“Rhys, stop,” Libba said softly. “Sit down.”
In this interlude, Mr. Harcourt had nudged the stack of letters forward on the low glass table that sat in front of the chaise and sofa. Monica had retrieved them and begun to hand them to those to whom they were addressed, her expression solemn and heavy.
“So we get nothing, then?” Malcolm asked, sounding more curious than offended. “If the land is his and the house is hers.”
“Not at all,” Julian Harcourt corrected, a faint smile on his mouth. “There is a third element of wealth, Mr. Lennox. Money itself.”
Elias pressed his lips together.
He had always known she would spend it all before he could inherit it. He had known because she’d told him so before he’d even turned thirteen. Still, it wasn’t pleasant to hear again, stark and writ in legal binding.
She would force him to come along and watch her pour funds into this investment or that expansion, trying to explain to him how interest compounds or funding automates with symbiotic structures built in tandem.
He’d been too young and too stupid to really listen, at the time, and she’d known it.
“Elias, all I will leave you when I am gone is legacy, not coin. And if you understand it, you will thank me for it, so pay attention!”
He rubbed his fingers over his eyes. He could hear her so clearly, even now. Could see the sun bouncing off her coiled, auburn hair and the way the tip of her nose turned red in unhidden frustration at his ambivalence.
Was she really dead?
“Money with stipulations, I’d wager,” said Ruby Little, glancing up from her fingernails. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Harcourt?”
“Of course it is,” the older man replied with a chuckle. “Shall I proceed?”
Elias nodded his thanks to Miss Thresher, accepting his envelope, which felt heavier than a vessel for simply paper. He ran his fingers over it, feeling inside something metallic and round. Those weights pulled at his ribs again.
Mr. Harcourt was listing gifts for the others, properties she had bought around Brighton. A playhouse for Libba, a pavilion for Rhys, a conjoined shop for Monica and Ruby with an attached laboratory and workshop, a quarter share in a shipping company for Malcolm.
It was odd, but the barrister’s voice almost seemed to melt into Willa’s own shrill delivery as he read her words.
As it went on, Elias was certain she was speaking directly to them, her tone and timbre ringing out loudly in the room.
“‘To Errol Cagney, I leave the greenhouse, gardens, and kennels of Starling’s Rest, with my admiration. You were the only one who never needed reminding where home was,’” she said, through the mouth of Mr. Harcourt. “‘And all of these things are freely given, on the basis of the following stipulations, met and attended in full.’”
Elias glanced up, frowning, and tore the end off of his own envelope, tilting it forward into his open hand.
The item inside landed, leaving the letter still nestled in its wrapping. It was a ring. A man’s ring. Gold, by the look of it, and poorly kept, dented and tarnished.
It was a simple gold band.
Inside there was an inscription. Elias had to tilt it toward the light, squinting down at it to make out the words etched into the inner ring.
Mea Culpa, it read.
My fault.
“‘And lastly,’” said Willa as Mr. Harcourt, “‘it is my express wish and command that there shall be, in the year of my decease, a Carnival and Exhibition at Starling’s Rest in the manner of those summer showcases once held under my direction. Each of my prodigies, to whom I have given so much, shall contribute their talents to this entertainment, that Brighton may remember me not with mourning, but with marvels.’”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Malcolm said, frowning.
“The showcase?” Errol repeated, blinking rapidly, his voice gone hoarse. “Truly?”
“A carnival for a funeral,” Rhys said, sounding thoughtful. “It is a nice idea.”
Mr. Harcourt smiled despite himself. “‘Furthermore, I direct that each of my said wards, together with my nephew the Baron Selwyn, shall reside within the town of Brighton for one full calendar year following my decease, the better to cement their fortunes, their reputations, and their affections. Should any fail in this, or absent themselves without due cause, their inheritance shall be forfeit and divided amongst the others who remain faithful to both my memory and my mischief.’”
That last part hung in the air.
