Roses by Leila Meacham Read Free Book Online Page B

there was the horrifying possibility that soon it could all be gone. A paralyzing
     thought had struck her before morning. Suppose her mother
sold
the plantation! As the new mistress of Somerset, she would be free to dispose of it as she wished, and there would be nobody
     to stop her.
    The door to an adjoining office opened. Emmitt Waithe, the Tolivers’ longtime attorney, entered full of apologies for having
     made them wait, but at once Mary sensed something strange in his manner that had little to do with the delay. Whether out
     of commiseration for their grief or something else, he seemed unable to meet their eyes. He bustled about, unusual for a man
     of his taciturnity and economy of movements, and appeared unduly concerned about their comforts. Did they need tea or perhaps
     coffee? He could have his secretary run down to the drugstore and get Mary a soda—
    “Emmitt, if you please,” Darla interrupted in an attempt to settle him down, “we have need of nothing except your brevity.
     We’re all about at the end of our emotional tethers and would ask that you… well, get on with it, if you’ll excuse my turn
     of phrase.”
    Emmitt cleared his throat, regarded Darla oddly for a few seconds, then got on with it. First he withdrew a letter from an
     envelope on top of a formal-looking document he’d brought in. “This is, uh, a letter from Vernon that he composed shortly
     before he died. He wanted me to read it to you first before disclosing the contents of his will.”
    Behind the veil, Darla’s eyes dampened. “Of course,” she said, reaching over to clasp her son’s hand. Emmitt began:
    Dearest wife and children,
    I have never thought of myself as a cowardly man, but I find that I do not have the courage to apprise you of my will’s contents
     while I am still alive. Let me assure you, before its reading, that I love each of you with all my heart and wish, as deeply,
     that circumstances could have afforded a more fair and generous distribution of my property. Darla, my beloved wife, I ask
     you to understand why I have done what I’ve done. Miles, my son, I cannot expect you to understand, but someday, perhaps,
     your heir will be grateful for the legacy I leave you and entrust you to retain for the fruit of your loin.
    Mary, I wonder that in remembering you as I have, I have not prolonged the curse that has plagued the Tolivers since the first
     pine tree was cleared from Somerset. I am leaving you many and great responsibilities, which I hope will not force you into
     a position unfavorable to your happiness.
    Your loving husband and father,
    Vernon Toliver
    “How very odd,” Darla said slowly in the silence of Emmitt refolding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope. “What
     do you suppose Vernon meant by ‘a more fair and generous distribution’ of his property?”
    “We’re about to find out,” Miles commented, his thin face hardening.
    Mary had grown very still. What did her father mean by “many and great responsibilities”? Did they have anything to do with
     his last words to her, which she’d taken as the incoherent mumblings of a dying man reliving a terrible nightmare?
Whatever you do, whatever it takes, get the land back, Mary.
    “I was instructed to apprise you of one other matter before I read the will,” Emmitt said, picking up another document. He
     handed it across the desk to Miles and explained, “It’s a mortgage contract. Before Vernon learned that he was terminally
     ill, he borrowed money from the Bank of Boston, offering Somerset as collateral. The borrowed money went to pay off a series
     of plantation-related debts as well as to purchase additional land to put under cotton.”
    After skimming the document, Miles raised his head. “Am I reading this correctly? Ten percent interest for ten years? That’s
     nothing less than robbery!”
    “Where have you been, Miles?” Emmitt threw up his hands. “Farmers around here have paid twice that amount