The Perfectly Imperfect Woman

by Milly Johnson

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I came over here to offer help, not take it.’

  ‘We have all been a little rocked by Emelie’s passing,’ said Lionel. ‘Two extraordinary women gone in a ridiculously short time. She will, of course, be laid to rest here, next to her friend Lilian.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea,’ said Marnie.

  Derek sniffed, pulled a handkerchief the size of a quilt cover out of his pocket and blew his nose. He was clearly very upset too and gave his eyes a discreet wipe.

  ‘We thought we should have the funeral on Saturday – the sixth of August. That was the day that Emelie came to live in Wychwell in 1941.’

  The sixth of August. Of all days.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Marnie, immediately cross with herself for saying something so lame. But Lionel agreed with her.

  ‘It is nice, Marnie. A balance. We take comfort in balance and serendipity when there is none other to be found.’

  ‘Is there anything you need? For Emelie?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Lionel. ‘Herv has taken Pammy to the funeral home with an outfit. Mr Wemyss has communicated Emelie’s wishes for the service. It’s all in hand, but thank you.’

  ‘We should have a tea back at the manor, Lilian would have wanted that for her,’ said Marnie.

  ‘That would be very kind,’ said Lionel.

  Marnie nodded. ‘Well, if you think of anything, you know where I am.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Marnie started walking away, then she turned. ‘Lionel, do you . . .’

  ‘Do I . . . ?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  It was not the time nor the place to ask about Lilian’s trip to Ireland or Margaret Kytson’s whereabouts. Later. She’d do it later, after they had laid Emelie to rest.

  She went up to the manor then. No one was there, she could tell that as soon as she stepped inside. The house felt different when it was occupied, as if it were more alive. Ridiculous notion, she knew. She made herself a coffee and took it through into the dining room where the ledgers were waiting on the table. She found the one labelled 1980–1990 on the spine and flicked through the pages until she came to the 1983 entries and started there. Working forward she searched for something, anything, that might give her more clues about what was happening in the estate, the year she was born. She and Herv had stuck Post-It notes everywhere to remind them of how they had deciphered the ridiculous looping handwriting, or on the parts where entries had been written in pencil which had blurred or faded and they’d attempted to fill in the blanks.

  There, in January of 1984, Marnie found an entry for The Sisters of the Immaculate Conception Hospital, Connolly, Ireland. They had seen it, but it hadn’t flagged up as anything more than a legitimate donation from the estate, albeit a large one. A charitable donation of ten thousand pounds, to be exact.

  Chapter 44

  It was Herv who dug Emelie’s grave in the end because Derek had put his back out tidying up the churchyard. It was now the day before the funeral and Herv hadn’t seen Marnie since they had come back from the hospital. But she hadn’t left his mind.

  He felt the pull on his muscles as he lifted the earth loaded on his spade. Emelie had been right, he should never have taken Kay Sweetman at her word, a woman who would have stretched the truth until it fitted the best shape to harm Marnie. And he shouldn’t have barked at Marnie asking her if it was true: could he have insulted her any more? If the roles had been reversed, wouldn’t he have been hurt that she hadn’t raised the matter with him directly before finding her guilty and condemning her? Wouldn’t he have attacked her aggression with more of his own?

  He’d acted like a brute, an idiot, storming in demanding answers for things that weren’t any of his business to ask, going against his own principles and practices. He’d always judged as he found first-hand, prided himself on his loyalty – and yet he’d treated Marnie as if she were Tine wounding him all over again.

  And then she had seen him with Suzy walking out of his cottage the morning after the night before. Oh boy, he really occupied the moral high ground. His eyes had flashed at Marnie’s for the briefest moment and yet they had still registered the hurt in her eyes.

  He plunged the spade into the ground. It wasn’t an easy dig, full of stones in this part of the churchyard. But it would be a perfect growing place for Emelie’s beloved Edelweiss.

  After the funeral, he would apologise properly to Marnie and ask her if they could sit down and talk. He would open up his heart and say what he felt, and how much he wanted her to let him love her. And she could take it all as slow as she liked.

  Emelie’s funeral was simple and beautiful. Her coffin was covered in a chaotic but lovely display of edelweiss that Una had arranged. That caused a Mexican wave of raised eyebrows in church because no one had actually realised that Una could lift up her hands.

  In Lionel’s eulogy he recounted how Emelie and her family had escaped the Nazi regime in Austria after the Anschluss, how they had fought prejudice and won the hearts of people in the village (Titus cleared his throat at this point as if in subconscious disagreement) and how her father had saved countless lives with his work for the British intelligence service. He told how she had found a great friend in Lilian, how they would no doubt be gossiping and taking tea now, because they both found so much happiness with each other; affection, acceptance, joy.

  Lionel reminded everyone to venture up to the manor for refreshment. Then Mr Wemyss hijacked his speech and asked if all could please attend now because the owner of Wychwell had decided that his identity should no longer remain a secret and would be revealed today.

  Chapter 45

  Up at the manor, over a fabulous buffet which the Oldroyds had prepared, there were many twitterings of displeasure that the mystery owner of Wychwell should disrespect Emelie’s day to claim the focus. He wasn’t doing himself any favours, that was for sure.

  Herv wandered over to Marnie in the dining room. She was pale as Emelie’s funeral flowers, he thought. Drained and tired and her green eyes had no shine in them today.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. He had words crowding in his mouth to offer her but all he could manage was that.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, struggling to resurface from her thoughts, awful thoughts which had never really left her but she had been able to hold them at bay – mostly. But not on this day. Not the sixth of August.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Herv said, after a ridiculously long impasse. ‘Can I . . . can we . . .’

  She looked far away, as if she had receded to a small dot inside herself. He wasn’t even sure she could hear him. ‘Marnie?’

  ‘Sorry . . . yes. What did you say?’

  ‘Can we talk?’

  She nodded but asked, ‘What . . . what about?’

  ‘I owe you a huge apology,’ he said. ‘I should have . . . I know this isn’t the right time but it couldn’t wait. I’m really sorry. I wanted you to know that.’

  Titus blustered past them and out of the door. ‘I’ll be damned if I’m waiting half an hour for everyone to finish their bloody sausage rolls. Wemyss, it’s time for this nonsense to end. Come on, let’s get this over with.’

  The Parselows followed him into the drawing room, then the Courts, then everyone else. For once, Titus had spoken for them all.

  Johnny and Derek had been quickly moving chairs from other rooms in order for everyone to sit down. Titus claimed a seat right in front of Mr Wemyss who had taken up his position at the desk, the scene almost a direct lift from the last time they had all been here after Lilian’s funeral. It was Titus, powered by his impatience, who called for order. Johnny tapped Marnie on the arm, indicating that he had put a chair behind her. She thanked him. She found herself next to Hilary, whose husband had not thought to secure her a place at his side.

  ‘So, to business,’ said Mr Wemyss, taking so long to remove his glasses from their case and loop them around his ears that Marnie suspected he was doi
ng it to annoy Titus.

  ‘The new owner of Wychwell decided that today would be the day—’

  ‘Oh cut to the bloody chase, man,’ bellowed Titus.

  Mr Wemyss glared murderously at him.

  ‘Very well, I shall indeed cut to the chase, Mr Sutton. The entire estate, ownership and management of Wychwell, manor, lands, residential and commercial properties et cetera belongs to Miss Marnie Salt. That fast enough for you?’

  Marnie heard her name but her brain didn’t register anything else because it was all too much to take in. Not even when the babble arose, not even when all eyes were turned to her and the air was so full of déjà vu she could barely pull it into her lungs.

  ‘I knew it. It was her all along, the duplicitous bitch,’ Titus shouted.

  Marnie’s head grew suddenly light to the point of dizzy, as if she had fallen from a great height at breath-taking speed with ten-kilo weights tied to both legs.

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Mr Wemyss, his booming voice crushing the cacophony. ‘Lilian Dearman left Wychwell to Emelie Tibbs, Emelie bequeathed it upon her death to Miss Salt.’

  ‘Emelie Tibbs?’ spat Titus with disbelief. ‘Why would Lilian have left it to her? If that doesn’t prove the stupid old cow was not of sound mind, nothing can. Hence the will must be null and void.’

  ‘Because Emelie was her friend, Mr Sutton,’ said Mr Wemyss, adding with heavy sarcasm, ‘an unknown quantity to you, no doubt.’

  ‘So Lilian the loon left my forefather’s estate to a bloody foreigner? A Naz—’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ Lionel was on his feet, his arm extended. ‘Don’t you dare call Emelie that word or disrespect Lilian’s name again.’

  ‘Well you would defend her, wouldn’t you?’ laughed Titus. A cruel, derisive sound, totally devoid of humour. ‘You were in love with Lilian Dearman all your bloody life. Strange how Wychwell has ended up with her now, isn’t it?’

  As Titus nodded towards Marnie, Lionel lunged at him, his intention clear. Had Herv not thrown himself in the way, Lionel’s fist would have been covered in Titus’s nose.

  Mr Wemyss, calling for calm from the front of the room, had no chance. He might as well have been Canute ordering back the sea.

  ‘Bloody lunatic,’ said Titus, straightening his waistcoat. ‘I’ll be contacting the bishop about your behaviour. Now – and in the past. And you know what I mean by that, Lionel Temple.’

  ‘You vile man,’ Lionel roared at him and even Herv had difficulty holding onto him.

  ‘Come on, Hilary,’ Titus strode past them all towards the door and beckoned his wife with a series of finger clicks. But Hilary did not budge an inch, she remained seated with her handbag resting on her knee.

  ‘Hilary,’ he demanded.

  ‘No, I’m not going anywhere.’

  Titus stopped in his tracks and glared at her.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Hilary stared him straight in the eye and said, ‘You heard me. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Humiliation thrown in with nonsense was too much for Titus who made a grab for his wife’s wrist. He was pulling her from the chair until Marnie karate chopped him mid-arm and he was forced to let go with a yelp. She noticed that Herv had moved to her side, ready to wade in, if required.

  ‘Hilary. Now.’ Titus was grinding the words through his teeth.

  She was resolute. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Then you won’t be coming back at all,’ he snarled and threw open the door so hard that it banged into the wall panelling.

  ‘You’re right. I won’t. I’m leaving you.’

  The room fell silent. A sea of jaws dropped open.

  ‘Whaaat?’

  Hilary, in a cool, quiet voice, with no shake in it whatsoever, repeated every syllable slowly so it sank in.

  ‘I. Am. Lea. Ving. You.’

  Realising she was serious, Titus immediately switched from a bullying track to a face-saving one. He looked his wife up and down imperiously and sneered.

  ‘Not before time, you ridiculous creature.’ He took a step out of the door but Hilary’s next words arrested him.

  ‘At least I’m not a thief.’ Then she stood and addressed herself to everyone. ‘I had no idea of the extent of my husband’s corruption. I had no idea he had taken your monies and invested them in idiot schemes, I had no idea he had been stealing from the estate, draining Lilian’s finances, creaming from the very people in whose midst we live until I started my own investigations recently. I cannot bear to think you must all have thought me as guilty as he is and I will make sure, I promise you, that you will get every penny back that he has embezzled from you.’

  Titus’s face grew so red, it was a wonder it didn’t burst into flames. He opened his mouth to protest, decided there were no words so turned on his heel and was gone from them.

  Hilary didn’t so much sit back down as collapse on the chair as hubbub erupted on a grand scale. Mr Wemyss let it continue for a while, hoping it would burn itself out, but it didn’t so he brought his fist down hard on the desk and said, ‘Now that particular scenario has ended, I’d like you all to bugger off so I can speak to Miss Salt in private.’

  Chapter 46

  The room emptied silently like an assembly hall full of admonished children. Marnie couldn’t look at them as they filed out. Her focus fell on the cabinet full of Lilian’s artefacts once broken and mended with gold. Imperfectly perfect. Or was it perfectly imperfect? Lionel was last out of the door. He closed it gently behind him and gave her a smile of support.

  ‘Come closer, dear,’ said Mr Wemyss, beckoning her forward from the back of the room to the chair which Titus had occupied, still warm from his great fat body. ‘I expect this has come as quite a shock to you.’

  ‘Bit of an understatement,’ she answered.

  ‘Congratulations, Miss Salt. You are now the Lady of the Manor of Wychwell. You can’t sell it, of course, but the revenue it raises will all be yours and your heirs’. I understand you are already quite au fait with its potential.’

  Marnie’s mouth opened to ask questions, but it was as if they were all rolled up into a hard ball that refused to budge from her throat.

  ‘Why . . . why me?’ was all she eventually managed.

  Mr Wemyss pulled out an envelope pressed between the pages of his notebook. It bore Marnie’s name on the front, in old lady spider scrawl.

  ‘This should explain. Or, at least lead to the explanation.’

  ‘Can I open it now?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Marnie hesitated. This, she suspected, was a life-changing moment. This was when she found out if she was a Dearman herself. If it was more than coincidence that she shared the dark, green-eyed looks of the woman who had her portrait on the staircase and that her birth date matched that of Lilian’s pregnancy. Her heart felt as if it was beating in her mouth when she slit the top of the envelope open with her finger. She lifted out the heavy hammered sheet of paper, unfolded it and read.

  My dear Marnie,

  If you are reading this, then I am with you no more. But I die knowing that Wychwell is in the safest of hands, of that I have no doubt now. Lilian was right to trust you.

  I have written the full story in my journal, but let dearest Lionel tell you, in his own words, about us.

  I wish you a long, healthy and happy life and one full of love. God bless you.

  Your great friend Emelie Tibbs x

  Lionel. Why Lionel. About us? Who is us? She was no more enlightened and felt the crush of disappointment deep in her chest.

  ‘Emelie was a very wealthy woman, Marnie,’ said Mr Wemyss. ‘Her family might have arrived from Austria with nothing but the clothes on their backs, but her father was a shrewd investor and taught his daughter how to play the markets well.’

  Mr Wemyss handed a sheet of paper to Marnie.

  ‘The bulk of the money is bequeathed to the Wychwell estate to help with the rebuilding and upkeep. The sums earn
ed from Emelie’s literary works are to be for your personal consumption. I will prepare a breakdown for you in due course.’

  Emelie’s literary works. So, she was Penelope Black, Marnie had been right all along.

  She read the figures on the paper and the numbers started to swim around. They could rebuild London with that amount, never mind a piddly little village in the middle of the Dales.

  ‘Why . . . I don’t . . . why did Emelie live in a tiny damp cottage then if she . . . she had this?’

  ‘I think you should let Lionel Temple explain everything to you,’ said Mr Wemyss, reaching down for his briefcase. ‘I shall be in touch re the transfers of money and various other paperworks of which there are many.’ He stood and held out his hand and Marnie lifted hers to meet it.

  ‘Lilian and Emelie spoke very highly of you, Miss Salt. Enjoy your good fortune. It is a unique one and I hope a tide-turner.’

  Marnie sat on the chair in front of the beautiful desk and she thought, I own that desk now. She owned the carpet it was sitting on, the room it featured in, the manor in which it was housed. And the lake, the lands, the farm, even Titus Salt’s house. Everything. She owned the beautiful Japanese Kintsugi pieces mended with gold. All of it. She would need to absorb this in bite-sized pieces. She knew how lottery winners must feel now. She’d nearly had an aneurysm the day she won a hundred pounds on a scratch card so she had no chance of taking all this in in one gulp.

  She heard a soft knock on the door and then it cracked open. Lionel.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asked. Marnie nodded. He put his hand on her shoulder and she raised her eyes to his.

  Emelie’s voice whispered from the page: . . . but let dearest Lionel tell you, in his own words . . .

  ‘Are you my father, Lionel?’ Marnie asked.

  ‘My lovely girl,’ he smiled, sitting beside her, taking her trembling hands in his. ‘I only wish I were.’