Dear Trustee by Mary Burchell

it.”
    “Of course he does. That’s what makes him so cantankerous. Like a naughty child who knows he has his parents half scared. Give him a back-answer occasionally and see what happens.”
    “Then he’d go and alter his will.”
    “So what? He would probably alter it back when he reflected on the enjoyable novelty of having you stand up to him.”
    “Not he! He’d go and die before he could change it back again,” declared Maurice. “He’s that sort.”
    “Well, he certainly seems cranky enough for anything.” Cecile laughed. Then she looked curiously at Maurice. “Tell me—do you know anything about this great-niece of his?”
    “Felicity? Yes, of course. She is a sort of cousin of mine. Although I call him Uncle Algernon, the old man is my great-uncle too, you know. Felicity is the daughter of my aunt, and really rather a favourite of his.”
    “And what,” asked Cecile, with rather elaborate carelessness, “was the story about her and Gregory Picton?”
    “I don’t really know. It was while I was away up north. He acted for her over something to do with fraud in connection with her late father’s affairs, and it seems he got very friendly. According to Uncle Algernon, he ran after her like mad, but she wouldn’t have any of him. Kept him dangling, you know, just for the fun of showing she had the celebrated Gregory Picton on a string. She’s a bit like Uncle Algernon, really, now I come to think of it.”
    “She sounds like it,” Cecile agreed with feeling. “And then? What happened after that?”
    “Oh, she went off to the States, on some pleasure of her own. She can afford to—” a note of envy crept into Maurice’s voice—“she belongs to the wealthy side of the family.”
    “Well, cheer up. She doesn’t look any the happier for that,” declared Cecile, remembering the faintly discontented line of Felicity’s well-cut mouth.
    “Sorry.” Maurice grinned, and seemed to recover his spirits suddenly. “Uncle Algernon always has that effect upon me. But I must say you were a success. It would be rather fun if he ended by leaving you a packet, wouldn’t it?”
    “It would be very embarrassing,” replied Cecile drily.
    But Maurice laughed almost as unbelievingly as Uncle Algernon at that.
    During the next few days, Cecile’s future began to take more definite shape. Mr. Carisbrooke summoned her to a further interview, and explained that, now the financial situation was clearer, it seemed there would be an income of about two hundred and fifty pounds a year available.
    “in addition, of course, there will be the capital value of the house—if you are able to sell it,” said the cautious Mr. Carisbrooke. “There is also the small cottage adjoining, which, I understand, used to be a gardener’s cottage, but is now empty.”
    “Yes. That will do for Florrie and Stella—the two elderly maids—” began Cecile.
    “It will reduce the value of the house and grounds when they go up for sale,” interrupted Mr. Carisbrooke quickly.
    “I can’t help that. They have to live somewhere, don’t they?” Cecile was firm about that. “They wouldn’t know what to do if we simply gave them notice. They’re over sixty, both of them, and they were with us for over twenty years. If they have the cottage and a hundred and fifty a year between them—”
    “My dear Miss Bernardine! that is three-fifths of your income,” cried the scandalized Mr. Carisbrooke.
    “Three-fifths of my unearned income,” Cecile corrected, with a smile. “I’m going to get a job very soon, Mr. Carisbrooke. Don’t worry about that.”
    “At present you are living expensively at an hotel,” began Mr. Carisbrooke.
    “Soon I am going to live, less expensively, with my mother,” retorted Cecile good-humouredly.
    There was a slight silence. Then Mr. Carisbrooke coughed and said, “M’yes. I had heard about that. I am surprised that Mr. Picton agreed.”
    “I think he was too.” Cecile smiled slightly.