The family laughed at me for taking care of “poor old Auntie.” Their faces fell when the will was read, leaving me her entire estate and three houses.
“Off to your rich auntie again?” My cousin Sophies voice dripped venom as I buttoned my coat in the hallway.
I stayed silent. Arguing was pointless. This was their morning ritual.
“Leave her, Soph,” Aunt Beatrice called lazily from the sitting room. “Shes busy playing the saint. Charity work, isnt it?”
Their laughter rang out, sharp and rehearsed.
“I just promised Aunt Elizabeth Id help with the windows before winter.”
“Those windows havent needed fixing since the Blitz,” Sophie shot back, stepping into the hall. “Wasting your youth on an old woman wholl leave you nothing but moth-eaten stockings. Thats a special kind of talent.”
Her eyes raked over my plain coat and shoes.
“Not everyone measures life by inheritance, Soph.”
“Oh, really? Whats your measure, then? Spiritual enrichment scrubbing floors in a council flat?”
I picked up my bag, packed with groceries for Elizabeth Whitmore and the new book shed asked for.
“My measure is helping someone I care about.”
“Cared about?” Aunt Beatrice gasped, appearing in the doorway, her face twisted with old resentment. “That darling sold Grandads cottageour familys hometo buy herself a posh flat in Chelsea! Shes never given a penny to anyone!”
There it wasthe root of their hatred. The cottage in the New Forest, built by Grandad for them all, which Elizabeth, as the eldest, inherited and sold after his death. To them, it was betrayal.
I studied their faces, contorted with greed and spite. Theyd never tried to understand her reasons. They didnt care about the bond I shared with my great-aunther sharp wit, her stories, her way of seeing the world.
To them, she was just an old woman in a faded dressing gown.
To me, she was the one who taught me to read, who pointed out constellations and named birds by their songs.
“Youll see,” Sophie hissed as I left. “Shell leave her flat to some cult. Youll get nothing. Just your precious goodness.”
The door slammed behind me, cutting off their voices.
Elizabeths flat smelled of dried lavender and old books. Simple, impeccably clean. She sat at the table, bent over a map of the Cornish coast, documents and a tablet with spreadsheets beside her.
“Ah, Clara, there you are.” Her eyes brightened. “Keeping busy, as always.”
“Whats all this?” I nodded at the map.
“Oh, just tidying up old affairs.” She smiled slyly, tucking away papersbut not before I caught “lease agreement” and “land registry.”
“More drama from the family?” she asked, reading my mood perfectly.
I shrugged.
“They count every penny, Clara. But they miss what matters. Ah welltheir loss.”
She took the book Id brought, her face lighting up. “Thank you, dear. Youre the only one who knows what I really need.”
Weeks later, Aunt Beatrice called, sickly sweet.
“Clara, darling! Hows our dear Elizabeth?”
I tensed. “Fine, thank you.”
“I was thinking Sophies friend, an estate agent, mentioned properties in her area. We ought to help Elizabethcheck her papers, make sure shes not being swindled.”
“I doubt she needs help.”
“But shes elderly! You should ask about her will. Family must look after family.”
Nausea rose in my throat. “I wont be asking. Goodbye.”
Next visit, Elizabeth was uneasy.
“A man cameclaimed he was from the insurance. Said the wiring was unsafe. But his questions About ownership, accounts, family. He kept hinting old people get exploited.”
Aunt Beatrices scheme. Cunning.
Later, Elizabeth took a call, her tone brisk. “No, Mr. Carlisle, we wont raise the rent mid-season. Reputations worth more than quick profit.”
She winked at my surprise. “Business, Clara. Small ventures.”
The breaking point came on my birthday. Elizabeth met me with trembling hands, tea untouched.
“Sophie visited. Said you complain about methat youre tired of waiting that you mock me behind my back.”
Theyd struck where it hurt most: our trust.
Something inside me snapped. All my patience vanished, leaving cold clarity. Enough.
I took her icy hand. “Its lies. You know that.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I do. But it stings. After what happened with your grandad”
She finally told me.
“When he died, your uncleBeatrices husbanddemanded his share. Immediately. My money was tied up in land near St. Ives. I begged for a year. He refused. So I gave him the cottage. And Beatrice spun it as theft.”
Their hatred was built on lies theyd crafted.
“Theyre not worth your tears,” I said firmly. “I wont let them hurt you again.”
The next day, I called Aunt Beatrice.
“You wanted clarity? Elizabeths unwell. Shes putting affairs in order. Come tomorrow at seven. Bring Sophie.”
“Has she decided something?” Greed tinged her voice.
“Oh, yes. Youll find it very interesting.”
At seven sharp, the doorbell rang. Beatrice and Sophie swept in, triumphant.
Elizabeth sat calmly at the table. I stood beside her. A stranger in a suitMr. Carlislewaited.
“Good evening,” he said. “Elizabeth wished to make a formal statement regarding her assets.”
“What assets?” Sophie scoffed.
“Elizabeth owns three freehold cottages in St. Ives. Plus an investment portfolio worth twenty times your current homes value.”
Sophies jaw dropped.
“Thisthis is a mistake,” Beatrice stammered.
“I lived as I pleased,” Elizabeth said coolly. “Money loves silence.”
Mr. Carlisle continued. “Elizabeth is signing everythingproperties, finances, this flatover to her great-niece, Clara Whitmore. The business transfers to her as well.”
Sophie shrieked. “Why her?”
“Family, Sophie, isnt those who wait for you to die to divide your things. Its who brings you medicine in the night.”
She looked at me, warmth in her eyes. “Clara saw me as a person. Never asked for a thing. So she gets everything.”
I signed without hesitation.
“This is illegal!” Beatrice screeched. “Well sue!”
“All documents are notarized,” Mr. Carlisle said smoothly. “And we have records of your inspectors visit and threats. Attempted fraud against an elderly person.”
He closed the file. Game over.
“You did this to yourselves,” I said, holding the door. “With your greed and lies. Get out.”
They left, crushed.
Elizabeth hugged me tight. “Well, Clara. Now we manage things together. Ready?”
I looked at the map. Justice had been served.
Epilogue
Six months later, I quit my job. Managing the cottages was all-consuming.
Elizabethnow my “business guru”was a brilliant mentor. Her council flat became our HQ.
We didnt move. She loved her neighbourhood. What changed was how we felt in it. I bought a new car but still brought her groceries and books.
Beatrice and Sophie sued. The case dragged on. They painted Elizabeth as senile, me as manipulative. Mr. Carlisle dismantled them with evidence. They lost, left with crippling legal fees.
They vanished. Rumor said Beatrice sold her house, moved to some dismal suburb.
Once, Sophie called. Empty apologies, begging for money.
“Youre right, Soph. Were relatives. But not family. Goodbye.”
I hung up. Some bridges must be burned.
One autumn evening, we sat on the terrace of “our” cottage in St. Ives.
“I never meant to amass wealth,” Elizabeth mused. “I just worked. Your uncle was clever. We wanted freedom, not mansions.”
She turned to me. “These houses, this moneytheyre not rewards, Clara. Theyre tools. To live as you choose, not as others expect.”
She grinned. “And to buy any book you fancy.”
I laughed and hugged her.
Wealth wasnt in numbersit was sitting with someone you loved, watching the sunset, knowing tomorrow was yours to shape. And that was worth more than gold.
