“It should certainly be taken into account.”
I thought suddenly, most monstrously, of old St. Ives in the far end of the county, and the remarks that Rachel had made to me in jest.
“In the case of her remarriage,” I said quickly, “the property reverts again to me.
That is most definite.”
He made a note upon the paper, and read the draft again.
“And you desire this ready and drawn up, in legal form, by the first of April, Mr. Ashley?” he said.
“Please.
That is my birthday.
On that day the property becomes mine, absolutely.
No objection can be put forward from any quarter.”
He folded the paper, and smiled at me.
“You are doing a very generous thing,” he said, “giving everything away the moment it is yours.”
“It would never have been mine to begin with,” I said, “if my cousin Ambrose Ashley had put his signature to that will.”
“All the same,” he said, “I doubt if such a thing has ever been done before.
Certainly not to my knowledge, or in my lifetime of experience.
I gather you want nothing said of this until the day?”
“Nothing at all.
The matter is most secret.”
“Very well, then, Mr. Ashley.
And I thank you for entrusting me with your confidence.
I am at your disposal at any time in the future should you wish to call upon me regarding any matter whatsoever.”
He bowed me from the building, promising that the full document should be delivered to me on the thirty-first day of March.
I rode home with a reckless feeling in my heart. I wondered if my godfather would have an attack of apoplexy when he heard the news.
I did not care.
I wished him no ill, once I was rid of his jurisdiction, but for all that I had turned the tables on him to perfection.
As for Rachel, she could not go to London now and leave her property.
Her argument of the preceding night would not hold good.
If she objected to me in the house, very well, I would take myself to the lodge, and call upon her every day for orders. I would be with Wellington and Tamlyn and the rest, and wait upon her bidding, cap in hand.
I think had I been a little lad, I would have cut a caper from sheer love of living.
As it was, I set Gypsy at a bank, and nearly took a toss in doing so when I landed with a bump the other side.
The March winds made a fool of me; I would have sung aloud, but I could not for the life of me keep to a single tune.
The hedgerows were green, and the willows were in bud, and all the honeyed mass of golden gorse in bloom.
It was a day for folly and high fever.
When I returned, mid-afternoon, and rode up the carriageway to the house, I saw a post chaise drawn up before the door. It was an unusual sight, for always, when people called upon Rachel, they came in their own carriage.
The wheels and the coach were dusty, as if from a long journey on the road, and certainly neither the vehicle nor the driver was known to me.
I turned back at sight of them, and rode round to the stables, but the lad who came to take Gypsy knew no more than I did of the visitors, and Wellington was absent.
I saw no one in the hall but when I advanced softly towards the drawing room I heard voices from within, behind the closed door.
I decided not to mount the stairs, but to go up to my room by the servants’ stairway at the back.
Just as I turned the drawing room door opened, and Rachel, laughing over her shoulder, came out into the hall.
She looked well and happy, and wore that radiance about her that was so much part of her when her mood was gay.
“Philip, you are home,” she said.
“Come into the drawing room—this visitor of mine you shall not escape.
He has traveled very far to see us both.”
Smiling, she took my arm, and drew me, most reluctantly, into the room.
A man was seated there, who at sight of me rose from his chair, and came towards me with his hand outstretched.
“You did not expect me,” he said, “and I make my apology.
But then neither did I expect you, when I saw you first.” It was Rainaldi.
20
I do not know if I showed my feelings in my face as plainly as I felt them in my heart, but I think I must have done; for Rachel passed swiftly on in conversation, telling Rainaldi that I was always without doors, riding or walking, she never knew where, nor had I fixed hours for my return.
“Philip works harder than his own laborers,” she said, “and knows every inch of his estate far more than they do.”