He had his first sight of the estate from the hill at Sawston, just a flare of the lake and then the forest beyond, before the road dipped. He turned left, picking up the perimeter wall, and drove for another mile before he reached the gate lodge. He slowed and sounded the horn and waved as he passed, so the lodge-keeper would warn the main house of his arrival.
The grounds had been laid by Capability Brown. The drive, arrow straight, went between a regiment of upright elms, the fencing beyond spoiling the original effect but necessary to prevent the herds wandering across the road. To the left Buckland could just discern the mottled, nervous deer grazing close to the sanctuary of their wood. Nearer the Suffolk sheep, coats already heavy, cropped the grass to a maintainable level. The mid-afternoon sun still burned off the lake. The dower house in which his mother lived was close to the water: Buckland wondered if she were there or at the main house. It emerged from behind its screen of trees, the massively square pile that British aristocrats had erected as monuments to their importance and which had remained a talisman to success. Certainly that was how his grandfather had regarded it, and then his father and now Buckland. He shuddered, as if he were physically cold: it was inconceivable that he could lose it, just as it was inconceivable that anything serious, damagingly, harmfully serious, could ever happen to Buckland House. The business, like the house in front of him, was indestructible: in need of modernization, maybe, but absolutely indestructible.
The gravel crackled under his wheels as Buckland turned the car around the landscaped centrepiece at the end of the drive, complete with water-dribbling nymphs, and parked alongside the other cars. His wife’s BMW was first, with Vanessa’s Porsche too close alongside: there was a dent in the rear bumper and it was mud-caked from the drive from Yorkshire.
The door opened as he approached and the butler emerged to greet him. “Good afternoon, Sir.”
“Afternoon Holmes.”
“An easy journey?”
“Comparatively so.”
“Lady Margaret is upstairs in her dressing-room,” reported Holmes. “Lady Vanessa is at the dower house, with your mother. I was asked to serve tea at four, if you arrived in time.”
“Fine,” said Buckland. He might as well get it over with at once, he thought.
Leaving the butler to bring his things from the car, Buckland entered the house. He crossed the panelled, marble-floored hall to the wide, curving staircase to the first floor. With the canniness of a true Scot – until he died and despite immense wealth, the old man had every day set aside £1 in a savings box – his grandfather had sought good advice, and the oils lining the stairway and hallways were all genuine and good. The last insurance valuation, two years earlier, had estimated their worth at £1,000,000. Indestructible, thought Buckland again.
Margaret was reading, her feet up on a chaise-longue, when he entered her room. She looked up and smiled. “I thought I heard the car,” she said.
He crossed to her and kissed her briefly on the cheek, a friendly gesture. Which is what they were, he thought, continuing the newly found honesty. Good friends: they had been for as long as he could remember. Margaret’s ambassador father owned an estate at Histon. They had played together as children, spent prep school holidays in each other’s homes and then, in their teens, gone to her parents’ villa at Ostia for combined family holidays. She’d been at Girton, reading modern languages, when he’d been at Trinity, and weekends and long vacs had been like schooldays again, either here or at Histon. There had never been a positive decision to get married. It had always been understood by both families that they would, inevitably: never if, always when. Indeed, there were times when Buckland had imagined his father fonder of Margaret than he had been of him.
It had been a mistake, trying to turn a friendship into a marriage. It was something they never spoke about, but he believed she felt it as much as he did.
The magazine she was reading was Italian and he decided she looked Latin, dark-haired, dark-eyed and with a sallowness to her skin unusual for an English woman. She was heavy-busted but otherwise slim, someone who looked after herself with careful diet and proper exercise. There were three horses in the stable, but she didn’t ride to hounds like Vanessa; Margaret was a gentle woman who thought foxhunting cruel and obscene. The two women never argued about it.
“How’s London?”
Even their conversation had a friendly politeness about it, he thought. “Traffic-jammed and dirty and full of tourists.”
“Which should fill the hotels.”
Buckland had gone to the window, looking out towards the lake and the smaller house for the approach of his mother and sister. He turned sharply, momentarily forgetting there was no easy way she could know and that it had to be an innocent remark.
“What’s the matter?” she said, frowning at his attitude.
“Nothing.”
She remained doubtful. “I was thinking of coming to London next week,” she said. “There’s the under-privileged children’s ball to arrange.” Margaret took seriously her chairmanship of the organizing committee.
“That would be nice,” he said. Buckland never took women to their Sloane Square house but she always warned him she was returning. “How’s mother been?”
“Matriarchal,” said Margaret shortly. “She’s insisting that Holmes makes separate accounts for the smaller house.”
“Why?”
“Something about maintaining her independence, I suppose.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I told her that. She said that was how she wanted it and that was the end of the conversation. She’s very good at ending conversations.”
From the window he caught movement and turned to see his sister and mother approaching: the old lady was using a stick and supporting herself against Vanessa’s arm.
“They’re coming,” he said.
Margaret swung her legs off the chaise-longue. “Something worrying you?” she said. “You seem distracted.”
“I’ll tell you downstairs.”
The other two women were already in the drawing-room when Buckland and his wife arrived. Irene, Lady Buckland was sitting stiffly on the sofa arranged before the fireplace, the stick immediately before her and both hands cupped over its handle. It was a pose, like the way she had walked through the garden. She wore a full-skirted black dress, long-sleeved and high-necked and her completely white hair was coiffured and tightly ridged in waves around her face. There was no make-up. She fixed him with sharp, blue eyes and said, “Good afternoon, Ian.”
“Mother,” he said. He crossed to kiss her: she even smelt slightly of lavender.
Vanessa was in the window seat, looking into the room with a faint expression of amusement. She was a yellow-haired, heavily featured woman, high cheek-boned and prominent-nosed. She was too large-breasted to wear the silk shirt without a bra; Buckland didn’t know if it were fashionable, but he thought the skirt too short, as well.
“Hello brother,” she said.
“How’s Yorkshire, Vanessa?” Her husband, Sir Rupert Hartland, farmed one of the largest estates in the county.
“Big and boring,” she said. She was aware of her mother’s head turn of disapproval but she still lighted the cigarette.
The maid came in with the tea, setting it before Margaret. She poured and Vanessa handed it round. His sister should definitely have worn a bra, decided Buckland. “I’m glad we’re altogether,” he said. Something’s arisen which we need to talk through: because of the share composition of the company, I’m going to need your approval.”
Lady Buckland said, “The company! Can’t the board handle it?”
“Not this,” said Buckland. He put his tea aside, untouched, and explained the trading difficulties that Buckland House was confronting, aware as he spoke of his mother stiffening further and of the complete attention of Vanessa and his wife.
“Are you telling me that we’re in financial difficulty?” demanded the old lady.
“No,” said Buckland. “I’m saying that there have been setbacks, that we have a running problem and that to solve it I want to dispose of the liner fleet.”
Red patches of anger picked out Lady Buckland’s cheeks. “Your grandfather founded that fleet,” she said. “Your father raised it to something greater than either Cunard or P & O!”
“Both of which have minimized and trimmed their liner commitment,” said Buckland. “There’s no place for passenger ships any more: not ships like ours, on routes like ours. We’ve got a heaven-sent opportunity to dispose of something draining us financially and settle out debts.”
“No!” said his mother positively. “I shall not agree, under any circumstances. The fleet is an integral part of Buckland House and shall remain so.”
“Then you’re prepared to risk the entire company?” he said. Apart from himself, she held the largest single apportionment of controlling shares: her agreement was essential.
“What are you talking about?”
“What I’ve already explained. We need money. And the bank is insisting upon tighter control and re-structuring before they will allow us to have it. If our losses continue – and if we retain the fleet, it’s inevitable that they will – then that insistence will increase.”
“They can’t control the company,” said the woman stubbornly. “We do. And there’s not a thing they can do about it.”
“They control the money,” said Buckland patiently, knowing it would be wrong to lose his temper. “We can’t operate without their funds.”
“Go to other banks.”
He shook his head. “No one else will lend us working capital if they know we’ve already been refused by our existing merchant bank.”
“Is this your fault?” demanded the old lady.
“Mother!” protested Vanessa, just ahead of Margaret.
“There was never a conversation like this in the drawing-room of my house when his father and grandfather were alive.”
Buckland hesitated, confronting the question and remembering the honesty of the drive from London. He supposed the answer was yes. “I am the chairman of the board,” he said. “If you want to make the accusation, then I take the responsibility.” He had imagined embarrassment at the confession, but he didn’t feel it.
“I’m disappointed,” said his mother.
“I accept that, too,” said Buckland. “What I’m trying to do is stop a worsening situation.”
“They are wonderful ships,” said the old lady nostalgically.
“They’re a thing of the past,” argued Buckland.
“Is this the only way?” said Vanessa.
“Yes,” said Buckland. “It would completely reverse the situation.”
“It seems common sense to me,” said Margaret loyally. “The ships are only a small part of the company, anyway: getting rid of them won’t affect anything, overall.”
“It’s the tradition,” insisted the old lady. Her voice was weakening.
“Which we can no longer afford,” said Buckland, deciding it was time to be forceful.
“I won’t oppose it,” said Vanessa.
“Neither will I,” said Margaret.
Lady Buckland put her forehead against the handle of her stick, another theatrical pose. She said, “I want to think about it.” She looked up at the two other women, making her choice, and then said, “Margaret, help me back to the house.”
Buckland and his sister stood watching his mother leave the room on Margaret’s arm. When the door closed behind the couple Vanessa turned and said, “How long has she been doing the Grande Dame?”
“I’ve not been as aware of it as I was today,” he said.
“I suppose at seventy we must allow her an occasional eccentricity.”
“Think she’ll come around?”
Vanessa shrugged. “I believe her, about being disappointed: the company – every part of it – has always been a very personal thing.”
“The ships should go.”
“If those are the figures, then I accept that. It’s still unfortunate.”
“Don’t you think you should wear something under that blouse?”
She cupped both hands, lifting her breasts. “I’m rather proud of them.”
There had always been an intimacy between them in all things. “You’re wobbling about like melting jelly,” he said.
“Mother complained too …” Vanessa stopped, giggling. “She said I should wear a bodice. I don’t suppose she’s going senile?”
“I wondered if you’d bring someone down with you,” said Buckland.
“I might be promiscuous, brother dear, but I wouldn’t flaunt it quite so openly under mother’s nose.…” She smiled again, confessionally. “There’s a gorgeous lawyer just joined the hunt. You’ll have to meet him soon.”
“How’s Rupert?”
Vanessa sighed heavily. “Full of crop yields and putting cows to bulls and wheat cultivation problems. How are things with Margaret?”
“Usual.”
“She’s very long suffering.”
“It works. Rather well, actually. We’re both happy.”
“What if she met someone else; or you did?”
The question surprised Buckland. “I’ve not really thought about it,” he admitted. “I can’t imagine it happening to either of us.” He couldn’t think of anything he’d like less than being permanently linked with Fiona Harvey. He actually enjoyed being with Margaret during their weekends. And was looking forward to her coming to London.
“I suppose it’s the same between Rupert and me,” she conceded. “To change would be too much trouble.”
Buckland had never contemplated a change but he didn’t want to pursue the conversation with his sister. “How long are you staying down?” he said.
She shrugged. “There’s a rumour that the royals are riding with us at the end of the month,” she said. “I intend being back for that.”
“Snob,” he said.
She laughed. “I enjoy getting my picture in Tatler.”
So did he, thought Buckland. There hadn’t been one for some time. “You opening up the London house?”
“Haven’t made my mind up yet,” she said. “It would mean bringing staff from Yorkshire and Rupert always makes a fuss about that. My husband is bloody mean.”
“Margaret’s coming back with me; why not stay with us in Sloane Square?”
“I might do that,” she said. “What’s this rich American like who’s interested in the ships?”
“I haven’t met him yet,” said Buckland.
“If things are as bad with the fleet as you say they are, it’ll be a coup for you to pull it off,” said Vanessa.
“Yes,” agreed Buckland. “It will.” He was looking forward to the negotiations.
The deer were being culled, so the dinner was venison. Afterwards they played bezique. Only Lady Buckland was interested and she won. Buckland escorted her back to her own house and went in with her, to ensure that the nurse would know she had returned.
“There’s no way to avoid the fleet being sold?” she demanded in the hall. It was the first time it had been mentioned during the evening.
“No practicable way, no.”
“This will be the end of it, won’t it? There’ll be no more sacrifices?”
“Yes,” he said. “This will solve everything.”
“I’ll agree to it then,” she said. “I don’t want to, but I’ll agree.”
“Thank you.”
“You said you were to blame.”
“I accepted the blame.”
“Don’t play with words,” she said irritably. “You were left an empire. Don’t you dare risk losing it.”
“I won’t,” said Buckland.
“I mean it: what we’ve got is too precious to lose.”
The women had retired by the time Buckland got back to the main house. Margaret’s dressing-room was between their respective bedrooms and he heard her moving around in it, so he we
nt to the linking door: she’d taken off her dress and was wearing a thin robe, cleaning the make-up from her face. Her hair was loose and he thought she looked far more attractive than Vanessa. Fiona, too, for that matter.
“Mother’s agreed,” he said.
“Vanessa and I talked about it after you’d gone: we thought she would.”
He went further into the room and sat on the chaise-longue she’d occupied earlier. “I do feel personally responsible,” he said.
She turned away from the mirror. “Is it very serious?”
He smiled, trying to dispel the sudden depression. “Not if the liner sale goes through,” he said.
Her movement had sagged the dressing-gown and he saw she was naked beneath. She was aware of his look and stayed as she was, waiting.
Buckland rose awkwardly. “Goodnight, Margaret,” he said.
“Goodnight, Ian,” she said, disappointed.
He kissed her, as fleetingly as he had done earlier in the day, and carefully closed the door behind him into his own room. He really wished he could think of her as something more than a friend.
The hierarchy – and therefore the rule – of the Saudi royal family is established through interlocking polygamous marriages, half-brother to half-brother, half-cousin to half-cousin. Had his father lived, instead of dying in an air crash at the age of forty, Faysel would have been directly in line for the throne, third behind two elder brothers. But with his father’s death, his uncle’s family had gained supremacy. His cousins had come ill-prepared and late to such an inheritance: the Faoud dynasty feared they could lose the throne as quickly as they had gained it, particularly now that succession was no longer an automatic right but increasingly determined by ability. Of all the challenging factions, the Faysel family was viewed as the most dangerous.
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