Empire by Gore Vidal Page B

rose-tinted side-whiskers, Dennis Houghteling, the Sanford family lawyer, signalled him from the marble staircase. “I have been with the Clerk of Wills,” he said in a low conspiratorial voice, the only voice that he had. Because the Colonel refused even to visit, much less live, in the United States, Mr. Houghteling had been, in effect, the Sanford viceroy at New York, and once a month he reported in careful detail the state of the Sanford holdings to its absent lord. Since Blaise had known Mr. Houghteling all his life, it was only natural that when it came time to probate the last of his father’s many wills, the matter would be entrusted to the senior partner of Redpath, Houghteling and Parker, attorneys-at-law.
    “All is well,” whispered Houghteling, putting his arm through Blaise’s, and steering him to an empty marble bench beneath a statue of De Witt Clinton. “All is well as far as the
law
is concerned.” Houghteling began to modify; and Blaise waited, with assumed patience, for the lawyer to tell him what the problem was. Meanwhile, the Mayor was making a speech beneath the cupola. The vowels echoed like thunder while the consonants were like rifle shot. Blaise understood not a word.
    “As we know, the problem is one of interpretation. Of cyphers; or of a single cypher to be precise—and its ambiguity.”
    Blaise was alert. “Who will ever contest our interpretation of an ambiguous cypher?”
    “Your sister will certainly contest our interpretation …”
    “But she’s in England, and if the will’s been probated, as you say …”
    “There has been a slight delay.” Houghteling’s whisper was more than ever insinuating. “Your cousin has spoken up, on behalf of Caroline …”
    “Which cousin?” There were, that Blaise knew of, close to thirty cousins, in or near the city.
    “John Apgar Sanford. He is a specialist in patent law, actually …”
    Blaise had met Cousin John, a hearty dull man of thirty, with an ailing wife, and many debts.
    “Why has he got himself involved?”
    “He is representing your sister in this.”
    Blaise felt a sudden chill of ancrer. “
Representing
Caroline? Why? We’re not in court. There’s no contest.”
    “There will be, he says, over the precise age at which she comes into her share of the estate …”
    “The will says that when she’s twenty-seven, she’ll inherit her share of the capital. Until then I have control of the entire estate. After all, Father wrote that will himself, with his own hand.”
    “Unfortunately, he—who usually refused to speak French—wrote his will in rather faulty French, and since the French number one looks just like an English seven, though unlike a French seven, your cousin is taking the position that the Colonel intended for this will to conform with the earlier ones; and that your father meant for Caroline to inherit at twenty-one, not twenty-seven, half the estate.”
    “Well, it looks like twenty-seven to me. How did it look to the clerk?”
    “I translated the text for him.
Of course
, the English version says twenty-seven …”
    “So what’s the problem?”
    “Twofold. Your cousin says that we have deliberately misinterpreted your father, and he will now contest our … interpretation of the figure.”
    “
He
will? How can he? Only Caroline can and she’s three thousand miles away.”
    “Your first supposition is correct. He obviously cannot contest a will with which he has nothing to do. Your second supposition—the geographical one—is mistaken. I have just spoken to your sister. She arrived this morning from Liverpool. She is stopping at the Waldorf-Astoria.”
    Blaise stared at the old lawyer. In the background, someone proposed three cheers to Mayor Van Wyck, and the rotunda reverberated with cheering; like artillery being fired. Martial images filled Blaise’s head. War. “If they contest what my father wrote, I shall take them through every court in the country. Do you understand, Mr.