Bitter Inheritance

by Ann Cliff

  The grain harvest was under way at Badger’s Gill; the oats had been stooked and were standing out in the fields, allowing the grain to ripen. ‘They have to hear the church bells three times, that means they’ll be in the stocks for three weeks to dry out,’ Joe reminded Sally. There was time to get the oats in before the show, unless the weather changed. Oats were never sold, they were kept to feed all the farm stock through the winter. But the quality was important, especially for horses.

  ‘The Kirkby Show’s timed to follow the harvest and come before the cold weather, when the work is easing up a little before the winter,’ Sally explained to Emma. And she suggested that the methodical Emma might like to try making a batch of butter for the show, to be judged against the High Side’s best. ‘There is a number on each brick, so the judges don’t know whose they are. Why not have a go?’ Sally was keen for Emma to be involved.

  Robin added his encouragement to Sally’s, when he heard of the idea. ‘Middle of September, we’ll all have finished harvest by then. You’ll enjoy the day out, Emma, and if your butter doesn’t win a prize, you might learn something from the one that does!’

  Robin and Emma, Sally noted, were gradually drawing together as allies. Sally admired the way in which Robin was quietly influencing the girl, without any dramatic declarations. It wouldn’t be proper for him to spend much time alone with her, but he was often at Badger’s Gill. Sally admired his mature attitude. It’s a good job I got over him or I’d have been jealous, she told herself. Robin had always been her friend, but he’d never been so thoughtful and attentive to Sally as he was to Emma. The girl was growing up and perhaps Robin was too, Sally thought as she watched them together. And Robin’s father was investigating the whereabouts of Emma’s inheritance.

  Without Simon, Sally felt the old loneliness returning, as it had after her father died. Especially since Marcus had now disappeared. But this time, Robin and Emma were a comfort to her. Their very youth made her feel lighter in spirit, less weighed down by responsibility.

  While the corn was ripening, Sally and Emma turned to the guesthouse again. They turned out the main bedroom and changed the furniture round in the dining-room, where Simon’s painting now hung above the mantelpiece. Sally felt an urgent need, as before, to change things, to look to the future rather than dwell on the past.

  ‘We need another paying guest. Let’s advertise!’ Sally said, when all was ready, including a high polish on all furniture. She didn’t want another critical woman finding fault with the housekeeping. In fact, when she thought about it, she didn’t much like the idea of another stranger coming to live in her house. Emma and Simon had both become her friends and had changed her life. The next arrangement, she was sure would be merely a commercial one.

  A week passed and then one morning the postman delivered a letter from Bradford. Sally pounced on it. ‘A new paying guest, maybe!’ She carried it into the kitchen where Emma was making toast. ‘It’s from a solicitor … oh!’ She looked up from the letter and the room seemed to be whirling round. From a long way off, she heard Emma’s voice, full of concern.

  ‘What’s wrong, Sally?’

  With great effort, Sally spread the letter on the table and read it again. ‘This letter … oh, Emma, he was so thoughtful!’ And she felt the hot tears on her face. Simon, generous Simon, had remembered her in his will. On that rainy day when Mr Scott had come to help him draw up his will, Simon had arranged his affairs and Mr Scott had recorded his wishes. He had left some of his money to Sally, ‘Because I know she wants to buy the farm’. Three thousand pounds! Quite enough money to buy back Badger’s Gill and leave some over for future security. It was a huge shock; it changed everything.

  It took time to sink in, but over the next few days, Sally realized that her money worries were over. ‘But I’d rather have Simon back, alive! And anyway, I don’t deserve all this!’ So much money was almost a burden.

  ‘How very good of him! And now, if you don’t want to take another guest, you need not!’ Emma, practical as ever, tried to comfort Sally. ‘Simon was so happy here. He told me so. And so am I! You deserve the money, Sally!’

  There was no message from Simon, although she looked for one. But then Sally realized that he’d already told her everything he wanted her to know. She remembered Simon’s last day and the way he’d taken her hand and placed it on the picture frame, symbolically giving her the farm. She understood that, now.

  ‘But what about his family? What will they think?’ Sally was torn between joy and sadness. It would be quite natural for them to resent her.

  Once the money was in the bank, Sally decided, she would write to Mr Radford again and make him an offer for the farm. The Scotts would know what it was worth. But she hardly dared to hope that Badger’s Gill would ever be hers. Oliver Radford would not want to be cheated of his revenge. He might enjoy twisting the knife and refuse to sell the farm even when she could afford to buy it.

  The next day, a letter arrived from Mrs Drury and Sally opened it with trembling hands. But it was as kind and generous as Simon himself. ‘We are pleased that you were included in Simon’s will … he was able to leave the bulk of his fortune to his family, and no one was left out. Thank you for looking after him so well.’

  Simon must have been a very wealthy young man, thought Sally. But he’d never talked about money.

  It was time for one of those letters to Mr Radford. But this time she had power on her side, the power of money. Sally sat down after work that night, pen in hand.

  Dear Sir,

  I hesitate to contact you again, after your hostile letters. I know you have no wish to hear from me again, but I have inherited a sum of money, so I am now in a position to buy Badger’s Gill. And I refuse to deal with your agent in Thorpe.

  Since you have stated that you have no interest in the property and no wish to visit, I hope that you will agree to the sale.

  Please name your price by return of post.

  Yours faithfully,

  S. Mason (Miss)

  Sally couldn’t rest until the letter was safely in the postbox outside the post office. This time, the reply came back swiftly. There was the familiar cream envelope, with the thick, spiky writing in black ink.

  Dear Madam,

  I believe it is unlikely that you can afford to buy Badger’s Gill, as you suggest. A female is unlikely to have a grasp of values, particularly land and property values.

  It is my duty to the family estate to sell the farm for its current value, which is two thousand pounds. I will not enter into any negotiations with regard to the price.

  I expect this to be the end of the matter.

  Yours faithfully,

  Oliver Radford.

  ‘Right! He can have his two thousand pounds. It’s a high price I believe….’ Sally showed it to Mr Scott.

  ‘It is high, but I suppose that’s inevitable, given the type of man you are dealing with.’ The Scotts had always sided with the Masons. ‘The annoying thing about this is that the farm is worth so much because your family has managed it so well!’

  Sally wrote back to agree to Radford’s price and soon received another letter, which made her dance with joy and rage, all at the same time. She felt the familiar fizzing inside and ran down the street to show the letter to the Scotts straight away.

  Dear Madam,

  I note that you agree to purchase Badger’s Gill, Thorpe, for two thousand pounds, and will instruct my solicitors to proceed in the matter.

  It is my wish that once the sale is complete, there will be no further communication between my family and yours. I look upon this as a condition of sale.

  Any further correspondence should be addressed to my solicitors, Arnold and Sedgwick, of Ripon.

  Yours faithfully,

  Oliver Radford.

  The main thing was that the man had agreed to sell the farm. But … was he saying that Sally had to choose between Marcus and Badger’s Gill? Did he know that she knew Marcus? Or was it ju
st the old quarrel that made him so keen to sever any ties between them? This must be the last letter from the old rogue. And a good job, too.

  That night, Sally took down the little china shepherdess from the mantelpiece in her bedroom. Carefully, she wrapped the figure in a soft cloth, and put it away, deep in a drawer. She would forget all about the Roman soldier. With a father like that he must be horrid, deep down, she told herself firmly. All her instincts, all her deep feelings, must have been wrong when it came to Marcus Radford.

  Marcus, meanwhile had discovered that he could not forget about Sally, but he now had hopes of a solution. Saturday came and he rode over to see his father, to report on progress as requested.

  Choosing his time carefully Marcus waited until after dinner to talk about what was really important to him, the discovery in Foxholes Wood. He waited until all the farm business had been discussed and the family news exchanged.

  ‘I have something to tell you Father, that I found out the other day. About the affair of Grandfather’s death.’

  Oliver moved restlessly on his chair. ‘I don’t want to hear about it. All that is over now. And I hope you won’t mention it to Mrs Russell. I dine there again next week. I am … reaching an understanding with Mrs Russell.’ The older man sat back to observe the effect of this statement.

  ‘Do you mean to say you’re going to get married?’ Marcus tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  Oliver smirked. ‘Why not? If you would hurry up and get yourself a wife, you could look after the Grange here and I could go off with Mrs Russell – Dorothy – and enjoy myself a little! We thought of a European tour next spring.’

  So the old boy had his future all worked out. Well, he was sprightly enough, why not? The trip abroad didn’t sound like Oliver; it was probably the Mrs Russell’s idea. Thank goodness he seemed to have forgotten about linking his son up with her daughter.

  ‘You will understand that raking up the past at this juncture would be inappropriate, to say the least.’ Oliver glared at Marcus.

  ‘But please let me tell you this; that I have proof that Samuel Mason did not kill Grandfather. He died by accident, from an overdose of an experimental drug.’ Marcus tried to keep his voice level and unemotional.

  Oliver closed his eyes. Marcus pressed on, determined to have his say. ‘I met Professor Vernon, of whom you may have heard. He admitted that he killed Grandfather by accident and drugged Samuel Mason enough to destroy his memory.’ He described the death briefly and then there was silence for a while.

  ‘Why did he not come forward at the time, and admit what had happened?’ Oliver seemed interested, in spite of himself.

  ‘He was at the start of his career and very ambitious. He said that a confession would not bring Grandfather back. But he seems not to have considered the effect on his family and on the Masons. The scandal would have ruined his life’s work, he said.’ Marcus thought back to that extraordinary day in the wood, and the deep impression that the professor had made on him. A complex character, but not evil, he thought ‘He’s very old now, of course, but extremely alert. I believe he has the ruthlessness of an ambitious man. But he has done a great deal of good.’

  ‘Tell me how you met him. Why would he let you into the secret, after all this time?’

  So Marcus told his story simply, and Oliver said very little. ‘It’s a shock,’ was all Marcus got out of him. ‘I am going to bed, now.’

  The sun was shining the next morning, as Marcus went down to breakfast. He’d hoped for a companionable walk with Oliver round the home farm before going home. But his father was there before him, dressed for church. His face was set in a stern, churchgoing mould.

  Oliver got straight to the point. ‘That tale you told me last night makes no difference to us, Marcus. I hope you realize that.’

  Marcus felt his heart sink. ‘What do you mean, Father?’

  ‘Nothing can change the situation between us and the Masons, not now. The rift is too old and too deep, and you should understand that I have very strong feelings about it.’ Oliver paused.

  So Marcus was not going to influence Oliver’s thinking by any logical argument, it seemed.

  ‘I forgot to tell you that I have decided to sell the Badger’s Gill farm at Thorpe. I’m selling it back to the Masons, the solicitors have it in hand. That will put an end to the whole affair, I hope. I should never have bought it in the first place and got involved with them.’

  Good! So little Sally had got together enough money to buy back her farm. Marcus felt a rush of admiration for Sally and saw her in his mind’s eye – her red curls bouncing with energy, clapping her hands because she was going to recover the Mason farm. Then it struck Marcus suddenly that Sally might be going to marry money. The fair-haired, idle rich lad he had seen with her that day in Kirkby, would be about to buy her the farm, as a wedding present. He felt sick at the thought. Marcus realized that Oliver had not finished.

  ‘I am selling it for two thousand pounds, the current price for a farm that size, in good heart, with a large house.’

  Marcus poured himself coffee and took a slice of toast, but he had no appetite. It was quite enough, he thought; in fact at about ten pounds an acre it was the same price as a farm lower down the valley. The old boy was after his pound of flesh. Two thousand! It was a lot of money for Sally to find. The theory of the rich boy was looking more likely.

  Oliver smiled thinly as he delivered his final shot. ‘And my condition of sale is that there should be no more communication between them and us.’ His mouth closed with a snap.

  Marcus was stunned for a moment. He ran his hand through his thick dark hair. ‘But if you accept that Mason didn’t murder Grandfather, why be so set against them?’

  ‘I am not going through all that again, Marcus. But I must say that I will be most displeased should you communicate with any of that family again.’

  Should he keep quiet, to please the old boy? Should he pretend to agree and then please himself? Marcus thought for a while and then made up his mind. ‘I will explain my position, Father, since you have told me yours. I’m afraid you won’t like it, but I must be honest and I have a right to a point of view.’ He stopped and saw that Oliver was frowning at him. It was very unusual for Marcus to be so defiant.

  ‘I do realize how you feel about Sally’s mother. But it was long ago. You have lived a lot since then, and you’re going to have a new lease of life with Mrs Russell. You might not want to meet the Masons and I can understand that. But I do.’

  ‘You are against me, then.’ Oliver’s voice was bleak.

  ‘Father, this is not personal at all. I happen to disagree with your opinion. I want to make peace with Samuel Mason, Sally’s uncle, and talk to Sally herself.’

  Oliver Radford poured himself more coffee with a hand that shook slightly. ‘I am trying to advise you for your own good. I am much older than you, Marcus, and I don’t want you to be hurt!’

  Well, you are doing your best to hurt me, Marcus thought. ‘I have met Sally Mason several times, and I am attracted to her and want to get to know her better. I am not sure whether she may be already engaged to someone else. I might have no chance.’ As Marcus faced this possibility he felt depression settling again. He would have to see her immediately. ‘But I am bound to tell her what I have learned about our families’ history, for her sake. There is no need for a bitter feud between us any more.’

  ‘Rubbish! Masons don’t care about it,’ Oliver snorted. ‘It wasn’t their father that died.’

  ‘But Samuel Mason’s life was ruined. He was never the same again and I gather the family’s fortunes started to decline from then on.’ Why couldn’t his father see anyone else’s point of view? Marcus sighed.’And so, whether you like it or not, I am going to see Sally Mason today to tell her the story. After that I am not sure what will happen. I will let you know.’

  ‘Your grandmother will be bitterly disappointed.’ Oliver turned on the family pressure, but Marcus did
not respond. Breakfast proceeded in silence after that.

  It’s almost the twentieth century, Marcus thought to himself. Surely a father can’t expect to dictate to his children all their lives? Perhaps he should have stood up to Oliver years ago. But in general he got on well with his father and he’d often kept small differences of opinion to himself. Oliver was inclined to take any opposition personally, even if it were only opposition to one of his ideas.

  As soon as the meal was over Oliver went off to church, as Marcus saddled his horse and rode out of Nidd Grange to visit Thorpe against his father’s wishes. It was a strange feeling; he’d never really quarrelled with Oliver in his life. But he’d had to speak the truth. As he rode over the moor and past the Drovers’ Inn Marcus recalled the day when he’d rescued Sally from the snow. That day, he’d wanted to stay with her for ever. How hard it had been that night for him to ride away! Now it could be too late; the fair-haired boy had probably taken over. Marcus realized that if Sally were now out of reach it was probably his own fault. He hadn’t tried to see her for so long, he’d been kept busy by Oliver – probably on purpose, to keep him out of the way. But, Marcus thought as he trotted over the short moorland turf, if he’d lost Sally, there was no point in upsetting the old boy. It might have been all for nothing. There was an insistent drumming in his head as the horse’s hoofs drummed on the turf. He had to know whether Sally was still free. He was afraid of what the answer would be.

  As he neared Thorpe Marcus began to feel peculiarly hollow inside. He thought it might be love – could people actually become lovesick? But then he remembered the uncomfortable breakfast with Oliver, when he’d eaten very little. So the pangs might be hunger after all. He decided to call at the Crown for a bite to eat. The Crown would be closed as it was Sunday, but Mrs Bartram would find him something. He urged Odin on to a faster pace.