A Proper Cuppa Tea

by K. G. MacGregor

  He might as well have been reading from Beowulf. Virtually the only decipherable point she gathered from the legal gibberish was that Poppa had left her everything.

  “…shall constitute a full and sufficient discharge.”

  She nodded along, for the first time taking in the fact that she now was an independently wealthy woman. Her grandfather had instilled a work ethic that was incompatible with a life of leisure, but she was glad at least to enjoy financial security while she explored new career options. “I’m honored by his generosity and the trust he’s shown in me.”

  Lord Alanford assumed a stern paternal look. “Miss Hughes, if you don’t mind my asking, how familiar are you with your grandfather’s financial accounts?”

  “To be honest, not very. But as you know, I’ve degrees in economics and business administration, and I’m a valuation analyst by profession. I’ve done some estimates given the market run-up of the last half-century, and the fact that Poppa lived like a miser. If I had to guess, I’d put it about—”

  “Best that we…not index to the market…in this particular case,” he said haltingly. “You might recall a falling out with London’s Bedstek brokerage house around the time of the crash in 2008, a scandal involving inflated assets. A Tuesday, as I recall. Account managers first got wind of the problem around two in the afternoon. Those of us with Bedstek holdings acted quickly to divest before the European market closed, though the selloff continued in New York and by midnight Bedstek had collapsed.”

  “That was devastating. I was working in London at the time.” Never had she seen Poppa so agitated. But the 2008 panic was well behind them, as the markets had recovered almost four-fold. “Heavy losses for some.”

  “Right…I’m afraid it all went rather toes up for Hughes.” His voice had gone somber as he toyed absently with a paperclip, avoiding her eye. “Geoffrey McShane was your grandfather’s broker…”

  “McShane…I remember. Quite sad that was. Killed himself and wasn’t found for several days, as I recall. They were good mates. Poppa took his death very hard.”

  “Yes. A hunting rifle, they said.” He glanced up nervously and added, “Phone records seem to suggest he took his life shortly after your grandfather’s call. As a consequence, McShane never followed through on executing the sale.”

  Which meant everything Poppa had invested with Bedstek… “You’re saying he lost a lot of money.”

  “What I’m saying…” Lord Alanford’s contorted face made him look as if he were passing a kidney stone. “Hughes had been quite disturbed by the market’s volatility over the summer. He’d asked McShane to aggregate his assets at Bedstek and advise him on a more conservative distribution.”

  “And the collapse at Bedstek…”

  “Wiped out the bulk of his portfolio, I’m afraid. More than thirty million pounds at the time.”

  Thirty million pounds.

  Wiped out.

  Thirty million pounds wiped out.

  Channing stared blankly and forced herself through a mental checklist to verify that she was indeed awake and this was not a dream. The room was warm and smelled of leather, and the cushioned chair felt soft to her seat.

  “That can’t be.” No one was so foolish as to consolidate all of their financial holdings in one place, certainly not Poppa. “Surely not the entire portfolio. He held onto Penderworth…kept the Brownings on staff.”

  “Paying them from his own salary, it seems.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m so very sorry, Miss Hughes. It’s why he continued all these years at the university instead of taking his pension. Your grandfather died with very little cash on hand, I’m afraid.”

  In other words, she’d inherited Penderworth and no means to sustain it. “What about the Brownings? Did he at least provide for their—”

  “Oh yes, he paid into their pension accounts as required. Hughes was quite unbending when it came to his obligations.”

  And yet he hadn’t felt obliged to prepare her for a squandered fortune and a six-figure tax bill. He’d obviously taken for granted that she’d simply sell the manor and stay in Boston. Little had he known how much Penderworth would mean to her after he was gone.

  “Now darling, I know this has been most difficult to hear, and I profoundly regret that I’ve been the one to tell you. Marjorie and I, Lady Alanford that is, stand ready to assist you in any way we can. And Kenneth as well. You have but to ask.”

  How to comprehend the incomprehensible? In a matter of moments, she’d gone from the fringes of British nobility to a pasteboard bed on the streets of London. Not only that, she’d walked off a good-paying job without so much as a penny severance, thinking she’d have months to sort herself. No references, no prospects.

  It could hardly be a coincidence that she’d been gutted twice by those she trusted. First Payton and now Poppa—the two people she’d loved most.

  Chapter Six

  Lark scribbled some final notes in the margins of her form while Subject 17 quietly watched. It’s why they call them patients, she mused. This was her third interview of the day, bringing the first week’s count to nine. Sixteen still to go, since she didn’t need to interview the whole placebo group, just the one who’d had the cardiac complaints.

  So far there were no red flags, but Lark wasn’t yet sure what she was looking for. She’d know more once she talked to the three subjects whose medical emergencies had sent the trial into a tailspin.

  Mrs. Browning was typical of most subjects in the Flexxene trial—senior and arthritic, but otherwise in good health. The medical history she provided today echoed the one given prior to being selected for the trial, with only slight deviations that could be chalked up to faulty recall. She met all of the study’s eligibility criteria and had faithfully followed the treatment regimen, which consisted of weekly visits to the clinic at Shire Hospital for evaluation, and to pick up her packet of seven skin patches.

  For thirty-four years, Mrs. Browning and her husband had been domestic workers in a private household. Diagnosed with degenerative arthritis three years ago, she’d followed the usual course of medications and therapies for a year with little relief from the stiffness and pain. The couple had hoped to retire soon and move closer to her brother in a small community in Suffolk, but the family they worked for needed them now more than ever, she said.

  Lark resisted telling her that her health and well-being were more important than duty to her employer, especially at her age. It wasn’t her place to second-guess anyone’s personal judgment, and she technically wasn’t qualified to give medical advice.

  “I’m really sorry this is taking so long,” she said. “We’ll be finished soon.”

  “I don’t mind so much. It’s nice to get out of the house now and again,” Mrs. Browning replied. “Besides, my husband—he’s waiting in the car—he told me to take my time so he could finish his book. It gets him out of trimming the shrubs.”

  Lark’s executive office at PharmaStat was a huge improvement over interview facilities in some clinics, where she often was relegated to a glorified broom closet. In her experience, a formal office setting conveyed professionalism and made study subjects more forthcoming. Plus Wendi always stopped in to offer tea to her guests, allowing her to test Channing’s theory that there was but one proper way to prepare it. Mrs. Browning was a “milk first” disciple, but she also took one cube of sugar. Perhaps if they’d had biscuits…

  Lark found herself more engaged than usual in this particular interview for the simple reason that Mrs. Browning reminded her of her mother, at least in appearance. At sixty-six, she was slightly built with short wavy hair the color of pewter. The similarities ended there however, as Mrs. Browning hardly seemed the sort to hurl dishes across the room the way Ma had.

  “I saw the stories in the newspaper. Terribly frightening. They said some who were taking the drug nearly died.”

  “It was never as serious as the papers made it out to be,
and there’s no indication at all that our drug was responsible. Unfortunately, the hysteria caused a lot of needless concern.”

  “Of course, my doctor explained all that. But what would the red tops be without their sensational scandals?”

  “Red tops?”

  “The gossipy tabloids. The top part is red so it jumps out at you.”

  Given the controversy, Gipson had felt an obligation to inform patients of their group status once the trial was suspended. Mrs. Browning had indeed gotten the Flexxene patch, and as hoped, had reported far less joint stiffness and pain relative to those in the placebo group.

  “Just to be absolutely clear, there’s no evidence at all that Flexxene caused anyone harm. People get heart palpitations all the time for a variety of reasons. But we’ll continue to research the question to confirm our drug is safe.”

  “That’s a relief. Not that I was terribly worried, mind you. Whatever magical potion you’re putting in that little patch, I found it most helpful.”

  “I’ll be sure to let the company know you felt the drug was working as intended. I’m very sorry you weren’t able to continue.”

  “Bit of hard cheese, it was.” She drew in a breath and straightened her posture, a defiant gesture. “I managed before…I suppose I’ll manage again.”

  Lark offered a hand to help her stand, noticing bone spurs in her fingers that probably caused her a lot of pain. Such suffering was hard to watch, especially as it reminded her of Ma’s struggles after her stroke.

  Mrs. Browning hobbled as they walked together toward the elevator, a classic display of arthritic stiffness. “As the old saying goes, it was nice while it lasted. At least I can take comfort in knowing there might be something on the horizon once you get it sorted.”

  “Believe me, Gipson is doing all it can to get this drug to the folks who need it, Mrs. Browning. I’m very hopeful you’ll benefit from it someday soon.”

  Moments such as these made her feel better about the agonizing decision to skip her residency and take the job at Gipson. Her work here would touch far more people who needed relief.

  * * *

  “I’d forgotten how much it bloody rains here,” Channing grumbled, accepting Kenny’s handkerchief to wipe her face and arms. “It has a name, you know…a seasonal disorder of some sort. Seriously, there’s an actual psychological diagnosis for people who want to kill themselves because it’s always bloody raining.”

  “Be honest, you missed this.”

  “Like toe fungus.”

  During a stroll through the garden, they’d taken shelter from a sudden shower in the gazebo. The warped wooden floor, mildewed lattice and rusty wrought-iron chairs were haunting evidence of Poppa’s financial hardship. Such clues had been hiding in plain sight for nearly a decade—like the worn carpets and stained wallpaper—little things Channing had written off to his eccentric frugality.

  “The truth, Kenny. Did you know?”

  “Of course not. Would I have been your friend if I’d known you were penniless?”

  Her flailing kick missed him, as she knew it would. She was touched that he’d dropped everything and driven from London when she’d called him with the news. “I’m delighted that my utter collapse amuses you so.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” He dragged a bench closer and perched on the edge with his legs apart, an unusually masculine pose for him. “Just to clarify…this is about the estate, right? You aren’t still whingeing over that despicable Payton creature.”

  “So that was whingeing, was it? Not that you’d know this, but broken hearts take time to heal. On top of that, I’m about to lose my family home, and I have to walk in there and tell the Brownings that after thirty-odd years of faithful service, it’s time they packed their kit and found a new place to live. And if all of that is not miserable enough, I don’t even have a bloody job.” She glared at him pointedly. “I’m sorry, was I being dramatic again?”

  He hopped to his feet and began to pace. After three laps across the floor he struck a theatrical pose, one hand pointing aimlessly and the other in his pocket. “Channing, I have this amazing idea. Hear me out.”

  “Good, as long as it involves suing the knickers off everyone who made a killing at Bedstek before driving the company into the ground.”

  “Actually, my idea is a bit more old-fashioned. It solves your problems…and several of mine as well.” He drew a deep breath and blew it out loudly. “All right then. I think you and I should get married.”

  “Ha!” She could always count on Kenny for a good— “Bloody hell, the one time in your life you aren’t joking and it’s to say something utterly absurd?”

  “Come on, it’s brilliant. I’d move my belongings into Penderworth—a separate bedroom, of course—and assume all financial responsibility for the manor. Best of all, you’d hardly see me because during the week I’d be in London at Oliver’s.”

  “And why on earth would you do that?”

  “Yes, well…there’s the tricky part. What I need…obviously…”

  “Oh, don’t even.”

  “…is an heir. A male heir, to be precise.”

  Against all her will, Channing quickly extrapolated what that actually meant, the mental vision of which might take her years to scrub. “You are bloody starkers.”

  “I am bloody serious. Oliver and I are dying to have children. Do you realize what happens if I should keel over without an heir? The House of Alanford passes on to Finn McNulty and his family of Irish fishermen.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a snob.”

  “I’m not being a snob. They are a criminal enterprise, Channing, the lot of them. Ask anyone in Galway how to get a boatload of drugs into Reykjavik—Finn McNulty and his boys do it once a month at least.”

  “Says the biggest stoner in Horningsea.”

  “I couldn’t stand it if a bunch of hoodlums ended up in Breckham Hall.”

  “What could you possibly care? You’ll be dead and gone.”

  “But meanwhile I live my whole bloody life knowing my legacy is to be the man who brought the Irish mafia to Horningsea. That’s the life you want for me?”

  His plea held a genuine tone of anguish that surprised her.

  “Marrying you would be an utter farce. The whole world would see right through it in an instant.”

  “And why should I bloody care? Anyone who knows me can see that I’m over a fucking barrel as it is. It’s not as if we have to be Victoria and Albert—we just have to be legal. And we wouldn’t have to…”

  She slapped her hands over her ears. “I must not hear this.”

  “Come on, they practically grow the little buggers in a petri dish.” He returned to his chair sporting an ornery smile. “Plus you’d be a countess, a legitimate one.”

  “A countess without an actual life. Besides, what about you and Oliver? I thought you were going to get married.”

  “We’re prepared to sacrifice. Children are important to us.”

  “And suppose I were to fall in love with someone and want a family of my own? In the eyes of the Crown, any children I had would be yours.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be forever. People get divorced all the time.”

  It was clear he’d thought about this quite a lot. That didn’t make it any less insane.

  “Look at it this way, Channing. You could have the experience of motherhood without actually having to be a mum. Pop it out, hand it over and go your merry way.”

  “Right, what’s a little gestation slavery between friends?”

  “And you say I’m a drama queen. Since when have you ever wanted children of your own?”

  “I’ll have you know I’ve actually considered it quite seriously, thank you very much.” In fact, she’d once floated the idea of having a child with Payton. Granted, it wasn’t met with enthusiasm, but she’d mused that Payton might someday warm to the idea. “I’m hardly sweating the biological clock, you know. Theoretically I probably have twelve or fifteen years to find
a proper partner with whom I could share the role of parenting. Though it’s more likely I’ll stuff the lot of you and go it alone.”

  “Are you insinuating that you don’t actually love me?”

  Ironically, she did. “You really have gone mad, you know.”

  “Does that mean you’ll at least think about it?”

  “It means I should have my bloody head examined just for buzzing you through the gate.” So much for getting her problems off her chest. This was all her fault for being impetuous, for storming out of Albright without securing a new job. If only Poppa had told her the Hughes estate was worthless. Could she even find decent work in London? All her business connections were back in Boston. Plus that bloody noncompete clause in her contract that prohibited her from going to work for a similar firm. “Speaking of Boston—”

  “Were we?”

  “We were about to. My friend Lark…you remember, the woman at the pub who was on my plane. She’s coming by on Sunday for supper. Suppose you and Oliver join us before you go back to the city.”

  “A date already. Smashing. Except do not go getting involved with someone else from Boston. You live here now.”

  “This is not a date. It’s supper with friends…and you, of course.”

  Besides, she’d worked out the logistics—three weeks, no strings. What better way to get Payton out of her life once and for all than to move on? Lark could help her with that. It didn’t matter that she lived in Boston. Channing had no intention of going back to Boston except to clear out her flat, but there was no reason not to take advantage of Lark’s time in England.

  “She’s a lesbian, right? And she’s quite the fit bird from what I saw. I suppose you could do a great deal worse.” He covered his mouth to cough, simultaneously mumbling, “Payton.”

  “Such a wanker, you are. You never even met Payton.” Kenny had always been a world-class meddler. To head off his conjectures, she dismissed Lark as reasonably attractive but hardly stunning, smart but probably not brilliant, a doctor in name only who’d left before completing her training. “She’s all right…though not someone I’d normally notice. I asked her for supper because she expressed an interest in seeing Penderworth. Some consider that appropriate social behavior. Really, you should try it sometime.”