A Daughter's Inheritance (25 page)

Jonas couldn’t sleep. When he could take no more of the tossing and turning, he rolled out of bed and shoved his arms into his dressing gown. Though it wasn’t yet six o’clock, the sun was already breaking the horizon in a blaze of bright tangerine and gold. He opened the French doors that led from the bedroom and stepped onto the covered balcony. Lapping water and twittering birds were the only sounds that greeted him. Peaceful. Perhaps that’s why his parents had loved this place. It provided the peace and quiet that eluded them in the city.

He leaned on the pink granite ledge that surrounded the balcony and knew it wasn’t the tranquil setting that had drawn them to this island each summer. Quite the contrary. It had been his mother’s incessant desire to create a family circle for Fanny that had been the motivation for the family gatherings at Broadmoor Island. Fanny! Always Fanny. And it had been Fanny who had caused his sleeplessness last night.

Thus far she’d shown no interest in any of the young men he’d brought to the island. Even with the promised incentive of a future of wealth, none of the men had been able to capture her interest. Young men nowadays certainly didn’t have the ambition required to succeed. Look at his youngest sons! As far as Jonas was concerned, the two of them lacked enough enthusiasm to perform a decent day’s work and enough intelligence to make a sound decision.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a woman’s soft lilting laughter, and he stepped along the balcony until he reached the south end. Theresa O’Malley had followed Michael out of the rear of the house. She was fawning over him like a woman in love. Jonas rubbed the dark stubble that lined his jaw and considered the young woman. If he handled the matter properly, perhaps Theresa would prove helpful.

Jonas waited until midafternoon, when few family members and guests remained on the island. His wife had announced plans during the noonday meal to travel to Round Island for the annual picnic hosted at the Frontenac Hotel. Jonas thought the family could find sufficient entertainment on their own island, but Victoria had insisted. And he’d relented, as long as he didn’t have to accompany them and endure the mindless conversation of weekend guests visiting the hotel or the endless games of badminton and croquet that had become favorite summer pastimes of his family.

He pushed away from the desk in the mansion’s cherry-paneled library and made his way down several hallways to the rear of the house.

Mrs. Atwell looked up from her piecrust and stopped midroll. “Is there something wrong, Mr. Broadmoor?”

Jonas understood the concern he detected in her questioning expression. His visits to the kitchen were rare, and entering Mrs. Atwell’s domain naturally gave rise to apprehension. He glanced about the kitchen. Theresa was nowhere in sight. “I thought you might have a pitcher of lemonade.” He touched a finger to his throat. “I’m feeling a bit parched.”

Mrs. Atwell wiped her hands on her apron. “I can bring a tray to the library or the veranda if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your work. Where’s Mrs. O’Malley’s daughter? Perhaps she could bring the tray.”

“She should return in a few minutes. She was helping her mother press linens, but I don’t mind stopping to prepare a cool drink for you.”

He waved her back to the worktable. “I wouldn’t think of it. Just have Theresa bring it to the veranda when she returns. There’s no hurry.” He didn’t wait for the older woman to object before leaving. He knew his servants well enough to realize Mrs. Atwell would prepare the tray, and if Theresa hadn’t returned to the kitchen in short order, Mrs. Atwell would go and find her. He’d made his wishes known; he expected them to be met.

He stopped in the library long enough to retrieve a book from the shelf. He didn’t want to read, merely present the appearance of a man relaxing with a book and anxious for a glass of lemonade. He chose a chair near the distant railing, where he could see if anyone approached.

Though he’d already checked his watch three times, only twenty minutes passed before Theresa approached with a pitcher of lemonade, a tall glass, and a small plate of dainty cookies.

She placed the tray on the glass-topped wicker table. “Would you like me to pour your lemonade, Mr. Broadmoor?”

“Yes. Then please sit down,” he said, indicating the chair directly beside him. The fact that Theresa’s hand shook when she lifted the pitcher didn’t surprise Jonas. In varying degrees, he had an unsettling effect upon all of the Broadmoor servants. It was a fact that pleased him. He waited in silence until she poured his drink. He took a sip and nodded his approval.

“Is there something else I can fetch for you, sir?”

“No. However, I was wondering if you would be interested in making a bit of extra money.”

She gasped and touched her hand to her heart. “I am not
that
kind of girl, Mr. Broadmoor.”

“Of course you’re not, Theresa, but I think you’re a young lady who would be willing to help me play a trick on someone.” He watched her and could see she was weighing the possibilities. “Would you like to hear more?”

She inched forward on her chair. “Yes.”

“First, you must promise that our little talk be kept a secret. If you should tell anyone, it could mean that both you and your mother would find yourselves unemployed. Do I make myself clear?”

She gave him a somber nod.

“I want you to devise a plan by which Fanny will see you and Michael sharing an intimate moment—a kiss or embrace, whatever you prefer.”

Theresa bent forward and rested her arms across her thighs. “You want Fanny to think Michael and I are in love with each other?”

“Something like that. Are you interested?”

She rubbed her hands together and giggled. “This sounds as though it could prove to be a great deal of fun! And I believe I am just the person to help you—if the price is right.”

Jonas frowned. Moments ago, the girl’s hand had been shaking while she poured his lemonade, and now she was going to attempt to haggle over her price. She had best not get greedy or he’d have her off the island by nightfall and her mother along with her!

“Why don’t you tell me what price you believe is right, Theresa.” He waited, pleased when she appeared baffled. Exactly what Jonas had hoped for.

“Fifty cents?” Her voice quivered.

He nodded. The silly girl would have gotten much more had she kept her mouth shut. He’d been prepared to give her a dollar. “We have a bargain. Now, off with you to the kitchen before your mother or Mrs. Atwell comes looking for you. And remember, not a word of this to anyone, Theresa.”

18

Monday, August 2, 1897

Mortimer Fillmore looked old. Had there been a mirror close at hand, Jonas would have checked his own appearance. Mortimer was only a few years older than Jonas, but the man appeared ancient. A light breeze drifted from off the water, and wisps of white hair splayed about the lawyer’s head like arthritic fingers. He relied upon a hand-carved walking stick to aid in his climb up the sloping grass embankment from the boathouse. The sight of his decrepit lawyer was enough to make Jonas consider his own mortality.

Mortimer had ascended half the distance to the house when Jonas spotted the man’s older son and partner, Vincent, hurrying after his father. He pointed to his arm and the older man leaned heavily upon his son. Jonas doubted whether his own sons would ever show him such compassion or concern.

He stood and waved to the two men. “Welcome! I’m pleased you were willing to come out here and keep me company for an afternoon.”

Mortimer’s chest heaved, and he gasped for air as he dropped into the wicker settee on the lower veranda. “I need to rest a few minutes.” He signaled for his son to sit down while he continued inhaling great gulps of air.

Vincent offered Jonas an apologetic look. “I attempted to convince him he didn’t need to come out here. He’s been ill this past week. I told him you would understand and that I could relay any information to him later today, but he insisted.”

“Quit talking about me as though I’m still in Rochester, Vincent.” Mortimer glanced at Jonas. “The doctor says it’s my lungs, but what do doctors know? They take my money, but their guess usually isn’t any better than my own.”

Jonas laughed and agreed, but there was little doubt Mortimer was suffering from some debilitating illness. “I won’t ask you to make any further trips to the island until you’re feeling better, Mortimer. You need to get well, my friend.” He patted the older lawyer’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go into the library, where you’ll be more comfortable, and I’ll have one of the servants bring some refreshments. Are you hungry?”

The men followed him into the library. When they’d finished their refreshments and Theresa had cleared away the trays, Jonas closed the doors. “Let me tell you why I’ve brought you here.” Both men came to attention, the younger of the two pulling out a pencil and paper, poised to jot down notes. Jonas appreciated Vincent’s attention to detail, but he shook his head. “Don’t make notations, Vincent. I don’t want this conversation committed to writing.”

Vincent immediately returned the paper and pencil to his leather case. “I didn’t want to forget anything you might want completed upon our return to Rochester.”

“Quite all right, Vincent, but you won’t forget today’s conversation, for I’ve brought you here to gain your ideas rather than assign any specific tasks.” Jonas leaned back into the thick padding of his leather chair and explained that the family had left for a trip to Brockville.

“Off to spend your money shopping for new gowns and baubles, I suppose,” Mortimer said.

“And to visit a few of the familiar sights they used to visit when my mother was alive. She instilled a love of the town in most of them. I didn’t object, for I wanted to meet privately with you, and I had promised Victoria I would spend at least one entire week on the island.” He chuckled. “She was unhappy with me when she discovered I’d chosen the week they would be in Brockville. I believe she may return early, just because I’m here.”

“Women! Who can figure them out?” Mortimer coughed and wheezed, finally taking a drink of water before settling back in his chair. “What kind of ideas do you want to discuss, Jonas?”

“I continue to feel an enormous sense of discomfort concerning my niece’s inheritance. I’ve developed a plan whereby I’ll be able to appropriate a portion of her money by simply falsifying paper work to show poor investments. However, it’s the bulk of her estate that concerns me. Although I’m attempting to find her a malleable husband who will give me authority over the money, Fanny has been less than cooperative. Thus far she’s shown no interest whatsoever in any of the young men I’ve brought here.”

Mortimer offered his son a sideways glance. “Too bad Vincent is married. Otherwise, this could be easily remedied. I’m sure he’d be able to sweep the girl off her feet.”

Vincent tugged at his collar and glowered at his father. “No need to discuss
that
idea any further.”

“Then let’s discuss some ideas of how I can gain control of her funds once she reaches legal age. She’s an obstinate girl.

There’s no way of knowing if I’ll convince her to marry.” Jonas lifted the lid of his humidor. “Cigar?”

Mortimer reached toward the desk, only to have Vincent grasp his hand. “No cigars, Father.”

Jonas removed one of the fat cigars and lovingly passed it beneath his nose. He inhaled the scent and offered an appreciative sigh.

Vincent massaged his forehead. “More important, you need to consider what would happen to all of that money if Fanny should attain legal age and remain unmarried. Who would ultimately receive her estate? Is she intelligent enough to seek legal advice and prepare a will once she’s attained the age of majority? Depending upon her social mores, she could elect to bequeath her estate to a church or a charitable group.”

Mortimer inched forward in his chair and pointed at Jonas. “That’s not so farfetched, considering the fact that Quincy has nearly bankrupted himself with his Home for the Friendless. Fanny might decide to leave her money to such an institution. They tell me this sort of thing runs in families.”

Mouth agape, Vincent stared at his father. “Don’t be ridiculous, Father. We’re talking about bequeathing money to a charity, not some mental disease.”

“Nearly the same thing, don’t you agree, Jonas?” Mortimer cackled.

“In most cases. Of course there are rare occasions when money to the proper charity can yield great benefit. However, this would not be one of those instances. My brother has squandered far too much of the Broadmoor fortune.”

Mortimer rubbed his arthritic hands together. “Let’s hope you have more control over that girl than you do over your brother. He’s a disgrace, Jonas.”

Vincent momentarily buried his face in his hands. “I’m beginning to think you’re suffering from a lack of oxygen to your brain, Father. Your insults are uncalled for. What has come over you?”

Mortimer shrugged. “Merely speaking the truth and attempting to help Jonas with a plan. What do you propose?”

Vincent rubbed his forehead again. “It’s truly a conundrum. I could prepare a will for her, but she’s not of legal age to sign such a document—it wouldn’t be binding in the court.”