The Art of Inheriting Secrets(15)

“Lady Shaw?”

In my imagination, Jonathan Haver was a slight graying man with glasses. This guy was an athlete, no more than forty, with broad shoulders straining the fabric of his tastefully striped shirt and a foppish mustache. My intuition waved a flag of wariness. I adjusted my behavior accordingly.

“Good to meet you at last,” he said.

“You too,” I said and took his outstretched hand. A firm regulation grip.

“Come in. You must be completely overwhelmed by all of this.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.” His office was cold, without windows, the walls a thin blue color. It didn’t seem like the office of a successful lawyer, but maybe I was judging by San Francisco standards. He was, after all, a small-town solicitor. “I’m looking forward to actual details.”

“Well, the happy news is we have a very good offer on the estate.”

I raised a hand. “Whoa. Can we start somewhere else? I need some background here.”

“Oh, of course.” He folded his hands. “What would you like to know?”

“Everything. I don’t know anything. My mother never breathed a word of this to me. I gather there is an uncle?”

“We assume he’s dead, I’m afraid.”

“Where did he go?”

“Unknown.” He reached for a pair of reading glasses, which only slightly humanized him, and opened a thick file. “My father managed her affairs until his death seven years ago, but he never gave any particular instructions about them. I sent your mother reports every quarter, but that’s the extent of it.”

“Did she receive payments?”

“Of course. We sent distributions each quarter. We retained her accounting firm, and they oversee the actual financials.”

“I’d like that information, please.” I was typing into my phone quickly, making notes of his comments.

“Absolutely.”

I dropped my hands into my lap. “Tell me about the estate.”

“Have you done any reading on the place?”

“Some. I know the general history.”

“Right.” He consulted the paper. “Rosemere is an estate of seventeen hundred and ten hectares, of which there are three hundred and fifty hectares of wood, eight hundred and ninety of farmland, and the rest allocated to gardens, lawns, et cetera.”

“What crops on the farmland? Rebecca mentioned rapeseed and barley.”

“Yes. I believe there has been some rotation, and I can assemble that information if you like, though I assume you’re not a farmer.” He glanced at me over the top of his glasses.

“Well, no, but I’d like a clear picture.”

“There is sheep, mainly lamb, for market. But you Americans don’t really eat much lamb, do you?”

I thought of a long-form article I’d written a couple of years ago on the burgeoning lamb market in the US. My favorite recipe of that lot had been for a leg of lamb roasted with garlic and rosemary. When I had served it to my mother out on the deck of my apartment on a warm May evening, she’d practically swooned and eaten more in a sitting than I’d ever seen her eat. Ever.

“More than we used to,” I said. “Who does the actual farming? I saw the cottages.”

“Yes, those belong to the estate, but the tenants rent the land and the cottages and offer a boon to the estate on successful crops. Most of the families have been on the land for generations.”

“Do you have the paperwork for that income?”

“Of course. I’ll be happy to prepare a report.” He scribbled something on a notepad. “I’ll have Mrs. Wells pull it all together so you can go over it.”

“Thank you.” I made a mental note to see about finding another lawyer to take a look at the assembled material. Maybe an accountant as well. “And what about the house?”

“You saw it.”

“I did. I’d like to go through it, see what’s there. What can be done with it.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

I let that sit between us for a moment, then said calmly, “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. You can do whatever you like.”

“Good.” I made another note on my phone and then checked the list I’d made this morning. “Tell me more about it. How many rooms, how long has it been abandoned? All of it.”

“All right, then.” He settled the glasses back on his nose and consulted another sheet of paper. “Rosemere Priory is, let’s see . . . thirty-seven rooms, with additional space in the converted carriage house, which has three apartments for staff. The caretakers live in one now, though I believe they’re on holiday at the moment.”

“What are they caretaking, Mr. Haver? The house is falling down.”

“They oversee the rest of the property—the ruin of the abbey, the gardens attached to it, and whatever issues or concerns might come up with the tenants.”

I took that in, thinking about how vast the responsibilities were, how many moving pieces. It winded me. But again my mother’s practicality righted itself. “Why did they leave the house alone?”

“I believe they expected someone would be coming back to give them instructions. Your mother let all the staff in the house go, so—”