A Rose for Beauty

Chapter 3

   It took much less time than Lydia would have predicted for news of the disaster to spread. By midafternoon the bell began to ring, and before the day was over the tray in the front hall was overflowing with letters. Most of them were addressed to their father and so had to be set aside – Thomas and William had supported him to his room where he had collapsed into a feverish sleep – but by nightfall a thick, creamy envelope arrived for Anna.

   They were still all gathered in the library when John came in and handed her the letter. What else were they to do? Their normal business was no longer necessary, and it was hardly a day for social calls. Neither she nor anyone else in the room held any illusions as to its contents, but she took it as though it were a perfectly routine piece of correspondence and left the library stiffly.

   Henry sat over at the writing desk, poring over the legal documentation of their inheritance. There seemed to be a great many papers involved, and he had been reading through them for hours before he spoke.

“Here's something.” The other four looked up, the listless conversation they had been engaged in stilling instantly. “According to these papers, there's a property included in the trust.” He shook his head. “I wonder that none of us knew anything about it.”

   “It's not as though any of us had any particular reason to pay attention, Henry,” Thomas said. “It barely signifies alongside what we're – what we expected to have from Father.”

   “What kind of property?” Lydia asked softly.

  “A house,” Henry replied. “Well, a cottage, actually. Briarwood Cottage, it's called, in Glasbottle.”

   “Glasbottle?” William repeated. “Where on earth is that?”

   Henry frowned. “I don't know. Let's look it up. Where is the atlas?”

   Lydia rose and went to retrieve it. They spread it out on the desk and William began scouring the pages, looking for Glasbottle.

   “Wherever it is, it sounds dreadful,” Clara said sourly.

   “How can it possibly sound dreadful?” Lydia asked. “We don't even know anything about it!”

   “I've never heard of Glasbottle,” she answered, “and neither have you, or Thomas, or William, or even Henry, which means it can't be a city of any size at all. Secondly, Glasbottle? Really? It's probably some horrible little manufactory with a few houses around it.”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” said Thomas. “Why on earth would Mother own a cottage by a manufactory?”  

   “Strictly speaking, she didn't own it,” Henry injected, still deeply absorbed in the papers he was reading. “It seems she inherited it shortly before she died, but it wasn't hers. It was wrapped up in a trust for – her daughters.”

   Lydia and Clara looked at each other, surprised by this heretofore unsuspected inheritance and its peculiar stipulation.

“Who left it to her?” Thomas asked. “A relative?”

“It doesn't say,” Henry replied, “It only lists a name: Leticia Godwin.”

Lydia started and turned to stare at her brother wide-eyed. “Did you say Godwin?”

“Yes,” he said, “why? Does the name mean something to you?”

“Oh,” she laughed, a bit nervously. “No, why should it? That's what makes it so strange. Have any of you heard of a Leticia Godwin before?”

They shook their heads, equally baffled by the mysterious bequest. Suddenly William let out a whoop, startling all of them.

“I've got it! Here it is – Glasbottle.”