A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘I see many reasons,’ said Florence, ‘but I am prepared to let you try and persuade me.’

  ‘I shall try and I shall succeed,’ said Cornelius. ‘And I should warn you, I am not accustomed to failure.’ And he smiled at her with great self-confidence.

  Chapter 26

  ‘Lawrence, hello. What on earth are you doing here?’

  Lawrence started; anyone suspecting him of a crime would have immediately assumed his guilt.

  He looked up, closed his laptop quickly. It was Isobel Baines, one of their neighbours.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘Isobel. How lovely to see you. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Up in town looking for a dress for Teresa’s engagement party.’

  Teresa was their daughter; their pride and satisfaction at her engagement to a rich young banker was immeasurable. The fact that bankers were now considered the scourge of the earth seemed to have passed them entirely by.

  ‘Anyway, it’s very nice to see you. May I join you?’

  Lawrence cursed the recklessness that had led him to a Starbucks in Knightsbridge; but he had had an interview – his first – and he’d been desperate for a coffee afterwards. ‘Oh, I’m just leaving,’ he said. ‘I’m just – just between appointments, killing a bit of time.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Nice to see you, anyway. We’re all meeting on Saturday, aren’t we? At the Davies’?’

  Oh God, this got worse and worse. She would be bound to mention it, and then . . .

  ‘Yes. Well, bye Isobel. Have a good shop.’

  It was no good, he thought, he’d have to tell Annie now. Maybe he’d just wait until he heard about the job this morning; that would soften the situation and the interview had gone quite well, he thought.

  Two hours later he got an email: Dear Lawrence, thanks for coming in this morning. Good to meet you, but frankly, you’re overqualified for the job. Good luck in your search.

  That was it then. God, he was a failure. He’d go straight home and tell Annie now. Get it over. Anything would be better than this. He was beginning to feel like a hunted man.

  He was coming out of Tunbridge Wells station, his entire being focused on how he was going to tell Annie, just as a large white van pulled into the courtyard. It was raining and Lawrence was fumbling for his umbrella, not looking at what was in front of him as he stepped into the forecourt. As a lady standing in the taxi queue said, it was an accident waiting to happen; the van tried to stop as Lawrence walked straight into its path, skidded, hit him on the head and knocked him twenty yards down the road.

  He was taken to the nearest hospital where he was put in Intensive Care but he never recovered consciousness and when Annie, who had sat by him through his long, last hours, phoned the company in the morning to say that he wouldn’t be in, a hugely embarrassed and distressed secretary, too shocked even to realise what she was saying, told her that she was terribly sorry, but Mr Ford had left the company a month earlier.

  Bianca sat in the crematorium at Lawrence Ford’s funeral service and thought she had never been so miserable. Or ashamed.

  She knew that in theory such an emotion was absurd, that it was not her fault that Lawrence had been unable to confess his failure to his wife, or indeed that he was a failure in the first place, and certainly not that he had not seen the white van careering across his path, nor it him. But she did feel some responsibility – had she not fired him he would be alive and well today and his nice-looking wife and enchanting little boy, not much older than Ruby, would not be standing hand in hand at the front of the crematorium dressed in black and weeping as they stared at the flower-covered coffin. Lawrence Ford had been a nice, kind, if pompous man who had worked hard, loved and looked after his family, paid his taxes, and whose worst crime was probably being self-opinionated. And now he was dead because of her: because she had come into the company where he had worked and cut a swathe through it and told him, among many others, to leave it, taking with him his dignity, and his self-respect.

  Patrick had told her not to go to the funeral, saying that she had hardly known Lawrence and had no real business there, and Mike and Hugh had counselled the same, but she knew they were wrong, that such an absence would have implied a lack of concern. She had discussed it with Bertie, amongst others, and he, finding it hard to meet her eyes, said he thought it would be nice if she came and that had clinched it; she asked if she could sit with him in the crematorium, and he had said, flushed and anguished, that he would be with his mother and sister and perhaps it might be better for her to come with someone else. There was no one: Patrick had never met Lawrence and it seemed absurd to bring him, although he did offer.

  She knew there were many people in the company, all the old guard, who did hold her responsible, however illogically. Christine Weston, Athina’s secretary, was particularly hostile, and Athina went out of her way to avoid her; when she went into Athina’s office to tell her she was going to the funeral, Athina looked at her with intense distaste and said, ‘I don’t know what good you think that can possibly do.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would do any good, Lady Farrell, I just thought it was the right thing to do,’ she said, managing with great effort to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Personally, I would imagine it might be quite the wrong one,’ Athina said.

  In the end it was Susie who came to see her and asked her if she would like her to accompany her.

  ‘I worked with him, if you could call it that, so I ought to go anyway. I think it’s awfully brave of you, Bianca, I really do.’

  Bianca stared at her, then got up from her desk, walked round and gave her a hug.

  ‘You just made my day. No, my week. Thank you, Susie, so much.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Susie, ‘and if you’re beating yourself up about it, try not to. He was useless. I know that’s harsh, but he was, and honestly, how could you possibly have known he was so incapable of coping with it? Of course if it was me, I’d feel exactly the same. As it is, I’m thinking I should have been nicer to him – I never laughed at his awful jokes or anything. But I wasn’t. And Bianca, you must try to remember you’re here to make the company work. That’s what your brief is. Not make life beautiful for everybody.’

  ‘And what sort of person does that make me?’ said Bianca. ‘I mean, why don’t I do a job that doesn’t damage people? Why can’t I be happy not doing a job at all? Just looking after my children and Patrick. Oh dear . . .’

  She felt near to tears suddenly; heard her own voice shake. She looked at Susie who was clearly slightly embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Susie,’ she said. ‘Not fair. Now I’m wallowing in it. You’re right, of course. I do what I do and we are where we are, and – oh, let’s have a drink.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Susie.

  Sitting there beside Bianca in the packed building, Susie started worrying about Henk. He was getting worse, angry almost all the time, and once he’d had a drink . . . Oh God . . . why did she have to be so pathetic, why couldn’t she deal with him in the way she dealt with everything else in her life, in a positive, sensible, clear-sighted way?

  She wrenched her mind away from him and tried to concentrate on the service.

  A young organist was playing ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’. She risked a look at Annie, at Lawrence’s wife. No, widow. She was a widow and probably in her early forties at the very most. It was awful, awful. But it wasn’t as if he had deliberately done it . . .

  She glanced behind her. There was quite a contingent from Farrell’s. The family of course, Lady Farrell dressed up to the nines, black from head to toe, literally, and very grandly too, as if for a funeral at St Paul’s Cathedral, in an ankle-length dress and a large black silk hat. Her expression was tragically aloof and occasionally she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. For heaven’s sake, Susie thought, give it a rest, you often weren’t very nice to him yourself when he was alive. Caro and someone who was presumably her husband stood on one side of her and Bertie
and his wife – Priscilla, was it? – on the other.

  Bertie looked shattered; he would be going through the torments of the damned, Susie thought, with his tender heart and his overdeveloped sense of guilt. He had always been nice to Lawrence, because he was nice to everyone. Poor Bertie – he was such a victim. Priscilla looked nice enough – her plump face, under its black beret, was carefully concerned. But why on earth had they brought their poor daughter? What had Lawrence been to her? People were very odd.

  And then there was a whole range of Farrell staff, Christine of course, the sales people, half a dozen women standing in a row – who were they? Oh God, there was Marjorie among them, must be the consultants.

  And standing alone, not with the family as she would have expected, was Florence; Susie was getting to really like Florence. She was so sharp, removed from Lady Farrell’s icy influence, and good fun; and full of ideas these days, and so, so beautiful. God, she must have been glorious when she was young. How sad that she’d never married again – just the one great love affair with her husband and then a lifetime alone. How had she stood that?

  Susie wrenched her mind away from the prospect of life alone and tried to concentrate on what the vicar or whoever he was was saying. He was calling up a lifelong friend of Lawrence’s to speak. He wasn’t too bad, actually, seemed to be speaking with real affection. She looked again at Annie; she was managing to smile at some of the funny incidents on the golf course that were being described. Poor woman.

  It was too ghastly, Athina thought; that poor soul, clearly completely devastated. What a life lay ahead of her; or rather half a life. At least Cornelius had been quite old when he died.

  She felt genuinely grieved, her own loss resurfacing; nothing more final than a funeral. All very well if you had faith. But if not – she remembered the horror as Cornelius’s coffin was brought in, hearing the dreadful words, ashes to ashes, dust to dust – and then the priest spouting all the nonsense about how he had gone to the next world, and how they would all be reunited there in God’s love. She had felt enraged at the idiocy of it, had wanted to stand up and argue with the priest, ask him how he could be so sure, tell him it was she who was sure, and that she and Cornelius would never be together again, she would never see him again . . . But of course she did not. One had to behave. And she’d agreed to it, after all, and the alternative was some ghastly humanist ceremony, and she wasn’t having that. At least Cornelius was leaving as he had lived, in style.

  Not that this was very stylish, this service. That awful tinny organ, and the thin, reedy singing of ‘God Be in my Head’. She had had a choir for Cornelius, a wonderful choir, and a thunderous organ; it had been a comfort to her to do things well, to add some musical class to the occasion. If there was a God, she often thought, He would be in some way a musical presence; nothing could consume and lift the spirit as music could.

  But that poor poor girl. What must she be feeling? What must she feel about Bianca? She had made a point of ringing Annie herself the day after she heard the news; making it very plain that it would never have happened if she had been running the company. And she had ordered a huge wreath of white roses, with a message that read ‘With every sympathy and in deep admiration of a fine man, Athina, Caroline and Bertram Farrell’.

  Outside at last, Bertie stood a little away from his mother and sister as they walked through the flowers, reading the messages as everyone did. He felt deeply embarrassed by their wreath and message, considering both horribly over the top; even Caro, he knew, felt it was a little much. It was as large as the wreath that had lain on the coffin.

  ‘Hello, Bertie.’ It was Florence, dear Florence, smiling at him. He was so pleased to see her, he bent and kissed her.

  ‘Hello, Florence. How are you? So good of you to come.’

  ‘Oh, not at all. The House of Farrell needed to be well represented – although your mother has certainly seen to that!’

  There was a slight, mischievous sparkle in her brown eyes; Bertie allowed himself to smile back, very briefly.

  ‘Indeed. Poor Mrs Ford, I feel so sorry for her.’

  ‘I too. Such a pretty woman. And that dear little boy. Er, are you going to the reception afterwards?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Mother insists. I think it is rather intrusive personally, but . . . how about you?’

  ‘No, I’m not; I agree with you, they want to be with their family and friends. Oh, look, here she comes now.’

  Annie Ford, pale but composed, walked over to Athina, holding out her hand; Athina covered it with her own.

  ‘It’s so very kind of you to come, Lady Farrell. I appreciate it so much.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, it was the least we could do. Such a dreadful day for you. I’m so very sorry. My husband would have been also. He admired your husband greatly.’

  ‘Did he really?’

  ‘Well of course. Cornelius would have been horrified at what has happened.’

  He would never have fired him, this would never have happened, that’s what she means, Florence thought, but possibly it’s what the poor woman wants to hear.

  It was also quite untrue. Cornelius, to her certain knowledge, had considered employing Lawrence a mistake, and had told Athina so; she, however, had been rather bowled over by his slightly sycophantic charm, and by the following he had among the consultants and even the store buyers.

  She stepped forward herself. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Ford. I’m Florence Hamilton, I run the Berkeley Arcade shop and your husband was a frequent visitor. I was always pleased to see him.’

  ‘Yes, he often mentioned The Shop, said how lovely it was,’ said Annie. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  And then she stiffened as Bianca came over to her, followed by Susie.

  ‘Mrs Ford, how do you do. I’m Bianca Bailey. I’m so sorry about your husband.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annie Ford, suddenly a stronger, more forceful person. ‘Yes, I expect you are.’ Her expression, as she looked at Bianca, was hostile, her eyes very hard.

  Bianca met them steadily. ‘I wanted to come,’ she said, ‘to tell you that myself.’

  ‘But there was no need. You must excuse me now.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ Bianca said again; but Annie had turned away. It was a display of hostility, combined with considerable dignity.

  Bianca flinched physically. Susie stepped forward, took her arm. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go.’

  She walked with her to the waiting car and they both got in. Watching them intently, Bertie saw Bianca slump in the back seat and bury her face in her hands. Susie put her arm round her.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Florence; and he wasn’t sure if she meant Annie Ford or Bianca Bailey.

  Chapter 27

  ‘This is just so amazing, isn’t it? I mean, perfect or what?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘And, like how many kids have a holiday like this one?’

  Milly suddenly realised Carey was looking rather beadily at her. She hated it when she did that; it scared her. She smiled at Carey, said, ‘Hardly any. Lucky us!’

  ‘We-ell – lucky you. I mean, I’d be here anyway.’

  There was a certain lack of logic in this; but Milly knew better than to argue.

  ‘Yeah. Lucky me.’

  ‘Seen Ad this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  She so didn’t like Ad. He was a brat. A sexist, spoiled brat. Whatever he asked for he got. From his parents. From his little brother. And from Carey.

  ‘Do my back, Carey,’ he’d say and she’d take the sunscreen and with great care start rubbing it in.

  ‘Get me a drink, Carey.’ And when she’d brought it, if it wasn’t quite right, ‘Get some ice,’ and she’d get him some ice.

  Occasionally his father, Rick, who was equally gross, would say, ‘Now, Adam, Carey is not your slave.’

  And Ad would shrug and say something like, ‘She’s a girl, isn’t she?’ and laugh and make out he was joking, but he wasn’t.
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  He didn’t like Milly; she didn’t mind, because she was quite happy to stay on the yacht and play cards with Toby, who was cute, although interestingly scared of his big brother. Adam teased him, told him he was a wimp because he wouldn’t dive off the deck and had trouble getting back into his water skis when they came off halfway round a ride.

  Milly had trouble with that too, and preferred to lie in the huge rubber ring and be towed round on that; she suggested Toby did the same, and he loved it. Carey laughed and called them a pair of babies. She was horribly good at water skiing, better even than Adam, which he didn’t like, so after a bit she had to pretend she wasn’t and kept falling over on purpose.

  They were halfway through the holiday and Milly was looking forward to it being over. Carey was increasingly difficult with her, mooned about after Adam, and took it out on Milly if he didn’t seem very keen. Which was often.

  Of course it had been lovely in lots of ways. It was so beautiful sailing round the islands, the endless swimming and sunbathing was gorgeous, and so were the long lunchtime beach picnics when they went ashore. The Mapletons were lovely to her and she liked the evenings on deck after supper, when it was cooler, and they played things like scrabble and consequences, which Andrew and Nicky Mapleton liked, and even charades sometimes. Milly was rather good at charades, which annoyed Carey who was hopeless. Adam put his head in his hands when she was trying to act, and groaned in mock agony.

  There was no doubt he was really good-looking, tall and dark and not skinny like most boys of his age; he was at Eton and was clever and very self-confident. He spent a lot of time texting his friends on his phone and getting in a rage whenever they lost a signal which was often.

  That night the adults were going to join some friends from another yacht on shore and it was decided the children should all stay on board, under the rather unwatchful eye of Daisy, who was the sailing equivalent of a chalet girl; she had to do the cooking and clean the cabins, but a lot of the time she just sunbathed and flirted with Antoine, the water sports guy.