‘The Will’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Will

“He’s dead.”

The words fall from Frederick’s numb lips, drawing six pairs of eyes his way. He stands on the threshold between the parlour and the living room, one foot on cherry wood, the other on the lush rug that has seen better days. Frederick sways in indecision, weight shifting in his shining leather loafers. To enter, or not to enter? His hand darts through his receding hairline. Frederick too has seen better days, and in the years to come, he’ll likely be as bald as his recently deceased father. Relief floods him, cooling his pale cheeks. Not that his father’s dead, of course. But that the weight of his remaining family members’ gazes are quickly removing themselves from his lanky form. Someone—Agatha—shrieks.

“No!” she wails, falling back in chaise, hands pressed to her rapidly flushing cheeks.

The young woman makes sure her glassy green eyes are visible to all of the parlour’s occupants before she pinches them shut on a sob.

“No! It cannot be! My darling husband...”

The blonde infant sitting on a playmat at her feet coos in blissful unawareness. He mashes a block into his gummy mouth.

“Not like it’s that big of a surprise,” Jonathan quips, tossing back a shot of whiskey, his stubbled cheeks bulging as he swallows. It is a wonder he was still coherent at this late hour, having gone straight for the liquor cabinet the moment he stepped through the estate’s doors.

Starting from this afternoon, they’d been gathered in the parlour, nibbling on the abundance of coffee and cakes the butler continuously fussed over. One at a time, they’d each gone to the patriarch’s bedroom to say their goodbyes—everyone except Johnathan. The dark-haired man knew better than to grace his father-in-law with his presence.

“The man was old as fuck.” Johnathan toasts his glass in the air, condensation dribbling down the sides of it. A dark chuckle passes his lips. “If you don't have anything nice to say, and all that.”

“Goddamn it, John,” Veronica curses, standing and smoothing out the wrinkles in her ivory blouse.

Her chastising is barely heard over the escalating and piercing wails pouring out of Agatha. Crossing the room and pulling Frederick into an embrace, Veronica’s curly hair muffles her voice. “I’m sorry, darling. At least he went peacefully.”

Agatha’s sobs verge on grating in their intensity. She snatches the toddler off the playmat and nestles her face into her son’s wisps of hair. The pudgy baby squirms restlessly, his clumsy hand catching in one of Agatha’s hefty earrings. Ever the dutiful butler, Samuel draws a blanket around the young widow’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry for your loss, madam,” he says, gloved hands lingering.

He steps back and bites his lip. For the first time that evening, Samuel finally breathes. Cecilia huffs past the butler, removing herself from the circle of winged-backed chairs, and retreats to the fireplace. Tears fall silently down the teenager’s face, scalding her skin in the blaze of the open flame. She hugs her arms around her waist, her hand gripping
the embroidered handkerchief her grandfather had given her when she’d started crying at his bedside. The pad of her pointer finger traces the delicate crest threaded into the fine cloth. If she were to raise the handkerchief to her face, she knows the scent of her grandfather’s cologne would linger in the fibres.

Her deep breath is interrupted by the hiccuping of her suppressed sobs. Frederick stiffly manoeuvres out of his wife’s embrace, finally planting both feet in the parlour. He collapses into the nearest loveseat, unbuttoning the top of his salmon polo. Veronica lowers herself into the seat at his side with a furrowed brow, the leather squeaking beneath her.

“Would you like me to call someone?”

“Who?” Jonathan scoffs, rubbing his red eyes.

He leans forward in the pinstriped chair, bracing his hands on his knees. The ice in his glass rattles with the movement.

“The bastard didn’t exactly have any friends. He made plenty sure of that.”

Cecilia winces at her father’s words. She’d known the barb was coming—had prepared herself for it in the hours leading up to her grandfather’s death—but tightened her hold on the hanky all the same. It was in times like these she wished her mother was still alive. Most of Cecilia’s greatest memories came from within the hedged fence of her grandfather’s estate. Running up and down the elaborately decorated halls on hot summer days, her mother on her heels. The sound of her grandfather’s laughter rumbling in time with their footsteps. The tension fading from her father’s shoulder and his tender smile when his hands caught her mother and dragged her into a quick kiss.

“We should still call someone.” Exasperation muddies Veronica’s tone.

She looks away from her grumbling brother-in-law and rubs a soothing hand up and down Frederick's arm. Agatha sniffles loudly, using her pinky to flick away the single stray tear gathering at the corner of her eye. Despite having just lost her much-older husband of two years and her splotchy cheeks, her gaze is startlingly clear.

“I suppose we should discuss the matter of my dear Edward’s will.”

Jonathan barks out a resounding laugh. “Yes, let’s.”

Veronica sighs sharply through her nose, her painted nails gripping Frederick tightly at the elbow. “I don’t think now’s the time for that, Agatha—”

The widow readjusts the fussy toddler in her lap, banding her arms around little Andrew’s waist. He whimpers in agitation. “I think it’s the best time, before we get all caught up in the funeral arrangements.”

“His body’s not even cold,” Cecilia whispers to the fireplace.

She wipes her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt, careful to keep the hanky clean, and crosses the room to the rocking chair. The chair creaks with recognition, and the sound brings a small smile to her lips. How many times had she heard that same, familiar sound when her mother would sit in that very rocking chair and pull her into a hug?

“Well, what would you like to discuss?” Veronica asks, her voice contrite with distaste.

Frederick flinches at her side, his face pinching with every passing second.

“There is the matter of my husband’s fortune. And the estate, of course,” Agatha says, her attention glued to the baby boy in her arms. She bounces him mindlessly, biting her lip. There is not a hint of her previous grief evident on her face.

“What about it?” Frederick’s rough question tunes out the sound of Johnathan’s low laugh.

“Everything will go to Andrew, will it not?” Agatha turns her head with wide-eyes and an innocent air.

Though she tries to infuse her voice with gentleness, tension courses through her prim posture. Samuel passes behind her, handing a steaming cup of tea to Cecilia. His blond hair gleams in the flicker of the firelight, the shade remarkably close to that of baby Andrew’s. He retreats back to his station behind Agatha, and busies himself with dusting the collection of pictures frames lining the console table below the window. But that doesn’t mean he’s not hanging on to every word of the conversation.

Veronica sputters, bewilderment overtaking the empathy she gave her husband.

“What makes you say that? Why shouldn’t it go to Frederick? His eldest son.”

“I’m his wife.” Agatha rebuttals, once more wrangling the wriggly toddler.

“Widow,” Jonathan corrects with a tsk, plunking his glass down on the coffee table, just to the side of the coaster. “Welcome to the club.”

Agatha bristles, her lips pursing. “I’m just saying that the inheritance will likely—and should—go to Andrew.”

Cecilia grits her teeth and rises from the rocking chair. She stalks to Agatha and with just a few soothing words, scoops the baby into her arms and returns to her seat. Putting the chair into motion, the tightness seeping into her muscles eases. Within moments of the chair’s swaying, her infant uncle is soon fast asleep in her arms. Samuel halts in his dusting, his voice bitterly saccharine. “Mr Thayer informed me earlier this evening that he left a copy of his will in his private office. I would be happy to retrieve it.”

Agatha’s pleased smile quickly falls as Frederick shoots up out of his seat.

“Absolutely not!” His exhausted eyes study the faces of the room, his fingers twitching at his side.

At the slight pressure of Veronica’s hand slipping into his, he takes a steadying breath. “I’ll go get it.”

Jonathan leans over in Ceclia’s direction with a sarcastic grin and hazy eyes. “You, know, this is better than some of those reality shows you love watching.”

“Samuel is perfectly capable of getting it, Frederick.” Agatha smooths her chignon and places her folded hands in her lap. “Please, why don’t you sit back down—”

“I don’t think so,” Frederick sneers. Red infiltrates his cheeks, sweat breaking out across his forehead “I don’t trust either one of you to even look at the will.”

The room freezes, save for the flickering of the flames and the steady rising and falling of Andrew’s small chest. Old patriarch Edward would likely roll in his still-warm grave at the sight.

“What are you saying, Frederick?” Agatha asks through pursed lips, Samuel’s shadow looming behind her.

Frederick’s jaw clenches in an effort to contain his accusation. Veronica, however, does not possess such reservations. Her gaze strays to the butler, honing in on the anxious fidgeting of his fingers and the tension lining his neck. “Knock it
off, Agatha. We all know why you married Edward. Just like we all know how Andrew came
to be.”

“How dare you!”

A flush blooms in Agatha’s cheeks and spreads down the column of her neck, splotching her chest. Her fingers claw at the armrest, the tips of her fingers paling.

“You have no right to speak to me this way!”

Jonathan’s stark laughter chimes through the parlour, echoing through the halls of the estate. Cecilia’s chest tightens at the sound and the rocking chair ceases to move. Andrew stirs in her arms and Ceclia swallows thickly as she runs a shaking hand down his back.

The last time she’d heard her father laugh like that was when her mother died. When his fit of laughter subsides, Johnathan leans back into the cushions of his chair and grins madly. He stares down every person in the parlour.

“Frederick, you are a cheating son-of-a-bitch that came running to daddy to help cover up your affairs. Veronica, get off
your fucking high horse already—we all know you’ve shopped yourself into debt. And lovely Agatha—” A dangerous gleam flashes across Johnathan’s eyes “—I believe my broke sister- in-law just so-eloquently called you a gold-digger that got a little too busy with the butler.”

The room explodes into shouting.

Through it all, Cecilia stares blankly into the fireplace, rocking. Back. Forth. Back and forth. She keeps her hold on her grandfather’s hanky, on the key to the safety deposit box wrapped within it. She’ll never forget the look in her grandfather’s eyes when he gave it to her—the love that radiated from within their dark orbs. Make your mother proud. And she would.

Glancing down at the sleeping face of her infant not-uncle, Cecilia’s lips twist in a smirk.

“If only they knew.”

Rina M. Steen is a Danish-American author and artist. Ever the happily-ever-after enthusiast, she is an avid romance reader and writer with a penchant for the gothic genre. You can find her on social media at @rinamsteen.