Читать книгу The Forgotten Gift - Kathleen McGurl - Страница 9

… and to Nathaniel Spring, Chaplain of Millbank Prison, I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds and to Emily the wife of the aforesaid Nathaniel Spring I give my hand mirror with the silver frame that is inlaid with sapphires and pearls in recognition of his friendship and support during my time of greatest need …

George Britten listened carefully as his solicitor read out the section of the will that he had just completed writing. ‘Does that cover it, sir?’

George nodded. ‘Yes, I think that will do. So I am repaying in a small way the kindnesses shown to me by Nathaniel Spring. It’s important to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The solicitor, Edmund Harris, frowned. ‘It’s not for me to comment, sir, but I can’t help but wonder about your connection with these people?’

George stood and paced around the room. ‘You are right. It is not for you to comment. Suffice it to say that without Nathaniel, I would not be here today. I owe him … my life.’

‘Very well, sir. As to the remains of your estate: after your other bequests it is to be passed to your wife, and then split evenly amongst your children after her demise. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that is right.’ George sat down again and leaned back in his chair as Mr Harris penned the next part of the will. It felt good to have this set down on paper. There’d been a time when he’d thought he would not need to write a will – he’d have nothing to leave to anyone. But now, at the age of thirty-three, he’d become well off, with a wife and family to provide for, and with personal debts to repay in whatever way he could. He’d come a long way since his youth, albeit by a roundabout route that he would never have imagined.

That mirror, expensive and beautifully made, which he’d bought so long ago as a gift that was never given – it was fitting that it should go to Nathaniel Spring’s wife. She would treasure it. It had lain forgotten in a drawer for many years; it had not felt right to give it to his own wife.

George thought back to the boy he’d been at nineteen – that naïve young man who’d begun a journal in which to capture his hopes and dreams, thoughts and desires. How innocent in the ways of the world he’d been then, and how little he could have anticipated what his future held in store for him!