Born of Woman

by Wendy Perriam

  Matthew swallowed. They were on dangerous ground here. He remembered all the agonising, eighteen months ago. Lyn had refused to be administrator, wanted no responsibilities, nothing to do with property or lawyers. At first, he had tried to change his brother’s mind. With neither probate nor letters of administration, Lyn’s right to deal with the copyright was not officially ratified, and therefore any deal he made with him was not completely watertight and could perhaps be challenged. But then came the bombshell about Hester’s bastard child, which had changed the whole affair. How could he perjure himself in front of a lawyer, swear that Lyn was the only son and heir when he knew it to be false? Yet if he admitted his knowledge of the earlier child, the problems and confusion would be greater still. He had also felt instinctively that in these changed and complex circumstances, it was wiser to keep all solicitors at bay. The mysterious bastard baby had most conveniently disappeared and if it wasn’t actually dead, it was still best to behave as if it were, suppress its birth and name—simply snuff it out. Yet now this suppressed and stifled child had come to life again and was threatening his private bargain, his brother-to-brother quiet informal pact—dragging in lawyers when he had preferred to bypass them.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question, Mr Winterton, which leads me to suspect that your arrangement with my half-brother concerning my mother’s assets is open to attack. My lawyers have made every effort to trace my half-brother—as yet with no results. I arrived in England only forty-eight hours ago, and they have acted with admirable speed and efficiency, so they may well have news for me in the next few days … Except I cannot wait that long. I am being pestered back at home with most unpleasant gossip about my … er … irregular birth. Which is why I am here now. I can only assume that it was you, or one of your colleagues, who spread these rumours which have finally reached New Zealand and …’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Matthew interrupted. ‘If you’ve read the Book—which I presume you must have done—you’ll see that there is not the slightest reference to Hester’s … er … first pregnancy. I don’t mind admitting I was tempted to include it. An item like that—if you’ll forgive me, Mr Ainsley—would have a great appeal to readers, but I deliberately omitted the whole incident to spare Hester’s name and reputation.’

  Matthew paused. He had suppressed it mainly for his own sake. In the most unlikely event of the bastard son having grown to manhood, the last thing he had wanted was to alert the fellow, or anyone who knew of him, so that he could claim his share of everything, disrupt the quiet and careful arrangements which worked largely in his own favour. Yet now, that very thing had happened, despite his care and secrecy. He could no longer suspect Lyn of ganging up with Ainsley, when Edward had just admitted that they had not yet been in touch, and surely Jennifer would never have betrayed him? She was the one who had pressed for total silence. Anyway, how could either of them have known that the infant child was still alive, let alone where to find him? He hadn’t time for speculation now. He had to appease this man, disarm him. At least Edward seemed more concerned with matters of propriety than with actual hard cash. He wished he could sit down. His legs felt shaky and it was difficult to reason when he was standing facing Edward, as if they were both positioned for a duel. He forced a chilly smile.

  ‘You must remember, Mr Ainsley, that Hester was a mother to me as well. She brought me up from babyhood and …’

  ‘That is what so shocks me—that you should have made money out of a woman who … who mothered you, turned her into a public scandal.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Mr Ainsley. I did nothing to tarnish her name. My book was a tribute and a thank-offering. Everyone agrees that the diaries show Hester as a wholly admirable figure with …’

  ‘And a very private one, who hated prying eyes, and shut herself away even from her own village, let alone …’

  Matthew stifled his retort. They were getting nowhere—only more het up. He must take a different line.

  ‘Mr Ainsley—forgive me—I hadn’t noticed the time. It’s after one and I’d quite forgotten lunch. I belong to a very pleasant Club just a step or two from here which has a really impressive wine list. We’ll be more relaxed with a good claret on the table to help us sort things out.’

  ‘I’m afraid it would be wasted on me, Mr Winterton. I very rarely drink and never when I’m talking business.’

  ‘Well, let’s at least eat, then. The chef’s young, but very sound, and if you’d like to sample some first-rate English cooking …’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not hungry, and I rarely stop for lunch, in any case.’

  Matthew frowned. He recognised his own line—the abstemiousness, the high-mindedness, the refusal to relax and sip a drink, the refusal even to sit down. He had used all those tricks on his own subordinates, but now they were turned on him, he felt threatened and belittled. Edward was in no way a typical Antipodean. The accent was there—in embryo—the summer suit, the suntan, but in manner and bearing he was more like an old-fashioned British army officer. There was something of himself in Edward—something rigid and uncompromising which made him fear the man still more. His only advantage was that Edward clearly dreaded scandal or disparagement. He appeared to have run away merely to escape a few home truths, and it was obvious that his anger was not so much for Hester, whom he had never even met, but for his own damaged pride. Edward was still speaking in that controlled and civil voice, but the hurt, resentment and bitterness were there, suppressed beneath it. Matthew recognised the signs—the clenched fists, the clamped jaw, the tightly braced shoulders. He tried to relax his own stance. He must impress upon this man that by resorting to solicitors and making a hue and cry, he would only involve himself in greater publicity—not to mention scandal— trumpet the secret of his birth across both their continents, turn whispered rumours into public proclamations.

  ‘May I suggest, Mr Ainsley, that it is in both our interests to keep this matter out of the public eye? I quite understand we need to come to some agreement, but we don’t need lawyers to draft it for us, surely? We can talk things over in a quiet and friendly fashion, and then make a private arrangement with far less fuss and upset, not to mention expense.’

  ‘It’s a little too late for that.’ Edward made an angry impatient gesture. ‘And, anyway, my lawyers were not too happy about my calling on you at all, let alone bypassing their services altogether. I must admit I had a certain curiosity about you and … er … Lyn, since both of you were brought up by my own mother, and Lyn, of course, is my only blood relation. However, since he appears to have gone away—or gone to ground, more likely—I wished at least to meet you. But now I find that you can in no way excuse or explain your … your betrayal of my mother, then I suggest we follow my solicitors’ advice, and communicate, in future, only through them.’ He turned on his heel, raised his voice a fraction. ‘You will receive their ultimatum in the morning.’

  ‘U … ultimatum?’

  ‘Yes. As they had no address for Lyn, they have written to you instead, which seems appropriate when you are the publisher and appear to have taken all the chief decisions. In the absence of a Will, I am, of course, entitled to half my mother’s assets, and since those include the original copyright of the diaries, I also have a legal right to a share of any payments or royalties paid in connection with the published book.’

  Matthew strode across to the window, gripped the sill. He had to control himself, think before he shouted. Edward’s voice was dangerously civil.

  ‘My solicitors will be asking for a copy of the original agreement you signed with my half-brother and also for full details of all payments made since then, and all contracts and accounts connected with the book, with the figures to be confirmed by your auditors.’

  Matthew swung around, clamped his shaking hands behind his back, tried to make his voice sound calm and reasonable. ‘Mr Ainsley, please—this is all quite unnecessary. I am more than happy to compromise. Now that I am aware of your existence, of course
I recognise your claims, and will pay everything I owe you, with an extra sum on top, to compensate for any …’

  ‘Money, Mr Winterton, is only secondary. Naturally, I’d like what I’m entitled to, but it’s the principle of the thing which almost concerns me, and the personal damage done.’

  Matthew winced. Principle—his own word. A word you could never fight against, a word which led to war and bloodshed, set country against country, brother against brother. Edward was still speaking.

  ‘And I cannot understand why you should have any objection to lawyers, when you appear to concede my claims already. It is surely in both our interests to have this matter settled fairly and objectively.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but …’

  ‘However, my solicitors take the line that while the dispute is still outstanding, the book should not be published in any country where it has not already appeared, which means that all outstanding foreign contracts will be frozen as from now, and no new ones must be signed.’

  Matthew opened his mouth to speak. No sound came out. It was Edward’s voice which was roaring through the room and seemed to resound through the entire building, although in fact Edward had hardly raised it above its initial muted pitch.

  ‘I’m sure you will have no objection to these provisions, Mr Winterton, since you’ve said already you’re willing to compromise, but if for any reason you cannot satisfy my solicitors on these points within seven days of hearing from them, then I have instructed them to take the matter to court and to freeze the situation by applying for an injunction. I was a little reluctant, at first, to take a tough line with a man whom in happier circumstances might have been my foster-brother, but since you were insensitive enough to sully not only my own name, but that of the woman who actually brought you up, then …’

  Edward was already at the door. Matthew blundered after him. ‘Mr Ainsley, wait! Another few minutes, please. I can explain everything if only you’ll …’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you would explain to my solicitors. You’ll receive their letter tomorrow, first post, and can contact them directly. Good afternoon.’

  Matthew stood trembling at the door, watching Edward’s self-righteously upright back glide down the stairs and disappear. He slumped down in his chair, his heart thumping against his ribcage like a piece of machinery which had gone dangerously out of control. His whole future was at risk, his profits slashed, his outstanding contracts challenged, all further ones prohibited, his reputation smirched. He could hardly take it in, hardly believe that this devious dangerous man was the eight-pound baby he had consigned to an infant’s grave. Who had dragged him out, who spread those rumours which had brought him thirteen thousand miles to wreak this bitter revenge? A hundred fears and speculations were curdling in his brain, but one overwhelming terror loomed greater than the rest. He dared not face it. Had to face it. He stared at his hands, white-knuckled, on the blotter. They felt heavy, leaden, as if all the horrors Edward had just released had seeped like sediment into his fingers, manacling him to his desk.

  He could have coped with Edward’s threats, even a solicitor’s ultimatum, had the matter been as simple as they assumed. All right, he’d lose half of all his profits—more than half, by the time he’d paid the lawyers’ bill. It would be a blow, of course, a crushing blow. Born With The Century was subsidising all his other books, keeping his firm solvent, his name respected. But things were infinitely more damaging than that.

  He dragged himself up from his desk and over to the window, staring out at the busy street outside. He scarcely saw the buildings, hardly heard the noisy midday traffic. His entire concentration was fixed on one concern—his tax avoidance scheme and whether Edward’s action would now haul it screaming into the light. For the last ten years, he had so arranged his finances that he had saved himself almost a hundred thousand pounds in tax. The scheme worked smoothly so long as no one pried or questioned it. But now he had been asked to disclose his contracts, release figures and accounts, he could no longer keep it secret, and therefore safe. Once lawyers were on his track, poking their noses into his private affairs, the Inland Revenue could well be alerted in their turn—awkward questions asked, investigations started. He might be ordered to pay alarming sums of money—sums he couldn’t put his hands on, which were tied up in the business, or tied up in …

  His legs were trembling under him as he walked to his safe with its private combination lock. He stood in front of it, as if ordering Edward and his lawyers to keep their prying hands off. Some of those files were damaging and dangerous. He fiddled with the dial, trying to remember the complex sequence of numbers which released the lock. But his brain was more concerned with other sorts of figures. There was worse to face—if anything could be worse. He had transferred all of Lyn and Jennifer’s proceeds from the book into that same secret tax haven, without informing them, and had been enjoying the use of their money ever since. He needed that money to pay off debts and help with cash-flow problems, and anyway, it had been only a temporary measure while he sorted out his finances. True, he had fobbed them off with stories of investment and security, hopes of future profit, but they were genuine hopes and he fully intended to pay them later, with the interest added on. But a court might see it differently, label it theft and fraud. If the facts came out, he would lose all sympathy. The public might excuse him for not having investigated the possibility of Edward Ainsley’s continuing existence with more thoroughness and openness, but they would never forgive his deceitful dealings with Lyn and Jennifer—especially Jennifer. The world was still in love with her—using her potions, trying out her recipes, even writing to her for advice or in admiration. He must somehow win her round, bribe her with some cash, present it as the share he had always intended for her and Lyn. She was so naive about financial matters, she would never know the difference.

  But that still wouldn’t solve his tax problem. To account for ten years back tax would mean selling everything—house, business, assets—removing his sons from their private schools, crowding into furnished rooms like paupers, and even then he might not raise the sum. He would be branded as a cheat and a swindler, a man who rooked not only the Revenue, but his own flesh and blood. He had conned a brother who was one of his own employees, married to the girl who had found the diaries in the first place and had helped to make them famous. All the people who had bought and admired his book would now turn on him and tear him to pieces like a pack of hounds. His name would be blackened, swamped in shame and scandal, his new-found fame turn overnight to notoriety.

  Was there nothing he could do? His accountant had fled abroad a year ago, to save his own cool million. Could he plead ignorance or wrongful counselling, blame it on his advisers, ignore the ultimatum and brazen it out in court, bribe Edward Ainsley himself? Every course was either impossible or dangerous. Whatever he did, bankruptcy still stared him in the face. He locked the door and returned to the safe, forcing his gibbering brain to recall the numbers, his stiff and clumsy fingers to dial them out. He must sort through all his records, examine royalty payments, contracts, bank statements, tax assessments—destroy some of them, if necessary.

  He hardly knew where to start. Every document seemed to have rude accusing words scrawled across it—swindler, liar, cheat. They were wrong, wrong. His intentions had been good, even honourable. He had aimed only to secure his children’s future, strengthen and consolidate his business, make money out of money so that everyone would be richer in the long run. He picked up a trust deed, put it down again. New, but related fears kept flooding into his head, sapping his concentration. Edward’s firm of solicitors were already on Lyn’s track, couldn’t fail to find him. Christ! His own son, Charles, had seen him down in Cobham just two or three weeks ago, and if he was still living in that flat in. Bedfordshire, then he was within reach of any London lawyer.

  Supposing Lyn let out how reluctant he had been to make any agreement in the first place, how he had been pressurised and persuaded against his w
ill, the deal drawn up in a rushed and arbitrary manner with no outside legal help? If Lyn himself attacked the deal, then Hartley Davies might attack it in their turn, demand what right he had to sign a contract with them, when the original agreement over copyright was possibly defective. He could be sued in court for damages; all his other contracts—foreign contracts—called into question. That would be dynamite, since it was chiefly his foreign monies which he had siphoned into his off-shore trust to avoid paying tax on them.

  He slumped against the safe. There must be some way round it. It was vital to keep calm, except his body disagreed and was sweating and shaking like a traitor. The slightest noise alarmed him. A footstep outside was Edward Ainsley returning with new threats, a car-horn in the street was the bray of other publishers laughing at his fall. He jumped like a burglar when the phone rang. Solicitors? A tax inspector? Some sly and sleuthing reporter already on his trail? The Sunday Express would be far more interested in a grubby scandal than a glittering celebration.

  ‘Hallo, M … Matthew Winterton here.’ He tried to keep his voice cool and conversational, ignore the hand trembling on the receiver.

  ‘It’s only me—Anne.’

  ‘Wh … what do you want? I’m busy.’

  ‘Sorry about the frightful man. He must have been a crackpot. I simply couldn’t stop him. He pushed right past me. I didn’t even get his name. Anyway, he’s gone now. I watched him through the window to make sure he wasn’t hanging around. But listen—I’ve got some really good news! Who d’you think’s coming to the party? Yes; definitely. His agent’s just confirmed it. Marvellous, isn’t it? That’s an absolute guarantee of front-page coverage.’

  Matthew closed his eyes, transferred the receiver to his other hand.

  ‘Anne,’ he said, very slowly, very wearily. ‘I’m afraid we’ve had … er … a slight change of plan. There’s not going to … be a party.’