The Jane Austen Society(52)

Dr. Gray wasn’t sure he believed any of this. “But I am Adam’s doctor as you well know, and Miss Knight’s, too. I am a professional, after all. . . .” But his words struck even him as strangely disingenuous, and he let his voice trail off.

“I know that. Look, really, it’s nothing in particular. I just feel like it’s . . . it’s time for a change.” Adeline was grasping for a way to end this conversation. She had never seen Dr. Gray angry or distrustful of her before, not even in the slightest. She was not liking it one little bit, nor how angry he was making her feel in return.

“Who will you go to then, for care?”

She hadn’t thought this through yet—he had caught her so off-guard.

“Um, Dr. Westlake—Howard Westlake—the surgeon who operated on me, over at the Alton Hospital.”

This answer seemed to only perturb Dr. Gray even more. “You put greater confidence in him then, is that it?”

“Not at all. I just think it might be easier, to start fresh with someone not from the village. Not so, um, intimately connected with my case.”

The image of her bloodstained white lace nightgown suddenly flashed through Dr. Gray’s head. For the first time he appreciated that they might have shared too much—that they might not be able to go back to what they were before.

“Yes, of course, fine then,” he finally relented. “It’s whatever you think best.”

He got up to head back towards the front gate, then turned to her one last time. “Do you think I could send Adam round, to fix that gate for you? I am not at all handy like that, as everyone well knows.”

She shrugged. “Whatever you think best.”

He noted her choice of words, mimicking his own just now—as if to say that she could be just as disingenuous as him.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks then, at the next society meeting, if not before?”

She shrugged again. She was still a little angry with him. She wondered just how lost he thought she must be, how much in need of saving. It would never have occurred to her that he might be projecting his own struggles onto her grief-stricken state. Would never have occurred to her that, between the two of them, he was the one most in need of salvation.





CHAPTER NINETEEN

Chawton, Hampshire

January 15, 1946

Frances sat on the faded chintz sofa in the Great Hall across from Andrew Forrester. Josephine, Evie, and Charlotte stood behind the sofa, at Frances’s request. She was hoping that her father had provided gifts in his will for the household staff in recognition of all their service, particularly during these last several difficult years.

Dr. Gray was also in the room, standing with his back against the front window, just off to the right of Miss Knight. Andrew had confidentially asked him to attend the reading of the will as Mr. Knight’s personal physician.

Andrew cleared his throat. He could not look Frances directly in the eyes—for years now he rarely could. In her eyes he always saw not just the crushing disappointment, but the self-recrimination as well. The sense that she had, through her own passivity and weakness, allowed this life before her to happen. That it might not have been inevitable after all.

Andrew started to read. “‘I, James Edward Knight, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby on this fifteenth day of November, in the year of our Lord 1945’”—Frances’s head shot up from staring at her lap—“‘declare this to be my last will and testament, and revoke all former wills and testaments made by me. I declare Andrew Forrester, Esquire, solicitor in the town of Alton, County of Hampshire, to act as executor of my estate, and hereby bequeath the totality of that estate, with exclusions set out hereafter, to my closest living male relative on the British continent.”

Andrew heard one of the younger servants standing behind Frances gasp, then be quickly swatted by someone, most likely the elderly cook, Josephine.

Frances simply continued to sit there, silent. Andrew could feel her eyes still on him as he read, but forced himself not to look back at her. This was no time to start doing that.

“‘The aforementioned exclusions include, firstly, the steward’s cottage on Winchester Road in Chawton, and the adjoining triangular-shaped parcel of 2.3 acres of land contained by the redbrick wall and rear hornbeam hedge, as set out on the attached survey.’”

“I’m surprised he didn’t drag himself out there and measure it in feet himself,” muttered Josephine angrily.

“‘This property shall be the residence of my only surviving child, Frances Elizabeth Knight, until the time of her death or any arm’s length disposition of the cottage, whichever should occur the earlier, at which time the right to residence shall revert back to the estate. I also bequeath to my daughter a living allowance of two thousand pounds annually, for so long as that amount can be generated by the estate without exceeding five percent of its gross annual revenue. I have set out in the attached schedule the required rates in reduction of this allowance according to any year-over-year decline in the gross revenue of the estate.’”

Andrew had always found these last two terms to be the most unnecessarily punitive and cruel in a particularly mean-spirited document. Two thousand pounds was just enough for Frances to enjoy some of the nicer comforts in life, but not one whit more. And none of it was guaranteed as long as the estate continued to lose money as it had been doing, and at an alarmingly increasing rate. It was anyone’s guess as to how much the estate would be further decimated by the death taxes that would now be owing.