“I’ll get to the point, Mr. Fernsby.” Mr. Allen leaned casually against his desk with papers in hand. He seemed to loom over Merritt and the well-worn chair he sat in, like a vulture sniffing out a fresh carcass, which was a somewhat harsh metaphor given that, thus far, Mr. Allen had been nothing but polite and professional.
Merritt wondered if his parents and siblings had been called into this office as well, or if Mr. Allen had made the trip out to New York to read the will to them there. Admittedly—and Merritt loathed to admit it, even to himself—he’d hoped they’d be here. Death often brought people together, and—
He swallowed hard, keeping his tongue at the back of his throat, until the familiar disappointment burned up in his stomach.
He pushed objectivity into his thoughts. Perhaps they had all come to Baltimore to see Grandmother before she passed. Then again, Merritt had, at best, only seen his grandmother once a year during his childhood, and he couldn’t quite remember the scale of sentimentality between her and his mother.
He wondered what his mother looked like now. Did she have lines in the corners of her eyes? Did she wear her hair differently, and had it started turning gray? Perhaps she had gained weight or lost it. Wincing, Merritt shut off the wondering early; the more he wondered, the less he could remember.
He realized then that Mr. Allen was still talking.
“—weren’t included in the rest,” he was saying, “but an addition was made some time ago.”
Merritt put two and two together. “How long ago?”
He checked his papers. “About twenty-five years.”
Before the disowning, then. He wondered if his grandmother had forgotten to take him off. Then again, the break had been his father’s doing. Perhaps Grandmother had, despite never trying to contact him, still cared for him. He preferred that explanation to the other. Of course, there was always a third possibility: guilt might have prevented her from removing his name.
“To my grandson Merritt Fernsby, I leave Whimbrel House and anything that might be left within it, along with its land.”
Merritt sat straighter in his chair. “Whimbrel House?” When Mr. Allen didn’t reply quickly enough, he added, “That’s it?”
Mr. Allen nodded.
Merritt wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the mention of a house had him distracted. “I’ve never heard of it. A real house?”
“I don’t believe false ones can be inherited.” Mr. Allen put the papers down. “But I looked into the matter myself; it’s all in order.”
“How did my grandmother own a second house?”
Mr. Allen leaned back to open a drawer in his desk. His shuffled a few things around before pulling out a large envelope. Withdrawing a new set of documents, he said, “The property came into the Nichols line some time ago. Before that . . . Well, it hasn’t had a tenant in a very long time.”
“How long is very long?”
He flipped a paper. “Last recorded resident was 1737.”
Merritt blinked. That was over a century ago.
“Understandable,” Mr. Allen went on. “The place is out of the way, on Blaugdone Island in the Narragansett Bay.” He glanced up. “Rhode Island.”
Which meant marshland. “I’m aware of it.” A house abandoned for a hundred years in the middle of a marshy island . . . It must be in terrible repair.
“Commuting would be difficult. Unless you own an enchanted watercraft.”
Merritt shook his head. “Fortunately, I don’t have need to commute.” Although he’d made his name in journalism, Merritt had recently sold his second novel to his publisher—the first having been a moderate success—and one could write novels anywhere there were ink and paper available.
He rubbed his chin, noting he’d forgotten to shave that morning. Having been on his own since he was eighteen, he’d learned how to shingle roofs, place floorboards, grease hinges, the lot of it. There would be a great amount of work ahead of him, but he might be able to fix up the place.
It would be nice not to share walls or pay rent. And finally break away from the Culdwells.
Mr. Culdwell was Merritt’s landlord. He was a crochety moose of a man who was grisly even on his best days. And though Merritt was always timely with his rent, the bloke’s grandson had recently moved to the city for school. Culdwell, of course, wanted to house him in Merritt’s space. When Merritt refused to move out in exchange for a month’s returned rent, Culdwell had blatantly said there would be no renewal of contract come October. Which, obviously, put Merritt in something of a bind.