Madeline waited, watching as her mother sniffed again.
Lady Raleigh held her head high. “Your father’s aunt wrote you into her will, it’s true,” she admitted. “The family only found out about it last week. Maude left everything to you, Madeline.”
It was Madeline’s turn to suck in a gasping breath.
What? Could this be possible?
Lady Maude Blaire (née Leary) was the last living Leary, an old line of Irish earls. The title died out generations ago when the male line failed, but the Leary fortune had been passed down through the eldest female Leary, ending with Maude.
In her youth, Maude married Madeline’s great uncle, Archibald Blaire. They lived unhappily until his early death, and then Maude lived alone in her beautiful London townhouse. She rarely ventured out into society. In the last years of her life, Madeline was one of the few relations to visit her.
Madeline liked the odd bird. She appreciated silence as much as Madeline and boasted a fantastic library. She let her borrow as many books as she wanted on whatever topic. It was thanks to Maude and her fantastic linguistics collection that Madeline was learning German.
It broke a little piece of Madeline’s heart when they got the news two months ago that Maude had died quietly in her sleep. The family that had ignored her for half a century all turned up for her funeral. Most of them even wore black for a month. Madeline had asked her father more than once what was going to happen to Leary House, and he’d merely replied with, “It’s complicated, my dove.”
After her questions went unanswered, she let it drop until Patrick brought it up last night.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “What can you mean she left me everything?”
Her mother huffed. “I mean to say she left you everything, Madeline. The whole of the Leary fortune. She left you Leary House, the hunting lodge in Kerry, half shares in two profitable tin mines, and an annual income of three thousand pounds per annum.”
“Oh, god—” Madeline couldn’t breathe. Why was she still standing? Surely, one must sit to receive this kind of news. She glanced around, her hand waving awkwardly as if it could fashion a chair in thin air. She panted, turning and sinking her weight against the wall against the rest of the coats. “I—can’t—what does this mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything, because you cannot claim it,” her mother replied, her tone clipped. “Which is why it was beastly of Patrick to mention it to you at all.”
Madeline shook her head. This didn’t make sense. “Why can’t I claim it? I want to claim it. What must I do? Does Uncle Rodney have the will? Surely, he can help—”
“You cannot meet the conditions set forth in the will,” her mother snapped. “It is impossible, Madeline. Once the will is contested, your unclaimed assets will revert to the oldest of the Blaire children.”
Madeline blinked twice. “But…papa is the oldest.” An odd feeling of hope and foreboding mingled in her chest. “If I cannot claim my inheritance, the money will go to my father?”
Her mother gave a curt nod.
Madeline felt her sense of hope blooming. “Well, then surely, if I can’t claim it directly, he can claim it and give it to me as it was intended—”
“Oh, be sensible, Madeline,” her mother huffed. “What would a girl of twenty know about claiming such a fortune? You are a child. A sweet, ignorant fool. Best leave this to your father. He will take care of you, as he always has.”
Madeline reeled back as if slapped, her hope bursting inside her chest like a soap bubble. They meant to keep it from her. Whatever the conditions set forth in the will, they meant to keep her in the dark. Surely there must be a timing aspect to it. They were waiting out the clock. Madeline was about to lose her chance at a fortune she never even knew was hers, and the person ready to take it from her was none other than her own father. And her mother was in on the subterfuge.
“Who else knows?” She pushed herself off from the wall. “Papa? You? Uncle Rodney? I’m sure he’s told all the boys if Patrick knows. Even Lord Everton seems to know something. He asked me about it just now.”
“Lower your voice—”
“I will not lower my voice!” Madeline hissed, tears burning in her eyes. “All my life, you’ve been telling me I must speak up. You cannot now wish me to stay silent, Mama!”
“Diana? Is everything alright, dear?”
Madeline’s mother spun around, plastering that fake smile on her face, as Aunt Judith emerged from the drawing room. “We’re fine, dear,” she called back, her voice all false cheerfulness. “Madeline is feeling unwell. I think we’ll retire a bit early.”
“Of course, go home and rest yourselves,” cooed Aunt Judith. “Lord Everton bade me tell you that he’ll be hosting a dinner tomorrow night, and you’re all invited.”
Madeline groaned as her mother replied, “How lovely.”
Her heart was racing out of control. Madeline never lost her temper. She never raised her voice. It felt freeing. She wanted to do something else to chase this feeling. She wanted to be bold. Not waiting for her mother to turn around, she snatched her bonnet off its hook, and lunged for the front door, not looking back as she darted out into the street, followed by the sounds of her mother’s startled shriek.
