Hadrian came home. I told him the news.
"It's not officially announced yet," I warned him. "I shall wait until after the funeral."
"Tybalt's lucky," he said glumly. "I reckon he's forestalled me."
"Ah, but you wanted a woman with money."
"If you'd had a fortune, Judith, I'd have laid my heart at your feet."
"Biologically impossible," I told him.
"Well, I wish you luck. And I'm glad you're getting away from my aunt. Your life must have been hellish with her."
"It wasn't so bad. You know that I always enjoyed a fight."
That night I had a strange intimation from Sir Ralph's lawyers. They wanted me to be present at the reading of his will.
When I called at Rainbow Cottage and told Alison and Dorcas of this they behaved rather oddly.
They went out and left me in the sitting room and were gone some time. This was strange because my visit was necessarily a brief one and just as I was about to call them and tell them that I must be going, they came back.
Their faces were flushed and they looked at each other in a most embarrassed fashion, and knowing them so well I realized that each was urging the other to open a subject which they found distasteful or distressing in some way.
"Is anything wrong?" I asked.
"There is something we think you ought to know," said Dorcas.
"Yes, indeed you must be prepared."
"Prepared for what?"
Dorcas bit her lip and looked at Alison; Alison nodded.
"It's about your birth, Judith. You are our niece. Lavinia was your mother."
"Lavinia! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because we thought it best. It was rather an awkward situation."
"It was a terrible shock to us," went on Dorcas. "Lavinia was the eldest. Father doted on her. She was so pretty. She was just like our mother . . . whereas we were like Father."
"Dear Dorcas!" I said, "do get on and tell me what this is all about."
"It was a terrible shock to us when we heard she was going to have a child."
"Which turned out to be me?"
"Yes. We smuggled Lavinia away to a cousin . . . before it was noticeable you see. We told people in the village that she had taken a situation, a post of governess. And you were born. The cousin was in London and she had several children of her own. Lavinia could look after them and keep her own baby there. It was a good arrangement. She brought you to see us, but of course she couldn't come here. We all met in Plymouth. We had such a pleasant time and then saw her off on that train."
"There was an accident," I said. "She was killed and I survived."
"And what was going to happen to you was a problem. So we said you were a cousin's child and brought you here ... to adopt you, as it were."
"Well, you are in fact my aunts! Aunt Alison! Aunt Dorcas! But why did you tell me that story about being unclaimed?"
"You were always asking questions about the distant cousins who, you thought, were your close family, so we thought it better for you to have no family at all."
"You always did what you thought best for me, I know. Who was my father? Do you know that?"
They looked at each other for a moment and I burst out: "Can it really be? It explains everything. Sir Ralph!"
Their faces told me that I had guessed correctly.
"He was my father. I'm glad. I was fond of him. He was always good to me." I went to them and hugged them. "At least I know who my parents are now."
"We thought you might be ashamed to have been born . . . out of wedlock."
"Do you know," I said, "I believe he really loved her. She must have been the one love of his life. At least she gave him the great solace he needed married to Lady Bodrean."
"Oh Judith!" they cried indulgently.
"But he has been kind to me." I thought of the way he looked at me; the amused twinkle in his eyes, the shake of his chin. He was saying to himself: This is Lavinia's daughter. How I wished that he was alive so that I could tell him how fond I had grown of him.
"Now, Judith," said Dorcas, "you must be prepared. The reason you are expected to be at the reading of the will is because he has left you something. It may well come out that you are his daughter and we wouldn't want it to come as a shock to you."
"I will be prepared," I promised.
They were right. I was mentioned in Sir Ralph's will. He had left a quarter of a million pounds to Archaeological Research to be used depending on certain conditions, in whatever way Sir Edward or Tybalt Travers thought fit; he had left an income for life to his wife; to Hadrian an income of one thousand a year; to Theodosia, his heiress, the house on the death of her mother and one half of the residue of his income; the other half was to go to his natural daughter, Judith Osmond; and in the event of the death of one of his daughters her share of his fortune would revert to the other.
It was astounding.
I, penniless, unclaimed at birth, had acquired parents and from one had come a fortune so great that it bewildered me to contemplate it.
Dramatic events had taken place during the recent weeks. I was to be married to the man I loved; and I should not go to him, as I had thought, a penniless woman. I should bring with me a great fortune.
I thought of Sir Ralph taking my hand and Tybalt's and placing them in each other. I wondered if he had told Tybalt of our relationship and of what he intended to do.
I then felt my first twinge of uneasiness.
The truth of my birth was now known throughout the village. That I was Sir Ralph's daughter surprised few; there was a certain amount of gossip among Oliver's parishioners who recounted how I had been educated with his legitimate daughter and nephew and afterwards taken into Keverall Court, albeit in a humble position. They had guessed, they said, being wise after the event. Alison and Dorcas were alternately pleased and ashamed. Alison said that she was glad her father had not had to face this scandal; their sister, the rector's daughter, the mistress of Sir Ralph who had borne him a child! It was rather scandalous. At the same time I, who meant far more to them than their dead sister's reputation, was now a woman of means whose future was secure. I had also so charmed my father that he had shown the world that I was almost as important to him as his legitimate daughter.
The scandal would die down; the benefits remain.
They had been so anxious for me to marry but now I was about to do so they were, I sensed, not so pleased. As a young woman of means I no longer needed the financial support a husband could give me, and it was for this support that they had selected first Oliver and then Evan for me; and now, before I had known of my inheritance I had become engaged to that rather strange man whose father had recently died mysteriously. It was not what they had planned for me.
When I went to them after the reading of the will they looked at me strangely as though I had become a different person.
I laughed at them. "You foolish old aunts," I cried, "for aunts you have turned out to be, the fact that I'm going to be rich doesn't change me at all! And let me tell you, there is going to be no cheeseparing in this house again. You are going to have an income which will enable you to live in the manner to which you have been accustomed."
It was a very emotional moment. Alison's face twitched and Dorcas's was actually wet. I embraced them.
"Just think of it," I said. "You can leave Rainbow Cottage. Sell it if you wish"—for Sir Ralph had left it to them—"and go and live in a lovely house, with a maid or two . . ."
Alison laughed. "Judith, you always did run on. We're quite happy here and it's our very own now. We shall stay here."
"Well, you shall never worry about making ends meet again."
"You mustn't go spending all the money before you've got it."
That made me laugh. "I believe there's quite a lot of it, and if you think my first thought wouldn't be to look after you, you don't know Judith Osmond."