“Reginald wouldn’t have had the foresight, and I wanted all his daughters to have the same opportunities.” She lifted Summer’s chin and examined her. “You have a little of all my girls in you, plus I imagine some of your mother.”
“I—” Summer swallowed, shaking her head. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “I’m so sorry. I wish it wasn’t like this.”
“You were as much a casualty of this war as my daughters. The fault lies with Reginald, Tabitha, and me.” Holding Summer’s hand, Jacqueline turned to all of them. “This will not end a tragedy. One more sister can only be a good thing.”
“Unless she tries to borrow my shoes,” Imogen drawled, going to recline on the couch next to Fran. “Then all bets are off.”
Bea shook her head, still on the floor with Vi in her lap. “I would never have predicted this. So where do we go from here?”
“I get the will, and you girls read it all together.” Their mother calmly swept from the room.
They all watched her go, speechless. Then Portia turned to Imogen. “Gigi, I just realized where you get your dramatic flair from.”
“Genetics are an amazing thing, aren’t they?” their movie star sister said as she unwrapped layers of elegant outerwear.
Rosalind looked at Summer, who was watching her with a combination of regret and hope. She sighed and reached out her hand. “Genetics trump all, don’t they?”
They decided Bea should read the will out loud.
Their mum sat on the floor, next to Rosalind and Summer, who still looked shell-shocked. “Have some of the rye,” Rosalind suggested as Bea opened the legal document.
“I don’t drink much,” she said, but she sipped a tiny bit, coughing discreetly.
Rosalind looked at Portia, who rolled her eyes.
“There’s a lot of legal stuff in here, which I’m going to skip,” Bea announced. “The end is where he wrote to us, and it outlines how he’s dividing the estate, so I’ll just start there.”
No one disagreed, though Viola sighed in her sleep from where she was passed out on the floor.
Bea shook her head, lowering the papers and reaching her hand out. “I need some whiskey first.”
“That doesn’t bode well,” Rosalind said, handing it over.
Her sister took a hefty gulp and dabbed her mouth with her fingers. Then she took a deep breath and began to read.
I always wanted a son to carry on the Summerhill heritage and title. I didn’t get one, and I regret that.
The title will, of course, go to the next in line, even though he’s an American and, clearly, unworthy. I can do nothing about this.
I’ve always adhered to the Summerhill family motto: Honour and Family. Therefore, I will divide the rest of the estate in this way. What is left includes the South Street house and all the possessions within.
In respect to honour, half the estate will be given to Jacqueline Summerhill, Countess of Amberlin. She has done the title credit, and deserves acknowledgment in such.
In respect to family, the other half will be awarded to Tabitha Welles, the woman I’ve loved all these years.
Bea lowered the papers, fury in her eyes. “If he weren’t dead, I’d kill him.”
“Acknowledgment,” her mother repeated, her head high. In her eyes, there was a disturbing light.
Rosalind took her hand. “Mum?”
Her mother squeezed her palm, but her gaze was far off. Rosalind wondered if maybe she was murdering Reginald Summerhill, too. “That’s rather concise, isn’t it?” Jacqueline said in a clipped voice.
“I’m so sorry,” Summer said, sounding miserable.
Jacqueline faced her, her expression fierce. “You will not take any of this on.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Summer said immediately, visibly quailing.
Their mother stood up and looked at all of them. “None of you will take this on. I mean for us to continue as a family, Reginald be damned. If you have objections, I’ll hear them now,” she said, looking pointedly at Portia.
Portia’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“Good.” Jacqueline turned to Summer. “Welcome to the family. For better or worse, you’re a Summerhill now.”
Chapter Thirty-two
It’d been a week since Joe had stopped by her desk to harass her.
Biting her lip, Em looked down the hall at his office. He knew. Somehow, he knew she’d gone out with Ben and washed his hands of her.
Her throat closed with the acrid taste of regret. Leaning over, she reached into her bottom drawer and pulled out her collage, spreading it on her desk.
The last time she’d had it out, she’d realized the man she’d pinned to it looked like Joe. She hadn’t looked at it since. She hadn’t replaced the man with a picture of someone who looked like Ben, either.