It was, as she suspected, a case of a few signatures and some small paperwork. No hidden secrets, no coins that reappeared like magic. Gwendolen couldn’t help but give voice to a lament over the loss （theft!） of everything her father had strived to build, and Mr. Jenkinson said, “Well, then perhaps, Miss Kelling, this would be a good time to access the trust.”
Trust?
“The trust your father put in place. I have been curious why you have left it on deposit for so long.”
Trust? Prepare to be surprised!
He explained it patiently, as to a child. Her father had set up a discretionary trust for his children. After his death, they were each to inherit an equal amount on reaching the age of twenty-one. Five thousand pounds.
Five thousand pounds?
“Each.”
Each?
He frowned at her. “You really didn’t know? Your mother didn’t tell you? I did write letters to you.”
Mother knew? She had stolen （there was no other word for it） letters addressed to Gwendolen?
“Naturally. She wasn’t able to touch it, but she knew of its existence. And, of course,” the solicitor continued, “the way the trust is set up, on the death of one, the money is shared between the others. Harry and Dickie died long before their twenty-first birthdays （my sincere condolences, by the way, Miss Kelling）， so their share remained intact. When Harry died his share was inherited by you and Dickie, and then when Dickie died you inherited his share. So you have, in total, fifteen thousand pounds.”
Fifteen thousand pounds?
“Your father was making a great deal of money before his death.”
Fifteen thousand pounds? Mother knew that there were fifteen thousand pounds sitting in a bank somewhere—no, not “somewhere,” in a deposit account in the Yorkshire Penny Bank in Coney Street, to be exact. Had their father been prescient? Did he know that his foolish wife couldn’t be counted on with even a farthing, let alone his entire estate?
“I do wonder why your mother said nothing,” Mr. Jenkinson said.
“Yes, I wonder,” Gwendolen said, but in fact she knew. Gwendolen with money would be independent. Gwendolen with money—despite her promise to her father—might abandon her mother and strike out to live life on her own terms. Gwendolen with money would not be shackled to her mother by frugality. Gwendolen with money would be free. Mother preferred to live in woefully reduced circumstances than risk losing her slave companion.
“And the house, if I sell the house?”
“I would expect it to sell for three thousand pounds at the very least. It’s a very fine house.”
“And there are fifteen thousand pounds in the bank?” （In the next street!） “Are you sure?”
“Plus interest accrued, of course.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Jenkinson, I think I will have that port now.”
* * *
—
She further celebrated by walking the short distance to Terry’s restaurant in St. Helen’s Square and lunching in solitary splendour—feasting on oxtail soup, chicken in a white sauce, and sherry trifle. She was a woman of substance now. From riches to rags to riches again. She was almost ashamed at how happy it made her.
She wished to be neither frugal nor profligate, but she would like to make her money work. She would reinvest it in something solid, or perhaps in another manufacturing venture, not a wireworks. Or a little shop. In London she had passed several enterprises owned by women. There was a hat shop called Audrey’s, a dress shop called Barbara’s, a florist called Jean’s. She could set up Gwendolen’s, she thought, in York, or Harrogate, although for the life of her she couldn’t think of anything she would want to sell. The one thing that it would not be would be dreary. The time of dreariness was over.
* * *
—
Gwendolen left Liberty’s and joined the crowds of shoppers. She had purchased a fine new wardrobe in Ladies’ Fashions but she was still sporting her old librarian tweed and wool. Her purchases were to be boxed up and delivered this afternoon to the Warrender, leaving her free to ramble along Regent Street with no encumbrance apart from her handbag. It, too, was her old one—shabby and well used.
She had missed luncheon at the Warrender, which was no great loss as it was a cold collation of sandwiches that the Distressed fell on like wolves in an effort to secure the better ones—egg and cress, boiled ham—leaving the fish-paste ones as poor consolation prizes for latecomers.
Further along Regent Street, she passed a man who was playing the cornet—“busking”—on the pavement outside Hamley’s. He was wearing impenetrable dark glasses and propped against his case was a sign that said simply “War blind.” He was no amateur—he was wonderfully talented, in fact, quite up to orchestra standard. The instrument’s case, upturned in front of him like a begging bowl, contained only a paltry handful of halfpennies.