by Stuart Woods
“Sir Charles seems to be everything he should be,” Stone said.
“He thinks the same of you,” Felicity replied. “I can tell. An upper-class English gentleman can feign a chilly warmth, but an Englishwoman will know the real thing when she sees it.”
“This is quite a place,” Stone said, looking around.
“The castle was built by Henry the Eighth, to repel the odious French, who never showed up. The Squadron is celebrating its bicentennial, having been founded in 1815, and is the second-oldest yacht club in the world, after the Royal Cork, which goes back to 1720. Sir Charles and I were practically born into it, both of us having fathers and grandfathers who were members. I was a Lady Associate member, until women were accepted as full members, and I became one of the first.”
Sir Charles returned, dressed in a Squadron Mess Kit, in the naval style.
“Well, now, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “are you enjoying your stay in England?”
“Please, it’s Stone, and I am very much enjoying my stay, although I arrived only this afternoon. I spent much of it enjoying your very beautiful property.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t greet you in its finished state, but we’re getting there. Susan Blackburn is actually a bit ahead of schedule, but I’m sure something will go wrong to correct that.”
“May I inquire about the origins of your title?” Stone asked.
“Oh, that arrived some thirty-odd years ago, at a time when I was giving rather too much money to the Conservative Party. Margaret Thatcher, who was a good friend, saw to it.”
“Somehow, I had thought it more ancient.”
“Like me, you mean?”
Stone smiled. “Hardly.”
The steward appeared and announced dinner.
They dined in the Members Dining Room, the only people there, and they were surrounded by portraits of former commodores of the Squadron gazing down on them, some of whom were kings. The conversation flowed freely.
“It’s nice that we have the place to ourselves,” Sir Charles said, when their dishes had been taken away, to be replaced by port and Stilton. “It will be crowded at the weekend, and I’m happy to have had the opportunity to get to know you, Stone.”
“Stone was very impressed with your property, Charles,” Felicity said.
“Particularly the airfield,” Stone said. He took his checkbook from his pocket and tore out one, already filled out. He signed it and handed it to Sir Charles. “I believe that is the correct amount?” he said.
Sir Charles put on his glasses and read the check carefully. “We have the same bank,” he said, tucking the check into a pocket and offering his hand.
Stone shook it. “Please give me a week to move the funds from New York.”
“Of course.”
“In the meantime, a member of my law firm’s London office will be in touch with your solicitor to prepare the necessary documents.”
Sir Charles handed him two business cards. “One is mine, the other, my solicitor’s. Will you be able to stay for the completion?”
“I’ll call my office and see if they can spare me,” Stone said.
They drank their port, then Sir Charles changed back into his suit, and they returned to Felicity’s boat. There was still a little light in the sky when they dropped off Sir Charles at his dock.
“Do you ride, Stone?” Bourne asked.
“Yes, Charles.”
“Then why don’t you wander over tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you a tour of the property on horseback. Stay for lunch.”
“I’d like that very much,” Stone said, “but I don’t have the clothes.”
“I can help you with that,” Felicity said.
“Ten o’clock, then?”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
They continued to Felicity’s dock.
“That went awfully well,” Felicity said as they walked up the path to her cottage. “Just as it should have gone.”
“I am absolutely thrilled,” Stone said. “Thank you so much for arranging everything so beautifully.”
Then they went upstairs and went to bed, something to which they had both been looking forward.
3
The following morning Stone was wakened by Felicity for carnal purposes, then her housekeeper served them breakfast in bed.
“I’ll get you some clothes,” she said, when they were done. “You and my father are about the same size. What size boot do you wear?”
“Ten, American.”
“That would be nine, British?”
“I believe so.”
“Might work.” She left the room and came back a few minutes later with a tweed jacket, a pair of whipcord riding trousers, boots, and a black cashmere turtleneck sweater. “I trust you have your own underwear,” she said.
Stone got dressed, and everything worked. The boots might have been half a size large, but they would do.
“You may take the boat,” Felicity said, “if you think you can handle it.”
“I’ve something similar in Maine. I’ll try not to wreck it.”
“I’d better get you something water repellent, in case of rain,” she said. “It sometimes happens in England.” She found him a light Barbour jacket.
The morning was cloudless and the sun bright. Stone tied up at the Windward Hall dock, and Stan met him with the electric cart and drove him to the stables, where two horses had been saddled for them.
“Take the gelding,” Charles said. “Name’s Toff.”
Stone slipped into his jacket, and they both mounted. Charles led the way for a short gallop, then Stone pulled alongside him and they continued at a walk.
“You’ve a good seat,” Charles said.
“Thank you.” Stone was remembering the last time he had ridden a horse. He and his son, Peter, and his girlfriend, Hattie, had left his wife, Arrington, at her new Virginia house and had taken the morning on horseback. When they returned to the house, they heard a noise like the wind slamming a heavy door, then saw a car drive away. When they entered the house they found Arrington dead in the foyer of a shotgun wound.
“Stone?”
“I’m sorry, I drifted away for a moment.”
“An unpleasant memory, from the look on your face.”
Stone nodded. “The day I lost my wife. That was the last time I was on a horse.”
Charles nodded. “Do you have children?”
“A boy, in his mid-twenties. He’s become a film director, in California.”
“My son is a hedge fund manager, in London. Both he and his sister took after their mother. They seemed to regard me as an unpleasant, visiting stranger.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I was that.”
“Peter and I have a wonderful relationship. I don’t see him often enough, since we’re on opposite coasts.”
Charles rode him past the row of cottages where some of the staff lived. “I’ve made that one my own,” Charles said, pointing at a larger one set apart from the others in a grove of trees.
“What’s the larger house over near the road?” Stone asked, pointing.
“That’s the dower house, set apart for the widow of the lord of the manor. It’s not included in the sale.”
They rode on to the airfield, and Charles led him into a hangar with a gambrel roof and shingle siding. “What airplane do you fly?”
“A Citation CJ3 Plus.”
“What’s her wingspan?”
“Fifty-seven feet.”
“Height of the tail?”
“Sixteen feet, I think.”
“She’ll be all right in here. There’s a fuel truck out back that holds fifteen hundred gallons. Stan drives it over to the distributor and fills it, as needed. I get a wholesale price. I recently sold my King Air—can’t pass the physical anymore. I managed to get a GPS approach
authorized, which is useful, given the English weather.”
“A very good idea.”
“There are two fairly large airports, Southampton to the east and Bournemouth to the west, should you need repairs. There’s a Citation Service Center in Doncaster, and they have one of those big trucks that makes house calls. They replaced an engine for me here, once, after Cessna bought Beechcraft and took over their servicing.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I want you to know that all my people on the estate, both in the house and out, are first-rate. The most recent hire was ten years ago.”
“I’ll try to take good care of them. I like having horses about, too.”
“They’re good stock. Ride them as often as you can. The girl groom exercises them daily. The old mare still has a few good years left in her, though I wouldn’t run her much. The others are in prime condition. I’ve always held a gymkhana here in the autumn, to benefit the local SPCA, who do all the work of running it. Continuing it would stand you in good stead with the neighbors.”
“I will do so.”
They rode back to Charles’s cottage, which Stone found well-furnished with his things. They had a meat pie and a salad and shared half a bottle of wine.
“How are you feeling these days?” Stone asked.
“Surprisingly well, as long as I don’t exert myself too much. I’ve been offered a heart transplant, but I’ll be eighty this year, so what’s the point? I don’t want to spend months in bed and more months in rehabilitation. I’ve had a good run and a fine life, and I don’t want to spend my last years as a sick old man.”
“I don’t blame you. I hope you outlive your doctor’s prediction. They’re not always right, you know.”
Charles smiled a little. “We shall see.” He walked Stone to his horse and saw him mounted, then handed him his reins. “Will you give him back to the stables for me?”
“Of course.”
“I see Susan Blackburn’s car at the house. You met her, I take it?”
“I did.”
“Fine figure of a woman. If I were a few years younger . . .”
“I’d like to go in and speak to her, if I may.”
“Go right ahead. I’ve got some work to do here. We’ll talk later.”
Stone rode back to the stables, gave the horses to the groom, and went to the house. He found Susan Blackburn in the drawing room, hanging pictures.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
He thought she looked very good in tight jeans and a sweater.
She read his mind. “You look pretty good in those riding pants, too.”
Stone laughed.
“Did you have a good ride with Charles?”
“I did. He’s doing all he can to help me acclimate.”
“An amazing man,” she said. “A wit like a carriage whip. He’s got a woman in the village, you know, thirty years younger. She’s his solicitor.”
“I suppose I’ll meet her when we complete the sale.”
“No, that would be with his London solicitor. Elizabeth handles his village business, mostly as an excuse to see each other. He’s giving her the dower house, you know.”
“We saw the house from a distance. He didn’t mention Elizabeth.”
“Oh, you’ll meet her. They’re an item around here. Have been for years. He was seeing her before his wife died, some years back. I don’t think they had much of a marriage—too different. He moved into the cottage years ago.”
“He thinks well of you,” Stone said. “He’s your admirer.”
“Oh, I’ve seen that look in his eye.”
“Are you taken?”
“I’ve been taken in my time,” she said, laughing, “but at the moment I’m a free woman.”
“I’ve got to go up to London in a day or two. May we have dinner?”
“I’d like that.”
“May we go up and have another look at the master suite?”
“Of course. I can hang these pictures later. I’ve got some fabric samples to show you.”
He followed her up the stairs, watching her ass all the way.
4
Susan showed him a swatch of antiqued leather. “I thought this for the sofa that was in the room.”
“I like it,” Stone said.
“The late Lady Bourne had turned this into a nest of Victorian frilliness, which made my skin crawl. I think, in view of the gender of the new owner, something a little more masculine would be better.”
“I agree.” Stone was standing next to a window, and something outside caught his eye. He squinted and saw a man in some sort of tattered cowl crossing the lawn, carrying a heavy staff. “Who do you suppose that is?” he asked Susan.
“Oh, that’s just Wilfred, the hermit. He lives in a little hut in the woods that Charles built for him.”
“A hermit?”
“A lot of the big estates had them in the past. It’s supposed to be good luck to have a hermit living on the property. He doesn’t bother anyone, and no one bothers him. I think he stops at the kitchen for food on a regular basis, though. Don’t worry, he’s harmless.”
“If you say so,” Stone said. “I’ll look for him on the list of furnishings being conveyed.”
“Speaking of furnishings, Charles has a rather nice art collection that I assume will come with the house. It’s mostly middling stuff, chosen because Charles liked them, not for investment purposes. He does have a middling Constable, though—one of his many renderings of Salisbury Cathedral, and he has a very nice Turner. I’ve sent the best things out for cleaning and, in some cases, minor restoration. A lot of cigars have been smoked in this house over the decades, and smoke doesn’t do much for pictures.”
“Good.” Stone looked at his watch. “It’s time for me to make some calls to New York,” he said. “Will you excuse me for a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
Stone went into the dressing room, took out his iPhone, checked for a signal, and called the managing partner of Woodman & Weld, Bill Eggers.
“Are you back?” Eggers asked.
“Not yet. It’ll be another week or so.”
“Having fun?”
“Italy wasn’t much fun. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”
“Where are you now?”
“In Hampshire, in England. God help me, Bill, I’ve bought another house.”
“Good God.”
“I’m going to balance things out, though, by selling you my house in Washington, Connecticut.”
“I didn’t even know you had a house in Washington, Connecticut, but I like the village very much. So does my wife.”
“Run up there and have a look at it this weekend. Stay for a couple of nights. You’ll love it. Joan will send over the keys and the security code.”
“What the hell, all right. What do you want for it?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be cheap, for Washington, Connecticut. I’ll hold off listing it until I hear from you. In the meantime, will you call the London office and have them give me a bright young real estate lawyer to close this sale? Tell him to call me on my cell. I’m going up there in a day or two, and I’ll want to see him.”
“I’ll take care of that now.”
“See you next week sometime.” He hung up and called his broker, Ed.
“Good morning, Stone.”
“Good afternoon. I’m in England, and I’m buying a house, so I have to move some money to my London account at Coutts & Company.”
“How much do I have to shake loose?”
“Ten and a half million pounds, not dollars.”
“Good, the pound is down against the dollar right now.”
“I’ll leave it to you which stocks to unload. Try not to make me any capital gains, though.”
“All right, Stone, I’ll get right on it. I’ll want a written confirmation for this big a transfer, though.”
“Will a handwritten note do?”
“That will be fine.”
“Hang on a minute.” He covered the phone and yelled, “Susan?”
“Yes?”
“Is there a working fax machine in the house?”
“Yes, down in the property manager’s office.”
“Okay, Ed, you’ll have it in a few minutes. Start selling.”
“Will do.”
They both hung up, and Stone called Joan.
“Are you still in Rome?”
“No, now I’m in England for a week or so.”
Joan sighed. “I suppose you’re buying another house.”
“How did you guess?”
“Oh, God, you don’t mean it!”
“I’m afraid so. Don’t worry, I’m going to sell the Washington, Connecticut, place to Bill Eggers.”
“Has he agreed to buy it?”
“Not yet, but wait until he sees it.”
“When are you coming home?”
“A week or so, don’t rush me. Oh, will you go up to my dressing room and overnight me a couple of tweed jackets and my riding clothes and boots? I’m wearing borrowed clothes, and they stink of tobacco. Send them to the Connaught, in London. Mark the package ‘Hold for arrival.’”
“Anything else?”
“Include another evening shirt and a couple of turtleneck sweaters, please.”
“Right.”
“See you next week, maybe late next week.”
“Bye-bye.”
He rejoined Susan. “Where will I find the fax machine?”
“I’ll take you down and introduce you to Major Bugg.”
“He’s the property manager?”
“Oh, yes, very much so. He’s ex–Royal Marines.”
Stone took the elevator down to the lower level of the house with her. “This is newly installed,” she said.
“Good idea.”
Major Bugg didn’t snap to attention, but he did rise from his desk. He seemed in his mid-fifties, cropped gray hair, military mustache, three-piece tweed suit, gold watch chain. Susan introduced them.
