by Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw, Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray, Pam Weaver
Outside the house the overcast January day was bitterly cold with a keen north-east wind; inside, the huge fires burning in the basket grates of the dining room and drawing room where the hundred or so guests were assembled made the heat suffocating, at least in Angeline’s opinion. All she wanted was some fresh air, or to get into a room that wasn’t full of people. Nevertheless, she did her duty. She chatted here and there, accepted the words of condolence from this person and that, and behaved with the decorum her mother would have expected.
Finally, as the magnificent grandfather clock in the hall chimed four o’clock, the last of the company made their goodbyes and stepped into the snowy night. All, that is, but Mr Appleby, her father’s solicitor. Before this day Angeline had only known him as a friend and dinner guest of her parents, and on those occasions she had loved to sit and listen when her father and Mr Appleby had engaged in sometimes heated debates about social inequality and the like. These had usually finished with Mr Appleby calling her father a Socialist at heart – something her father hadn’t minded in the least.
Angeline had always thought Mr Appleby’s name suited him very well. Small and fat, with rosy red cheeks and twinkling brown eyes, she imagined that if an apple could take human form it would be exactly like the solicitor. Now, though, his eyes were full of sympathy when he said, ‘Your uncle wishes me to acquaint you with the details of the will, Angeline’, and he glanced at Hector, who was standing to the side of her.
‘Now?’ She asked the question of her uncle. He nodded.
‘It is customary on the day of interment,’ he said briefly.
Angeline didn’t care if it was customary or not. She didn’t want to think about the will – not today. All she wanted was to curl up by herself in front of the fire in her bedroom and cry. ‘Can’t it wait, Uncle Hector? I’d like to rest before dinner.’
If her uncle noticed the break in her voice, he ignored it. ‘You have to understand the situation in which you find yourself, Angeline, and hear your father’s instructions. It will pave the way for the arrangements that need to be made.’
She stared at him. Something told her that she wouldn’t like these arrangements. ‘Do you know what the will says?’
‘Partly. Your father made me your guardian, in the event of something happening to him and your mother. This was a long time ago, just after you were born. Now, please, come along to the study, where Mr Appleby has the papers ready.’
It was a moment before she followed her uncle, Mr Appleby making up the rear. Angeline’s head was whirling. It was stupid, but she hadn’t thought about anyone being her guardian. She’d imagined that, once the funeral was over and her uncle and Miss Robson returned to their own homes, things would get back to normal.
Well, not normal, she corrected herself in the next moment. Things would never be normal again. How could they be? But if she had thought about the future at all – which she had to admit she hadn’t really, not with her mother and father filling every waking second – she’d assumed that Miss Robson would resume coming to the house in the mornings, and Mrs Lee and the other servants would run Oakfield as they always had done.
The familiar smell of woodsmoke from the fire and the lingering aroma of the cigars her father had favoured made her bite her lip as she entered the book-lined study. It was perhaps her favourite room of the house. From a little girl, she had stretched out on the thick rug in front of the fire and played quietly with her dollies, or had drawn or read books while her father worked at his desk, and as she’d grown she’d brought her needlework or crocheting and had sat in one of the armchairs at an angle to the fireplace. Her father was away so much in the town dealing with the business, and when he was home she liked to be with him, if she could. She had known that he liked having her there, albeit as a silent presence. Why had she never realized just how wonderful life was, before the accident? She’d taken it for granted, and now she couldn’t tell them they’d been the best parents in the world and she loved them so much.
George Appleby walked over to her father’s desk and sat down, as she and her uncle seated themselves in the two chairs that had been drawn close to it. He said nothing for a moment, his gaze on Angeline’s face. He felt he knew what she was thinking, for her tear-filled eyes spoke for her, and his shock and sorrow at his dear friend’s untimely death were compounded by his anxiety and concern for this young girl. Philip and Margery had been devoted to her of course, but in that devotion had come a desire to keep Angeline wrapped in cotton wool.
It was understandable – oh, indeed. He mentally nodded at the thought. They had been over the moon when they’d discovered Margery was expecting a baby, and when Angeline had been born, and her such a bonny and happy child, you’d have thought she was the most gifted and perfect being in all creation. And any parent wants to protect their child, if they’re worth their salt. But Philip and Margery’s decision to keep the girl in what amounted to a state of seclusion didn’t bode well now – or for the future. She was the most innocent of lambs.
Hector Stewart cleared his throat, and George’s gaze turned to him. As much as he had liked and respected Philip, he disliked his brother. The man was weak and ineffectual and uppish into the bargain, but he had always held his tongue about Hector, because Philip wouldn’t hear a word against him. Which was commendable, he supposed, but sometimes not seeing the flaws in someone you loved could have far-reaching consequences. There were constant rumours at the Gentlemen’s Club about Hector’s drinking and gambling, and if even half of them were true, the man was on the road to perdition. Eustace Preston had told him only last week that it was common knowledge Hector took himself off to Newcastle these days to certain gambling dens where fortunes were regularly won and lost. Mostly lost, he’d be bound. And this was the individual to whom Philip and Margery had entrusted their beloved daughter.
Hector cleared his throat again even more pointedly, and George put his thoughts behind him and picked up the document in front of him on the desk. Addressing himself to Angeline, he said gently, ‘This is the last will and testament of your parents, child. Do you understand what that means?’ When she nodded, he continued, ‘I will read it word for word in a moment, but essentially your parents left everything to you, which makes it simple. They appointed your uncle as your guardian, should they die before you reached the age of twenty-one and were unmarried. You will reside with him and have a personal monthly allowance, and your uncle will also have a sum of money each month for as long as you are in his care.’
Angeline stared at the solicitor. ‘Leave Oakfield? No, they would never have said that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ George had been dreading this meeting, and it was being every bit as bad as he’d feared. The girl looked even more bereft than before, if that were possible.
‘But why? Why would they want me to leave our home?’
‘Angeline, you are fifteen years old.’ Hector spoke firmly, but not unkindly. ‘You cannot run a home on your own – the very idea is ridiculous. There are bills to pay, daily decisions to make, servants to keep in order, and umpteen other things.’
‘The house runs itself under Mrs Lee, my mama always said so, and the servants don’t need keeping in order. They . . . they’re like family.’
Hector looked askance.
Realizing she’d said the wrong thing, Angeline swallowed hard. ‘Miss Robson could take up permanent residence,’ she said desperately. ‘That way I’m not alone here, am I? She would keep everything and everyone as it should be, and she could report directly to you. And I could still live here.’ Turning to the solicitor, she added, ‘There’s enough money for that, isn’t there, Mr Appleby?’
Without giving the solicitor a chance to respond, and with a thread of impatience in his voice, Hector said, ‘It’s not a question of money, Angeline. Your father stated his wishes very clearly, and what you are suggesting is quite ludicrous. You will come to live with me within the week. That is the end of the matter. My final word. Y
ou may bring anything you wish, of course, and Miss Robson has agreed to continue to give you your lessons each morning. This house will be sold forthwith, and the proceeds added to the trust.’
‘But Mrs Lee and Cook, and everyone?’
‘The servants will be given excellent references and three months’ wages in lieu of notice. The senior staff – the housekeeper, cook and butler – will receive six months’ wages. This is very generous, believe me.’ Her uncle’s tone made it clear that if this stipulation hadn’t been in the will, his treatment of the servants would have been very different. ‘Now, Mr Appleby has pointed out that you will need a personal maid, m’dear. Which is not necessary at present, in my bachelor abode.’
Hector smiled his thin smile, but Angeline was too distraught by the turn of events to respond. Oakfield sold? And the staff dismissed? Just like that? This was their home, too – couldn’t he see that?
‘Mr Appleby suggested you might wish to bring your current housemaid with you in that capacity.’ Hector’s sniff of disapproval indicated that he couldn’t for the life of him see why. A servant was a servant, after all. Now, if it had been a pet dog or cat . . . ‘But I thought a maid already trained in that respect would be more suitable.’
Feeling as though she was drowning, Angeline caught at the lifeline that the kindly solicitor had provided. ‘Myrtle attended to Mama when she had need of it,’ she said quickly, ‘and I would prefer her to a stranger.’
‘So be it. Now, Mr Appleby, perhaps you would be so good as to read the will?’
When the solicitor eventually finished speaking, only two things had really registered through Angeline’s turmoil. First, that she wouldn’t come into her inheritance until she was twenty-one or married – whichever came first. Second, that she was a very rich young woman. This Mr Appleby had impressed upon her, adding that it was why her father had wanted to see to it that she was under her uncle’s protection until she was mature enough to cope with such a responsibility.
‘Your father has tied the trust up in such a way that no monies – other than your allowance and the stipend paid to your uncle for as long as you reside with him – can be extracted. By you or anyone else.’ George Appleby’s gaze flicked to Hector for a moment. He wasn’t fooled by his blank countenance. Philip’s brother had expected a bequest of some kind, although George couldn’t see why. Philip had been amazingly generous to Hector when their father had died, setting him up in his own business and buying him a fine house and all. A different man would have been set up for life, but he rather suspected Hector was in trouble, despite his outward facade. Still, he’d make sure Hector didn’t get his hands on one penny more than the amount Philip had settled on him each month for Angeline’s keep.
Hector stared back at the solicitor. He was aware of George’s dislike of him – a feeling he fully reciprocated – and had always resented the high regard in which Philip had held the little man, and the influence the solicitor had had upon his brother. Take this will, for instance. Hector’s teeth clenched. He had no doubt Philip had left the mechanics of it to George Appleby, and the solicitor had been instrumental in determining that, even as Angeline’s guardian, he couldn’t use the trust money. Cocksure little runt.
George’s eyes returned to Angeline’s white face. ‘Your father’s main concern was to protect you, should the unthinkable happen. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Yes, she did, of course she did, but losing Oakfield was almost as bad as the loss of her parents. Her voice unsteady, she whispered, ‘Is there no way I can keep the house?’
‘I’m sorry, Angeline.’
They looked at each other, and although she felt very small and lost, Angeline held herself straight, her chin lifting. Strangely her mind wasn’t in a whirl any longer. Her mama had always said one had to have the grace to accept what couldn’t be changed, and the sense to recognize what could. This was the former. Whatever her private feelings on the matter, it was kind of Uncle Hector to take her into his home and offer her protection. Her gaze now going to her uncle, she said quietly, ‘I’ll try and not be a bother, Uncle.’
‘Of course you won’t be. We’ll get along just fine, m’dear.’ It was too hearty, and Hector moderated his tone as he added, ‘Your rooms are being prepared and will be ready shortly, so spend the next day or two deciding what you want to bring with you.’
Everything. She wanted to bring everything, because every single stick of furniture, every ornament, every picture, was part of her mother and father. But of course that was impossible. Inclining her head, she said flatly, ‘Yes, Uncle.’
It was settled.
Margaret Dickinson
Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape. Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-five further titles including Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed and Reap the Harvest, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy. Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county but in Tangled Threads and Twisted Strands, the stories include not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham. Her 2012 and 2013 novels, Jenny’s War and The Clippie Girls, were both top-twenty bestsellers and her 2014 novel, Fairfield Hall, went to number nine on the Sunday Times bestseller list.
More Books by Margaret Dickinson
Plough the Furrow
Sow the Seed
Reap the Harvest
The Miller’s Daughter
Chaff Upon the Wind
The Fisher Lass
The Tulip Girl
The River Folk
Tangled Threads
Twisted Strands
Red Sky in the Morning
Without Sin
Pauper’s Gold
Wish Me Luck
Sing As We Go
Suffragette Girl
Sons and Daughters
Forgive and Forget
Jenny’s War
The Clippie Girls
Fairfield Hall
FAIRFIELD HALL
by Margaret Dickinson
A matter of honour. A sense of duty. A time for courage.
Ruthlessly ambitious Ambrose Constantine is determined that his daughter, Annabel, shall marry into the nobility. A fish merchant and self-made man, he has only his wealth to buy his way into society.
When Annabel’s secret meetings with Gilbert, a young man employed at her father’s offices, stop suddenly, she learns that he has mysteriously disappeared. Heartbroken, she finds solace with her grandparents on their Lincolnshire farm, but her father will not allow her to hide herself in the countryside and enlists the help of a business connection to launch his daughter into society.
During the London Season, Annabel is courted by James Lyndon, the Earl of Fairfield, whose country estate is only a few miles from her grandfather’s farm.
Believing herself truly loved at last, Annabel accepts his offer of marriage. It is only when she arrives at Fairfield Hall that she realizes the true reason behind James’s proposal and the part her scheming father has played.
Throughout the years that follow, Annabel experiences both heartache and joy, and the birth of her son should finally secure the future of the Fairfield Estate. But there are others who lay claim to the inheritance, igniting a feud that will only reach its resolution in the trenches of the First World War.
Read on for an extract from
Fairfield Hall by Margaret Dickinson
Prologue
LINCOLNSHIRE, 10 MARCH 2013
Tiffany parked the car at the side of the road and climbed the gentle slope of hill towards the grand house at the top. She dared not bring her little car any further, for the day was bleak, the road slippery and she feared losing control of the vehicle. Beatrice wasn’t good on icy roads, never mind any kind of hill. As the ground flattened out, she paused to catch h
er breath and look around her. To the west lay the wolds, undulating gently and covered in a frost that had not melted since morning. Directly below, Fairfield village nestled in a shallow vale. The light was fading even though it was still early afternoon and already lights flickered in several of the windows of the cottages lining the one main street. Beyond the village, she could see farms dotted on the hillsides. At one end of the village street stood the church with the vicarage beside it. She could close her eyes and imagine herself back in time; Tiffany doubted that the scene had changed much in the last hundred years, except, of course, for the cars parked on either side of the road – a necessity when the nearest market town was five miles away. And there was now only one village shop that sold everything instead of the butcher, the grocer and so on, who would all once have been able to make a living even in this small community. Now the villagers would head into the nearest town – Thorpe St Michael – to the supermarket for their weekly shopping, using the local village store only for emergencies. Even the smithy-cum-wheelwright’s that had once been the heartbeat of a rural community would be long gone, unless, of course, the blacksmith’s business had survived by making bespoke fancy wrought-iron work.
She turned to look up again at the house standing sentinel over the village and resumed her walk, shivering a little. March opening times, she’d read in a leaflet about Fairfield Hall, were Sundays and Wednesdays, and today, Mother’s Day, it seemed fitting that she should visit.
She was breathing hard by the time she’d walked along the curving driveway, lined with lime trees in their winter nakedness, though she knew they’d be a lovely sight in summer. She paused a moment, before passing beneath an archway into a courtyard. In front of her were stables and to her left, three coach houses. Completing the square were other buildings, which once, she guessed, might have housed the laundry and workshops. In the centre of the courtyard was a magnificent beech tree and, to her right, she could see the side entrance to the house. Nearing it, she saw the notice: Please Use The Front Entrance. Passing through a small gate, she wandered round the corner of the house and climbed the steps. The impressive three-storey square house, with its front door positioned centrally, faced to the west with six windows on the ground floor and seven on the upper storeys. Closer now, she could see that there was also a basement partly below ground level. Attached on the northern side was a lower building – only two storeys high. The smooth lawn in front of the house sloped down towards the village. To the side she could see more gardens and guessed that behind the house there was perhaps a kitchen plot that would have grown produce to help feed the household. Beyond the grounds belonging to the house were cultivated fields where, in summer, there would be ripening corn bordered with bright-headed poppies. She waited for what seemed an age before the door was opened slowly by an elderly man, dressed strangely, she thought, in a morning suit. He looked like a butler stepping out of the pages of a history book. But his wrinkled face beamed and his old eyes twinkled. ‘Good afternoon, miss. How nice to see a visitor. Please come in.’
