Page 12 of Lord Heartless

Sir Gilliam was dying. When his physician said so, Carissa made Mason call in another. That doctor shook his head and handed her some more laudanum, for her nerves, he said. The solicitor came, not Mr. Alistair Gordon, who had conducted Sir Gilliam's legal affairs for the last forty years, but his son, Mr. Nigel Gordon. The senior Gordon having passed away last winter, the younger was taking over the business.

"It's a dying generation,” Cook lamented, wiping her eyes on her apron.

Carissa could not help recalling the evenings when she and Sir Gilliam and his solicitor had played three-handed whist for hours, or when she had sat to table, at Sir Gilliam's insistence, with Mr. Gordon and his wife. Mr. Nigel did not so much as acknowledge her presence when she brought him tea in the sickroom. No “Thank you,” no “How do you do?” The world was going to be a sadder place without all the courtly old gentlemen, Carissa thought, dabbing at her own damp cheeks.

Nigel did find time for a coze with Mason, most likely going over details concerning pensions for the staff and addresses of those to notify, Cook guessed. “Sure and Sir Gilliam will do what's right, iffen Mason and the young vulture don't talk him out of it whilst he's so poorly."

Having instantly taken control of the household, Mason was doing his best to keep Carissa away from Sir Gilliam. “It would not be proper for you to sit up with the master at night, in his bedroom,” he took pleasure in telling her. “You do remember the rules of propriety, don't you, Mrs. Kane? Or are you too busy chasing after your nob to recall the demands of proper conduct in a gentleman's house? Go off where you'd rather be, across the street, and leave Sir Gilliam to those as care for his welfare."

She hardly left the house, waiting for Mason to eat or sleep or go off on business of his own, though heaven knew what or where. Most of those times, when she tiptoed into the sickroom past a drowsing footman, Sir Gilliam was in a drugged stupor, oblivious to her visit. She sat by his side anyway, saying prayers and listening to his labored breathing.

A few days later Mason summoned her to the master's bedroom. “He's calling for you, won't take his medicine till he's had his say. It'll be on your head if he takes a turn for the worse."

How much worse could the poor man get? Carissa wondered as she stood next to the bed, fighting back tears at the sight of the shrunken, shaking body, struggling for every breath, it seemed.

"Don't be sad, my dear,” the old man said with a gasp, reaching out one wizened hand for hers. “I have led a long life, made my fortune, made the knighthood, made my peace with God. It's time to make my farewells."

"No, dear sir, don't talk like that. You cannot leave us! Save your breath, I beg you, so you may recover."

He tried to smile, but the effort was too much. “Very well, I shall lie here quietly and listen to you for a spell. How is Lord Hartleigh going on?"

So she told him about the duel that wasn't, and the harsh things she'd said, and the servants who would not stay.

Sir Gilliam coughed, as laughter was beyond him. After Carissa held the glass of tonic to his lips and he'd taken a sip or two, the aged knight managed to say, “You are just what that young man needs."

"What, a competent housekeeper?"

"Aye, you're that and more, my dear. A pearl beyond price."

She shook her head. “I wouldn't put up with that dog, either!"

"And you won't have to, Carissa. I have made other provisions."

"Sir?” His voice was so soft Carissa had trouble understanding.

"You won't have to keep house for anyone but yourself and your daughter. Tell Philippa good-bye for me, my dear. I shouldn't want her to see me this way."

"She sends her prayers,” Carissa said, no longer able to contain her tears.

"And thank you for sharing her with me, for the little while. I never wanted children of my own, you know."

"Please, Sir Gilliam, please don't strain yourself to speak."

"Have to, my dear. There won't be another chance. Did you ever want more children, Carissa?"

"Once, sir, but I stopped thinking about it until I held Lord Hartleigh's infant. I am content with my daughter."

"It's still not too late for you. Handsome woman, I always thought so. In your prime. I often wondered if that was why you would not accept my proposal. You should have, my dear. I could not offer you mad, passionate romance—my spirit might have been willing, but this old body would not have cooperated. But your future would have been secure now, yours and Philippa's both.” A tear rolled down his sunken cheek.

Carissa wiped it away and tried to smile for him. “You mustn't worry about us, Sir Gilliam. You've been so generous I've been able to put some money by. And you said yourself, I am an excellent housekeeper."

"No. You weren't meant to keep another woman's house. I've seen to it. Rather take care of you than that nodcock nevvy of mine. You and the lass are more like family than the coxcomb could ever be."

"That's the nicest thing you could say, dear sir.” She leaned over and kissed his pale cheek and brushed the silvered hair off his forehead. “I am going to miss you more than I can ever express."

He squeezed her hand feebly, but a squeeze nevertheless. “You'll be fine, my dear. I've seen to it."

Mason sent for the rector of the nearby church, and for the nephew. While the clergyman was praying for Sir Gilliam's soul. Mason was closeted with Mr. Broderick Parkhurst, a would-be dandy, a ne'er-do-well who'd gone through his five-and-twenty years at his uncle's expense, and was going to the devil on his own. He'd refused Sir Gilliam's offers of a university education, a position at the bank, an army commission, or an introduction at the East India Company. He'd refused everything but an allowance, which he spent on clothes that did not flatter his spindly frame and horses that he could not stay aboard. Broderick's sole ambition in life, Sir Gilliam had often despaired, was to become a gentleman of leisure. No matter that his birth was only respectable and his fortune negligible, Broderick Parkhurst was not going to work for a living.

Especially not while his wealthy uncle lay dying.

Broderick moved into the house, demanding constant service, keeping irregular hours, creating havoc in the kitchens. If he visited Sir Gilliam's bedside once, it was more than the exhausted Carissa noticed.

"Good,” Cook announced. “Let the poor man die in peace."

Carissa prayed he had.

She had no time for grieving, for Broderick filled the house with his rowdy friends for the funeral observances. She was run off her feet changing linens, changing menus every time another young man arrived. More foodstuffs had to be ordered, and more wine. A lot more wine. She hired more maids, which were her domain, and insisted Mason hire more footmen, to haul bathwater and coal and the occasional castaway guest off to a bedchamber. They suddenly needed grooms to manage the horses and a boy to polish the riders’ boots, after they'd tracked mud throughout the house.

The new servants needed quarters and uniforms and meals. They were not all what Carissa considered fit company for Pippa, especially the footmen Mason hired. The guests, with their foul mouths and reckless ways, certainly were not. Pippa spent more time with Maisie than with her mother.

Lord Hartleigh came to call, to pay his respects to those who truly cared about Sir Gilliam. That time he came in the back door.

"I will have Byrd here in two shakes,” he offered, “to carry your things across the street. There is no reason for you to stay on here when a perfectly suitable position is going begging. Can you believe the last woman that agency sent over was cloth-headed enough to feed Glad beans?” He shook his head. “Parkhurst and his peep-o'-day boys will turn the place into a gaming hell before they are done. Come away before I am forced to do something they will regret."

Carissa smiled but had to refuse. “I owe Sir Gilliam more loyalty than that. At least until the will is read, when things shall be more settled. Then I will decide what's best for me and Pippa.” She had no idea what Sir Gilliam intended for them, so she could not make plans. She did know how dangerous residing under the same roof with this handsome rake could be. She'd take her chances with the louts upstairs.

"So long as you don't mind that Pippa is underfoot at your place?” she asked.

"Of course not. She is no trouble at all, I assure you.” And she was keeping the tongues wagging when he took the little moppet to the park, perched in front of him on the saddle. “Besides, she is the only one Gladiator listens to."

"She is the only one with gingerbread in her pocket, most likely."

"You are sure you can manage these young sots? Some of them fancy themselves hellrakers."

She'd managed him so far, hadn't she? But now that she thought of it, Carissa hadn't seen his lordship disguised since Sue arrived, hadn't seen him come home at daybreak, and hadn't seen any birds of paradise fluttering about. She'd think about that later, after she made sure there was ample hot water for those of the houseguests who deigned to bathe before dinner, or ever.

Lesley left, reluctantly.

Carissa let him, reluctantly.

* * * *

The day the will was read, Sir Gilliam's nephew wore a black stock, a gray coat with black armbands, and a smug expression. Broderick was already seated in the library when Carissa and the rest of the servants filed in to stand toward the rear, there being no chairs set out for them. They all shared the same sorrow to find the new solicitor sitting at Sir Gilliam's desk instead of their beloved employer. Nigel Gordon had a glass of wine at one elbow and Mason hovering at the other with the decanter. Nothing was offered to the staff, of course. Bonnie, the maid, started sniffling, until Cook pinched her.

Carissa barely listened to the legal terms and the long explanations Mr. Gordon seemed determined to make, ensuring the validity of the will. Then he got to bequests for the servants. Mason was to get a pension. Cook was to have a year's salary. The others were to have a quarter's wages. Carissa's name was not mentioned.

Next came donations to charities. Sir Gilliam was generous, but Carissa's name was not mentioned.

The remainder of Sir Gilliam's estate, the lawyer was reading, including this house and the balance of his financial assets, was herewith bequeathed to his nephew, Broderick Parkhurst. Carissa's name was not mentioned.

Stunned, she leaned against the wall as the other servants left the library, looking at her and shaking their heads. She did not understand, could not understand. How could that kind man, that gentleman who'd offered to marry her so she and her daughter would be provided for, how could he not have remembered her in his will? Worse, how could he have lied to her? Carissa could not believe it of him. On trembling legs she approached the desk where Broderick and the solicitor were shaking hands while Mason poured them each another glass of Sir Gilliam's finest sherry.

"Excuse me, sirs, but I think there must have been some mistake."

Nigel Gordon looked up—he did not stand up—and then looked through his papers and notes. “Ah, yes, the housekeeper, Mrs. Kane. We wondered why there was no mention of you, until Mr. Mason pointed out that you had not been in Sir Gilliam's employ when this testament was created."

"Not in his employ? I have been here nearly four years."

"And this will is five years old. You would have heard the date, had you been listening.” He turned back to Broderick and his glass.

"Pardon me,” Carissa persisted, “but Sir Gilliam made a new will when he took ill. You yourself came to call."

Nigel swallowed his wine before bothering to answer: “I was called to his bedside, indeed, but the man was nearly comatose."

"That was due to the laudanum. He was not so stuporous all the time!"

"The twice I called he was not lucid, I am sorry to say."

"He was clear enough in his head to assure me that provision had been made for me and my daughter."

"Ma'am, his mind was wandering at the end. Surely you saw that he was delirious.” He looked toward Mason, who confirmed his assessment with a nod. Broderick was cleaning his fingernails with the penknife on the desk.

"No, he knew me. He mentioned my daughter by name. We talked about the neighbors! He was not rambling or vague, and he did say that he'd left me a bequest."

"I am sure he meant to, Mrs. Kane. Sir Gilliam was generous. However, even if he had managed to express his desires, the will could have been overturned. No court of law would have believed Sir Gilliam was in sound mind at the time."

Not with Mason and that worm Broderick to say otherwise, she saw now. They'd kept him drugged, kept poor Sir Gilliam nearly unconscious, so that he could not change his will in her favor. Broderick's motives were obvious, and Mason had always hated her. Perhaps he was even getting a bonus for his part in the scheme to rob a dying man of his last wishes, and her of dying hopes. Carissa had to steady herself, but she would not swoon, not in front of these ... these criminals.

"I say, it's a rum go, Mrs. Kane.” Broderick was swinging his fob watch—no, it was Sir Gilliam's fob watch, Carissa saw now; the carrion-eater had not even waited for the will to be read. “But I mean to do the right thing. Respect for m'uncle, don't you know. The other servants got a quarter's wages, eh? Well, you shall have a half year's, ma'am.” He beamed at the solicitor. “And the opportunity to stay on, of course. La, couldn't put m'uncle's loyal helpers out in the cold, now could I?"

"You are too generous,” she said, and Broderick was too stupid to hear the irony in her voice.

He polished the watch on one of Sir Gilliam's handkerchiefs, one that Carissa had embroidered an ornate P on, for Christmas. “Think nothing of it, m'dear."

She didn't.

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