Luckily, it has gone wrong E-Book

Marco Stoll

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 318

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A blond lover, a somewhat overweight friend and her brother, a Jack-Russel terrier and a doctor's wife with four children are minor characters in the main character's life and in this novel. But sometimes minor characters play major roles. This is experienced by a star lawyer from the English upperclass, a music teacher from the provinces and a charming hoodlum. With the not only benevolent help of the minor characters, their fate leads them down completely new, unexpected paths, at the end of which happiness beckons and abysses lurk.

Leseprobe

Luckily, it has gone wrong

How this book came aboutLuckily, it has gone wrongEpilogueAnother epilogue that is more of an excursion into my imaginationCopyright

How this book came about

I have a bad habit of commenting on the blurb of the books my wife is reading and predicting the course of the story. Oddly enough, this does not always meet with her approval. Then - it was about four months before Christmas 2007 - I may have gone a bit too far. "Instead of commenting on my books, you'd better write one yourself!" And then came the all-decisive sentence: "I want you to write a romantic novel for me for Christmas!"

Can a husband ignore such a Christmas wish from his wife? I have to say that I despise this genre of romantic romance novels - like all literary educated contemporaries - from the bottom of my heart and - I admit - I read it with pleasure; of course only on holiday and in the absence of profound spiritual food! However, while writing I realised that my inclination to this literary genre goes deeper than I admitted. For writing was incredibly easy for me.

I wish the readers a few cosy and comfortable hours.

For the native English speakers: This book was originally written in German and translated into English by DeepL. I perused it and made some changes. But I am not a native speaker. No doubt, there will be parts that might appear slightly or very odd to you. I hope that this will not spoil your joy reading this story.

Luckily, it has gone wrong

Steven took a last look over to the big mansion.

The elegant and illustrious dinner party of Lady Trenton crowded the windows and followed his departure with interest. Then he let himself fall into the back of the Rover limousine, quickly retracting his head so that he would not bump. It was not easy to get into a car in handcuffs. There was already an officer in the car and Steven slipped into the middle of the seat to make room for the inspector who followed. "I could slap myself," mumbled Steven. The inspector, who had just closed the car door, took a quick look at him and dryly remarked, "You're lucky you're wearing handcuffs to avoid the beatings. But I think you'll have plenty of opportunity to do it later."

Steven said nothing and closed his eyes as the car drove down the driveway with crunching tires. He didn't intend to keep the police company too long.

___________________________

Caroline Purpington née Sutherland-Satchworth turned over the damp earth of the last vegetable patch.

Why had she waited so long to do this work? After the rain last week, the ground was heavy and soggy. Despite the cold weather the sweat ran down her forehead. A cold wind swept in from the nearby coast, driving black clouds across the land. Wet, rotten leaves were whirled up and gathered at the nearby tool shed. Caroline looked around. The clear days of late autumn were gone. The strong gold and red tones gave way to dark brown and black. Her garden, which until recently had radiated a bold wildness, now looked neglected and poorly tended. "Exactly, that's what it is," Caroline thought and looked over at the house.

Woodworth Manor, her childhood home, seemed grey and forbidding. In the sunlight, it might still radiate some of its former glory. But now, in the dim light of the day that was coming to an end, it seemed empty, dilapidated and terribly in need of renovation. The roof was poorly covered with plastic sheeting. The shutters of the west and main wings, whose paint had long since flaked off, were closed and the façade had large, ugly water stains. Caroline lived in only two rooms in the east wing and the kitchen below. The remaining rooms were all empty. How long could she keep the house? 

The surrounding land had been sold parcel by parcel by the last three generations of Sutherland-Satchworth to pay the taxes associated with land ownership. Only four hectares remained of the former manor house and the large park. Most of it was overgrown with old trees and dense shrubs. Caroline cultivated a small part as best she could. She did not have much choice if she did not want to live exclusively on cheap canned food. With the little she earned as a music teacher at the local school, she could only afford the bare necessities. Being self-sufficient was a necessity; the garden was a source of nutrition, not the hobby of an English lady.

It made Caroline's heart bleed when she thought how happy her parents had been when she married Simon Purpington, the future Lord Purpington, the sole heir to one of the richest and most influential families in Britain. Her future, and with it that of Woodworth Manor, seemed assured. Simon spoke of making Woodworth Manor their residence outside London.

But immediately after the marriage, Simon and his mother, Lady Eleonore Purpington, née Clayton, and a second cousin of Caroline's mother, announced to her that there could only be a suitable country estate for the family of those of Purpington: Blackwells End, north of Gloucester, the estate the family had called their own for three hundred and seventy-two years. Caroline had submitted to her fate, as she had submitted to so many things in the following nine years. Woodworth Manor continued to deteriorate. 

Angrily she threw the last shovel of earth onto the vegetable patch. Hopefully, next year's potato crop would be more abundant. This year's crop hadn't exactly saturated her. Well, at least this way she kept her figure, thought Caroline with bitter self-irony and brought the garden tools to the shed.

Night fell quickly on Kent end of October. She walked towards the house at dusk and descended the five steps to the kitchen. She entered the clean, tiled kitchen and turned on the light. The kitchen was her favourite room. She had spent much of her childhood here with her mother and the housekeeper Suzanne, the good spirit of the house Sutherland-Satchworth. The room was also warm thanks to the large stove. The old central heating had given up the ghost shortly after her mother died three years ago. Given her financial situation, repairing it was out of the question.

Trooper, her Jack Russell terrier, jumped happily towards her. He had obviously forgiven her for locking him in the house. He really annoyed her with his barking and running around on a long leash. Now he tilted his head, sat down and looked at Caroline expectantly.

"Okay, food and a short - but really short! - evening walk is still available," she promised him. He seemed satisfied and disappeared on one of his rounds through the abandoned house.

___________________________

Meanwhile, Sir Simon the ninth Lord Purpington sat in the Esquire Salon of his club, Knights of the White Rose.

He digested the exquisite dinner with a glass of the legendary 1959 Colheita port-wine and a Diademas cigar from Hoyo de Monterrey. At the age of seventy-three, Sir Simon had come to the conclusion that life - especially his - was too short to burden himself with the unpleasant or avoid the pleasant.

He applied this wisdom with the consistency of an English lord, living mainly in his townhouse and club, which he had presided over as governor for twenty-three years. He enjoyed the benefits of city life, the amenities of his prestigious club and avoided his ancestral home, Blackwells End, as best he could. In fact, he avoided his wife, Lady Eleonore Purpington, in particular. As he had recently confided to his best friend, Sir Rhufus Timberland, at a late hour, it was an undeniable fact to him that his wife had no blue blood but prussic acid in her veins.

His tranquility was interrupted by the appearance of the club's master butler, Otto. Otto was an institution within an institution. Apart from his unsuitable German name, he was the epitome of an English butler. Otto cleared his throat quietly and addressed Lord Purpington: "If your Lordship would permit, I should like to draw your attention to two more appointments for tomorrow, Friday.“

Sir Simon pulled his bushy eyebrows together. He involuntarily associated the word appointment with work, which he had successfully renounced for some time. Or then it was connected with his duties in the House of Lords, something which he was able to reduce to a minimum. But worst of all were the appointments he had with his wife and son. Mostly it was about money. The two had been trying to disempower, incapacitate or put him in his grave for some time. Probably rather the latter, because incapacitating him would probably have harmed the family honour.

"Well, what appointments" - he spat out the word with as much contempt as he could with a cigar in his mouth - "do I have to assume tomorrow?"

 "At 11.30, your Lordship is expected to appear before the House of Lords committee to discuss the fox hunt..."

"The foxes can stay away from me and the idiots on horseback can break their necks at the racecourse," Lord Purpington interrupted him gruffly.

Otto maintained his composure: "...and at three thirty, Mr. Balthasar Cougill requested an appointment."

"That I granted him?" Sir Simon was extremely suspicious. The name Balthasar reminded him of his uncle on his mother's side, who had wanted him to join his regiment in 1949 with the Royal Scottish Guards. Sir Simon had only escaped this career by going to the Riviera with a French countess. Even today he found that the time with the countess had been much more instructive than military training.

"Indeed, My Lord. Mr. Cougill is one of the senior partners of the law firm of Cougill, Cougill, Cougill & Cougill and the second Mr. Cougill.“ "A lawyer who stands between two commas is suspect per se," grumbled Sir Simon. "Just keep this lawyer's breed away from me. I've sired one of this vile breed." And in his mind he added, "At least Eleonore claims."

"Certainly, My Lord." It remained unclear whether this was a confirmation of the statement to the lawyers in general or whether Otto intended to keep Mr. Cougill away from Sir Simon. However, he probably only meant to imply that he intended to withdraw.

"Send me a car to take me to Westminster and have me picked up there at three o’clock again," the grim lord decided, whereupon Otto silently walked away with a measured bow and two steps backwards. Sir Simon emptied his glass in one go. The pleasure was gone. The mention of a lawyer had reminded him of the argument with Eleonore and Simon Junior, which had been poisoning the anything but sweet family life for several years. The two thought it was time to entrust Simon Junior with the management of the family estate. The Lord had a very different view on that matter and would much rather trust his private bankers Pictet & Cie. in Geneva. Moreover, in his twenty-year career as a lawyer, Simon had not only built up a reputation as a smart and shrewd lawyer, but also a fortune that allowed him, among other things, to race around London in an Aston Martin. How decadent! Sir Simon was sure that the moment Lady Eleonore and her son could rule the family estate, he, the Lord, would rot in an adjoining room at Blackwells Ends. Farewell Colheita Port and Diademas Hoyo de Monterrey cigars!

___________________________

Caroline strolled with the happy Trooper towards Saint Nicholas at Wade.

The village was situated to the north-east of Canterbury and was originally part of Woodworth Manor. Today, it consisted of family homes and a good two dozen farms that farmed the surrounding land. Woodworth Manor was situated two kilometres outside the village and was connected to it by a bad, grassy dirt road.

After the terrible time in Blackwells End and a deep depression, Caroline had found peace here, the place of her happy childhood, and had regained physical and mental strength.

The first house between Woodworth Manor and the village belongs to the country doctor Anthony Franklin and his wife Sally-Anne. Sally-Anne had become her best friend in the eighteen months since Caroline had left her husband and returned to ramshackle Woodworth Manor. Caroline admired Sally-Anne. She kept the four children and the household in order, supported her husband in his work, kept Caroline from becoming completely lonely and was always in a good mood. It was a mystery to Caroline how Sally-Anne did it. But she was grateful for the fate that had brought the Franklins to St. Nicholas at Wade.

Trooper, whom she had let off the leash in the open field, ran ahead of her. She had put a small bicycle light on his collar so that she could tell where he was by the flashing red light in the dark. Trooper jumped slightly over the small garden gate and headed for the Franklin house.

"No, Trooper," Caroline called him back, "it's too late to visit, and leave the cats alone!" Trooper disappeared around the corner. Probably looking for one of the three cats that belonged to the Franklins' children. Caroline waited a while, but Trooper remained missing. She didn't want to stand outside the house. She entered the garden and knocked on the front door. Anthony opened it. He held his wildly screaming son Trevor under his arm and pushed a plastic tractor aside with his foot.

"Come in, you can and help pack the children into boxes and send them off to Timbuktu," he greeted Caroline. From the living room there was a loud roar. "We don't want to go to Timbuktu and we certainly don't want to go to bed." Those were the twins Alex and Albert. Now Sally-Anne appeared as well, holding three-year-old Catherine in her arms who was half a sleep, and smiled at her as if there was nothing better than to have visitors at the end of a long day.

"I won't stay long," Caroline assured her, "actually, I'm just looking for Trooper who disappeared in your backyard." 

"Trooper", the twins emitted a scream that sounded like an attack signal and rushed to the glass door leading into the garden. "You stay here," thundered Anthony! "Damn it, it's cold and wet, I won't let you go barefoot and in your pyjamas in the garden, you hear me?" The twins gave him a scowling look. "Would be even nicer if the village doctor's children croaked of pneumonia," mumbled Anthony. "Anthony," Sally-Anne scolded him, "don't talk about your children that way. You're a general practitioner, not a veterinarian!" "Even the veterinarian's children shouldn't croak," Anthony replied, pushing his twin upstairs, with Trevor still shouting and still wedged under his arm. Sally-Anne and Catherine followed the male cavalcade.

"I'll go and find Trooper and then disappear again," Caroline called upstairs. "Yes, find your attack dog but don't you dare go home," called back Sally-Anne who was in the bathroom trying to brush the teeth of sleepy Catherine. "I want to have a few words with a normal human being before I go into a coma of exhaustion." Anthony looked down over the banister: "Which confirmed in front of witnesses that my own wife, who is entrusted to me, does not consider me a normal human being." And he disappeared into the twins' room to fight the evening fight for bed.

Half an hour later all three were sitting at tea. Trooper had confiscated the cat blanket on an old armchair and, probably in an attempt to adapt, turned on his back like a cat and happily stretched out all fours into the air. Sally-Anne had laughed and tickled his stomach. "All that's missing is for him to start purring, right Trooper."

Now they were silent and enjoyed the silence. Even upstairs, silence seemed to have returned. However, Caroline knew from her work as a babysitter that sooner or later naked children's feet would be heard on the wooden stairs.

"Did you finally get a divorce decree," Sally-Anne asked somewhat hesitantly. It was a delicate subject that Caroline liked to avoid, but in view of her precarious financial situation it was not without a certain urgency.

"No," she replied, "I don't know how Simon manages to drag this out for so long. As long as there is no verdict, he doesn't have to pay me anything because I left the conjugal community. At least that's what his lawyers say, and mine sees no chance to change that."

"The future lord, with his connections, probably knows all the judges in the county of Gloucestershire," Anthony interjected, "and your lawyer is a complete failure." 

"But a pro bono, assigned to me by the court. At least I have someone like that to take care of my business. I could never afford a lawyer. With what little I earn here, I can't stay here all winter. I have to go to London and get a job." The prospect was a horror for Caroline. She had occasionally lived in Simon's luxurious apartment in the city, but the city was alien to her.

"What kind of work would you look for," Anthony wanted to know? Sally-Anne gave him a look that made it clear that she considered this a very tactless question. 

"If only I knew that myself," Caroline answers honestly. "Apart from a really good musical education with a diploma as a singer, a broken off study of philosophy and literature, I actually have nothing to show as a qualification. Of course, I can work with computers. I had to do something for the brain, all those years at Blackwells End. I learned computer programs and languages."

"Hey, that's ideal," Anthony remarked, "then you can work as a foreign language secretary for a publisher of fine literary works." "Darling", Sally-Anne looked at him pitifully, "there's no such thing as secretaries any more, and even for jobs that don't really exist any more, you need a qualification today." "Well, a diploma like this can't be all witchcraft," Anthony threw in and took a magazine for doctors and buried himself in it.

"You see, this is how my husband ends a serious discussion," Sally-Anny said to Caroline and poured them tea again. Half an hour later Caroline was on her way back to Woodworth Manor. The red flashing light on Trooper's collar orbited her like a satellite or a herding dog circling his flock of sheep.

___________________________

Sir Simon the ninth Lord Purpington sat behind his desk in the office which was up to him as governor of the Knights of the White Rose Club.

He stared out of the window into the small but well-kept garden. Although it was only a little after four PM, it was already dark outside. London lay under a thick blanket of clouds from which it drizzled from time to time. In the office only the table lamp and a floor lamp in the corner by the window were burning. The rest of the room with its oak panelling was in the dark.

Sir Simon looked up at the painting of his predecessor, which was dimly lit by the light of the floor lamp. The other seventeen governors who had steered the club in its nearly four hundred years of history through good and bad times of the British Empire were immortalised in paintings that adorned the library and stairwell.

"Well, Robert, you old libertine. Did that happen to you too?“ Sir Simon asked the sternly looking gentleman in the painting? Sir Robert White refused to answer. Because of the sour expression on his face, one could conclude that the title „libertine“ offended him. However, Sir Robert's reputation as a ladies' man had been legendary. Finally, he had died at the age of 77 in the arms of a lover thirty years his junior. What had so strained him that the blow struck him was not further explained out of courtesy at the club. 

Sir Simon took the file that the lawyer, the second Mr. Cougill of Cougill, Cougill, Cougill & Cougill had handed him a few minutes ago and leafed through it. His eyes fell on a photo of a beautiful woman. She was in her early thirties, wearing a black pantsuit, as was the fashion in the eighties, and looked confidently into the camera. Her Nordic elegance, the white-blonde, short hair and blue eyes had something cool and distant, almost rejecting about them.

"Yes, Christina," Sir Simon murmured, "I always knew that you had changed my life. Only it would be so profound, I had no idea, old fool."

Mr. Balthasar Cougill had informed him that Christina Maria Johansson had died of cancer on 13 October 2007 at the age of fifty-six. Christina was buried a week ago in Tyresö, her home town south of Stockholm, in the presence of her family. She left behind a considerable fortune and a daughter who was the sole heiress. She also left a letter addressed to Sir Simon, the ninth Lord Purpington, informing him that her daughter was also his. Mr. Cougill anticipated the gist of the message in the letter. Probably to avoid another death. You never know with lords so old. After he had delivered this message, Mr. Cougill handed the lord a file and a business card and said goodbye with a slight nod of his head, as if to avoid giving the impression that he was bowing to a lord.

Sir Simon took the long letter-opener, which was modelled on a dueling sword, and opened the letter with the smooth movement of a sword fencer, once practised and feared.

London, 4 October 2007

Dear Simon

As you have been informed by my lawyer, Mr. Balthasar Cougill, I have a daughter who is also yours. Lucy Simona Johansson was born June 4, 1985. Since our relationship had already ended seven months before that date, and neither you nor I made any effort to revive it, I decided to raise my daughter alone. I told Lucy that her father had died before she was born, and to this day I have not told her your true identity. Forgive me for declearing you dead before your time. As this letter proves, however, you survived me in the end. I hope that is satisfaction enough for you.

In the face of my imminent death, I have decided that the truth can no longer remain in the dark. In the next few days - that is all I have left - I will tell Lucy who her father is.

I know my Lucy. A paternity suit won't bother her, especially since her future is materially secure. So you don't need to worry about that. But I'm sure she'll want to get to know her father. I expect you - as the first and presumably only duty as a father - to bring about this meeting.

I well remember it was a nice piece of work to find the soft core under your very rough skin. I suspect that this shell has become even more impenetrable over the past twenty-three years. Well, if half of what I have heard about your family is true, I cannot blame you.

My last request to you: Show Lucy that she was not the result of an affair, but is a child of love. Neither of us has been able to admit this to ourselves or the other. I have few regrets in my life, but this is part of it.

Farewell, my Simon

Your Christina

In addition to the letter and the photograph, between the file covers was a copy of Lucy Simona Johansson's birth certificate, a copy of the will from which the Lord could see that Lucy was a very wealthy young woman, and some other photographs showing Christina and Sir Simon. Once together on a yacht, in the background a lovely Mediterranean island, another time they danced together. Christina wore a dark blue, shiny evening gown, which fitted her eyes perfectly and, as Sir Simon remembered, had a murderous slit on the side, so that all the men could catch covetous glances at the shapely leg. Sir Simon had then been equally proud of the fact that he could travel the Riviera with such a beautiful woman, as well as annoyed by the guys who were discreetly but constantly looking at his companion. They had been a striking couple in every respect. He found today that he had looked quite good then, too. "Tempi passati, Your Lordship," he said to himself.

Sir Simon read the letter for the second time. Sadness rose in him. Sadness that it took twenty-three years and a letter to show him that he had truly loved once in his life and had been loved. Sadness that his pride and stubbornness kept him for twenty-three years from looking for the woman he thought about every day, or at least made an effort every day not to think about her. And finally, sadness that he had a daughter he hadn't seen grow up, and had thus missed his last chance to be a real father to a child.

The old lord stood up and stepped to the window. For the first time he felt really old; old and in the wrong time. Lords like him belonged in museums, or even better in mausoleums, he thought bitterly. 

Downstairs the light shone from the library into the garden. There stood the bench where he liked to drink his port or sherry. He had once said to a few club members that it was his most fervent wish to be hit by a punch on this bench with a good glass of port and a good cigar. "Perhaps today would be the right time for that," Sir Simon said to his reflection in the glass. Then he turned around, stretched to his full height of 1.85 and walked upright down to the bar to have his drink before dinner. There was no reason - other than being hit by the blow - to give up his habits.

___________________________

Simon Purpington Junior in his anthracite Aston Martin DBS roared along the road from Gloucester to Blackwells End, the family home. 

He had arranged to have lunch with his mother. There was little that could unsettle or shake him, the hardened lawyer. The idea of being late for lunch with his mother was one of them. They had something to celebrate. Lady Eleonore's plans and strategies worked out in the end, despite the most unpleasant surprises. In a few days he would own two castles and vast estates in the Czech Republic, not to mention a small but extremely exquisite art collection.

Lady Eleonore was waiting for her son in the green drawing room, which faced the magnificent park of Blackwells End. Simon kissed his mother on the forehead, taking in the smell of medicine, a heavy perfume and hair powder, which always caused him slight nausea. He handed her a bouquet of flowers, which she carelessly placed on a sideboard. After all, it was not about bringing flowers, but about keeping the form.

 "Well, Simon, show me the verdict," demanded Lady Eleonore, as soon as he had sat down. She took the paper from his hand and began to read it attentively. She nodded her head in agreement.

"Well, it seems that our operation Countess of Hochburg Stauffen can be completed in our favour after all." She gave her son a smile. However, anyone who didn't know Lady Eleonore as well as Simon would probably have interpreted the expression on her face as a sign of sudden pain.

"Despite the unexpected and also very undesirable self-contemplation of your wife, or better probably now your ex-wife, the Countess's inheritance seems to fall entirely to you. Is that right, Simon?" 

Simon Junior confirmed this immediately. "As you can see from paragraph 7b, all property accrued to Caroline during our marriage that is not from her parents' direct inheritance falls to me. Her lawyer, who will be careful not to act on my instructions, will explain that this is a mere formality, especially since she has received no property other than the very modest inheritance of her parents.

"Brilliant, dear Simon, really brilliant," his mother praised him. "I do not want to be your opponent in your business, whatever it may be."

Simon accepted this compliment with a smiling smirk. "You will see Mother that Caroline will be pleased to read over this trifle when she learns in paragraph 8 that she will receive an annual pension of twenty thousand pounds for life, unless she remarries, of course. In her present situation, that is a great deal of money."

"Simon, that's not only a lot of money in her situation, but in any case, it's way too much money. I want this to be cut in half," Lady Eleonore was an extremely thrifty person when it came to others.

"Dear Mother, in view of the fortune that will fall to us, and according to the latest information it amounts to more than twelve million pounds, this amount is absolutely in. Furthermore, we cannot risk Caroline challenging the verdict. Outside the court of Gloucestershire, we have much less influence. We simply cannot afford to have a judge other than Archibald Stiff to oversee the verdict."

Mentioning the twelve million seemed to sweeten the bitter pill for Lady Eleonore. "Now then, let us turn our attention to our dear relative, the Countess Mathilda, Baroness of Hochburg Stauffen." Now Lady Purpington really managed to smile, which was recognisable as such, and raised the glass of sherry towards her son, who also toasted her.

Lady Eleonore Purpington née Clayton was descended, it was a disgrace that she knew how to cleverly conceal, from the deepest nobility one could find in the English kingdom. It was astonishing to everyone how Eleonore Clayton, who was - to put it politely - not very attractive, had succeeded at eighteen years of age in persuading the dazzlingly handsome, urbane Simon Purpington to marry her. Then, only eight months after the marriage, she had given birth to a son and heir. Rumours that Simon Junior might be the fruit of premature love or even of another father were persistent. When Sir Simon, after three years of marriage, realised the misery he had got himself into and tried to doubt his son's legitimacy, Lady Eleonore was prepared. A paternity test, which was revolutionary new at the time, took place, which proved beyond doubt that little Simon was Sir Simon's son. With that, this subject was, at least within the family, off the table.

To polish up the blemish of her low birth, the young lady Eleonore threw herself into genealogy. She hoped to find ancestors who would bring her close to the royal family after all. In fact, she became one of the most accomplished genealogists in Britain. Although she was not able to lift her family tree a few rungs up the ladder of nobility, her research brought interesting things to light. There was another family of low nobility in Kent called Sutherland-Satchworth, with whom she was related. Although they were neither important nor wealthy, they were obviously the last living relatives of an Austrian countess. 

Countess Mathilda Baroness of Hochburg Stauffen was not actually a member of the Austrian high nobility, but she owned a nice little palace outside Vienna, a city palace in Vienna, a family seat in Wales - she was descended on her mother's side from the English high nobility - and a small, exquisite art collection. The Countess's situation changed abruptly with the opening of Eastern Europe. The Countess was granted vast estates in the Czech Republic, which had belonged to the family of her late husband, Count Eugen Johann Baron of Hochburg Stauffen, and which disappeared behind the Iron Curtain after the war. Their wealth multiplied overnight.

Lady Eleonore, who kept an eye on all living relatives, no matter how distantly related they may be, did not escape this development. Although she had married into one of the richest noble families in England, she thought that the increase in the possession of the Purpingtons was worth the effort. Fifteen years ago she started the project "Countess Mathilda Baroness of Hochburg Stauffen", in which she only initiated her beloved son Simon. The fact that the insignificant family from Kent had an educated and beautiful daughter was a matter for Lady Eleonore. Simon showed little interest in marriage. His mother finally convinced him that by marrying this Caroline Sutherland-Satchworth he could kill two birds with one stone. On the one hand to marry a suitable woman to bear offspring, on the other hand to strengthen the ties with the Countess.

While mother and son remained silent for a moment, thinking of their Austrian relative, or rather of what she had left to her next of kin, Caroline Sutherland-Satchworth, a small inconspicuous woman entered the salon. In a low voice, she announced, "My Lady, lunch is served."

Lady Eleonore rose, which was the only sign that she had noticed the person and entered, followed by Simon Junior, the small dining room, which was still the size of a middle ballroom. Simon glanced at the servant, Miss Arabella Cox, but also found it unnecessary to greet or thank her. Simon pondered briefly why this was the first servant who had stayed under his mother's roof for more than six weeks. In fact, she must have been here for at least ten years. He knew, however, that this heap of misery of a domestic servant had run the household of her father and brother until she entered the service of Lady Eleonore. This "employment" came to an end when first her brother was convicted of double murder and simple manslaughter - in the third case he could not be proved to have intended to murder the victim. He would be released from prison on his one hundred and seventy-third birthday. But only if he was well behaved. Her father, a haulage contractor known for his violence and binge drinking, fell over in a drunken stupor on his way home shortly afterwards and drowned in a puddle twenty centimetres deep. Simon suspected that for Arabella Cox Blackwells End must be a paradise and his mother an angel. She always looked at him with her frightened Bambi eyes, always distraught. She was probably pretty stupid, he thought.

In addition to Miss Cox, the Purpington house had a cook, a chambermaid who also did the laundry and three gardeners and a chauffeur. They all changed at short but regular intervals. Only Arabella Cox stayed and did the work that was necessary because a position was vacant. The only chore she was not allowed to take was driving the family’s Bentley.

While the frightened Miss Cox served the soup, Simon took up the subject of "Countess Mathilda" again: "I assume that by the end of next week at the latest, we will have the judgment signed by Caroline back. Her lawyer will call her on Monday, as I instructed him to do, and tell her that he heard you urge me to appeal the verdict, in order to reduce the annual payment." As the previous conversation proved, this was even true. "He will urge Caroline to sign as soon as possible, as then the verdict will be final. As soon as I have the judgement in my hands, I will assert our claims through our lawyers in Austria and the Czech Republic. How do you feel about celebrating Christmas in Vienna?"

Arabella Cox suffered a thousand torments. She had heard almost the entire conversation without intention to listen. It hurt her in her soul when she heard what injustice Caroline, the only person who had treated her kindly at Blackwells End, even showing her respect, had done to her. Actually, it flashed through her mind that Caroline was the only person who had ever treated her kindly. Should she dare to tell Caroline about this foul deed? The very idea of rebelling against Lady Eleonore and the eerie Simon Junior so paralysed her that she could hardly serve the main course.

Over coffee, Lady Eleonore once again made fun of her husband. "He's increasingly idle in London. It would be practical for him to be struck down like his predecessor at the club, that lecher, Robert White. But I don't think there's a woman alive today who'd go for your father, the doddery old man." Simon omitted to mention that on his last - rather unpleasant - meeting with his father, he met him in good health and in the company of a lady who, although she was probably in her late fifties, still easily attracted the attention of men. It was undisputed that Lord Purpington, despite his age, was still a stately figure.

"Well," Simon thought aloud, "if we were able to prove that he was causing lasting damage to the family's assets through carelessness or inattention, we could at least get a court order to appoint asset managers to represent our interests. I have some very talented friends!"

"And how will you prove it?" Lady Purpington was all ears. The possibility of outbidding her husband was even more tempting than the Countess's fortune. Besides additional wealth, it would give her the satisfaction of destroying the man who had steadfastly refused to love her and to introduce her to court, the latter meaning worse in her eyes. Sir Simon had succeeded, during the forty-nine years of his marriage, in keeping his wife mostly at Blackwells End and away from London and his friends. She had consoled herself by giving large summer parties and winter balls, and regularly forgot to inform her husband of these occasions in good time, so that the Lord was always conspicuous by his absence. However, it became increasingly difficult for her to invite the kind of guests that seemed appropriate to her. Her reputation as the Dragon of Blackwells End was effective.

"Well, there are a couple of transactions made by a certain Simon Purpington that were extremely shady and unsuccessful. I think there might be something that could be done about that." Simon concealed the fact that the business had cost him a nice chunk of money.

Lady Eleonore wrinkled her already very wrinkled forehead. "I presume this transaction was made by you and you neglected to make it clear you were not Lord Purpington, was you?" "Now Mother," replied Simon, somewhat defensively, "let's call it a forward-looking move in a very interesting game of bridge. But I suggest we look to our affairs in Austria and the Czech Republic first." 

"True, but not a day more," Lady Purpington decided, taking the last bite of her cake. Meanwhile, Arabella Cox poured more coffee and was shaken by so much evil in the depths of her tortured soul.

___________________________

The same day at late hours Simon Purpington Junior entered his luxurious apartment in Russell Square in the heart of London.

He stepped into the living room, from which one enjoyed a beautiful view over Russell Square Park. A fire crackled in the fireplace and the light of the flames played seductively with the exciting body shapes of his lover, Charlize Gordon, who lounged on a chaise longue in front of the fireplace.

Desirously, the future lord let his gaze glide over the shapely breasts, which were barely concealed by the thin negligee, stepped up to the blonde beauty and kissed the full lips. "Shoo, shoo, into the bed, my little kitty." Charlize sulked, "Simon darling, you left me alone all day. It's so boring in the big apartment. When are you gonna take me away and introduce me to your mummy?"

Simon frowned: " Darling, no living soul would think of calling my mother "Mummy". Believe me, a visit to the torture chamber at The Tower is more entertaining than lunch with my mother."

Charlize was anything but convinced and continued to sulk. „Now, we've been together for seven months and six days, I live with you and you haven't introduced me to any of your friends or taken me to an event of importance until today. You don't love me."

Simon knew this discussion. Nothing was further from his mind than to introduce Charlize to one of his friends, or even to take her to an event where the press would probably take photos. But he was careful not to tell her, for that she was simply too adorable when he was alone with her. He stroked her across her thick blond hair: "My kitten, I'm still not divorced. Believe me, if my ex-wife's lawyers - or rather future ex-wife's lawyers - find out that I have a mistress, I'm finished. Then I will be led to the scaffold in the square in front of the Kensington Palace and beheaded with a blunt ax. That would be horrible. I'd be dead and you'd be all alone. Be patient, and everything will turn out just as you've dreamed it would all your life."

"Promise?" Charlize looked up at him with her emerald green eyes.

At this sight there was only one answer: "On the life of my mother," Simon promised to pull her up to him and kiss her passionately. Charlize cooed softly as he ran his index finger down her spine.

A little later Charlize stood at the bedroom window wrapped in a bath towel and looked out over the quiet park. Behind her, Simon slept in the rumpled, dark blue silk sheets that covered the large French bed. She wondered if her best friend, Brigid O'Sheen, was right after all? At lunch Brigid had looked at her and said to her face in her direct Irish manner: "Charlize, don't be as dumb as blonde! The guy is keen on your panties, but that's not enough to become the next Lady Purpington. Nail this guy! Take pictures, get pregnant, or better both. I'm telling you, otherwise you'll be out on the street and back selling five pound clothes at Woolworths one day." Then Brigid had pleasurably pushed a fork full of quiche into her mouth, rolled her eyes and added: "And apart from that, I wouldn't want to miss the lunches you buy me with his money."