The entire roomful of people seemed collectively to be holding their breath. I dutifully listened closely to the legalese and, for my mother’s sake, tried to figure out exactly what was going on, and to be a good representative of her interests.Yet I couldn’t help it—what fascinated me about Great-Aunt Penelope’s will was the same thing that fascinates me about history in my job: that in following one human being’s life, you can pick up embedded clues about eternal truths, about what endures and what vanishes, what’s important and what isn’t.
Harold read on, in a dignified murmur that had an insistent quality like a drumbeat, and his voice took on a momentum, in the tone of a high priest murmuring incantations: “I, Penelope Laidley, being of sound mind and body...”
I focused on decoding the formalities as he announced that Great-Aunt Penelope had left this apartment that we were sitting in and all its contents to my mother, and some hefty English bank assets to Rollo. He and his mother appeared satisfied with this. They did not contest the English will, and everything seemed hunky-dory, perfunctorily dispensed with—but there was nothing for Jeremy, which bewildered me...at first.
When it got round to the French will, however, all five of their party raised their heads in alertness and sat closer to the edges of their chairs expectantly. It signalled to me that the French assets were perhaps the more valuable, and this was what the fight was all about.
“My villa in France, including the house and all the property, I leave to Jeremy Laidley.The contents of the house, that is, all remaining furniture, I leave to my nephew Roland Laidley, Junior.The garage and its entire contents I leave solely to my great-niece and namesake, Penelope Nichols.”
After the briefest of pauses, everybody started talking all at once. The earlier high-priest incantations were replaced with overlapping spell-casting, and voodoo cursing as Dorothy and Rollo’s lawyers objected to the French will, and Jeremy and his team retaliated with polite warnings of time limits to contest it and procedure and other calm but fierce words. Then suddenly it all came to a stop. It was over—at least for now. Like a round in a boxing match.
Harold neatly arranged the papers of the will in their leather folder. A butler hired for the occasion arrived with a tray of coffee and china cups, cream pitcher and sugar bowl, which he put on the round table near the fireplace.This seemed to be a signal, for Jeremy and Severine went over to fill and pass the cups around. But Rollo’s lawyers, after murmuring to Dorothy, got up as one and stalked out the door. Dorothy rose majestically and contemptuously. Rollo cast a regretful look at the coffee, but helped his mother across the room.
I was still puzzling out why Aunt Penelope had mentioned me in such a whimsical way. Hmm, I thought. For some strange reason she thought of me as a garage person.
Before I had a chance to mull this over much, I was distracted by the tense figure of Great-Aunt Dorothy, passing by me on her way out. I could feel her pent-up fury, even before I looked up and saw it in the rigid way she was carrying herself. Although her face had a blank, stony expression, her breath gave her away, coming out in sharp little gasps. She paused at the lawyers’ table, and as if unable to contain herself a moment longer, she poked her walking stick at Harold’s leather folder, knocking it off the table and scattering the pages of Great-Aunt Penelope’s will all over the floor.
“We’ll just see!” she spat out with a look of triumphant glee, as if somehow by messing up the actual pages she had dispensed with their contents as well. I was horrified and embarrassed for her, as if she’d suddenly and publicly lost her mind. “We’ll just see!” she repeated to Jeremy, who had instinctively come to my side. Rollo hastily took hold of her arm to steer her out of the room.
Nobody else seemed the least bit surprised—except me. Harold sighed, and they all merely picked up the papers and reassembled them, then went right on about their business.
As they sorted it out, Severine began a rapid conversation
sotto voce
with Jeremy. She called him “Zheremy” in her lilting French accent, acting very correct the whole time, impeccable, efficient, and not inclined to dawdle.They both nodded vigorously, and then, when they were done with the papers, she raised her eyebrows to Harold, indicating that she was impatient to leave.
Harold shook hands with me rather more warmly than before, which gave me the first inkling that perhaps Mother and I had made out rather well. Severine, who’d earlier given me only the briefest and most professional of nods, now turned her laser-gaze on me more intently as she shook my hand, and then out of the corner of her mouth she murmured to Jeremy, in a wry, slightly patronizing tone,
“Ah, la petite cousine américaine! Elle est charmante.”
Jeremy looked a trifle embarrassed. As well he should, I thought indignantly. I wasn’t six years old, for Pete’s sake. Why should she call me a “little” charming American cousin? But before I could really size her up, she departed with Harold. I listened as their footsteps died away and the heavy door downstairs closed behind them, leaving me alone with Jeremy.
Jeremy let out his breath as if he’d just played a rigorous soccer game. For the first time it dawned on me that he took his role as family protector very seriously and even, perhaps, wanted to impress his American relatives so they would think well of him.
“So now you’ve met Rollo and Dorothy,” he said wickedly.“What do you think?”
“Geez, nobody looked like I expected,” I admitted. “She’s so tiny, but for a minute there I was sure that she might clonk us both on the head with that stick of hers. And Rollo! After all I’d heard about him, I thought he’d resemble Jack the Ripper.” Jeremy rolled his eyes.
“A case unsolved—therefore nobody knows what he looked like,” he pointed out.
“You know what I mean. In the movies,” I said.“I certainly didn’t expect an aging lounge-lizard with mother problems.”
“Well, he’s a bit more complicated than that,” Jeremy warned, but he didn’t elaborate. He turned to me with a professionally bright air. “So, Penny Nichols,” he said, “how does it feel to be an heiress?”
“Very funny,” I said. “All I heard was something about a garage.”
He grinned. “That’s not all,” he announced. “Your mother told me that whatever property she got, I should hand over to you. Once the will has been officially processed. So you won’t have any trouble inheriting it when your mother—erm—when she’s gone.You can let me know if you want to keep it or sell it.Any idea what a flat like this, in this neighborhood, goes for? It’s worth seven hundred fifty thousand pounds. And people would kill just to get hold of one, because you have to be an insider even to know when one is available. Want to have a quick look around before we lock up? We’ve got a lot to do in very little time.”
Of course I should look around.To report back to my astonishing mother. Honestly, I was going to have to get my mind off romantic history, and learn a little about the greed thing.
My head was swimming, however, as I took in the apartment.The library was the biggest room, then a dark, narrow formal dining room, and a tiny pink-and-white kitchen in the back overlooking a sweet walled-in garden with patio; a small cherry-red second bedroom, which Aunt Penelope had used as a sewing room; a little bathroom with claw-foot tub and gold seahorse-shaped soap dishes; and, around in front again, a big, dramatic main bedroom with white-and-gold furniture. On a raised area near a window was a satin-skirted mirrored dressing table and matching satin-tufted chair.Tucked in another corner was a huge canopied bed.
Jeremy opened a big closet, which was full of sensible old-lady clothes. Peering into it made me feel as if I were trespassing on someone’s grave. I was glad when he closed it again.
“Jeremy,” I said, suddenly horrified as I stared at the big canopied four-poster bed,“she didn’t—die—right here—in this bed—did she?”
“No,” he said. “She died at the villa in France.” I exhaled loudly in relief. Jeremy went on speaking briskly as we went back down the creaky staircase.“Aunt Penelope’s had this flat since the 1920s, and the French villa since sometime in the 1930s,” he was saying.“Your father says you’re an expert at historical furnishings and art.Think you could make an assessment of the value of her possessions? We must be accurate when we declare their value for the taxes.”
“Sure,” I said. I’d already been admiring the pre-war moldings, trim, light fixtures, beautiful wood floors and doors.The furniture was good, mostly Victorian, but not spectacular, and although I’d dutifully concluded that I didn’t see any fancy
objets d’art
to report back to my mother, I knew that the flat itself was a rare find. It was perfectly situated but quiet and private; it had good light from those pretty windows, and was elegant and charming but still cozy enough to feel like home.The window-seats in the library made you want to curl up with one of the nicely bound books, reading and drowsing until the gold carriage-clock on the mantel chimed the dinner hour. “I can’t believe she gave this to us,” I said softly.
Jeremy had been watching me for my reaction.“Well, don’t cry for Rollo. He’ll get about as much in bank assets. Nobody expected old Aunt Pen to have hoarded that much. Guess they wanted that money right away, so they didn’t peep about the English will.”
“Maybe they want the cash to pay for those lawyers to help them contest the French will,” I said. “What a pack of coyotes. Are they as expensive as they look?”
“Super-expensive,” he said darkly. “It’ll be a good fight, but we’ll win it, hands down.”
“Is the French property worth a lot?” I asked. “What about that villa? Did I hear that right? It’s yours, isn’t it?” His face lighted up with enthusiasm and appreciation.
“Apparently so! Haven’t seen it yet. Heard it’s a bit tumbledown and needs repair, but the value is in the land. Severine’s handling that end of things. I don’t know why Aunt Pen left it to me,” he said wonderingly. “By the time she asked me to help her, she didn’t go down there much anymore, until that last week when she went back. She was sharp as a tack, but she
would
keep asking about my life instead of her own legal issues. She told me straight out that she thought Rollo Jr. was a fool, but she felt sorry for him, for being so ‘stunted.’ Said the kids picked on him at school. He’s quite fond of antiques, she said, so I’m not surprised that she left him all the French furnishings and whatnot.”
I was picturing Jeremy patiently listening to Aunt Penelope rambling on, peppering him with questions about his life, which he’d rather not have discussed.
“Why is Rollo going to contest the French will? It’s pretty obvious that Aunt Penelope definitely wanted you to get the villa,” I said.
Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t know. French inheritance law can sometimes be more complicated, and perhaps Dorothy and Rollo are hoping it’s easier to fuddle with.”
When he fell silent I asked tentatively, “Any idea what’s in the garage?”
“A car, I should think,” he said, looking intrigued. He became brisk and businesslike again. “You and I had better get over there and have a look.We can catch a plane”—he glanced at his watch—“Damn, we could go right away, but Mum insists I bring you round for tea. I’ll tell her we can only do a quick stop now, just to say hello. So we’ll see Mum, fly down to Cap d’Antibes, maybe have dinner in Nice. I know a good place. Okeh?”
Chapter Seven
A
UNT SHEILA LIVED IN A PRETTY APARTMENT BUILDING IN CHELSEA, with the speediest elevator I’d ever been in, which shot us up to her floor in total silence.
“Are you sure she won’t mind us just popping in on her like this?” I quavered as I followed him down the hallway, absolutely certain that his mother would blame me for this instead of her adorable son.
“Of course it’s all right. She was fine on the telephone,” he said, leading me to her door. He had a key and we went right in.
Aunt Sheila was seated on a pale green sofa in her drawing room when we arrived; she’d been glancing at a newspaper in an effortless way, as if nothing the world did could surprise or upset her. Her hand was cool, soft and smooth, and she gave it to me for a brief but sincere moment of welcome.
She looked exactly as she had all those years ago, which would seem impossible but was nonetheless true. Same blonde hair cut into the same chic bob with bangs, same slender figure, only perhaps a bit stiffer. She wore a sleek, expensive cream-colored suit cut perfectly for her; and her pretty legs did not require high heels to look good, so she wore buttery-soft-looking delicate leather flats. She had green eyes, a perfect little nose and chin, and a slightly pouty mouth. Despite her reserve, there was something sexy about her. She wore gold jewelry—a slim wristwatch, small thick hoop earrings, a short necklace that looked like a golden twisted rope, a few subtle rings that twinkled when she held out her hand, and a bangle bracelet with elegant stones.
“So this is Penny,” Aunt Sheila said, glancing back at Jeremy in amusement. “She looks just like her mother. Doesn’t she, Jeremy?” Jeremy looked a little embarrassed.“Penny, dear,” Aunt Sheila said in a quieter tone, “do let me say that I was most sorry to hear about your great-aunt. Penelope was always kind to me.”
“Thank you,” I said, not quite knowing how to respond.
“I know you’re both in a tearing hurry, but can’t I have Alice fix you some lunch?”
I glanced at Jeremy as if to say,
Okay, fella, you handle this.
“Can’t do it,” Jeremy said.“Penny’s been travelling a lot, and I want to finish up this business in Nice today.” A maid in a long black dress and white apron appeared at the doorway.
Aunt Sheila nodded to her, then turned to us and sighed. “Take a couple of sandwiches with you, then, Penny,” she said reasonably.“Just in case you get hungry on the plane. They’re in the dining room.” Jeremy stood aside for her to lead the way across the hall.