“I am,” Alden said, a little flare of hope burning inside him. “But I don’t have much capital. One of my biological relations left me a small amount in an antiquated trust, and my brother Elliott convinced thetrustee to release the funds if they were used to purchase a property.”
“Your biological... oh, that’s right, you’re adopted. I forgot that your family was...”
“Multicultural,” Alden said, coming to Toby’s rescue. “That’s the politically correct term for Mum and Dad adopting kids from whatever country took their fancy. A few of my brothers are from Africa, a couple from what used to be the Eastern bloc, and the rest of us from assorted locations elsewhere. My biological family was from Scotland, and Mum kept in contact with them on my behalf until I was old enough to decide if I wanted to know them or not.”
“And do you?” Toby asked, clearly intrigued.
“I would have if they hadn’t all died off.” Alden shrugged. “I didn’t get to meet any of them, but that didn’t stop a distant cousin from leaving me the little trust, albeit a frustrating one.”
“I hate those trusts,” Toby said in an acid tone. “The kind that are tied with the most annoying red tape that you can imagine. Just last week our senior partner dropped a heinous case on me involving not one but two entailments... but I digress.”
“Do you have a house for me to look at?” Alden asked, hoping against hope that the property would be within his means, both monetarily and with regard to renovation. “Where is it? More importantly, how much is it?”
“It’s an old house—Tudor, I think—although I don’t know that you’d want it. It’s barely habitable. The old man who owned it was not only a miser but a recluse. He lived there for more than eighty years, along with his wife and a couple of crusty servants, leaving behind a mountain of debts that his widow couldn’t possibly payin her lifetime. A local bank took charge of the house last year due to the debts, and I’ve just heard from an old friend at the bank that they’re looking for a buyer.”
“There’s bound to be lots of people interested in a historical property,” Alden protested, his hopes dashed. He rather liked the idea of restoring a Tudor house. It appealed to his fascination with history.
“Normally, I’d agree. But according to Tom Scott, my friend at the bank, the managers are trying to handle the sale for Lady Sybilla in such a way as to not upset her.”
“That seems a bit odd. A bank caring about someone who’s lost possession of their house, that is.”
“Ah, but you aren’t factoring in the element of ye old family retainer,” Toby told him. “Tom says the bank managers insist on handling the situation with kid gloves. There’s an old family connection, or something of that sort, I gather. So rather than putting the place on the market and fetching the highest price, they’re looking for someone to agree to their terms so they can avoid the publicity that would go along with a public sale.”
“The managers must really like the old lady,” Alden said thoughtfully, wondering if he dared hope that his meager trust would cover the sale of a historic house and land.
“Well, there are conditions that go with the sale, of course,” Toby said.
Alden nodded, even though his friend wouldn’t see the gesture. “I had no doubt there would be. Something prohibitive, no doubt.”
“Not horribly so, actually. Tom told me the gist of the restrictions.... I know I wrote it down, just in case you’d be interested.... Ah, here it is. The buyer mustgrant Lady Sybilla the right to stay on the estate in the gatehouse for the duration of her life. Also, the house can’t be demolished with the purpose of rebuilding, and any restorations must be done in a manner appropriate to the style of the existing structures. All pretty benign restrictions, if you ask me.”
“And how much are they asking for the house?”
Alden’s eyes widened when Toby went into specifics. Buying the house would wipe out not only his trust, but also the carefully nurtured nest egg he’d built up over the past eighteen years. It wouldn’t leave him with any funds to hire people to do restoration work, which meant he’d have to do it all himself.
“That’s an awful lot of money,” he said at last.
“Too much for you?”
“No.” He thought for a few minutes more. “Is there... this is going to sound very crass, but are there any restrictions about selling the house once it’s legally mine?”
“No,” Toby said slowly, the rustle of papers evident. “No, I don’t see anything about selling it. There’s the stipulation that Lady Sybilla be allowed residence in the gatehouse for her lifetime, but other than that, I don’t see anything that would keep you from selling. Do you plan on selling soon?”
“Not right away. What I thought I’d do is get the place fixed up. You know, renovate it, and maybe update a few things like the plumbing and heating, and then sell it.”
“Ah. What the Americans call ‘flipping a house.’ Very smart, if you ask me. Although you’d have to take into account Lady Sybilla’s presence on the estate.”
“Yes, well, without intending to be either heartless or crass, in all likelihood, it’ll take me a year or two to fix the house up if I have to do it by myself, and by then...”
“By then Lady Sybilla would have gone to her just reward,” Toby finished for him. “A very valid point, Alden. Very valid indeed, and I can’t see anyone taking issue with you for selling the place once she’s gone.”
And thus it had come about that the bank invited him to tour the house and grounds, and after a whirlwind tour through both—without catching sight of Lady Sybilla, who evidently rested in the afternoon—his offer was approved.
“Today it’s all mine,” he said to himself as he drove west, the sun dipping low until a rich, velvety navy blue began to claim the sky. “I’m a homeowner. A hall owner. I’m Alden Ainslie of Bestwood Hall.... At least I am for the present. No telling where I’ll be once I fix the house up. After all, this could be the start of a brand-new career. People make millions doing this sort of thing—why can’t I? It’s just a matter of fixing things up to look nice, and then capitalizing on the market. Yes, this is going to be good. It’s going to be very good.”
The optimism stayed with him for three hours, until his transmission decided it had enough and failed completely, stranding him for the night in a small town. He left a message with the solicitor’s office, where he was to have picked up the keys to Bestwood, and settled down as best he could in a dingy hotel located across the street from the car repair shop.
“Not an auspicious start,” he told himself as he eyed the sagging bed. “But that’s not a bad thing. Things can only go up from here.”
