Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

daughter viewed the reading of her father’s will as the irrevocable recognition of his death. There could be no more questions, no more doubts, no more hope.

She knew that soon Arabella’s control would crack under the strain of Mr.

Brammersley’s delay. She sought for words to whisper to her daughter. Not comforting words, for Arabella would never accept those from anyone. Just words that were commonplace, words that would mayhap distract her, words that would send her mind for just a brief moment in another direction.

Lady Ann was too late. Arabella sprang from her seat and strode to the desk. She leaned toward Mr. Brammersley, her hands splayed on the desk, hands covered with black mittens.

She whispered with ferocious calm, “I do not wish you to delay further, sir. I do not know your reason for tarrying in this ridiculous manner, but I will not have it. My mother grows weary, if you have not sense enough in your head to see it. Read my father’s will now, else I shall relieve you of the responsibility and do it myself.” The red veins on Mr. Brammersley’s nose seemed to stand out even more and seemed to grow like a fine-webbed network to his wizened cheeks. He sucked in his breath, outraged, and looked toward Lady Ann. She nodded to him wearily. He assumed a dignified position, thrusting his receding chin out over his shirt points, cleared his throat, and said, “My dear Lady Arabella, if you will please return to your seat, we will begin the reading.”

“A miracle has visited us,” Arabella said, not masking the contempt in her voice. “Get on with it, sir.” She returned to her chair. Lady Ann didn’t have the energy to reprimand her. She felt a flutter of apprehensive movement at her right, and turned a gentle smile to Elsbeth.

Taking a small hand in hers, Lady Ann squeezed it. Shy Elsbeth, as different from her half-sister as was a sword from a pen, not that Elsbeth could write all that well. That made Lady Ann smile behind her black veils. Odd the thoughts one had at the most inappropriate moments.

George Brammersley grabbed an impressive document, smoothed down the first page and said, “It is an unhappy occasion that brings us together this day. The untimely demise of John Latham Everhard Deverill, sixth Earl of Strafford, has touched us all—his family, his friends, those in his employ, and above all, his country. His courageous sacrifice of his life, so selflessly and gallantly offered to preserve the rights of Englishmen . . .”

There was a flutter of movement, and Arabella felt a light brush of air on the back of her neck. She realized the library door had opened then closed. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered now. Maybe it was a magistrate come to remove George Brammersley, thank the good Lord. No, not now. Now, at least, Brammersley was getting on with it. There was a sudden new crispness to his voice, but she didn’t care. At last he was doing as she had bade him to.

Lady Ann shifted gracefully in her chair and gazed from the corner of her eye toward the library door. She turned back, drew a determined breath, and straightened, her face straight forward, now looking neither to her left nor to her right.

“. . . and to the faithful Deverill butler, Josiah Crupper, I bequeath the sum of five hundred pounds, with the hope that he will remain with the family until such time as . . .”

He droned on and on, mentioning, it seemed to Arabella, the name of every servant in her father’s employ, both past, present, and future. How she itched for all of it to be over and done with.

Mr. Brammersley paused in his reading, raised thoughtful eyes to Elsbeth, and allowed a tight smile to crease the corners of his mouth. His voice softened and he read more slowly, speaking very clearly and precisely,

“To my daughter Elsbeth Maria, born of my first wife, Magdalaine Henriette de Trécassis, I bequeath the sum of ten thousand pounds for her sole and private use.”

Well done of you, Father, thought Arabella. She turned at the gasp of surprise from her half-sister and saw her lovely dark almond eyes widen with disbelief, then with barely suppressed excitement. Ah, yes, it was very well done. Arabella had no idea why Elsbeth hadn’t been raised with her. She’d always trusted her father implicitly, and when he’d said simply that Elsbeth didn’t want to be here, that she preferred living with her aunt, she had believed him. And now he had left her a rich young lady. She was pleased.

Mr. Brammersley chewed furiously at his lower lip, guiltily aware that he had violated a professional trust. But the final statement the earl had written about his gentle eldest daughter had seemed so malevolent, so unnecessarily cruel, that he could not bring himself to say the words.

What had the earl meant in any case—“that she, unlike her whore of a mother and the rapacious de Trécassis family, will honestly and freely bestow this promised sum on her future husband.” Yes, what had the earl meant? No, he wouldn’t read that, not here, not now, not ever.

Arabella pulled her attention back to Mr. Brammersley and waited, impatiently tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair. She assumed that now would come her father’s instructions for holding his estates in trust for her until her twenty-first birthday. She hoped her mother would be named her primary trustee. But she knew a profound sadness. There was no male relative to assume the title.

George Brammersley looked down resolutely at the finely written script in his hands. Dash it all, he had to get it over and done with. He read, “My final wishes I have weighed with careful deliberation for the past several years. The conditions that I attach to them are binding and absolute. The seventh Earl of Strafford, Justin Everhard Morley Deverill, grandnephew of the fifth