by Polly Heron
‘Oh.’ Her face pales. Her gaze drops to her hands. When she looks up again, her eyes are bigger. Shock and concern fill them. ‘Someone should explain this to Mr Carson? He thinks… I mean, he hopes…’
I know that a letter was sent to him. I know it admitted no room for doubt as to who I am. It explained that going to court did not in any way whatsoever suggest that my identity was in question. It said the purpose of going to court was to ensure that no one would ever be able to question afterwards that Mr Tyrell’s will had been properly executed.
In other words, it gave Mr Richard Carson a sharp slap in the face.
I understand why he expected to inherit. I sympathise with his situation in a way I’m sure he does not sympathise with mine. As Mr Turton pointed out to me, even when Carson believed himself to be the heir, it shouldn’t have been business as usual here at the bookshop yet. He got ahead of himself in that respect.
But it seems he has told his assistant none of this. No wonder she tries to be icy. Protectiveness flares in my chest. She deserves to know. Perhaps Carson hasn’t deceived her on purpose; perhaps it never occurred to him to inform her that he isn’t the heir. At any rate, she knows now.
Her eyelashes flutter. Panic, as she realises the precarious state of her position?
‘Poor Mr Carson.’
Poor Mr Carson, my foot.
The door on the far side of the office opens and Carson walks into the office.
‘Are you still here? I can’t see you now.’ As if he is a captain of commerce, with followers fawning at his feet, hoping for an audience.
I look at Miss Layton. Her gaze is fixed on him. In sympathy?
No. Her lips are slightly parted, her expression soft, and there is a faint flush in her cheeks.
She is dazzled.
The door shut and Belinda went into the shop to make sure Mr Linkworth had left. She stood at the window as he crossed the road and strode away. Her skin tingled as Richard appeared beside her. She had been about to go back to her typing but, with Richard so close, she stayed put, his familiar lemony smell teasing her nostrils.
She turned to him with a smile, wanting him to see her, really see her; wanting him to set aside his troubles and realise she could be more to him than his assistant. The sight of his stormy eyes and tight lips banished her smile.
‘He could at least have waited until after the court case to eye up the stock.’
She was unwilling to speak out of turn, but Richard deserved to be told. ‘He said he is definitely Gabriel Linkworth.’
‘Naturally. It’s in his interest to say so.’
She tried again. ‘He says the matter is going to court because his solicitor is a belt-and-braces man, who doesn’t leave anything to chance.’
‘What else did he say? He was here a deuce of a long time.’
‘He asked about my job and he stayed to look at the books.’
He jerked his cuffs down. ‘He seems to have won you round.’
‘I felt sorry for him, that’s all, having no memory.’
Richard’s mouth softened, though his eyes didn’t. ‘You’re too kind-hearted, that’s your trouble. I’ll be out for the rest of the day, so you’ll have to lock up. In fact, keep the door locked all the time. I’m not having the supposed Mr Linkworth wandering in and out as he pleases.’
‘What if someone tries to bring back something they bought?’
‘They can knock, can’t they?’
‘I’ll keep my ears open.’
‘I know I can rely on you.’
You can, oh you can. It was no use yearning for more. Richard left and she spent the rest of the day alone, working just as hard as if he was standing over her. He relied on her and she was proud to be worthy of his trust.
As she walked home beneath the young leaves and clusters of pink and white blooms of early blossom that adorned the trees overhanging the garden walls along Edge Lane, she couldn’t stop thinking about Gabriel Linkworth and Richard. Dear Richard. What a blow. To spend so much time expecting the inheritance that Mr Tyrell was happy to be his, only to lose it. She knew what it was to have expectations that ended up being dashed in the cruellest possible way.
And poor Mr Linkworth with no memory. What must that be like? To have nothing of yourself left, to have to start again. She had had to pick herself up and start again after Ben died. It had been a long time before she could face it, but at last she was doing it. At least she still had her sense of self. Imagine not having that.
She discussed Mr Linkworth’s memory loss with Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie after she had helped wash up after their tripe and onions.
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Auntie Enid. ‘Having a bang on the head and seeing stars is one thing, but losing your memory for years on end—’
‘If he has lost it,’ Grandma Beattie said darkly. ‘Men did all kinds to try to get out of fighting. Some men.’
Belinda didn’t believe it of Gabriel Linkworth, though she couldn’t have said why. ‘If it was pretence, why keep it up all this time?’ It was a poor defence and she felt obscurely ashamed.
‘Maybe it is real,’ retorted Grandma Beattie, ‘but strong men don’t suffer mental collapse like that. Real men. Men of honour and integrity.’
‘Do you mean he lost his memory through..?’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
‘Cowardice.’ Grandma Beattie stated it as if it was a fact. ‘At least our Ben died doing what a brave man should.’
There was a silence; that moment of deep, warm quiet that always occurred at the first mention of Ben’s name. The Ben-silence.
‘All this talk of losing your memory.’ Auntie Enid’s shoulders shuddered. ‘The worst part would be forgetting our Ben.’
‘We’ll never do that, Mrs Sloan,’ said Grandma Beattie. ‘No matter what.’
‘Aye, of course not.’ Auntie Enid’s smile was watery. ‘We’ll have him with us always.’
Belinda averted her gaze as Richard’s handsome face appeared in her mind. Yet it was true. She would never forget Ben, her darling first love, the man she would gladly have spent her life with. Her fingers moved to the neck of her blouse, where Ben’s locket formed a small lump beneath the fabric. Dearest Ben. She would treasure his memory for ever.
Would she dare tell Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie that her pulse now raced for another man? How could she, when their grief for Ben was as fresh as ever?
Chapter Twenty
A KNOT OF REGRET squeezed inside Belinda’s chest as she arrived at Tyrell’s Books. She enjoyed working here, and not just because of Richard. She had loved the quiet atmosphere and the way that customers came in, not because they needed to, like they did at the fishmonger’s, but because they chose to, because their lives weren’t complete without novels or they had a particular interest in the Battle of Waterloo or foreign countries or natural history. All that had stopped when Mr Turton had told Richard he mustn’t continue selling, but she had loved it while it lasted.
It had disappointed her that Richard hadn’t wanted to keep the bookshop. Would Mr Linkworth want it? He was a reader. But even if he did keep it, it was none of her business. She was Richard’s assistant and if the court case next week wasn’t to solve the riddle of Mr Linkworth’s identity but simply to establish it in a formal way, then she would be out on her ear. She had been so busy hoping against hope that Richard would inherit after all, that she hadn’t thought of the consequences to herself if Mr Linkworth inherited. And, without a doubt, Gabriel Linkworth was going to inherit.
With her pulse jumping at the base of her throat and a dozen questions for Richard crowding her mind, she let herself in. Three or four tea-chests stood in the most inconvenient place in the middle of the floor. Not that there was much floor to speak of, after the way Mr Tyrell had packed the space with bookcases.
Richard came out of the office. He had removed his jacket and she must have been worried silly about her job because the sight of him in his shirt-s
leeves barely roused a ripple of response, even though he was very modern and daring and didn’t wear a waistcoat.
She indicated the tea-chests. ‘What’s happening?’
‘All the boxes of ornaments and whatnot have been returned, so everything must be sent back to the cottage.’ He sounded brisk and not at all as though his dreams lay in ruins: admiration swelled inside her. ‘If you pack the chests, the window cleaner chappy will collect them later.’
He disappeared into the office, returning with a stack of newspapers that he dropped on the floor. It landed with a loud slap.
‘Packing paper. I’ll be upstairs.’
‘Did Mr Rathbone ever…’ She was talking to thin air. ‘… return the letter-opener?’ Oh well, she would come across it if he had.
She went into the office to remove Mrs Harrison’s coat and hat and her rose-patterned scarf. What should she do when it grew too warm to wear a coat? Office girls didn’t turn up to work in shawls. What she needed to look the part was a jacket, but even paying for the fabric was impossible at present, let alone finding a second-hand one at the market. And when she lost her position here – it didn’t bear thinking about, except that she had to think about it.
Piled on the cupboards and tucked up against the walls were the cardboard boxes she had taken such pleasure in filling with treasures from the cottage. Some boxes had never been sold; others had been sold, chased and returned. She really needed to unpack them all to determine what was in each one, but there wasn’t room for that. She carried a couple through to the shop and put them on the table where once they had been displayed.
The sight of the newspapers on the floor caused an unexpected stab of resentment. Did he have to dump them like that? What did he think she was? A servant? Yes, he was going through a difficult time, but that was no excuse.
The packing took well over an hour. When the end was in sight, Richard appeared.
‘Nearly done? Thank you. After that, would you make a pot of tea?’
‘While we have tea, may I ask you something?’ She was scared of hearing his answer, but she had to know.
Her hands were grubby with newspaper print when she finished the packing. She washed them and set about making the tea upstairs, laying the embroidered tablecloth on the small table from the cottage. She had imagined herself and Richard sitting here together, but it had never happened. When the shop had been open, either she had been alone or else, at Richard’s suggestion, they had taken their tea-breaks separately so one of them was always in the shop; and since the shop had closed, he seemed to want to spend his time undisturbed. Now they were to sit together at last, but instead of being a happy thing to do, the situation felt grim. Perhaps he would open his heart to her.
When he didn’t appear, she ran downstairs, calling, ‘Tea’s ready.’
He looked round, obviously expecting to be presented with a cup.
‘Upstairs,’ she said.
‘Bring it down. I have to be here when Jim arrives to collect the boxes.’
‘Can’t you leave the door unlocked?’
‘I told you. I’m not having Linkworth dropping in as and when he feels like it.’
‘Isn’t that rather…’
‘Rather what?’ he asked stiffly.
Petty. Isn’t that rather petty? Of course it wasn’t. Richard was under great strain, his dreams in ruins. But she couldn’t think of another word. Oh, heck.
‘…inconvenient?’
‘I don’t see why. Fetch the tea, there’s a good girl. I’m gasping.’
She brought the tray downstairs to the office. Richard hitched one hip onto the edge of a tea-chest, making himself comfortable in a casual way. He looked at her through the office doorway, so she took him his cup and saucer.
She waited for him to say, ‘What did you want to ask?’ but he said, ‘I’ll give you the key to the cottage and you can unlock it for Jim.’
‘Oh – all right.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’re a brick, Miss Layton.’
‘I aim to give satisfaction.’
He drank his tea, one leg swinging. She could recall every word he had ever said to her, but he didn’t remember what she had said not twenty minutes ago.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘Fire away.’
‘I’d like to know what will happen to me if… if you don’t inherit.’ Her voice dropped. She felt oddly ashamed.
‘If? Don’t you mean when I don’t inherit?’ His leg stopped swinging. ‘I apologise.’ He slid to his feet. ‘That was unnecessary. Here.’ He thrust his cup and saucer into her hands and went past her towards the stairs.
She spun round, not ashamed any more but determined. She wasn’t asking out of selfishness but from a serious need to know.
‘Mr Carson! Wait – please. I need to know what to expect.’
She waited until he turned. His mouth was set in a line. It was a thoughtful expression but also made him look rather shifty. Shifty? Then he smiled; his expression changed to warm and rueful.
‘It’s a fair question. I employed you in good faith, but as to what happens next…’ He shrugged.
‘I see.’ How calm she sounded, even though she was all fluttery inside. ‘I’d better look round for something else.’
There was a knock on the window – Jim. Richard immediately turned business-like, and never mind that he had delivered her a dreadful blow, though when he handed her the key to the cottage, he had the grace to ask, ‘Will you be all right?’ And what could she say other than, ‘Yes, thank you’? She had to be all right. She had to ignore the roaring in her ears and get on with her work. Her temporary post, which she had taken on so confidently, had turned out to be a lot more temporary than she had bargained for.
Fetching her coat and hat, she slipped her scarf beneath the collar to hang down the front. She set off, leaving Jim and Richard loading the cart.
The walk to Limits Lane had a curious dream-like quality, brought on by the shock and dread of imminent unemployment. How would she tell Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie? They had been good about her earning less. Yes, there had been grumbles, but they had accepted it. How would they manage without her wages?
Turning into Limits Lane, she passed the row of privet hedges and came to Mr Tyrell’s cottage at the end. The latch on the garden gate was stiff and called for a small effort to lift it. As she turned to close the gate, she sniffed. Tears? No, weeping wasn’t allowed. Inhaling deeply to steady herself, she drew in the bright scent of the privet and the wholesome smell of the soil, containing all the hope and promise of spring, but they failed to lift her spirits.
‘Good morning, Miss Layton.’
Startled, she looked round. Gabriel Linkworth stood on the lumpy patch of lawn. He was dressed in a blue cloth jacket and grey flannel trousers. He raised his homburg to her in formal greeting, then his face flickered and he took a step closer.
‘You’re distressed.’
She brushed a hand against her face. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Forgive me, but you’re not. Would you prefer me to leave?’
What did he expect her to say? He reached out his hand towards the gate, then hesitated with it in mid-air, and looked at her again. What now?
‘I’ve no wish to intrude, but I have some news that might make things look a little better.’
What could he possibly say that would help? His eyes were hazel, not gorgeous deep brown like Richard’s, but there was warmth in them nevertheless.
‘You told me Mr Carson employed you to assist in winding up Mr Tyrell’s estate. Now that he turns out not to be the heir, that puts you in a precarious position. I’ve spoken with Mr Sowerby at Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks and asked if you can be kept on, just for a while, to allow you time to look round for something else.’
‘Are you sure?’ Her eyelashes were heavy with teardrops that lent a glaze of radiance to her vision.
‘Positive. It’s all settled.’
‘Thank you. I can’t tell you what a relief this is.’
‘There’s no reason why you should suffer because of this situation.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘Well, I’d best leave you to it.’
As he started to go, she instinctively reached out to stop him. The moment she touched his arm, she dropped her hand. She should feel embarrassed at having behaved in such a familiar way, but she didn’t. She smiled at him. His face was narrow and serious; his chin was sharp.
‘You were right when you said I looked upset. That’s what I was upset about. The worry…’
‘No need to worry any more. I can promise you a few weeks’ grace to find another position. You mustn’t feel obliged to snatch the first thing that’s offered. I expect the ladies who run your business school will be able to advise you.’
Goodness, he really had listened to her. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Curiosity. The vague hope that seeing Mr Tyrell’s cottage might spark a memory.’
‘Why do you keep calling him Mr Tyrell? He was your uncle.’
‘It seems appropriate since I can’t recall him; more respectful.’
She rather thought that Mr Tyrell would have approved of such reasoning, but it wasn’t her place to say so.
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Work.’ Warmth glowed in her chest: it was safe to feel happy about work again. ‘Mr Carson removed things to sell and now he’s returning them. They’ll be here soon.’
‘He really was keen to get the money, wasn’t he? I shouldn’t have said that. The last thing I want is to put you in an uncomfortable position.’
She ought to be hopping mad at hearing Richard criticised, but no resentment flared. Mr Linkworth wasn’t being snippy and disagreeable the way Richard was when he mentioned Mr Linkworth. He was simply making an observation. Snippy and disagreeable? Richard?
She opened her handbag. ‘I’d better unlock.’ She darted a glance at him.
‘Don’t worry. I shan’t ask you to let me inside.’
She nodded. Bizarre as it sounded, she immediately felt it would have been appropriate for him to come in. He was so transparently honest. Ben would have liked him. Ben had admired integrity.
