The Forgotten Gift. Kathleen McGurl

       George Britten, 1874

       Extract from the last will and testament of George Thomas Britten

       … 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!

       Chapter 1

       Cassie, present day

      The staff room at the sports centre was tatty and tired, its furniture functional at best, but it was one of Cassie’s favourite places. That and the Red Lion pub where she and the other staff often adjourned to at the ends of their shifts. Today, Cassie was working the early shift. She’d started at seven a.m., acting as lifeguard to cover the early morning swim session. She was due to finish at four, and after a half hour in the gym and a relaxing swim, she’d be heading straight to the pub along with Toby and Shania, who’d worked the same shift.

      Now, she was on her lunch break in the staff room, sitting on one of the plastic and steel chairs with her feet up on another.

      ‘Shift your feet,’ said Shania, arriving for her break. ‘God do I need to sit down or what?’

      ‘Tough class?’ Cassie asked. Shania ran many of the fitness and Zumba classes. A more energetic job than being a lifeguard and general centre attendant, Cassie had always thought.

      ‘Yeah.’ Shania twisted open a bottle of fruit juice and downed half the bottle in one. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth she looked at Cassie. ‘Hey, did you see Who Do You Think You Are? last night?’

      ‘The one with the fella off the soap opera? Yes, I saw it.’ Of course Cassie had seen it. She was obsessed by genealogy – both watching the TV shows where experts traced celebrities’ ancestry, and investigating her own. It’s what she did on her days off. She didn’t have much of a social life beyond the sports centre.

      ‘His face, when they told him his great-great-grandfather, or whoever it was, had been convicted of murder! It was a picture!’ Shania looked thoughtful. ‘Wonder how it feels, though. I mean, what would you feel if you discovered one of your ancestors was a crook or a murderer?’

      Cassie shrugged. ‘Don’t know. It’d be weird, knowing those genes are in you. But if the ancestor was distant enough, the genes would be watered down.’

      ‘I suppose it’s that old nurture or nature argument, isn’t it? What makes you who you are – your ancestors or the way you were brought up?’ Shania got up and went to retrieve her container of salad from the fridge. ‘Anyway, would you tell me if you found a bad boy or girl amongst your ancestors?’

      ‘Probably. You know I tell you everything, darling,’ Cassie replied with a wink. As she said it, she wondered about the will of her great-great-great-grandfather that she’d recently come across in her latest genealogical searches. He, George Britten, had apparently bequeathed a valuable item – a mirror set with sapphires and pearls – to the wife of a prison chaplain, as well as making the chaplain a generous financial payout. Why, she had no idea, as yet. Presumably the chaplain had been a good friend. But if so, why did the will specifically refer to him as ‘Chaplain of Millbank Prison’ and not just by name? And what did it mean in recognition of his friendship and support during my time of greatest need?

      It was possible, she had to admit, that George Britten had been an inmate of that prison at some point. Finding out if that was true, and if so, what crime he had committed, was high on Cassie’s list of topics to research, when she had some spare time.

      Shania laughed. ‘Great – I will look forward to the juicy gossip, then. Speaking of which, are you going to the pub tonight?’

      ‘Of course I am! I’m going to the gym and having a swim after work, then I’ll be in the Red Lion by about seven. See you there.’

      It was a regular event – at least once a week after work Cassie would meet up with her colleagues in the pub. Who turned up depended on who was working the evening shift, but today it was all her favourite people. Shania, of course, there before Cassie and already installed at their favourite table with a large glass of Prosecco for herself and a pint of Theakston’s Old Peculier for Cassie.

      ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Cassie as she sat down and picked up her pint. You knew you had the best ever friends when they knew exactly what you liked to drink, and had the drink ready and waiting for you.

      A few minutes later they were joined by Andy, the sports centre manager, who bought himself a pint of lager before pulling up a stool. ‘Hey, my favourite girls. How are we?’

      ‘Your favourite women are all good,’ Cassie replied. ‘Seriously, Andy, we are both in our thirties. Time to stop referring to us as girls.’

      Andy grimaced. ‘Oops, sorry. Lost a few feminist points there, didn’t I?’

      ‘You did, yeah.’ Cassie put on a stern face. ‘But we will let you off, if you buy the next round.’

      ‘Sure. Want it now?’

      ‘Definitely. Before you forget and try to wriggle out of it.’

      ‘I’d never do that.’

      As Andy got up and went to the bar to order the drinks, Shania turned to Cassie and laughed. ‘You twist that poor man around your little finger, Cass. He’ll do anything for you. It’s probably actually my round – he bought two rounds last week and I bought none.’

      ‘Ssh. Don’t ever turn