Mr Percy proceeded to go through the titles in front of him – the Descourtilz and the Besler, the Goulds and the Redoutés; books about wild flowers and humming-birds, roses and lilacs. As he named each one he wrote down the information relayed to him over the phone in a spidery hand that was too far away from Kit for him to see. Finally he laid down the pen, thanked Stephen for his efforts, replaced the handset and sat back in the chair. He reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
“Oh dear.”
Kit could no longer retain his curiosity. “What’s the verdict?”
“Well, Mr Lavery, I’m afraid we really can’t buy these books from you.”
“I see.” Kit was disappointed. He had hoped that the ones with the fine illustrations might be worth a few thousand at least and go some way towards defraying the costs of the inheritance tax.
“I think you’d better sit down.”
Kit perched on the end of the bed.
“We couldn’t possibly afford them.”
“I’m sorry?
“I’ll be happy to take most of the others from you,” he waved an arm airily in the direction of the shelves, “but these,” he tapped his hand respectfully on the top of the pile, “will have to go to auction.”
Kit sat perfectly still as Mr Percy recited the list of books and their values. “Descourtilz’ Oiseaux remarquables du Brésil, when last sold at auction, fetched £270,000. Besler’s Hortus Eystettensis fetched £130,000 five years ago. The Redoutés are worth around £250,000 each and the Gould humming-birds approximately £75,000 apiece. You also have a copy of Seba’s Locupletissimi rerum naturalium thesauri accurata descriptio from the middle of the eighteenth century.” Mr Percy paused so that the significance of the last find sank in. “Three years ago a copy fetched £300,000. The total value of this little pile here is around the million and a half mark.” He looked wistfully at the tower of leatherbound books in front of him. “There are times, Mr Lavery, when I wish I were dishonest. But thank you, anyway, for letting me see them.”
Kit did not hear the last words. He was deep in shock.
Jinty arrived back at Baddesley Court at lunchtime on Monday, to find the house deserted except for Mrs Flanders, who was busily engaged in cleaning a pair of silver candlesticks, her wisps of grey candy-floss hair swirling around her ruddy cheeks like the tendrils of a creeper on a country house. She seemed almost too breathless to hold a conversation, so Jinty climbed the stairs to her room and dumped her overnight bag on the bed.
The three-day escape, which should have done her good, had left her feeling uneasy and alone.
She walked to the window and sat in the chair beside it, looking out over Baddesley’s lightly wooded pasture and parkland, brindled with the shadows of elderly oak trees cast by a soaring spring sun. The Devon countryside was beginning to wake up; buds were breaking, grass was greening, there were sturdy young lambs now where only a few weeks ago lumbering fat-bellied ewes were awaiting the arrival of their families.
She felt a mixture of independence and anger, irritation and eagerness to get on. She must take charge of her own destiny. She was tired of waiting for men to influence her life, tired of marking time, hoping and waiting.
With a sharp intake of breath she got up from the chair, struggled into a pair of jeans, threw a fleece around her shoulders, went down the stairs and out of the front door of the house. It took several minutes to persuade Sally to tack up Seltzer, but Sally knew of old that when Jinty’s mind was set on something she generally had her way. She gave her employer’s niece a leg up into the saddle and watched as Jinty walked the horse out of the stableyard and down the long gravel drive.
Where she thought she was going in that state and on that horse was clearly not something that Sally was to be told. She just hoped to God that, for the sake of her friend and her job, Jinty would not come to grief riding a horse like Seltzer with just one hand.
Kit caught up with Jess between the Wilderness and the Spinney, overlooking Tallacombe Bay. He was out of breath by the time he found her – guided by the noise – and surprised to discover her wielding a chain-saw and clad in boots, protective dungarees and an orange helmet with a visor and earmuffs.
She switched off the machine, took off the helmet and greeted him with a flicker of a smile.
Kit looked about him. “Some scene of destruction.”
“Not for long. Just a bit of thinning. I’ll stack the logs for the beetles.”
“Is there no form of wildlife that we don’t look after here?”
“Nope. All catered for.”
“I’ve just had the bookseller over from Totnes.”
She looked at him with her head on one side. “Oh?”
“I hoped that some of Dad’s books might help fund the inheritance tax.”
“And?”
“I think you’d better sit down.”
“Among all this lot?” She looked at the devastation around her.
“Yes. Well. The thing is, I think those books we looked at the other night are going to have to go.”
“Of course they are.”
Kit looked at her quizzically. This was not the reply he’d expected.
“You’re not upset?”
“How could I be?”
“But I thought you loved them.”
“I do, but you also showed me your father’s letter.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“He said you’d have to sell them.”
Kit frowned. “Hang on. How do you make that out? I’ve read that letter several times and nowhere does he tell me to sell the books.”
Jess shook her head. “You’re so obvious, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” He looked crestfallen.
“He said, ‘The books might be of help’.”
“Yes, but he didn’t say they were worth one and a half million pounds.”
Jess whistled and sat down on the pile of logs.
Kit’s face bore the signs of sudden enlightenment. “Good God . . . the auction catalogue!”
“Sorry?”
“An auction catalogue of books arrived, addressed to me. I thought it was a mistake, that it should have been for Dad, but he clearly wanted it sent to me. I didn’t see it for what it was. I thought that the note in his letter meant that I might need to read them, to get the advice I’d need to keep this place going, not that I’d have to sell them.”
“ ‘There is no truth, only points of view’.”
“What?”
“Edith Sitwell. It was one of your dad’s favourite sayings. He used to quote it at me whenever I got too bolshy about the likes of Titus Ormonroyd and the Billings-Gores. Made sure I could always see someone else’s angle.” She hesitated, then asked, “Are you really sure you want to be here?”
For a moment he remained silent, then, looking at her quite coolly, he said, “More than anything.”
“Do you know why?”
“Yes.” And then, quite clearly and calmly, “Because I love you.”
Jess looked startled.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m glad.”
“You look like an Amazon.”
“Thank you very much.”
He walked slowly towards her, took the chain-saw from her hand and lowered it to the ground. Then he wrapped both arms around her and held her close to him. Neither of them said a word, but she felt his hand cradling the back of her head and she could hear his heart beating through the thickness of his sweater. They stood like this for some minutes, Jess convinced that her feet were no longer touching the ground, and then he eased away from her, stroked her cheek with his finger and said, “I’ll leave you to your destruction.” And then, almost as a second thought, “Have you seen Elizabeth? I haven’t told her yet, and I want to let her know she’s stuck with me.”
“She wasn’t in her room when I left this morning. I think she must have beaten me to it. She was working in the Copse y
esterday. Probably over there now.”
“You’re quite independent, you two, aren’t you?”
Jess frowned. “Mmm. We get on better at a distance. She means well, though. Good egg.”
“Funny thing to say. You got that from . . .”
She nodded. “Your dad. Very public school. Shouldn’t use it, really.”
“It suits you.”
She replaced her helmet and visor, started up the chain-saw and laid into another stump. For the rest of the afternoon she could not stop smiling.
Kit walked across the cliff towards the Copse but paused to turn back and watch her flaying the undergrowth. It slowly dawned on him why he had come to love Jess Wetherby so much. Right from the start of her life she had been given little love, few chances and no encouragement, but she had picked up her metaphorical chain-saw and carved her way through the woods. She was a survivor. And a good egg. And he wanted more than anything to spend the rest of his life with her.
Chapter 32: Wish-me-well
(Veronica chamaedrys)
For a moment it seemed like déjà vu. He was walking along the cliff-top, with the sea below him and the woods to his right, and a grey horse was coming towards him. He stood still, waiting for horse and rider to approach, wondering what to say if they did, but instead they took a lower path down to the beach. Had she seen him and avoided him?
He watched as they picked their way down the cliff-path and on to the flat, fresh-washed sand, then caught his breath as the rider, with one arm in a sling, kicked the horse into a gallop. The pair flew across the sand, following the curve of the tide-line, the girl holding the reins with one hand, while the other rested across her chest. He could hear the distant thump of hoofs, see the divots of damp sand flung up into the air to land and shatter on the shore. He watched as the receding figure, fair hair close-cropped, disappeared out of sight.
He sat on the soft turf of the cliff-top and looked out to sea as the wistful feelings of regret were washed away by the tide. But there came, also, a feeling that soon he must see Jinty and explain.
The truth of the matter was that Jinty had not seen him. Her confusion and the dullness of his sweater had offered perfect camouflage. She slowed Seltzer to a walk as the strip of sand narrowed, and picked her way up the lower cliff-path with extra care, remembering her last outing on Allardyce.
As always, the exhilaration of the ride had cleared her head. She would return to Baddesley and sort herself out. Get this life of hers on the move again.
When she arrived in the stableyard, Sally helped her down from the saddle with relief. “Thanks. And I’m sorry if I made you worry,” Jinty said.
Sally shook her head.
“I know. But it helped.”
Roly greeted her at the door, on his way out to a meeting in town. “You look . . . ah . . . refreshed.”
“I feel it.” She pecked him on the cheek.
“See you at supper?”
“Not sure. Think I’m going out. Speak later.”
He turned to watch her climb the stairs, then frowned. Something about her had changed. He didn’t know what, but it made him uneasy. With furrowed brow he climbed into the car and drove off in the direction of his meeting. By the time he returned, perhaps Jinty would be back to normal.
There was no sign of Elizabeth at the Copse, so Kit walked on to the farmhouse. She was not there either. Puzzled, he walked round to the barn and climbed the stairs. The outer door was locked. He fished underneath the old milk churn for the key that was kept there, unlocked the door and entered, calling ‘Hello’ as he did so. No reply.
Remembering his last visit, he walked gingerly down the corridor and tapped on Elizabeth’s door. Still no reply. He tried the handle. It turned and the door opened. The room was empty. The bed was made but there was little sign of occupation. He had not visited Elizabeth’s room before, and was surprised at the bareness of the shelves and surfaces. He walked to the wardrobe and opened the doors. Empty. No clothes, nothing. It was as if no one had ever lived there. He was baffled. He retraced his steps, locked the outer door and returned the key to its hiding place. At the top of the steps he noticed a bucket of scraps for the pig. He picked them up, and ambled over to Wilson’s sty. He tipped the vegetable mixture into the old sow’s trough and watched as she devoured the multicoloured mixture of carrots and cabbage, potatoes and cauliflower.
“What do you make of it all, then?” he asked.
“Kit?”
He spun round on his heels. Elizabeth was standing to one side of the pig-sty.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.”
“No. It’s fine. It’s just that every time I speak to Wilson she seems to answer in a different voice.”
Elizabeth ignored the joke. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”
Kit thought he had misheard her. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m leaving West Yarmouth.”
“What? Why? I mean, I thought that you were . . .”
“I’ve written you a letter.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her dark green gilet. “I’m afraid I need to go. The letter will explain everything.”
Suddenly Kit felt angry. “But you can’t go. It was you who persuaded me to stay – you and Jess. How can you go now?”
He remembered that he had not told Elizabeth of his plans. “I’m not selling up. I’ve decided to stay, make a go of it.”
“I know.”
He stared at her.
“Arthur Maidment told me.”
“Oh, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to hear it from somebody else but until I’d talked with Maidment I really didn’t know what I wanted to do myself . . . and since then I’ve just not seen you to –”
“Kit, I’m not angry with you for that. It’s something quite different. The letter will explain it.”
“But can’t you tell me yourself?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I lack the courage.” She smiled at him – a worried, haunted smile.
“But I don’t understand. Surely nothing could stop you wanting to work here after all the years you’ve been a part of it? And Dad . . .”
Elizabeth looked down. “No. But there we are.” She looked up again and said, briskly, “I must go. Taxi waiting.”
Kit could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But –”
“Don’t think too badly of me. I thought it was all for the best. And please take care of everything. Both of you.” And with that she walked around the back of the pig-sty and disappeared.
Kit stood rooted to the spot, hardly able to believe what had happened over the past few minutes. He looked at the letter in his hand, addressed simply to ‘Kit’, then pushed his finger along the sealed edge and tore open the envelope. He pulled out the neatly folded writing-paper, leaned on the wall of the sty and read:
Dear Kit,
I’m so sorry to have to do this, but I must regretfully leave West Yarmouth. I know that I have been responsible, more than most, for persuading you to stay here and continue your father’s work, so it may seem perverse that now you have decided to do so I should ‘throw in the towel’, as it were, and leave.
My reason for going has nothing to do with a fit of pique or unhappiness at your arrival and impending management of the reserve. I have watched you grow since you arrived and have every confidence that you will be every bit as successful as your father with this wonderful piece of countryside. I hope that does not sound too patronising. I certainly do not intend it to.
I am leaving because, in all conscience, I can no longer face you, knowing the events of the past few months.
Kit felt a rising sense of fear.
We spoke, once or twice, about your father, and about the events surrounding his death. I explained to you, as best I could, the events of that dreadful day, but I am afraid that I found it impossible to be perfectly frank with you and for that I have had a very troubled conscience.
The time
has come when I am no longer able to live with this burden, certainly not working alongside both you and Jess on the reserve. Some people are able to close off parts of their mind and pretend that certain things have not happened. I am unable to do this. I have always tried to live my life honestly and straightforwardly, and it is to this end that I write this letter.
I am not aware of how much Dr Hastings has confided in you, so please forgive me if I tell you things that you do not know, which perhaps would have been better coming from him. He was a good friend of your father’s and thought a lot of him, which would explain his reticence.
You father was diagnosed last year as suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. One evening at supper he became rather more frank than usual and confided in me as to the nature of his medical problem.
This is the most difficult thing to have to relate, and I do so apologise for not doing it face to face. Your father confessed to me that, if the future could offer only a life in some institution where he would steadily go more ga-ga, he would prefer to take things into his own hands. My horror at the prospect, and my explanation that I would be quite prepared to see that he never left West Yarmouth, did nothing to change his mind and he reiterated his belief in voluntary euthanasia as being part of the ‘survival of the fittest’ and ‘natural selection’.
However, he never brought up the subject again, and I thought that perhaps he had had a change of heart and that the relatively slow onset of the disease might alter his thoughts on the matter.
Then came the accident. I found your father at the foot of the cliff, as I explained. What I did not admit to you, and indeed have not been able to admit to anyone else, is that when I found him he was still alive. He was unconscious but still breathing.
I am so sorry to have to tell you, Kit, that I sat with your father for over an hour until he stopped breathing and was clearly dead. Only then did I call the ambulance. I did this quite simply to avoid the suffering that your father so feared. I was hopeful that when I found him he was in no pain, and although I would have given anything not to lose him I found that, when the moment came, I had to go along with his desire to die.
Animal Instincts Page 23
