Silver

by Penny Jordan

  Jake was supposed to be back at school. Term had started, but even without the interview with his grandfather’s solicitor he had known that, with the crippling burden of death duties, there could be no question of another year at public school.

  As the solicitor had explained gravely to him, the money that would be left would be pitifully small. If only the estate could be sold—but there was no demand at the moment, and the house needed a fortune spending on it.

  Realising that he was waiting for him to make some comment, Jake struggled to make his brain work. What money there was must go to his aunt… Somewhere must be found for her to live, since she had hysterically refused to so much as set foot back in Fitton Park.

  When he explained this to the solicitor, the man pursed his lips and then suggested, ‘Your grandfather had some investments… enough possibly to raise the money to buy your aunt a small house of her own and to provide her with a small income.’

  He wasn’t yet eighteen, and in the space of the last few weeks he had lost his brother, his grandfather and his youth. He stood up, and in the expression on his face the solicitor thought he saw a trace of the man he would be one day.

  ‘Do it,’ he instructed him emotionally.

  ‘And Fitton Park?’

  Jake had reached the door. He paused there and turned to say violently, ‘Fitton Park can burn down to ashes for all I care.’

  It wasn’t true… One of the reasons he had never been able to turn totally away from his grandfather was because he had both understood and shared the old man’s love for their home. Unlike Justin, to whom it was always simply a draughty, ancient house that would one day hang round his neck like a millstone.

  Now it was his, for what that was worth… more of a liability than an asset. Unsaleable, according to the experts, with not enough land left to support it and too much to appeal to the kind of new rich like Saffron’s father, who preferred the more controllable prettiness of the Georgian era to the rambling decay of somewhere like Fitton Park.

  Saffron. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since the night she had made love to him, nor had he really expected to… or even wanted to, he acknowledged.

  It was impossible for him to communicate properly with his aunt. She seemed to have retreated into a world of her own, refusing even to see him until her friend had prevailed upon her to do so… He explained as simply as he could the arrangements the solicitor was going to make, and Louise Davenport-Legh listened to him sympathetically, wondering with pity if he realised yet how much his life was going to change. He was seventeen years old, with no qualifications, no family, no money… no way of supporting himself other than the one for which he had always been destined.

  It was the vicar who had gently suggested that it might be worthwhile writing to the Commander-in-Chief of his grandfather’s and father’s old regiment, even when Jake had protested that that was now out of the question and that the best he could hope for was to be accepted on to one of the army’s training schemes for raw recruits.

  He was both right and wrong. The colonel wrote back saying that, while there was nothing he could do now, should Jake be able to prove to the army that he possessed the right kind of officer material, there was a possibility that the regiment might sponsor him through Sandhurst and from there might admit him to its ranks.

  Jake did not allow himself to hope for anything. Right now the only thing that mattered was finding himself somewhere where he could survive… somewhere where he could forget the horror of that scene in the gun-room. And then it struck him with dry irony, as he filled in his army application form, that, if he was accepted, the kind of scene he witnessed in the gun-room was going to be something he would have to accustom himself to.

  He wasn’t joining the army by way of some élite regiment. He was not going to be destined for parades outside Buckingham Palace. He was destined for the likes of Northern Ireland, where every day men, boys like him died ingloriously and unheralded.

  The army was much as he had expected it to be. At first he was chivvied and taunted by the others because of his accent, but once they realised that whatever they said to him apparently meant nothing, and that, if anything, he was actually tougher and harder than they were themselves—although the only evidence they had of this was during their training, since Jake had never and would never, he had already decided, use violence unnecessarily—they grudgingly accepted him.

  During those early months a slow numbness seemed to have enveloped his emotions, an inability to feel anything other than the most cursory of emotions.

  On his first leave he went home. His aunt was now established in a small cottage in the village, where it was obvious that he was not welcome. She had a new life, and made it clear that she had no desire to have anything to do with someone who was part of the old. They had never been close, but she was his only living relative, and as he walked away Jake knew that he would probably never see her again.

  After that something hardened in him, something that had been broken but not destroyed by Justin’s death, and, when he returned, his tutoring officers noticed that he had developed a grim resoluteness, a dedication almost, that, properly directed, could turn him into a first-rate officer.

  Even that news barely touched him.

  Sandhurst was familiar territory, as were its accent and shibboleths, and yet he felt distant from it, separated from those who would once have been his natural companions. And although he didn’t recognise it in himself, he had now become a loner… someone who lived outside the rest of the pack.

  In his final term at Sandhurst, he had an interview with the colonel of his grandfather’s old regiment. The colonel had, as he had promised, kept an eye on his progress; the regiment believed in supporting its own, and he had been both pleased and a little surprised by the reports he had received. The boy had very definite potential—was not just physically equipped to become an officer, but also mentally… Additionally, he had the gift of establishing a rapport with other ranks and of getting their respect, both immeasurably valuable assets.

  When he left, Jake knew that he was assured of a place in the regiment.

  His mouth twisted wryly. A place he doubted that he could afford… There would be his living expenses, dress uniform and God alone knew how many more things he couldn’t afford, and besides, he was no longer sure if the regiment was really what he wanted… It was too regimented, too stifling. But he kept his thoughts to himself because it was what he had long ago learned to do… Justin had leaned on him, not the other way around, and he was not used to seeking the counsel of others.

  As it turned out, the colonel used his influence to get Jake a junior officer’s post and for a number of years Jake’s life was neatly mapped out for him. He responded well to army life and an added bonus was the friendship he formed with his commanding officer, Tom Rogers. Both men felt the need to move on at the same time and got to hear of an anti-drugs agency which was recruiting new men to the team. Drugs and their abuse was an issue both men felt very strongly about and the job had a certain appeal. What they would in effect be were undercover agents working for a government agency trying to fight against the illegal importation and sale of drugs. A challenge which Jake, in particular, looked forward to.

  The year Jake was twenty-seven unexpected things happened. His aunt died, leaving her small estate in its entirety to her godson, Noel, something which brought a bitter smile to Jake’s lips when her solicitor informed him of it, and caused the old man to grimace a little with embarrassment. He had reminded his client that the money for her house and pension had originally come from her nephew’s estate and had suggested as tactfully as he could that it ought to return to this source, but she had become a very difficult woman to deal with, eccentric and prone to hysterical outbursts which both exhausted and embarrassed him.

  Now she was dead, and her nephew seemed less surprised by the contents of her will than he had expected.

  Three months’ leave coinciding with his
aunt’s death had made Jake decide to go home. He had driven past the entrance to Fitton Park and had deliberately not looked towards it. It hurt him inside even now to know that the house was slowly decaying and that there was nothing he could do about it. Cheshire seemed smaller than he remembered.

  He was tanned from a recent undercover trip to South America, and he had a small scar over one eye where a stray bullet had grazed him. He was tougher, leaner, harder than the men the solicitor was used to dealing with… He looked somehow dangerous and alien, the older man thought, shifting a little uncomfortably in his seat, faintly intimidated by the vague threat of this man whom he remembered as little more than a gangling boy.

  As Jake waited politely for the solicitor to dismiss him, the second unexpected thing happened. The man shuffled some papers on his desk nervously and then cleared his throat before saying, ‘Er… a client of mine may be interested in purchasing Fitton Park.’

  Jake stared at him. This was the last piece of news he had expected.

  ‘Someone wants to buy it?’ he asked incredulously, and then his eyes narrowed. ‘What for, to tear it down and replace it with a housing estate?’

  His solicitor shook his head.

  ‘No, she wants to restore it and live in it…’

  ‘She?’ Jake’s eyebrows rose. ‘She must be one hell of a wealthy woman,’ he said drily.

  ‘She is… She was married to Harold Pilling,’ the solicitor informed him.

  Jake frowned. He had heard vaguely of the multimillionaire industrialist.

  ‘He died last year. She has one child… a daughter from a previous marriage. If you’re interested I can arrange for you to meet her. She’s in Chester at the moment, staying at the Grosvenor…’

  ‘Has she seen the house?’ Jake asked him derisively, unable to understand why on earth the woman should want to buy and suspecting that she had perhaps only seen it from the outside and not realised the dilapidation that waited for her inside.

  The solicitor cleared his throat, obviously mistaking the cause of the question, and said apologetically, ‘When I couldn’t get in touch with you, I—er—took the liberty of showing her round…’

  Jake’s frown eased. The man had no doubt written to him at his London address. He hadn’t been near the flat for almost three months; he had been on the trail of a large and well-organised gang who were somehow or other managing to get huge amounts of narcotics into London. Jake had managed to infiltrate the group deeply enough to get some information, but not the names of the people bringing the stuff into the country.

  ‘If I’ve done the wrong thing…’

  ‘What…?’ Jake switched his attention back to the solicitor. ‘Oh, no… I’m just surprised that, having seen inside it, she still wants to buy it,’ he said wryly, and wondered to himself what kind of woman she was… apart from being an extremely wealthy one.

  Jake’s solicitor had arranged for him to meet Gloria Pilling at the Grosvenor Hotel in Chester. He offered to accompany Jake to the meeting, and pointed out when Jake refused, ‘She is a very astute businesswoman, Jake; she wants Fitton Park, I’m sure of that, but she’ll fight to make sure that financially she gets the best deal she can.’

  Something in his voice sharpened Jake’s attention. His solicitor didn’t like the woman. Why?

  He asked him, bluntly, watching him in a way that the older man commented later to his wife reminded him very strongly of his late grandfather. It also reminded him that, while he was still addressing Jake by his Christian name, in reality he was Sir Jake, and had been since the sudden deaths of his grandfather and brother.

  His training made it impossible for him to answer Jake’s question equally frankly. Instead he hedged and hesitated before finally admitting faintly apologetically, ‘Perhaps I’m being old-fashioned, but… Her late husband was a good deal older than her and extremely wealthy. When she approached me, she made it plain that if she bought Fitton Park she would be using it as an entrée into Cheshire society…’

  ‘A gold digger and a social climber!’ Jake’s eyebrows rose. He wasn’t shocked or surprised by the solicitor’s revelations, and as for the woman, well, good luck to her, he reflected cynically. She wouldn’t be the first person to use her wealth to buy her way into society. It was his personal opinion that she was wasting her time and her money, but if that was what she wanted and if she was prepared to buy Fitton Park from him to facilitate her plans, then who was he to object?

  As he watched Jake shrug powerful shoulders, the solicitor reflected guiltily on what he had not said, more than on what he had. Gloria Pilling had also made it plain to him that she would expect the present owner of the property to introduce her to his wealthy and aristocratic neighbours.

  She had pressed him very hard for information about Jake and he had been as non-committal as he’d dared without offending her.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he said uncertainly now, when Jake announced that he would not need his support, relief warring with the duty he felt towards this sole surviving member of a once prolific and great family.

  ‘I am,’ Jake told him firmly.

  His time in the army had polished and tempered his ability to command the respect and obedience of others. Working as part of a team with his anti-drug colleagues, he had developed his own ability to judge situations for himself and to act on that judgement. He now had an air of maturity that made him seem much older than he was.

  Louise Davenport-Legh noticed it when he paid her a brief duty call, and calmly and efficiently fielded all her curious questions. She had always felt vaguely sorry for both boys, but the tall, broad-shouldered, controlled man who sat in her drawing-room, effortlessly parrying her skilled questions, was a stranger to her, a stranger whom she found almost intimidating.

  She touched briefly on the subject of Fitton Park and its possible sale.

  Jake shrugged, knowing the efficiency of the local grapevine.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting in Chester with a potential buyer. My solicitor fixed it up.’

  Louise Davenport-Legh, who had heard all about the wealthy widow who was expressing an interest in moving into Cheshire and its society, raised her eyebrows, longing to question him further, but realised she was wasting her time.

  Jake went back to Fitton Park and walked restlessly through its empty rooms. Everywhere he looked he could see signs of growing decay. The house had never been a real home for either Justin or himself, and yet the thought of losing it, of selling it, tightened emotions within him that were unexpectedly painful.

  It was impossible for him to keep the place. There was no longer enough land left to fund the cost of maintaining the house; his unsettled career meant that even if he could afford to keep it he would need to employ someone else to run the estate, and that his visits home would always be infrequent.

  Better to sell than let it fall into complete disrepair. And yet… And yet in his own way he was as much a victim of their joint heritage as his grandfather had been.

  Ridiculous, in this rightly egalitarian age, to feel such a stirring of mingled pride and pain at the past deeds and misdeeds of his ancestors; to feel that he was betraying his heritage.

  Unlike Gloria Pilling, he had no illusions about the supposed advantages of being Sir Jake. If he was going to make any mark in the world it would be as plain Jake Fitton.

  As he closed and locked the massive front door behind him, Jake wondered grimly just what sort of a picture of him the solicitor had painted to Gloria Pilling. Jake was an astute man, and had quickly picked up on the older man’s disquiet and guilt.

  He was staying at a small hotel just outside Chester. No suite at the Grosvenor for him… The necessity to keep a low profile was too deeply ingrained and, besides, he could not afford it.

  From a personal point of view, lack of wealth did not bother him. He enjoyed the life he was leading and, if it weren’t for Fitton Park, would have been more than content.

  The trouble was that, having spent v
irtually all his growing years knowing that one day Fitton Park would pass to Justin, Jake had never been prepared for inheriting it himself. And now, with his aunt having died, he had to face up to his brother’s earlier death and make the necessary decisions about the family home.

  He felt the pressure of his grandfather’s pride and teachings pursuing him… demanding that somehow he find a way of keeping it.

  But that was impossible, and the practical side of his nature told him it was foolish to let the house simply rot away and collapse because he was too proud to allow anyone else to live in it.

  That was where he differed from his grandfather, who he knew would have stubbornly taken down every brick himself rather than let it pass into someone else’s hands.

  Boarding school had taught him how to live easily and peacefully with his peers, and the army had honed that facility. His agency training had also taught him how to make himself inconspicuous, and the other occupants of the small, rather austere hotel were barely aware of his presence.

  He got up early, drove over to Fitton Park and ran alongside the perimeter wall of the park before driving to the hotel, showering and changing for his interview with Gloria Pilling.

  The Grosvenor was vaguely familiar to him from visits there with his aunt.

  The receptionist gave him a polite, friendly smile, concealing the sudden spark of interest his arrival gave her. It was rare for them to have single male visitors as physically attractive and compelling as this one was, and her smile hardened a little with cynicism when he asked for Mrs Pilling’s suite.

  Gloria Pilling was occupying the most expensive suite in the hotel, and in the short time she had been there she had managed to make herself unpopular with virtually every member of staff who had come into contact with her.

  The receptionist gave Jake directions, and rang through to the suite to inform Gloria Pilling that she was sending him up.

  Jake noted but didn’t betray his awareness of the sudden chill in her attitude towards him. He wondered idly what she thought his business with Gloria Pilling was. He was far too sophisticated and aware now not to realise that it was quite possible for a woman of Gloria Pilling’s wealth to buy the sexual attentions of a younger man.