This was her day for the school run and she was carefully keeping an eye on the clock as she worked on a new design. Abbie was using a template to apply gold leaf to a piece of black silk, which she hoped to make up into a beautiful clutch purse, when there came a tap on the door.
As Linda never troubled to knock, she leaped from her stool, thinking she’d forgotten the time and it must be Joan Sanderson. Aimée’s teacher had brought her daughter once before when Abbie was held up by a customer on Linda’s day off. She was very kind and helpful in that respect, and was becoming quite a good friend. But on opening the door she came face to face with a stranger, a man in his late twenties or early thirties, looking decidedly hassled.
‘Hi, sorry I’m late. I know the appointment was for two o’clock but I got held up by traffic. Andrew Baxter.’
Abbie politely shook the proffered hand, frowning in puzzlement. ‘What appointment would that be, exactly? I haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about.’
He gave a grunt of annoyance. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Are you saying Elaine didn’t let you know I was coming?’
‘Elaine?’
‘The agent,’ he answered impatiently, as if he really shouldn’t need to explain.
Abbie considered this in thoughtful silence for some seconds. The man, she noticed, was tall, lean but muscular, with cropped dark brown hair rather spikily cut, piercing grey eyes, angular chin and a wide mouth that wasn’t doing much smiling right now. ‘Would that be the estate agent just along the road here?’
‘For someone wishing to sell their business, you don’t seem to be quite up to speed,’ he commented, rather caustically in Abbie’s opinion.
Only the slight raising of her eyebrows revealed her irritation. ‘That might be because it isn’t for sale.’
He glared at her, eyes darkening like storm clouds. ‘What are you saying ‒ that you’ve taken it off the market, that I’ve wasted my time driving all this way from Dumfries for no reason?’
Abbie tried a smile, hoping to soothe his growing temper. ‘Actually, it was never on the market, not so far as I was concerned, although my brother might believe otherwise.’
‘So this is a family feud?’
‘You could call it that. I recommend you vent your wrath upon him. But do please come in and I’ll put the kettle on. You must be worn out after such a long journey.’
‘I don’t have time for tea parties. Is this shop for sale or not?’
‘Not,’ she said, again attempting an apologetic little smile. It didn’t work.
‘Well, thanks for nothing,’ he roared as he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
‘Goodness,’ Linda said. ‘And which northeast wind blew him in?’
‘A Scottish one. Well, Elaine the estate agent, apparently, thanks to my brother. To be fair, he has driven a long way for no reason, as he was at pains to point out. Robert neglected to inform me that he’d put the shop on the market, despite Dad’s agreement to allow me the summer to prove myself, let alone that someone was actually coming to view it.’ She gave a little sigh, as if trying to calm her own temper. ‘Believe me, he won’t get away with it. I shall call on Elaine the estate agent right now, before I pick up Aimée, and make sure we don’t have any more unpleasant viewers barging in.’
Linda went to the door to look down the road. ‘I think he’s gone in the Ring of Bells for a consoling drink.’ Then turning to Abbie with a teasing smile in her eyes, she said. ‘He was rather good-looking, though, wasn’t he?’
Abbie blinked, then laughed. ‘Absolutely gorgeous.’
That evening Abbie went at once to speak to her father, briefly explaining what had happened. His response was not encouraging. ‘I very much doubt the property will sell quickly, so there’s nothing lost in putting it on the market.’
‘But I thought we had an agreement. So why is Robert being allowed to undermine my efforts, and without any discussion with me? You know full well I’ve been working my socks off these last weeks trying to get the business back on track, with some success, by the way.’
‘Go back to your job in Paris, Abbie.’ Her brother’s voice from the door brought her swirling about, fresh anger erupting inside.
‘Don’t you ever presume to tell me what to do, or send prospective buyers round without telling me.’
‘The house is far more important, even if we don’t actually own it, which I’ll admit came as something of a shock. However, we are apparently entitled to live out our lives here, which I fully intend to do. My family surely has that right.’
Tom gazed thoughtfully upon his son, as if for the first time beginning to question his motivation. ‘Actually, it was your mother who had the right to spend her entire life here. I didn’t know that myself until I read it in her will. Whether or not that right automatically passes on to any of us is the point in question, for which I don’t yet have a clear answer.’
‘Why would we not? Who is there to object?’
‘Since I don’t know who granted her that right, I really couldn’t say, although I did receive a letter from someone laying claim to the house.’
‘Who the hell was that?’
‘No idea. Not only did I not recognise the name, I couldn’t even read it. It was simply a blurred scribble.’
Robert was instantly suspicious. ‘Ah, someone trying it on, some fraudster or other.’
Tom frowned, ‘You could well be right.’
Abbie wondered how a supposed fraudster could have learned that Carreck Place was not actually theirs, but more important issues were concerning her right then. ‘Nor do you have the right to put the shop on the market when I’ve been granted this summer to make it work,’ she quietly but firmly pointed out.
Robert’s response was to give a snort of derision. ‘You’re wasting your time. Even if you had the brains to operate a business it would not resolve the problem.’ His condescending attitude enraged her all the more.
Her father said nothing, his expression having gone quite blank, no doubt once more locked in his own grief. Abbie lowered her voice to a hiss, anxious not to upset him further yet quite unable to let the matter drop so far as her brother was concerned. ‘If you think you can destroy my efforts as well as blame me for Mum’s death, do not for one moment expect me to roll over and helplessly submit. I’m a grown woman now with a mind of my own and you can rest assured I’ll fight you every inch of the way.’
Having issued this bitter remark, which hurt her almost as much as it did Robert, judging by the wide-eyed shock on his face, she walked out of the room straight into Fay, who had clearly heard everything as she hovered outside. Her sister-in-law at once took Abbie into her arms. ‘Don’t be upset. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to sound so unfeeling.’
‘But he won’t even give me a chance.’
‘Robert’s really worried about the financial situation; that’s all it is. I’ll speak to him, I promise. I’ll persuade him to cool it and give you some time.’
‘Thanks. I’d appreciate that,’ said Abbie, and the two women exchanged another hug, even as the rumble of angry voices started up again in the library.
Unable to face further dispute that evening, Abbie arranged supper for herself and Aimée to be taken in her own room up in the attics. That was obviously where she belonged, with her views of no more value than those of the servants who used to occupy these quarters, of which apparently her grandmother had been one. She knew deep inside that the courage to stand up to her brother had come from hearing Millie’s story. If a nursemaid could face a revolution and end up owning a house like this, surely she too could achieve something worthwhile.
After a largely sleepless night, as soon as Abbie had delivered Aimée to school the next morning she called in at Kirkby’s, the family solicitor, to make an appointment for later that morning. If she had a battle on her hands, then she
would need all the help she could get to fight it.
When finally she arrived at the shop, a few minutes after nine o’clock, she was met at the door by Linda, smiling and winking at her in an odd sort of way.
‘He’s back.’
‘Sorry, who’s back?’ Her mind still on the family row, and what she needed to ask the solicitor, Abbie wasn’t picking up the blatant hints Linda was giving her.
‘The would-be buyer, Andrew Baxter. He’s waiting for you in the office.’
‘Is he indeed? We’ll see about that,’ said Abbie and, metaphorically rolling up her sleeves, she marched into the back where she found the man strolling about the stockroom as if he owned the place, or soon intended to.
‘If you were hoping that I’d changed my mind, then you couldn’t be more wrong.’
He turned towards her to offer the ghost of a smile. ‘Ah, Miss Myers, I assure you I’ve called only to apologise for my rudeness yesterday.’
She’d quite forgotten how incredibly handsome he was, and for a moment found herself mesmerised by the softness of his grey eyes, which seemed entirely sincere. This morning he was wearing a navy blazer and grey slacks; there was a slight stubble on his chin which seemed to add to his attractiveness. It was a long time since a man had left her tongue-tied ‒ since that day she’d first met Eduard. Closing her mind to the thought, and reminding herself she was no longer a naïve young girl, she tartly remarked, ‘How very generous of you. But as I explained yesterday, this shop is not for sale, nor will it ever be if I have any say in the matter.’ Although right now, she seemed to have none at all, so how did she manage to sound so positive?
‘In my defence I would say that I’ve had rather a difficult time in recent months with one thing and another, and my patience is at a low ebb.’
‘As well as suffering from a long, tiring drive.’
‘Indeed.’
She looked at him more carefully, noticing for the first time the shadows beneath his eyes indicating a lack of sleep, and the cheekbones that were perhaps rather too prominent, as if eating had also been an issue. Maybe he too had problems, as did everybody, she supposed, and was surprised to find herself experiencing a touch of sympathy for the man. ‘Apology accepted. Would you like that tea now, or do you prefer coffee?’
He visibly relaxed, his smile widening which for some reason caused her to warm to him even more. ‘I wondered if perhaps I might offer you lunch, or maybe dinner, as compensation for the distress I caused you.’
Slightly startled by the offer but nonetheless curious to know more about this man, she gave a little shrug. ‘Okay, why not? Lunch would be lovely.’
They agreed to one o’clock at the Ring of Bells, and as Linda overheard these arrangements being made as he left, she gave a wry smile and a flicker of her eyebrows.
‘Don’t start,’ Abbie warned. ‘Or read anything into it. It’s just lunch, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Linda repeated with a giggle, then after a slight pause. ‘But he’s still gorgeous.’
Abbie walked back into her office and closed the door, choosing not to answer. Men, gorgeous or otherwise, were definitely not on her wanted list right now.
‘So what can I do for you, Miss Myers?’ the solicitor politely enquired, after having offered his condolences over the loss of her mother, and enquired after her young daughter. ‘She’s in the same class as my son. Gary is quite taken with her, and has been showing off his new-found knowledge of a few French words.’
Abbie laughed. ‘Aren’t kids wonderful the way they soak everything up? Just like sponges.’ Including the unhappiness between their parents, Abbie thought. Aimée spoke regularly to her father on the phone but did appear to be settling as she’d been much happier recently. The important task now was to provide her child with a secure future here in Lakeland.
Taking a breath, she launched into an explanation of the improvements she’d already made at the shop. ‘I’ve spoken to the bank manager, managed to wangle an extension on the overdraft, but this season is make or break. If I manage to pay that off, or at least get it well down, then I think the business would have a good chance of surviving. Sadly, I don’t have the support of my family in this enterprise. My father, urged by my brother, I believe, has put the property on the market without my agreement. So I’m in need of some advice regarding my mother’s estate. I’m wondering if I have any rights at all in the matter, if there’s anything I can do to persuade them not to sell. I really love the shop, and need to build a good future for my daughter.’
While she’d been talking, John Kirkby had been sifting through papers in a folder on his desk. Now he appeared to be skimming through a rather important looking document. ‘Haven’t you seen your mother’s will?’ he asked, looking up, a slight frown puckering his brow. ‘She made it some years ago, but it is no less valid for that. I have it here.’
Abbie shook her head. ‘My father was very much against sharing it with us. But he did say that she’d left everything to him.’
‘That is correct, barring one or two legacies. It was my late father, John Kirkby senior, who drew it up for her, and no doubt advised her at the time. One of those legacies concerns the jewellery business. I shall read you what it says. ‘. . . I leave my company Precious Dreams in its entirety, including the property on Carndale Road, to my daughter Abigail Myers in the hope that she will eventually make a success of something in her life and properly provide for my granddaughter.’
Abbie sat in a state of stunned disbelief. Had she heard correctly? Could this possibly be true? ‘Are you saying that the business, and the shop property itself, are mine, Mr Kirkby?’
‘John, please, and yes, I am indeed.’
She nodded, grateful for his friendship, of which she felt in sore need right now, but was completely at a loss for words.
He gave a wry smile. ‘Not set down in the kindest terms, maybe, but nonetheless your mother obviously wanted to do the decent thing by ensuring that your future would be secure.’
‘Why didn’t my father tell me this?’
He looked a little discomfited by the question. ‘At one time the family solicitor would be expected to read the will at the funeral, or soon after. That rarely happens nowadays, and the family is assumed to all have access to it. It is the role of the executors to see that all legatees are properly informed.’
‘Which he failed to do.’
‘Apparently so. I do apologise. Had I known . . .’
‘It’s not your fault. I believe we can put the blame upon my brother’s influence here. Dad is in a real mess, not thinking clearly right now. He doted on my mother, absolutely adored her, and never disagreed with anything she said or did. Not even when she threw me out of the house in my rebellious teenage years.’
‘Perhaps she wished to make up for that mistake,’ the solicitor softly remarked.
Abbie gave a small sigh as a single tear rolled down her cheek. ‘It would be good to think so, although she didn’t sound too convinced I could succeed, did she? I will, though. I’ll prove whatever small amount of faith she had in me was justified. And no one will stand in my way.’
An hour later over a ploughman’s lunch of cheese and crusty rolls at the Ring of Bells, Abbie found herself relating much of this information to Andrew Baxter. Why she was being so open and honest with a complete stranger she really couldn’t say. Maybe she simply needed to pour out all her frustration and he was a good listener. He certainly hadn’t interrupted, or said much at all beyond repeating his apology for his bad manners yesterday.
Finally she stopped her rant to take a breath and slice off a piece of cheese. ‘Sorry, I really shouldn’t be troubling you with family squabbles. It’s just that it came as a shock to find that I do actually own Precious Dreams, which was deliberately kept from me.’
‘I’m not surprised you’re annoyed. Whoever should have informed
you of this inheritance is the one at fault. No doubt you’ll have some strong words to say to him, or her, on the subject.’
Abbie thought again of her father still grieving for her mother, the pain no doubt worsened by learning he might have no right to remain in the house he’d believed to be his home for their entire marriage, and all the anger drained out of her. How could she possibly go on blaming him when he was suffering enough already? Her brother, however, was another matter, and she might well have further words with him on the subject. In fact, she rather looked forward to seeing his reaction when she told him that he had no rights over the business at all, that it was hers entirely to do with as she wished. At the same time, thinking of Fay, her heart quailed at the thought. She really had no desire to create yet another row. Why couldn’t the matter be resolved in a civilised fashion?
Letting out a sigh, she said, ‘I shall probably say very little, and hope that it all blows over. The family is still in shock following my mother’s death.’
‘I see. Was it unexpected?’
‘I’d really rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.’ How could she when she had no understanding of why Kate would take her own life? Abbie took a bite of cheddar instead, realising she was surprisingly hungry.
Andrew Baxter was nodding, his face etched in sympathy. ‘Then we’ll talk of other things, shall we? Shoes and ships and sealing wax . . .’
‘. . . cabbages and kings.’ Abbie laughed. ‘Actually, it’s talk of many things. Okay, so tell me what you would have done with my shop, had it been for sale?’
Setting down his glass, he leaned towards her, his voice taking on a note of enthusiasm that seemed to lift her own spirits along with his. ‘I run a small chain of fashion accessory shops in the borders, and I’m looking to expand into the Lake District.’
‘Fashion accessories?’ She paused, the bread halfway to her mouth. ‘You mean jewellery and handbags, the kind I’m selling now?’
The Amber Keeper Page 15
