‘Bitterly cold, ‘he said, rubbing his hands. ‘There is more snow coming, I can feel it.’
‘I have put a tray in the morning-room, sir,’ said Hannah. ‘I thought you might care for some refreshment before the reading of the will.’
‘Most kind of you, most kind. But business first, I think. Miss Pym, the housekeeper, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you had better be present at the reading of the will. Lead the way, if you please.’
Hannah escorted him to the library before summoning the relatives. Her first elation was quickly dying down. Mr Entwhistle was a kindly old gentleman in a bagwig. His invitation to her to be present at the reading of the will was merely a courtesy. Why, poor Mr Clarence had barely noticed her existence in his final years.
Miss Pym bustled about, ordering the staff to find chairs for all the relatives and lighting lamps and candelabra, for the library was a dark room, the serried ranks of calf-bound books seeming to absorb what light there was.
She then took up a position by the door.
Mr Entwhistle took out spectacles from his spectacle case and polished them with maddening slowness. Hannah could feel the tension rising in the room. Only Sir George, sitting over by the window, appeared indifferent to the contents of the will. But then he would know the contents. Mr Clarence had told her a long time ago that he had appointed Sir George as his executor.
At last, Mr Entwhistle began. Thornton Hall, its grounds and all its contents were to be left to his dear brother, Sir George Clarence. There was a heightening rather than a lessening of tension as if everyone was privately asking, ‘The money. What about the money?’
They were soon put out of their misery. The bulk of Mr Clarence’s considerable fortune had been divided equally among his two brothers and one sister and then there were handsome legacies to every single one of the other relatives. Smiles all round, then a few sentimental tears shed by the spinster cousins – ‘So kind, so very, very kind of him to remember us all.’
‘Now to the servants,’ said Mr Entwhistle. Now the tension was in Hannah. ‘To any servant in my employ for the period of over four years at my death I leave two hundred pounds each.’
Hannah felt quite limp with relief. That would keep her for long enough and more to find a job. There were not many servants who had lasted the four-year period, she reflected. The house had been so gloomy that servants came and went, not many of them staying long. But there was the coachman and the outside man, and one of the scullery maids, and the remaining footman. Then she heard her own name.
‘To my faithful housekeeper, Miss Hannah Pym, I leave the sum of five thousand pounds to be hers entirely and to do with as she wishes.’
There were little rustles of irritation which gradually grew louder as Mr Entwhistle took off his glasses, polished them again, and put them carefully away in a leather case. Five thousand pounds! ‘Too much for a servant!’ said one of the cousins. ‘She’ll only drink it,’ hissed another. But Hannah stood by the door in a happy daze. She would never need to work again. Automatically, she walked down the stairs to the morning-room to see that everything was laid out for Mr Entwhistle. Finally, she stood at the door to help the departing relatives on with their cloaks and mantles. Not one of them tipped her, considering she had more money than was good for her.
Hannah then returned to the library to see if Sir George required anything and was told he did not. She bustled about the bedrooms with the maids, seeing that the mess left by the relatives had been cleared up. The bedchambers had been meant to be used only as places in which to freshen up, but they had all managed to make a horrendous mess just the same, the children having created a great deal of the havoc. Then downstairs to see the lawyer on his way. She longed to ask him how soon she could have the money but found she had not the courage. Her initial excitement was fading fast. She had a vague idea that wills could take forever, some slow legal process whereby the money was finally disgorged reluctantly when the recipients were nigh dead.
Hannah glanced at the watch she wore pinned to her bosom. Nearly six o’clock. Time for the stage-coach to go by.
Sir George went quietly into the drawing-room and stood watching the housekeeper as she stood by the window, one hand raised to hold back the curtain. The window was open and he heard the thud of horses’ hooves and the blast of a horn. The housekeeper waved and then turned slowly round, her eyes full of dreams. She started slightly at the sight of him and turned back and closed the window.
‘Are you expecting some friend or relative to arrive by stage-coach?’ asked Sir George.
‘No, sir,’ said Hannah over her shoulder as she swung the heavy shutters across the window. ‘I like to see the coach go by.’
She then began to move about the room, lighting the lamps, poking the fire and throwing a log on it. He came and sat down in a chair by the fire. ‘Sit down, Miss Pym,’ he said.
Hannah looked at him in surprise. ‘I do not think it would be right,’ she said.
‘You are now an heiress,’ said Sir George, looking amused. ‘Pray, take a chair.’
Hannah sat down gingerly on the very edge of a chair, facing him. He studied her for a few moments.
She was a thin woman with thick sandy hair under a starched cap. She had a sallow face with a crooked nose, slightly bent, and a long, humorous mouth. Her eyes were extraordinary, very large and bright, of many colours, it seemed, at times gold, at times blue, at times green. She had hunting shoulders although she did not know how to ride a horse, very square, and long thin arms and surprisingly elegant hands. Her ankles were very well turned. Hannah had automatically raised her skirt a little as she sat down. Her ankles and feet were her one vanity and she spent too much money on shoes.
‘What will you do with your fortune?’ asked Sir George. ‘Buy a little cottage? Retire?’
She clasped her hands tightly and looked at him as a simply wonderful idea entered her mind.
‘No, sir,’ said Hannah. ‘I shall travel. On the stage-coach.’
‘Where?’
Hannah threw out her hands, her sallow face flushed with excitement, those odd eyes blazing. ‘Anywhere.’
‘For the sake of travel. How strange.’
‘You see, sir,’ said Hannah earnestly, ‘I crave adventure.’
‘A journey on a stage-coach, particularly in winter,’ he said dryly, ‘is full of adventure – broken traces, snow-drifts, mud, highwaymen, footpads, and damp beds in the wayside inns.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The housekeeper’s odd eyes appeared to have lost all colour and become as bleak as the winter landscape outside.
‘But if that is your wish …’ he said quickly. ‘It means much to you?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’ The eyes flashed green. ‘The Flying Machines, the excitement, the motion, the towns and cities. I shall travel to the ends of the earth.’
‘Stage-coaches do not go to the ends of the earth,’ he pointed out.
‘I know. But all over England. Bath, York, Exeter. Life, adventure … and hope, sir.’
‘How gloomy it must have been here for you,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Why not try one stage-coach journey and see how you fare?’
‘I do not want to seem mercenary,’ said Hannah. ‘But … but, how soon can I have some money?’
‘You can get an advance from Mr Entwhistle as soon as you like. I would advise you to bank your fortune.’ Hannah’s face fell.
‘Come now,’ he said gently, ‘you cannot travel the length and breadth of England with sacks of sovereigns.’
‘It’s just,’ said Hannah, twisting her hands in her lap, ‘that I do not know anything about banks.’ She bit her lip, remembering the perfidy and cheating of that under-butler who had run off with her savings. ‘What if, sir, the banker should prove a cheat and run off with my money?’