Miss Leah Thame stepped down from the post-chaise sent to convey her from Dolphin Court on the Somerset coast into the centre of Bristol and peered up at the office of Henshaw and Dent. The letter she’d received two days ago had been most insistent she attend a meeting here today, hinting she would miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime if she ignored its summons. Leah did not entirely believe in the idea that good fortune might strike one out of the blue, but even she, with her practical nature, could not quite bring herself to ignore the possibility of good news.
She surveyed the building in front of her—no different from the neighbouring houses in this terrace, except for the brass wall plaque next to the door—and bit her lip. Henshaw and Dent, Solicitors. Her hand slipped inside her cloak and she traced the shape of Mama’s wedding ring, which she always wore suspended from a ribbon around her neck. Normally it remained hidden beneath the serviceable brown or grey gowns she wore day-to-day in her post as a governess at Dolphin Court, but today both ribbon and ring were on display, adding a touch of decoration to her old royal-blue carriage gown.
She rummaged in her reticule for Papa’s pocket watch and opened the cover. Twelve minutes still to noon, the time of her appointment. It had been fifteen years since Mama’s death and seven since Papa’s, but the ring and the watch still conjured their memories and left Leah feeling slightly less alone in this world. A sudden, craven impulse to flee was quashed. She had come this far and, besides, she must rely upon Mr Henshaw for her transport home to Dolphin Court, for she had little money of her own to squander upon luxuries such as the hire of a post-chaise-and-four.
The clip-clop of hooves and the rattle of a carriage down the street behind her shook her from her thoughts, and she shivered as the brisk chill of the air on this, the last day of January, fingered beneath her cloak. It was time to find out why she had been summoned; she set her jaw, straightened her shoulders and rapped on the door.
‘Miss Leah Thame,’ she said to the sallow-faced, stooped clerk who opened it. ‘I have been summoned to a meeting with Mr Arthur Henshaw at noon.’
‘Follow me, miss.’
Leah stepped past the clerk, who closed the door, plunging the hallway into gloom. The building smelled of damp and dust, and her throat itched as she followed the clerk up a steep flight of stairs to the first floor. He knocked on a door and waited. Not once did he look at her or catch her eye, and although she was not a nervous type of woman—governesses could not indulge themselves in a surfeit of sensibility—Leah nevertheless identified the subtle tightening of her stomach muscles as being caused by unease.
‘Enter.’
The clerk flung open the door and gestured for Leah to enter.
‘Miss Thame, sir.’ The door clicked shut behind her.
The office was lined with shelves crammed with books. A fire smouldered sullenly in the fireplace, emitting little warmth, and an ornate bracket clock sat on the mantel shelf above. Seated at the far side of a large mahogany desk was a middle-aged, bespectacled man with a receding hairline, who now rose to his feet and rounded the desk to bow.
‘Arthur Henshaw, at your service, Miss Thame. May I take your cloak?’
Leah removed it, and he hung it on a coat stand in the corner of the room.
‘Please, take a seat.’ He indicated a row of three wooden chairs facing the desk. ‘I am sure the others will arrive very soon.’
Leah frowned. ‘Others?’
‘All will soon be revealed.’
Henshaw returned to his chair at the far side of the desk, which was bare apart from a low stack of legal-looking documents, a silver and cut-glass inkstand and a silver wax jack, and immediately selected one of the documents and began to read, his high, narrow forehead furrowing. Leah chose the middle of the three chairs and sat down. The ticking of the clock was loud in the silence.
Her thoughts touched upon her employer, the Earl of Dolphinstone, and the news he was back in England after more than sixteen months away. He was expected back in Somerset soon—although he had not yet confirmed the date of his arrival—and Leah quailed as she imagined his reaction if he were to discover she had left his two young sons in the care of the local vicar’s daughter, even though this was the first time she had left them, despite being entitled to one day off per month.
Leah adored both her job and her charges, but she was apprehensive about His Lordship’s return. Since being forced to earn her living as a governess—following her father’s death when she was nineteen—this was the first time she had felt settled, happy and at home. She couldn’t help but worry her employer’s return would herald change.
A mental image of His Lordship—appealingly masculine and ruggedly handsome—materialised in her mind’s eye. She had met him just the once, at her interview for the post of governess, and he had seemed harsh and remote but she’d made allowances at the time, knowing he had been recently widowed. By the time she took up her post, however, Lord Dolphinstone had already left for the continent and had been away ever since. For him to leave his children so soon after the death of their mother, and to stay away so long, beggared belief, and she still struggled to understand such a lack of fatherly concern. Leah had since done everything in her power to give the boys the stability they needed.
The clock suddenly chimed the hour, jolting Leah from her worries about the Earl’s return. Henshaw looked expectantly at the door. Within seconds, a knock sounded.
‘Enter.’
‘Miss Fothergill, sir.’
Henshaw, once again, rounded the desk and greeted the newcomer before taking her coat. Leah fought the urge to peer over her shoulder at Miss Fothergill—she would see the other woman when Henshaw introduced them. The newcomer sat to Leah’s right, but Henshaw remained out of sight behind them, tapping his foot on the polished floorboards and emitting the occasional sigh rather than perform any introduction.
Leah succumbed to her curiosity and glanced sideways. Miss Fothergill’s eyes were downcast as she chewed her bottom lip. Light brown curls peeped from beneath her brown bonnet and her fingers fidgeted in her lap, prompting the governess in Leah to want to reach out and cover her hand to conceal both her restlessness and her emotions, as befitted a lady.
Before long there was another knock at the door and the previous performance was repeated as someone called Miss Croome arrived. This time, Leah did not look sideways at the newcomer but directed her attention onto the solicitor as he returned to his chair.
‘Allow me to make the introductions,’ he said. ‘Miss Aurelia Croome.’
Leah inclined her head to acknowledge the woman to her left, summing her up with a sweeping glance—petite, and pretty enough, although she looked a little gaunt, as though a square meal wouldn’t go amiss. Her dove-grey gown was well made but ill-fitting and shabby, much the same as the bonnet covering her hair, which was fair, if her eyebrows and lashes were any indication.
‘Miss Leah Thame.’ Leah became the object of attention from the other two women, and she acknowledged each of them with a nod.
‘And Miss Beatrice Fothergill.’
Miss Fothergill—also petite and pretty but pleasantly plump—looked nervous, her smile hesitant. That knot of unease inside Leah tightened. Should she be anxious too? She glanced again at Miss Croome, who looked irritated, if anything, and she felt reassured.
‘Well,’ said Henshaw, leaning back in his chair. ‘This is quite unprecedented.’
He removed his spectacles and peered down his nose at each of them in turn, then removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, the only sound in the room the ticking of the clock. Henshaw stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket.
‘Yes.’ He shook his head as his gaze once again passed from woman to woman. ‘Quite unprecedented, not to mention perplexing. You ladies must appreciate it has given me a real dilemma as to how best to proceed.’
Miss Croome stirred. ‘Perhaps if you enlightened us as to the purpose of this meeting, Mr Henshaw, we might shed some light on your...er...dilemma.’
She was well spoken; clearly a gentlewoman down on her luck.
‘Yes. Well...’
The solicitor again paused, and again he fished his handkerchief out of his pocket, polished his spectacles and placed them back on his nose.
‘Yes...the terms of the will are quite clear, of course. I just... I simply...’ He looked at each woman in turn, his eyes, magnified through the lenses, perplexed. ‘Lord Tregowan—the current Lord Tregowan—will be unhappy, you may be sure of that. I have written to him again, to clarify matters. Bad tidings for him, but I did not draw up this will, you understand. I thought I had her latest will and testament—drawn up by me and signed and witnessed three years ago in this very office.’
A will? Leah frowned. She had no family left to lose, unless one counted Papa’s Weston connections on his mother’s side, and she doubted any of them even knew of her existence. They had never shown the slightest interest in Papa, the connection far too distant. And what did it have to do with Lord Tregowan?
‘This...’ Mr Henshaw picked up a document, pinching one corner of it between his forefinger and thumb as though it might contaminate him, his nose wrinkling in unconscious distaste ‘...this arrived last week. And yet I cannot refute its authenticity. I’d recognise Her Ladyship’s signature anywhere, and it is witnessed by the partners of a legal firm in Bath, although quite why she went to them I have no notion. No. I am afraid it is authentic. There can be no doubt of it.’
The dratted man was talking in riddles.
‘Mister Henshaw. If you would be good enough to proceed...?’
‘Patience, Miss Thame. Patience.’
Patronising wretch. Leah glared at the solicitor. ‘The three of us have been sitting in this office for twelve minutes now, and in my case, considerably longer, and all we have learned is that the reason for this meeting—which you arranged, requiring the presence, I presume, of all three of us—meets with your disapproval. I have taken leave from my post to attend here today, and I should appreciate your expedition of the matter in order that I may return to my duties as soon as possible.’
Henshaw straightened, looking affronted. ‘Miss Thame—’
‘You spoke of a will, Mr Henshaw?’ Miss Croome interjected.
‘Indeed, Miss Croome,’ the solicitor said. ‘The will of Lady Tregowan, late of Falconfield Hall, near Keynsham in the County of Somersetshire.’
Miss Fothergill stirred. ‘My...my mother worked at Falconfield Hall.’ Her voice quavered, as though it had taken courage to speak. ‘She was companion to Lady Tregowan. Before I was born.’
‘Quite.’ Mr Henshaw levelled a censorious look at each of the three in turn. ‘Your mothers each had a connection with Falconfield. And with Lord Tregowan.’ His upper lip curled.
Leah elevated her chin. ‘My mother did not work there. She and her parents were neighbours of the Earl and Countess.’
She would not have this shoddy little lawyer look down his nose at her. She might be forced to earn her living as a governess, but her mother—who had died of consumption when Leah was eleven—had been born to the gentry and her father came from aristocratic bloodlines, descended from the Fifth Earl of Baverstock.
Henshaw levelled a disdainful, but pitying look at her. Leah’s teeth clenched, her pulse picking up a beat. She looked at Miss Croome, who had yet to react.
‘I know of no connection between my mother and Falconfield Hall,’ she said, ‘but Lady Tregowan did once visit my mother’s milliner’s shop in Bath.’
Mr Henshaw consulted the will again. ‘Miss Aurelia Croome, born October the fourth 1792 to Mr Augustus Croome and Mrs Amelia Croome?’
Pink tinged Miss Croome’s cheeks. ‘Yes.’
‘Then there is no mistake. I am convinced it is the three of you who are to benefit from Her Ladyship’s largesse.’
‘What is the connection between the three of us?’ The other women looked as confused as Leah felt. ‘It is clearly through our mothers, but how?’
Henshaw’s lip again curled. ‘The connection is not through your mother, but through your sire. You are half-sisters.’
Copyright © 2021 by Janice Preston