Page 109 of The Ladies Least Likely
Somewhat abashed, the clerk, whose fingers were more stained than Amaranthe’s, held up his most recent sheet for Oliver to inspect. The ink, still drying, immediately ran toward the feet of his letters, and he hastily turned his page flat.
“These letters have faded to a light brown.” Amaranthe pointed.
“The same shade of brown, as you can see. Both were written hastily, in the kind of court hand our scribe is using, but you can identify the same hand by the foot of the Y character and the use of the thorn character for ‘th.’ It is an archaic usage, but faster to write one character rather than two. I noticed the same usage in other records of these years when I studied the parish register.”
Silence fell in the courtroom as Oliver studied the document.
Mal’s barrister had the sense to hold still, lacing his hands and studying the ceiling.
Froggart sputtered with outrage. Sybil and Popplewell held a whispered, furious conversation.
Amaranthe held her breath and stared into Mal’s eyes, wondering what he was thinking as he watched the judge.
Oliver sat back. “Very well, Miss Illingworth, you have convinced me these documents are of the appropriate age. Therefore it is likely they are of the provenance you claim.” He regarded her with that twinkle ever stronger in his eyes.
He did approve of clever women. She exhaled with relief.
It was a rare man who did, particularly in his profession.
“The signatures could be forged,” Sybil shrilled. “We have no way of knowing if that is the same Marguerite.”
“Actually,” Amaranthe answered, “we do. I happen to own a book which she inscribed.” She returned to the pew where she’d been sitting and retrieved her Book of Hours. It was a marvel her legs carried her, they felt so unsteady.
“I asked your Aunt Bea, Mal, how your mother came by it, and she said Lord Vernay had given it her as a wedding gift. He knew she loved old things and nothing else would delight her more. She immediately wrote her name in it. As we thought, Bea sold the book, along with some of your mother’s other things, to pay for funeral expenses and save up for your schooling.
Because it had first been owned by Lady Willoughby de Broke, it traveled back to Callington into the hands of Mr. Finney, and thereby to me.
I have a proper bill of sale specifying my ownership,” she said, with a glare at Mr. Thorkelson, “in the event you wish to challenge that, too.”
Sybil crowded close to examine the flyleaf of the book that Amaranthe held open for the inspection of the judge.
“God’s teeth,” the duchess swore quietly.
“You little—you…you!” She bit off her savage words, wise enough to recollect she should not lose possession of her temper in the presence of the judge deciding her case.
Amaranthe almost wished she’d let loose.
She suspected the duchess was capable of the most magnificent fits of rage.
Something about Popplewell’s nervous, unhappy look said he fully expected to witness one later.
Oliver cleared his throat and sat back in his chair. “Well. This evidence changes the facts of the case very much.”
“Rather a change of circumstances for you, old man,” Rosenfeld observed.
Froggart appeared on the verge of apoplexy. “Procedure!” he gulped, his voice high and strained. “False evidence! Not correct—no time to prepare—” He glanced at the duchess as if he expected her to open her mouth and demolish him on the spot with a breath of fire. Sybil looked as if she just might.
“I don’t believe this evidence is false,” Oliver said.
Everyone watched the judge, waiting. Standing next to her, Mal slipped his hand into Amaranthe’s.
She clung to it, squeezing. Whatever the decree, she would stand by him.
And if he cast her away, she’d come back whenever he needed her again.
She’d come today suspecting he might need her, ready to produce the evidence she held if he wished it.
She would continue to turn up, offering whatever she could.
Whatever he would accept. Whatever he needed, whether he admitted needing her or not.
“Let it be entered into the rolls,” Oliver said, straightening, and the scribe dashed his quill into his ink.
“The case brought by Her Grace the Duchess of Hunsdon challenging the will of the late Duke of Hunsdon is dismissed.
Evidence has been submitted to the court showing that Malden Grey—named hereafter as Malden Delaval—is the firstborn son and legitimate heir to Hugh Langston Delaval, third Duke of Hunsdon, by his marriage to Marguerite Grey, hereafter known as Marguerite Delaval, Lady Vernay.
“The court confirms that by terms of the entail, entire possession of the Hunsdon estate, and the title of His Grace the 4 th Duke of Hunsdon, shall pass to Malden Grey—Delaval. The estate will provide the jointure owed to Her Grace the Duchess of Hunsdon and will execute all other provisions that have been made in the third duke’s will.
If Her Grace has issues with these provisions, she may take her case to the common law courts.
“And furthermore,” Oliver concluded, “Her Grace shall be responsible for furnishing to the Court full payment of all fees that have been generated by this case by all parties.”
Sybil gave a small, smothered yelp. The common law courts moved every bit as glacially as the Court of Chancery, and sometimes with less pleasant results, being more focused on the finer points of law than the actual dispensation of justice.
It would hardly be a promising avenue for any claim she wished to press.
But the worst blow, Amaranthe suspected, was being held accountable for court fees, when she had no money. Popplewell swayed in his seat, looking light-headed.
Mal’s expression was calm and firm, his head bowed as he listened to the judgment. He held her hand tightly.
Oliver cleared his throat. “Now to the matter of the contested guardianship. The Delaval children—” He paused and asked sharply, “ Are they Delaval children?”
Mal lifted his head. “My mother died in 1757,” he said soberly. “Her death record is in the parish register, and her monument in St. Philip and St. James. I believe the record will show that my father married Christine, daughter of the Earl of Olforde, in 1756.”
“Bastards,” Sybil said in a choked voice. “They’re all bastards.”
“I will provide for them,” Mal said swiftly. “I intend to adopt them legally. They shall be provided for.”
“Young Hugh can’t be your heir if he’s illegitimate,” Oliver warned.
Mal nodded. He knew that, better than anybody. “They will be provided for,” he said again.
“And will have a true mother, I hope, rather than this harpy,” Rosenfeld said. The duchess’s color rose, showing through the white lead paint.
Oliver gave the barrister a reproving look.
“You needn’t put that in,” he told the scribe.
“Let the record show that by circumstances of birth, the children of the third Duke of Hunsdon by Lady Christine do not have a legal claim to the estate or title of Hunsdon, nor any of the lesser titles, holdings, or estates. Until their majority, their legal guardian shall be their elder half-brother, Malden Grey—Delaval—the 4th Duke of Hunsdon.”
Oliver gathered the parchment pages and handed them back to Mal.
“You’ll need these to show the House of Lords, but with my decision on record, that should be all it takes.
I imagine they’ll want to install you before Parliament adjourns this session.
” His face lit with humor. “Be prepared for a great deal of toad eating. Young Hugh’s been spared because of his age, but you’ll have more new friends than you’ll know what to do with.
Fortunate that you already have a wife picked out, or you’d be besieged by hopeful mamas as well. ”
Amaranthe’s face burned as Oliver beamed at her. “I told you to choose a clever wife. Won you a dukedom, didn’t she?”
“She’s no duchess!” Sybil screamed. “You can’t have my clothes! I’ll tell everyone—the Duchess of Gloucester—of Cumberland—they’ll never allow it! I’ll see that you’re not received!”
Popplewell hauled her out of the room as she gnashed her teeth, wailing. “Jointure! Nothing more! Jointure, when that miserable miser?—”
Mr. Thorkelson, who had exited the witness box, cleared his throat and gave Amaranthe an unctuous smile.
“How very glad I am to learn that my reservations about your work have proved groundless, Miss Illingworth,” he said.
“I am sure you understand that the office of Thorkelson, Thorkelson, and Son takes very seriously the honor of serving the dukes of Hunsdon as long as we have.” He turned his sycophantic look on Mal.
“We will be very happy to receive you in your offices, sir, or call upon you at your convenience. There will be a bit of business to see to regarding transfer of the title and so on, but we stand ready to?—”
“I will call upon you to discuss who shall handle the estate in future,” Mal said coolly. “Good day, Mr. Thorkelson.”
The other man had no choice but to bow and lumber away.
“Ducal already,” Amaranthe murmured under her breath.
Mal squeezed her hand again as he turned to Froggart. “How fortunate for you that Sybil is such an admirable, upstanding citizen, as you painted her,” he said. “Considering that she now has to stand all the court fees, including your retainer.”
“Grey!” Froggart exhaled explosively. “That is—er, Your Grace! Fine bit of oratory there, old fellow! You’ll make a roaring good barrister.”
“Barrister?” Rosenfeld rumbled with laughter. “Froggart, you bacon brain! He’ll have his coronet and a seat in Lords. He’ll have far more influence in Parliament than he ever could in a courtroom. With all due respect to Your Honor,” he said with a cheeky grin at Oliver.
Oliver grunted as he rose. The scribe scrambled to finish his notes and blew on his parchment before he rolled it up.
“I believe Mrs. Oliver and I have earned an invitation to your wedding breakfast,” the judge said as he made a grand exit. “Miss Illingworth, good day. This court is adjourned.”