The hand that had written the letter seemed firm.
Giff, my boy,
If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’ve had a good life. That’s as much as a man can ask for. None of that useless English mourning. When you can find a good bottle of whisky, have a dram or two and remember me life. More than any other of my nephews, you were the son of my heart despite you being half Sassenach. I never understood why your mother couldn’t have found a good Scotsman to wed. But I’m taking too long to get to the point. Besides a few bequests, I’m leaving you everything. I trust you to take care of the house, land, and servants.
All the best,
Uncle Angus
Giff blinked back tears. “Do you know how he died?”
“He fell off his horse,” Throckmorton said. “I must admit, I was slightly shocked to have been told he was over ninety. I’m sorry to tell you that the funeral has already been held.”
Giff was sorry he’d missed the funeral but was glad his uncle had been doing something he loved. “He would have rather died riding then in his bed.”
The solicitor cleared his throat and handed him several sheets of paper. “He last will and testament.”
The first list was of bequests. He chuckled as he read the stipulation that every servant who wanted to retire had to replace themselves and train the replacement. “Have the servants been told of the requirement?”
“They have, my lord. According to the solicitor in Scotland, none of them were surprised.”
Giff nodded. His uncle had probably informed them all beforehand. The only part that was surprising was the amount Uncle Angus had in funds and in the bank. “I had no idea he was that warm.”
“According to the accounts I reviewed, he invested well. What will you do with the funds?”
“I’ll not change any of the investments. I would like the direction of his man of business. If you agree to represent me, I’d like you to open an account in my name at Campbell & Coutts. The principle will remain with the Bank of Scotland”—Uncle Angus would haunt Giff if he moved it all to England—“An amount of five hundred pounds will be transferred immediately to the new account.”
Throckmorton bowed. “I would be honored to represent you, my lord. Would you like me to write to the steward?”
“No, I’ll do it. It’s better he and the staff hear from me.” Giff rose and held out his hand. “I look forward to doing business with you.”
The solicitor looked surprised but took his hand and shook it. “The feeling is mutual. There will be documents to sign. Would you like me to bring them to you?”
Giff considered the question. His father would not be happy about Uncle Hector’s bequest. They had never got along. His mother, on the other hand, would be thrilled after she got over her uncle’s death. Giff decided to keep it to himself for the time being. “No. Send a messenger when the papers are ready.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
When he reached the street, he was torn between weeping for an uncle he loved dearly and smiling at his good fortune. It appeared weeping was going to win out. He waved to Fergus.
“Bad news, sir?”
“Just the opposite, but there was a letter in Uncle’s hand.” Giff couldn’t finish the sentence.
Lips pressed together his groom nodded. “Take yer time. That’s what my mam told me when Granny died.”
He climbed into the carriage and started the pair. Had anyone written to his mother?
When he arrived home, he was greeted with the news that his mother wanted to see him. Giff went directly to her parlor. One look at her and he knew she had been informed.
“Oh, Giff.” Her eyes filled with tears.
He went to her and kneeled next to her chair. Taking one cold hand, he rubbed it between his. “I know.”
“I suppose I thought he would live forever.” Her handkerchief was already wet, and he handed her his.
“I did as well.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “My father told me he left everything to you.”
“Yes. I’ve just come from the solicitor.”
