A Divided Inheritance by Deborah Swift

It’s just that Mr Bradstone—’
    ‘I’m sure Bradstone would prefer a sensible wife – one who does not fritter away his hard-earned coin – to a wind-brained woman in the latest gown. You are already a
handsome-looking girl without needing any assistance from the draper.’
    So that was that. But it preyed on her mind. The house looked down-at-heel, and it injured her sense of pride. It was not even that she wanted Mr Bradstone to like her – indeed, she rather
hoped he would not; the last thing she wanted was to be married to some boorish northern fur-farmer. But she would like to look as though she was worth marrying, at least, and not be subjected to
his humiliating scorn.
    So now she sat painstakingly unpicking and re-seaming the stiff silk sleeves, feeling the cool material slide through her fingers as she sewed. Diver sat on her lap, with his tousled head in the
way as usual, but she had not the heart to move him.
    Her enforced solitude gave her plenty of time to think. She pondered over the gossip about Zachary. It couldn’t be true, could it? Did not Father say he and his sister had been estranged?
Perhaps that was a good reason why they had led such separate lives, that she had fallen into some unspeakable low-life. But no, it was too ridiculous. No relation of her straight-laced father
could be involved in any criminal profession; she refused to believe it.
    Martha laced her into the rose-coloured bodice and tucked in the ends. ‘You look beautiful, mistress,’ she said, ‘like a flower in a garden.’
    ‘Thank you, Martha. I’m glad you did not say which flower. Loosestrife, probably; they’re the ones sticking up above all the rest.’
    ‘No, mistress. A rose. The pink suits you. Just your hair to dress now.’
    ‘You flatter me. Anyway, no need to spend too long with my hair. Father seems to think Mr Bradstone is a pious recusant who doesn’t want a wife interested in gowns and so
forth.’ She sighed. ‘And anyway, he’s from out of town, where they’ll have no idea of fashion.’
    ‘Hmm.’ Martha’s grunt was disapproving.
    She swivelled round. ‘Oh Martha, don’t tell, but I’m not sure I even want to meet a dull furrier from some out-of-the-way town I’ve never heard of. He’ll probably
smell of old pelts and the tannery.’
    ‘Let me just pin the lace cap in place, at least. You’d best look respectable.’
    She fidgeted as Martha pushed her head back round, then pulled and pinched at the back of her hair.
    ‘Done,’ Martha said. And it was just in time, for the big bell was ringing and she heard the manservant answer the door. Her father’s falsely genial voice followed, then
Zachary’s slightly nasal tones.
    She raised her eyebrows at Martha, who said, ‘Best get on down.’
    ‘I suppose I have to?’
    ‘Can’t say, mistress, but Mr Leviston, well, he don’t like to be kept waiting.’
    Elspet sighed and tied her shawl tightly around her shoulders. It was not yet summer, and there was a draught blowing in from the bluster outside. She would certainly have need of a wrap in
their hall – Father had asked for the fire to be lit only an hour ago, as usual, despite their guest.
    As she descended the stairs with Martha behind her, men’s laughter drifted up. She pushed at the door and Father turned in greeting. But her eyes were fixed on the other two men. Zachary
was dressed in a showy crimson doublet with gold-coloured slashing, surely new. She wished she did not know every item in his trunk. He was pointing out something in the yard to the green-clad
stranger, who had his back to them. Her first thought was, ‘Praise the Lord, but he’s tall.’ He towered over Zachary, and had to stoop to follow the line of the smaller
man’s arm.
    ‘Mr Bradstone, this is my daughter Elspet.’
    Mr Bradstone turned around and smiled. She let her knees bend and heard the rustle of Martha’s skirts as she dipped behind her. Blood rushed to her face. It was as if she