Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 3
Eliza inspected the brass shingle above the tatty, wooden door, ARTHUR BRAINERD, SOLICITOR, then grasped the lion-head door knocker and rapped three times. There was a muted shuffling on the other side, followed by the low barking of a dog.
“Settle, settle, Monty!” a gruff voice muttered. The door swung wide, and a well-dressed gentleman of advanced years peered out at her, squinting his watery blue eyes as he clutched the collar of a monstrous wolfhound.
Eliza stepped back.
“Never mind Monty, love. He won’t bite. He’s all legs and tail but no teeth.”
The dog whined and looked up at her through his fringe of coarse gray hair. Eliza put out her hand. He sniffed her glove, his great tail whisking from side to side.
“You’re Miss Sullivan, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. Lady Sherbourne’s grandniece.” She scratched Monty behind the ears. His tongue lolled from his mouth as encouragement.
“Right, right. Have a seat in the parlor and I’ll have Myrtle bring a spot of tea while I fetch the documents.”
Eliza crossed over the threshold into the dim light of a squarish room. It was lined floor-to-ceiling with messy stacks of gold-embossed books, their spines a confusing array of letters and numbers. A desk stood in the corner, its legs ending in gryphon’s claws, the top laden with sheaves of paper and a typewriter. Eliza removed her gloves and sat in the high-backed chair facing the desk. Monty circled the floor at her feet three times, then lay down, resting his hoary head against her shin.
Mr. Brainerd came in, muttering to himself and carrying a green leather portfolio. A woman with eyes like raisins and gray-streaked brown hair done up in a topknot followed him. She set a tea service down on the spindly Italian-style table next to Eliza, then gave a peck to Mr. Brainerd’s cheek as he wedged himself behind the desk.
“Thank you, Myrtle,” he said, patting her red-knuckled hand. She nodded at Eliza, then disappeared, sliding the pocket door shut behind her. “I take it your passage was satisfactory?” He produced a pair of demilune magnifiers from his pocket and perched them on the end of his bulbous nose.
“It was, although I’m not much suited to sea travel. I don’t care for water. I’m only now recovering from being tossed about.”
“I’m a creature of the land myself, I daresay.” He gave a dry chuckle and held a sheet of parchment up to the feeble light. “Ah. Here are the deed to Sherbourne House and the clauses set forth in Lady Sherbourne’s will.”
Eliza took the documents from him and scanned them. The deed was simple, describing the dimensions of the house as well as a surveyor’s appraisal of the land. She shuffled the deed behind the next document and read. Everything was standard until she came to the final clause. She put her hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against her teeth. “I’m so sorry, but would you mind explaining this clause, sir?” Eliza converted the Roman numerals in her head. “Number nineteen?” Eliza handed the will back to the solicitor.
His eyebrows quivered for a moment. “Very specific, that one. It says . . .”
“I do know what it says, Mr. Brainerd, but what does it mean?”
“Right, right. It’s a small thing, really. Lady Sherbourne’s fiduciary accounts and the tenants’ leases will only be released upon occasion of your marriage, which must occur within three months of your arrival, else your claim to the estate shall be rendered null and void. It’s a rather sizable amount. Shall I convert the numbers for you?”
Eliza pushed two fingers to her temple. Monty whined in sympathy. “No, that’s quite all right.” She understood the amounts well enough. She’d be a millionaire by American standards. If she married. And to think two days ago England had represented freedom! Her daydreams of living out her days as a moneyed spinster were dissolving as fast as spun sugar on her tongue.
It wasn’t that Eliza was opposed to love. She had loved. Twice. First there was Giselle—the buxom daughter of one of Maman’s church friends, who came each Tuesday afternoon to teach Eliza the harp. The lessons were eagerly anticipated but gradually grew shorter, the music replaced by whispered secrets and stolen kisses behind the potted palms, until finally the harp no longer sounded from the front parlor at all. We needn’t have Giselle any longer, Maman had said with a tone of finality. You’ve grown quite proficient at the harp. So proficient you never play.
A frenzy of wealthy suitors came courting soon after, but in her heartbreak, Eliza had snubbed every Creole planter her parents offered up, each one just as boring as the last. There was no man who could provide the easy companionship she’d had with Giselle.
Until Jacob—her father’s new groom. He was a quiet young man with a lisp and gray-green eyes, sensitive and kindhearted, who came to her aid one day after she fell from her horse into a stand of stinging nettle and read to her from Keats to keep her from clawing at her welted skin. She’d kissed him once on impulse, and he’d returned her ardor. They’d enjoyed weeks of bliss, until the day Maman discovered their secret trysting. Eliza put a hand to her cheek, remembering her mother’s stinging slap and the fierce set of her fine, French jaw as she pulled Eliza from Jacob’s bed. Putain! Tumbling with a common groom. Who will want you now?
After Jacob left Anaquitas Farm, no more fine Creole suitors came to call, and Eliza had shut herself away like a fallen saint awaiting martyrdom.
“I can see by your expression you’re upset,” Mr. Brainerd said, pulling her sharply from her thoughts. “Please understand, Miss Sullivan, your aunt only wanted to ensure the continued upkeep of her loyal tenants and her household in the event of her death. Lady Sherbourne was afraid, with your being American, that you’d come over, sell the house, collect the money, and then leave. And single women do tend to struggle with managing property on their own. It’s highly irregular. A lovely young woman such as yourself will have no issue attracting suitors. Find a husband and Sherbourne House and the fortune attached to it shall be yours in perpetuity.”
“I understand. But won’t my property default to my husband if I marry? Isn’t that the law?”
The old man shuffled the papers on his desk. “Yes, well. That was the old doctrine of coverture. It’s still that way in America, I believe, but this is where you are fortunate to be in England. Due to the Women’s Property Act, the title to Sherbourne House will have your name listed alongside your future husband’s.”
“And yet, if I decided to lease the property or sell it, I’d need his permission to do so. Unless I become a widow like my aunt, of course.” Eliza gave a sharp laugh. “It seems falling into widowhood is the only way a woman is guaranteed her full rights.”
“Gracious. That’s a rather dire way of looking at things.” Mr. Brainerd coughed, a rattle at the back of his throat. “There are several bachelors of quality here in Hampshire. Why, the Earl of Eastleigh is looking for a wife, even. You could end up a countess. That wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?”
Eliza’s curiosity pushed through the wall of her frustration. “And what of my neighbor? Lord Havenwood? Isn’t he a bachelor as well?”
Mr. Brainerd’s face collapsed. “Oh. That one. He’s certainly single, but I’d not . . . well. Let’s just say there are much better prospects for you.”
Eliza gave an exasperated sigh, her shoulders slumping. “I was hoping to start again. To build a business here. I wasn’t keen to marry, at least not right away. Only three months to find a husband! Bit of a rush, isn’t it?”
“Well, Lady Sherbourne was an eccentric, but I’m certain she had her reasons for the clause.” Mr. Brainerd stood, extending his hand. Monty padded to his master, his tail beating a constant rhythm. “Your aunt was very clear about the matter, but you do have choices, my dear. You could always go back to America if you find the terms do not suit. The estate will revert to the Crown, of course. Shame to let that happen.”
Eliza shook her head. No. Going back to New Orleans was not an option. There was nothing for her there but painful memories, old suitors, and shame. Eliza pulled on her gloves and followed the solicitor and his dog to the door, her brows pulled together in irritation.
“Chin up, darling,” Mr. Brainerd said, taking her hand. “Being married is no curse. My Myrtle and I have enjoyed well over thirty years together. With your charms, you’ll have the pick of the litter here in Hampshire, to be sure.”