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‘I have your aunt, Bernice Catherine Marshall’s last will and testament in front of me, Miss Hamilton.’ Rosie enjoyed the cadence of his English accent. ‘Her will was prepared last year byour senior partner, Mr Richmond, who has himself sadly passed away.’
Angus Meadows didn’t look sad, thought Rosie, unaware that after old Mr Richmond’s death, Angus had been promoted to partner. He looked up briefly, and when his eyes met hers, his cheeks dimpled slightly.
‘As you are the only family member present, do you wish me to read the will verbatim or would you prefer me to provide you with an overview of your aunt’s bequests? I have a copy of the original will for you to take away with you for more detailed consideration and, should you have any queries, you are welcome to contact me further at your convenience.’
‘An overview would be fine, Mr Meadows.’ Rosie replied, twiddling with the pearl earring in her left ear as she met his enquiring stare. Mmm, she thought, as an image of Colin Firth emerging from that lake flitted across her mind and infused her face with heat. What would her aunt’s solicitor look like with his crisp, white cotton shirt clinging to his rippling…
‘Call me Angus, please.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, and please call me Rosie.’
‘Okay, Rosie, your aunt’s will is very simple, actually. Apart from a pecuniary legacy of ten thousand pounds to Mrs Susan Moorfield, proprietor of the Somersby Village Shop and Tearoom, the residuary estate, after the discharge of the funeral expenses and any further estate liabilities, has been left to Miss Roseannah Bernice Hamilton of Hamilton’s Grocery Store, Stonington Beach, Connecticut. I wonder, Rosie, if I could ask you provide evidence of your identity before you leave? It’s a formality only.’
‘Erm, yes, that’s not a problem, but…’
‘It is recorded that the estate comprises mainly of Willowbrook Lodge in Somersby, the deeds to which we hold here at Richmond Morton in our strong room, and a small Post Office savings account which I think will cover the bequest to Mrs Moorfield. And that’s it.’
Rosie remained immobile, her jaw slackened as she stared unblinkingly at Angus Meadows, unable to form any expression or acknowledgement. All thought of his muscular torso evaporated from her mind as she tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘You have been appointed sole executrix. But, if you so instruct, I can apply for the Grant of Probate on your behalf forthwith, which will allow you to market the property immediately, if that is your preferred course.’
She nodded.
‘Do you have any questions?’
Rosie’s brain refused to work.
‘Rosie? Is everyone okay?’
‘I… My aunt left herwhole estateto me? Are you sure? There’s no mention of my father, Jack Hamilton, or my sister, Hannah Hamilton?’ Now Bennett, of course.
‘No. As I said, the will is very clear. Here is a copy for you to take away with you.’
She accepted the envelope, noticing Angus’s gold signet ring as it glinted in a ray of mid-morning sunshine that bathed the office in a soft mellow glow. Beyond the sash windows, a row of oak trees swayed gently in the breeze, and somewhere in the office a clock ticked away the seconds. She placed the copy of her aunt’s will reverently in her handbag and returned her gaze to Angus who had closed the buff-coloured file and was leaning forward across his desk, his eyes filled with sympathy.
‘I realise it may be too early for you to consider your options, but bearing in mind you intend to return to New York tomorrow and the distance involved, you may not wish to repeat the journey to Cheltenham on a regular basis. Could I therefore offer you the additional services of Richmond Morton?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘As well as solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, we are an estate agency. I don’t know whether you have knowledge of the Cotswolds property market, but Willowbrook Lodge is situated in a much sought-after village. I am certain there will be a good deal of interest. My firm could begin to market the property immediately. I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but I have taken the opportunity to appraise your aunt’s cottage, and, despite its current condition, it would be likely to fetch in the region of £250,000.’
Rosie had no baseline upon which to judge whether this was a fair valuation or not. Certainly New York’s ridiculous property market couldn’t be used as a barometer. But leaving everything in the strong, capable hands of Angus Meadows certainly had its appeal and presented her with a very easy option. It was true; she had no interest or desire to return to the Cotswolds in the near future. To be able to hand over the whole transaction – the collecting in of her aunt’s estate, the sale of Willowbrook Lodge, and the paying out of Susan’s legacy – was certainly an attractive proposition.
‘That does sound like a sensible proposal. My flight back to JFK leaves tomorrow morning. Is it okay if I take the afternoon to consider your offer and I’ll get back to you before my flight leaves?’
‘Of course, that’s fine.’
Was that a faint twist of regret that she saw flash across Angus’s handsome features? If he knew she would be staying longer, would he have asked her for a date? Would she have said yes? Who was she kidding? For some reason she had cast Angus Meadows in the role of lead dreamboat in her own English country romcom, with her as the irresistible daughter of the manor.
Rosie wondered what it was that had led her to feel so comfortable in this lawyer’s presence. She felt as though she’d known him for months, not met him for the first time that morning. She swallowed down hard on her rampant imagination as she grasped his extended hand and was shocked to experience the bolt of electricity shoot through her chest and southwards. For heaven’s sake, she’d just discussed her deceased aunt’s estate with her English solicitor and here she was, attracted to his golden-haired good looks, his toned body, startlingly blue eyes and his…Stop it, she chastised herself.
‘Thank you for all your help, Angus,’ she managed to mutter.
‘No problem at all. It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ Angus removed his spectacles and dangled one arm of them between his thumb and forefinger at his mouth. His eyes crinkled attractively as a smile played around the corners of his lips. ‘I’m sorry we won’t have the opportunity to meet again. Goodbye, Rosie.’
‘Goodbye.’
Rosie stumbled from the dim confines of Richmond Morton into the weak midday sunshine, grateful for the warmth as she searched the quaint streets for a Starbucks. Of course, an English tea shop was the first purveyor of a hot beverage she came across. She slumped down at a table next to the window, ignoring the questionable décor of frilly lace curtains, dotteddoilies and porcelain dogs as she ordered her favourite brew of Lady Grey.
