فصل 24

CHAPTER 24

“So, in view of all that, it looks like we are stuck until Monday,” Harding said wearily, slumping back on the drawing room sofa. He picked a cup of tea off the tray that Mitzi had just put in front of him and took a gulp.

“You are kidding me.” Abel put his head in his hands. “I can’t stay away until Tuesday. I’ve got client meetings on Monday afternoon.” “Well, I suggest you postpone them,” Harding said irritably. He smoothed his shirt, which was gaping across the middle, exposing soft white skin like uncooked dough. “Might I add, it’s partly your fault for not being present at the meeting in the first place. Between you and Ezra, I have the feeling that I’m the only person trying to sort out this mare’s nest.” “I had no idea Mother had made me her bloody executor!” Abel said. “What in God’s name possessed her?” “What in God’s name possessed her to do any of this,” Harding snapped. “Including disinheriting all of her children.” “Spite, pure and simple,” Ezra said from the corner of the room. He rose, took a cup from the tray and a digestive biscuit from the plate. “I’ve no doubt the one thing that amused her on her deathbed was the thought of the unpleasantness she was leaving behind.” Abel nodded bitterly.

“I could believe that. She probably thought that a protracted legal wrangle swallowing up all the estate’s resources would keep the unpleasantness going for years.” Protracted legal wrangle. The words made Hal’s stomach seem to drop away, and she felt a spike of fear course through her. There was no way any papers she could forge would survive such a process. It would all come out—the truth about her mother, her grandmother—everything.

But there was no way back now—she had gone too far. There was no longer any possibility she could credibly pass off this deception as an honest mistake.

She imagined herself in a court of law, the prosecuting barrister saying, with false confusion, “Run this past me again, Miss Westaway. It was your honest belief that your maternal grandmother had changed her name from Marion to Hester and moved from a modest council house in Surrey to an estate in Cornwall after her own death?” Hal felt the confession rising up inside her again. Impostor. I’m an impostor.

There was only one way out. It wouldn’t save her from Mr. Smith—but then nothing would, that was becoming clear. Even if, by some miracle, she managed to get hold of fake papers good enough to pass muster, and to bluff her way through the interviews, there would be no money in time for his deadline.

No. She would just have to cut her losses and get out, while she still could.

She stood, shoving her hands in her pockets to prevent them from shaking.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking—”

“Not now, Harriet,” Harding said. He dunked his biscuit in his tea, and then tutted as the edge crumbled.

“Yes, now!” Hal said firmly. She felt a kind of desperation choke her—the knowledge that she was blundering deeper with every day that passed, and that soon there might be no escape route at all. “I’ve been thinking—about the legacy—I don’t—” She stopped—searching for words, searching for the right way to say this. But before she had found her tongue, Ezra cut into the silence.

“Look, Abel’s right. Very probably Mother did want us to spend the money on litigation and quarreling. I can’t see any other reason for her doing this. But let’s be honest—do any of us deserve a penny from her?” He looked at Harding, then at Abel. Abel shrugged. “Do we want a penny? I certainly don’t. Isn’t the best thing just to foil Mother’s wish and let it go?” From the corner of the sofa, Kitty began humming the Frozen theme.

Abel laughed.

“Let it go. I like it, Kitty. There’s something rather . . . freeing about the idea. Well, for my part, I never expected anything, and I certainly don’t want Trepassen like a millstone around my neck. I’d be glad for it to go to Harriet.” “No!” Hal said desperately. The words burst out of her, and she spoke without thinking, without holding back what she really meant. “You don’t understand—I don’t—I don’t want this.” “I beg your pardon?” Harding turned towards her, one brow raised.

“I don’t want—this.” Hal waved her hand at the house, the grounds outside the window. “This isn’t what I thought I was signing up for when I came here. When I got Mr. Treswick’s letter, yes, I admit, I was hoping for a legacy.” The words tumbled out, spoken from the heart, too rapidly to consider whether she was doing the wise thing. “But not this—not everything. I never wanted such a huge responsibility—all I ever wanted was to pay my heating bill and some of my debts. Isn’t there any way I can—I don’t know—can’t I renounce this?” There was a long silence, broken only by Kitty still humming “Let It Go” beneath her breath, and the subdued hiss of Freddie’s earphones.

“Well,” Mitzi said at last, her tone bright and rather brittle, “I call that very handsome of you, Harriet.” “It . . . it’s certainly something to consider,” Harding said. He stood, tucked his shirt more firmly into his pleated trousers, and paced to the window. “I believe there is something called a deed of variation, which enables beneficiaries of a will—providing everyone involved agrees—to vary their shares of the inheritance . . . but we must of course consider whether that would be morally right, given Mother’s wishes—” “I don’t want her money,” Ezra said bluntly. “I don’t want it from her, and I don’t want it from Harriet.” “Look,” Abel said. He put his arm around Hal’s shoulders, squeezing her tight. “It’s a lovely gesture, there’s no doubt about it, and I’m very proud of Harriet for suggesting it. But it’s not something to be decided lightly. I suggest we all sleep on this—not least Harriet—and perhaps we”—he glanced at his brothers—“ought to talk about this separately. And then discuss, before we meet Mr. Treswick on Monday. Agreed?” “Agreed,” Harding said. “Harriet?”

“Okay,” Hal said. She realized that her fists were clenched inside the sleeves of her jumper, the muscles tensely resisting Abel’s hug. “But I’m not going to change my mind.”