by Janet Woods
‘Richard left you something in his will, didn’t he?’
‘No . . . he left everything to that delicious little doll he married. She had him wrapped so tightly around her finger that he even gave her his mother’s jewellery. But don’t worry. I’ve managed to put the brakes on everything until I get a solicitor. I’m going to enlist the services of Philip Conrad, since he owes me a favour. By the way, the girl is expecting a baby.’
Rosemary’s eyes widened. ‘Livia is? But I thought your son couldn’t father a child?’
‘His doctor told me it would be extremely unlikely. Something to do with nerves being severed by the bullet he got in his back.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned. So who fathered the brat?’
He shrugged, and avoided her eyes, fussing with his cufflinks. ‘To all intents and purposes, Richard did, and we won’t be able to prove otherwise. But why should we want to? What matters is that the Sinclair legacy comes with the child.’
There were the beginnings of a smile on her face. ‘So?’
‘I’m going to challenge Richard’s will, and I’m going to apply for custody of my grandchild.’
‘Who will look after the brat?’
‘You will of course, Rosie.’
She began to laugh. ‘That’s what you think. I’m not looking after another woman’s smelly brat.’
‘With the Sinclair legacy, we’ll be able to afford a nanny until it’s old enough to send off to boarding school. You’re right, though, you’re certainly not the motherly type.’
‘But Livia is. She couldn’t do enough for your late wife, or your son, and she adores her ghastly brother and sister. You don’t know her very well if you think she’ll take this lying down, Henry. Given half the chance, she’ll tear your throat out rather than part with her child.’
‘Then I won’t give her half a chance.’
‘What about the scandal?’
‘There won’t be one, I promise. I’ll be very surprised if Livia fights me on this. The thing is, m’dear, I’ll need you to help me pull it off. I’m not very popular at Foxglove House. Go down and make friends with the staff. Not now, when they’ll be sympathizing with the tragic young widow, but in a month or two. See what you can find out. There were some undercurrents of resentment when Livia and Richard married, I hear, especially from that Florence creature. I think she expected to be offered the position of housekeeper, though she and Beamish were planning to move. Try and catch Florence alone. Be nice to her.’
‘I can’t stand the sight of the woman.’
‘You can always look on this as a role you’re playing. You say you can act, well now’s the time to prove it.’
‘I suppose I could go and offer my condolences to the grieving widow. Besides, I left a few things behind, so I can use that as an excuse to be there.’
‘I’ll tell you where the key to the safe is. You might have a chance to open it.’
She laughed. ‘I put my time there to good use, Henry. I know where the key is kept.’ Rosemary rose to throw the doors to her wardrobe open. Half turning towards him, she allowed the strap to fall provocatively from her shoulder. ‘Now . . . what have I got to wear in black?’
Henry’s mouth dried and he whispered, ‘Your slip. I should spank you for teasing me.’
‘I might allow that, but only if you go on your knees and beg. You could use that little silk whip.’
‘You bitch.’ He fell to his knees, folding his arms around her legs. Breathing through the curling tangle of hair hidden behind the silky material of her slip, he inhaled the smell of her rising musk and reared in response to it. ‘Please, Rosie . . . please.’
It took a couple of weeks for Livia to be able to think coherently.
Beamish and Florence were to depart in two weeks, exactly a month after the funeral. She rang Mr Stone.
‘Ah . . . Mrs Sangster. I was just about to contact you. The board has decided not to replace Mr Beamish, since your late husband employed him. And Mrs Beamish will be leaving with him, of course. Considering the circumstances, it would be best for Foxglove House to be left in the hands of a skeleton staff until the matter of Richard Sangster’s will and the custody of the coming Sinclair heir is resolved. Mrs Anstruther and Mathew Bugg will be asked to stay on. Letters are being prepared for the staff and I’d be obliged if you wouldn’t mention this until they have received them.’
‘What about the cook? She’s been here a long time.’
‘Mrs Starling is nearly of retirement age, so she’ll be let go. We can’t go to the expense of keeping a cook on staff when there is no Sinclair in residence.’
Connie would be upset, and Livia wondered if she had anywhere else to go. ‘I see . . . and myself?’
‘You still have the use of Nutting Cottage.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There’s another complication. The Scottish kin, Alexander Sinclair, has signed away any right to the legacy, should he become eligible to inherit.’
‘Oh . . . why is that a complication? Richard said he didn’t want the legacy. And do you know something, Mr Stone, I really don’t want my child to have it either. It’s too much of a responsibility.’
‘I think you’re forgetting that the legacy is supporting your brother during his educational years. Besides, it will be up to the coming child to decide whether the Sinclair estate is of value to it, when it comes of age.’
‘Yes of course. I’m sorry if I sound ungrateful. I’m tired and I can’t think straight. I don’t know if I’m up to a court battle over somebody else’s money.’
‘If I may say so, none of us know what the future holds. By the time the child has come of age, the Sinclair funds may have deteriorated, because the estate around the house hasn’t been worked since Margaret Sangster’s father died. Basically, it’s a farm, and a farm needs to be kept productive. Now . . . enough of what you already know. What’s more important in the short term is that you retain your husband’s estate. That issue must be resolved first.’
‘It’s all so complicated, Mr Stone . . . why must it?’
‘So you’ll have the means to bring the child up. The major will then have to prove you’re a bad mother.’
‘How can he do that, when I’ve never experienced being a mother? I intend to be the best mother in the world, in fact.’
‘Exactly. Cheer up, Mrs Sangster, we have some strong irons in the fire.’
He’d used the word ‘we’, and Livia was relieved that he’d aligned himself with her.
She was tempted to contact Denton and tell him what was going on, but decided against it. He had his professional training to complete, and although Richard had been his lifelong friend and she knew she’d be able to depend on him, she couldn’t quite bring herself to burden Denton with her problem.
A week later Connie Starling received a letter of termination, along with a year’s wages by way of compensation. Although Livia could see the sense of the arrangement, she felt guilty when she saw how put out the cook was.
‘I’ll be moving back into the cottage again,’ Livia told her. ‘You can move in with me if you’ve got nowhere to go.’
Connie sniffed at that, and her bottled-up resentment was given an airing now she had nothing left to lose. ‘The Sangsters can keep their charity if this is all I get for my years of loyal service. I’ve been working here since I was a girl. I’ve saved nearly every penny of my wage for retirement. I can afford to rent my own house.’
‘But you would have retired next year anyway, and you haven’t lost any wages in the time you’d have been working.’
‘That’s not the point . . .’ and she went on to tell Livia what the point was. ‘If anyone deserved to be awarded Nutting Cottage, it’s me. It would have suited me in retirement. It shows a lack of respect, so there! But don’t you worry about me. You always did think you were a cut above. You can keep your cottage, Mrs Richard Sangster. The major and that tart he married will soon have it off you, you mark my words. And don’t come running to me when
you and that young brother and sister of yours are out on the street begging for food.’
Livia burst into tears at the thought of sending the children back to the orphanage. She’d worked hard to gain their trust and affection, and if the major succeeded in his quest, the lives she’d created for them would be shattered.
‘None of this is my fault, Connie.’
‘Aye, so you say. You turned out to be as bad as the other one, working behind everyone’s back to attract the interest of the master of the house,’ Connie sniffed, beginning to run out of steam. ‘What’s more, I’m going to pack my bags and leave now. You can do your own cooking.’
‘But where will you go? At least wait until you’ve had time to arrange some accommodation.’
Connie thought for a minute or two. ‘Aye, that makes sense, and I daresay Mr Beamish and Florence will put me up until I sort myself out.’ That settled in her mind, she stomped off, then turned, glaring, to fire her last shot. ‘We can’t all be favoured with rent-free cottages, but it’s you who will get her comeuppance and be thrown out on the street in the end, you mark my words.’
Florence, deciding to take Connie’s side, walked around with her nose in the air and barely spoke to Livia for the next few days.
Beamish seemed to be the only one sympathetic to her plight. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs Sangster. I’ll sort the pair of them out. I reckon I can buy a right nice house with the money the captain has left me. Me, Florence and my dad can live in that, and Connie can rent the rooms over the shop if she wants.’
‘Thank you, Mr Beamish. That’s taken one worry from my mind.’
‘Oh, I daresay Connie will calm down. She won’t want to part on bad terms. You settle in that nice little cottage and prepare for the arrival of the baby. I’ll come and visit the next time I’m passing through if you don’t mind, and if you need me I’ll be at the end of the telephone.’
She hoped she’d never have to take advantage of this kind man. And he was right about Connie. She made a teary apology for her outburst and they hugged each other tight. ‘Now, you let us know whether you have a boy or a girl, since Florence and I have got a wager on it,’ she said, trying to cover her embarrassment at the need to part on good terms and the necessity to back down to achieve it.
‘I will.’
Livia drove them to the station along with their luggage, and the three of them left together. She felt lonely when the train disappeared into the morning mist.
The house she returned to was suddenly an empty husk, except for silent echoes of a past Livia didn’t feel part of. She stood in the hall, listening to snatches of Richard’s laughter, of his childhood feet pattering on the stairs, and of time ticking her life away on the same grandfather clock that had ticked his life away. The hands had moved on, and now she must do the same.
She was given the incentive to move when Mrs Anstruther began to shroud the furniture in dustsheets. She now felt like a small nut in the big shell of what had been her home when Richard was alive.
‘Come on, Esmé. We’d better pack our things into the car. It will take us a few trips.’
‘Don’t you do too much, Mrs Sangster, not in your condition,’ Mrs Anstruther said. ‘Tell me what you want to take, and Matthew will carry it down. We’ll help you at the other end, too. We’ve got time on our hands now. And you’ll need the cradle and the cot from the attic, and the bedding for it from the linen cupboard. I’ll make sure it’s all in order and clean, and if Matthew may borrow the car, he can deliver it.’
‘He may borrow the car at any time he wishes for estate business. He need only telephone me.’
‘That’s kind of you, Mrs Sangster. Then perhaps he could drive me to the market tomorrow like he usually does. I need to go to the butcher. You could come with us; you really do need to get out a bit. We could look at baby clothing, and buy some napkins. And you’ll need a perambulator. It’s likely we’ll find one for sale second hand.’
‘What about our six chickens?’ Esmé cried out in sudden alarm. ‘We can’t leave them behind else they’ll be lonely.’
‘You tell Matthew which six are yours, and he’ll catch them and bring them over. We’d better pack some feed for them, and some straw.’
‘Oh, Matthew knows which ones are ours; he helped me name them. They are Lavinia, Susannah, Alice, Joan, Maisie and Mistress Cluck, and they’ll come running when he calls their names.’
The next day the hens arrived at Nutting Cottage, in a rather undignified manner, tied in a sack. Matthew had made sure the garden was in order, and after a few ruffled feathers and disapproving clucks at being uprooted again, the birds settled happily in the henhouse Richard had designed, and which Beamish and Chad had built.
It was a rather grand affair, with painted windows and an arch for a front door with a portico. The opening was large enough for the hens to enter and leave with ease. Each hen had its own coop. The construction looked rather like a manor house, with a red roof on brass hinges that lifted up, allowing for ease of egg collection and cleaning.
There was a name painted over the door: ‘Cluckington Hall.’ ‘That will keep the foxes at bay. I should have designed chicken coops instead of wasting my time becoming a lawyer,’ Richard had said, and had smiled proudly at it. ‘Well done you two.’ She remembered that Chad had beamed with pride at being praised.
Whiskers found that his former patch of afternoon sunlight on the windowsill was still there, and he settled on it and set about cleaning behind his ears.
‘It means it’s going to rain – at least, that’s what Florence said,’ Esmé told her.
Bertie investigated the hedge round the garden, renewing his boundaries and trying to flush out a few mice he could dispose of.
The sewing machine also went back into its original position. She would need that shortly.
It had been as though Livia had never left, except for the burden she carried. She smoothed her palm over her stomach, trying to eradicate the persistent niggle of resentment that this pregnancy had been forced on her. Feeling the new life inside her respond with a strong surge, she told herself once again that the child was innocent of any wrong. If only her nature was as generous and forgiving as Richard’s had been.
She sighed, and supposed she should start getting a layette ready for the child. After all, there was only four weeks to go, and she prayed it would arrive late rather than early.
Tomorrow she’d purchase a pattern book and some wool and needles, and hoped she could remember how to knit.
The day after Livia left, Rosemary Sangster arrived at Foxglove House. There was no answer to the doorbell.
She still had a key to the place, and she let herself in. She was, after all, a Sangster now, and had a legitimate excuse to be in the family home. Henry had turned out to be a bore. He was weak, too, and lived a life far beyond his means.
She’d had no idea that he was so broke. And neither did he have a living now. All he was good for was keeping her satisfied.
The furniture was shrouded in dustsheets. Only the housekeeper’s quarters looked as though they were occupied. That upstart, Livia, must have moved back to the cottage.
Rosemary went upstairs and collected the few items she’d left behind, then quickly made her way to the room where Mrs Sangster had died.
The safe was hidden behind a carved panel in a cupboard, the key kept in a secret compartment inside a drawer. She pushed the concealing panel of wood aside, took the key and applied it to the lock.
Inside the strongbox was Margaret Sangster’s jewellery box. Opening it, she gazed at the glittering contents, a smile on her face. There was nothing else worth having in the safe. She locked it, then put the key back in its place and tucked the box under her arm.
She was just about to go downstairs when she heard a noise from the hall. Her heart quickened as she listened, but she heard nothing else except the tick of the clock.
There were letters on the mat. She picked them up. One was an account, t
he other was addressed to someone called Mrs Anstruther. She must be the new housekeeper.
The letters reminded her that she’d seen an address book in the housekeeper’s room. Throwing the letters on the hallstand she went to the housekeeper’s quarters and flicked the book open. Under Beamish, Joseph and Florence, she found an address and phone number. Beamish & Son Ironmongery, Ashley Road, Parkstone.
Considering what she’d been up to, she’d best not show her face at the cottage, or in the village, she thought. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d been here, including Henry. Besides, this might be her way out.
Within minutes she was on her way.
The ironmongery was in a busy part of town, and people went in and out.
After a while she saw Beamish come out and stroll towards the bank. She crossed the road to the shop. There was an old man inside.
‘Is Florence in? she asked.
‘She’s in the back room. Florrie, someone here to see you,’ he called out.
She came out from behind a curtain, her smile fading. ‘Oh, it’s you. Can I get you something – a pound of tin-tacks to eat for dinner, perhaps?’
‘Don’t be like that, Florence. I was in the district and thought I’d look you up and take you out for afternoon tea. There’s a café across the road.’
Florence looked gratified and began to remove her apron. ‘Can you manage for half-an-hour or so, Dad?’
‘I reckon so, since I managed by myself before you came here and took over, with your bossy ways. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’
‘You are a nosy one, aren’t you? It’s Mrs Rosemary Sangster.’
‘How do, Mrs Sangster. I was sorry to hear about your husband.’
Florence gave an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s not that Mrs Sangster . . . that were Livia Sangster. This here is the older Mrs Sangster; the one who married the major.’
Insulting cow, Rosemary thought.
‘The one having the baby?’ He gazed her up and down, like most men did. Only this one was too old to be any use to anyone. ‘I thought you were a bit on the slim side to be in the family way, Missus.’