The Lemon Tree Page 16

  Chapter Twenty

  The following morning, Wallace Helena sent for a hansom cab and went to see her uncle’s lawyer, Mr Benson, at his office. She was immediately seated in a leather chair by the window of his room. Mr Benson was holding a weighty tome on the laws of succession and this he placed on his desk, as he sat down before it. He assumed that she had come to see how the matter of Probate was proceeding. This had not been her intention, but she let him talk about it.

  ‘The Court will not be long now,’ he assured her. He thoughtfully twirled the end of his neat moustache, and then continued, ‘I felt, as Executor, that such an excellent little business should not be wound up or sold, until you were consulted, though I always presume that you will put it up for sale.’

  Wallace Helena ignored the question of selling, and asked a little absently, ‘What exactly is Probate, Mr Benson? I am not at all clear. When Mama and her husband died of smallpox, I was fortunate in finding a lawyer who had come west to work with the Oblate Fathers in St Albert, on the subject of Metis land claims. Father Lacombe recommended him to me. I was so upset, as you can imagine, that I left everything to the lawyer, and I’m not sure what he did. But he worked so well that I ended up with thirty-six square miles of good farm land and timber.’ She smiled at the lawyer, and added, ‘I thought I would never manage to pay his bill – cash is in short supply out west!’

  At the disclosure of the size of her land holding, Mr Benson looked surprised. She must already be a well-to-do woman, despite her remark about a lack of cash.

  In reply to her question regarding Probate, he said, ‘The Court has to be assured that the Will is genuine and that it is the last Will made by the deceased. They then have to ensure that the Estate is handed over to the right person.’

  ‘Was it difficult in my uncle’s case?’

  ‘It has not been simple, but, despite a lengthy search and much advertising, no other Will has come to light – in any case, it was likely that Mr Al-Khoury would have asked me, as his lawyer, to make it for him. I held only the Will made when he was a young man.’

  ‘Then you had to find me?’

  ‘That wasn’t difficult. Mr Helliwell had your address; he said he had posted boxes of books to you from Mr James Al-Khoury. The problem was to prove that your dear mother was Mr Charles Al-Khoury’s sole legatee; secondly, that her Will leaving everything to you was in order, and, thirdly, that you were indeed Helena Al-Khoury, and not, perhaps, a daughter of Mr Harding by an earlier marriage.’

  He was surprised to see Wallace Helena’s firm mouth trembling; she looked as if she might burst into tears. He went on hastily, ‘You were able to provide me with all the necessary addresses, and, though you had no birth certificate, there were several people still in the Hudson’s Bay trading post who were able to confirm that you had arrived with your mother, and that Mr Harding had no known daughters. We found other confirmation in letters from you and your mother, written at Fort Edmonton, amongst Mr James’s correspondence.’

  ‘Good,’ Wallace Helena muttered, and blew her nose hard. Mama, Mama, her heart cried, why did you have to suffer so much?

  ‘I must tell you that I did mention, once or twice, to Mr James that he should update his Will,’ the lawyer added. ‘But he always seemed in good health and said he would do it some time; we none of us expect to be taken suddenly in middle life.’

  He realized that she was no longer listening and he coughed to draw her attention. She turned to him, her eyes so full of pain that he was shocked. Like Mr Helliwell, he began to realize that this rather irritating, forward woman had undergone some very harrowing experiences in her life, experiences still in the forefront of her mind. She looked haunted. He wondered if she had known any happiness in her life; frontier life, such as she now led, was not, presumably, very easy.

  In the hope of amusing her a little, he began to talk of her uncle’s early days in Liverpool. ‘Mr James was a very enterprising man, as you may know. He began boiling soap in his landlady’s cellar wash boiler. What gave him the idea, I have no notion, except that the use of soap was becoming common. He peddled the soap from door to door. Then he found a tumble-down cottage with a similar boiler. He rented this, and was able to keep his store of fat and so on in it – I imagine much to his landlady’s relief!’ He smiled at his client and the haunted look began to fade from the enormous brown eyes. ‘Then he met Mr Tasker, a real Liverpool character. Together, they found a large shed which is now a part of the present soapery, and it was at that point that he came to me, because he wanted to understand exactly the terms of the leasing of the property – and his English was not too good – and, for some time, I vetted every agreement he signed.’

  Wallace Helena forced herself to pay attention. ’is Mr Tasker a partner, then?’

  ‘No, he has always been an employee – a very trusted one, I may say.’ The lawyer smiled again at her, as he saw the sorrow fade from her face. ‘I’ll always remember Mr James and Mr Tasker as being so exuberant and cheerful. Mr Al-Khoury always said, however, that family were the most important people in a man’s life; without family a man was lost. In the early days, he spoke several times of his hope that your father, Mr Charles, would join him, and he was greatly distressed when Mr Charles died – and even more so when he discovered that your mother had married again and had taken you to live in a part of Canada almost unexplored. He couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Why didn’t he get married himself?’ inquired Wallace Helena, trying to turn the conversation towards her original reason for calling.

  ‘I’m not sure. He mentioned once a desire to return to Lebanon, when it became more peaceful – he always said it was the most beautiful country in the world – and he missed the perfume of the fruit trees.’

  ‘That’s strange. I do, too. I sit and dream of the smell of lemon tree flowers, sometimes.’

  ‘Do you really? He may have thought that an English wife would not want to live there – and there are few prospective Lebanese wives in this city.’ He stopped abruptly, as if he had intended to say more and had then thought better of it.

  ‘I don’t suppose there are any Lebanese here, male or female,’ Wallace Helena suggested.

  Feeling that it was time to terminate the interview, Mr Benson got up from his desk and returned the book on succession to its shelf. Across his stout stomach, the seals on his watch chain tinkled. Then he considered that he should ask her precisely what her intentions were concerning the Lady Lavender, so he sat down again and put the question to her.

  Wallace Helena’s long eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve not yet made a decision,’ she replied cautiously.

  Mr Benson nodded understandingly, but did not reply. He sensed that she had more to say.

  She stared out of the window at the tiny cobblestone court and watched expressionlessly as a man relieved himself in a quiet corner of it. Then she said, ‘It would be nice to live in a lively city, like Liverpool – to be able to buy books and listen to music – and wear pretty clothes.’ She smiled ruefully at her feminine desire expressed in the last words. Then she said, ‘And you cannot imagine how wonderful a water tap is, particularly one which produces hot water! We have a well, which is better than having to haul water up from the river – but it’s still very inconvenient, particularly in our climate.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he agreed, and waited.

  As if she had made up her mind to trust him, she went on, ‘I believe I could run the Lady Lavender, with the aid of Mr Bobsworth and Mr Tasker. I have, however, a homestead – a large one – and obligations in the Territories. So I must consider carefully what I am to do.’ She gave him a bright, artificial little smile.

  She seemed to have finished her confidences, so he said diplomatically, ‘Well, it is not essential that you make a decision until Probate is received. I think it would be wise to be ready to decide immediately after that. Businesses do not thrive on indecision.’

  ‘Indeed, they do not,’ she agreed.

 
He went on to warn her about taxes that would have to be paid in connection with the transfer of the company to her. ‘You’ll need cash,’ he warned. ‘Mr Al-Khoury did have a small personal bank account, and, as you know, the Lady Lavender account has funds in it – but these will be needed for the day-to-day workings.’

  Wallace Helena mentally saw the last really fine necklace that her mother had left her vanishing into the hands of moneylenders or a purchasing jeweller to cover taxes, but she answered smartly. ‘Perhaps the company would be allowed to pay in instalments?’ she suggested.

  ‘Possibly,’ he agreed.

  A sudden thought struck Wallace, and it brought her to the real point of her visit. ‘Who paid Uncle’s funeral expenses?’

  Mr Benson hesitated. ‘They were initially paid by one of Mr Al-Khoury’s friends.’ He shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I’ve since refunded the money from his Estate.’

  Now, she thought, I can broach the subject of Benjamin Al-Khoury – at last. She took a cigarello out of her reticule, together with a box of matches, and lit up, while she looked shrewdly at her embarrassed lawyer.

  She leaned back and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘A lady friend?’ she asked finally.

  Mr Benson rubbed his neat grey beard, and blinked as the smoke got in his eyes. A most peculiar young woman, he considered, before he answered, ‘Yes. It was a friendship of long standing.’

  ‘She’s not mentioned in his Will. I would have thought he would have left her at least some small remembrance?’

  ‘Well, his Will was old. He was a young man when he made it …’

  ‘Father Lacombe’s lawyer wanted me to make a Will, but I couldn’t afford any more on his bill!’ She laughed, and looked round for an ashtray. Mr Benson hastily offered her his. She smiled her thanks.

  Mr Benson bent his head slightly in response and wondered who her beneficiary would have been. ‘Very wise to make a Will, Miss Harding. Very wise.’

  Wallace Helena drew on her cigarello and her mind wandered for a moment. ‘If I die,’ she thought, ‘will Joe get all I possess? If the new railway brings in a lot of immigrants and there is a real demand for land, he could be a very rich man.

  ‘He wouldn’t really care about that,’ she considered dispiritedly. ‘He’s happy. As long as he has familiar people around him, a good horse under him and something to eat, he’d be content.’ In this she underestimated Joe Black; he appreciated the power of money, but he wanted it to ease the life of his treasured Wallace Helena.

  As her lawyer watched the play of expressions across her face, it suddenly lit up with a mischievous smile, as she imagined what he would do if he suddenly found himself with a soap works.

  ‘What? Me?’ he would splutter. ‘Women make soap!’

  Mr Benson saw the smile fade. Again she looked tired and grim. He had heard from an irate Mr Bobsworth how hard she was working. ‘She ignored Sunday!’ he had complained. ‘I never got to Mass at all and the wife was furious.’

  Wallace Helena realized with a jolt that there had been silence in the book-lined room for at least a minute. She remembered the question she wished to ask.

  As if preparing to get up and leave, she picked up her gloves with studied leisureliness, and then inquired casually, ‘Has Benjamin Al-Khoury anything to do with Uncle’s lady friend? When I tried to ask Mr Bobsworth where he fitted in, he evaded the question. I need to know, because he’s coming to see me this afternoon.’

  Mr Benson suddenly saw the reason for the protracted interview. It had taken her a long time to get down to the real reason for it. ‘He’s her son,’ he replied uncomfortably.

  ‘I see. And she is known, perhaps, as Mrs Al-Khoury?’

  Mr Benson’s face went suddenly pink above his beard, as he answered her frankly, ‘Yes, Miss Harding.’

  ‘But she’s not Mrs Al-Khoury?’

  ‘No.’ He hesitated, and then explained, ‘I went to see her to confirm it, because if she was married to Mr James, she would have certain dower rights – and Mr Benjamin, also, could have claims against the Estate.’

  At Mr Benson’s obvious discomfiture over such a delicate subject, Wallace Helena repressed a smile, and inquired gravely, ‘So like a good Lebanese, he saw that her son had a decent job?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Harding. I understand that he was sent to a good grammar school – and when he was fifteen Mr Al-Khoury took him into the business. Mr Tasker and Mr Bobsworth think very highly of him. I’ve met him, and he is a pleasant young man. Business associates – and the employees – fully expected that he would inherit the Lady Lavender.’ He looked down at his hand lying on his desk and then tapped his fingers gently along the wooden edge. ‘Be patient with him, Miss Harding. Not only has he lost his father, but he has been sadly humiliated publicly.’

  ‘Because he is illegitimate?’ she asked baldly.

  ‘Yes. He could only inherit if his father had specifically willed the business to him.’

  ‘I see.’ She rose to leave. ‘I’m glad you have been frank with me; it has confirmed what I believed before I left Canada. But I had to be sure.’ She pulled on her gloves and held out her hand to the lawyer. ‘Leave the matter with me. I will be careful with him. I naturally want to meet my only blood relative.’

  Mr Benson had not considered that she might welcome a relation, and he shook her hand warmly with relief. Her attitude might at least mitigate a clash between their very strong characters.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wallace Helena had expected to be away from home not more than two months. But July inched into August and she had still not mentioned a possible date of return. In August, a depressed and overworked Joe Black asked her in his letters to name a date. But he finally got a letter explaining that she was held up by some nonsense called Probate. The fact that their letters crossed constantly added a note of confusion to their communication with each other.

  In one letter which Joe received in mid-August, she inquired, ‘How would you feel about living in Liverpool? It’s such a marvellous city – it has everything. I believe I could manage the soapery and that it would provide a good living.’

  The very idea of being penned up in a white man’s city made Joe shudder. Born in the Bow Valley when first it was explored, and brought up within his grandfather’s usual hunting grounds, he had never been further than Fort Benton in Montana, to the south, or St Albert in the north. He had never seen a city. He had heard about the human swarms in such places and he had no desire to become a human ant. He told his beloved to come home.

  In another letter, she mentioned that the previous night she had dreamed of Lebanon. ‘For once it wasn’t a nightmare,’ she wrote. ‘I was gazing up at the mountains, and I saw the anemones shedding their red petals in the wind – my nurse once told me they were drops of blood shed by a beautiful god called Adonis, who was killed in a fit of jealousy. Then I found myself floating along the narrow seashore and I listened to the singing of the water. It felt very strange.

  ‘I am told that a number of refugees have returned to the country. It reminded me that between the mountains of Lebanon and those of the Anti-Lebanon lies the Buka’a Valley, good farm land watered by two rivers – the air there is as pure as that of the prairies. If we could buy such land, darling … but it would mean that you would have to learn yet another language as well as accept another culture.’

  Joe began to worry, and told her again to come home as soon as she could. They were beginning to do fine in Edmonton. Why go anywhere else?

  Twice a week, he rode the five miles down to the post office in Edmonton village. Though the post office had not been established very long, collecting the mail from it had become a bi-weekly social event for the whole district; it was a chance to meet neighbours one did not otherwise see. Everybody stood patiently gossiping in the queue, while they waited for the mail to be sorted by the slow meticulous man behind the counter at the far end of the long narrow room.

  For the most part, Joe woul
d lean silently against the office wall, his empty pipe cradled in his hand, unlit out of courtesy to the few women present. He did not invite conversation and did not get beyond a remark about the weather or the state of the harvest. He was, as ever, regarded with respect by those who knew him well, because of his knowledge of livestock breeding and also for his ability to talk sense into angry, despairing Crees and Blackfoot; as settlers slowly increased, face-to-face confrontations were more common with Indians, who did not think much of their limited treaty rights.

  Being half-Cree himself, Joe was often furious at the treatment of his relations by both Government and settlers. But he knew that on the homestead he had to live with whites around him who disliked a negro owning land, so he was extremely wary in what he said. Friendly overtures had always been treated by both Wallace Helena and himself with reserve; and he never forgot that Wallace Helena faced prejudice because of her race and was solidly hated for the contemptuous arrogance with which she had countered it from the day of her arrival.

  As he waited for his letters, Joe sometimes thought how strange it was that both he and Wallace Helena had learned to love Tom Harding, an American of almost silvery fairness. There was nothing saintly about Tom, he ruminated with a grin, but the man had always played fair; if he promised something, he did his best to keep that promise. And he never seemed to see what colour a man was. He looked straight into you, as if judging what you were really like, and, if he liked what he found, he was generous and open. Joe missed him like he missed his Cree grandfather; both men had had in common an inner wisdom sadly lacking in others. The only time Tom had seemed unwise was when he had fallen in love with Leila and had brought the poor woman to the Fort. She had made him happy, though, and Joe hoped suddenly that she had known a little happiness. If she had not come, he would never have known the bundle of vitality that was her daughter.

  Now, he was beginning to sweat with anxiety that he had lost Wallace Helena to a damned soap works.