And that was the end of that.
“Before we start, I must give my condolences. Mr. Pleasonton was truly a wonderful man, and he will be deeply missed.”
In unison, Momma and I dip our heads, and murmur our thanks. We have become adept at accepting condolences with a numb sense of detachment. The quicker you accept them; the faster people shift the topic of conversation. It was one of the few things Momma and I saw eye to eye on.
“I’m sure the two of you are ready to begin,” he says with a weak smile.
When neither one of us says a word, he shifts in his seat uncomfortably and takes a deep breath.
“I, Miles Thomas Pleasonton, in the city of Charleston in Charleston County and State of South Carolina, of the age of thirty-five years, and being of sound mind and memory, do make this writing, as and for my last will and testament.
“First, after my death, I bequeath to my mother, Leonore Mae Pleasonton, all real estate in my name. She may accept monies owed to me at the time of my death. Equal parts of my personal belongings shall go between my sister and mother.
“Secondly, I request for all my debts and—”
For the second time today, I stare down at my hands and swallow the bile in my throat. When someone creates their will, do they feel death upon them or do they entrust their belongings, money, and estate in good faith? This seems incredibly macabre to me.
I know it’d be rude and disrespectful, but I’m tempted to feign exhaustion or the flu. Mr. Parson has Momma here, so why do I need to be in the room? Sounds as though everything will go to her anyway. I’m preparing to clear my throat—in the most ladylike fashion, of course—when Mr. Parson directs his attention to me.
“I have established a dowry for my sister, Ms. Raina Leonore Pleasonton, with a future sum of 60,000 dollars. The stipulation being she finds a suitable husband within sixty days of said will being read.”
Immediately, I sit upright in my chair. My heart is pounding so rapidly, I can barely hear the words pouring from Mr. Parson’s mouth. All my mind can focus on is one thing: sixty thousand dollars.
Sixty. Thousand. Dollars.
“Your dowry has been placed in a trust, and a Mr. Livingston Adrien Lacroix has been appointed as the executor.”
My mouth drops upon his words, and I can’t help but interject. “I apologize, but I don’t believe I heard you correctly. Who did you say?”
Mr. Parson glances at his papers. “Mr. Livingston Lacroix.” He continues speaking. “It’s also stipulated you have sixty days to find a suitable husband or your dowry will be dissolved and the money will be donated to a charity of Mrs. Leonore Pleasonton’s choosin’.”
This will be the second time I hear the words dowry and Livingston Lacroix in the same sentence. The words still don’t entirely make sense. What is happening?
Momma wears the same expression of horror on her face, but it’s for an entirely different reason. “Charity?” The single word flows from her mouth like poison. “The money will go to charity?”
We glance at one another, our confusion written across our faces.
Mr. Parson pushes his glasses up his nose only to have them glide down. He clears his throat. “That is Mr. Pleasonton’s request.”
“What is the matter with him?” Momma huffs.
At the same time, I say, “I don’t need a dowry!”
Mr. Parson stares back and forth between the two of us, uncertain of who to respond to first.
I glimpse at Momma to make sure we don’t talk at the same time again. She’s back to staring at her handkerchief. “When was this will drawn?” I ask.
Once again, Mr. Parson thumbs through the papers. Momma had a small outburst, but now she’s become reticent. I have no qualms in voicing my thoughts. This simply doesn’t make sense, and I need answers.
“Mr. Pleasonton visited my office on October thirteenth, 1917.”
His reply brings a heavy silence into the dining room. Miles had this will drawn more than a year and a half before his death. I stare at my interlocked fingers and swallow the lump gathering at the back of my throat.
In October, was I romantically involved with any gentleman? Probably not. The fact Miles placed this dowry in the will while I was unattached to anyone is more than humiliating. My brother knew me so well that he predicted my own companionless life.
If my brother were here, I’d shake him by the shoulders and demand an answer. Why? Why would he do this? I thought we had a close relationship, and if he was concerned about my lack of suitors, he should’ve come to me and voiced his concerns. This didn’t seem like something he would do.
After a moment of strained silence, Momma stops rubbing her fingertips over her handkerchief and patiently regards the older man. “Is that all, Mr. Parson?”
Mr. Parson readily nods and begins to gather most of his paperwork. He leaves the will with us. This is by far the most lively I’ve seen the man since he stepped through the door. Who can blame him for wanting to leave our home? The sadness is palpable, causing the air to be so thick that everyone who steps through the front door has the potential of being choked by the grief.
Momma stands to walk Mr. Parson to the front door. My body is numb although my mind runs in circles as I follow them toward the foyer.
Mr. Parson gives his condolences one last time before he leaves. The second the door closes behind him, I begin to pace in the foyer, unbothered that our butler, Stanley, is standing beside the door. “This will not do. This will not do,” I announce.
“Rainey—”
Abruptly, I turn, allowing my panic to reveal itself in my eyes. “Momma, Livingston can’t be allotted this...this power! It will go straight to his head, and he’ll probably lose the money.”
“The money is in a trust,” Momma points out.
“It’s Livingston. Don’t discredit him,” I remark dryly before I resume my pacing. Why was this happening?
Momma attempts to intercede me, but the walls are closing in on me again. I need to keep walking.
“Calm yourself, sweetheart. Livingston is a responsible, stand-up man, and when we explain the situation, I’m positive he’ll be supportive.”
One thing Livingston’s never been toward me is supportive. And vice versa.
“Momma, the only thing he’ll support is marryin’ me off to one of his bachelor friends who has a worse reputation than him!” I suck in a deep breath before I continue. “For the life of me, I cannot understand why Miles gave me a dowry.” I shake my head. “A dowry!”
Momma gives up the fight of trying to calm me and walks toward the stairs. “Unfortunately, we will never know.”
For Momma, this conversation is effectively over. As for me, it’s just begun. It’s time for her afternoon “respite.” That’s what she called it after Daddy died. Now that Miles is gone, I know she goes to her room to have a cup of tea with a hearty splash of old grand-dad whiskey. I can only surmise what occurs behind the closed doors by her red eyes when she appears hours later for dinner. But she never makes a scene, and she never, ever discusses her pain. That would be ungenteel for a Southern lady.
I take a deep breath. “Did you tell Miles to do this?”
Momma stops walking. Looking over her shoulder at me, she raises both brows.