He laid it down on his desk.
“Well, there it is,” he said.
“These things have happened in other families.
Unfortunate for his widow, but we can do no more for her than we have done.
A will without a signature is invalid.”
“I know,” I said, “and she did not expect otherwise.
As I told you just now, it was only by dint of much persuasion that I retrieved this paper from her.
I must return it, but here is a copy.”
I pocketed the will, and gave him the copy I had made.
“What now?” he said.
“Has anything else come to light as well?”
“No,” I answered, “only that my conscience tells me I have been enjoying something that is not mine by right.
Ambrose intended to sign that will, and death, or rather illness in the first place, prevented him.
I want you to read this document that I have had prepared.”
And I handed him the scroll that had been drawn up by Trewin at Bodmin.
He read it slowly, carefully, his face becoming grave as he did so, and it was only after a long while that he removed his spectacles and looked at me.
“Your cousin Rachel,” he said, “has no knowledge of this document?”
“No knowledge whatsoever,” I answered, “never by word or intimation has she expressed any thought of what I have had put there, and what I intend to do.
She is utterly and entirely innocent of my purpose.
She does not even know that I am here, or that I have shown you the will.
As you heard her say a few weeks ago, she intends to leave for London shortly.”
He sat at his desk, his eyes upon my face.
“You are quite determined upon this course?” he said to me.
“Quite,” I answered him.
“You realize that it may lead to abuse, that there are few safeguards, and that the whole of the fortune due to you eventually, and to your heirs, may be dispersed?”
“Yes,” I said, “and I am willing to take the risk.”
He shook his head, and sighed.
He rose from his chair, looked out of the window, and returned to it again.
“Does her adviser, Signor Rainaldi, know of this document?” he asked.
“Most certainly not,” I said.
“I wish you had told me of it, Philip,” he said.
“I could have discussed it with him.
He seemed to me a man of sense.
I had a word with him that evening. I went so far as to tell him about my uneasiness as to that overdraft.
He admitted that extravagance was a fault, and always had been.
That it had led to trouble, not only with Ambrose, but also with her first husband, Sangalletti.
He gave me to understand that he, Signor Rainaldi, is the only person who knows how to deal with her.”
“I don’t care a jot what he told you,” I said.
“I dislike the man, and believe he uses this argument for his own purpose.
He hopes to entice her back to Florence.”
My godfather regarded me once more.
“Philip,” he said, “forgive me asking you this question, personal I know, but I have known you since birth.
You are completely infatuated with your cousin, are you not?”
I felt my cheeks burn, but I went on looking at him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“Infatuation is a futile and most ugly word.
I respect and honor my cousin Rachel more than anyone I know.”
“I have meant to say this to you before,” he said.
“There is much talk, you know, about her being so long a visitor to your house.
I go further and say the whole of the county whispers of little else.”