The Inheritance

  ‘Not at all. God, please. I’m sorry. What must you think of me? I’m not normally so rude. Or so scruffy.’ She looked down at her crumpled jeans, stained at the knees with wood polish, and at the chipped nail enamel on her bare feet, and blushed what she knew to be a perfectly hideous tomato-red. ‘How can I help?’

  She’s not at all what I expected, thought Max Bingley. He’d imagined diamonds and perfectly coiffed hair and a fleet of servants answering the door, not a harassed housewife with bags under her eyes dressed like a charwoman. Perhaps the Cranleys were not as well off as local gossip suggested?

  ‘Max Bingley.’ He proffered his hand. ‘I’m the new headmaster at St Hilda’s, the primary school in the village. I understand your daughter will be joining us next term?’

  ‘You’re Logan’s headmaster? Oh, crap.’ The words were out of her mouth before she knew she’d said them. Angela’s colour deepened. ‘I can’t believe I just said that out loud! I am soooo sorry.’

  Max laughed. Her discomfiture clearly amused him.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Cranley. I promise I won’t be sending you to my office. Or your daughter. Not yet, anyway. What did you say her name was?’

  ‘Logan,’ said Angela, smoothing down her dishevelled hair.

  Max resisted the urge to say ‘like the berry?’ and merely smiled politely.

  ‘We have a son too. Jason. But he’s twenty so I doubt you’re going to want him in your classroom, ha ha ha ha!’

  What’s wrong with me? thought Angela. Why am I babbling away like a lunatic?

  ‘No. Quite so.’ Max shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. This was the moment when he’d expected her to invite him inside for a cup of tea, or at least to ask a few polite questions about the school. Instead she just stood in the doorway looking flustered. I shouldn’t have come. I should have waited to meet her at school like everybody else. ‘Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say welcome and I look forward to meeting … Logan.’

  He turned the word over in his mouth as if it were some strange fruit he’d never tasted before. There weren’t too many Logans to the pound in Fittlescombe. Or in England, come to that.

  ‘Right, well. I look forward to seeing you both at school,’ Max finished awkwardly. ‘Goodbye!’

  He smiled and gave a cheery wave, but it had clearly been an embarrassing encounter for both of them.

  Angela walked back into the hall, closing the front door behind her. ‘I just made a total dick of myself in front of the village headmaster,’ she told Jason.

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ said Jason, not looking up from the box of books he was unpacking.

  ‘I did. I said “crap”.’

  Jason smiled. ‘I reckon he’ll recover, Mum. Crap’s not that bad. It’s not even a real swear word.’

  ‘It fucking well is,’ said Angela. They both giggled.

  ‘You need to chill out, you know,’ said Jason. ‘It’s only Dad coming home. It’s not the pope.’

  ‘I know,’ Angela sighed. ‘But I promised him the house would be ready and it’s a bloody disaster.’

  Jason hugged his mother. He hated to hear the fear in her voice. But the truth was, Angela was afraid of Brett. They all were. Not physically afraid. But afraid of his disapproval, his censure, his disappointment. Brett Cranley was a bully.

  So what if you promised him? Jason wanted to scream. What about all the promises he made to you, and didn’t keep? Anyone would think you were the one who’d been unfaithful, not him. But he knew it would do no good.

  ‘The house is not a disaster. It’s beautiful. Dad’s gonna love it, you’ll see. Now go and have a bath and get changed.’

  ‘A bath? I can’t. The cushions …’

  ‘I’ll do the damn cushions. And I’ll unpack the rest of these boxes too,’ said Jason. ‘Please, go and take a chill pill before you hurt yourself. You’re no use to anyone in this state.’

  Once she’d gone, reluctantly and only after leaving a barrage of instructions about what needed to be done in the next hour, Jason returned to unpacking. The few books the family had had shipped from Australia looked ridiculous in Furlings’ enormous library. Rory Flint-Hamilton had bequeathed his vast collection of Victorian first editions to Sussex University, so the endless shelves in the grand mahogany-panelled room were bare. Like the mouth of an old man who’s lost all his teeth, thought Jason. He couldn’t imagine how they were ever going to fill them.

  Perhaps he could persuade his parents to turn it into a music room? The acoustics would be perfect for a Steinway grand piano. Jason’s father had never encouraged his music, partly because he considered it to be a useless attribute in a man, and partly because, as he told Jason brutally, ‘You’re not good enough, mate.’

  In this latter observation, however, Brett was correct. Jason was a good, solid pianist, but he lacked the talent and flair to make it professionally, at concert-level. The idea that a person might want to play the piano for pleasure, without making any money from it, was anathema to Brett Cranley.

  ‘Why don’t you do something useful? Something you can make a living at?’ Brett would ask his son. Jason had long ago given up trying to reason with his dad. It would be like an eagle trying to communicate with a gorilla. Utterly futile.

  The doorbell rang again. People were seriously social in this village. Jason hesitated – he was still in his pyjamas – but he knew if he didn’t get it, Angela would heave herself out of the bath like something out of The Kraken Wakes and run dripping down the stairs. She’d probably open the door stark naked, she was in such a bloody state about Dad and the house.

  Skidding back into the hallway, sliding along in his socks like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, he opened the door.

  ‘Oh my goodness. Hello.’

  The most beautiful woman Jason Cranley had ever seen stood before him, looking him up and down, curling her upper lip with a combination of amusement and disdain.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  No, thought Jason. But suddenly, I want to. The girl was tall and slim, with a cascade of honey-blonde waves falling onto her shoulders and down her back. She was wearing tight jeans tucked into riding boots, a dark green cashmere sweater that clung unashamedly to her large, pert breasts, and aviator sunglasses that hid her eyes but could not conceal the chiselled beauty of her features. Her cheekbones looked as if they could cut through glass.

  ‘I’m Tatiana Flint-Hamilton,’ the goddess announced, without waiting for an answer. Just as well, as all Jason seemed able to do was to open and close his mouth like a guppy. ‘I’m here for my painting.’

  Pushing past him, Tati strode into the hall. She’d both longingly anticipated and dreaded coming here today to face Furlings’ new owners. Or rather, to face the imposters who had, temporarily, appropriated her birthright. Tati would never, ever view the Cranleys as anything other than squatters, no matter how many pieces of paper they or their lawyers waved in front of her. This was her home. She had no intention of giving it up without a fight, and indeed had already engaged a solicitor to contest Rory’s will on her behalf.

  She clung tight to her indignation now, as a tumult of emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Nostalgia. Grief. Regret. Ignoring Jason completely, she stormed off down the corridor, pushing open doors into rooms that were either bare or filled with strange, jarring, modern furniture. Other people’s furniture. Tati found herself fighting back tears. She’d stayed here herself only a few weeks ago for the fete, and it had still felt like home. She’d inhaled the smell of stone and wood, faintly infused with smoke from last winter’s fires, and run her fingers lovingly along the heavy, damask curtains in the drawing room. She used to like to hide behind those curtains as a child, eating Carlsbad plums she’d stolen from the pantry, much to Mrs Worsley’s fury. But now the curtains were gone and the house smelled of lavender and some Godawful room spray from The White Company. Like a bloody hotel!

  Tatiana turned on Jason, who’d been following her
around silently like a confused puppy since she arrived.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Worsley?’

  She said it accusingly, as if Jason had kidnapped the housekeeper, or murdered her in her bed and concealed the body.

  ‘She took the day off.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She never takes days off. To do what?’

  ‘Erm, I think her sister …’ He left the sentence hanging, both intimidated and enthralled by Tatiana’s beauty and her astonishing confidence. She hadn’t asked if she could come in, or even inquired as to his name. She’d simply swept past him, like a queen reclaiming her castle.

  ‘Is there anything I can help with? I’m Jason by the way.’

  Tatiana deigned to remove her Ray-Bans. ‘Jason. How do you do? I would say it’s nice to meet you but, under the circumstances,’ she smiled thinly, ‘I won’t bother. When will Mrs Worsley be back?’

  ‘I’m back now.’

  The disapproving Scottish voice that Tatiana knew as well as her own rang out behind her, filling the room that until a few months ago had been Rory Flint-Hamilton’s study.

  ‘What do you want, Tatiana?’

  Tatiana looked at the housekeeper with narrowed eyes. She was certain the old witch must have known about the changes to her father’s will. She’d probably encouraged him. God knows she’d had enough opportunity to sow the seeds of doubt in Rory’s mind. Tati could hear her now:

  ‘It would be tragic to think of Furlings going to wrack and ruin.’

  ‘Poor Tatiana’s her own worst enemy. The last thing she needs is more cash in her hand.’

  She probably thought Daddy would leave her something as a token of his appreciation. The sanctimonious, money-grubbing, scheming old shrew.

  Underneath Tatiana’s anger there was love there, and a grudging respect for the woman who had practically raised her. But, as on Mrs Worsley’s side, the hurt feelings ran deep, with both women feeling let down and betrayed by the other.

  Tatiana had insisted on staying at Furlings in the run-up to the fete, but Mrs Worsley clearly hadn’t wanted her there. Perhaps unsure of her status since Rory’s death, she had given in and allowed it anyway, despite her better judgement. But now, with the Cranleys safely installed, she obviously felt emboldened.

  ‘You know you shouldn’t be here,’ she chided.

  ‘I’ve come for Granny’s painting,’ Tatiana responded stiffly.

  ‘I see. Well, you know where to find it.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  While the two women glared at one another, arms folded, the doorbell rang yet again.

  What now? thought Jason, irritated to have to go back to the front door rather than stay and watch the standoff.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  It was a man at the door this time, blond and stocky and with a disarmingly genuine smile.

  ‘Gabriel Baxter. We’re neighbours.’ Gabe offered Jason his hand. ‘Is your father at home?’

  Just at that moment, Angela came downstairs. Fresh from the bath, with her still damp hair tied up in a bun, she looked younger than her forty-two years in a plain white Gap T-shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans. She wore no make-up and seemed fragile and tiny in her bare feet.

  ‘My husband’s still in London.’ She smiled at Gabe. Having made such a poor impression on Max Bingley, she was determined to be friendly to any other villagers who showed up on the doorstep. ‘We’re expecting him this evening. I’m Angela. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Tatiana, her painting tucked under one arm, marched back into the hallway. She was about to storm straight out but stopped in her tracks when she saw Gabe.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked rudely, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Tatiana knew Gabe was one of the leading voices against her in the village. She also knew that when her father had been alive, Gabe had tried relentlessly to convince Rory to sell off parcels of Furlings’ land. She didn’t trust him an inch.

  ‘Just being neighbourly,’ lied Gabe. ‘How about you?’

  I live here, Tati wanted to shout. It’s my fucking house. But she managed to restrain herself.

  ‘I’m collecting a painting. My grandmother’s portrait. One of the few pieces of my inheritance that wasn’t stolen from me,’ she added caustically. Belatedly catching sight of Angela, she introduced herself, extending the hand not holding the painting with regal disdain.

  ‘Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.’

  ‘Oh!’ Angela smiled warmly. ‘Hello. I didn’t know you were coming. I’m Angela. I’m so sorry about the mess. You should have called.’

  ‘Should I indeed?’ Tati’s voice quivered with resentment and hostility.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Angela blushed. ‘I just meant …’

  ‘Don’t apologize,’ Gabe Baxter interjected. ‘It’s your house.’

  Tati shot him a look that would have turned a lesser man to stone.

  ‘Besides, you’re quite right. Tatiana should have called.’

  ‘Don’t you have a ewe that needs lambing, Gabriel?’ sniped Tati. ‘Or an episode of The Archers to listen to? Gabriel’s terribly rustic,’ she added patronizingly to Angela and Jason. ‘A real local character. If you ask him nicely, I expect he’ll come round and do a spot of Morris dancing for you, won’t you, Gabriel? It’s really quite adorable.’

  Gabe’s features hardened. He looked at his watch.

  ‘My goodness, is that the time? You’d best get home to your rented cottage, Tatiana. It’s almost coke-o’clock.’

  Blushing scarlet, Tatiana pushed past him and stormed out, throwing the painting into the back seat of her Mini Cooper and driving off. Gabe Baxter followed swiftly after, promising to come back and call on Brett at the weekend.

  Once the door closed behind him, Angela and Jason exchanged shocked glances.

  ‘Is everybody in Fittlescombe so … dramatic?’ Angela asked Mrs Worsley.

  Or so attractive? thought Jason. Watching Gabe and Tatiana going at it was like watching a pair of peacocks fanning out their tails for battle. Terrifying but beautiful.

  ‘No ma’am,’ said Mrs Worsley with feeling. ‘I can assure you that most of your neighbours are quite normal, sane and friendly people. Miss Flint-Hamilton – Tatiana – I’m afraid she can bring out the worst in folk. Especially around here.’

  Angela bit her lower lip anxiously. She’d already heard whispers in the village about Tatiana’s legal challenge to the will. Brett had assured her that the legacy was watertight, and Furlings was theirs. But having seen Tatiana in the flesh, Angela got the strong sense that Rory Flint-Hamilton’s daughter was a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps Brett had underestimated her?

  ‘You don’t think she plans to cause trouble, do you?’

  She looked at Mrs Worsley nervously.

  ‘Unfortunately Mrs Cranley, Tatiana’s done nothing but cause trouble since the day she was born. And since she turned fifteen …’ She rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘Her father was always too soft on her, bless his soul. Try not to worry, though,’ she added, noticing Angela’s tense expression. ‘She’s full of hot air about the will.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She would need the support of the whole village to be able to launch a challenge, and she certainly hasn’t got that. Even if she did, Mr Flint-Hamilton was a clever man, and a thorough one. These so-called loopholes are all in Tatiana’s head.’

  ‘I do hope so,’ said Angela.

  The thought of packing everything up and returning to Sydney, Tricia and their old life now was more than she could bear.

  Twenty minutes later, pushing open the stiff door of Greystones Farm, Tatiana collapsed on the ugly, brown sofa feeling exhausted and depressed.

  It had been a pretty devastating two days.

  Unable to afford a decent London lawyer, she’d retained a local, Chichester man, Raymond Baines of Baines, Bailey & Wilson. Their meeting yesterday had been less than Tati had hoped for.

  ‘To be per
fectly honest with you, Miss Flint-Hamilton, I don’t believe you have a case.’

  Short and bald, with thick, owlish glasses and a distinctly passive, mild-mannered, absolute-opposite-of-a-go-getter-lawyer demeanour, Ray Baines looked at his would-be client steadily.

  ‘But I already have half the village behind me,’ Tati protested. ‘The tide of local opinion is definitely turning. Nobody wants some upstart Australian installed at Furlings. I made good headway running the fete committee, and by the time it comes to court I’m sure I can—’

  ‘It won’t matter,’ Raymond Baines cut her off, not unkindly. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you.’

  ‘Are you saying you are unable to act for me, Mr Baines?’ Masking her disappointment with anger, Tatiana bristled with aggression.

  ‘No, Miss Flint-Hamilton. I am able to act for you. And technically speaking you are correct. We could mount a challenge based on the premise that Furlings was subject to an ‘effective’ entailment which your father had no legal authority to break. However I am advising you that it is my legal opinion that such a challenge will fail. With or without local support.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t know that. You only think it.’

  ‘I think it very strongly.’

  Tatiana knew she was clutching at straws. But drowning as she was in a sea of shattered hopes, she had no choice but to clutch on regardless.

  ‘What are your fees, Mr Baines?’

  Raymond Baines told her. The number was modest, a tiny fraction of what Tati’s godfather’s firm would have charged for the same service. But it would still represent a dent in Tati’s meagre savings that she could ill afford.

  ‘Savings’ was perhaps the wrong word for the few thousand pounds remaining in Tatiana’s bank account. Having split from Piers, her latest wealthy lover, and moved out of his Belgravia flat, Tatiana had taken the jewellery he’d given her, along with any other gifts from former paramours she suspected might be of value, and auctioned the lot at Christie’s. The resulting windfall had been enough to pay off her debts, rent Greystones for six months, and leave a modest sum to fund a legal battle with the Cranleys.