Everything To Gain

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  "I'm doing it for both of us, Mal. And for my mother. Anyway, I think it'll do me good to get away for forty-eight hours. It'll give me a better perspective about everything. And quite frankly, I need to get out of that office, stand away from the situation and take stock of everything."

  "If you're really sure…" I knew I sounded hesitant, but I couldn't help myself.

  "I want to do this," Andrew reassured me. "Scout's honor."

  "Shall we go on the train?"

  He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I'd like to leave early, about six-thirty, so that we miss the worst of the traffic on the motorway. If we set off then, we'll get to Ma's in the middle of the morning, in time for lunch. I can even work on my papers on Saturday afternoon. We can relax all day Sunday and drive back with my mother early on Monday morning."

  "But how are we going to get there tomorrow? We don't have a car, and your mother left earlier this evening. She told me she wanted to be on the road by eight at the latest."

  "Yes, I know that. But there's no problem, we're in a hotel, remember, and one of the best in the world." He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the desk. "I'm going to call the hall porter right now and ask him to have a car and driver outside for us tomorrow morning at six-thirty. How does that sound?"

  "Wonderful," I answered and smiled at him. "And your mother's going to be delighted to have us for the weekend."

  "Whether your father marries Gwenny Reece-Jones or not doesn't affect you much, does it, Mal?" Andrew asked as he switched off the bedside light and pulled the bedcovers over him.

  I was silent for a moment, and then I said, "No, not really. I just want him to be happy, that's all."

  "She's very nice."

  "I thought you couldn't remember her."

  "I couldn't at first. But she's started to come into focus in the past few hours, and I've got a really good picture of her now. Ma's known her for donkey's years. Gwenny"s older sister Gladys was at Oxford with my mother, and that's the connection. When I was little we used to go and stay with the family. I vaguely remember an old house that was quite beautiful, in the Welsh Marshes."

  "Your mother mentioned it to me earlier. But go on, you said you had a good picture of her. What's she look like?"

  "Tall, slender. Dark, like a lot of the Welsh are, with a rather lovely face, a gentle face, and I can visualize pretty eyes, hazel, I think, big and soulful. But she wore odd clothes."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Long floaty skirts and boots and peasant blouses, trailing scarves, dangling earrings, and flowing capes." I heard him laugh in the darkness, and then he went on in an amused voice, "Looking back, I think she was a cross between a gypsy, a Russian peasant, and a hippie. I mean in her appearance. And she was most eccentric, as only the British can be. But don't get me wrong, she was awfully sweet. I'm sure she still is."

  "Yes, and talented, at least, so your mother said."

  "Mal?"

  "Yes, honey?"

  "Don't sound so grudging about Gwenny. I know you're irritated because your father didn't confide in you, but I'm sure it was only because he didn't want to embarrass you or upset you. Ma's right about that."

  "I guess so. And I didn't mean to sound grudging. I'm glad Dad has Gwenny. I hope I get to meet her soon. After all, Dad might be in Mexico next year for six months. So no doubt he'll come to New York more often if he's based there."

  "Is he going to accept the invitation from U.C.L.A. to be part of the dig in Yaxuna?"

  "Possibly. After all, he's had an interest in the Mayan civilization for a long time, as you well know, and I think he'll be glad to get away from the Middle East. He wrote in his last letter that he'd had it out there."

  "I can't say I blame him."

  "I hope he goes to Mexico. I hope he marries Gwenny, and that they spend a lot of time with us. It'll be nice for the twins to get to know their grandfather better, and I'm sure Gwenny will be a good sport. I got that impression from your mother, anyway-that she's fun, I mean. Listen, Andrew, Dad might come to Yorkshire for the Christmas vacation. Anyway, Diana said she was going to phone Gwenny and invite them. That would be nice, don't you think?"

  Andrew did not respond, and I realized that he had fallen asleep. He was breathing evenly but deeply, and this did not surprise me at all, since he was so exhausted. It was a miracle he hadn't fallen asleep over supper.

  I lay next to him in the darkness, thinking about my father and Gwenny, hoping they were happy. One thing I was certain of, in this uncertain world, was that my mother was happy with David Nelson. In the beginning I'd had a few misgivings about him, inasmuch as he was a criminal lawyer of some standing and celebrity; he had always sounded too street-smart, too tough and slick in the past. But what a lovely man he had turned out to be, and not in the least like my original impression. Charming without being smarmy, intellectual without being pompous, and brilliant without being a show-off. He had a good sense of humor, but-most important, I had discovered he was a kind and compassionate man, blessed with a great deal of understanding and insight into people. He adored my mother, and she adored him; that was good enough for me.

  I fell asleep with a smile on my face, thinking how nice it was that my mother had started a whole new life at the age of sixty-one.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Yorkshire, November 1988

  Andrew worked on his papers all the way to Yorkshire.

  Lulled by the warmth and the motion of the car, I dozed on and off as we headed north on the motorway. I roused myself fully at one point, sat up straighter against the seat, and glanced at my watch. I saw that it was almost nine-thirty. This surprised me, and I said to Andrew, "We've been on the road well over three and a half hours. We must be in Yorkshire already, aren't we?"

  "That we are, Puss," he answered, looking up from the folder on his lap, giving me a half smile. "And you've slept most of the way. In any case, we left Harrogate behind a while ago.".

  I swung my head and stared out the car window. I saw that it was a pristine morning, clear and sunny, the sky a high-flung canopy of palest blue and white above the undulating pastoral dales. And as I continued to look out of the window, thinking what a great day it was, I experienced a sudden rush of anticipation and excitement knowing that we would soon be with Diana at her lovely old house just outside West Tanfield.

  Ever since our marriage, Andrew and I had come to England at least once a year for a holiday, and we had never left without making a trip to Yorkshire. So, not unnaturally, I was happy we were coming for the week end. During the last ten years I had grown to love this beautiful, sprawling county, the largest in England, with its bucolic green dales, vast, empty moors, soaring fells, ancient cathedrals, and dramatic ruins of medieval abbeys. It was a rich corner of the north, blessed with immense tracts of fertile, arable land and great industrial wealth, and it boasted more castles and stately homes than any other county in the whole of Britain. Also, I had developed a deep affection and respect for the canny, down-to-earth folk who lived here, and whose pragmatism, dry wit, and hospitality were legendary.

  Wensleydale and the valley of the Ure, which we were presently driving through, was the area I knew best, since this was where the Keswick ancestral home was located. The house had been in the family for over four hundred years; even though Michael and Diana had settled in London after their youthful marriage straight out of university, they had spent almost every weekend there with Michael's parents, and all of the main annual holidays as well.

  Andrew had been born in the house, as had most of the other Keswicks who had gone before him. "My mother made sure my actual birth took place in Yorkshire, not only because of the Keswick tradition, but because of cricket," Andrew had told me somewhat cryptically, on my first trip to West Tanfield when we had come to England on our honeymoon.

  I had asked him what he meant about cricket, and he had chuckled, then explained, "Cricket is Yorkshire 's game, Mal. My father and grandfather wanted me to be
birthed in the county, because only men actually born within the boundaries of Yorkshire can play cricket for it. They had high expectations of me, hoped and prayed I might turn out to be another Len Hutton or a Freddy Trueman. You see, Dad and Grandpa were cricket addicts."

  Since I knew nothing about cricket, that most British of British games, Andrew had gone on to explain that Hutton and Trueman were world-famous Yorkshire cricketeers who had played for England and had been national champions, if not, indeed, national heroes.

  As it happened, Andrew loved cricket and had played it at boarding school. "But I was never inspired, only an average batsman. I just didn't have the talent," he had confided to me on another occasion, a warm summer day the following year when he had taken me to Lords to watch my first test match.

  Continuing to gaze out the window, I spotted the shining tower of Ripon Cathedral outlined dramatically against the distant blue horizon. The cathedral was one of the most extraordinary edifices I have ever seen. Founded in the year 650, it was imposingly beautiful, awe-inspiring. Andrew was christened there, and it was in the cathedral that his parents were married. Now the sight of its great tower told me that we were about thirty minutes away from Andrew's family home.

  "I'm hungry," Andrew said, interrupting my thoughts. "I hope old Parky has a good breakfast waiting for us. I could eat a horse."

  "I'm not surprised." I laughed. "I'm pretty hungry myself, we left London so early. And I hope the hall porter phoned your mother, as you asked him to do. I'd hate to arrive unexpected."

  "Good Lord, Mal, you ought to know better than that by now. I'd stake my life on the hall porters at Claridge's; they're the salt of the earth, and very reliable."

  "True. Still, perhaps we ought to have stopped on the way up, called her ourselves."

  "Not necessary, my sweet," he murmured. "And it wouldn't matter if we did arrive unannounced. We're going to my mother's, for God's sake."

  I said nothing, simply nodded, then I reached for my handbag. Taking out my compact, I powdered my nose and put on a little lipstick. Settling back, I glanced out the window once more to see that we were passing through the marketplace in Ripon. Here, every night at nine o'clock, the horn blower blew his horn at each corner of the neat little square, sounding the ancient curfew, wearing a period costume that came from an era of long ago. It was a centuries-old tradition, which the English, and most especially the locals, took in their stride, but one that an American like me found quite amazing-and extremely quaint.

  Within seconds we had left the center of town behind. The driver pointed the car in the direction of Middleham, following Andrew's explicit instructions, and soon we were out in the open countryside again, making for West Tanfield. This was situated between Ripon and Middleham, but closer to the latter, a place renowned for its stables and the breeding and training of great racehorses; it was also a treasure trove of history, had been known as "the Windsor of the North" at the time of the Plantagenet kings, Edward IV and Richard III.

  We continued to barrel along, following the winding country lanes and roads, narrow and a bit precarious under the shadow of those lonely, windswept moors. This morning they looked somber and implacable. In August and September they took on a wholly different aspect, resembling a sea of purple as wave upon wave of heather rippled under the perpetual wind; they were a breathtaking sight.

  "We're almost there," I murmured half to myself as the car rolled over the old stone bridge which spanned the River Ure and led into the main street of West Tanfield. It was a typical dales village-charming, picturesque, and very, very old.

  I glanced to my left to see the familiar view, a line of pretty stone cottages with red-tiled roofs standing on the banks of the Ure, their green sloping lawns running down to the edge of the river. And behind them, poised against the pale wintry sky, were the old Norman church and the Marmion Tower next to it, both surrounded by ancient oaks and ash and a scattering of evergreens.

  I reached over and squeezed Andrew's hand. I knew how much he loved this place.

  He smiled at me and began to straighten his papers, quickly putting them back into his briefcase and closing it.

  "Did you get a lot done?" I asked him.

  "Yes, I did, and probably more than I would have in that damned office. I'm glad Ma put the screws on me yesterday, that I finally made up my mind we should spend the weekend with her. It'll do us both good."

  "Yes, it will, and maybe we can go riding tomorrow."

  "That's a good thought, Mal. We'll zip up to Middleham and join the stable boys and grooms on the gallops when they're exercising the racehorses. If you don't mind getting up very early again."

  "I'm always up early, aren't I?" I laughed. "But Andrew, how stupid I am. I'd forgotten-we don't have our riding gear with us."

  "Don't worry about that. I know I've got some historic old stuff at Ma's from years ago. I'm sure it's gungy, but it'll do, and my mother will lend you a pair of her boots and old jeans or riding breeches. And she's got masses of warm jackets, harbours, green Wellies, stuff like that. So we'll manage."

  "Yes, it'll be fine." I studied him carefully and asked, "Does it feel good to be home?"

  A small frown creased his smooth, wide brow as he returned my steady gaze. "These days, home for me is wherever you are, Mal. You and the twins." He leaned into me, kissed my cheek, and added, "But yes, it does feel good to be back in Yorkshire, to come back to my birthplace. I suppose everybody must feel that way-that atavistic pull. It's only natural, isn't it?"

  "Yes," I agreed, and turning away from him, I looked straight ahead, peering over the driver's shoulder and out the front window of the car. We had left the village behind a good ten minutes ago and had taken the road which led up to the moors of Coverdale and the high fells. Following a bend in the road, we turned a corner. Now I could see them straight ahead, the high stone wall and the wrought-iron gates which opened onto the long winding driveway leading up to Diana's house.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We drove through the gates and progressed up the driveway rather slowly, since there were sheep and fallow deer wandering around the grounds, and the latter were skittish.

  Far in the distance, I got just the merest glimpse of the house, of its tall chimneys poking up into the sky.

  Its name was Kilgram Chase. It had always been called that, ever since its beginnings. Built in 1563, five years after Elizabeth I ascended to the throne, it was typically Tudor in style. A solid, stone house, it was square in shape yet graceful and with many windows, high chimneys, pitched gables, and a square tower built onto each of its four corners. In every crenellated tower there were only two mullioned windows, but these were huge and soaring, set one above the other, creating a highly dramatic effect and filling the tower rooms with extraordinary light.

  Kilgram Chase stood in a large expanse of parkland, its green sweep of lawns and grazing pastures encircling the house, stretching up from the iron gates we had just left behind. Surrounding the edge of the park on three sides, to form a semicircular shape behind it, were dense woods, and rising up above these woods were the moors and, higher still, the great fells. Thus the house, the park, and the woods were cupped in a valley that protected them from the wind and weather in the winter months and, in times past, from political enemies and marauders, since the only access to the house and its park was through the front gates.

  The first time I came here I had naturally been intrigued by Andrew's childhood home. Diana had given me the grand tour, told me everything I wanted to know about the house and the family. She was proud of Kilgram Chase and an expert on its history.

  Its unusual name came, in part, from the man who had built it 425 years ago, a Yorkshire warrior knight called Sir John Kilgram. A close friend of Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, he was a member of Queen Elizabeth's loyal faction, and one of the new men, as they were called, in palace politics. Kilgram had been given the great park and woods by Queen Elizabeth's royal decree for special service
s to the Crown. But long before Elizabeth Tudor's reign, when the Plantagenets had ruled, it had been a chase, that is, a stretch of open land where wild animals roamed and could be hunted by the local gentry. Later it was owned by the monks of nearby Fountains Abbey; they lost it when Elizabeth 's father, King Henry VIII, confiscated all lands owned by the church. After the dissolution of the monasteries it became the property of the Crown.

  The house and its park had come to the Keswicks quite legally, through a marriage which took place in the summer of 1589. Sir John had an only child, a daughter named Jane, and when she married Daniel Keswick, the son of a local squire, he gave them Kilgram Chase as part of her dowry. It had been in the family's possession ever since, passed down from generation to generation. One day it would belong to Andrew, and then to Jamie, and Jamie's son, if he had one.

  Diana called it a typical country manor and constantly protested that for all of its prestige and historical significance, it was by no means a grand house anymore, and this was true. Architecturally, it was extremely well designed, skillfully planned, even somewhat compact for this type of Tudor manor, and in comparison to some of the great homes of Yorkshire, it was small. Despite its size, for a long time now Diana had found it difficult to run, in many respects. Not the least of it was the cost in time and money for its overall upkeep. For these reasons she lived in only two wings and kept two closed most of the year.

  The house was maintained with the help of Joe and Edith Parkinson, who had lived and worked at Kilgram Chase for over thirty years. With their daughter, Hilary Broadbent, they took care of all the interiors, in both the open and closed wings, and did the laundry and cooking. Joe was also the handyman; he did a certain amount of outdoor work as well, looking after Diana's two horses and the sheep and mucking out the stables.

  Hilary's husband, Ben, and his brother Wilf were the two gardeners responsible for the grounds; they mowed the many lawns, tended the flower beds, pruned the trees in the orchard, cleaned the pond once a year, and made sure the walled rose garden remained the great beauty spot it had been for hundreds of years.