by Sasha Morgan
Tobias grimaced and poured himself another malt from the bottle propped up by the bath. Having given himself a few more minutes to soak, he stood up, letting the water run off his muscular torso and down his long, lean legs. He wrapped a towel loosely round his hips and made his way into the master bedroom. It was tastefully decorated with pale walls and heavy tapestry drapes, and a large four-poster bed stood in the middle of the room.
There was a knock on the bedroom door. Entering, the butler hesitated on seeing Tobias dressed only in a towel round his slim hips, revealing a dark hint of hair. He coughed and averted his gaze. ‘Excuse me, Lord Cav—’
‘Henry, how many times? Call me Tobias. You have known me since I was three years old.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, it’s just that the late Lord Cavendish-Blake always insisted—’
‘Well, the current one doesn’t,’ cut in Tobias.
Henry handed over a freshly pressed dinner suit. Tonight was to be a formal affair with guests representing his mother’s charities. It struck Tobias as rather paradoxical, believing charity should begin at home. Instead, his mother headed up various charitable organisations, and Tobias feared Treweham Hall could well be the next charity case if he didn’t put plans in place immediately.
‘Sir, Mr Fox rang earlier.’
‘Did he indeed, and what does the old Fox want now?’ replied Tobias with a smile, dropping his towel and stepping into boxer shorts.
‘Er… asked if you would be available tomorrow, sir.’
‘And am I, Henry?’ Tobias slid his pressed black trousers over firm, shapely thighs.
‘I… believe you have an engagement with English Heritage, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, so I do.’ Now his biceps were inserted into a crisp white shirt, he began buttoning the front over his wide, dark chest. ‘Could you assist?’ Tobias looked directly at Henry, sticking his arms out. ‘Cuff links.’
‘Ah, certainly, sir.’
Once dressed and prepared, Tobias braced himself to face the evening. This was going to demand some effort, but, as he was learning fast, when duty called he must respond.
*
Dinner had been a long drawn-out affair. Finally the last of the visitors had left, leaving Tobias alone with his mother. He tried to be as sensitive and diplomatic as he could, but the message had to hit home: the family were in grave financial difficulties. Beatrice sat and listened, dumbfounded, and a tear trickled down her pale, powdered cheek.
‘I had no idea,’ she eventually whimpered.
Tobias took a deep breath; it killed him to see her like this. ‘I will do everything possible to keep us afloat, but we’ll all have to make drastic sacrifices, Mother,’ he warned gently.
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll cancel my Caribbean cruise?’ she offered, arching a hopeful eyebrow.
‘That’s a start. We really need to draw in the purse strings and expand where we can to generate income.’
‘But how?’ replied a confused Beatrice.
‘We’ll have to sell some of the paintings, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, but not the Turner? That was a present from Daddy,’ she pleaded.
Tobias held back the retort they were all bloody presents from Daddy, which is why they were in this fucking mess. His patience was wearing thin.
‘I’m sorry, Mother, the Turner’s the most valuable.’
She looked down to her gold court shoes and chewed a quivering lip. ‘You mentioned expanding…’
‘We’ll need to invest more in the land. At the moment our vegetable gardens and orchards only provide produce for local businesses. We have to grow, develop new products, market them, brand them with the Treweham Hall name, give them a logo, our coat of arms, perhaps. I propose we renovate the old stable block into a farm and craft shop, maybe a country café, too.’ Beatrice looked horrified. ‘I believe the Prince of Wales has done something similar at Highgrove,’ Tobias added quickly, thinking on his feet. That seemed to appease her.
‘Has he really? Well, putting it like that…’ Her gaze was distant, considering, then her shoulders straightened and she forced her chin out. ‘Yes, it’s what Daddy would have wanted, to battle on through adversity.’
The corners of Tobias’ mouth twitched. ‘The family is renowned for its fighting spirit,’ he encouraged.
‘Absolutely, darling, absolutely.’ Then, pausing, she turned to face him. ‘But not the Turner.’
Chapter 4
Megan was functioning on autopilot, dully going through the motions and trying her utmost to be strong for her mum. Megan had always had a close relationship with her gran, being the only granddaughter, and had played a central role in her life. The quietly spoken old lady had had a gentle air about her and was aptly named Grace. Megan pictured her gran’s cosy cottage deep in the Cotswolds, with its crackling open fire. Often she would sit and watch its flames dance whilst listening to Gran humming peacefully to the radio in the kitchen. Megan remembered being tucked up in the bedroom under the eaves, being read bedtime stories. She had loved staying at Gran’s. It made a refreshing change to be in the heart of the lush countryside, in sharp contrast to the suburbs of the Midlands. It had been a magical hideaway to her as a youngster, where she and Gran would walk along the leafy lanes, through the verdant forests that smelt of wild, earthy garlic, and pick bluebells. Megan smiled, remembering toasting bread on a long fork by the open fire and stacking chopped wood by the front door for it to season. As she grew up, the pull of staying there grew stronger, the cottage acting as a bolt hole in which she could hunker down and pour out her troubles to Gran, who would always listen patiently, nod her head at the right times and then offer sensible advice, which Megan undoubtedly took.
She only once brought Adam to see her gran, cringing at the impatient way he had been desperate to leave, obviously never intending to stay long as he drank his coffee quickly and started to drum his fingers edgily on his knees. They were staying at a nearby country inn for the weekend and Megan couldn’t resist calling at Gran’s on the way. Adam, begrudgingly appeased her, but made it patently obvious he considered it an inconvenience. Grace easily saw behind the false smiles and niceties, as for once his charm hadn’t worked. After that embarrassing meeting, Megan never took him back and in turn her gran never asked after or even mentioned Adam.
Grace’s funeral was desperately sad, yet so poignant. She had lived a long and eventful life, which her family were determined to celebrate. Her ninety-three years had seen her survive a world war in which she had been a land girl. Gran often regaled them with stories of the scrapes she and a close-knit group of girls had had living in their land hut. Megan recalled the sepia photographs of them huddled together on haystacks, laughing, wearing overalls and polka-dot headscarves. Soon after the war she had married Michael, Megan’s granddad. There they had stood, outside on the registry office steps, Granddad in uniform and Grace elegant in a turquoise satin tea dress. Megan’s mum had been born very shortly after, a honeymoon baby, they would proudly announce. Little Molly was their absolute joy. Gran had a habit of hoarding, which interested Megan; she enjoyed searching the memorabilia that evidenced her gran’s life. Grace had had a spell in a cotton mill, in a grocery store, on a farm and, later in life, had trained to be a corsetière. Megan recollected the full-length mirror she used to measure her ladies and often wondered what else it had seen: Granddad in his smart, one and only navy-blue suit standing proudly with his daughter on his arm, ready to give her away on her wedding day; Mum looking radiant in white lace, full of happiness, yet maybe a touch apprehensive at leaving her childhood home and her parents. Perhaps that’s why Mum married rather later than average for her generation, thought Megan, such was her reluctance to part from her doting parents. A fire at the brewery where Granddad worked had tragically cut short his life. The raging flames that had been started so carelessly by a discarded cigarette had soared through the hops store and surged mercilessly through to the brewing room, catching the busy working m
en unawares until it was too late to escape. The rampant fire had not only robbed five men’s families of their husbands and fathers, but had also devoured their bodies, leaving the bereft without even graves to visit. Megan vaguely remembered the memorial service, clutching her mum’s hand and staring in bewilderment at all the crying people wearing black.
Now here she was again, only this time she was also dressed in black, staring into her fine bone-china tea cup. Gran would have approved of the small country hotel that was hosting her funeral tea.
She suddenly became aware of her brother talking. ‘Megan, they want a word with us.’ He gently tapped her arm.
‘Oh, right.’ She blinked back the tears that threatened and quickly followed Chris into a small anteroom where her parents and an official-looking man in a dark suit were sitting beside a bureau. Megan assumed, from the papers that lay scattered in front of him, that he was the solicitor overseeing her gran’s will. He had obviously spoken to her parents before summoning her and Chris.
‘Please, do all take a seat.’ He ushered them towards the table and chairs. Once they were all seated he cleared his throat. ‘I act as the executor for Grace and I’m here today to explain her will and its contents. Your mother and father were already aware of what Grace wanted for her family, in fact they had previously discussed it together at length, so I am able to inform you both today of exactly what has been agreed.’ He coughed rather piously. ‘Christopher, you are to inherit her shares, to the value of £150,000.’
Chris’s jaw dropped. ‘But I never thought she had…’ he stammered.
‘She didn’t want you to know, Chris,’ Mum interrupted quietly, then glanced towards the solicitor to continue.
‘Megan, you are to inherit Bluebell Cottage.’
‘We’d rather you both have everything. Me and your mum don’t need it and Gran wanted to give you two the best start she could,’ Dad explained.
Megan stared in disbelief. Bluebell Cottage, the beautiful, cosy little safe haven that had acted as a refuge throughout her childhood, was now hers. Megan’s eyes swam until slowly the tears began to tumble down her pale cheeks. It was Gran’s last gesture of love, providing a fresh base, a new future, away from Adam and the office, with all its whispers and gossip and a job that she had gradually grown to hate. Megan glimpsed freedom, the tightening in her chest slowly released and she began breathing deeper. Hesitation mingled with excitement, as she dared to dream about the beginning of a new chapter in her life. A fresh start in the village of Treweham.
Chapter 5
‘Mr Fox and Mr Delany to see you, sir,’ announced Henry to Tobias, who was busy perusing paperwork behind his desk. Seeing his old friends made a welcome break from all the depressing figures stretched out before him.
‘And what brings you two here?’ he smirked, then added, ‘Thank you, Henry, that’ll be all.’ Henry nodded and left the study. Tobias got up to join the two men. Seeing these close friends he’d known since childhood lifted his spirits. They’d never changed, in their ways or looks: Seamus, with his swept-back copper-red hair, freckles and ready grin; Dylan with his dark gypsy looks, black curls and piercing blue eyes. Together they had made a formidable force, forever challenging the authorities of their public schools, earning them early reputations, which had carried on into adulthood.
‘Good to see you, Tobias.’ Dylan Delany slapped him on the back.
‘Surveying the estate?’ enquired Seamus Fox with a raised eyebrow.
‘What’s left of it,’ answered Tobias drily. His eyes fixed on the brandy sitting on the sideboard. ‘Fancy a drink?’ It was 11o’clock in the morning.
‘Why not?’ Seamus sat down on the sofa and stretched his legs out, whilst Dylan sat in the Chesterfield chair, rubbing his hands together.
‘Yeah, never too early for a snorter.’
Tobias collected cut-glass tumblers from the side and poured three generous brandies, handing two to his friends. He plonked himself next to Seamus Fox. ‘Cheers,’ he saluted them, and downed it in one. Seamus frowned, sensing all was not well with his best friend.
‘What’s wrong, Tobias?’
Tobias looked gloomy for a moment then stated flatly, ‘We’re broke. The estate’s fucked.’ A short silence followed, until Dylan spoke.
‘Listen, I can lend you—’ He was interrupted by Tobias’ harsh laugh. Though Dylan Delany was Champion Jockey, not even his money would touch the colossal funding that the Hall desperately needed. It wasn’t thousands, it was millions.
‘Thanks, Dylan, but there’s a Third World-size debt to clear. I can’t believe my father has got us into such a state.’
Seamus frowned again. ‘But it all looks fine, everything as it always was.’ He was commenting, of course, on all the plush surroundings and well-tended grounds, the staff quietly going about their duties. To all intents and purposes it did look like business as usual, but Tobias knew full well what lay beneath the façade.
‘That’s because he borrowed so much money to keep the Hall ticking over. My business alone can’t support it.’ He shook his head in despair. Tobias had started his own company years ago, buying old, dilapidated buildings, renovating and selling them at astronomical prices. Freshly renovated barns with a modern twist – skylights, mezzanine balconies, streamlined, sleek fittings – were all the rage in areas such as the Cotswolds, as were the crumbling historical houses that were transformed into high-class apartments. It amazed Tobias just how quickly and expensively these properties sold. But even the profits that he had stacked up could hardly touch the debts Treweham Hall was accumulating. He paused, then turned to Dylan. ‘But thanks for the offer anyway.’
Dylan looked troubled. He hated to see his old mate like this, so glum, a far cry from the lovable rogue he knew so well. Seamus was racking his brains to find a solution to his friend’s dilemma.
‘What can you sell to raise emergency funds?’ He, too, had thought of giving Tobias support. His family owned a racehorse training yard, with stables of top thoroughbreds earning them thousands. However, he knew Tobias too well to offer him money. It wasn’t the way he operated. Beneath the playboy exterior that the media had been so keen to portray lay a gentleman at heart.
‘Paintings. I’ve arranged for five pieces to be auctioned, which should raise immediate cash.’
Seamus nodded in acknowledgment.
‘I’m due a race soon,’ Dylan chipped in. ‘A substantial wager would bring in the bacon.’
Tobias grinned. ‘What if you lose?’
‘I never do, not when it matters,’ replied Dylan with confidence and a wink. Dylan’s ocean-blue eyes twinkled with mischief. He was fiercely competitive and his athletic physique made him the hugely successful jockey he was. His ancestry dated back to Romany travellers, and he attributed his gift of the gab to this, as well as his success with the ladies. Dylan Delany was a real catch, everyone knew that, but the trouble was he refused to be caught. He weaved his way through various relationships, ducking and diving, avoiding any commitment. The more unobtainable he became, the more he was desired.
Dylan had a reputation and it took some upholding. He couldn’t help it if he loved women. He genuinely did like their company. He appreciated their femininity, the way they dressed so elegantly, their fragrance, their beautiful shiny, long hair, or sassy short hair, for that matter – he liked both. He was a sucker for any damsel – he was only human, after all. But deep down Dylan was a decent man and hated to see one of his close friends in any kind of trouble. Seamus was equally protective of his best friend.
‘True,’ agreed Seamus, ‘but it’s too much of a risk in the current climate.’
Dylan looked at him. ‘Says the Fox for whom I’ve made a fortune.’
‘True again,’ said Seamus with a laugh. Fox was a fitting name for him, with his ginger hair and sly, cunning wit.
‘Sometimes I feel like selling the whole bloody place, lock, stock and barrel to some rich American… throw in the title, too,
’ moaned Tobias.
‘Surely it’s not that bad,’ sighed Seamus. He’d grown to love Tobias’ home, spending many a childhood summer there, and he smiled wistfully remembering the scrapes they’d got into. He’d also grown to love the family, who always made him feel so welcome. In later years Treweham Hall had acted as a temporary retreat when he had fallen out with his father. Sean Fox was a formidable force. He had a driving ambition where his horses were concerned, and ran his stables with a cast-iron fist. Although he loved both his sons, he wouldn’t tolerate any form of subordination and treated them as he would any other member of staff, strictly but fairly. A young Seamus didn’t agree with his father’s authoritarian methods and his defiance had got him booted out of the Fox household. The Cavendish-Blakes came to the rescue, giving him the full use of the Gate House on their estate. This had proved to be the perfect solution, especially to Seamus’ mother, whose desperate pleas to bring Seamus home had been totally ignored by her hardened husband.
‘Do you remember my stay in the Gate House?’ Seamus chuckled.
‘No, I remember when you lived in the Gate House,’ retorted Tobias.
‘Well, yes, perhaps I did rather outstay my welcome.’
‘You were there for two years, Fox.’
Then suddenly Tobias’ face lit up with a flash of inspiration. ‘The Gate House! That’s it.’
‘What?’ replied Seamus and Dylan in unison.
‘Combine my business with the estate. Renovate the Gate House and sell it. It could fetch a fortune.’
‘Bloody hell, you’re right,’ agreed Seamus.
‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ said Dylan. He’d always loved the Treweham Hall estate and its many places they had played in as youngsters. It was here, right in the old stables, that he had first developed his love of horses. After encountering the Cavendish-Blakes’ thoroughbreds, he had been bitten by the bug and had longed for a career involving these magnificent animals. His grit, pure determination and natural competitive streak had led him to the world of horseracing. On impulse, he longed to go back to where it had all started.