“My mother comes from an aristocratic family in England. The Spencer-Suttons go back all the way to the Wars of the Roses. In the 1800s, one of my ancestors, Rupert Spencer-Sutton, fell wildly in love. There was just one problem. The love of his life was a man, the Marquess of Aberdeen. The marquess loved him back, but it was a doomed romance because obviously they couldn’t marry. But they wanted to unite their bloodlines somehow. So they created this special trust, it’s all written up in official royal-approved papers, that could only be accessed if a member of the Spencer-Sutton family married a member of the Aberdeen family. The title, Marquess of Aberdeen, would go dormant until that happened.”
Rory’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he listened to her story. So Mathilda came from an aristocratic bloodline. That put her squarely out of his league. “Has it ever happened, an Aberdeen marrying a Spencer-Seymour?”
“Spencer-Sutton. Oh yes. Twice since then, the two families were joined in marriage. But it’s only happened two times in two centuries. There was almost always an issue preventing a match—the ages didn’t line up, or the genders didn’t. In the case of my mother, she nearly married an Aberdeen, but then she met my father, who’s an absolute dreamboat who swept her off her feet. He’s American, and he had plenty of family money of his own. So she didn’t mind walking away from the trust and all that.”
She caught his surprised glance, and bristled.
“Yes, my parents are rich, but that doesn’t mean I am, so you can wipe that look off your face.”
“It’s just that you’ve been giving me a hard time about billionaires ever since we met.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I have some built-up frustration with the whole thing and I took it out on you. But I’m just as bad as you are.”
As Lincoln is, Rory wanted to scream.
“I pay my own way, but I know that if I’m ever in a tough spot, I can go to my parents. Not everyone has that. They’d probably write a check for everything we need at this camp, but I choose other methods of fundraising. And now there’s this.” She looked down at the folded sheets of paper in her hand.
“From an Aberdeen, I assume?”
“Duncan Aberdeen. He’s of marriageable now and he probably wants that title. Why wouldn’t he? The Brits love titles. My grandmother never forgave my mother for walking away from the title. She’s almost eighty now, and she’d be so happy if I became the Marchioness of Aberdeen.”
She said those words wistfully.
“But it’s up to you, right?”
“It is. Ultimately, it’s my choice. But there’s more to it. The bequest—they call it the Aberdeen Bequest—expires if no one has claimed it in a hundred years. It’s been over ninety-nine years since that last marriage. If Duncan and I don’t marry, it will end. There will never be another Marquess of Aberdeen. And all the money in the account, which has been accruing interest for a hundred years…actually, I don’t know what happens to it. That lawyer probably knows. Ugh. I don’t even want to read this. Do you have any idea how much pressure everyone is going to put on me?”
She shoved the papers at him and buried her face in her hands.
With one hand filled with her proposal, he used the other to gently rub her back. This was a lot to take in. The adorable Mathilda, who he’d appreciated for her scientific passion and nerdy vibes—and the way she looked in boots and shorts—turned out to be part of the English nobility. Not only that, she had family money of her own. She was sharing all this now because she thought he would understand, since Lincoln too was loaded.
She was going to absolutely despise him when she learned the truth.
Did it even matter, if she was about to marry a British lord and become a wealthy marchioness? They’d probably never see each other again.
His curiosity got the best of him; he glanced down at the papers. Just then a gust of wind blew through the camp and wafted them out of his hand. He jumped up to chase them down. By the time he’d gathered them all up, they were a mess, some upside down, some backwards. He glanced at the page on top, and froze.
“Mathilda, you might want to look at this.”
16
Oh God. It was about to get even worse, wasn’t it?
Mathilda straightened her spine and told herself to put on her big girl panties. Her life was about to change in one way or another—but she shouldn’t complain. She was incredibly fortunate in so many ways.
Lincoln handed her the papers and pointed at the one the chaotic wind had put on top. She scanned it with a mounting sense of disbelief.
“So all the Aberdeen money would go to this…what, Anglo-Saxon heritage group? Their mission is…segregation? Am I reading this right?”
“That’s what I got too. The group was established a long time ago, in the seventeen-hundreds, so it’s hard to apply the language to the current day. Maybe we’re misunderstanding it.”
She quoted from the page. “‘Dedicated to the Preservation, Glorification and Perfection of Pure Englishe Bloodlines.’ Hard to misunderstand that.” She jumped to her feet. “Where’s that barrister or whatever?” She was so rattled that she couldn’t even remember his name. “Sasha!” She yelled in the direction of the outhouse. “I need that lawyer!”
“He’s a little busy! Be right with you!” Sasha called from over there. The poor man must still be doing his business. Well, she had more important business for him.
“Let’s go.” Mathilda beckoned Lincoln to follow her. “Please,” she added quickly. Hard to remember her manners when she was this riled up.
Forgoing a fortune was one thing. Knowing it was going to a heinous cause, that was something different. Nothing against pure English bloodlines—which she didn’t even qualify for, by the way—but with everything going on in the world, was that really the most important cause to direct the Aberdeen funds towards?
