The Story of Son(3)

Fletcher walked with the kind of slow dignity you’d expect from a man sporting a formal British butler’s uniform. And he fit in with the decor. The house was furnished in old-money style, with layer upon layer of art collected over generations choking the rooms. The priceless hodgepodge of museum-quality paintings and sculpture and furniture was from different periods, but it flowed together. Although what an upkeep. Dusting the stuff would be like cutting twenty acres of grass with a push mower—as soon as you were finished, you’d need to start again.

She and Fletcher took the massive, curving staircase up to the second floor and went down the hallway. On both sides, hanging on red silk walls, were portraits of various Leeds, their pale faces glowing against dark backgrounds, their two-dimensional eyes following you. The air smelled like lemon polish and old wood.

Down at the end, Fletcher knocked on a carved door. When there was a weak greeting, he opened the panel wide.

Miss Leeds was propped up in a bed the size of a house, looking as small as a child, as fragile as a sheet of paper. There was white lace everywhere, dripping from the canopy, hanging to the floor around the mattress, covering the windows. It was a wintry scene complete with icicles and snow banks, except it wasn’t cold.

“Thank you for coming, Claire.” Miss Leeds’s voice was frail to the point of a whisper. “Forgive me for not being able to meet with you properly.”

“That’s quite all right.” Claire came forward on tiptoe, afraid to make any noise or sudden movements. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I did yesterday. Perhaps I have caught the flu.”

“It has been going around, but I’m glad you’re on the mend.” Claire did not think it would be helpful to mention she’d had to go on antibiotics for something like that herself. “Still, I’ll be quick and let you get back to resting.”

“But you must stay for some tea. Won’t you?”

Fletcher piped up. “Shall I get the tea?”

“Please, Claire. Join me for tea.”

Hell. She wanted to get back.

Client is always right. Client is always right. “But of course.”

“Good. Fletcher, do bring the tea and serve it when we’re through with my papers.” Miss Leeds smiled and closed her eyes. “Claire, you may sit beside me. Fletcher will bring you a chair.”

Fletcher didn’t look like he could handle bringing over a footstool, much less something she could sit in.

“That’s okay,” Claire said. “I’ll get one—”

Without taking a breath, the butler easily hefted over an antique armchair that looked as if it weighed as much as a Buick.

Whoa. Bionic butler, evidently. “Ah . . . thank you.”

“Madam will be comfortable in this.”

Yeah, and maybe madam will drive it home if her car doesn’t start.

As Fletcher left, Claire put her butt on the throne and glanced at her client. The old woman’s eyes were still closed. “Miss Leeds . . . are you sure you don’t want me to leave the will with you? You can review it at your leisure and I can come back to notarize your signature.”

There was a long silence and she wondered if the woman had fallen asleep. Or, God forbid . . . “Miss Leeds?”

Pale lips barely moved. “Have you a gentleman caller yet?”

“Excuse—er, no.”

“You are so lovely, you know.” Watery eyes opened and Miss Leeds’s head turned on the pillow. “I should like you to meet my son.”

“I beg your pardon?” Miss Leeds had a son?

“I have shocked you.” The smile that stretched thin skin was sad. “Yes. I am . . . a mother. It all happened long ago and in secret—both the deed and the birthing. We kept it all quiet. Father insisted and he was right to do so. That was why I never married. How could I?”

Holy . . . shit. Back then, whenever it was, women did not have children out of wedlock. The scandal would have been tremendous for a prominent family like the Leeds. And . . . well, that must be why Miss Leeds had never made any mention of a son in her will. She’d left the bulk of the estate to Fletcher because old mores died hard.

“My son will like you.”

Okay, that was a total no-go. If the woman had had a baby when she was in her early twenties, the guy would be seventy by now. But more than that, the client might always be right, but there was no way in hell Claire was going to prostitute herself to keep business.

“Miss Leeds, I don’t think—”

“You will meet him. And he will like you.”

Claire assumed her most diplomatic voice, the one that was ultracalm and ultrareasonable. “I’m sure he’s a wonderful man, but it would be a conflict of interest.”

“You will meet . . . and he will like you.”

Before Claire could try another approach, Fletcher came back pushing a large cart with enough silver on it to qualify as a Tiffany’s display. “Shall I serve now, Miss Leeds?”

“After the papers, please.” Miss Leeds reached out a veined hand, the nails of which were trimmed perfectly and polished pink. Maybe Fletcher had his beauty license, too. “Claire, will you read to me?”

The changes were not complicated and neither was Miss Leeds’s approval—which made the trip feel utterly unnecessary. As that frail hand curled around Claire’s Montblanc and drew a shaky approximation of “Eliza Merchant Castile Leeds” on the last line, Claire tried not to think of the four hours of work time she’d lost or the fact that she couldn’t stand coddling people.