as he reminded those assembled (Dolly and Lord Wolsey) that his client’s wishes, having been ratified by himself, an impartial and qualified solicitor at law, were final and binding. Lady Gwendolyn’s nephew was a great bulldog of a man, and Dolly hoped he was listening carefully to the stilted disclaimers. She couldn’t imagine he was going to be too happy when he realised what his aunt had done.
Dolly was right. Lord Peregrine Wolsey was incensed to the point of apoplexy when the will was finally read. He was an impatient gentleman at the best of times and had started steaming from the ears long before Mr Pemberly even finished his pre-amble. Dolly could hear him huffing and puffing at each new sentence that didn’t begin, ‘I give and bequeath to my nephew, Peregrine Wolsey …’ At length though, the solicitor drew breath, took out a handkerchief to mop his damp brow, and moved on to the business of dispensing his client’s largesse. ‘I, Gwendolyn Caldicott, revoking all other wills and testaments by me heretofore made, give and bequeath to the wife of my nephew, Peregrine Wolsey, the bulk of my wardrobe, and to my nephew himself, the contents of my late father’s dressing room.’
‘What?’ the fellow roared so suddenly he spat out his cigar stub, ‘What the bloody hell is the meaning of this?’
‘Please, Lord Wolsey,’ Mr Pemberly jabbered, his birthmark darkening further to an angry shade of purple, ‘I’d ask you to p-p-please sit quietly a m-m-moment longer while I f-f-f-finish.’
‘Why, I’ll sue you, you grubby worm. I know it was you, get-ting in my aunt’s ear—’
‘Lord Wolsey, p-p-please, I beg you.’
Mr Pemberly continued his reading, encouraged by a kindly head bob from Dolly. ‘I give and bequeath the residue and remainder of my property and estate, real, personal and mixed, including my dwelling at number 7 Campden Grove, London, with the exception of the few items named hereafter, to the Kensington Animal Shelter, a representative of which was unable to attend today …’ Which is about the point that Dolly stopped hearing anything but the deafening ring of betrayal’s bells in her ears.
Lady Gwendolyn had, of course, left a provision for ‘my young companion, Dorothy Smitham’, but Dolly was in too much shocked distress to listen when it was read. Only later that night in the privacy of her own bedroom, as she pored over the letter Mr Pemberly had put into her shaking hands while he dodged threats from Lord Wolsey, did she realise her inheritance comprised a small selection of coats from the dressing room upstairs. Dolly recognised the listed items at once. With the exception of a rather tatty white fur, she’d given all of them away already, in the hat-box loads she’d donated so joyously to the WVS clothes drive organised by Vivien Jenkins.
Dolly was livid. She seethed and burned and spat. After all she’d done for the old woman, the numerous indignities she’d had to bear— those toenails and the ear-cleaning sessions, the regular sprays of venom she’d endured. She hadn’t suffered them gladly, Dolly never would have tried to argue that, but she’d suffered them nonetheless, and not for nothing. She’d given up everything for Lady Gwendolyn; she’d thought they were like family; she’d been led to believe a great inheritance awaited her, by Mr Pemberly most recently, but also by Lady Gwendolyn herself. Dolly couldn’t understand what could possibly have happened to make her change her mind.
Unless—. The answer came like the fall of an axe, swift and absolute. Dolly drew breath. Her hands began to tremble and the solicitor’s letter dropped to the floor. But of course, it all made perfect sense. Vivien Jenkins, that spiteful woman, had come to visit Lady Gwendolyn after all; it was the only explanation. She must have sat by her window, biding her time and watching for an opportunity, one of the rare instances over the past fortnight when Dolly had been left no choice but to leave the house on an errand. Vivien had waited, and then she’d pounced; sat with Lady Gwendolyn, filling the old woman’s head with wicked lies about Dolly, she who’d never had anything but the grande dame’s best interests at heart.
The Kensington Animal Shelter’s first act as owner of 7 Camp-den Grove was to contact the War Office and insist that alternative arrangements be made for the office girls who were currently being lodged in the house. The dwelling was to be converted immediately for use as an