Inherit the Skies

by Janet Tanner

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

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  Contents

  Janet Tanner

  Dedication

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Book Two

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Dedication

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Book Three

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Book Four

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Book Five

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Book Six

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Janet Tanner

  Inherit the Skies

  Janet Tanner is a prolific and well-loved author and has twice been shortlisted for RNA awards. Many of her novels are multi-generational sagas, and some – in particular the Hillsbridge Quartet – are based on her own working class background in a Somerset mining community. More recently, she has been writing historical and well-received Gothic novels for Severn House – a reviewer for Booklist, a trade publication in the United States, calls her “ a master of the Gothic genre”.

  Besides publication in the UK and US, Janet’s books have also been translated into dozens of languages and published all over the world. Before turning to novels she was a prolific writer of short stories and serials, with hundreds of stories appearing in various magazines and publications worldwide.

  Janet Tanner lives in Radstock, Somerset.

  Dedication

  To Terry with all my love

  Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world

  is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what

  virtue there is.

  Desiderata

  Chapter One

  Something has to be done.

  The thought repeated itself over and over in Sarah Bailey’s head with the insistence of a primeval religious chant as the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud accelerated smoothly through the bends of the Somerset lanes; seemed even to be echoed by the swish of the tyres and the soft purr of the engine as Reakes, her chauffeur for more than twenty years, drove swiftly along the familiar road home.

  Something has to be done. But what … what …?

  Beside her on the beige leather seat her briefcase lay unopened, further evidence of Sarah’s preoccupation this March afternoon. Usually after the monthly board meeting of Morse Bailey Aero International she was only too anxious to get to grips with the sheafs of papers, peppered with her own notes, which kept her in touch with the company that was still her life’s blood even though she no longer played the same active part in its running that she had once done.

  Today however the sheafs of papers lay neglected while Sarah sat motionless, staring unseeingly out of the smoked glass windows of the Rolls-Royce as the hedges, still winter brown above the lushness of the green fields, flashed past. No amount of perusal of columns of figures could alter the disturbing facts that she had learned at today’s meeting; the answer, if there was one, lay not in the black and white outpourings of computers and typewriters, but within herself.

  Sarah gave her head a small impatient shake then raised a hand to smooth her soft silver curls back into place. Wasn’t that the way she preferred it – the way she had always preferred it? Self-reliance, not dependence on others – and particularly not on mere machines, wonderful though they may be. If for a moment the problem seemed insoluble that was only because she had not applied herself to it sufficiently. She could not allow herself to be beaten. There was too much at stake. Everything her husband – and her father – had worked for. The very identity of Morse Bailey.

  The Rolls swept around a bend in the gently sloping lane and as the house came into sight Sarah felt a familiar leap of comforting warmth. Chewton Leigh House. The sight of it never failed to lift her spirits. It had been her home now for more than thirty years and a haven for much longer than that and she loved every weathered grey stone of its imposing Queen Anne façade, every tendril of creeper which, clung to the walls on the east side, every arch and timber.

  To the side of the house some of the park had been fenced to allow a small herd of deer to graze and breed, behind it, hidden from the house by a copse, were the calm waters of a lake where moorhens and ducks sailed tranquilly and fish darted in the cool green depths. When she was nine years old Sarah had thought it a magic place, the most wonderful house in the world, and nothing that had happened in the intervening years had made her love it one jot less. On the contrary, with all her happiest memories contained like sweet ghosts within its walls it was the one place where she could feel truly content.

  Now as the Rolls slowed to turn into the gravelled drive Sarah was seized with impatience for the tranquillity the house could offer. Already the raised angry voices and the tensions of the boardroom were beginning to recede in her senses. The problems were still there, yes. The battle she had still to fight was as daunting as ever. Yet Sarah felt that once ensconced in Chewton Leigh House nothing would seem so bad and its peace would enable her to recharge her batteries for the struggles ahead.

  The Rolls drew up at the foot of the short flight of stone steps which led to the front door and Reakes came around to assist her out of the car. From long habit she allowed him to place his hand beneath her elbow and smothered the stab of irritation she could never help feeling at his solicitude. He was afraid of course that after the drive the arthritic knee that troubled her from time to time might have seized up and she would stumble. She accepted that whilst hating the one evidence of infirmity. At seventy-three years old Sarah was proud of her robust good health and she was keen to point out to anyone who assumed her slight stiffness was as a result of her age that in fact the troublesome knee was the legacy of a riding accident.

  She straightened now with a swift impatient movement and drew her cream cashmere coat closely around her slender frame. After the warmth of the Rolls the March wind cutting across the valley was bone-chilling. Chewton Leigh House would be warm as well as wel
coming. It was one comfort Sarah insisted upon.

  A smile touched her lips as she remembered the way it used to be in the old days – roaring fires in every room and the corners and corridors as cold as charity. It used to be scorched faces and knees in the drawing-room, shivers in the bathroom, she recalled. And without warning her memory was slipping back further still – to a bedroom where the only sensible thing to do was to undress as quickly as possible and slip between icy sheets warmed in one spot by the round stone hot water bottle; a cold nose peeping out above the covers; cold linoleum between her toes when it was time to get up again; intricate frosted patterns on the window – the very thought of it sent a shiver prickling across her shoulders now.

  The central heating she had installed at Chewton Leigh House ensured that Sarah would never be cold again. Sheila, her daughter, was invariably critical about it when she came to visit. ‘Good heavens, Mummy, this entire place is like a hothouse! Surely you don’t need every room heated, living alone? It’s such a waste!’ To which Sarah replied, with slight tartness, that she would spend her money any way she chose – and being warm was one of them. She had no need to penny-pinch these days after all and Sheila did not feel the cold as she did. Sheila was country through and through; she gained her warmth from the body heat of a horse as she mucked out stables or cantered across a frosty meadow. Sarah could scarcely ever remember seeing her shiver even as a child. Well, give her time.…

  Reakes opened the front door for her and as the warmth came out to meet her Sarah was once again glad that she was not possessed of Sheila’s frugal nature. Odd, really, that a girl brought up to want for nothing as Sheila had been should be so … yes, admit it, mean. But then, it’s probably that she wants her share of my personal fortune for her beloved horses, Sarah thought with a smile. If I have diminished it by keeping every corner of my house warm there will be less for hay and oats, liniment and vet’s bills and stud fees. But there was no malice in the thought. Sarah was very fond of Sheila in spite of the fact that there was very little common ground between mother and daughter.

  But then what do I have in common with any of my children? Sarah wondered. I bore them and gave them life yet they might almost be a brood of aliens, so different are they.

  The thought somehow triggered once more the great core of unease within her, and Sarah’s attitude returned full circle to the situation which had been presented to her at this afternoon’s board meeting. Not that it had been either of her own sons who had put the suggestion up, though Roderick was playing a bigger and bigger part in the running of the company these days and Miles too had at last been-persuaded out of the testing sheds into the boardroom for the once-monthly meeting at least. No, it had been Guy Bailey, revelling in his position as Managing Director, who had presented her with a virtual fait accompli of which he must have known she would never approve. But could Sarah count on her own sons for support? Each of them would have their own reason for going along with Guy. And as things stood even if she could persuade one of them to her point of view it would not be enough.

  Sarah frowned and crow’s-feet deepened the web of tiny lines around still-beautiful blue eyes as the insistent chant repeated itself once more inside her head. Something has to be done. But then she was aware of a treacherous floe of regret: why now? Why should I have to be fighting again now just when I thought I could relax a little. Sometimes it seems my life has been one long battle and I am tired, so tired.…

  She crossed the hall, the heels of her smart town shoes clattering on the polished floor as she skirted from habit the exquisite Aubusson rug in muted pinks and blues which lay in the centre like a patch of spring flowers in a winter-dulled garden. Often she paused in the hall to drink in the essence of the house, in some ways unchanged from the time she had first known it, yet in a thousand other ways her own creation. The George Jack chest stood at the foot of the sweeping staircase as it had always done but now it was brightened by a vase of flowers – daffodils today – lending a splash of colour to an otherwise dark corner, the walls were hung with the precious tapestries she had discovered gathering dust in an attic room and a heavy gilt-framed mirror. A grandmother clock in a hand-crafted case of dark oak now filled the once-echoing silence with a gentle and comfortable ticking and on the refectory table one of Sarah’s favourite pieces, a graceful T’ang horse, arched his thoroughbred’s neck proudly.

  Today however she passed him by without a second glance, making straight for the study. Once the study had been a retreat of Gilbert Morse, whose foresight, business flair and money had been the foundation of Morse Bailey, and it was one of the few rooms in the house which Sarah had left virtually unchanged. There was so much essence of Gilbert here and she could not have borne to remove the stamp of his powerful personality. The bookshelves that lined the walls were still full of the books he had loved, the antique swivel chair, upholstered in soft dark green leather, was the same one where he had sat to ponder problems in the early days, the heavy oak desk bore the scars of a cigar which had sometimes rolled unheeded from the ashtray onto its polished surface. Flowers graced the desk now – a small crystal vase of snowdrops – and the ashtray was empty and sparklingly clean, but Gilbert’s leather tooled blotter still occupied pride of place and his collection of antique maps still decorated the pale cream walls.

  One picture dominated the room – a water colour in a frame of light oak and gilt. It portrayed an aeroplane – a quaint unstable construction with an open fuselage and intricate framework of white wood and piano wire – a monstrous kite on bicycle wheels which would surely never fly. But the artist commissioned by Gilbert had painted those wheels rising above the green meadow grass and the portrayal had been neither mere wishful thinking nor artistic licence. For this was MB1 or ‘The Eagle’ as the family had affectionately named it, the very first of the Morse Bailey aeroplanes and forerunner of a string of aircraft whose reputation had spread around the world.

  Chewton Leigh – 1909 read the inscription but it might have been just yesterday, Sarah thought as the memories crowded in. She shrugged out of her coat, dropped it carelessly on the leather swivel chair and crossed to look more closely, as she so often did, at the painting.

  Designed and flown by her own beloved Adam, paid for by Gilbert’s money and foresight, the aeroplane in the picture epitomised all she was fighting for, and looking at it now only served to strengthen her resolve. Whatever happened she could not allow all this history, all these dreams and hard won achievements, to fall into the hands of the one person who had once come close to destroying it. Something had to be done. And there was no-one but her to do it.

  ‘Granny! I thought I heard you come in!’ The voice was light, bright and brimming with youth, and Sarah, her reverie shattered, swung round, a smile of surprise curving her lips.

  ‘Kirsty, my dear, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Well I’ve come to see you, of course! Only I’d forgotten it was the day for your silly meeting so I’ve had to while away the afternoon in the kitchen chatting with Grace.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, I hope you haven’t been interrupting her!’ Sarah said anxiously. ‘I’m having a dinner party this evening so she has a great deal extra to do.’

  ‘Granny! You know perfectly well Grace is more than capable of producing a banquet fit for royalty and chattering nineteen to the dozen at the same time. She’s had a lifetime’s practice at it. No, I’m the one likely to suffer. She’s been feeding me all the delicious bits and bobs plus some freshly made scones and cream and I shall soon be as fat as a house.’

  She came into the room to kiss her grandmother, a slender pretty girl in an oversized man’s sweater and tight fitting denim jeans, and Sarah was unable to suppress a smile of amusement. Kirsty – fat? Never! She had always been thin – too thin, Sarah had thought – as a child and now, in the ridiculous uniform which young people who were also students seemed to adopt she looked small and waif-like.

  ‘Let’s go into the drawing-r
oom and make ourselves comfortable, shall we?’ Sarah suggested. ‘If Grace knows I’m home she will probably be bringing in a pot of tea at any moment and we don’t want it to get cold. Besides, a nice cup of tea is exactly what I could do with after an afternoon spent listening to Guy and the others all trying to outdo one another.’

  ‘Guy!’ Kirsty snorted, her tone expressing more eloquently than any words her distaste for the man who now headed the board of Morse Bailey, and Sarah smiled, a little grimly.

  Her own feelings exactly. Guy had a good head for business, he was decisive and generally far-seeing and he gave the impression of being altruistic. He could be charming, if a little pompous, and he commanded respect among employees and competitors alike. But Sarah had long suspected he could also be ruthless and venal where his ambitions were concerned and this afternoon’s meeting had only confirmed this. But then of course he was very much Alicia’s son. With a mother like that it was only surprising he was not a great deal worse.…

  At the very thought of Alicia it was as if the door had slammed shut inside Sarah. Perhaps later she would have to think of Alicia. With things the way they were after this afternoon’s board meeting there might very well be no alternative. But for the moment she was unwilling to let business worries mar Kirsty’s visit. The time she could spend with her granddaughter now was all too short – and much too precious. The golden days of Kirsty’s childhood when the family had teased her for practically living at Chewton Leigh House were gone now and when she graduated, found a job, married, perhaps moved away from the area, she would have less and less time for visiting however good her intentions. Knowing this saddened Sarah and filled her with a sense of urgency and determination to make the most of every moment.

  ‘Let’s not talk about the business,’ she said now gaily. ‘ I want to hear all your news, Kirsty. How is college?’

  ‘Oh fine. Though how anyone can believe an art degree is a soft option, I can’t imagine. I’m permanently snowed under by work. But at least I’m lucky enough to be doing what I want to do and I know I have you to thank for that. I don’t believe Mummy and Daddy would ever have let me go to art school if you hadn’t persuaded them. I think they saw it as a den of deepest iniquity.’