The Charterhouse of Parma.
Robinson Crusoe.
Tom Brown’s Schooldays.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Moby Dick.
The rows of book titles held Scott’s attention for only the first few of the twenty minutes he’d spent standing in front of the Great Room shelves so far. It was the books’ characteristics which gradually reached out and captured his quiet reflection.
Running his thumbnail down a novel’s spine, he noted its frayed corners, rubbed leather and faded gold-leaf print. Winnie would call the book’s appearance well-loved. Scott referred to the condition as shelf-worn.
“My understanding, son, is they work much better when held and opened.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Scott didn’t turn around. He let a nod indicate his agreement to the advice. “Yes, sir. I’ll take your suggestion into consideration. Come to think of it, I remember reading about that theory once.” A sideways glance over a shoulder gifted his father at the desk a raised eyebrow and half of a mischievous grin. “I believe it was in a book.”
“Then you’re aware of the required steps needed for success. Very good.”
Scott’s eyes returned to the Great Room’s shelf-worn, well-loved collection.
Dickens. Whitman. Irving. Poe. Melville.
The same authors resided in his grandfather’s study, but they did so with dissimilar distinctions. Pristine Poe. Immaculate Melville. The room had beautiful bookcases, so there must be beautiful books to grace their shelves.
Remember Scotty, look but don’t touch. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Flooding back came the memory of a ten-year-old boy’s desire for his Pirates of the Dark Seas opera omnia to rub elbows with Copperfield and Hawthorne. First edition books were removed from their position of prestige and demoted to haphazard stacks on the floor.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
Once discovered, the penny dreadfuls found their place in the backyard burn-barrel while Scott’s backside britches spent the rest of the day placed in his bedroom. A shining moment, indeed.
Returning to Boston. A place for everything and everything in its place.
“Tell me, is it osmosis or telepathy that allows a man to simply stand in front of a bookcase and enjoy a good read?” Murdoch’s query rumbled across the room.
Scott sensed a line being cast out into the pond and, choosing not to prolong a necessary conversation any longer, he took the bait. “Osmosis.”
“Ah, then it’s telepathy which gives me the ability to read my son’s reluctant thoughts of his impending discussion I won’t want to hear.”
The letter destined for Boston gained three pounds in Scott’s shirt pocket. “It appears I’ve become an easy read.”
“Easier. Assuming I can always read you like a book is foolish on my part. You’ve proven that quite often.”
In the beginning, it had been foolish for his father to assume he knew his oldest son’s thoughts. In fact, Scott had made certain it was not only foolish but damn difficult to even attempt until he himself could sort out the confusing turn of events.
I’d traveled across the country to collect a thousand dollars from a man who had existed as my father in name only while I stood beside a total stranger who I learned was my pistolero brother. Hell, it read like a page from a western dime novel.
However, over time, untold stories became well-told ones that created a comfortable shelf-worn relationship between father and son with only the occasional sticky subjects - Boston being at the top of the list.
“Son, I’m requesting you either sit down and open a book or sit down and open your mouth.”
Scott’s eyes settled on a red leather spine sporting its gilded title topped with a crown. A Tale of Two Cities. Tempting.
With his stalling tactic subtly identified, Scott abandoned the Charles Dickens well-loved tale, choosing instead a Murdoch Lancer shelf-worn discussion. Sitting down, a mouth opened. “Seth and Kinsey will be traveling to Boston in a few weeks.”
Murdoch’s hand halted the flow of turning a page in the ranch ledger. Columns of written numbers hung suspended, neither traveling forward or backward, as the patriarch’s eyes met his son’s. “Oh?”
Well, this isn’t the prologue he expected. Scott crossed his ankle to a knee. “As you know, Seth’s mother returned to her family home in Boston after the death of her husband. With wedding plans being made, Kinsey feels introductions are in order.”
“The two Mrs. Westcotts, present and future, meeting for the first time.” The patriarch let go of the ledger page while his lips pressed together in mild amusement. “My kingdom to be a fly in the room.”
“Well, sir,” The fly cleared his throat. “Kinsey also suggested I travel to Boston with them.” Scott observed his father’s mild amusement fly out the window. “At first I wasn’t in complete agreement, but the young lady presented a compelling argument.”
“I’m quite aware how compelling that little girl can be. It’s why my goddamn chicken coop is still pink.”
“All right. Then let’s say the little girl was insightfully compelling when she pointed out how much time had passed in stubborn silence between a grandfather and a grandson.” Scott exhaled slowly as he sat upright and wiped his palms off on his pant legs. “I don’t like to admit I’m wrong and neither does Grandfather. However, one of us needs to take the first step in packing up his pride.”
“That first step could be accomplished in a letter.”
“I concur.” The Boston-bound correspondence was pulled from a shirt pocket and displayed. “However, it’s going to take more than a few words on paper to fix what's broken.” Resting his hands in his lap, Scott held the envelope - studying the address without really reading it. “And yes, I’m the one who broke it.” The letter returned to its shirt-pocket sanctuary. “Maybe I didn’t cause the initial crack, but I had a finger on the verbal sledgehammer.”
Murdoch rose, turned and, with a few strides, traveled to his own sanctuary - the room’s large arched window granting a view of his San Joaquin Valley kingdom.
Scott observed his father’s silhouette framed by the lush hills outside. It was no secret about the man’s unyielding opinion regarding the land’s sole purpose to raise prime livestock, preferably good Lancer beef. “Sir, I understand your struggling acceptance for my investment in a vineyard. It goes without saying, a winery is a rather unique venture for an ex-Bostonian cattle rancher.”
“Son, there are still two over-sized vultures grazing in the barn’s side field, eating me out of house and home. My continued struggling acceptance with your unique ventures is what goes without saying.”
Ah, the ostriches. A slight smile surfaced regarding his feathered purchases. How the birds had steered clear of the chopping block remained a mystery. Scott rubbed the back of his neck. How my head dodged being served up on a platter defined a miracle.
Rising, Scott joined his father. “I never tire of the view… nor is it in my future plans to do so.”
A soft grunt of acknowledgment took the place of a more encouraging response.
“Sir, appeasing Grandfather serves an important purpose - Fletcher’s will remains as written and out of the courts. We could lose everything we’ve gained thus far with one letter from a Garrett lawyer.”
“Rattlesnake.”
Scott found Murdoch’s customary nickname for Harlan an appropriate assessment for the current situation. “My visit to Boston will favor the odds of Miss Kinsey Furlong avoiding a snake bite. In a few months, she will be Mrs. Kinsey Westcott, lessening the rattler’s venom.”
“And lessening your role as her trustee.”
Scott hesitated. His thoughts returned to his last visit to Boston and the conversation with Kinsey’s lawyer.
*******
Upon entering, Scott spied the older, bespectacled lawyer in his customary position - behind a worn oak desk, focused on stacks of legal documents. Peering over his reading glasses, it took a moment for the gentleman to recognize his visitor.
“Scott Lancer?”
“Mr. Masters. How are you, sir?”
Coming from behind the desk with an extended hand, Master’s mustache emphasized his genuine smile. “Dear God, your face is the last I expected to see today. Come. Sit.”
After exchanging belated wishes for a prosperous New Year and brief updates on family members’ well-being, Scott approached the reason for his visit.
“I apologize for the intrusion, but if you have a few minutes to spare I was wondering if you could clarify a stipulation in the trustee agreement for Miss Furlong. I understand your nephew shared all the documentation, past and present.”
“Yes. I’d be happy to assist. Let me fetch the file.” Scott insisted Jonathon Masters be kept on retainer as part of the legal process handling Kinsey’s inheritance. Even though Fletcher Garrett’s estate was settled in Philadelphia, his brother Harlan continued to pull strings in Boston. Scott knew he would someday need a legal friend to check up on Beacon Hill activities.
Masters plopped a large portfolio on his desk. With raised eyebrows, the lawyer stated the obvious. “Your grandfather’s lawyers are rather chatty.” Patting the papers in front of him, he sat down. “Now, what can I clear up for you?”
Scott shifted in his chair. “Well, if Kinsey was to be married -”
“A wedding! Marvelous!”
“No! No wedding.”
“An engagement, then. Please send my congratulations -”
“No. No engagement.”
“A beau?”
“No. I mean...no suiters I’m aware of.”
“I see.” Masters sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “Shall we call this planning for the future in case the young lady is smitten with love at first sight?”
“Yes.” Scott’s eyes widened to emphasize his concern. “Smitten. My question is if Kinsey were to marry before she reaches the age of twenty-five, how would this legally affect the trust and her inheritance? I know it was a point of contention which traveled back and forth between the various parties. My memory needs refreshing.”
Truth be told, Scott’s memory didn’t need jarring. He remembered quite clearly how it was stated in the final document. However, his grandfather had planted a questioning brain itch and Scott had to be certain of the answer.
Masters adjusted his reading glasses as he scanned the trust agreement searching for the correct passage. “Ah, here it is. As in said first party -”
“Wait.” Scott held up his hand and displayed a sheepish grin. “Layman’s terms. Please. Legal English gives me a headache.”
Masters nodded. “Understood. It gives me indigestion.” He gathered his thoughts. “Mr. Lancer, you’ll remain the executor of Miss Furlong’s inheritance until she reaches the age of twenty-five. If Miss Furlong weds before the age of twenty-five, your duties as trustee will end.”
Scott leaned forward. “And?”
“And...” Retrieving a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, the lawyer removed his glasses and began to clean the lenses - his courtroom habit to create a dramatic pause. “The newly wedded Miss Furlong will be in control of her inheritance.”
“And her husband?”
“Assuming the marriage is performed under the state law of California…” Spectacles returned to their proper place as the lawyer rose to select a dusty leather-bound book from a shelf holding similar editions. “...and according to the California Constitution of 1849 - distinguishing a wife’s property from community property…” Jonathon Masters flipped through the pages and stopped. “All property, both real and personal, of the wife, owned or claimed by her before marriage, and that acquired afterward by gift, or descent, shall be her separate property; and laws shall be passed more clearly defining the rights of the wife in relation as well to her separate property as to that held in common with her husband. In other words, Miss Furlong keeps sole control of her finances unless she legally states through the courts a change on how the property is to be shared.” Masters removed his reading glasses and placed them on the open book. “I believe this is where the word ‘smitten’ comes into play.”
*********
“Indeed. Lessened.” No. My role will be non-existent. Even more reason for Seth Westcott to fully understand Harlan Garrett.
“Three weeks?”
The question had come from behind. Scott turned from the window. Lost in thought, he’d missed Murdoch traveling back to his desk. “Yes, sir. Three weeks, however, Kinsey offered to delay the trip if more of my time is needed here.”
“That won’t be necessary.” A page turned in the ledger. “Sacramento will only take a few days. You can leave for Boston after your return.”
Eyebrows seesawed quizzically. “Sacramento?”
“The Cattlemen’s Association wishes to voice their thoughts on the Transcontinental railroad. Ranchers want to see tracks laid south.” Murdoch slid a telegram out from under an ink blotter serving as a paperweight. “According to Leland Stanford, he will meet you at your earliest convenience.”
Circling the desk, Scott plucked the thin paper from his father’s hand and read. “Can meet SL anytime. Contact me upon arrival. Lemonade ready for tall cedar.”
“I don’t know what in Sam Hill that last line means but I’m guessing you do.” Murdoch leaned back and laced his fingers across his midsection. “It’s obvious you have Stanford's ear.”
Scott reread the telegram’s last line. He had a Stanford ear all right, but it wasn’t necessarily Leland’s.
“Plan to take the train north by the end of the week. Johnny should be settled in at the mission by then.”
“The mission?" Scott blinked. "Johnny’s answering a call from God?”
Murdoch’s abrupt snort vibrated the good stuff’s crystal stopper. “He’s answering a call from Sister Rosa. The mission received a donation to renovate and enlarge their adobe oven so she asked Johnny to provide the muscle. Once he’s finished and back home, I’ll meet you in Sacramento. I understand the Arcade Hotel menu is blue ribbon quality. We can discuss your meeting over a good steak.”
Scott stood outside the hacienda with Stanford’s telegram still in his hand. What the hell just happened? He glanced back at the doorway as if waiting for the answer to follow him. Clarity didn’t arrive in a vision. Instead, it landed with spoken phrases from a late-night talk.
Scott, do your responsibilities include an impromptu journey to Sacramento? Perhaps for a little exploratory research on lobster canapés at the Arcade Hotel? We can certainly delay our Boston date of departure by a day or two.
A folded telegram joined a pocketed letter to Boston while Scott’s brow creased and a smirk played with the line of his mouth. Placing his hands on hips, he squinted towards the stables in search of his little brother. Johnny needed to hear the latest news, Murdoch Lancer and Miss Providence were in cahoots.
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