I was so touched and astonished I just sat there for a while, looking down at the bedraggled posy, gently separating out the bruised stems of pansies, primulas and buttercups from a few straggling pieces of grass. The little boy must have been clutching them tightly all morning. Eventually I fetched a jam jar for them from the cupboard and putting them carefully in water I set it on the front of my desk.
I noticed Paul’s face light up a little at the sight when he returned to the classroom, but for the rest of the day he sat in silence and at the end of school he shot off on his own before any of the other children had left their desks.
I was still debating what had happened after I had had my supper that evening. I was sitting by the open window reading in the last of the daylight when there was a knock at the door.
It was James Danefield again. But this time he was wearing an open-necked shirt, and he carried a large bunch of red roses.
‘Miss Stanley. I am sorry to call so late. I wonder if I could have a word with you?’ I saw his eyes drop immediately to my feet which were yet again bare. ‘I …’ he hesitated. ‘I want to apologise.’ His face reddened slightly and I saw what a tremendous effort it was for him to say it.
Standing in front of the fireplace as he had before, still holding the roses, he smiled at me for the first time.
‘I had a word with Mrs Greville who lives next door to me. Her son shares a desk with Paul, I believe. She seemed to agree with your view of Paul. So I tackled the wretched child about it and he admitted having lied to me, and having been badly behaved and rude to you. I hope you will forgive us both for our ill manners.’
He looked amazingly like Paul as he pushed the roses at me, half smiling, half embarrassed. I almost expected him to turn and run away as his son had done, but he didn’t. He sat down on the sofa.
‘I owe you an explanation,’ he said, pulling a wry face. ‘My wife and I have been separated for some time, and our divorce came through six months ago. She remarried recently and Paul feels it very badly. She doesn’t really want anything to do with him, you see, although he does visit her once a fortnight.’ He paused, as though looking for words. ‘I think Paul was misbehaving because he wanted to attract your attention. He was seeking affection, although he was going the wrong way about getting it.’ He glanced up at me under his long eyelashes. ‘Besides telling me that you beat him …’
‘I never did,’ I interrupted indignantly.
‘I realise that now. But besides that, you know, he told me you had hair the colour of polished conkers and that you were very beautiful. Quite discerning for a child of eight, I should say.’ He grinned and I felt myself blushing scarlet.
‘But of course,’ he went on, ‘he also said that “Miss” had this terrible temper, which goes with hair the colour of conkers.’
‘And I obligingly proved it for him last time you came over.’ I was contrite. ‘It’s I who should apologise, Mr Danefield. I should never have said those things to you, even if they were true. Poor little Paul. I should have realised there was something wrong.’
‘Please, call me James.’ He stood up and held out his hands to me. ‘Will you have dinner with me on Saturday? We’ll forget all our mutual apologies and start again from the beginning, and we can work out a plan for what to do with my errant son.’ He smiled down at me and I could feel myself melting in the warmth of his charm.
Of course I should have said no. I should have insisted on a strictly parent–teacher relationship and politely sent him on his way. But I found myself smiling back at him. ‘I’d love to,’ I replied. ‘Thank you for asking me.’
‘Fine. I’m glad.’ He beamed at me. ‘But there is just one thing.’ He hesitated and I saw a mischievous look come into his eyes. ‘The restaurant where I plan to take you has some really rather nasty gravel in the front. It might be advisable, possibly, to wear some sort of shoes …’
He was already making for the front door, but the cushion I threw caught him on the shoulder. Laughing, he picked it up and tossed it back. Then he was gone.
I gathered up his beautiful roses and almost danced into the kitchen to find a vase for them. Perhaps my job at Sherbridge was not doomed to a premature end after all. And perhaps … But I was not going to build any dreams just yet. I would just wait and see what happened.
A Family Affair
PART ONE
Thankfully I closed the door on the dusty New York street and ran up the steps to my cousin’s apartment.
‘Minna?’ I called as I let myself in. ‘Would you believe, Martin has let me come home early!’
I worked for Martin George, the world famous ecologist and TV personality, and I adored the job, but the hours were long and erratic: my work had to be my whole life, except for Chris of course. Chris and I were close, but not lovers. Maybe that would come later, but for the moment he was that rarest of animals, a male friend. And for once I could call him and tell him I could make it, shower and actually have time to relax for five minutes before he could get from his advertising offices on Madison Avenue to the brownstone where I was temporarily sharing my cousin’s apartment.
‘Minna, are you home?’ Puzzled by the silence I checked my watch. My cousin’s job was as regular as mine was variable and she should have been back an hour before.
Then I heard a sob.
I ran into the living room and found her, with her head in her arms, on the couch. She was crying.
‘Uncle Julian phoned from England,’ she sobbed.
‘Pa?’ I stared at her, feeling cold fingers run down my spine. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Grandfather. He’s dead!’
Stunned I sat down beside her, unable to say a word, and silently we held hands. Grandfather had meant so much to me. With my mother dead, and my father virtually an invalid from a bad heart, Grandfather had brought me up, his home at Kingley Manor my home, his world my world. Only in the last few years as I had grown up and he had become frail had he allowed Pa and me to move out of the manor house into one of the old farmhouses on the estate.
When I had recovered enough I rang my father back. ‘He died in his sleep, Kate,’ he assured me. ‘It’s the way he would have wanted to go. And he didn’t want you to fly back for the funeral. “Tell the kids to hold a wake with the air fare money when I go,” you know yourself that is what he said.’
Strange that home-loving Grandfather’s three grandchildren should all be living in the States when he died. I, because I followed Martin and my job around the world, Minna because she had never lived in England – her mother had married an American, and she was as American as the Empire State Building, and Richard. Our cousin Richard Bradshaw, the only son of Grandfather’s only son, an enigma, and if the gossip columnists were to be believed, a jet-setting millionaire, lived somewhere near Boston. Neither Minna nor I had ever met him, and neither of us thought of contacting him now. If he had wanted to keep in touch with his family, no doubt he would have done so, but like his father, who having met and married the Boston-born heiress to the Bay View millions had cut off all contact with Kingley, Richard had never as far as I knew made any attempt to see Grandfather, or visit the family home.
So the shock was doubly great when the will came through. Pa had phoned us again as soon as he knew what it said. ‘Minna has been left Gatehouse Farm and the home Paddocks, and some money,’ he shouted down the phone. Father always shouts on telephones. ‘And you, sweetheart, get our beloved Kingley Farm and also the whole of Kingley Woods and the Marshes – and some money too.’ He chuckled.
‘And the main estate?’ I asked. ‘The manor house?’
There was a short silence. ‘Richard gets all of that,’ he said bleakly. ‘Richard gets everything else!’
‘It’s so unfair!’ Minna stamped her foot when I told her. ‘What the hell has he done to deserve it! He never even visited grandfather! And he’s as rich as Croesus already!’
Privately I agreed with her, but I was so overjoyed with my
own bequest, our home and the woods and marshes I had adored since I was a child, that I didn’t think too much about the main estate. Neither Minna nor I were business-minded, nor were we farmers, and I had always secretly thought the manor house too big and spooky ever to be really a home. If Richard were a businessman, he could run the estate and welcome.
Chris, when I mentioned my cousin to him, to my surprise knew all about him, and he whistled.
‘He owns half of Boston, for Chrissake,’ he said, when I told him over a hamburger lunch about the Bradshaw inheritance. ‘Hey, Katie honey, you’ll soon be out of my class!’ We laughed together as we walked hand in hand down the street, and suddenly I began to feel better about grandfather’s death. He would not have wanted me to grieve.
‘So, you’re a rich girl now,’ Martin said jovially when I told him my news. ‘You won’t want to work for me any more!’ He looked at me, his ruddy face twisted with mock sadness, his gold-rimmed spectacles twinkling, and I laughed.
‘Of course I will, you know that. And I’m not rich. The money wasn’t all that much, but I haven’t told you the best bit.’ I could hardly contain my excitement. ‘I now own Kingley Marshes!’
He stared at me. ‘Do you now,’ was all he said. It was enough. In the world of conservation that name was famous – the last resort of several endangered species of flowers and butterflies. ‘We’ll do a TV special on it,’ Martin said, and I was overjoyed.
Two days later Martin and I had to fly to Palm Beach and between spells in the conference centre and the sweltering TV studios I managed to find time to go shopping in anticipation of my money coming through, to buy what Martin laughingly called ‘rich-lady’ beach clothes, and to lie on the sand collecting what I hoped was a fairly respectable tan. By the time we were back in New York my hair had bleached out to honey highlights and I was quite proud of the way I looked. But my happiness was short-lived.
Minna had disappeared.
Frantically I called everyone I could think of, appalled at the smelling mouldy food I had found in the kitchen, and the unmade bed in her room, which was so unlike her, but no one knew where she was. She had not checked in at work for over a week. In the end, after tearfully consulting Martin and Chris I called the police department.
They were not interested. So many people disappear in New York, what was one more to them? They confirmed that her body had not been identified in any morgue, nor was she in any hospital as far as they knew, and presumably they slotted her name into a computer and forgot about her, leaving me shivering at all the unimaginable horrors which might have happened to her as I prowled the apartment and waited.
I had to wait two days before the phone rang.
‘Hi! Is this Katherine Parrish?’ a deep, unfamiliar voice drawled.
Listlessly I said that it was.
‘My name is Dave Conway. I’m PA to your cousin Richard. Listen, Kate. Can you get up here to Salem? Minna is here, it’s kind of a family reunion, and Richard would so like to meet you …’
I had already stopped listening. Minna was safe! And the enigmatic Richard Bradshaw had at last come out of hiding.
Martin agreed to give me a few days off – we had long ago decided that he owed me months and months of overtime if truth were known – and Dave Conway arranged to pick me up by car. ‘I’m in New York on business, and I have to make one short call on my way back, but I’d sure like to have your company,’ he said. I needed no persuading.
Deliriously happy now, I whirled round the apartment, cleaning it like a new pin – I hadn’t had the heart before – and then I set to, organising myself. I spent some more of that not-yet-arrived money on some new clothes and fashionable shoes, I had my hair done, and I was ready.
Dave was due to pick me up at Martin’s downtown office and exactly on time a beige Cadillac slid to a halt outside the building.
Dave was tall, very thin, with grey hazel eyes, and utterly charming. I felt relaxed with him at once. He admired our chaotic office, shook hands with Martin, who responded with his usual warmth, and at last he bent to pick up my two new bags. I was following him out of the door when one of the telephones rang, and automatically I reached for it.
‘Kate? Thank God I caught you!’ It was Minna. Her voice sounded strangled and hysterical.
‘Minna? What is it? Where are you?’ Astonished I stared down at the receiver in my hand, then I put it back to my ear.
‘Kate! For God’s sake don’t go. You mustn’t –’ There was a gasp and the line went dead.
I replaced the receiver and stared up at Dave. ‘That was Minna,’ I said. I had gone cold all over.
He was watching my face closely and I had the sudden feeling that he knew exactly what Minna had been trying to tell me.
‘Poor Minna,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid she has not been well. How did she sound?’
I saw Martin’s worried frown in the distance, but my eyes were taken up with analysing Dave’s expression. ‘She sounded hysterical,’ I said cautiously. Minna was one of the calmest people I knew.
Dave nodded. ‘She has had some kind of a virus up at Bay View. She is on the mend though, you’ve no need to worry.’ I wanted to believe him, but a strange foreboding was tugging somewhere at the back of my mind. It did not last however as Dave gave an apologetic grin. ‘She was so sure she was infectious, poor thing, that is why we didn’t call, you up before, but the doc says she’s not. I guess it’ll do her more good than anything else to see you.’ He stooped once again to pick up my bags.
I had no reason not to believe him. Reassured, I said goodbye to Martin and followed Dave down to the car.
As it slid silently and effortlessly through the heavy New York traffic and out onto the freeway I sat back in my seat and prepared to enjoy the journey. Dave was a good companion, handsome, amusing, strangely gentle in some ways for a high-powered businessman, and prepared to talk about his employer.
‘He never saw his family in England,’ I explained. ‘I expect Minna told you. So he is a great mystery to us all. What’s he like?’
He pondered a minute, swinging the car out to overtake a huge truck. ‘He’s quiet; strong; clever; a bit of a loner.’
‘He’s not married?’ I asked innocently. I knew that much. Every gossip column invariably described him as ‘eligible bachelor millionaire Richard Bradshaw’ but I wanted Dave to confirm it.
‘Nope; he’s not married. And not likely to.’ For a moment his good-natured grin vanished. Then it was back. ‘He lives mainly at Bay View, but he has houses in France and Long Beach too.’ He guided the car expertly round a long bend. ‘You’ll love Bay View. It’s an old colonial place; our English guests always feel at home there.’ He gave a throaty chuckle. I was liking Dave more and more. He made me feel relaxed and happy and I forgot my nervousness about meeting my millionaire cousin at last.
We stopped for lunch at Hertford, then Dave had a short meeting at one of the office blocks in the city centre. Afterwards we drove on through the hot afternoon towards Boston.
Bay View was every bit as breathtaking as Dave had promised. Entirely surrounded by a high wall, on the edge of the ocean, the estate was invisible from the road. We slowed before the enormous iron gates and miraculously they swung open before us, closing as soon as we were through. We drove up the long tree-lined drive and there was the house.
It was a large, square, white-painted building with three storeys topped by an elegant balustrade. Innumerable windows flanked by immaculately painted shutters, porticoes and pillars marked it out as a beautiful piece of early nineteenth century architecture. The velvet lawns, glorious grounds and clustered stables and outbuildings showed it was the home of a very rich man.
We swept up to the front door and drew to a halt. As Dave helped me out of the car the door was opened by the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was tall and painfully thin, with high, angled cheekbones and enormous dark eyes. She stared down at me from the top step. ‘So, the country c
ousin is here,’ she said softly.
I was stunned by the hostility which oozed from her as we stared at each other and I could sense that I was going scarlet, feeling already gauche in the pale linen dress of which I had been so proud.
‘Let me introduce Jacqueline Overton,’ Dave said quietly at my elbow.
Taking a deep breath I held out my hand as I mounted the steps. The woman’s clasp was ice cold. ‘I am Richard’s fiancée,’ she said.
I felt my mouth drop open. His fiancée? Why had Dave made no mention of a fiancée; surely he had said that Richard was unlikely to marry? I turned to him reproachfully but already he had moved to the back of the car to fetch my cases and I found myself entering the huge cool hall, carpeted with scattered Persian rugs. Jacqueline went without pause towards the sweeping staircase and mesmerised, I followed her.
‘Richard is not back from Boston yet,’ she said over her shoulder as she went up ahead of us. She had a way of talking in short, clipped sentences which required no reply. I was aware suddenly that Dave was no longer anywhere in sight.
I cleared my throat tentatively. ‘How is Minna?’ I enquired. ‘I had half expected her to be on the doorstep waiting for me.’
Jacqueline stopped so suddenly that I almost bumped into her. ‘Minna?’ she said.
I was two steps below her on the stairs, and she looked down at me with withering scorn.
‘She is here, isn’t she?’ I said. I could hear the uncertainty in my own voice.
‘No,’ she said. ‘She’s not here,’ and she resumed her way upstairs.
I followed her, almost running. ‘But she phoned me! David said –’
‘What did Dave say?’ She turned on me again. ‘Minna Munro is no longer here. Richard didn’t need her any more.’ I thought she was going to say something else, but after a second she merely turned and continued up the stairs, leaving me to follow her, all my doubts and suspicions flooding back. If Minna wasn’t there, where was she, and why had she tried so desperately to phone me?
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