The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

‘Sorry, so it’s Edmund’s house now?’ asked J-T, in a fit of giggles, grabbing Queenie and kicking the French bulldogs out of the front door. ‘I have observed him keeping an eye on you. Rather like a hungry golden eagle setting eyes on a pretty little rabbit.’

  ‘Oh, grow up!’ snapped Liberty, whose face was by now an unbecoming scarlet under the sugar, dust and goodness knows what else stuck to her face.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ said J-T, all contrite. He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘How lovely to see love blossoming on two unsuspecting trees.’

  ‘Very poetic,’ hissed Liberty. ‘I need to clean up.’

  ‘There is a smitten, grumpy, hellishly handsome man waiting to hand you a glass of celebratory champagne at Denhelm Park, and you ought to look more like a human than an iced bun, so get yourself in the shower and we will drive you up.’

  At Liberty’s surprised look, he explained that Edmund had wanted to throw a little party to celebrate the successful day, and invited them to join Deirdre, Alain and the rest of the mob for supper. Poor Mrs Goodman, thought Liberty, but was secretly rather thrilled that Edmund wanted to celebrate. She had barely had time to talk to him, let alone thank him for rescuing her and whisking Isabelle and Cecil away when she needed to work.

  All of Liberty’s friends and family had noted the presence of Mr and Mrs CR. First of all they wondered why they were there at all, and whispered to one another that for Liberty’s sake they hoped Percy was not about to arrive. Then, when Deirdre and Alain had excitedly run out to tell them the CRs wanted Liberty’s help to revive the reputation of the bank and prevent their son from doing any more damage, they were even more curious. They had therefore, either because they were Jonathan’s family and staying at the park, or because they were Liberty’s family and insistent that they needed to be there (Alain and Deirdre) or just insistent (J-T), all wangled an invitation to supper at Denhelm.

  Liberty ran upstairs and into the bathroom, neglecting to look in the mirror, knowing her reflection would only horrify. She had spent a day launching her career whilst resembling a cookie monster. She washed her hair twice and spent a little more time than she should on her make-up, knowing the CRs would be well taken care of. Throwing on a navy-blue jersey dress that clung in all the right places and had a flattering boat neck, a pug-coloured cashmere cardigan (bought when she realised how much hair pugs shed) and tugging on a pair of high-heeled dark brown alligator boots, she raced down as Bob and J-T were encouraging the dogs into their beds with a Bonio.

  ‘Don’t worry, Queenie has been out and we have left her in our room,’ they reassured her. But Liberty was not going to let kitten poo worry her on a night when, despite being bush tired and slightly terrified of what plan the CRs had come up with, she felt like celebrating a day that had gone so well. She also knew she had a lot of thanking to do.

  J-T held the door open for her just as the band struck up the introduction of Carly Simon’s ‘Nobody Does it Better’. As they walked along the garden path, they looked over to the improvised stage on the green and all gasped when they realised it was a clearly pregnant Sarah behind the microphone. When she opened her mouth and started to sing, they stopped walking and listened. It was like liquid glucose; clear, mellow and able to smooth off rough edges. She amazed everyone with her strong, sultry voice. Liberty was smiling as they eventually got into the car and drove off; she had spied the bewitched face of Dr Brown gazing up in surprise and renewed adoration at his cleaning woman.

  ‘Wow!’ said J-T. ‘Did you know she could sing like that?’ he asked as he turned into the driveway, passing Deirdre and Alain and Paloma and Jonathan as they walked along the pretty primrose-festooned drive.

  ‘No,’ said Liberty. ‘To be honest, I don’t think I have even heard her hum before!’

  Bob was looking thoughtful, and Liberty asked him what he was thinking. ‘Only that I suddenly feel, after spending an eventful Christmas here–’ at this point he raised an eyebrow ‘– and then today, meeting so many interesting people, and having such a good time, that I have been very narrow-minded.’

  ‘NO!’ said J-T and Liberty, chortling in unison.

  ‘No, no, let me finish,’ said Bob, but not unkindly. He was aware of his previous prejudice against the country set, feeling lost and bewildered by what he saw as a lack of culture when faced with a weekend in the shires. ‘It’s made me think that J-T’s idea of running a boutique B&B is not such a bad one, after all. I could open a gallery down here, and the dogs would love it – and think of what we could afford with the money raised from the Covent Garden pad!’

  J-T was open-mouthed at his beloved’s sudden rush of enthusiasm about what had been a very sketchy idea, but as they had just pulled up near the front door he had little time to say anything other than, ‘Let’s talk about this later when we are back at Duck End. This evening has so many eventualities that we may be desperate for an escape, but I’m thrilled you think we have a future!’

  He squeezed Bob’s hand as they went up the steps. They could hear laughter pealing through the windows. Children were running about in their pyjamas, hotly pursued by Savannah.

  ‘A little too much sugar intake, I fear,’ she explained to the arrivals. ‘Come on, you two. Time for a story.’

  Mrs CR was chatting happily to Jonathan, while Mr CR was puffing out his features and attempting to charm the beautiful Paloma, who was doing her best to appear impressed by the stuffy but kindly old man. Evangeline, having settled little Yves, was sipping a glass of champagne, whispering with Claude and hoping food would be served shortly. Despite the rest of Littlehurst and the surrounding county being full to bursting point, most of Liberty’s helpers and friends had been too busy on their feet helping others or looking after wayward children to eat much, or indeed anything, themselves. Therefore, they were all ravenous. Mrs Goodman was working at full speed in the kitchen, thrilled to have a houseful again; she had raided the farm shop and bought a feast.

  Edmund came out of the drawing room laden with drinks. His eyes lit up appreciatively when he saw Liberty. ‘Come in, you must be completely shattered.’

  Liberty, who had felt her stomach flutter when she saw Edmund, and not out of hunger, now felt that she looked tired, and her shoulders drooped a bit, but she gratefully took the offered glass of biscuit-coloured champagne, allowing the cool, delicious bubbles to relax and smooth her nerves about the impending evening.

  ‘How are Isabelle and Cecil?’ she asked quietly.

  Edmund raised his eyes to the ceiling and whispered, ‘Slightly overwrought.’ Then, turning to Bob, he continued, ‘Good evening, Bob. I hate to tell you, but I may be in need of your expertise this evening.’

  Liberty’s eyebrows described querying shapes, but Bob replied brightly with a ‘righty-ho’, hoping Edmund was planning to sell many of the fabulous pictures dotting the walls in order to invest in new ones, bought from him, of course, but knowing in his heart it was more than likely to do with Liberty’s in-laws.

  ‘I do believe little pound signs appeared in your eyes just now,’ whispered J-T in his ear.

  ‘Oh, shush,’ replied Bob, but very fondly.

  ‘I have a feeling in my bones,’ continued J-T, ‘that Edmund is thinking about Percy and his art collection.’

  ‘That’s what I keep wanting to explain to Liberty,’ said Bob, but they were interrupted again by Jonathan herding them into the bright summer sitting room, where a reluctant fire twitched in the grate; just enough to add a touch of comfort to the warm evening.

  They looked for a place to sit down – all except Liberty, who was buzzing with adrenalin and nervous energy, pacing up and down in the bay.

  Edmund took over as chairman. ‘I have to apologise, firstly, to Mr and Mrs Cholmondly-Radley, as I am not sure you were expecting such a large audience to hear what you have to say.’ This raised a small smile from them both and somewhat broke the ice. ‘However, I believe it demonstrates the support and love we all feel for our dea
r friend Liberty.’

  There was a gasp from Savannah, who thought her unemotional brother must have had some sort of stroke to be so verbally demonstrative. Most eyebrows rose, except for J-T’s, whose were so Botoxed that they couldn’t. Paloma didn’t react either, both because of her Botox and because she was of the impression that everyone knew Edmund and Liberty were madly in love and imagined there was soon to be an announcement of a romantic nature. Liberty stopped pacing and looked at Edmund. His dark, brooding eyes met hers directly, and she felt a frisson of excitement shiver down her spine. At that moment she knew this dear man was indeed hers, and she his, but typically, in front of all these people, she could only open and close her mouth like a goldfish, albeit a very pretty one.

  Edmund tore his gaze from Liberty’s and continued, ‘I have been talking with Cecil and Isabelle for most of the afternoon, and it would appear that for the sake of the Radley Bank’s reputation, and that of the family, which is perhaps even more important, help is needed to jolt Percy into realising he is damaging more than his liver. They have requested that Liberty make a claim on his Pissarro painting. This is the one possession he loves above any other. It will hopefully get him back under control, and shock him into realising what he is doing.’

  ‘But I don’t want his Pissarro! I’ve never wanted to take anything of his. After all, it was my decision to leave him,’ said Liberty, feeling awkward in front of her in-laws, worried they might think this a plan of her making.

  ‘Oh, no, my dear,’ piped up Cecil. ‘We know you don’t. But we feel that if he is told you want it, you could . . . well . . . er . . .’ He searched for the correct word. ‘ . . . persuade him to come back to the bank, thereby reassuring our partners and clients that the bank is worth holding their money in, and then he might take control of himself once again, and as a result rescue what is left of our family name. Perhaps he will even take some interest in our grandchild.’ At this point Isabelle gave a somewhat theatrical sob; quite unexpected from such a controlled lady.

  Liberty felt a gut-gripping stab of guilt. If only she had been able to give them a grandchild herself, maybe none of this would have happened. She hurried over to her beloved mother-in-law and comforted her, her own tears spilling as the memory of her lost child flooded back. Isabelle managed to pull herself together. She was somewhat muddled as to what had happened to Liberty. She had been told about the miscarriage by a horrified Deirdre, who had phoned her to ask how Percy could have abandoned her daughter in Italy after she had lost her baby. Isabelle had felt guilty since Liberty’s visit just after she left Percy. She should have supported the poor girl more. But not knowing the full story, she had felt obliged to encourage her to stand by her son. She had always admired her daughter-in-law for her hard work, generosity of spirit and enthusiasm, and for not trading on her beauty, as so many others had done, making them lazy and complacent.

  ‘Would you allow me to speak?’ Bob surprised everyone by standing up. J-T admired his handsome physique as Bob raised himself to his full height, grateful for the Cuban heels that allowed him to reach the mantelpiece. He commanded the attention of all in the room.

  ‘You may be aware that Percy and I struck up a form of friendship through our years in Cambridge, due to our mutual appreciation of art. It almost made him forgive me for being gay! Once in a while he asked me to find him small pictures to have as investment pieces. Sometimes he would sell them straight away, as they had been purchased at well below their value, and sometimes he kept them – usually in the bank’s vaults – until they gained sufficient value to be sold. Over a few years this made me realise that although I needed to make money through my own art dealing, I love the pieces I buy and see value in their beauty rather than in their monetary value. Percy, on the other hand, although very knowledgeable, was more interested in making money.

  ‘One day, a few years after coming down from university, he approached me, saying he needed a painting to be authenticated, but on the quiet. When I asked why, he said his aunt needed to sell a piece, but she didn’t want the family to find out that she had lost a fair bit of their loot by gambling. Perhaps blindly trusting a friend, I saw the picture, and authenticated an unknown Pissarro. I was so excited I wanted to let him show it before it was sold, and I told him it would encourage a huge amount of interest and draw the big bidders in. To sell on the QT would only arouse suspicion, and lower the price. He assured me he would speak to her and try to do as I said. I heard nothing until I attended a party held at Le Manoir a few months later, only for Liberty to tell me in an unguarded moment that we were not there to celebrate her birthday at all, but rather his new acquisition! By the way, Liberty, Percy was none too pleased you had told me.’

  ‘Yes, I remember!’ piped up Liberty. ‘I was so surprised he was cross, because I thought he would want to show off to you, of all people, that he had managed this great coup. He had talked of nothing but the Pissarro for the past few weeks, and then he got so angry with me when I mentioned it to you.’

  ‘It was at Le Manoir?’ enquired J-T.

  ‘Yes! I believe it was.’

  ‘Uh-huh, explains a lot.’

  ‘Anyway, to continue,’ said Bob, drawing the focus back to himself. ‘When I asked Percy what had happened and how on earth he had afforded it, he said his aunt had refused to place it on the open market, and he had decided to buy it from her instead, directly, thus cutting out the middlemen and the fees. He said he had given her my estimated price and she was pleased and content to leave it at that. I couldn’t very well ask where the money had come from, and he wasn’t offering to tell me.’

  Isabelle and Cecil were both looking very confused, but Bob went on, ‘I believe that he maybe didn’t pass on my written estimate or authentication certificate, and I also believe that at that time he wouldn’t have had the sort of cash he would need for the picture. I think he may have told the aunt that it wasn’t a real Pissarro, and he bought it from her at an absolute knock-down price. All we need to do is go and see the aunt. I didn’t question him at the time, not sure why, but if I’m honest I’ve always been a little scared of the man.’ At this he shot a nervous glance at the CRs, but they were still looking dazed and confused. ‘But looking back, I feel it may have been, well, somewhat illegal. So, that is my story. What do you all make of it?’

  ‘Very interesting. Very, very interesting,’ said Isabelle, slowly coming out of her catatonic state. She took hold of her husband’s hand and said, ‘Especially as neither I nor my husband has a sister.’

  It was Bob’s turn to look shocked. ‘But I met her in her home. She seemed genuine, and I’m sure it was her apartment in Anstley Hall. It felt right, and she made me tea there.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember her name, do you?’ asked Mr CR.

  ‘Yes, strangely, I do. It’s a one-off to see a real Pissarro, and her name was so unbelievable, it was memorable. I remember Percy saying not to laugh when he told me, and that when she married, the family giggled over it for months. It was Mrs Stickybunns.’

  ‘Oh, poor Sticky!’ wailed Liberty and Isabelle simultaneously. Cecil, on the other hand, was not thinking about his housekeeper’s unusual name; he was growing ever more furious with his son.

  ‘What!’ he shouted so loudly that the crystals on the ancient wall sconces shook. ‘Are you seriously telling me my son swindled my housekeeper out of hundreds of thousands of pounds?’

  ‘Well, yes, to put it bluntly, I do think it’s possible. And it was a good deal more than that,’ confirmed Bob, trembling under the full glare of the elderly gentleman, who was now back to his former patrician demeanour, suddenly regaining the strength that chemotherapy had sapped for months.

  ‘Unless perhaps he swindled the bank to get hold of the money, and Mrs Stickybunns has been working for you out of the goodness of her heart, while all the time hoarding her millions under the bed?’ suggested J-T, who was enjoying this.

  Liberty was now not the only one to be openin
g and shutting her mouth like a goldfish. Edmund did the only thing suitable in such a situation: he opened another bottle of Ruinart Blanc de Blancs, and topped up everyone’s glass. After a few minutes of absolute silence, the room erupted with talk, everyone shouting over each other and excitedly telling Cecil to call Mrs Stickybunns immediately.

  55

  At that moment Mrs Goodman sounded the gong for supper, with considerable extra enthusiasm, owing to the amount of noise emerging from the summer sitting room. She was thrilled to have the house full of laughter and jollity again. The children had already snuck down and been given a tray of biscuits and a flask of hot chocolate to take up to their indoor tree house.

  Back in the mayhem, Edmund took control. He handed Cecil the telephone and instructed him to phone Mrs Stickybunns, then ran into the kitchen to explain to Mrs Goodman (thank goodness his housekeeper had a sensible name) that they might still need a few minutes, and she scuttled off to put the pea mousse back in its water bath to stay warm, and to cover the resting beef again. She was muttering ‘Why do I ever expect to be able to serve on time?’ but smiling as she went.

  When Edmund returned to the sitting room, Cecil had obeyed the command, and was indeed on the phone. The rest of the room was silent, for once no one ashamed of eavesdropping. Isabelle even had her ear pressed to Cecil’s to overhear more clearly, much to her husband’s obvious annoyance, as he kept scooting down the sofa, only for her to scoot straight after him, until he was pressed between a chintz arm and a silk one.

  ‘Yes, yes, and did you get the authentication? Oh, rightyho. So Percy helped you, yes? And what, if you don’t mind my asking, did he pay for the very poor fake? Righty-ho, all right, everything in good order in the homestead? Yes, no, not a problem. Just wanted to know. Thank you, see you later. We will be home very late, if at all. Edmund has kindly offered us a bed for the night. Yes, yes, I have my pills. Leave the hall light on, but don’t worry about staying up. Right, right. Thank you.’ He was trying not to be rude but was obviously desperate to relay her side of the story, and he hung up.