ‘What of the babe? My son, does he survive?’

The midwife’s answer came back, ‘God be praised. A beautiful girl.’

A loud crash. Elspet rushed on to the landing to look, and saw servants were sweeping up the remains of a broken vase. They kept their heads down and low. When she cried out, Father did not
turn, but she saw his back as he flung open the front door and staggered into the squally weather outside with no coat. There was thick silence then, the servants quiet as mice, her mother’s
moans all finished, the new babe too afraid to cry.

It was a whole month before Elspet took the courage to name her. Lydia. A lovely name, like music. She thought Mother would have liked it. But Father was not interested to look upon Lydia. He
let the choice of name stand, and after much persuasion by Goody Turner, she was duly baptized.

Father was lost without Mother, he could not settle to his books. Once at prayer, he told Elspet God was punishing him, and that was why Mother was taken. Punishing him for what, he refused to
say. In the dark days after her death he just kept confessing over and over, in the priest cellar below. All the confessing in the world was no use, though. Lydia, too, died of the smallpox only
two months later. Or perhaps because her father would not love her.

Elspet shuddered and hugged Diver tight, kissing the top of his hairy head as he squirmed and panted in her arms.

‘This cousin, will you bring him to see old Goody Turner?’ The old nursemaid broke into her thoughts.

‘Of course I will,’ Elspet said. ‘But you will meet him soon enough anyway. Did Martha manage Jakes yesterday?’

‘No, mistress. She had to come back after only a quarter-hour. She said her arms were stretched as long as beans with his pulling.’

‘Then I will take him out again. He needs more exercise. He can have a good run, and I need to get out into the fresh air.’

‘I don’t know – you’ve just come back! It seems to me you’re never happy unless you’re out tramping the fields with those dogs. It will be dark soon,
mistress. Master would not want you walking abroad at night, even with the dogs. They’re soft as cotton, the pair of them. No earthly use as guard dogs, the great daft things. If you hold
tight, I’ll ask Martha to go too, and I know Broadbank the groom would be glad to walk out with you.’

‘Don’t fuss, Turner. Diver can stay here. We won’t go far. Just into the gardens and the courtyard. I’ll go and fetch my cloak.’

She spent another pleasurable half-hour on the terraces throwing a wooden ball and watching Jakes bound after it. Afterwards she went by the stables to look upon Father’s
new horse. A fine-boned chestnut, with laid-back ears, it skated around in its stall, hooves churning up the straw, flanks crashing against the wooden walls.

She would not let Jakes anywhere near; he might get between its legs, the halfwit dog, if she let him into the stall. She reached over to quieten the horse, but it rolled its eyes and nipped at
her arm. What on earth was Father thinking of, to buy such a horse at his age?

She spent some time with the other horses, the matched greys for the carriage and Toby, her neighbour’s old bay. Jakes flopped down in the straw whilst she fed Toby handfuls of oats. She
liked the tickling feeling of Toby feeding from her upturned palm, and she rubbed his greying muzzle affectionately as he snaffled up the oats with his velvet mouth.

It was turning twilight as she came back across the yard, but she caught the glint of something fly, and heard a small grunting sound. It was Cousin Zachary, wielding his rapier, practising his
cut and thrust. He was bare-armed and the rapier pierced the air in a series of darts and strikes. His curling hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, his face grim.

She pulled on the collar to draw Jakes closer. Jakes let out little barks now, straining at the leash, anxious to join in with the game going on in the yard. Her cousin ignored her and lunged
towards his imaginary opponent with renewed venom, his feet skidding and scraping in the dirt. His breath exploded in short exhalations as he leapt to throw his bodyweight behind the sword.

‘Heel, boy, heel!’ she hissed under her breath, dragging Jakes away, keeping under the overhang of the house. Anxious to get in where it was warm, she thrust the dog in through the
door ahead of her with a slap on the behind, but then paused.

Someone else was watching her cousin’s practice, over in the kitchen window. It was Father. So taken up with Zachary was he, that he did not once glance her way. Even Jakes did not scamper
over to greet him as he usually did. Father stood like a simpleton in the lamp-light of the kitchen, a look of beaming pride on his face.

The next morning when Elspet went downstairs there were two empty plates already on the table. One was Father’s – he always placed his knife like that, across the
plate. The other had a scatter of crumbs about it and the remains of a half-eaten rind of cheese. There were great gouges in the butter, unlike Father’s thin scraping.

She called Martha. ‘Where is Father?’

‘He went out early, mistress. With Master Deane. They’ve gone to Mr Bainbridge’s.’

‘Master Deane? Oh, you mean my cousin. Did he say when he would be back?’

‘No, mistress.’

She sat down at the table. Usually Father would show her the mail and news from the city, and she would tell him about the household business, and anecdotes about the dogs. Of course Father
never really listened properly; he always had half an eye on the broadsheet. But, with no company, the knife rattled loudly on her plate and she could not face eating at the long table alone.

It wasn’t fair. Father had never once invited her to go with him to Mr Bainbridge’s, though she had heard him talk of him – that Mr Bainbridge was of the Roman Church like
themselves, and held a secret morning Mass in his house whenever their priest, Fr Everard, was able to be there.

She picked up the broadsheet and untied the ribband, but let it lie on the table. She had no heart for reading, for she was picturing her father and Cousin Zachary at Mass together. Bainbridge
had a fine statue of the Virgin and a high table bedecked with Leviston’s lace to serve as an altar. The lace had been hand-picked by her father; the best from his stock. Father’s lace
business was famous, but despite his generosity to Bainbridge, their own altar had to make do with no lace at all.