Page 42 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)
Thirty-eight
Verity
Sunday, New Year’s Eve, Verity smoothed the lovely silver-blue silk gown that Rafe had given her for Christmas.
It went beautifully with one of the Kashmir shawls from her mother’s trunk.
She fingered the pearls at her throat for good luck, praying her parents watched over her.
She was hoping for a miracle, here in Gravesyde, where anything seemed possible.
They weren’t attending a party to welcome the new year—although the children were bouncing in excitement as if they were. They loved the attention.
Lavender hadn’t been able to tailor Rafe’s frockcoat, but at Verity’s request, she had taken his measurements from his dress uniform and sent them to a tailor Damien had recommended.
Rafe had been shocked when he’d opened the elegant gift, but he wore the dark green superfine proudly now.
It went well with his red hair. Her husband was a magnificent gentleman. She could never find one finer.
Armored for battle, they followed Minerva and Paul into the manor’s library where all the officials had gathered. Apparently solicitors did not observe the holy days or even New Year’s Eve.
Verity had hoped to meet the Bartletts, the orphans’ only remaining maternal family in England, but Bee and Boo were apparently elderly and unable to travel the distance. They’d never met the children and had only stepped in when they heard rumors that injustice had been done to the family name.
Swallowing nervously, Verity worried about the solicitors’ disregard to their families, but she supposed the viscount’s estate paid well. And Captain Huntley had been rather forceful in his demands, now that they finally had reliable evidence.
After Damien rode to Stratford and showed the marriage documents from the recipe book to Mr. Browning, the lawyers had searched Beanblossom.
Once they’d found the leather notebook with original documents and the late Honorable Major Thomas Turner’s letters, right where the children had said, Browning’s firm had backed Hunt in demanding a meeting with Chatham’s solicitors.
Verity touched Daphne and Daniel on their shoulders.
Dressed in their finest, their hair neatly trimmed so they resembled blond angels, they seemed more interested in the manor’s recently-installed gaslight and the bonging floor clock than anxious about the proceedings.
“You are to make your bow and curtsy, then go with Brydie, understood?”
“Will our cousin be there?” Daniel turned his gorgeous, deep blue eyes to them.
“He should be.” The former—or was that the false?— Lord Chatham had thrown the mother of all tantrums after being confronted with the facts. That he’d turned his rage on Cooper and not the children spoke well of him, Verity prayed.
Rafe had not been able to pry a word out of Willa’s killer.
They’d had to patch together his treachery by interviewing everyone Geoffrey Cooper—he did not have a legal right to the name Turner—had bamboozled.
Major Turner’s letters to his wife had also been revealing.
He hadn’t trusted his impoverished cousin, Laurence, or his illegitimate cousin, Cooper, which was why he’d tucked his family out of harm’s way.
They’d learned that Geoffrey Cooper was Laurence Turner’s half-brother, a by-blow of his father. After Major Turner’s death at Waterloo, followed by the death of the old viscount, Cooper had presumably hoped to ride his half-brother’s coattails to title and wealth.
Verity squeezed Rafe’s arm for comfort as they entered the enormous library.
Solicitors stood at their arrival. Laurence Turner, formerly known as Lord Chatham, prodded by his new solicitor, reluctantly rose from his sprawl in a wing chair.
Fair-haired, not overly tall, and well-dressed, Turner bore a vague resemblance to his cousin’s offspring, although his eyes were a washed out blue.
The children behaved graciously upon being introduced to this unknown relation, staring only a little as they curtsied and bowed.
Neither of them shrieked in fear or even cried out in recognition, which was a relief.
Not realizing how tense she’d been until Brydie led them away, Verity nearly melted into the chair Rafe pulled out for her.
He squeezed her bare shoulder reassuringly.
Even though Verity knew they debated their future, the lawyer talk passed over her head.
She studied the pouting, rather young Mr. Turner who returned to sprawling in a side chair, already dismissed as no longer relevant to the discussion.
She compared him to Hunt’s friend, the dowager’s stepson, the Marquess of Spalding.
Older and more elegant, the marquess was slender and blond, too, but muscles instead of padding filled out his coat shoulders.
She was glad she and Rafe had worn their finest wardrobe so they would not shame the nobleman prepared to stand up for them and the children.
Damien and the manor’s solicitor, Mr. Browning, presented all the documents they’d located and made their case. There didn’t seem to be any doubt that Daniel was the heir to a viscountcy. The devil was in the details. That’s why Verity and Minerva were there, despite gentlemanly disapproval.
The late viscount’s solicitors from Bath had folders and documents of their own.
They presented his will for Mr. Browning and Damien to read.
The hidden journal had provided enough information to locate where the late Major Thomas Turner had left his will—not the old one the lying Cooper had showed them.
With marriage and birth documents secured, the legal part was all clear and aboveboard. Daniel was the new Lord Chatham, heir to a modest estate and fortune.
Verity threaded her fingers together in her lap and prayed as they began discussing schools and guardianship.
In a pause in the discussion while Hunt brought out the brandy decanter and a maid delivered tea, she finally spoke.
“The children need a mother, not some distant guardian who won’t be around to wipe their tears.
They have been terrorized to the point of not speaking.
They cannot be given over to strangers who treat them only as a means of making a living. ”
She’d practiced that small speech all day. She’d be quaking in her shoes had she stood. She wasn’t shy. She simply wasn’t accustomed to standing up to men.
“In an ideal world, Mrs. . .” The solicitor from Bath couldn’t even remember her name.
“Mrs. Russell.” Rafe provided it emphatically.
“No one can bring their mother back. We’ll find a good nanny for the little girl.” The solicitor continued with impatience.
“Daphne,” Verity inserted, imitating Rafe’s irritation.
“For Daphne.” The solicitor was a little more annoyed at her interruption. “But Lord Chatham needs to be in a school where he will meet others of his rank who will help him become the man he needs to be to run our great country.”
A few cynical snorts followed that declaration, and Verity waited for the American Hunt or the political marquess to wade into the fray. Amazingly, they didn’t. They allowed her to state her case.
Filling her lungs and finding her courage, she glared at the solicitor and continued in a firm voice.
“Of course Daniel should have an education, as should Daphne. I am a teacher. I respect that they’ll have enormous responsibilities in the future and should be well educated and prepared accordingly.
Right now, however, they are terrified babes who have just lost both their parents.
All they know is a small cottage and a very limited world.
You cannot begin to imagine how brave they were to walk the woods at night in search of a church and help. They are amazing children.”
She was in danger of rambling. She caught her breath and Rafe reached over to squeeze her hands.
“They’ll adapt, as children do,” the solicitor said with a dismissive wave. “The main concern is the guardian responsible for the estate—”
The bored former Lord Chatham abruptly sat up straight.
Enraged, Verity discarded any remaining timidity and pushed to her feet to lean over the table.
“NO. It is not. I—” She swung her hand to indicate everyone at the table.
“I and everyone in the Priory can tell you from experience, that money is the least important part of growing up secure and happy. Children need a circle of family and friends who will provide love and understanding and support so they can grow up to be the very best they can be. Money is nice. People are necessary.”
Shaking, she sat down before she fell down.
Before the lawyers could find their tongues after that outraged speech, Minerva rose.
“I and almost everyone in the Priory are descendants of the late Earl of Wycliffe. Between us, we are related to, have gone to school with, and have married into half the aristocracy, at the very least. Yes, eventually, Lord Chatham must have the same education as the earl’s great-grandsons, who are currently being tutored upstairs by an educated gentlemen the Duke of Castlefield recommended.
But right now, they’re too young, as is Daniel.
He needs to know he has a family and people he can count on first. He can do that here, under the tutelage of Mr. Birdwhistle and Mrs. Russell, forming the friendships he’ll need to survive the rigors of boarding school and university. ”
Rafe chuckled. Damien, Hunt, and Paul grinned broadly. Even Mr. Browning, the manor’s solicitor, hid a smile.
Verity offered a prayer of gratitude and relief for this wonderful home she had found.
Clutching her hands and not standing this time, she used her best schoolteacher voice.
“Rafe and I only wish legal guardianship so we might act as their mother would have. As I understand it, she has been raising them on the limited funds of their father’s trust, without anyone’s aid, and has done a fine job. ”