Nobody’s Girl

by Tania Crosse

  Every muscle in Meg’s body froze. Even her brain was numbed, and she had to force it to think. Too young to hold the tenancy? She’d been so busy proving to everyone that she was perfectly able to run the farm that the thought hadn’t entered her head! Even the solicitor Mrs Stratfield-Whyte had taken her to see hadn’t mentioned it.

  She watched, dumbfounded, as Mr Briggs wriggled uncomfortably on his seat before rising to his feet, leaving his tea only half drunk. ‘I can see it’s come as a bit of a shock to you. But I suppose they thought an intelligent girl like you would’ve realised. Anyway, my dear, I really am sorry, but I’m here to give you a month’s notice. But if we don’t have a new tenant lined up by then, you can keep the farm a bit longer. I can see you’re managing admirably.’

  ‘B-but what about the rent?’ Meg’s mind suddenly snapped back into action. ‘Dad’d paid the next six months.’

  ‘I know. And you’ll get the relevant amount back. But, in the meantime, I’m afraid you’d better start making plans. Right, well.’ Mr Briggs picked up his hat from the table, turning the brim round in his hands and suddenly desperate to get out of there. ‘I’ll see myself out, then. And I’m truly sorry, my dear, but there’s nothing I can do about it. But we can’t have you thrown out on the streets. Have you got somewhere you can go?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll find somewhere, don’t you worry,’ Meg snapped back. But then she wished she hadn’t. Mr Briggs was a kindly soul when all was said and done.

  ‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ he murmured, and, clearly embarrassed, he turned away.

  Meg didn’t move. She wasn’t even aware of Mr Briggs scuttling out through the back door. All she was aware of was the sledgehammer pounding in her chest. Lose the farm, all she had left of her life? All she had left of her mum and dad?

  Why had no one told her? She trawled her memory, clutching at straws, desperate to prove Mr Briggs wrong. And then she pictured the solicitor’s earnest face. Did she have enough cash to cope with the farm until everything’s settled? That was the phrase that stung into her mind. That’s what everyone had meant, wasn’t it? They assumed she knew. And then her conversation with Ralph Hillier the morning after the accident took her by the throat. He’d tried to tell her, hadn’t he? And she’d shot him down in flames.

  Oh, dear God. What was she to do? Where was she to go? The farm was her home. She’d been born and raised there. She felt lost, the final scrap of the rug wrenched from beneath her feet. Defeated. Her world had fragmented into dust, and even Mercury’s doleful eyes as he rested his muzzle on her knee could bring her no comfort. The spirit had finally died inside her, and a strangled howl broke from her lungs.

  Thirteen

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’

  Meg hadn’t meant her voice to sound so caustic, but she was helpless against the anger and devastation that suddenly overwhelmed her once more. She’d spent the last twenty-four hours fighting against the news Mr Briggs had brought her. She wouldn’t accept it. It couldn’t be true, not on top of all the other tragedy that had crushed the life from her. But she knew in her heart that it was. And she knew the answer even before Mrs Stratfield-Whyte spoke.

  ‘Oh, my poor child, we assumed you realised.’ The woman’s voice was soft with compassion. ‘Mr Chillcott and I, well, we decided it’d be kinder not to bring the matter up until after the funeral. I’m just so sorry I didn’t have the chance to discuss it with you first. I didn’t know Mr Briggs would be coming back so soon.’

  Meg glared at her, jaw set with bitterness. But then with a huge sigh, she collapsed down into a chair on the opposite side of the kitchen table from where her visitor was seated.

  ‘I suppose I should’ve known,’ she moaned dejectedly. ‘And at the back of my mind, I probably did. But it just seemed at the time that the most important thing – the only thing left to me – was to keep the farm running.’

  She raised her hands in bewilderment, sighed again and then, leaning her elbows on the table, dropped her head into her hands. At that moment, it felt as if she never wanted to move, never wanted to face the world, ever again. It would be wonderful to be swallowed up into a bottomless abyss, never to emerge. The nothingness of the ensuing silence was somehow comforting, as if there was no world for her to face.

  All was so quiet, so still, she wondered if Mrs Stratfield-Whyte had decided it was best to creep out and leave her alone. It almost took her by surprise, then, when several minutes later, she felt a hand close gently around hers.

  ‘I know.’ A voice, almost like an angel’s, wafted about her. ‘Grief feels like an emptiness that can never be filled. And it never can be. Not by the person you’ve lost. The feel of them. Their voice. Their smell. But they’re in your heart. And little by little, you remember the good things. And even though you can’t bring them back, you become grateful for the wonderful times you had with them.’

  Meg hadn’t wanted to listen, but the words were so understanding, so carefully and thoughtfully chosen, that they caressed her shell of grief like silk. Despite herself, she began trying to make sense of them. It really did seem that the older woman had experience of such sorrow herself, and Meg supposed she was of an age when she’d probably lost her own parents at some point in the past.

  ‘D’you really think so?’ a tiny voice – was it hers? – whispered at length.

  A moment or so passed before the answer came. But when it did, it was strong with conviction. ‘I know so. It doesn’t seem so at first. It takes… a long time. Perhaps years. The wound never heals, but believe me, it becomes less painful with time.’

  Slowly, Meg lifted her head and met Mrs Stratfield-Whyte’s gentle gaze. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she murmured. ‘But if I lose the farm, all those memories will go with it.’

  ‘No, they won’t. They’ll be with you always. But you will have to leave the farm. Mr Briggs was right in that, I’m afraid. Have you… any idea what you’ll do?’

  ‘Do?’ Meg was torn between sarcasm and despair, but Mrs Stratfield-Whyte was ready to steady the conversation with practicalities.

  ‘Well, as Mr Chillcott explained,’ she went on in a more matter-of-fact tone, ‘you’ll at least be financially secure. Once any bills are settled, the proceeds from everything you sell from the farm – livestock, feed, expected yield from any crops already sown, any furniture and household goods – will all be yours. And the claim against our insurance is progressing well. They’re waiting for the outcome of the trial, but as you know, that’s only a couple of weeks away. And whatever happens there, Mr Chillcott reckons you’ll get as much from the claim as if your parents were still here to support you until you’re twenty-one. You’re a bright girl. Have you thought about going to college, for instance?’ She flashed Meg an encouraging smile. ‘But don’t rush into anything. Take your time. If there’s anything we can do to help, you only have to say. You could even come and live with us at Robin Hill House, if you wanted. As our guest, of course. You’d be more than welcome.’

  ‘Live with you?’ Meg’s eyes stretched wide, all the rancour returning. ‘You must be joking! When this is all – well, not exactly your fault, but if you hadn’t been on the road—’

  ‘Yes, I fully understand. But the offer will always be there should you ever reconsider. We have around forty acres of land. With a few dairy cows and a small flock of sheep and goats.’ Clarrie gave what she hoped was a persuasive lift of her eyebrows. ‘And Mercury would be most welcome to join our menagerie of animals. Anyway, think about it.’ She rose purposefully to her feet. ‘If only as a temporary measure while you decide what to do. Now, I know Mr Chillcott is going to want to talk to us all again before the trial, so I’ll let you know when. But if you want to talk to me before then, you know where I am. And I truly am sorry about the farm.’

  Meg gazed up at the reserved, elegant woman and the genuine concern etched on her face that was still pretty despite the passing years. Meg’s lessening resentment melted furthe
r and she nodded briefly.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Stratfield-Whyte,’ she muttered.

  ‘Oh, do please call me Mrs C. Everyone does. That’s C for Clarissa. And, oh, my dear, let me say once again that I do so wish none of this had happened,’ Clarrie sighed under her breath in such a way that it was like a secret confession meant only for her own ears. And Meg reflected that, had she spoken the words herself, they could not have been more heartfelt.

  *

  Wigmore exchanged glances with Nana May and then drew in his chin in order to peer at his wife over the rim of his spectacles. ‘D’you think that was wise, my dear? It’d be a constant reminder for both of you.’

  ‘I know. And that’s why I don’t expect her to accept. She’s a very proud young woman. But I do like her, and perhaps she could find some peace here, just as I did. And I don’t think she has anywhere else to go. So I simply had to make the offer. You do see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ But Nana May frowned wisely. ‘But how would you really feel about it yourself? And how d’you think she’d fit into the household?’

  If Clarrie had any doubts, she wasn’t going to voice them. ‘She’s a bright girl, hardworking, and I believe would’ve been perfectly capable of running the business side of her farm as well, had she been allowed to keep it on. So I believe she’s intelligent enough to fit in any way she pleases. Besides, even if she did come, I think it’d only be for a short while.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Wig’s brow creased into a frown. He took off his glasses, put down his newspaper and came over to crouch down in front of his wife. ‘And what about you? She isn’t Marguerite come back to us, you know,’ he said gently, glancing across at Nana May again as he took Clarrie’s hands. ‘And if she proved difficult – and let’s face it, she hasn’t exactly been docile, has she? – it might upset you terribly, and that’s the last thing I’d want.’

  Clarrie sucked in her cheeks. She knew that penetrating look of his. Knew there was no escape. ‘Yes, I know she’s not Marguerite. I’m well over the shock of knowing she has the same name. But I’ve had a lot more dealings with her than you have. She’s very much her own person, I admit, but she’s a lot less hostile than she was at first. I actually rather admire her. For someone so young to be in her situation, she’s coping remarkably well. Most would’ve gone to pieces and expected to be taken care of. But not Miss Chandler. She very definitely wants to be in charge of her own destiny. But I do still very much feel I want to help her.’

  ‘And what do you think, Nana May?’ Wig asked.

  The elderly lady pursed her lips. She knew that if Clarrie had her heart set on something, something as important as this, she could be deeply hurt if she was denied it. ‘Well, I think it’s done no harm to invite the poor girl. It’ll have shown her that we care, if nothing else. And if she accepts, all well and good. In fact, I’ve heard so much about her, that I’m rather looking forward to meeting her.’

  Wig released a pensive sigh. ‘Then so be it,’ he said, albeit somewhat ruefully.

  He straightened up and stood for a moment, gazing down on his wife and rubbing his finger across his lips. He really wasn’t at all sure about this scheme of hers. What if the girl came to them and then gave them merry hell? It would break Clarrie’s heart. He just hoped and prayed that Miss Chandler declined the offer. He couldn’t bear to see Clarrie hurt again. They really had managed to bury the past. Clarrie had dedicated herself to creating a wonderful home at Robin Hill House, ready for the new family they were expecting to start. When the longed-for children never arrived, she continued to lavish her love and affection on the house and garden. The years of work had brought her some sort of inner peace, and Wig didn’t want it all ruined. On the other hand, he did feel sorry for poor Meg Chandler. She’d been through hell and didn’t appear to have anywhere else to go. But Clarrie’s mental welfare would always remain paramount in his mind.

  ‘I’ve some letters I need to draft tonight, Clarrie, love,’ he announced, trying to disguise his concern. ‘I’ll try not to disturb you when I come up.’

  ‘All right, my dearest. Don’t work too late.’

  Wig bent to kiss the top of her head, and then she watched him leave the room, listening as he crossed the hall to the study. Tonight of all nights, she’d miss the closeness of his goodnight cuddle as they snuggled down in the grand four-poster bed, and she’d have to contemplate alone the challenge of taking Meg Chandler under her wing. She doubted the girl would take up her offer, but she’d relish the situation if Meg stayed for just a short while and she could try to make up in some small way for the devastating circumstances the poor child was having to face. And maybe, if she made her welcome enough, she would stay with them permanently.

  For, despite what she’d just said, Clarrie did still feel as if Meg was their little Marguerite returned to them by some miracle of fate. She hated lying to Wig, and she knew he was right. But she couldn’t help how she felt. She’d tried so hard to forget, to lock the pain away. But it was always there, like an underground river. But perhaps this young girl, this young stranger, could fill the emptiness that still ached in her heart.

  *

  ‘Nathaniel Green, given the nature of the country lane you were travelling along, the weather conditions, and the statements of witnesses from both the motorcar and the farm cart, it is clear that you were driving at excessive speed for the road conditions. There is also no evidence whatsoever that the farm cart was being driven in anything other than a proper manner, and on such a country lane, you should have anticipated encountering slow farm traffic. You are therefore found guilty of Reckless or Dangerous Driving under Section 11 of the Road Traffic Act 1930, and hereby sentenced to six months’ imprisonment and to be disqualified from driving for a period of five years. You are further ordered to pay costs of twenty-five pounds. Given the consequences of your actions, consider yourself fortunate.’

  A murmur of approval rippled through the courtroom, but Meg’s brain made no sense of the judge’s words. Throughout the trial, her gaze had been drawn to the odious sight of the man who had killed her parents and destroyed her life. Green’s defence had tried to argue that Duchess was far too skittish to be trusted on a public road if she tried to bolt at the slightest traffic, but Mr Chillcott had already prepared statements from other local farmers and people from the market who had known the animal for years. Even Mr Briggs was ready to step into the witness box and testify to Duchess’s placid nature, so the argument had been totally quashed.

  The judge’s face had been inscrutable throughout the proceedings, but as he had delivered the verdict, his expression was stern and uncompromising. His words, though, had been but a jumble in Meg’s head, and it wasn’t until a police officer appeared at Green’s side and clapped a set of handcuffs on his wrists that the judge’s meaning became clear.

  Meg realised she’d been holding her breath, which was probably why she felt dizzy. She began consciously to breathe normally again, waiting for relief to spill over her. It didn’t. Whatever satisfaction there was in seeing Green sent down, the sentence seemed precious little for her parents’ lives and the sorrow she’d have to endure always.

  Through the sickening faintness that threatened to engulf her, she suddenly became aware of a kerfuffle coming from the dock. She glanced across to see Green struggling to turn back towards the court, and throwing a look of vicious hostility directly at her, he yelled, ‘I’ll get you for this!’ before the policeman dragged him down out of sight.

  Meg burst into tears.

  The next thing she knew, Mrs C had enveloped her in her arms, and she was happy to cling onto the good lady until she managed to bring her sobs under control.

  ‘There, there, don’t you worry about him,’ Clarrie crooned, passing her a handkerchief that Meg noticed absently smelt of expensive perfume.

  ‘Idle threats,’ Wig growled from his wife’s other side. ‘Don’t forget we’ve both just given evidence against him, too. If you have an
y trouble from him in the future, he’ll have me to deal with. Come along now. I expect Chillcott will want a word with us now it’s over.’

  Meg sniffed and dabbed at her nose, but it took a huge effort and an enormous breath before she was able to walk unsteadily out of the courtroom.

  ‘An excellent result.’ Outside, Mr Chillcott bustled up to them. ‘They’ll resume the inquest now and there’ll undoubtedly be a verdict of unlawful killing due to gross negligence. And I’m sure the insurance claim will be settled quickly now, too. Rest assured I’ll be pressing for every penny.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Clarrie broke in, ‘even if it is effectively our insurance. But I don’t think Miss Chandler is in any state to hear about such matters just now. I’m sure she could do with a good strong cup of tea. I know of an excellent tearoom in the town where we can all sit down and relax. My dear?’

  But Wig shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, I need Vic, our new chauffeur, to drive me back to London. There’s something I simply must sort out this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, I expect I can find a taxi to take Meg and myself home. Mr Chillcott, I’m sure we can rely on you to keep us abreast of matters?’

  Accepting his dismissal, the solicitor gave a sharp nod of his head and marched efficiently away. Meg couldn’t help but feel relieved. Mrs C was right. She suddenly felt utterly drained. And although she knew that later in the day she would at least need to see to the animals back at the farm, just now all she wanted was to collapse into a chair, and a nice cup of tea certainly wouldn’t come amiss!

  ‘Shall we?’

  Mrs C was smiling encouragingly at her, and not for the first time, it struck Meg that, despite their obvious status, the older couple could be remarkably down-to-earth. A tearoom in town. Not a posh hotel of which there were more than one. Despite herself, Meg was thinking that, given the circumstances, she was lucky to have such people to support her. And just now she was happy to be led quietly away.