Lettice giggled.
“What will you do?” he asked Thomasin. “Postpone your trip?”
“It seems that is what everyone else thinks I should do, but a little rain never hurt anyone. It means Lettice will go without her saffron tarts, though.”
“With the price of a saffron tart she could buy five other gooseberry ones.”
Lettice wrinkled her nose. “I do not like gooseberry. The flavour is too … tart!”
Just as they were laughing at her sister’s pun, Thomasin noticed a figure appearing at the far end of the drive. A man on ahorse had turned off the main road and was heading up towards the house. She nodded to Giles, who followed her gaze.
“Now, what is this?” he asked. “A visitor? I do not recognise him. A messenger? His matter cannot be urgent, as he has not broken into a trot. Perhaps it is someone who has lost their way. I will go to meet him.”
They watched as Giles walked along the driveway and intercepted the horseman about halfway down. From the house steps, they could see a brief conversation taking place, then a letter being handed over.
“More news,” said Lettice. “What can it be now? Perhaps Dedham is flooded, or there is plague at Eastwell, or all the saffron crops have burned in the fields.”
Giles’s face gave nothing away as he returned, but he handed over the folded paper to Thomasin. “It is for you. From London.”
“From London?” She took it hesitantly. “I do not want more bad news.”
“Well, you won’t know what it is until you open it.”
The seal was in black wax, bearing initials she did not recognise. It snapped easily in two, unfolding to reveal a letter in tight, formal handwriting. Thomasin scanned it once, then read it again, unable to take in the words.
“No, I don’t understand this.” She handed it over to Giles. He scanned it briefly, then read it a second time.
“Now there’s a surprise. Uncle Matthew has left Monk’s Place entirely to you.”
“To me? Not to Mother or Ellen?”
“No, according to this letter, the terms of his will are very clear. It is yours, Thomasin. You are the new owner of Monk’s Place.”
The house with its woody smell, the dark staircase, the long garden, came flooding back to her.
“I wonder why.”
“You always were a favourite of his, I recall. Perhaps he decided that you would get more use from it than your mother. And Ellen is remarried, and not blood-related. I don’t know. Who is the letter from?”
She checked the bottom again. “An Ambrose Brown, lawyer, Lincoln’s Inn.”
“Perhaps he will have more answers for you. The will might have given a reason.”
Suddenly, Thomasin was unsure. It was a blessing, an honour; there was no doubt about that. But London? She had never thought to own a house in London, and did she really wish to return there?
“What are you thinking?” asked Giles.
“I don’t know. What do I do with the place? I never imagined this.”
Giles laughed. “You can do anything you want with it, but you don’t need to decide now.”
“I suppose we must go to London?”
“Perhaps. We might want to sort the old place out, go through your uncle’s belongings. Or I could instruct this Ambrose Brown to have an inventory drawn up.”
Thomasin sighed. The first spots of rain began to fall around them.
“Here it comes,” Lettice said gloomily. “We can go to Dedham another time.”
