The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  I’m a woman, thought Logan. If nothing else, she hoped that Gabe seeing her with Seb Harwich might change his perceptions of her, or even make him a little jealous. Seb was twenty-one after all. That made Logan part of a bona-fide, grown-up couple.

  ‘Logan!’ Gabe’s voice shook her out of her reverie. Hurriedly slipping her eyeliner back into her pocket she emerged into the yard.

  ‘Good morning,’ she smiled cheerfully.

  ‘Have you tacked up Jack and Cornflake yet?’ Gabe frowned. He was wearing dirty jeans and a Guinness T-shirt. Two days’ worth of stubble clung stubbornly to his chin, and from the bags under his eyes it was clear he hadn’t slept well.

  He’s so handsome I could cry, thought Logan. If I were his wife, I’d take better care of him.

  ‘Not yet.’ She did her best to look smouldering.

  ‘Well pull your bloody finger out. The first lesson starts in ten minutes and it’s Lucinda sodding Prior. Her fat-arsed mother’s always looking for a reason to complain, so you’d better not give her one.’

  He turned and stalked off.

  Logan bit back her disappointment.

  She worked here now. She had the whole summer. And Seb Harwich to distract her in the meantime.

  Now, where did she leave those bridles?

  Angela Cranley sat alone at the dining table at Furlings, admiring the view over the rolling parkland. She rarely ate breakfast in the dining room. It was too big and grand and formal, especially for one. But this morning she felt in need of a pick-me-up, and the view across the idyllic Swell Valley never failed to provide it.

  I love it here, she reminded herself. This house, this village, this valley. It’s my home now.

  Since Jason had left home, Angela rarely had any company at breakfast time. If Logan was home from boarding school, she was usually still in bed at this hour. Although this morning she’d started her new summer job at the Baxters’ farm and had dashed off at crack of dawn. Brett had stayed in London last night, working. And the night before. He’d taken to staying in town more and more during the week. Angela oscillated between anxiety that once again the distance was growing between them, and relief at his absence. At least without Brett here she could enjoy her toast and Vegemite in peace, and without fear of a row erupting out of nowhere.

  Recently the fights with Brett had been particularly bad. They seemed to come in waves, and even after so many years of marriage, Angela didn’t really understand what triggered them, or why certain phases of their marriage were so much worse than others. Some of the flashpoints were constant – Jason and Tatiana being the most obvious one.

  Furious at their elopement from day one, Brett had not spoken to Jason since the day of his twenty-first birthday party. Jason and Tatiana were officially and permanently banned from Furlings, and when drunk or angry, Brett was fond of observing that he ‘no longer had a son’, a statement that upset Angela terribly.

  It made no difference to him that, against the odds perhaps, Jason and Tati’s marriage had lasted. That they seemed happy together, had started a highly successful business and led an independent, one might even say a gilded life, in London. Jason was now the successful businessman that Brett had always wanted him to be. But it had happened on his and Tatiana’s terms, not on Brett’s. He couldn’t forgive either of them for that.

  For once, Angela had held her ground and refused to allow Brett to cut her off from her own child. It was bad enough that he had banned Jase from the house and cut him out of his will. (Not that Jason needed his father’s money any more.) But he wasn’t going to rob the boy of his mother as well. Both Angela and Logan saw Jason and Tati semi-regularly, although these meetings were always in London and never overtly discussed with Brett. He knew about them however, and resented them deeply, considering Angela’s continued closeness to their son a betrayal.

  For her part Angela thought Brett’s grudge-holding was both childish and wildly unreasonable. The worst part was that he was hurting himself more than anybody. Angela could see how the distance ate away at Brett. How it made him feel abandoned and helpless, even though it was he who was perpetuating the rift. In the beginning she’d tried to comfort him and reason with him. But after a couple of years she abandoned the effort. Something had snapped in Brett the day that Jason married Tatiana. Whatever it was could not be repaired.

  In the beginning Angela had spent a lot of time wondering about what would happen once Tati got pregnant. Would Brett acknowledge his own grandchild? And if he didn’t, where would that leave the family? Leave her and Brett as a couple? But as the years passed and no baby arrived – no baby was even talked about, Angela learned to stop fighting ghosts. Jason and Tati seemed to be making a go of their marriage. It was up to her and Brett to do the same, whatever their differences.

  ‘Can I get you anything else, Mrs C?’

  Mrs Worsley appeared in the doorway with a fresh pot of tea on a tray. The housekeeper had aged in the last few years and was now a properly old woman who walked with a stoop and spoke with that permanent tremor unique to the elderly. Angela had grown very fond of Furlings’ housekeeper over the years. She dreaded to think how lonely she’d be without Mrs Worsley. There were days, weeks even, when she and Gringo, the arthritic basset hound, were the only living souls she spoke to. I really must get out more. Join some societies or something, she thought for the umpteenth time, relieving Mrs Worsley of the tea.

  ‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll have this and then I think I’ll take Gringo for a walk. It’s such a beautiful day.’

  ‘It is,’ the housekeeper nodded. ‘Set to be a scorcher, I reckon.’

  She was right. By the time Angela and Gringo reached the village stores, it was already eighty degrees outside, without a breath of wind to take the edge off the heat. Not that Angela was complaining. Fittlescombe High Street looked glorious, with its flint cottages and shops bathed in the amber morning sunshine, and its rows of front gardens full of hollyhocks and lupins and foxgloves and roses, their colours a dazzling patchwork against the bright blue backdrop of the summer sky.

  Mrs Preedy at the stores had thoughtfully left a bowl of cool water outside for her customers’ dogs. Gringo fell on it gratefully, his floppy ears swaying as he slurped away, while Angela went inside for a newspaper and an ice lolly.

  ‘A bit early for a Twister isn’t it?’

  Penny de la Cruz, Seb Harwich’s mother and one of Angela’s few real friends locally, tapped her on the shoulder. In a scruffy, Indian-print dress with bells on the bottom of it that would have looked frightful on anybody else, and a fraying straw hat, Penny somehow managed to look eternally youthful and happy. Perhaps marriage to a younger love-God cricketer was the answer?

  ‘I’m Australian,’ said Angela. ‘It’s never too early for an ice cream in our book. Want one?’

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ said Penny. Angela paid for the lollies and they both went outside.

  ‘We haven’t seen you for ages,’ said Penny. ‘Logan’s been over quite a bit recently, but you’ve been hiding yourself away as usual. What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Angela. ‘Logie got a summer job.’

  ‘At the stables. I heard. And how’s Brett?’

  The question was asked out of politeness rather than interest. Brett had made no effort to develop friendships with any of the locals, other than the occasional beer or game of pool with Gabe Baxter, who for some reason he’d taken a shine to. This was another factor in Angela’s isolation. If she’d been divorced or widowed, people could have invited her to dinner as a singleton. But no one knew what to do with a married woman whose husband never said yes to invitations, and who only entertained at home if he was throwing a party for hundreds.

  ‘He’s fine. Working,’ Angela said numbly.

  ‘You and I should get together.’ Penny squeezed her arm kindly. ‘Santiago’s playing almost every day at the moment, so I’m on my own a lot. Let’s have lunch.’

  ‘I’d li
ke that,’ said Angela.

  Dragging the reluctant Gringo away from his water bowl, she set off back towards Furlings. On a whim, she decided to walk past Wraggsbottom Farm and see if she could see Logan. She wouldn’t go in and embarrass her. Everything Angela did seemed to embarrass Logie these days. She was at that age. She’d just take a peek and reassure herself that the job was going all right.

  A few yards from the farm gates she stopped, ducking behind a parked car so as to remain out of sight. There was Logan, in a pair of jodhpurs that were far too tight for her and a half-buttoned white shirt, leaning against a wall and staring. Not doing anything. Just staring, like a hawk focusing in on a distant mouse, oblivious to everything else around it. Following her gaze, Angela saw Gabriel Baxter bending over the open bonnet of a tractor, a spanner in his hand.

  Shit, thought Angela, a momentary panic rising up within her. She’d thought – hoped – that all that was over. But a few seconds later, the lanky, bronzed form of Seb Harwich emerged from the tack room. Walking up behind Logan, Seb slipped his arms around her waist. Angela watched her daughter smile and turn into Seb’s embrace, standing on tiptoes in her riding boots to kiss him passionately on the mouth.

  ‘Oy!’ Gabe’s voice carried across the farmyard. ‘Get a room, you two. Better still, Seb, sod off. I’m not paying her to spend the morning snogging.’

  Seb and Logan both giggled. Angela sneaked away, feeling happier than she had in a long time. At least one member of the Cranley family had a love life that was on the right track.

  Gabe walked into the kitchen at seven o’clock that evening, dog tired.

  ‘You look shattered.’ Laura was shelling peas at the kitchen table. In a smocked maternity dress with little pink rose buds embroidered on the bodice, she looked quite different from her normal self, like something out of a Jane Austen novel. There was a serenity about her this evening, Gabe noticed, a sort of calm happiness that clung to her as she worked. As clichéd as it was, you might almost call it a glow.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, kissing her, suddenly feeling awash with happiness himself. ‘You look beautiful.’

  ‘You’re blind,’ Laura laughed. ‘I look like a whale.’

  Gabe pulled a cold beer out of the fridge and opened it. He started to tell Laura about his day, about Logan and the problems he’d had with the damn tractor engine going on the blink again, when he noticed she was staring smilingly into the distance and not listening to him at all.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He waved a hand in front of her glazed face.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m fine. Sorry. I had some news today. I went to the hospital.’

  Gabe put down his beer with a clatter. ‘The hospital? Why?’ He looked worried. ‘Was something wrong? Have you been having cramps?’

  ‘No,’ Laura beamed. ‘Nothing’s wrong. I went in for a scan and everything’s fine.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gabe’s shoulders slumped with relief. ‘Good.’

  ‘We’re having a boy.’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘Gabe?’ said Laura. ‘Did you hear me? I said it’s a boy. They gave me some pictures. They’re a bit blurry …’ Scrabbling around in her handbag, she pulled out a white envelope and handed it to him.

  Pulling out the pictures, Gabe looked at the pictures one by one. He still hadn’t said anything. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  Gabe looked up, his eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘Oh, darling! What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Gabe. ‘I’m just so happy. This is our son. Our son!’ He looked at the pictures in wonder. Then, putting them down on the table, he took Laura’s hand and pulled her up into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around her and their unborn child.

  ‘I’m taking you away next week,’ he said suddenly. ‘Somewhere romantic and amazing, where all you’re going to do is lie in bed all day and eat chocolates.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Sounds lovely. But who’ll take care of things here?’

  ‘Graham and the lads can manage things on the farm for a few days,’ said Gabe. Graham Dean was Wraggsbottom’s farm manager, a sort of first mate to Gabe’s captain. ‘And Logan can house-sit and feed the dogs.’

  ‘Logan?’ Laura raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Gabe. ‘I think the responsibility would be good for her.’

  ‘Hmmm, maybe. But will it be good for our lovely house? What if she clogs up the dishwasher or forgets to water my tomato plants? She’s not exactly domesticated.’

  ‘Your tomato plants will be fine,’ said Gabe. ‘Stop fussing. My son doesn’t like it.’

  ‘Oh, so he’s your son now, is he?’ teased Laura.

  ‘He’d bloody well better be,’ said Gabe. ‘I’ll text Logan now to let her know.’

  Up at Furlings, Logan was in the small family sitting room watching The Big Bang Theory when the text came through. She read it once, then twice, before hugging the phone to her chest and letting out a little squeal of delight.

  ‘What’s this? Romance blossoming?’ said Angela, walking in with a cup of tea and a Bounty bar and catching Logan’s gesture.

  ‘Yes, actually,’ said Logan, smiling back at her mother for once. She’d been terribly moody recently, no doubt picking up on the tension between her parents. ‘I think it might be. I’m wiped out though, Mum, it’s been such a long day.’ Relieving Angela of the tea and the chocolate, she slipped the phone into her pocket and kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘I think I’ll go up to my room.’

  She wants to text Seb Harwich without me looking over her shoulder, thought Angela happily. I must take Penny up on that lunch offer. See how Seb’s feeling about everything.

  Upstairs in her bedroom, Logan read Gabe’s texts another twenty times.

  He trusts me! He trusts me to take care of his house, to stay under his roof.

  He’s starting to see me as an adult.

  A friend.

  It wasn’t enough. But it was a start. More than that, it meant she’d be able to sleep in Gabe’s bed, to wash in his shower, to smell the scent of his skin on the sheets. She would open his drawers and read his letters and uncover his secrets.

  How on earth was she going to be able to wait another week?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jason Cranley sat on the therapist’s couch, staring at the botanical prints on the wall. He didn’t want to be here. But he’d promised Tatiana he would go. And the truth was, he had nowhere else to be this afternoon. Or any afternoon, for that matter.

  ‘What have you got to lose, darling?’ Tati had asked, in her usual confident, breezy, can-do voice as she rushed out of the door to work. It was the voice of someone who’d never been depressed, who’d never faced a challenge that she couldn’t overcome. ‘I mean, you’re not happy. Are you?’

  ‘No,’ Jason agreed.

  He wasn’t happy.

  ‘And the pills alone aren’t working?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why not try something else?’

  Because it won’t work. Because I’m tired. Because I can’t explain to a stranger how I feel when I don’t know myself.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Give it a whirl.’ The forced cheerfulness in Tati’s voice was the aural equivalent of having blinding light shone directly in your eyes. Jason winced.

  ‘You have to take responsibility for your own life you know, darling. Let me know how it goes.’ And with a slam of the door, she was gone.

  So now Jason was here, on a stranger’s couch.

  The therapist looked at him kindly. ‘Where would you like to start?’

  She was in her fifties, slim and blonde and attractive, with an open, compassionate face that reminded him of his mother. Instantly, embarrassingly, Jason felt his eyes welling up with tears. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids to stop them from flowing.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, confidently but with none of Tatiana’s briskn
ess. ‘Perhaps we should start with your childhood? Family history, that sort of thing. Where did you grow up?’

  ‘Australia,’ said Jason. About as far away from here as it’s possible to be. Sometimes he wished he could blame his current malaise on homesickness. He did feel it sometimes, that primal longing for sunshine and blue skies and the open, outdoorsy life he remembered from his childhood in Sydney. London could be so relentlessly rainy and grey. But then he reminded himself that he’d brought his sadness with him when his family relocated to England. Whatever was wrong with him had been wrong with him for a long, long time.

  The truth was – and this was one of the hardest parts to understand – that his life now, with Tatiana, was everything he’d always wanted. At least on paper. Jason and Tati lived in a beautiful townhouse just off Eaton Gate, which Jason had renovated and decorated exactly as he pleased, with no arguments from his wife. Tatiana was too busy building up her business: a prep school called Hamilton Hall that had become an overnight success, both academically and as a money-making machine.

  Tucked away behind Sloane Square, in a converted hotel, Hamilton Hall charged fifty per cent higher fees than all of its smart London rivals. For this astronomical yearly sum, it scooped up all of the wealthy London families whose offspring had been rejected by the traditional top-tier schools, often for such trifling reasons as low academic ability. Tatiana threw Oxbridge-educated teachers and a rigorously old-fashioned teaching style at the problem – she had basically copied Max Bingley’s approach to the letter – and spat the children out at the other end with the top eleven-plus exam results in the country. Indeed, in the four years since Hamilton Hall had first opened its doors, it had leapfrogged to the top of the independent schools rankings with a speed that had astonished and horrified its competition in equal measure. What was Tatiana Flint-Hamilton doing with these kids? How could a non-selective school possibly achieve such consistently excellent results?

  Tatiana was coy in her answers to these questions in the apparently endless series of profiles written about her and Hamilton Hall by the national press. The Sunday Times, Vogue, Londoner Magazine and even Vanity Fair had all featured Hamilton Hall’s beautiful headmistress and her handsome, elusive young husband in their hallowed pages. The Vanity Fair article in particular had done wonders for the school’s reputation abroad. When asked how long the Hamilton Hall waiting list was by the magazine’s reporter, Tatiana had responded robustly: