“Humphrey Whitecross had two daughters. He left each of them a life interest in half his fortune, that plus half the capital to go to their husbands on marriage, or to their nearest male relative on their deaths as spinsters. The elder Miss Whitecross married John Laxton and repented it bitterly; our Miss Whitecross observed her sister’s marriage and declined to open herself to similar abuses.”
“Surely she could have found a decent man.”
“When you have that much money, there are no decent men,” Mr. Carnaby said. “Or so she believes. But if she dies unmarried, Matthew Laxton gets the fortune and there is no way to prevent it. So she has been torn between her dislike of men in general and her loathing of Laxton in particular. I did think her latest candidate would get her up to scratch by sheer effrontery, but he has missed his chance, and here we are. She can snatch her wealth from Laxton at the last gasp, if you help.” He gave a wry smile. “You’ll live rich and she’ll die happy.”
“Yes, but, wait,” Titus said. “Could she annul the marriage, if she recovers?”
“Indeed she could, unless you consummate the union, which—”
“I’m not joking. If this is what she wants, I will take my good fortune and be grateful. But if she recovers and regrets her decision, I will make no claim whatsoever on her money. I want her to know that.”
“Noted and respected,” the lawyer said with a nod. “Thank you, sir. But the issue will not arise: I doubt she’ll see out the day. Ah, here we are.”
The door opened and the curate popped his head out. “Gentlemen? Mr. Green is ready for you. Miss Whitecross wishes to proceed.”
So they did. Titus stood by his withered bride’s bedside,holding her hand as the clearly uncomfortable clergyman hurried through the service, slipping a ring Mr. Thorpe gave him over her thin finger. Miss Whitecross made her responses with all the strength and determination at her command, and when it was done, Titus planted a very awkward, exceedingly light kiss on her papery hand, rather than her torn and bruised cheek.
“Flatterer,” she said, in a thread of a voice but still with a gleam of satisfaction. “He has it all now, don’t he, Carnaby?”
“The Whitecross fortune passes absolutely to your husband in accordance with the provisions of your father’s bequest.”
“And my property too. Where’s the will? Read it.”
Mr. Carnaby produced a document. “Mr. Green, if you will confirm for me that I am giving a faithful reading.” He waited for the Reverend Mr. Green to stand by him, then read out the provisions. A generous sum to Thomas Thorpe, her faithful butler, and as much again to her housekeeper, Mrs. Matilda Thorpe. Multiple small bequests to her other servants, and everything else of which she died possessed to—
“Titus Caesar Pilcrow?Caesar?” she croaked.
“My father was greatly interested in Roman imperial history.”
“Imbecile. Go on, Carnaby.”
The rest of which she died possessed was bequeathed absolutely to her lawful husband, Titus Caesar Pilcrow, with the exception of one pound to Matthew Laxton, her sister’s son, in recognition of all the love Miss Whitecross bore him.
“In those words,” she said querulously. “And why must I leave him anything?”
“Only so he can’t claim he was forgotten,” Mr. Carnaby said in soothing tones. “Are these your wishes, Mrs. Pilcrow?”
“Mrs.—ha. Seventy-eight years without a dratted man inmy life and now this tomfoolery. Yes, that’s my wish. Everyone hear me? Pilcrow has it all.”
The reverend, the curate, the lawyer, the doctor, and the butler all nodded. She raised her clawed hand, took the pen, scrawled ink on the document, watched with sharp eyes as the two clergymen signed as witnesses, and gave a long sigh. “That’s done. And I’m sorry, Pilcrow.”
“Excuse me?”
“The money was a curse to me, and it will be a curse to you. Laxton drained my sister dry for it. I’ve spent my life surrounded by leeches, waiting for people to turn on me because they only want one thing. And they always turn, you’ll find that out yourself. Everyone is out for what they can get. All of you, grasping vultures—”
“If you want to annul the marriage now, you may,” Titus told her. “Or do it when you wake up hale and hearty tomorrow; I shan’t object. But those paints I made up are downstairs, and Iwillinsist on payment of that four-guinea bill, madam, so don’t think you’re getting away without.”
Her lips parted, then twisted upward. “Ha! There’s an honest man. I should have married a shopkeeper long ago.” She fumbled for his hand. “Swear to me, Pilcrow. Laxton will come at you for money, but he shan’t have a penny. Swear.”
Titus pressed her fingers very gently. “I won’t give him anything.”
“Your oath!”
“You have my word.”
She let out a long hiss, and subsided back. “Good. Good. Now get out, all of you; I have dying to do. Not you, fool,” she added to Mr. Thorpe, and reached for him. He took her hand with a fond look.
Titus retreated downstairs with the lawyer, who rang forsherry in a decisive manner, remarking when the drinks came, “You look like you need it.”