Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [148]
He set aside the thick sheets of the will. “I have already taken it upon myself to send a Death Notice to the Times. And I’ve ordered the grave to be opened, and instructed the rector that the services are to be held on Friday of this week. If that’s agreeable . . .”
Whether it was or not, she couldn’t do much about it. Men arranged such matters, as a rule. And all the cousins were dead . . .
There were other papers in the box marked HATTON in a fine, antique copperplate. Most likely Branscombe the elder’s hand. Curious now, she asked, “What else is there? Besides the will? More suprises? Other secrets?
“Our family has always handled the legal affairs of your family,” Branscombe reminded her with satisfaction, glancing at the contents. He plucked out several folded documents. “Here we have your great-grandfather Thomas’s Will, and this is Francis Hatton’s grandfather George. He fought at Waterloo with the great Duke of Wellington. His grandfather Frederick was with Cumberland at Culloden. Amazing history, is it not?” A reminder that she would be expected to leave her own affairs with the same firm.
She could see the faded handwriting on the papers. A family’s continuity preserved in old ink . . . It was a heritage she had been taught to revere. The Hattons had always served their country well. She, the only girl in the family of five cousins, had been expected to do the same.
“All very regular and in order.” He returned the documents to the box almost with affection, as if he counted them as old friends. “Ah. There’s also a letter here that your grandfather deposited with the firm—”
“May I see it?”
“I know of no reason why you mayn’t. As heir . . .” He lifted it out of the box and passed it across the desk to her.
Curious, she examined it. It was wrapped in a piece of parchment on which was inscribed over the seal in a very beautiful hand, “To be held and not acted upon.”
Before Branscombe could stop her, she broke the brittle wax under the writing and drew out a letter. There was no envelope, only the single page.
As she opened the fragile sheet she stared in dismay.
It read, “May you and yours rot in hell then. It is no more than you deserve!”
There was no signature.
What, she thought, had my grandfather done to be cursed like this?
And—if the letter wasn’t important, why had he sent it to his solicitor for safe-keeping?
3
AFTER THE LETTER HAD BEEN RETURNED TO THE BOX, Branscombe rose and went to summon the servants to hear their bequests. Francesca watched their tired, drawn faces as they filed into the room.
They had loved and admired her grandfather. His death had been difficult for them, and before he had breathed his last, each of them had come to the darkened room to file past his bed, their eyes wet with tears.
Francis Hatton, she knew, would have preferred to meet Death standing, head high, those dark green eyes undaunted by Fate. She had done her best to restore a little of his self-respect. She had bathed his hands and face with lavender-scented toilet water and sprinkled a little over the bed to disguise the sour smell of age and sickness, the last indignity for a man whose pride had been as fierce as his will.
She had longed to believe, as she spoke each name aloud, that he’d known his servants were there and how they were grieving. She knew too well they had believed that he would go on forever, a stalwart man who had always been their bulwark as well as hers. . . .
That night, as the nurse slept soundly, he had drifted into the final darkness, his hand clasped in his granddaughter’s. She had held back her tears, talking softly to him until his breathing ceased, and then for another half an hour, until the hand in hers grew cold.
Leaving Exeter, they drove home up the Valley, Francesca Hatton at the wheel of the family car with Mrs. Lane, the housekeeper, while the rest of the staff— the coachman, the man who kept up the outbuildings and the park,