It felt good.
Then Beatrice placed the doctor’s note on his desk.
The laughter disappeared.
Nathaniel read.
Then the vial.
Then her explanation.
By the end, his face had become pale.
“Your mother.”
Beatrice went still.
“What?”
Nathaniel removed his spectacles.
“She came to me before she died.”
Beatrice could barely breathe.
“When?”
“Two months before.”
“What did she say?”
Nathaniel looked ashamed.
“She feared Marcus was taking money from the mine.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were fifteen.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
He looked down.
“I investigated.”
“And?”
“Accounts were missing.”
“Then Mother died.”
“Yes.”
Beatrice’s hands trembled.
Nathaniel continued.
“Afterward Marcus produced papers showing she had withdrawn the complaint.”
“Did she?”
“I believed so.”
“You believed him.”
The old man closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Beatrice stood.
Caleb moved slightly but did not touch her.
Nathaniel looked toward the vial.
“If her illness resembled yours…”
“It did.”
“God.”
Beatrice’s voice hardened.
“Do you have anything from her case?”
Nathaniel opened a cabinet.
He searched.
Old files.
Dust.
Ledgers.
Finally a thin envelope.
Eleanor Holloway Bell.
Beatrice’s mother.
Inside was a letter.
Not addressed to Nathaniel.
Addressed to Beatrice.
Never delivered.
My darling Bea,
If you receive this, then I have either recovered enough to make a fool of myself or I have failed to protect you properly.
Beatrice stopped reading.
Caleb watched tears fall silently.
Nathaniel whispered, “I never saw that.”
“How was it in your file?”
“I don’t know.”
Beatrice continued.
Marcus believes the mine should be his because management requires a man. He has been transferring expenses to my share and hiding profit. I confronted him. Since then I have been unwell.
Do not accuse anyone without proof.
Your grandfather taught us better.
But if my illness worsens, ask Mr. Shaw to review the trust and ask another physician—not Edwin Vale—to examine whatever medicines remain.
Do not surrender your share.
It is not only wealth.
It is the freedom to say no.
Beatrice could not finish aloud.
Caleb looked toward Nathaniel.
“You never saw this?”
“No.”
“Who had access?”
Nathaniel’s face changed.
“My clerk.”
“Name?”
“Jonathan Bell.”
Beatrice looked up.
Marcus’s younger brother.
Caleb swore softly.
Jonathan had died four years earlier.
Nathaniel sat.
“I was a fool.”
Beatrice folded the letter carefully.
“No.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You trusted the wrong man.”
“That can still make a fool.”
“Then we have all been fools.”
Caleb said, “Some of us more recently.”
Beatrice looked at him.
His attempt to pull blame away from the old lawyer worked.
Barely.
Nathaniel examined the trust.
“Your interest vests automatically on November third.”
“Can Marcus stop it?”
“He can challenge competency.”
Beatrice stiffened.
“Competency?”
“If Dr. Vale certifies you incapable of managing property…”
Caleb’s face hardened.
Nathaniel continued.
“Marcus could petition to extend trusteeship.”
“That’s why Vale said my weight strained my heart.”
“Perhaps.”