The Cavalier, page 2
There would be no more daring raids behind enemy lines, no riding silently through the woods as ghosts and no more urgent dispatches to carry. The war was over.
Chapter One
Nothing could have prepared Emily Ashley for the news she received when she was met at the pier in Philadelphia.
As she navigated down the ramp of the passenger ship that brought her home from a London finishing school, she saw Alfred Dennison, Esquire, waiting for her instead of her mother. His appearance and his somber expression were an immediate giveaway that something was wrong.
Was her mother sick? Had she been detained? Why had she sent her attorney and trusted family friend in her place? She greeted the man with a ladylike handshake, feeling him stiffen.
“What has become of Mother?” she smiled. Her smile dissipated as she studied his discomfort.
She was not prepared for the most devastating news that she might have imagined.
“Your mother and Mister Sinclaire were together when they had a very unfortunate accident,” he began. He hesitated, searching for the proper words, and then hurried to finish with the only ones that came to him, “I regret to inform you that neither of them survived.”
The haunting echo of his words continued to assault her even after she was silently escorted the short distance to the elegant home where she had been brought up. The sad-eyed condolences of the ladies who worked within the house were of little comfort to her. She tolerated them, but shrank from them just the same.
Within the apartment at the back of the house where she and her mother had separated themselves from the constant flow of business, she allowed her tears to flow. The plans laid out in letters shared back and forth over the past several months, her education in London, and the bright future they were to share all collapsed upon themselves in an instant.
The wire her mother had sent before she had departed London for her return trip to Philadelphia had been full of hope and excitement. Emily had thought of nothing else, full of hope and excitement during the long journey across the Atlantic, eagerly anticipating the reunion with her mother after being apart for six years.
Her tears were interrupted by Nanna, the cook, who had been with her mother since before Emily was born. She was a Negro, given her freedom by Emily’s mother after the rebellion of the south. Though technically an employee, she had always been a special part of the family and as much of a mother to Emily as had Allison Ashley; oftentimes, more so.
“My dear child,” Nanna said, coming to her and wrapping her arms around her. “Ain’t much of a homecoming, but I’m glad to have you here just the same. It’s been God-awful lonely ‘round here without your mama, and only these snippity primadonnas for company.”
Emily cried in earnest when those warm, comforting arms engulfed her, letting go with everything that had built up inside of her from the moment Alfred had delivered the news to her on the dock.
“You just go on and cry all of that out, child. Ain’t no reason a’tall for holdin’ none of it in.”
Having been allowed to empty herself of all of the tears she was able to cry for the moment, Nanna slipped from beside her into the kitchen. When she returned, she placed a full plate before her and sat down at the table, motioning for Emily to join her.
“You go on an eat, child,” she said. “I won’t take no fer an answer.”
Though eating wasn’t the most important thing on her mind, Emily did as she was told, warming up to the familiar taste of what Nanna referred to as “soul food”. Her appetite awakened suddenly, thanks to the special touch that Nanna had for preparing her favorite foods.
Feeling better, she freshened up and made her way to the front door, across the wide front porch, down the steps and across the yard to where Oscar, another freeman among her mother’s household staff, was waiting with the fancy, fringe-topped surrey her mother always used to go about town.
A bit uncomfortable traveling in the surrey of Philadelphia’s best-known madam, she kept her eyes pinned straight ahead and tried her best to exude the ladylike manners that had been instilled in her at the London finishing school.
Their destination was the office of Alfred Dennison, but she begged her driver to make a detour to the site where her mother had been laid to rest. She did not get down from the carriage to inspect the grave; she only wanted to know where it was so she could return there on her own at a later time.
After the detour, they arrived at Dennison’s office. She accepted Oscar’s extended hand as he helped her down from the buggy.
“I hope it will only be a few minutes,” she told Oscar. “If you don’t mind waiting?”
“I will be right here, Miss Emily.”
“Thank you.” Though Oscar and Nanna had been faithful employees of her mother since before she was born, they were like family to her, and she spoke to them in the same kind way that she would speak to her dearest friends.
When she entered the office of Alfred Dennison, Esquire, Attorney at Law, he looked up from some papers on his desk and then scrambled to his feet. “Miss Ashley. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I realize that,” she responded with a constrained smile. “This is a very uncomfortable duty that I must attend to, and I would rather not put it off. Not to mention it is rather uncomfortable being in the house with all of those...” She cut off the statement, not wanting to use the word, but still making her disgust known by her sour expression.
“I understand,” Alfred replied. Though he had been a regular customer at her mother’s house, he liked to maintain a level of false disdain for the ladies who worked there. In reality, he had several favorites; blondes mostly, but with a redhead and an odd brunette mixed in. He hoped that Emily would be able to overlook the fact that he was a customer and see him as a professional with a job to do or as a family friend.
“Shall we get started, then?” Emily asked. “I’m assuming I’ve inherited the house and the business. If that is the case, then we need to be making arrangements for its sale.”
“That fits in with what your mother laid out in her will. Shall I read it?”
“Yes, of course, I suppose we should go through all of the formalities.”
She listened while Alfred read her mother’s will. Within the will, her mother had stated emphatically that she did not want Emily to continue with the business, but to sell it, the house and all of her property. She was to make use of the funds earned from those transactions to start a respectable business, preferably out west. It was quite similar to the plans her mother discussed in her last letter, except for the part where Emily would be going west alone.
“In addition to what will be gained by the sale of the property,” Mister Dennison continued. “She has left a sizable bank account that will be transferred to an account in your name. I have already taken the liberty to set it up on your behalf.”
“A sizable bank account?” Emily had assumed that her mother barely squeaked by.
“Your mother’s business did quite well over the past five years; nearly tripling during the war.”
“Very well, then.” She moved toward the edge of her seat to be closer to the desk between them. “Will I need to return to sign any papers, or can we dispense with that formality right now?”
“Actually, Miss Ashley, you are mentioned in Mr. Sinclaire’s will as well.”
“Mister Sinclaire?” she whispered, moving back into the chair. She had been told that he was her father, but because of his societal level, it had all been kept very secret. For her to be in his will was a step beyond the bounds of decorum that had been established between him and her mother. However, it was curious that the two of them had been together when the accident occurred. Few and far between had been the occasions when they were seen together.
“Shall I read it to you as well?”
“You might as well.” She could not fathom what trinket he would deem necessary to pass on to the daughter of his call girl, but she saw no reason to delay dispatching whatever item he had for her. “Perhaps I can get this all over within one sitting.”
Mister Dennison smiled, acknowledging her discomfort, and then began reading Reginald Sinclaire’s will. When he finished, he looked up at the pale face of Emily Ashley, who was struggling to digest what had just been read to her.
“So, Miss Ashley, is it clear to you that in order to fulfill the terms of Mister Sinclaire’s will, you will be required to relocate to San Francisco and be married within a year’s time? Once you have fulfilled that requirement, you will become the controlling interest in the gold mining venture in Bear Valley near the California-Nevada border... I might add, is doing extremely well.”
“I understand.” The voice that spoke seemed to be that of someone else. She was lost in a daze. Why had Mister Sinclaire decided to leave such a fortune to her? Had he really cared for her enough to do such a thing? They had barely spoken to each other more than a dozen times over her entire life.
“Very well then.” Mister Dennison took a fountain pen from its holder, dipped it in the ink and drew his flowing signature across the bottom of the page. He then wrote the date as he spoke. “Today is the 10th day of December of the year 1866. Once you have provided your signature, the terms stipulated by Mr. Sinclaire must be completed by the 10th day of December in the year 1867. If you will sign and date here, in acknowledgment that you accept the stipulated terms.” He indicated the places on the document where her signature was required and turned the stylus and ink bottle toward her.
She moved forward in order to sign and date the papers as directed, and prepared to rise.
“Is there anything else?” she asked, not sure what surprise would arrive next.
“No, Miss Ashley, that is all. I will bring the other papers by the house.”
This time, she made it all the way to her feet.
“I have someone who is already interested in your mother’s house and business.”
“Is it a decent offer?”
“I think you could hold out for more,” he replied.
“No need. Go ahead and make the sale. I really can’t get away from the place fast enough.”
Chapter Two
December in Philadelphia could have a bite to it, but it didn’t gnaw at Dillon Sinclaire like his concern for taking full possession of his father’s estate holdings. He recalled that his father had a major interest in a gold mining operation near the California-Nevada border, but it was not included in what was among the possessions left to him in the will. He wanted to know why.
News of his father’s accident had reached him in Argentina a week after it had happened. He had been dispatched to the country to negotiate business interests on behalf of his father. His investigation involved ascertaining the economic impact of expanding British influence as well as evaluating the strength of their own position. The trip back to Philadelphia was tediously slow, putting him on edge before his feet hit solid ground. Discovering that control of the mining operations was absent from his inheritance threatened to push him beyond his patience.
“Samuel is here, sir,” his secretary announced.
“Then send him in,” he snapped.
The elderly woman frowned, reacting to the way he spoke to her, but Martha Wilkes did as she was told.
“What did you find out?” He was in no mood to waste time with pleasantries.
“Yes, sir,” Samuel Coventry began. “I discovered that a concurrent testament has been filed.”
“He had two wills drawn up? Is that even possible? Doesn’t the latest negate the other?”
“Concurrent testaments are possible and totally legal. The purpose of a secondary testament is to separate it from the primary because the primary requires probate,” the attorney explained. “They are both binding and were filed at the same time with your father’s attorney. In reality, the will read to you is the secondary and the other is the primary.”
“So, what you are saying is that he was trying to hide what he was doing from me,” Dillon groused. “Did he actually believe me to be so inept?”
“Actually, the move allows you to inherit your portion immediately, but the inheritance extended to the other requires certain stipulations to be met, thus the necessity of probate.”
“Someone else is inheriting a portion of my father’s estate?” He nearly shouted the question.
“Provided the stipulations are met, yes.”
“Who?”
“Emilia Ashley was named the beneficiary.”
“Who the hell is...,” he stopped, suddenly recognizing the name Ashley. “Ashley was the name of the woman in the accident with my father.”
“She was, and it appears Emilia Ashley is her daughter.”
“Why would he leave an inheritance to her? The Ashley woman was nothing more than a madam in a whore house.”
“I cannot answer for your father’s intentions, and neither could his attorney,” Coventry responded. “The inheritance is in a trust to be administered by one Alfred Dennison, Esquire of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, when the stipulations are met.”
“What are these stipulations?”
“I am not privy to that information.”
“Become privy then!” he shouted, slamming his fist down on his desk to punctuate the order.
“I have already made inquiries of Mr. Dennison, and he refuses to respond to my requests.”
“Then he must be forced to respond!”
“Mister Dennison is of a well-to-do family with impeccable credentials and considerable means. Being forceful with him is highly irresponsible as well as extremely dangerous.”
“We are talking about millions of dollars. I am not losing millions of dollars to the daughter of a whore!”
“Then I would suggest that you hire a detective to do some investigating into the matter. If he is able to ascertain what the stipulations of the testament are, you might be able to prevent Emilia Ashley from fulfilling them. Any other strategy is ill advised.”
“Where do I find such a detective?”
“Might I suggest the Pinkerton Agency?”
“The Pinkerton Agency?” he mused. He had heard of the famous agency and its reputation for getting what their clients wanted. In fact, the Pinkerton Agency oversaw the Coal and Iron Police, which had helped put down the miners’ rebellion. He dismissed Samuel Coventry with a wave of his hand. “That will be all then.”
“Ms. Wilkes, have someone send for my buggy,” he called out before Coventry closed the door behind him.
There was a scandal surrounding what had taken place and the circumstances associated with the accident, since the woman accompanying her father had been an infamous madam of Philadelphia’s most popular brothel. Allegedly, his father and the madam were seen quite frequently in each other’s company while he was in New Orleans before being dispatched to Argentina. It seems his father had taken things much further with the madam following the passing of Dillon’s mother. “Damn him!” he snarled.
After Coventry left, he donned his overcoat and left the office, passing by the widow Wilkes without saying a word or even glancing in her direction.
Hunching his shoulders against the brisk wind, he pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck and made his way to the waiting buggy. Once inside, he pulled the blanket around his legs and ordered his driver to take him to the Pinkerton Detective Agency. He’d need to get more information on Miss Emilia Ashley, locate her, and figure out how to stop her from absconding with a major portion of an inheritance that was rightfully his.
Among the rumors about his father and the Ashley woman was one that had been around a while. Supposedly, they had a child together, but he had always dismissed the talk as nothing more than an attempt to defame his father and his family. However, if the rumor was true and Emilia Ashley was the bastard child of his father, then she should suffer the same fate as all bastard children; that fate did not include inheriting a fortune.
The Pinkerton National Detective Agency was not far from his own office, but it was enough time for the coldness inside Dillon Sinclaire’s heart to surpass that of Philadelphia’s winter chill. When the driver stopped and he hopped down from the carriage, his teeth were clenched with stern determination. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the bastard of a whore steal even a small portion of my inheritance.
An elderly woman with a no-nonsense look greeted him the instant he walked through the door. “Good afternoon. How may I help you?”
“I’m Dillon R. Sinclaire. I am in need of the services of one of your detectives.” He watched to see if the mention of his name would have any effect on her. It irritated him that nothing registered on her face.
“You will need to speak to Mr. Brewster. He is in charge of the branch here in Philadelphia. If you have a seat, I’ll let him know that you are here.”
“I will stand, thank you. And I urge you to be quick about bringing the man; this is a matter of some urgency.”
“Every matter we are asked to address is considered urgent,” the woman responded in a disinterested tone. “Please sit, it will only be a moment.”
They locked eyes for a moment as he refused her invitation to sit. Not accustomed to the sort of defiance that Dillon presented, the woman hesitated a moment, and then left her position at the front desk, turned down the hall and slipped into Mister Brewster’s office.
Piqued by the woman’s lack of interest in his societal status, Dillon Sinclaire’s jaw tensed even more, and he began to grind his molars together as he peered down the hall where she had disappeared. Though for him, it seemed like an extraordinary amount of time, it was less than a minute before the woman returned, escorting a portly gentleman in an ill-fitting suit behind her.
“Mister Sinclaire, this is Mister Brewster.” The secretary shot a sharp glare in his direction as she pronounced his name, and then stepped aside to her seat behind the front counter as Mr. Brewster moved forward.
