“Remember, Scotty, the early bird catches the worm.” One of his grandfather’s favorite sayings - always followed with a knowing wink of the eye. Most often it meant Harlan Garrett had defeated his competitors in a business deal by being one step ahead of the game.
As he pulled on his boots, Scott planned to be that early bird who’s one step ahead. Up and dressed shortly before sunrise, he hoped to slip out the back door undetected to investigate the possibility of a worm.
With years of practice from his childhood, Scott began a sneaky descent down the stairs leading to the kitchen. By the fifth step, an annoying whine of two arguing females permeated up the staircase bringing him to a halt. Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Whelan - the blockade between him and his escape. Well...the element of surprise was a tactic often used in warfare.
Bounding down the steps and into the kitchen, Scott blessed the battling banshees with a spirited greeting. “Good morning! And what a fine morning it is!”
His strategy had immediate results. Two eggs being carried to the counter hit the floor due to Mrs. Stewart crossing herself while announcing the Savior’s name. Mrs. Whelan had a less pious response when her arm knocked over a pitcher of milk.
Undaunted, Scott continued his one-sided conversation as he snagged a biscuit to stuff in his coat pocket. “Please extend my apologies to my grandfather regarding my absence at breakfast. Kindly inform him the early bird flew the coop to address a few errands which require my attention. Can’t be helped.” Grabbing the coffee pot off the stove he filled a mug. “Assure him his grandson will be on time for the Union Club luncheon.” Opening the back door, Scott held up a hand as Mrs. Stewart opened her mouth to speak. “No. Please. Words are unnecessary. Let’s quietly reflect on this moment we’ve shared.” A tip of his hat accompanied his best example of a boyish grin. “My dear ladies, it’s been a pleasure.”
Scott headed for a bench near the kitchen garden in the far corner of his grandfather’s small rectangular backyard. Taking a sip of coffee, he held it in his mouth for only a moment before spitting it out. He stared at the cup, amazed. Until now, he was convinced Jelly made the worst coffee in the universe. Dumping out the rest of the bitter beverage, he set the mug on the bench and removed the biscuit from his coat pocket.
“I wouldn’t recommend those either, sir.” It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours Martin had inspired an about-face.
Closely scrutinizing the item in his hand, Scott raised an eyebrow. “Deadlier than the coffee?”
“Boston pigeons won’t touch them.”
“Well, Boston pigeons have higher standards than most. Still…” Scott’s hand crumbled the dry bread roll into desert dust and tossed it aside. Evidently, Winnie overlooked sharing one or two of her secret recipes. “I appreciate the warning. Thank you.”
“Can I be of further assistance?”
“No, thank you.” Scott readjusted his hat. “I appreciate the offer but, I thought I’d treat myself to a morning stroll.” Only a few steps were taken before Martin spoke.
“Tell me, Mr. Lancer, do you know what the good Lord has blessed you with today?”
Scott’s heart took residence in his throat as he stopped and turned. “Excuse me?”
“I was inquiring, sir, if you were aware of what the good Lord has blessed you with on this day.”
It was a question Winnie posed to Scott almost every morning during the time he’d lived with his grandfather. The calm expression on his companion’s face indicated he was patiently waiting for the required response. Cautiously, Scott replied. “I don’t know, Martin. What has the good Lord blessed me with today?”
“Well, Mr. Lancer, I believe he has blessed you with a confidant who can provide you transportation along with the knowledge of where to purchase the best coffee in town.”
“I see.” Nodding, a wee bit of Irish influenced Scott’s next query. “Would ye also be knownin’ the location of a freshly baked scone?”
“I believe that can be arranged, sir.”
Martin maneuvered the covered two-person buggy with ease through the narrow less-traveled streets of Boston to arrive at a corner bake shop where Scott insisted his driver join him. Between mouthfuls of warm scones slathered with jam and cream, he learned Martin was married and father of a fifteen-year-old daughter.
“My hat’s off to you, Martin.”
“May you someday have the pleasure of raising a daughter, Mr. Lancer. Life will never be boring.”
“I’m experiencing a slight taste of that now.”
“You’re referring to Miss Furlong.”
Scott leaned back in his chair. “If memory serves me correctly, Martin, I’ve never met you until yesterday. And...pardon me for saying but - it appears you know a helluva lot more about me than I know about you. So, I suggest we refill our mugs and you can explain why that is.”
With their “best coffee in town” refreshed, Scott grew quiet as he learned Winnie was the catalyst for his meeting Martin.
“My friendship with Mrs. McLoughlin began soon after I entered your grandfather’s employ. I mostly served as his driver so our paths, Mr. Lancer, never crossed back then. However, I must disagree with you - we met once. I drove the carriage last spring - Miss Furlong was calling it her “Grand Tour of Boston.”
The memory of the man’s face was vague, at best. Scott shook his head. “I apologize for not recognizing you.”
“No apology necessary, sir. Mr. Garrett filled your stay with more memorable faces and conversations.” Martin studied his coffee mug. “Mrs. McLoughlin expressed concern for the day when she could no longer greet you in the foyer. Unfortunately, that day came sooner than any of us wanted.”
Scott nodded. ‘It certainly did, Martin.’
“Mrs. McLoughlin requested I…” The driver struggled to find the proper words.
“Keep a watchful eye over ScottyGarrett?”
The man smiled. “Yes. Those were her exact words. Mr. Lancer, if I’ve overstepped my boundaries, forgive me. But please know I don’t plan to go against Mrs. McLoughlin’s wishes.”
“I suggest you don’t. I’m convinced she has the good Lord in her back pocket.” Scott slowly exhaled. It was a leap of faith to trust this gentleman sitting across the table. If what he said was true, Winnie had put her faith in him. “Tell me, Martin, what time of day are telegrams delivered to my grandfather’s residence?”
“Mid-afternoon.”
“Would it be possible to intercept any telegrams addressed to me?”
“If I’m not mistaken, I unpacked a first edition of Emerson from your valise. Inside its front cover should make an adequate home for a telegram.”
“Agreed.” With the scones devoured and the last of the coffee drank, it was time to investigate the possibility of catching a worm. “Martin, are you aware of a lawyer by the name of Mr. Jonathon Masters?”
“No, sir. Would you know the street name and the number of the gentleman’s office?”
“Indeed, I do.”
The office of Jonathon Masters, Esquire had changed little during the last several months. Kinsey had hired Masters to begin the battle over her grandfather’s will. It was Masters who recommended his nephew to continue the legal fight from his office in Philadelphia. Both men assisted Scott as he waded through lawyer language in correspondences and Harlan Garrett’s demands until the final draft of the trustee agreement was official.
It was his grandfather’s stumble of mentioning Seth Westcott’s name that brought Scott back to see the lawyer on this dreary January morning. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“May I remind you, sir-”
“I know. The Union Club luncheon. I’ll hurry.”
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, now there lurked a question in the back of his mind and he 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...” Masters cleared his throat. “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…” 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.”
Martin‘s worried expression spoke volumes as Scott climbed back into their carriage. “Sir, the time -”
“I know. I’m running late. My grandfather can wait. He’ll need the practice.”
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