Absolutely not.”
Samuel Austin III rose and headed for the door. Allowing his father to convince him to attend this ridiculous meeting was his first mistake. Staying to hear anything else the late Thomas Bolen’s attorney planned to say would not be his second.
The old man had died a year ago, by his recollection. And while the funeral for the owner of Bolen Shipping had been elaborate according to the lengthy article in the Picayune, there were no Austins in attendance that day.
But then none were expected. Nor was his daughter, May, or her mother, Bolen’s wife, in the chapel to grieve him.
Heavy velvet curtains on the wall behind Mr. Breaux stood open, allowing the midmorning sunlight that slanted through the crystal vases arranged on a rosewood sideboard to cast pinpoints of color across the polished wood.
A chair scraped against the floor behind him, but Sam kept walking.
“I assure you that Mr. Bolen was quite intent on having you take the reins of Bolen Shipping. In fact, he made it abundantly clear that the stakes should be raised to the point where you could not refuse.”
With his hand on the polished silver doorknob, Sam considered a response that would let the lawyer know he was talking to the wrong Austin. Sam Jr. would have accepted the offer to take back the company that was stolen from him without caring the terms.
“I feel it my duty to advise you,” Mr. Breaux said as Sam turned the knob. “Should you refuse Mr. Bolen’s most generous gift, you will be effectively putting his daughter in an untenable position.”
Sam yanked the door open. “I’m sure Miss Bolen will survive,” he said over his shoulder. “Bolens always do.”
“Without you at the helm, the company will be sold and the proceeds donated. Miss Bolen will have nothing. Are you certain she will survive that?”
He froze.
“I thought that might get your attention,” Mr. Breaux said. “Mr. Bolen thought so as well. Now if you’ll just return to your chair and give me a few more minutes of your time.”
“You assume I care what happens to a Bolen,” Sam snapped as he turned to face the attorney. “I assure you, no Bolen ever stopped to consider what happened to the Austins when our business was stolen from us.”
Mr. Breaux settled back on his chair and gave Sam a pointed look. “I assume you are a man given to actually caring what happens to a young lady who is soon to be destitute.”
“She can have whatever the old man left to me. I don’t want it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Mr. Breaux said as he peered at Sam over his spectacles. “The will is very clear in this. You may go from rags to riches, as it were, or Miss Bolen may go from riches to rags. It is all up to you.”
Everything in him wanted to tell the smug lawyer he was wrong. That he truly did not care what happened to Miss Bolen.
But that was a lie. And there had been enough lies between the Bolens and the Austins.
So instead, Sam retraced his steps and returned to the chair and sat. “I’m listening.”
“Very well. In light of the guilt Mr. Bolen felt over the reduced circumstances of the Austin family—”
“Spare the sentiment, please.”
The lawyer’s bushy brows rose. “Yes, of course.” With slow and precise movements, he straightened the corners of the pages in front of him, removed his spectacles, and then folded his hands. “In precisely one hour I will meet with Miss Bolen to inform her of the terms of her father’s will. She will understandably be distraught.”
Sam allowed the lawyer’s statement to go without comment. After a moment, Mr. Breaux’s expression softened.
“It is my understanding that your father is still living. Am I correct?”
“You are.”
“Your younger brother, Joseph, is a professor at Tulane, and you are a captain of certain vessels of trade that ply the Orient routes. You are a close family who lives by modest means.”
Sam shifted positions. “I prefer not to discuss anything other than the terms of this will.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I mention these things merely to remind you that a great loss of fortune does not necessarily mean a loss in the quality of life.”
“Mr. Breaux, I am confused. You’ve just warned me that I could be committing Miss Bolen to poverty while reminding me that the poverty her father committed us to wasn’t so bad after all. Are you now saying that the Bolen woman losing her fortune is not so awful?”
“I am saying that I believe Mr. Bolen saw something in the Austin family that he did not have in his own family. He and his daughter were, to put it mildly, not particularly close.”
Again Sam let the silence fall between them.
Finally the lawyer cleared his throat. “This brings me to my next point: should you accept Mr. Bolen’s gift of Bolen Shipping, you are expressly forbidden from using any of the funds associated with the company to assist May Bolen in any way.”
So Bolen had been every bit the heartless man Father claimed he was. Sam opened his mouth to respond, but the lawyer held his hand up to silence him.
“Should you feel compelled to assist Miss Bolen, there is one important exception to this clause in the will.”
Sam inhaled deeply then let out a long breath. “All right. What is it?”
“She must become your wife.”
He laughed. “Not likely, sir.”
Mr. Breaux shrugged. “I do understand, but should you change your mind, I must inform you that Miss Bolen can never be told of the terms of her father’s will.”
“Then you’re going to have an awfully short meeting with her in an hour.”
The lawyer sat back in his chair and toyed with the edges of his stack of papers. “What I tell Miss Bolen is scripted entirely from what her father wishes her to know. She will be informed that the fortune will be going elsewhere pending certain conditions. Only you and I will know whether it goes to you or to charity. It will not be an easy meeting for either of us.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said as he leaned forward. “I either accept ownership of Bolen Shipping or I allow it to be sold for charity. Also, I either marry May Bolen or I allow her to become a charity case, and I cannot tell Miss Bolen any of this.”
“That is correct,” he said. “Of course, once you’re married, should you choose that option, you are free to inform her that you’re Bolen Shipping’s new owner.”
Married to a Bolen. He couldn’t even imagine it.
And yet he knew what poverty did to a person.
Sam rose. “You’ve given me plenty to think about. My first inclination is to walk out of this office and forget any part of this conversation ever happened.”
“I would not blame you, sir. The Austin family has been treated most unfairly by Mr. Bolen in the past.” He paused. “There’s just one more thing, though.”
“What is that?”
“You have thirty days to decide whether to accept the terms of the will. On the thirty-first day from today, liquidation of Bolen Shipping will begin and Miss Bolen will become a pauper.”
“What is stopping me from striking a deal with Miss Bolen? Who will know?”
Mr. Breaux smiled. “You will know, Mr. Austin, and I suspect your conscience would not allow it.” He paused. “However, marriages have been built on far less.”
One hour later
“Miss Bolen, thank you for coming. I know you’ve made a long journey from New York City, and I do appreciate that you’ve made yourself available today.”
May offered her father’s attorney her most polite smile. “I was made to understand this was a matter of the utmost importance, as was the requirement that I see you today rather than delay.”
Though this airless room with its hideous drapes and old-fashioned furniture was not where she wished to be at the moment, she nevertheless did not indicate her displeasure to the older man seated across the desk. It simply was not done.
A lady was gracious at all times—this she learned at her mother’s knee. At the thought of her mother, May sat up a bit straighter. Good deportment as well as good posture were the guiding principles of her childhood, and the string of governesses and finishing schools that followed only served to reinforce these teachings.
Mr. Breaux lifted his spectacles to his rather narrow face and turned his attention to the stack of papers before him. These were fresh papers, crisp and white and not at all like the yellowed and curled-at-the-edges documents her father kept in his library at the home on Chartres Street.
Though he appeared about to begin reading, the attorney lifted his attention to catch her gaze over his spectacles. “First allow me to offer condolences on the loss of your father on this, the first anniversary of his death.”
May fixed her attention on the oversized painting of the Battle of New Orleans above the fireplace behind him. Though several responses occurred to her, she settled for a simple word of thanks. Anything else might have ventured into the area of untruth. For as much as she was flesh and blood of the man, she knew very little of who he had been, for they’d neither lived under the same roof nor spoken more than a few words since he’d paid a visit to Mama in New York City more than a decade ago.
This she believed was intentional on her father’s part, for she’d heard enough from the few others willing to speak of Thomas Bolen to know he was a difficult man at best and a terrible one at worst. Mama remained silent on the subject, though it was the only subject upon which she held her tongue.
“I know it must be difficult contemplating life without your father,” May heard him say, drawing her attention back to this room, to this conversation. “I do hope you will call on me should you find yourself in need of any advice or assistance that might have once come from your father.”
A lady must remain unruffled and kind despite any unpleasant situation, she recalled as she punctuated Mr. Breaux’s statement with a slight lift of the corners of her mouth. To call it a smile would be unfair, but she did make the attempt.
“Mr. Breaux,” she said evenly, “I do appreciate your offer, but considering I never called on my father for anything during his lifetime, I doubt I will be availing myself of your generous offer.”
“Yes, well, I suppose we should get on with it, then. I should tell you before we begin that your father has been quite specific in what I am to tell you. He does allow in his instructions that I can either read this word for word or I can summarize his wishes in more understandable terms. Which do you prefer?”
Best not to prolong this visit. The sooner her father’s affairs were put in order, the sooner she could return home to New York City. “Summarize please.”
“Yes, of course.” He returned his attention to the document in front of him, shifting a page from the bottom of the stack to the top. “Apparently Mr. Bolen anticipated you would say that, because he has provided a summary, and it is this: Bolen Shipping will be liquidated and its proceeds given to charity unless you take steps to prevent this.”
“What?” she managed with the last of her breath. “But that will render my mother and me …”
She could not say it.
Could not imagine it.
In a breath, she went numb.
“Penniless?” Mr. Breaux supplied. At her nod, he said, “Yes, quite, although there is another option that might mitigate the problem.”
“Do explain then.” May blinked back tears she refused to allow.
He sat back in his chair and steepled his hands. “You could marry.”
May shook her head, and with that action some of the numbness fell away. “Marry?”
“Yes, you know. Wed?” He leaned forward again and his chair creaked, the only sound in the room louder than the pounding of May’s heart. “Miss Bolen, I have been instructed to tell you that your father’s will allows that you will regain access to your father’s accounts if you have a husband.”
“Well then,” she said upon an exhale of breath as hope dawned. This time her smile was quite genuine. “That’s quite different than being disinherited altogether. I merely must wed.”
She’d certainly had her share of offers, so accepting one of them would not be the worst thing to happen. Given time, May knew she could decide upon a groom who might suit her purpose.
“You have thirty days,” the attorney added. “Thirty-one days from today, the process of selling off the company assets will begin and all financial accounts will be frozen.”
“Thirty days? That is ridiculous. No woman of quality could be married in such a short time. There would be questions. Society would shun me, not to mention what my mother would do. It simply isn’t done.”
“I do understand,” he said gently, “and might I suggest that a quiet civil marriage might suffice to complete the requirements of your father’s will? A more fitting public ceremony could be planned for a later date and no one in society would be any wiser. I’m sure your mother would prefer that to …” He paused and seemed to consider his words. “Well, to the alternative.”
“Yes,” she said slowly as she began to consider her options. Teddy Vanderwellen certainly might be convinced to go along with such a plan, as would either of the Campbell twins.
In any case, Mama would never fare well should either of them be forced to live by their wits.
“Miss Bolen, might I interrupt your thoughts to interject one more important piece of information before I end our time together?”
“Yes, of course,” she said as she made a mental note to add that handsome viscount who’d pursued her with a string of ardent letters over the past few years to her list of options. If he were to agree to some sort of marriage by proxy, her problems might be solved.
“There is one important condition attached to the identity of your husband.” He paused. “You must have Samuel Austin III’s permission in writing in order to marry.”
“I’m sorry.” She leaned forward, palms on her knees. “Exactly who is Samuel Austin III?”