7,19 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Abigail Beadle has given two decades of her life to caring for her late father and preserving the family home, Ashgrove House in Wiltshire. When her loathed stepmother, Edwina, dies, Abigail is glad to be released from her bullying. She will also be able to look after the house properly, perhaps have a real Christmas at home, without Edwina's stranglehold on the finances. But her stepmother left behind a will that casts doubt on Abigail's inheritance and raises the possibility that she will have to leave the home she loves so much. It is not until Lucas Chadwick, the man she loved when she was young, returns to the village that Abigail begins to believe her life might be able to start at last ...
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 404
Ähnliche
A Very Special Christmas
ANNA JACOBS
Contents
Chapter One
Abigail Beadle walked into the church and paused to stare round. Only a few of the pews were occupied but still, that was more than she’d expected, given her stepmother’s genius for upsetting people. She shivered. November could be a cold month and Christmas still seemed a long time away.
A lady was already sitting in the front pew: her stepmother’s cousin, Cynthia. She was draped in very old-fashioned garments. It was what you did at a funeral, dress in black. Today Abigail would have preferred to wear red – bright red – if she’d owned any red clothes, that was. It occurred to her suddenly how outraged Edwina would have been if she’d even said that, let alone done it, and she had to turn a giggle into a hiccup.
Freedom from her stepmother’s bullying had gone to her head, was bubbling out of every pore, but she had to hold it in till this was over.
As she took her seat at the front, Cousin Cynthia held out a lace-edged handkerchief, no doubt thinking she’d been stifling a sob.
Abigail shook her head, wasn’t going to pretend to weep. She’d done her duty and recently kept an eye on Edwina as she grew frailer. She’d looked after her father for a few years but he had been far easier, in spite of his deteriorating health from Parkinson’s. After his death, it had been even harder to deal with her stepmother, so they’d mostly avoided one another. It was a big house, after all.
From now on, however, she would do what she wanted and expected to enjoy the rest of her life now that her stepmother didn’t hold the purse strings. She’d promised herself all sorts of small treats last night as she lay sprawled on a couch (like a slut), watching her own choice of TV programme (fit only for idiots)and drinking a glass of white wine (real ladies only drink wine at table).
It took her by surprise when the funeral service ended and Cynthia had to poke her in the side to remind her to stand up. She led the way outside, relishing the fresh air on her face as she followed the coffin into the churchyard. She had a sudden desire to tear off the unflattering black hat and sling it as far away as she could. It was such a horrible lump of a thing. Today, after everyone had gone home, she was going to walk down to the ash grove at the rear of the grounds and toss the hat into the highest tree. What fun it would be to see birds perching on it and, she hoped, pecking it to pieces!
In the coming weeks she’d buy some flattering clothes and get a new hairstyle. She hoped – oh, she did so hope! – that she’d make some proper friends now that she could invite them home or go out without recriminations being heaped upon her for days afterwards.
Another jab from that bony elbow made Abigail realise she was daydreaming again. That was her besetting sin, to quote one of her favourite fictional characters.
Cynthia glared at her. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you today. Throw some earth on the coffin, for goodness’ sake, and let’s get this part of the funeral finished!’
Abigail did the necessary, then stood back and watched everyone follow suit. It seemed to take for ever. She didn’t understand why Cynthia kept glancing at her with ill-concealed triumph. Once the funeral was over, she was never going to invite the woman to visit Ashgrove House. She wasn’t a Beadle, after all, and she’d followed her cousin Edwina’s example and become increasingly unpleasant to deal with as the years passed.
The mourners followed her back to the house, so Abigail still had to remain calm and solemn. There weren’t many in the drawing room: the vicar, a few elderly acquaintances of the family, Cousin Cynthia and Mr Liddlestone, the family lawyer, whom she’d known since she was a child.
She hoped they wouldn’t stay long. They didn’t.
After they’d nibbled a biscuit or two and grimaced at the horribly sweet, cheap sherry her stepmother had favoured, which she had specified was to be the only alcoholic drink to be offered at her funeral gathering, the visitors murmured the usual platitudes and left.
Abigail had only pretended to drink. She hadn’t made up her mind yet whether to pour the rest of the sherry down the sink or keep it for unwanted guests, like Cousin Cynthia. She sipped a cup of tea offered by Dot, who came in twice a week to do the cleaning and had been doing so for most of Abigail’s life. Dot winked at her as she moved on. She was doing overtime today with one of her many friends helping out.
Dot did wonders with the cleaning and never counted the extra minutes she gave so cheerfully. Why she had continued to work for such a bad-tempered woman was a mystery to everyone in the village. Abigail didn’t know what she’d have done without Dot, who had been more like an aunt, comforting her after first her mother when she was a teenager and a few years later her father died.
It was ridiculous that Edwina had refused point-blank to pay for more help, given the size of the house. She’d held the purse strings in a tight grip until a few weeks ago, when she’d had a severe heart attack. She’d lingered for two more weeks in hospital but hadn’t recovered consciousness.
Abigail sometimes wondered whether Edwina had been mean because they were short of money or because it gave her pleasure to make everyone except herself scrimp and manage without luxuries. Knowing her, she’d probably enjoyed it.
Oh dear! Someone was speaking to her. ‘Sorry. I was lost in thought. Could you say that again, please?’
Mr Liddlestone gave her one of his gentle smiles. ‘I have to go now. I have an appointment with a client in half an hour. Could you come and see me at my rooms tomorrow? We need to deal with the will. Your stepmother didn’t want it read in front of everyone.’
‘Yes, of course. Oh, Mr L, I’m so looking forward to having my own money and looking after this house properly.’
‘Yes, I … suppose you are. Shall we say tomorrow at three?’
She watched him go, worried about how old and pale he’d been looking recently. Today he seemed unhappy about something, but it couldn’t be because of her stepmother dying because he hadn’t liked Edwina either. It was her father who had been his friend.
Perhaps there was less money than expected. Well, if so, Abigail was good at managing. She’d cope, would do anything necessary to stay at Ashgrove House. Her ancestors had started building it just after King George I came to the throne in the early eighteenth century, and had added to it over the years. It wasn’t a large stately home, just a small manor house. Abigail loved every brick of it.
The trouble was, you had to pay an inheritance tax to keep a house like Ashgrove and she wasn’t sure there would be enough money to cover that. What would she do if she had to sell her family home and find somewhere else to live? It didn’t bear thinking of. She had never lived anywhere else and was a Beadle to the core.
Gerard Liddlestone drove slowly back to the village from Ashgrove House after the funeral, feeling depressed about the mess he would have to start unravelling the following day. He rubbed his aching forehead. He’d been feeling seedy for a while and his wife was pressing him to retire.
You ought not to speak ill of the dead, but Edwina Beadle had been a horrible woman, who’d trapped a grieving widower and ‘married up’, as some people called it. At first she had been reasonably pleasant – never the sort you got on with easily, unlike her husband, though.
She’d persuaded her husband to write a will leaving everything to her, but fortunately Stephen Beadle had had the wit to make a condition about that inheritance. She’d tried to get round that in her final will, which had left everything to her Cousin Cynthia. He was sure the latter would bring in lawyers to back up that will.
He was getting too old for these struggles over inheritance, hated to see families torn apart. After her husband died, Edwina had taken control of the estate finances and turned into a spiteful miser, treating her stepdaughter like a slave. He’d been a coward when dealing with her, he admitted, should have reminded her when she fiddled around with her will about that addendum to her late husband’s will – an addendum which she had signed and which stipulated that everything should be passed on to Abigail.
The trouble was, he’d felt that her anger would have made her stepdaughter’s life even more unpleasant if he reminded her, and since the house would eventually come to Abigail, it made no real difference.
He still felt guilty about letting that situation continue, though. He didn’t really have another client waiting for him, but his headache was getting worse and he couldn’t seem to think straight. He nodded to his secretary and told her she could go home because it was past her usual time of leaving.
He got the box of Beadle family papers out of the storeroom, set it on his desk and took the lid off. Edwina’s latest will, which was on top of the pile of documents, was going to cause a lot of trouble. He ought to be working out how best to deal with it tomorrow, but instead sat scowling at it, rubbing his forehead tiredly.
Edwina had grown rather erratic in the last year of her life, changing the details of her will several times. On what turned out to be her final visit to his rooms, she’d done it again. He’d tried to persuade her not to do this, of course he had, but she’d been adamant, threatening to go to another lawyer if he refused. He’d had to bring in two people from a nearby office to act as witnesses because they were the only others left in the building by that time. She’d signed it triumphantly, believing she was carrying out the threat she’d been making for years to disinherit her stepdaughter completely.
This time it was because of some imagined fault that was supposed to prove that Abigail could not be trusted with the family money or the preservation of historic Ashgrove House. Ha! Abigail had been the one looking after the house for years.
He was deeply sorry now that he’d been a coward, unable to face Edwina’s fury. He should have reminded her about the addendum, but had thought she’d once again change her will again in a week or two.
He stared out of his office window, then looked back at Edwina’s final will. What if … ? No, no, he couldn’t destroy it. He just … couldn’t. He was a lawyer. This will must be proved legally invalid. He was tempted, though, and who would know if he did destroy it? It wouldn’t really change anything, just prevent a lot of nastiness and expense because he was sure that Cynthia Polson would try to overturn the original conditions of inheritance.
Actually, he hadn’t even asked his secretary to type this new will up, because the previous will was on the computer and it had only been a question of changing the names and a couple of sentences. Even he could manage that. He switched on the computer and opened the file, once again tempted to destroy that new will. Just one keystroke would do it.
No, no! He mustn’t, even though it would be the easiest way to deal with this situation. He closed the file quickly and stared in horror as his fingers seemed to take on a life of their own and deleted it, then deleted the backup file too.
He jerked his hands away from the keyboard, looking at the screen, aghast. What had he done? There was a way to retrieve deleted files, he knew, because he’d had digital mishaps before. But his head was throbbing. He’d ask his secretary’s help in sorting it all out tomorrow.
He shut down the computer, stuffed the paper copy of the final will back into the box, having to push down the pile of papers to get the lid closed. It was time to start a new box for the Beadle family. Only would there be any more Beadles? Abigail was thirty-eight, after all, and unmarried.
He began to pack his briefcase, stopping now and then to sigh and worry about her. She had looked happier than usual today, though she’d tried to hide it and stay solemn. But he’d known her all her life and was well aware that when her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners she was hiding a smile.
She had lovely eyes, of an unusual turquoise-blue, rimmed by long dark lashes, and honey-coloured hair like all true Beadles. She was as honest as the day was long and stubborn when she believed something was right. My goodness, how the years had flown past! Could the little Beadle baby whose christening he’d attended really be almost forty?
He was seriously considering how best to move into retirement now. Neither of his children had wanted to study law so he’d recently taken on a younger partner as the first step in disengaging. Philip Danvers was a pleasant chap, well qualified, and was settling in nicely.
Gerard began to pace up and down then stopped to stare blindly out of the window. If he gave in to temptation, destroyed the paper copy and let the final will stay deleted on the computer, he’d be breaking the law, going against all he believed in.
It occurred to him yet again, however, that what he was thinking of doing would be justice in the very best and truest sense of the word. But it was still against the law.
No, he just couldn’t do it.
When all the guests had left, Abigail let out her breath in a long exhalation of relief. She switched on the radio and smiled as she heard one of her favourite tunes.
She couldn’t help it. She began to waltz round the drawing room, then twirled out into the hall. From there she moved into the library and completed the circuit via the dining room at the front of the house, which was across the hall from the drawing room. She and her father had often danced round the house together. He’d loved ballroom dancing but her stepmother had not been at all musical.
As she spun round, she nearly fell for lack of a partner and laughed aloud. She was free! Free at last.
The music continued to play, so she went on dancing. On her second circuit of the main rooms, she pulled back the curtains, swaying to and fro, then starting off again, waltzing merrily till the tune changed into a tango. Oh, she loved a tango. It had been her father’s favourite dance. She began moving to the new rhythm with smooth, controlled steps and impeccable turns.
Dot went into the drawing room to clear away the cups and glasses, but ducked back behind the door, smiling when she saw Abigail solemnly waltzing across the room and out into the hall. She continued to smile as the dancing took Abigail round the main rooms for a second time.
When she heard the curtains being drawn back to let in the afternoon sunlight, she nearly cheered aloud. The old witch would have thrown a fit. Edwina had always insisted on keeping the curtains drawn at the times of day sunlight fell on the windows, to prevent fading of carpets and upholstery. They were only drawn back at those times if the room was going to be used by her.
Dot had refused point-blank to keep the blinds half drawn in her kitchen, a place lazy Edwina rarely visited, and had threatened to give notice if anyone tried to make her work in such dim light.
As the music changed to a tango, Dot began to sway. She went to a ballroom dancing club for oldies in the village and loved Latin American dances most of all. When Abigail came round again, she couldn’t resist it. She stepped forward and bowed. ‘May I have this dance, my lady?’
Abigail swept her a curtsey. ‘Delighted, my lord.’
So Dot took over. She always played the man when she and her sister went to the senior citizens’ dances in the village hall, because there was a shortage of older men her age and she was quite tall. She swept Abigail swept round in a masterful manner, swaying and swooping, holding her arms just so, and tilting her partner back a couple of times, just like they’d shown her at the club.
When the music stopped, she let go and bowed. ‘That was a real pleasure.’
Abigail laughed and clapped. ‘You are such a good dancer, Dot.’
‘Not as good as your dad.’
‘Wasn’t he marvellous? He started teaching me when I was quite little, before you began working for us. But after he remarried, we only danced when Edwina was out. When he developed Parky’s and gradually lost control of his limbs, he was so brave about it, never complained. We both missed the dancing dreadfully.’
‘My Hilton was a good dancer, too. I miss him for that, though not for much else. He was a lazy devil round the house.’
Abigail didn’t comment. Everyone in the village had known that Hilton Eakins was a drunkard and a slob, of course they had, but they’d never dared say that to Dot’s face, even after he died. She changed the subject. ‘I shouldn’t be dancing on the day of my stepmother’s funeral, should I? Please don’t tell anyone.’
‘If I were in your place, I’d be tap dancing on the rooftop for the whole world to see, I’d be so happy. She was a nasty person and treated you badly.’
Dot held up one hand to stop Abigail protesting that remark. ‘I didn’t say anything before about how things were. It wasn’t my place and I couldn’t do anything about it, could I? But you don’t have to pretend with me, love. I know what she was like better than anyone. You can dance, sing, shout, do anything you feel like from now on. You’ve earned it.’
To her surprise, Abigail gave her a big hug and said, ‘The first thing I want to do is thank you, Dot, for everything you’ve done over the years, especially since Dad died. You’ve been a great comfort to me.’
‘I wish I’d been able to do more to help you.’
‘No one could. It was just a question of enduring. But the way you winked at me sometimes or made jokes about her helped. I knew I wasn’t alone in the world, even after Dad had gone, not with you around. That meant so much.’
‘What are you going to do now, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I don’t mind you asking, but I don’t actually know till I find out how matters stand financially. All I can do is start sorting out the house because I’m not living in my stepmother’s clutter. I hate how she changed things around. Her ornaments will be the first things to go. Cheap, horrible tat, they are. But even before that, I’m going to bring my own books up from the cellar, then take all those mouldy, boring old tomes off the shelves in the library and put them in the cellar. I’ll fill the shelves with my novels. Romances, even.’
‘You daring devil!’ Dot chuckled. Ma Beadle had been particularly down on romances. Abigail, on the other hand, would read any sort of novel but loved romances best, said she felt safe knowing there would always be a happy ending to the story. Reading romances had been her secret vice, that and the occasional bar of chocolate or bottle of wine. Not much of a life, poor lass.
As Dot walked back to the kitchen, she shook her head sadly. Only a gentle soul like Abigail would consider it to be an act of rebellion to put her books out on public display. They wouldn’t look as nice as the old books, though, because the romances were all second hand. Over the years Abigail had bought them from charity shops or market stalls, and had smuggled them into the house with the shopping. Hundreds of them, there must be now.
The smile faded. Dot wasn’t sure her job would be safe from now on and that was worrying her. Why had Mr L been looking so unhappy today at the funeral if everything was all right? There was some problem looming, she was sure of it. She knew she wouldn’t be sacked unless matters were desperate, but her job would depend on how much money had been left and whether Abigail would be able to stay here. There would no doubt be massive death duties to pay. No, they called it inheritance tax these days, didn’t they? Well, it didn’t matter what they called it, she considered it unfair for the government to take so much of what people had left to their families. Double dipping, she called it. People had already paid tax on their money when they earned it, after all.
Surely the old house wouldn’t have to be sold? It’d break Abigail’s heart to do that. It’d break any Beadle’s heart! It’d upset Dot, too. And let alone she would find it hard to manage on the old age pension without the extra money she earned working here, she too loved the big old house and its interesting contents. No, there must be enough to cover the inheritance tax because the old witch had been an absolute miser with money. Abigail would be all right, surely she would?
Dot stood still to think about it. She had a good mind to ask Mr L about the will when she went into his suite of offices to clean up tonight. If she hurried with her jobs here, she might be able to catch him before he left work for the day. He wouldn’t tell her any details of the will, that wouldn’t be right, but she’d know from his expression whether the news was going to be good or bad for her girl.
Chapter Two
Mr Liddlestone’s car was still there outside the offices when Dot drove into the car park, so she didn’t need to use her door key. She walked straight in, calling cheerfully, ‘It’s only me, Mr L.’
‘What? Oh. I was just about to leave.’ He rubbed his forehead.
‘Is something wrong?’
He shrugged. ‘I have a bit of a headache. I find funerals and wills very depressing, don’t you?’
That didn’t sound good, she thought. ‘I’ve never had much to do with wills. My Hilton didn’t leave one. Well, he didn’t expect to die at fifty, did he? And he didn’t have anything to leave, really, what with us living in a council house and him spending all his own money at the pub.’
She looked at the big cardboard box on the huge mahogany desk. It had ‘Beadle’ written on the front and top in neat black letters. ‘That’ll contain Mrs Beadle’s will, I suppose. What’s she done in it to upset you?’
He shuffled some other papers together quickly. ‘I can’t discuss that with you. I’m just … thinking about what to say to poor Abigail tomorrow.’ He put the lid on the box. ‘I wonder if you’d mind lifting this into place in the storeroom for me? Top shelf. You’ll see the gap where it goes. I feel a bit woozy, I’m afraid, and everyone else here has gone home.’
‘You leave it to me, Mr L. I can do that easily enough. I lift heavier things in my garden.’
‘Thank you. You’re a real treasure, Dot. I don’t know what we’d do without you to keep us clean and tidy here.’
She couldn’t share her worries with him because he didn’t look at all well. Still, it was nice to be called a treasure twice in one day. She watched him pick up his briefcase and walk slowly out to the car, shoulders drooping. Dot was quite sure by this time that the old witch must have done something very nasty in the will.
Once his car had gone from in front of the building, leaving only hers in the car park, Dot picked up the box. She hesitated then set it down on the desk again and stared at it, tempted. She had never, ever snooped here before, even though half the people in the village were clients of Mr L and you couldn’t help wondering sometimes. But now … well, she was only human.
Why had he said ‘poor Abigail’ in that tone of voice? What was in the dratted will? If she knew, she might be able to help her dear girl cope with it.
She lifted the lid off the box and peered inside. There the dratted will was, right on the top. She shot a guilty look over her shoulder, which was silly when she knew she was the only person in the building at this hour.
Should she look at it or not?
Oh, why the hell not? It wasn’t as if anyone would ever know. Putting the box lid down on the desk, she lifted out Edwina Gwendolyn Beadle’s last will and testament.
Ten minutes later Dot sat staring at it with tears streaming down her cheeks. She had no doubt whatsoever that the old witch would be roasting in hell at this very minute, and she deserved it, if anyone did.
Mr L had been right to say ‘poor Abigail’. Oh, that dear girl was going to be so unhappy! Devastated!
Dot looked at the date on the will. Only done last month. It was very brief, a mere two pages and yet it’d cause so much damage. It must have been written after Edwina’s big quarrel with poor Abigail.
She’d never seen her girl so upset. Well, who wouldn’t be? Ma Beadle had found a pile of romance paperbacks waiting to be read and started burning them. Abigail had fought back, for once, and shoved her stepmother away, rescuing most of her books and threatening to break all the nasty little ornaments Edwina had collected if any more books were damaged. Harsh things had been said by both women, going on from the books to a few other grievances on both sides. Very harsh. But true. On Abigail’s side at least.
Dot hadn’t known the old lady could shriek so loudly or that Abigail could stand up for herself so fiercely. The book burning must have been the final straw in a long litany of petty unkindnesses over the years.
She looked down at the box. There was another will underneath the first one with a date three months ago. She couldn’t help it, just had to read it as well.
That one left everything to Abigail, as was only fair. It was what old Mr Beadle would have expected to happen. She groaned. There had to be something Mr L could do about the wicked, unkind will. Fancy leaving everything to the old witch’s cousin, Cynthia. Surely Mr L wouldn’t let such an injustice happen?
She might just have another peep at the two wills before she finished today, in case she thought of anything she could do to help. Leaving the box on the table in the document room, she went to clean the tearoom and toilets. She scrubbed harder than usual, taking out her anger on everything she touched, banging doors, muttering under her breath, worrying.
It just wasn’t fair!
And Mr L must think so too or he’d not have been so upset. Well, she’d catch him tomorrow morning and talk to him. He was always the first one in. There just had to be something he could do about it, had to. But before she put the box away she stared at the newest will, tempted all over again. She wasn’t going to leave that horrible thing lying around here in case the new partner saw it. Mr Danvers had only been here a short time, didn’t even know Abigail. He’d not care about upsetting her whole life like this.
There must be something Mr L could do about it. The fair thing would be to go back to the previous will instead. Or claim the old hag wasn’t in her right mind, perhaps. Dot had definitely considered her employer to be very strange mentally, starting from when Mr Beadle passed away. By the time she died, she was full of spite and nastiness, couldn’t be kind to anyone to save her life.
Decision made, she shoved the horrid new will into her bag of dusters and rags, not caring if it got crumpled – it deserved to be crumpled – then fitted the lid on the box of Beadle papers and put it back tidily in the storeroom. Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t usually cry but she didn’t remember being this upset for years.
As she was walking out, something rustled beneath her foot and she looked down to see a piece of paper lying on the floor where she’d been standing. It looked like something official. Oh dear, had she dropped something from the Beadle box? She picked it up and dashed away her tears as she read the heading.
It wasn’t a will but it had the name Beadle on it. She reached up to lift the lid of the box and shoved the paper down the side. It was crumpled where she’d stood on it so she hoped they’d think it had got like that inside the box. She couldn’t see clearly because her eyes would keep filling with tears. She was glad when she’d finished doing the cleaning.
By the time she got home, she was regretting what she’d done. She shouldn’t have taken that will. She could go in early tomorrow morning and put it back, though. No one need ever know.
But she’d still see whether she could persuade Mr L to do something about it. She’d have to confess to reading it but she didn’t think she’d lose her job, just get a gentle scolding. He was never anything but gentle, had even managed that with Edwina Beadle, heaven knew how.
At eight o’clock the next morning, Dot set off for work early, but to her dismay, Mr L’s BMW wasn’t in the car park, which was most unusual. He normally arrived at five to eight precisely to unlock the building, being an early morning person like her.
She waited. He’d be along any minute, then she’d speak to him about the will. The new partner turned up at ten past eight. Mr Danvers was a bit of an early bird too. He saw her and raised one hand in greeting. She waved back but didn’t get out of her car. She was seriously worried by now that she hadn’t managed to put the will back without anyone seeing her.
During the night she’d begun to worry that even Mr L might have to sack her for taking legal documents away without permission if the new partner found out. When Mr L hadn’t arrived by twenty past eight, she gave up and went on to her work at Ashgrove House, which lay further along the main street, nearly at the end.
It felt as if the will was burning a hole in her shopping bag. What on earth had got into her to take it home? She’d have to go and speak to Mr L before he found out what she’d done, which meant before Abigail went to see him. She’d ring his secretary at nine o’clock and see if he was there, then say she had to speak to him urgently. But as she was about to nip into the kitchen to make that call on her mobile phone, the house phone rang and she heard Abigail run to pick up the one in the hall.
Dot tiptoed to the door at the rear of it. You could save yourself a lot of trouble by eavesdropping, especially in a house of secrets. She never passed on what she heard, just used it to protect herself and her job, and sometimes to protect Abigail too.
‘Oh, no! I can’t believe it … Yes, he was looking rather tired yesterday … Yes, I perfectly understand. I’ll come in tomorrow morning and see Mr Danvers instead.’
As Abigail put the phone down and mopped her eyes with a handkerchief, Dot stepped out from the servants’ quarters. ‘Is something wrong, dear?’
‘It’s Mr Liddlestone. He had a stroke yesterday evening and he’s in hospital.’
‘No! How bad?’
‘Not too bad, thank goodness, but his wife told them he has to take it easier from now on so they’re not to bother him.’
‘Poor man! I thought he’d been looking a bit under the weather.’
‘What’s this Mr Danvers like? I haven’t met him yet and I have to see him about the will instead of Mr L.’
Dot considered this, head to one side. ‘He’s only been there a couple of months and not full-time at first, because he had to settle into the house he’d bought. I’ve said hello to him at the office but that’s about it. He’s younger than Mr L, a year or two older than you, I should think. He lost his wife a few years ago. She had MS, poor thing.’
Dot had seen the photo on Mr Danvers’ desk. A nice family they looked and he had been in the centre, smiling proudly with his arm round his wife. The two children had looked to be about ten. Now they were grown up and he looked sad sometimes. He’d told her his daughter was planning to marry and live in Edinburgh, while his son was off on a gap year travelling round the world.
‘Didn’t Mr Danvers buy the old Renshaw house?’ Abigail asked.
‘Yes. There’ll be a lot of work to do on it. I’ve seen him in the hardware store buying paint and other bits and pieces, so he must be handy that way.’
‘I’ve seen him around the village – tall, greying hair at the temples, distinguished looking.’
‘Yes. Keeps his office tidy. Hasn’t gone out for a meal at the pub or my friend Jen would have seen him and told me. He went over to have dinner with the Liddlestones a few days after his arrival. Apart from that, no one knows much about him.’
‘Well, no doubt the local spy network will keep an eye on him and gradually learn more, which you can pass on to me. In the meantime I have to go and see him tomorrow about the will.’
Dot couldn’t help chuckling at that. It was quite true. She usually seemed to find out the latest gossip before most others did. ‘I expect so. Well, I’d better get on with my work. Your guests yesterday didn’t know how to wipe their feet and that front hall floor is filthy.’
But when she went back to the kitchen, her smile vanished and she plumped down in a chair by the table, staring in terror at the shopping bag where the will was still hidden.
What was she going to do now?
Perhaps she could put the will back when she went in to do her hour’s cleaning the next day? It was the right thing to do. No one would be any the wiser if she was careful not to be seen doing it … only then Abigail would lose everything. And what would happen to Abigail if Dot did put that wicked will back? Her dear girl would have no money and nowhere to live. That will was so unfair. It didn’t bear thinking of.
Unfortunately, Dot couldn’t stop thinking about it.
And it wasn’t even Mr L who’d be dealing with it now, but Mr Danvers. He’d not care about Abigail. Why should he? He hadn’t even met her yet. Things were going from bad to worse, but she had to do the right thing … she supposed. Only what was the right thing? How did you know for sure in circumstances like these? Could she bear to put it back? Trouble was, she’d bet Mr Danvers would have a look at the will today. Stood to reason he’d want to be prepared for his meeting about it.
Abigail came to see Dot just before lunch. ‘I’ve rung the hospital. They said Mr Liddlestone is as comfortable as can be expected. What does that mean, do you think?’
‘It probably means he’s going to recover.’
‘I asked if I could take him in some flowers, but they said he’d be going home soon as long as he continued to improve. Only family to visit. When I see Mr Danvers tomorrow, I’ll ask him how Mr L is. He’s bound to know more about his partner than the hospital will tell me. I do hope he’s approachable.’
‘I find him very pleasant to deal with.’
‘Good.’
‘Why don’t you make a start on clearing out them old books in the cellar? You know you’re dying to have them out of the damp.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. And we’ll give the library a good spring clean before I put my own books on the shelves. Perhaps you could work another extra day this week?’
‘Of course I can. I’m only doing Ashgrove House and Mr Liddlestone’s office these days. I’ll come in first thing tomorrow, shall I?’
‘Thank you, Dot dear. Look, I was thinking during the night. Those books in the library may have some value, so I’d better not dump them in the cellar and certainly not throw them away until I find out. I think I’ll phone Porfrey’s, the antiquarian bookshop in Medderby, and see if they’ll send someone to value them.’
‘Good idea. That’s the way to think. Make the most of what you’ve got. There are some boxes of old books in the attics, too, remember. Your stepmother said they were too scruffy to have on view. Show those to whoever comes, as well.’
Abigail returned a few minutes later. ‘I rang the bookshop. The woman said James Porfrey could come to make a quick preliminary assessment of the books this afternoon, because he’ll be in the area on another call. Will you help me get the boxes of books down from the attic?’
‘We don’t need to hump them heavy boxes up and down. Take him up to the attic to look at them, why don’t you? You’re not your stepmother, suspicious of everyone. You can let people into any part of the house you like now.’
‘I can, can’t I? Oh, Dot, I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels. Is it wrong to feel so happy … so liberated?’
‘Not at all. You did your duty, more than she deserved, that’s for sure, and now your life’s your own. See that you make every second count.’
‘I will. I definitely will.’
Dot smiled, but the smile had been forced and she couldn’t keep it up as she went on with her work. She couldn’t get that dratted will out of her mind. And though Mr Danvers seemed all right, what would he say if he caught her going through a client’s box?
Actually, she was less and less inclined to return the nasty thing, because she hated what it would do to Abigail. But she’d have to. Wouldn’t she? The thought kept creeping into her mind: who would know if she didn’t put it back? No one. Mr L wasn’t likely to come back to work, from the sounds of it. Then her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head: Honesty is the best policy, Dorothy, always remember that.
Only Dot hadn’t found that to be true in real life, especially with her husband and the way he wasted their money if she let on how much she had. And then later with the old witch, who had to be managed carefully. She had a book of quotations which she enjoyed dipping into and had found one she much preferred about honesty: Honesty is the cruellest game of all because not only can you hurt someone – and hurt them to the bone – you can feel self-righteous about it at the same time. She forgot who’d said it, but that person had been so right. If only she could be sure no one would know what she’d done, she’d burn that will this very day. But you couldn’t be sure, could you? She didn’t want to land herself in trouble with the law.
That afternoon, Cousin Cynthia turned up at Ashgrove House without warning, driving her ancient car as badly as ever. While parking it in front of the building, she accidentally put her foot on the accelerator instead of the brake, and landed up with the two front wheels in the rose bed.
Dot, who’d been watching, couldn’t help chuckling and made no attempt to go and help her. Cynthia Polson had been sucking up to Edwina for years and getting handouts. It was probably partly her fault that the terrible will had been written. She certainly didn’t deserve to inherit Ashgrove.
Abigail, who’d been waiting in the sitting room for the book valuer, went running out to help. Of course she did. But Dot didn’t join them. She didn’t feel she could speak civilly to this particular visitor.
Cousin Cynthia got out, glaring alternately at Abigail and the car. ‘It wasn’t my fault. The stupid car jumped forward when I stopped! There must be something wrong with it. How on earth am I going to get it out of there?’
Abigail looked at the car, sighed for the poor, mangled rose bush, and guided her visitor towards the door. ‘Give me your car keys and I’ll see if I can back the car out of the flower bed for you.’
She took it very slowly and it proved quite easy to do. She also did a neat three-point turn so that the car was pointing in the right direction for Cynthia to leave without hassle. She stopped to pick a rose that was hanging by one thread, then went in to join her visitor, sniffing it, enjoying the delicate fragrance. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Cousin Cynthia?’ She gave in to temptation and added, ‘Or a glass of my stepmother’s sherry, perhaps?’ Cynthia was definitely on her personal blacklist for her many unkind remarks over the years, usually saying something that would please her stepmother.
‘No, thank you. I only popped in to see if Mr Liddlestone had told you what was in Edwina’s will. Last time I saw her, she hinted that she was leaving me, er, something substantial, but she wouldn’t say what.’
‘Didn’t you hear the news? Poor Mr Liddlestone had a stroke last night and is in hospital. I can’t see his partner about the will until tomorrow, so I haven’t found out what exactly is in it. I’ll phone you as soon as I know what Edwina has left you. Now, a glass of sherry?’
Cynthia grimaced. ‘No, thank you. I never did like Edwina’s sherry.’
‘Pity. We have several bottles of it left.’
‘I’d advise you to pour it down the sink. It’s rubbish. Well, I have a lot to do so I’ll come back tomorrow to find out what I’ve been left.’
She seemed happier than usual today, which was strange, considering her ‘dear auntie’ had died so recently. Remembering the years of unkindness in support of Edwina, Abigail took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘I shall be very busy tomorrow, so it won’t be convenient for you to visit me. I’ll phone you as soon as I know anything about what you’ve been left.’
For a moment their gazes clashed, but for the first time ever, Abigail didn’t lower her eyes. She didn’t intend to have anything to do with this horrible woman if she could help it.
Cynthia blew out a puff of irritation and paused by the door, a sour expression on her face. ‘You should be wearing black. What on earth are you thinking about, wearing a blue blouse? I don’t like that blouse anyway. It’s vulgar, shows your cleavage. What little cleavage you’ve got.’
Abigail nearly said something to placate her, then realised she’d be making a stick for her own back if she let Cynthia take over her stepmother’s role of criticising her appearance. She spoke quickly, before she could lose her courage. ‘It’s none of your business what I wear, so please don’t comment on my clothes again.’
Cousin Cynthia gasped and drew herself up. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Now your poor dear stepmother has gone, I’m your closest thing to an older relative, and it’s my duty to keep an eye on you.’
‘I’m thirty-eight, and that’s old enough to manage my own life, thank you very much. And you’re not actually related to me.’
‘Well! The impertinence of it.’
Abigail didn’t move and after a moment, Cousin Cynthia left, muttering about the appalling manners of today’s youngsters.
Youngsters! It seemed a very long time since Abigail would have described herself as young. Where had the years gone? She’d intended to go to university, had wanted to study history, but then her father had been incapacitated by his illness and her stepmother was no good at nursing people, so she’d postponed going. She hadn’t regretted it for a moment, either. She and her father had always been close and grew closer as the years passed.
Oh, what was she thinking about that for? She’d got over her disappointment years ago, had even managed to do a few history units with the Open University.
She smiled as she suddenly realised she’d just succeeded in something she’d been wanting to do for ages: stood up to Cynthia, who had followed her stepmother’s example in criticising her. And it hadn’t been as difficult as she’d expected. A tiny triumph, but still, it was a start. The new Abigail wasn’t going to be a meek and colourless mouse.
She caught sight of herself in a mirror and scowled. She was going to change her appearance dramatically, buy some flattering clothes and some jeans, a type of garment her stepmother had loathed. She’d try a different hairstyle, too, only what? She wasn’t up to date on fashion. But she couldn’t do anything until she got control of the money.
When Abigail turned away from the front door, she saw Dot standing in the library doorway.
‘You got rid of her, then?’
‘Yes. And I told her not to come here tomorrow to ask about the will. Was that too rude of me?’
‘No. She’s a nasty creature, wasn’t as bad till after your father died and your stepmother egged her on. In fact, she’s turned into another Edwina, with never a good word to say about anything or anyone. I’m glad you didn’t let her bully you.’
‘It’s about time I stood up for myself, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is. And who’s she to criticise your clothes? She dresses like Queen Victoria in short skirts.’ Fury about the unfairness of the will speared through Dot yet again. Was that horrible woman really going to inherit everything?
