Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [114]
Or would she? Had they had a fearful quarrel and she had told them precisely the cost of their comfort, and that she meant to fight for a law to expose all such men as the bishop to the public obloquy and disgust they deserved?
Yes—it was not inconceivable Celeste at least might kill to prevent that. Her whole life had been used up caring for the bishop. She had denied herself husband and children in order to stay at his side and obey his every command, write out his letters and sermons, look up his references, play the piano for his relaxation, read aloud to him when his eyes were tired, always his gracious and unpaid servant. It was a total sacrifice of her own will, all her choices eaten up in his. She must justify it—he must remain worthy of such a gift, or her life became ridiculous, a thing thrown away for no cause.
Perhaps Pitt was right, and it was close to home, the heart as well as the act in Highgate all the time.
They were all watching her, seeing in her eyes her racing thoughts and in the shadows across her face the plunges from anger to pity to dawning realization.
“Bishop Augustus Worlingham,” Somerset Carlisle repeated, letting each syllable fall with full value. “The whole of Lisbon Street was owned, very tortuously and with extreme secrecy, by the ‘good’ bishop, and when he died, inherited by Theophilus, Celeste and Angeline. I presume he provided for his daughters so generously because they had spent their lives as his servants, and certainly they would have no other means of support and it would be beyond any expectation, reasonable or unreasonable, that they might marry at that point—or would wish to by then. I looked up his will, by the way. Two thirds went to Theophilus, the other third, plus the house, which is worth a great deal of course, to the sisters. That would be more than enough to keep them in better than comfort for the rest of their lives.”
“Then Theophilus must have had a fortune,” Emily said with surprise.
“He inherited one,” Carlisle agreed. “But he lived extremely well, according to what I heard; ate well, had one of the finest cellars in London, and collected paintings, some of which he donated to local museums and other institutions. All the same, he left a very handsome sum indeed to each of his daughters when he died unexpectedly.”
“So Clemency had a great deal of money,” Vespasia said, almost to herself. “Until she began to give it away. Do we know when that was?” She looked at Jack, then at Carlisle.
“The lawyer would not say when she was there,” Jack replied, his lips tightening at remembrance of his frustration and the lawyer’s bland, supercilious face.
“Her fight to get some alteration in the disclosure of ownership began about six months ago,” Carlisle said somberly. “And she made her first large donation to a charitable shelter for the poor at about the same time. I would hazard a guess that that is when she discovered her grandfather was the owner she had sought.”
“Poor Clemency.” Charlotte remembered the sad trail of sick women and children, gaunt and hopeless men which she herself had followed from Shaw’s patient list in Highgate, down through worse and worse houses and tenements till she at last found Bessie Jones huddled in one corner of an overcrowded and filthy room. Clemency had followed the same course, seen the same wretched faces, the illness and the resignation. And then she had started upwards towards the owners, as they had done.
“We must not let the fight die with her,” Jack said, sitting a little more upright in his chair.” Worlingham may be dead, but there are scores, perhaps hundreds of others. She knew that, and she