A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, guys! They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Just to let you know, so that people don't get discouraged, I condensed the prologue and the first chapter. Nothing was changed except that they are now both under Chapter 1. As I said before, this chapter is going to introduce the Bennetts—well at least some of them, and Carolyn won't know who they are just yet. What I didn't mention is that we will have our first 'glimpse' at Wickham—she makes an appearance at the funeral. Another unexpected character makes an appearance as well.
Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, my estimated age for Carolyn is 32I think I might note that in a future chapter.
Mr. Bagel is a real bagel shop franchise—and yes, they make everything on location—which I don't ownthey make the best bagels in the world.
So, here we go…
Disclaimer: Jane Austen called; she wants her story back.
I don't own Hello Kitty.
I don't own I'll Be Seeing You by Billie Holiday
Chapter Four
When I woke up the next morning, I was extremely exhausted. I had tossed and turned the whole night fighting jet lag, and I ended up getting—maybe—two hours of sleep. I had forgotten to close the curtains the night before, so a very grumpy Matt woke me by pulling the pillow from under my head and placing it over his face with a muffled groan. He was the type of sleeper that needed absolute darkness, while I was the type that could fall asleep under any condition. He was tossing and adjusting his pillow to cover his eyes from as soon as the sun came up. It didn't bother me at first, but as the morning wore on I had enough. Still in a daze about what day it was, I reached for my cell phone on the bedside table and looked at the screen to check the time. It wasn't as late as I thought it was—it was only 8:32, and apparently it was Friday. I would have sworn up and down that it was Saturday. Pulling myself out of bed, I drew the curtains for Matt; he sighed in response and rolled onto his stomach. I was still exhausted, but I figured that I was not going to fall back asleep; so I decided to get ready. I sauntered into my private bathroom that was attached to my room, and I quietly closed the door behind me. Leaning over the sink, with both hands on the counter, I breathed out a long and deep sigh. It was the day of my father's funeral, and it was going to be a long, miserable day.
The shower was difficult for me to operate, because I couldn't remember how the knobs worked. It had been so long since I last used that shower, I was lucky I didn't scald myself with my experimentations with the holt and cold. As I was lathering my hair, I turned and noticed that my Hello Kitty shower radio was still suction-cupped to the stall wall. The corners of my lips curved upwards into a slight smile, when I realized it still worked. I bought it when I was fifteen, thinking that it was the coolest thing. My mother, however, despised it, saying that proper young ladies didn't waste their time with childish cartoon characters. Shaking the memory out of my mind, I sang along quietly with the radio and fighting back tears until I was finished with my shower.
After I dressed, I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. I tried to add a little bounce in my step to lift my spirits, as well as the others around me; Lord knew we would need whatever distraction we could get that day. When I turned into the room, I saw that Rosie was sitting at the kitchen table reading, keeping company with Stephen while he ate his scrambled eggs—he was missing school for the day due to the funearl. I strode over to Rosie and kissed her on the cheek and said my 'good-mornings'. Making my way over to the refrigerator, I found exactly what I was looking for—cream cheese. That meant that there were bagels in the house!
"Rosie, I can't believe you ordered bagels for me," I said, sounding impressed.
"Those aren't for you," Stephen said.
He said it in such a matter of fact way, and without looking up from his plate, that it startled me a little. He sure seemed comfortable enough with me to be frank; it was odd to me, but I liked it. I was always raised to be a reserved child that only spoke when spoken to. As an adult, I had continued to be like that around people I didn't really know. In fact, I still have my moments.
"Who are they for, then?" I asked, spotting the bag of bagels on the counter.
I found an onion bagel, cut it in half, and popped it in the toaster. I then hopped on the counter and looked at my eleven-year-old brother, waiting for a response.
"Yer not the only who likes bagels anymohe, Lynnie," answered Rosie. She grinned as she made a motion towards Stephen. "He loves 'em—it's like you neveh left. He eats 'em ev'ry day, sometimes twice. I have to have 'em special-delivehed ev'ry mo'ning just foh him."
"Huh, so we do have something in common besides blood," I said to a grinning Stephen. "Well I'm glad Mom and Dad were left with another stubborn eater."
"Oh, don't worry, Sis," he retorted. "No one will ever be as stubborn as you."
I internally grimaced at his term of endearment for me; I didn't know if I was willing to have him call me 'Sis' just yet. It seemed a bit too soon for that. And on top of that, I was pretty sure he took a jab at me—I didn't know him well enough to know if he was being sarcastic. Just as Stephen spoke, the bagel popped up, and I went to spread cream cheese on it. I wasn't that hungry when I first came down, but nothing tasted so glorious in all of my days. It was so hard to come by bagels when I was jet setting all over the world. The only time I ever got one was when I was in D.C., and even then it wasn't that frequent—and honestly, they weren't even that good. Nobody made a bagel like Mr. Bagel. It was a Maine bagel shop franchise, but they made all their bagels and cream cheese on location. It was perfection.
My heavenly bliss was interrupted when my mother entered the kitchen, demanding that she speak to me—alone. She stood by the stove on the island, looking as if she felt uncomfortable in her setting. I figured she didn't venture into an area where the staff situated themselves that often; she never did when I was around.
"Carolyn," she said my name as if calling me to attention. "We need to make this quick, as the caterers will be here shortly." She looked at me with piercing eyes, as if to bore holes of guilt into my body.
Oh, shit, I thought. Here it is. I guess we can't avoid this conversation any longer, though..
"What is the meaning of this?" She asked. "You think you can just show up here after years of not talking to us, and expect to be welcomed with open arms?" Her fury was quite evident in her voice then, as if I hadn't realized how angry she was from before.
"Mother, I wasn't expecting anything. I—" I started to defend myself, but she cut me off.
"I know that you have a good job that needs your constant attention, Carolyn, but this is not a hotel. You brought people with you. I do not even know who these people are!" Her voice was at borderline screeching levels, so I tried to calm her.
"Mother, I came with my best friend and my fiancé. They wanted to pay their respects, since I was so close to Dad," I said in as calm a voice as I possibly could.
Matt and Mary were extremely lucky at that particular point that the house was so large, because my mother began screeching like a banshee.
"YOU BECAME ENGAGED AND DID NOT TELL ME? HOW DO I EVEN KNOW WHO THIS MAN IS, OR IF HE IS FROM A GOOD FAMILY? HOW AM I TO KNOW THAT OUR FAMILY WILL BE SAFE FROM SCRUTINY IF THINGS DO NOT TURN OUT WELL? WHAT IF YOU GET DIVORCED AND YOU DID NOT HAVE A PRE-NUPTUAL AGREEMENT, WHAT THEN? YOU COULD VERY WELL BE RUINING THIS FAMILY JUST FROM COMING HOME, CAROLYN!"
She stopped her rant abruptly, but her chest still rose and fell with quick heaves. I figured that whatever she was ranting about,—I usually stopped paying attention when her voice reached decibels only dogs could hear—it really had nothing to do with me, but with my father's death. At least, that was what I led myself to believe.
"Catherine," I said. I only called her by her first name when I had to convey that I meant business. "I am marrying Matthew Bingley—his sister Mary, my best friend, is here with us as well. You know nothing will happen to shame our family, because Matthew would need a pre-nup for me to sign. And don't look at me like that—you know exactly who Mary and Matthew Bingley are. They are Prime Minister Bingley's children—of England."
Name-dropping tended to work well with my mother. Instead of shooting daggers out of her eyes at me, now she had a glazed look about her face. I assumed that it meant she was visualizing my future with the Prime Minister's son. I was treading lightly, but I also knew that I was in clear waters from then on.
"Matthew Bingley?" She asked me, finally looking at me in the eyes. "For Christ's sake, Carolyn, why did you not say so?"
And with that she called for Rosie and told Stephen to come finish his breakfast. My mother left the kitchen directly after, and she left me blinking at what had just occurred.
"Woah, that was a doozy," Stephen said, returning to his eggs. "I didn't know she had a set of lungs like that. The only time she ever raises her voice is when she wants something from Rosie or someone. Nice going, Sis."
"Thanks, Stephen," I remarked sarcastically. He made a face at me, as if he were disgusted by something I said. "What?" I asked innocently.
"Don't call me Stephen. It's too stuffy," he stated, shivering as he said 'Stephen'. "Just call me Stevie, okay?" I smiled at him. I really liked this kid. I knew I had to love him, but I really, truly liked him. I nodded in agreement, thinking of how I was completely cheered up by him.
"So where's Rosie, then?" I asked, surprised to not have seen her since my mother had called her.
"Oh, Matt and Mary came down when Mom was yelling at you," he stated. I winced at the thought of them hearing what my mother had said about shame and pre-nups. "She quickly ushered them out to the rest of the house for a tour," he said as if to reassure my worry.
I quietly sighed at that, and was grateful that Rosie was quick on her feet. Stevie and I continued to talk, sharing highlights of our childhoods until we were interrupted by muffled voices heading towards the kitchen. The voices grew louder and within seconds, the kitchen door swung open revealing Rosie walking in dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Before I could ask her what had happened, Matt followed her in.
"All I'm saying, Rosie, is that it's hard to understand you when you speak like that," he said while walking over to the table and taking a seat next to Stevie. "As long as I'm here, you are forbidden to speak in that God-awful accent; just learn to articulate, will you? Now, Stevie, what do you say we catch a few cartoons while waiting for everyone to get ready?"
The entire room, aside from Rosie, turned to look at him with disbelief. It was one thing for my mother to mistreat the servants; but for a guest, that was downright disrespectful to the people of the house. Stevie looked like he wanted to kick Matt in the shins, and Mary—who walked in right before Matt's last comment—had her jaw hanging wide open. Matt just looked around at us as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
"What?" he asked, seeming slightly confused by our reactions.
I could not believe he had been so rude. I never noticed an attitude like that from him before, but then again I was too much of a lovesick puppy to notice. I was beginning to understand why some good people of society only tolerated my fiancé.
We rode to St. Anne's Catholic Church in a black limo with tinted windows—so much for being inconspicuous while grieving. The whole service I sat there with a veil of tears over my eyes: I couldn't see far enough in front of me to even walk up to the altar to receive the Eucharist. The priest was kind enough to come down to me to give me the Host, so I didn't have to move. I was so stiff; all I could do was squeeze Mary's hand during the readings. After what had happened in the kitchen earlier that morning, I wasn't going anywhere near Matt; he just would have added to my anxieties. The scent from all the flowers just made me feel as though I was suffocating; the air was so stuffy and thick in the church I just wanted to run out screaming. Unfortunately, I wasn't going anywhere. If anything, I had to be there for Stevie: he was the only other person that understood my relationship with my father—he had a similar, although veiled, one with Dad.
After we made our way to the cemetery, I couldn't help but read all the epitaphs I walked by—I was curious to see if they belonged to anyone I had once known. One name I did recognize, but I immediately wished that I hadn't. The name was Lydia Wickham, a woman my father knew long ago. To my surprise, she was disturbingly close to our family lot.
I found a seat in one of the three chairs the funeral servers provided, and I looked out to all the people that turned up. I knew my father was well liked and respected, but I never realized to what extreme. There must have been at least two hundred people standing around the coffin and flowers, waiting to pay their last respects.
As I scanned the crowd, my eyes rested on a young man that looked to be about my age. He was standing with two other men that seemed to be close to his age and an older gentleman that appeared to be about my father's. They were, all four, undoubtedly handsome.
They must be related, I thought.
The men all looked similar, although one had blond hair; the older gentleman had salt and pepper hair; and the two other young men had short brown curls. The one I had originally noticed had brown hair, and something about him made him more intriguing than the other three. I must have been gazing at him for some time, because the priest distinctly cleared his throat at me. It was supposed to be my turn to say a quick prayer in honor of my father; except, unfortunately, my mind was elsewhere. I looked back out to the young, intriguing man, and he had a slight smile on his face.
Oh, did he notice me staring? I wondered. I stammered a bit trying to find the words, but I eventually came across the words I was looking for. I then began to recite the Prayer of Saint Francis.
"Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace," I began.
As I continued, with tear filled eyes, I carried on scanning the crowd. I was astonished at the people that were there: many of my father's employees, the governor, the two state senators, the two representatives, and general townspeople, as well as close family and friends. My father had a vision that he was proud of, and he wanted to share it with everyone he knew. He was a man that was proud to be from a small state that was on the water, and my father knew that the sailboats his great-grandfather started making were representative of that. My father was never happier than when he was making sure that his great-grandfather's legacy was being carried through, and he always kept to the original designs and styles. His motto was to always look to what people wanted, but to only oblige them if it meant your dignity would stay intact. He was a very proud man, but not in a vain way. He took pride in knowing that his business gave jobs to people and helped the starving economy, and he never fired anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. I always marveled at how much he cared, while he still had a strong and successful business in the sailing industry. It never occurred to me how cutthroat the business world was until I moved to Boston. I was quite sheltered in that respect, but I was also glad I had that kind of exposure. It didn't hurt to be reminded of how people are supposed to be treated—like people. Those were values that he instilled in everyone he met, no matter who the person was.
I turned my attention back to the mystery man and noticed he was looking right at me; I quickly shifted my gaze out of the embarrassment of getting caught. My gaze suddenly paused on a woman with styled chestnut brown hair that waved and cold, green eyes; she was standing by Lydia Wickham's grave. My eyes narrowed into slits as she glared back at me, and she had a menacing grin that I wanted to slap right off her face. It was as if she knew exactly what her presence did to my insides—I wanted to vomit at the sight of her. When I finished my prayer, I quietly and discreetly made my way to where she was standing. The last thing I wanted was a scene, so I didn't just tackle—as much as I wanted to. I should have thought better of it, knowing her, but I was not thinking straight and decided to confront the issue.
"Miss Wickham," I said, grabbing her elbow firmly and moving her to a less crowded area. As we walked together, she wiggled her arm out of my grasp and grimaced at the "pain" which I was sure she was faking—or not (I don't really know my own strength when I'm angry like that).
"I am sure you know me well enough to call me by my first name now, Carolyn," she said to me. We found a spot that was slightly covered by trees and out of the way, but it was still within the hearing range of some people if we spoke at normal decibels.
"All right, Meredith," I hissed back. I didn't want to give her that satisfaction, but she had called me by my first name. "Your presence here is very inappropriate, and I wish you had reconsidered coming here today. Do not expect to be permitted into my home for the reception later; you will be turned away by security. After all, it is private property, and I can call the authorities if need be." I couldn't help the look I was giving her, but my guess is that it was somewhat along the lines of homicidal.
"Please—don't be so melodramatic, Lynnie," she said with a hint of mischief that was a bit louder than I had wished.
"Don't. Call. Me. Lynnie," I whispered with malice. I was trying with all my might not to slap her.
"Why should I go? He was my father, too."
She had gone too far; she had said that part loud enough to turn some heads. I was pretty sure that people were beginning to whisper about what a bitch I was to ask someone to leave the funeral, especially a relative. Another thing people would whisper about was her not-so-subtle usage of the word 'father' when describing the man they came to pay respects to. With that, I grabbed the woman's arm—a little too roughly to be respectful, at that point—and I proceeded to pull her away from the crowd. Her loud renditions of 'let me go' and 'you bitch' were well heard by most of the crowd, and I didn't care one bit. My father's dignity was more important to me.
Eventually, after some struggling, I felt a presence behind me. I turned to see my cousin Edie had put a hand on my shoulder; her poise lifted some stress off my shoulders. Meredith must have noticed my sudden change in character, for she turned around and an expression of surprise spread across her face.
"Fitzwilliam," Meredith said in amazement.
"Wickham," Edie retorted in a nonchalant tone. "You sure have some nerve, showing your face here. I'm surprised you had balls enough to do it; I'm impressed, really. But then again, you really have a flair for making an entrance into people's lives," she continued with a hint of sarcasm.
I absolutely loved my cousin. She could keep her cool in any situation, embarrassed or not. She was a publicist for many celebrities, so she traveled as much as I did. We visited with each other whenever we happened to be in the same country, which kept me connected. If she had not taken the reigns from there and had Meredith escorted out by the police, I would have lost my nerve. I would have completely gone berserk; I wouldn't have cared what had happened as long as she was away from my father. The phrase is 'rest in peace', not 'rest with the skeletons in the closet still haunting you in the afterlife'.
When I returned to the area of my father's burial, I noticed that the majority of eyes were following me. One pair, a chocolate brown pair, stared back at me, as I looked around. I realized that I was in close enough proximity to look the mystery man in the face—and notice his gorgeous brown eyes. That's what was so intriguing about him: it was his eyes. I looked back at him intently, only to notice that he had a particular look about his face. At first, I couldn't tell what it was. Suddenly, I had that stomach-dropping feeling—he looked disgusted. He was disgusted by my behavior.
But he doesn't even know the circumstances, I thought. How could he possibly form an opinion when he has no clue?
The only thing was that I could not figure out, for the life of me, why I cared what he thought.
After the burial service, nearly everyone gathered at Darcy Manor—a name my mother dubbed the mansion when she first moved there as a new bride. Of course this was not a burden, for the house was far larger than anyone could have expected. People would come and go from Darcy Manor almost weekly, but its grandeur was never truly realized until that day. Even with everyone that I loved there, I could not take the constant condolences. Every person I talked to looked at me in a way that made me feel even more melancholy; I didn't need anything like that. I was standing alone in a corner, when I noticed that I had the prefect opportunity to slip away. I couldn't figure anywhere that would allow me an unassuming exit, so I scanned the room for an escape. Finally, my eyes fell upon cherry wood double doors that would otherwise be open. Every other parlor and greeting room was opened into the great hall, but this room remained closed. It was my father's study.
I moved towards the room with such care not to be seen—it didn't hurt that the caterer declared luncheon served, and I was left unattended. I tried for the door and realized it was locked; fortunately, my father left two other people and myself with the knowledge of his best-kept secret hiding place. I felt behind the frame of an Edgar Degas original and found a flap that slid like a pendulum to open. I grabbed the cold piece of metal inside and produced it, seeing that it was the same spare key that opened the double doors when I was a young girl. I situated the key in one of the doors and turned slowly; hearing the click, I hesitated to turn the handle. I don't know what made me stop—maybe it was the knowledge that no one would greet me on the other side—but I overcame the force and stepped inside. I made sure to close the doors lightly and lock them, so as not to notify anyone that I was there. Without even turning and seeing a vacant room, I felt an instant loneliness wash over me. I stood there for a minute, absorbing the emptiness.
The smell of peppermint and tobacco still lingered in the large, mahogany room. Running my left hand over the finished wood of his desk, I opened the top drawer to my right. I smiled at the two hand-carved tobacco pipes that lay there, with a custom tin of tobacco in one compartment and peppermints in another. Dad would ask Rosie into his study late afternoons, and they would sit and smoke together, talking about Stevie and myself. Closing the drawer, I sauntered over to a record player and did not even check to see what was on the table, before I placed the pin on the vinyl. I turned my back to the player and went to sit at my father's desk—in his chair that smelled of him. A slow, steady piano introduction played, followed by a trumpet harmony.
"I'll be seeing you in all your familiar places…" began the beautiful, melodic voice. A tear trickled down my cheek when I recognized Billie Holiday's voice: my father always said you would never hear anyone sing with as much conviction and humility, at the same time, as she did. He sure was right.
"…And when the night is new, I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you…" After the last line, I lost it—I just blubbered like a baby that had its favorite doll taken away. Of course, it makes sense that I would cry; but I was a Darcy, and we never cried. My mother would claim it as a sign of weakness. I sat there crying until I was all dried out, and I couldn't produce anything but arid sobs. I couldn't move so I just waited with my head resting on my arms, while I was hunched over the desk that held everything that was my father. I basked in the silence: I would not be disturbed by his shelves of books that told great tales, or by his many filing cabinets that held the life stories of every one of his employees. My eyes closed involuntarily, and I drifted into a peaceful sleep.
A knock on the double doors woke me, and the knocking became more frantic with each second that passed in which I didn't answer them. Still groggy, and with an increasing headache, I made my way over to the source of the vile sound and opened the door to the right. Rosie looked relieved, when I examined her face.
"Oh good, you were in there," she expressed with a sigh. It felt unusual and unnatural to hear her speak without her accent. "We've been looking for you everywhere. Matthew has been worried sick about you—" she rolled her eyes at that statement. "—Look, the family lawyer is here—we are to go over your father's assets. Everyone else in the main dining hall, so just fallow me."
We walked through the house and passed the informal parlor; apparently all the guests had disappeared while I was in solitude. Matt was sitting on the large couch, watching television, when he noticed me, and shot up. I motioned for him to stay where he was; he made a face, which looked like a pout, and sat back down. I was starting to notice more and more childlike tendencies from him, which annoyed me.
Why hadn't I noticed these before?
When we entered the informal dining hall, I saw my mother, Stevie, a few servants, and Rosie take seats around the head of the table. At the head sat the family lawyer, Agatha Collins, with a haughty look upon her face. She was thirty-one years old, working for my family, and had no life besides said family. The woman truly was, what one would call, a brown-noser. Whatever came out of her mouth was either a compliment to the upper crests, or an insult to anyone that made less than six figures. Most of the time, she was just downright lacked decorum.
"Good afternoon, Agatha," I said before she could begin. I wanted to lay some rules down before she could get any of her two cents in, and before we commenced. "If you don't mind, I—and I'm sure my mother—would appreciate it if you read anything that pertained to Stevie first. We do not want to expose him to anything inappropriate."
I looked to my mother for support on the matter, and she nodded her head in agreement without saying a word. That morning's scrap with Meredith must have left a mark in her mind, because I knew she was thinking the same thing. Anything inappropriate that would come out of the will would certainly have to do with her; we were not ready to exploit Stevie's innocence.
"That is certainly fine, Miss Darcy," Agatha claimed. I could tell she was slightly annoyed, but it didn't vex me. My brother's virtue was more important to me than catering to her. "All right, here it is. 'In accordance to the signed and documented will of Mr. Charles William Darcy, Stephen Fitzwilliam Darcy is to inherit the asset known as Darcy & Sons, Inc. and be awarded the position of Co-President. If at the time of Mr. Darcy's death, Stephen is under the age of twenty-five, the position of Co-President will be awarded to a Miss Carolyn Fitzwilliam Darcy (the company will still, however, be under the name of Stephen Fitzwilliam Darcy). The position will only be awarded to the daughter of Mr. Darcy if she accepts; otherwise said position will be passed onto the current Vice President until the Young Darcy is of age.' This basically means that Little Stevie will inherit all profit that comes in from Darcy & Sons, Inc. that does not go into the company itself. In other words: you will be all set for life." She said that last sentence as if she was clarifying for a five-year-old.
"Wow," exclaimed Stevie; he was absolutely struck into shock. "So, Sis, what do you say? Will you be Co-Pres? Please?" I couldn't refuse his pleads; I remembered the promise I made myself about making sure I didn't waste time getting to know him better.
"Of course I'll take it," I said, beaming. Stevie mirrored my expression and let out a 'yes!' with a fist pump in the air. My mother turned to smile at me, making sure to add a hint of triumph to her face. Agatha then broke the awkward pause that followed.
"Well, that concludes all that is in reference to Stephen. He may exit the room now," she stated as if she was in control of the entire situation. After Stevie left, she leaned in close as if to indicate the need for discretion.
"I do have some concerns to address with you now, Miss Darcy," Agatha said, leaning towards me. It made me want to lean away in the other direction, but I kept control and didn't disrespect her. "There is an issue that has been brought to my attention, as of late. As we all know the country is in a recession, and people are doing fewer recreational activities. I'm not going to beat around the bush, Miss Darcy. Frankly, the company is in danger: it's close to filing for brankruptsy. Your father refused to fire anyone, which has contributed to its major debts." I was struck with this information as if it were a blow to the head; it was the last thing I expected her to say.
"What do you suggest I do?" I asked, unable to make sense of what she had said.
"Well, you will have to confer with the board, but I have a few suggestions. One is that you let some people go—"
"Out of the question," I interrupted a bit harshly. I wanted to continue my father's legacy, not destroy it.
"Well, another option is to sell the company before it goes under," Agatha suggested cautiously. I thought it over; I would rather sell the company and leave the profits to the families of the employees than just lay people off. My mother must have seen my thought process, because she immediately interrupted my deliberation with her own idea.
"No," she said sternly. "You are not getting rid of your father's—my husband's—legacy. That is the only living thing that we have left of him; we need to keep it, if not for your brother's sake, then for mine."
"Mother," I said in disbelief. I knew better than to think she actually cared for my father's legacy. "If you're trying to save the company for money reasons, that's just selfish."
"Oh no, Mrs. Darcy," Agatha interject. "Your husband's personal assets are not affected, you will still inherit quite the sum."
"His personal assets?" I asked, mortified. "Are you insinuating that my father dipped into the company's profits?"
"No, no, no, Miss Darcy," she recovered. "It's just that he kept his personal money affairs separate from his business's. He did, however, try to help the company out of his own pocket. Everything economically related to the business is recorded perfectly and accurately in the books. I would not worry in the least. Now Mrs. Darcy, he did leave a large sum to charities to help the falling economy, particularly that of Maine. One thing to remember, though, is that he left you a sum of $15 million. You and Stephen will be well cared for. Stephen also has his trust fund still, as do you, Miss Darcy; those remained untouched."
My mother let out a sigh of relief, but one thing was still on her mind. Being sure that we had similar thoughts, I took the initiative to inquire of the person that stuck in the back of our minds.
"And what of my half-sister, Meredith Wickham?" I asked. My mother reached for my hand; it was a gesture of empathy that I hadn't felt from her since I was a young child.
"Your father asked that she be left with nothing, due to past circumstances," Agatha replied. Throughout the afternoon, the arrogant lawyer continued to list off inheritances, including the set of pipes and tobacco that were to go to Rosie.
I had never felt such a worry lift from my shoulders in all my life. There was a possibility that Stephen, who in his eleven years had not heard a reference to Meredith, would never have to meet his other sister.
A/N: So, this was a wicked long one for me. What do you guys think? I hope it worked out well in people's minds as to what was going on. I also hope that the introduction of characters wasn't too overwhelming. Please read and review, and tell me what you think! Hearing from you all makes me happy.