Had he sensed correctly? Were there the depths of character in her that he thought there were? Or was she just a sweet girl who had suffered some sadness in the past few months? He had talked with her for a number of hours. He had made numerous sketches. He had observed her last evening at dinner. He knew a lot of facts. But ultimately, as always, he must sketch and paint from intuition and trust that it was more true than all the facts he had amassed. Facts missed a great deal. Facts missed what lay beneath the facts. Facts missed spirit.
He felt a great tenderness for Abigail Westcott—as he did for all his subjects. For there was nothing like the process of painting someone’s portrait to help one know the person from the inside, and knowing, one could not help but feel empathy.
He had just finished the sketch and taken a step back from his easel in order to look upon it with a little more objectivity when a knock sounded upon the door and startled him back to reality. He had no idea what time it was, but he did know that when he became immersed in his work, hours disappeared without a trace and left him feeling that surely he had started only minutes ago. His stomach felt hollow, a sure sign that he must have missed a meal by more than an hour or two. Perhaps it was Marvin or Edgar, come to rescue him and drag him off to eat somewhere.
It was neither. The man who was standing outside his door was a stranger, an older man of firm, upright bearing and severe, handsome countenance. He carried his hat in his hand. His dark hair was silvered at the temples.
“Mr. Joel Cunningham?” he asked.
“Yes.” Joel raised his eyebrows.
“Your neighbor below answered the door to my knock,” the man explained, “and suggested that I come up.”
What Edgar ought to have done, Joel thought, was call him down. Obviously he had judged the man to be respectable enough to let in.
“I explained,” the man said as though reading his thoughts, “that I am a solicitor and have personal business of some importance with you.”
“On a Sunday?” Joel said.
“The matter is something of a delicate one,” the man said. “May I come in? I am Lowell Crabtree of the legal firm of Henley, Parsons, and Crabtree.”
Joel stood to one side and gestured the man in. He led the way to the living room and offered him a seat. He began to have a horrible premonition.
“I am the solicitor in charge of the estate of the late Mr. Adrian Cox-Phillips,” Crabtree said. “I understand that you have already been apprised of his sad passing yesterday morning.”
“I have,” Joel said, sitting opposite him.
“It is my usual practice,” the solicitor said, “to read a will to the family after the deceased person has been laid to rest—on Tuesday in this particular case.”
So soon? Joel frowned. He had decided last night that he would try to find out when the funeral was to be and attend, though he would not make himself known to any other mourners. He did not imagine that Viscount Uxbury would take any notice of him.
“It was Mr. Cox-Phillips’s wish,” Crabtree explained, “that he be laid to rest as quickly as possible and with as little fuss as possible. He has . . . three surviving relatives, all of whom are currently staying at his house. Two of them have been particularly insistent that I not wait until after the funeral to read the will. They need to return to their busy lives as soon as they have paid homage to their relative.”
Joel read some disapproval into the stiffness of the man’s manner.
“They have insisted that I read the will tomorrow morning,” Crabtree said. “My senior partners have seen fit to persuade me to agree, though Monday—especially Monday morning—is an inconvenient time, coming as it does after Sunday, which I have always observed quite strictly as the Sabbath with Mrs. Crabtree and our children. However, Monday morning it is to be. Mr. Cox-Phillips extracted a promise from me when I conducted business with him a few days ago. He instructed me to find and speak to you privately before I read the will to his relatives.”
Joel’s sense of foreboding grew stronger. “To what end?” he asked, though the question was doubtless unnecessary. Having said so much, the solicitor was hardly about to stop right there and take his leave. “Although related to Mr. Cox-Phillips, I am merely the bastard son of his niece.”
Crabtree drew some papers out of a leather case he had with him, rustled them in his hands, and looked with solemn severity at Joel. “According to his will,” he said, “generous pensions are to be paid to certain of his servants who have been with him for many years, and similarly generous payments are to be made to the others. A sizable sum has been left to an orphanage on Northumberland Place to which he has made large annual donations for almost thirty years past. The rest of his property and fortune, Mr. Cunningham, including his home in the hills above Bath and another in London, which is currently leased out, has been left to you.”
There was a buzzing in Joel’s ears. It had never occurred to him . . . Good God.
“But I refused,” he said. “When he offered to change his will in my favor, I refused.”
“But he changed it anyway,” Crabtree said. “I cannot put an exact monetary value on your inheritance at the moment, Mr. Cunningham. This has all been rather sudden and I will need to work upon the matter. I suggest you come into my office one day this week and I can at least give you some idea of where your investments lie and what their approximate worth is likely to be. But it is a sizable fortune, sir.”