by Jan Neuharth
Margaret stared at the will, barely able to believe what Anne had just read aloud. What in the hell had Richard been thinking? Richard had always looked after Manning, sometimes despite her wishes to the contrary, but, still—leaving the hunt and the kennels to Manning? Good God.
“Are you aware of the fact that although the hunt kennels are located adjacent to Richard’s farm, the facilities actually sit on a separate parcel?” Anne asked.
“I seem to recall Richard saying at one point that there were separate lots, but I never paid it much mind. I always just thought of the kennels as being at Dartmoor Glebe,” Margaret replied.
“And for practical purposes, Richard treated the property that way. But Dartmoor Glebe proper encompasses just over two hundred acres, and the kennels an additional fifty. Because of where the kennels are situated at the back of the farm with no road frontage, Richard created an easement through Dartmoor Glebe for the access drive.”
Margaret’s mind raced, imagining what effect Richard’s bequest would have on the hunt—and on Manning.
Anne said, “Anyway, I didn’t mean to get sidetracked. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the real estate configuration. Let me continue with the will. ‘As the cost of operating the hunt is considerable and hunt revenues do not cover operating expenses, I direct my executor to set aside in the Manning Southwell Middleburg Foxhounds Hunt Trust an amount equal to five years of operating expenses for the hunt, to be paid to Manning Southwell in equal monthly disbursements. The hunt trust document more specifically addresses the requirements that must be met in order to receive the monthly disbursements, including the stipulation that said disbursements be used solely for hunt-related expenses and not other personal expenditures.
“‘Furthermore, I bequeath to the hunt trust the additional sum of one million dollars. If at the end of the five-year period, the Middleburg Foxhounds still operates as a recognized hunt in good standing with the Masters of Foxhounds Association and Manning Southwell fulfills the requirements set forth under the terms of the hunt trust, the trustees of the hunt trust shall pay to Manning Southwell outright the sum of one million dollars, as directed under the terms of the hunt trust agreement. If the hunt is not in good standing and/or Manning Southwell does not fulfill the requirements set forth under the terms of the hunt trust, the sum of one million dollars will be gifted to various charities, as specified in the hunt trust agreement.’
“Let me stop here and see if you have any questions,” Anne said. “I assume Richard told you about these bequests, but I know the legal language can be confusing.”
Margaret sank back in her chair. “Actually, no, Richard did not discuss his intentions with me.”
“Really? I’m surprised. He told me he planned to do so. Although…”
“What?”
“I guess I’m not breaking confidence by revealing this to you, Margaret. Richard has voiced some concerns about Manning. He felt Manning’s lifestyle had him on a downward spiral. Before I left on our trip, Richard told me he was going to talk to Manning and tell him about the terms of his will. He said he was going to give Manning an ultimatum, tell him that if he did not seek help for his drinking he was going to revise his will. Perhaps Richard didn’t want to mention the bequest to you until after he’d had the conversation with Manning.”
CHAPTER
33
Abigale followed the drive as it meandered past the house toward the barn. She parked in back, using the key Margaret had given her to enter her uncle’s house through the mudroom door. She expected the house to feel vacant, but instead was greeted by the smell of leather and boot polish and the sight of a row of Uncle Richard’s boots tucked tidily beneath an array of coats and jackets stacked on brass horse-head hooks along the wall. Next to the door, a horseshoe-shaped painted plaque showed the hind-end view of a gray horse and a rider in a scarlet coat, with the words GONE HUNTING arched across the top. Along the outer edge, several sets of keys dangled on hooks formed from blacksmith nails. Abigale looped Margaret’s keys over one of the nails.
Slipping off her jacket, Abigale draped it over a waxed raincoat on one of the hooks along the wall. Uncle Richard’s tweed cubbing jacket hung next to it. She picked a flake of shavings off the shoulder and buried her face in the sleeve, inhaling the musty scent of wool mingled with the earthy aroma of hay. Memories flooded her, misting her eyes. She let the sleeve slip from her fingers.
Abigale followed the stone passageway that led from the mudroom to the kitchen, a spacious room that she remembered as always being warm and cheery, a hubbub of activity. Sunlight streamed in through wide casement windows, revealing a thin layer of dust on the large round-topped walnut table that squatted in the center of the slate floor.
The front hall opened into a large gathering room. Fluffy-cushioned sofas and chairs rested on a green-and-gold-hued oriental carpet that stretched across the wide-planked oak floor. A grand piano stood in one corner and a stone-chimney fireplace ate up a good portion of the far wall. Abigale rubbed her arms, imagining how good it would feel to have a crackling fire roaring in the hearth. She glanced at the stack of logs and crumpled newspaper deftly arranged on the fox-head andirons. All she’d have to do is strike a match. And then what? Sit in the enormous room by herself?
She slipped into the foyer, where oil paintings lined the mustard-colored walls almost to the ceiling. Horses mostly, of almost every size and color. Some pastoral scenes with gnarled trees, and sheep, and broad-faced cows. And a smattering of portraits: a young blond girl with a calico cat curled on her aproned lap; an old black man with the gray stubble of a beard and intelligent, smiling eyes; and a sun-beaten-looking woman wearing a faded blue dress and white bonnet. A gleaming mahogany hutch along the side wall supported an almost life-sized bronze of a well-muscled foxhound, his nose to the ground and stern held high as if he’d just picked up a scent. Abigale ran her hand along the arm of the velvet love seat nestled beneath the stairwell, once her favorite spot to curl up with her nose in a book, waiting for Manning to come and take her on one sort of adventure or another.
Gripping the hand-carved banister, she climbed the winding staircase that led to the second floor. The door to Uncle Richard’s bedroom stood open near the top of the stairs. Abigale paused in the doorway, eyed the king-sized sleigh bed, its bedspread tucked military-tight across the high mattress, then stepped back and gently closed the door. She wasn’t ready for this room yet.
Her mother’s bedroom was next to Uncle Richard’s and Abigale passed by without entering, heading for the room at the far end of the hall. The door was closed, and Abigale hesitated for a moment, then grasped the crystal handle and pushed against the door. It creaked open and she broke into a smile, remembering Manning’s theory that Uncle Richard deliberately left the squeak in the hinges so he’d be alerted if she tried to sneak out in the middle of the night.
A shiver pricked her arms. The room was just as she remembered it: the canopy bed still swaddled with the girlish lavender bedding ensemble she had selected; the furniture the same white princess pieces adorned with pink and purple hearts. She recalled that when she’d outgrown the girlish décor Uncle Richard had offered to redecorate the room in a more sophisticated style, but she’d refused.
Abigale stepped onto the plush ivory carpet and approached the bed. Plunked in the center of a mass of frilly pillows was a grayish lop-eared bunny, a frayed lavender ribbon tied in a limp bow around its neck. She lifted it gently, a sad smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Hi, old friend,” she whispered, smoothing the matted fur between its ears. “There’ve been a couple of nights over the years when I could have used you.”
Hugging the stuffed animal to her chest, Abigale opened the mirrored closet door. Her riding clothes hung in an orderly fashion, one show jacket still wrapped in dry-cleaner plastic; stacks of jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters were folded neatly on the shelves. Someone had obviously tidied the room since she’d last stay
ed there.
Her Disney princess jewelry box sat on one shelf, next to her hunt horn and the pair of spurs Uncle Richard had ordered custom-made for her. Abigale set the bunny on the shelf and ran her fingers over the neck of one spur, delicately curved into the form of a horse hoof. She picked up the hunt horn, its shine tarnished from years on the shelf, and pressed it to her lips. The note she blew was weak and tinny. Shaking her head, she wet her lips, sucked in a breath, and tried again. Despite the dent in the bell of the horn, she eked out some clear notes, then blew “gone away” with an intensity that left her ears ringing. Breathless but grinning, she lowered the horn and closed her hand around the misshapen bell. The dent marred the beauty and hindered the performance of the horn, but back when it had happened, her seventeen-year-old mind had viewed it as symbolic of Manning’s devotion to her and she’d refused to have it repaired or replaced.
Abigale felt a burn creep up her face. She could picture that day so vividly: Manning as he’d ridden up to the barn, soaked to the skin, thunder rumbling in the distance. He wasn’t wearing a riding helmet and his hair dripped in ringlets around his face. He slid from his horse and she’d flung her arms around him, burying her face in his neck before he even had a chance to roll up his stirrups.
“Whoa, hey, what’s going on?” he’d asked, wrapping an arm around her.
She clung fiercely to him, paying no heed to his soggy clothes, anger and relief boiling inside her. “What were you thinking going back out to look for my horn with a storm brewing?” she demanded. “And what are you doing riding without a helmet?”
Manning tugged her arms loose from his neck. “It was just a little rain, no big deal. Besides—” he broke into a grin and reached into the pocket of his breeches—“look what I found.”
Abigale squealed as he held up the horn. “You found it! Oh, my God, I can’t believe it. Where was it?”
“On that trappy trail leading from up Goose Creek into the Bellevue woods. Remember after we crossed the creek with the hounds and Tally spooked and bolted around that rotted log? That must have been when the horn slipped from its case. It was buried in the high grass and at first I didn’t see it, but I heard a clang when Samson grazed it with his hoof.” He held it out for her to see, his strong fingers gracefully exploring the dented bell. “I’m sorry it’s all banged up. I’ll ask Smitty if he knows where I can get it fixed.”
“I don’t want it fixed.” Abigale slipped her hand in his and leaned up to kiss him. “It’s perfect this way. It will always remind me that you went back and found it for me.”
Abigale shook off the memory and sighed, placing the horn back beside the spurs on the shelf. She turned to leave the closet when a stack of what looked like half a dozen or so letters tied together with a pale blue ribbon caught her eye. Abigale recognized her mother’s handwriting on a note card on top of the pile and frowned, reaching for the packet.
She carried the letters into the bedroom and perched on the window seat in one of the dormer windows. Sunlight streamed through the glass and Abigale shifted position so her eyes were shaded from the glare. She untied the ribbon and lifted her mother’s note.
Dearest Richard,
As we discussed during our last phone call, I am sending you the collection of letters Ralph confiscated. I’m not sure why I felt compelled to retrieve the letters from the rubbish, nor why I cannot bring myself to discard them now, as so much time has passed. I don’t see what possible good could come from Abigale ever reading the letters, but, nonetheless, I send them to you for safekeeping. As you can see from the sealed envelopes, I did not read what was inside, although Lord knows I was tempted. I place the matter in your hands now, and trust with your wisdom you will do the right thing.
As always,
Caroline
Abigale’s fingers trembled as she set aside her mother’s note. Slowly, she lowered her eyes to the top envelope. It was addressed to her, with Manning’s return address in the upper left-hand corner. The postmark was seventeen years old.
Oh, Daddy, what did you do?
CHAPTER
34
By the time Abigale finished reading the letters, long shadows had crept across the room. Anger burned, so fierce her chest felt like a pressure cooker ready to blow. She thought back to those lonely months in Switzerland, how as days had turned into weeks her father had stood by and watched her suffer as she longed for some word from Manning. Yet he’d known all the while Manning had written—countless times! Her father had intercepted the letters. He’d even gone so far as to tell her Manning’s silence confirmed he didn’t love her. That she’d been a summer fling, nothing more. How could her father have been so cruel?
All these years she’d refused to accept that her father was right, that Manning had never really cared for her at all. She’d chosen instead to believe that Manning blamed her for Scarlet’s accident. That had been easier to handle, thinking he hated her rather than that he’d never loved her. She gently shuffled the letters back into a pile and retied the ribbon, then ran her fingers across Manning’s boyish script. Manning hadn’t blamed her for the accident; the letters proved that. He’d written over and over that it was his fault. Asked her to forgive him. God, what must he have thought—how must he have felt—when she never responded? Despite the fact that she’d never received Manning’s letters, she should have written to him, apologized for what she’d done. She’d thought about it often enough, even composed letters in her head late at night. But she’d listened to her father and…well, the letters went unwritten.
Abigale heard a door slam downstairs. A voice called, “Abigale?”
It was Margaret.
“I’m upstairs. Be right there,” Abigale replied. She hastily tucked the letters on the closet shelf behind her jewelry box and ran her fingertips beneath her eyes, hoping there weren’t telltale smudges of mascara.
As Abigale descended the stairs and rounded the curve in the stairwell, she saw that Manning was with Margaret in the foyer. He faced out the window, his back to her.
Margaret’s head was tilted expectantly upward. “There you are. I just left the kennels and decided to swing by and take a chance you’d still be here.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing’s happened. I want to tell you about Richard’s will.” Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line as she shot a glance at Manning. “I’ve already briefed Manning and Smitty.”
Manning turned, giving Abigale a ghost of a smile, and the breath caught in Abigale’s throat. Words from his letters whirled through her head, ripping open feelings she’d buried, if not forgotten. Should she tell him she’d found his letters?
He raised an eyebrow as if to say, Why are you looking at me like that?
A blush flamed Abigale’s cheeks. She turned to Margaret. “Do you want to go in the gathering room?”
“That’s a fine idea. Manning can light the fire and get some of the chill out of the air. This house feels far too empty.”
CHAPTER
35
Margaret wasted no time laying out the provisions of the will, seeming genuinely happy that Richard had kept Dartmoor Glebe in the family by leaving it to Abigale. But her manner turned brusque, almost disapproving, as she outlined the bequest to Manning. She told Abigale the will made no mention of funeral plans and left a copy of the will for Abigale to read, then made a hasty exit, saying she had to attend an emergency hunt board meeting.
The entire time Margaret was talking, Manning leaned against the wall next to the fire and never said a word; his gaze was fixed toward the floor, as if he’d spotted something fascinating on the toe of his paddock boot.
When Abigale returned from walking Margaret to the door, Manning had abandoned the fireplace for the liquor cabinet. He’d draped his coat over the end of the bar and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. As she approached, he unscrewed the cap of a whisky bottle.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
&nbs
p; She watched the brown liquid splash into a lowball glass until it was full to the brim. “No. Thanks,” she said, sinking into one of the leather wing chairs that flanked the fireplace.
Manning twisted the top back on the bottle. “You sure?”
She nodded.
He tossed down a generous swallow, closing his eyes with a sigh.
“Bad day?”
“You could say that.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Their eyes connected for a flash, then, as if a veil lowered over Manning’s eyes, the moment was lost. He glanced away. “Not really.”
Manning drained the glass and Abigale’s stomach clenched as she watched him eye the whisky bottle. Please don’t pour another drink. Her disappointment flared as his fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, but he opened the liquor cabinet and shoved the bottle inside.
The logs in the fireplace tumbled with a crackling display of sparks, and Manning grabbed the poker and jabbed at the wood.
“The fire feels good,” Abigale said, wrapping her arms across her chest.
Manning nodded and returned the poker to its stand. He dropped into the chair across from her, hiking one leg over the other. Abigale noticed splatters of gray paint on his paddock boots and the hem of his khaki pants. He ran his fingers through his hair, revealing a smear of gray along his right wrist.
“Margaret told me you and Smitty were painting at Longmeadow today. Looks like it was a big project.”