Persuade Me

by Juliet Archer

  ‘No, take it. I’ll just need it back a week on Monday, when term starts.’

  Jenny grinned. ‘For your opening lecture to the first years? They’re always full of it when they come into my office afterwards – you’re so good at getting them to relate to nineteenth-century Russian literature. How does it go again? “Would you give up everything for your lover …”’

  ‘“Would you give up everything in your life – family, friends, your place at this university – for your lover?”’ Anna said softly. ‘“Anna Karenina did. She ignored the advice of those closest to her and left everything she had – husband, child and social position – for Vronsky. When it all went wrong, she threw herself under a train.”’ A pause. ‘“Tragic heroine – or selfish fool?”’

  ‘Brilliant opening to a brilliant lecture!’ A wry chuckle. ‘Of course, the students who have given up their place at Bath & Western University for their lover aren’t there to hear it, but you certainly make an impression on the students who are. I’ve always meant to ask you – which one do you think Anna Karenina was?’

  ‘A selfish fool.’ The response was automatic, a consequence of subtle indoctrination since childhood. Besides, if Jenny knew what had happened all those years ago, she’d realise it was the obvious response from a woman like Anna Elliot.

  A woman who’d followed the advice of those closest to her: to keep her family, friends and place at university – and give up her lover instead.

  Chapter Two

  Sir Walter Elliot ran an elegantly manicured fingertip over the faded gold lettering on the cover of his most treasured possession: Burke’s Peerage & Baronetage, 106th edition, Volume One. Published shortly after his wife’s death, it had become a trusty anchor in the storm-tossed sea of his life, a symbol of hope in a darkening world; a world where, increasingly, people worshipped the false god of celebrity in preference to the true and solid worth of an hereditary title.

  He turned to the page where the red satin bookmark had taken up permanent residence and read the words he knew by heart: ‘SIR WALTER WILLIAM ELLIOT, 8TH BT, of Kellynch, Somerset; b 5th April 1953 … m 1975 Princess Irina Grigoryevna Petrova (d 1998), dau of Prince Grigori Ivanovich Petrov, of Paris, and has: Elisabeth Irina, b 1978; Anna Elena, b 1982; Mona Katerina, b 1984 …’

  He let out a little sigh. The absence of a son to inherit his title had always been a severe blow, but at least he could be proud of two of his daughters: Lisa, made in his own image, tall, golden-haired and utterly beautiful, the only one who understood him; and Mona, incomprehensibly freckled, something of a disappointment until she made a respectable marriage to Charles Musgrove and produced two fine boys. The Musgrove family might not possess a title, but they had a nine-hundred-acre farm, a decent-sized manor house and generally clear complexions.

  Which left Anna: small and dark and studious like her mother; but, unlike her mother, unable – or unwilling – to find a suitable man. And, since she’d started living with that Smith woman and her layabout of a husband, showing a rebellious streak that would no doubt manifest itself at the meeting today. He shook his head sadly. It had all started so well! The degree at Oxford and trips to Russia that he’d magnanimously funded – out of the trust fund that Irina had purposely set up, but even so … (He’d never understood why Irina sold the Petrov diamonds and invested the proceeds for the girls’ education – unless it was to favour Anna, who was always going to need more than her fair share.) The PhD that he’d tolerated, so long as Anna earned enough to support herself … But then, instead of doing something useful with her life and finding a desirable husband, as Irina had, she’d become a lecturer at the Bath & Western University! Oxford itself would have been preferable, and further away … ‘My middle daughter’s an Oxford professor, you know. Always was a bit eccentric.’ Thank God Irina couldn’t see her favourite daughter now, mixing with the working class and – on the rare occasions that she visited Kellynch – dressing as scruffily as one of her students …

  A car sweeping past the library window roused him from his reverie. His nearest neighbour Minty – or Lady Russell, to use her formal name – in her vintage Rolls; like him, she was a stickler for appearances. In fact, they had so much in common that he found himself wondering why they’d never married. He could see several advantages in such an alliance. As the widow of a mere knight, she’d always been more than willing to look up to a baronet; she dressed with a certain style and, as she often reminded him, on a much smaller budget than Lisa; and, from the far side of a dimly lit room, she could easily pass for forty-five.

  Then he remembered the downside. As his wife’s closest friend and confidante, she had an unfortunate habit of imagining what ‘dear Irina’ would have thought about everything; her hair was as grey as dust and she refused to contemplate any sort of flattering rinse; what he called the necessities of life, she termed pure extravagance; and, last but by no means least, she was too old to bear him a son, a scenario that had suddenly become a distinct possibility, thanks to–

  ‘Walter, darling!’

  Minty, somewhere behind him. He hadn’t heard her come in, but he could smell her perfume – Je Reviens, or ‘I’ll be back’. Wasn’t that a famous line from a film? He could vaguely recall the actor, a splendid figure of a man with an unfortunate guttural accent … Yes, he reflected, dear Minty had been as good as her word, or rather her perfume’s word; over the years she’d been back time and again to Kellynch, worldly wisdom and well-meant advice always at the ready.

  He placed Burke’s carefully on a nearby secretaire, got languidly to his feet and proffered a silk-smooth cheek for her kiss. ‘Still wearing that old Jaeger jacket, Minty? It looks almost as good as new, you must tell me how you do it. I’m afraid I feel rather wretched this morning, my masseuse phoned to say–’

  ‘Masseuse?’ Minty’s eyes widened in horror, then narrowed; she had a deplorable lack of concern for crow’s feet. ‘Walter, we discussed this last time I was here and I’m sure you said you’d dispense with her services immediately. Imagine what dear Irina–’

  He interrupted her with a sharp, ‘She wouldn’t have minded in the least.’ Sometimes, just sometimes, Minty overstepped the mark and assumed that the widow of old Sir Reginald ‘Rusty’ Russell knew better than the 8th Baronet of Kellynch. He went on, ‘As I was saying, my masseuse phoned to say she’s delayed, so I’m not at my best. Which is a great pity, in view of the stressful nature of this meeting–’ He broke off. ‘That reminds me, Mona’s not coming. The usual.’

  Minty gave a little snort of derision. ‘That girl needs a decent doctor or a firm husband, and she doesn’t seem to have either. Heaven knows I’ve tried to tell her often enough, but I’ve lost all patience with her since she told me to keep my opinions to myself.’ She went over to the window and peered out. ‘Any sign of Anna?’

  ‘No. She’d better not be late.’ He glanced across at Minty defiantly. ‘I’ll be going for my massage as soon as Cleopatra arrives.’

  ‘Cleopatra?’ She made a little moue of distaste. ‘Oh, the masseuse.’

  ‘A real find,’ he said, flexing his wrists. ‘I feel ten years younger already. Lisa’s started having her too, I’m sure you’ll see a difference.’

  As if on cue, the library door swung open and a slim, bronzed goddess in black leggings and a long cream cashmere sweater made her entrance. Lisa, his loveliest and most loving daughter. He gazed at her fondly as she glided over to Minty, kissed her lightly on the cheek and came to stand next to him.

  ‘Coffee’s on its way,’ she said in a high, breathless, Marilyn Monroe voice that had shattered countless male hearts, ‘and I’ve had a text from Cleo. She’ll be here by half-past, thank God.’

  ‘Excellent, darling, let’s make a start.’

  Minty frowned. ‘But it’s only ten to, and Anna’s not–’

  ‘You can tell her what she’s missed,’ he said coolly.

  Then, like a pair of synchronised swimmers, he and Lisa crossed to the
sofa facing the window and sank gracefully into it, while Minty perched on a high-backed chair opposite.

  Walter adopted a slightly troubled look and began, ‘As you both know–’

  Immediately, there was a half-hearted tap at the door and the latest in a long line of unsatisfactory housekeepers tottered into the library with the coffee tray. He’d stopped trying to remember their names; Minty handled the whole boring business for him, recruiting them from the surrounding villages, recording their hours, dispensing their wages and dealing with the ghastly tax people. They always started off suitably grateful to work at Kellynch – then, after a month or two, the rot would set in. The excuses ranged from advanced decrepitude – dodgy hips and dicky hearts were the favourites – to family revolt – ‘my son says I’m working for a pittance and he’ll report you to the national minimum wage helpline’ – or transport problems, with heavy-handed hints that Walter should meet the cost of a taxi. It was a sign of the times; people judged the privilege of serving a baronet and a job at the local Tesco by the same lamentable criteria.

  When the creature had slopped coffee into the cups, handed round a plate of limp-looking ginger snaps and sloped off again, Walter resumed his troubled look. ‘As you both know, I take my responsibilities very seriously, very seriously indeed. Noblesse oblige is my way of life. And so, in the midst of another recession, with the estate farm yields well down on last year, I feel I must set an example and be even more of a shining light in these dark times. I’ve accepted–’

  He broke off in irritation as the door opened again and his middle daughter came into the room – looking so like Irina that it hurt, ever so briefly.

  And that husky voice, so like Irina’s. ‘Am I late? I thought–’

  ‘You’re not late, Anna dear, Walter started early.’ Minty patted the chair next to hers.

  His other daughters would have come straight over and kissed him, but not Anna. He watched her sit down beside Minty and rub her temples, as if the very sight of him produced a headache.

  He cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, I’ve accepted an offer that will bring in a substantial amount of income over the next year and allow me to finance the necessities of life.’ He paused long enough to hear Minty’s sharp intake of breath, then continued in a louder tone, as if to quell any thoughts of insubordination, ‘I’ve been approached by the couple who’ve bought Graham Farley’s garden centre. To make a proper go of it, they need to rent more greenhouse space and they’d also prefer to live off the premises, but not too far away. I’m sure you’ll agree that Kellynch meets their requirements admirably.’

  Lisa’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘You’re not suggesting they live here, with us?’

  He smiled his reassurance. ‘Of course not, darling, I’m thinking of The Lodge.’

  ‘The Lodge?’ Minty’s jaw dropped, rather unattractively. ‘But Walter, it needs a lot of work, and you may not recover the cost of that in the rental, especially if the business fails and they only stay a few months. Who are these people anyway? What if they bring …’ her eyebrows straggled upwards, ‘an undesirable element to Kellynch?’

  Walter spread his hands in an eloquent gesture of despair. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about this, Minty, and talked it over with my professional advisors.’ He put a tiny but audible emphasis on the word ‘professional’. ‘Shepherd feels that we can get away with the minimum of refurbishment and still charge the maximum rent. And the couple themselves, Sophie and Edward Croft, come with very solid references.’

  Minty pursed her lips. ‘Croft … Croft … I wonder if they’re related to the Ashford Crofts?’

  ‘I’ll look it up in Burke’s.’ He reached towards the secretaire.

  ‘They can’t be,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’d have heard about it from Tuppy if any of them were planning to run a garden centre.’ She gave a little shudder.

  Walter reluctantly withdrew his hand. ‘I’ve made my own enquiries, of course,’ he went on. ‘In Uppercross, where they’re renting one of those poky cottages on the main street. Roger Musgrove thinks they’re rather dull, but very pleasant and hard-working. And, as he’s Mona’s father-in-law, I’m perfectly happy to take his opinions into account – in spite of the fact that he never trims that revolting beard of his. Anyway, he says things should liven up soon, Sophie’s expecting her brother from Australia. Somebody quite famous apparently, a scientist who writes books, which sounds respectable enough. Except he’s called Woolworth … Woolworth … Wasn’t that the name of that young upstart we had to sort out in France, Minty?’

  ‘Wentworth,’ came a low voice.

  Walter looked across at his middle daughter. ‘What?’

  ‘Rick Wentworth.’

  He had to strain to catch her words. ‘Speak up, anyone would think you couldn’t bear to say his name.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, Walter, when you remember the circumstances,’ Minty said crisply.

  Walter allowed his lip to curl. He remembered the circumstances extremely well: the collar of his favourite Eton shirt twisted completely out of shape as the young upstart hissed some very unsavoury words in his ear. ‘Well, if it’s the same man, which I doubt, we’ll have to hope he’s mended his arrogant ways. But in any case I’m not renting anything to him, just his sister. Everything’s signed and the builders are starting work on The Lodge next week, which is why I wanted you all to know.’

  He gave Anna an accusing look. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Woolworth?’

  Anna made no answer; it was taking all her self-control not to run out of the room. She stared down at her lap, outwardly composed but secretly chasing wild thoughts around in her head.

  A famous scientist who wrote books … from Australia … a sister called Sophie. It must be him. He’d talked about Sophie, all those years ago … To think that his sister would be living in The Lodge and running the garden centre on the main road between here and Uppercross … She decided she would make an effort to meet her. It would be – interesting. And it might help her to prepare for meeting him.

  Her father was saying, ‘At Cleopatra’s recommendation, of course. An excellent place for the more advanced treatments, a sort of revival of its former glory days as a spa town. And I won’t be too far away if there’s anything to sort out at Kellynch, which there usually is.’ He paused and gave a little sigh.

  Anna closed her eyes; she knew perfectly well what was coming next.

  ‘Noblesse oblige,’ he murmured, savouring the words like nectar. ‘Noblesse oblige.’

  Then Minty said, ‘At least you’ll see a lot more of Anna.’

  Anna looked up, blinking in confusion. Was her father moving to Bath? She could feel the blood draining from her face.

  Minty went on, warming to her task, ‘You could even see if the flat below hers is still vacant. Bennett Street’s so handy for everything and Jenny Smith charges a very reasonable rent.’

  Anna’s confusion turned to undisguised horror; but, as usual, Walter didn’t appear to notice. He glanced impatiently at his watch, stood up and crossed the room to the large ormolu mirror over the fireplace. ‘Definitely …’ he paused to study his reflection from several angles, while Anna held her breath for his next words, ‘not. We have our standards and I guarantee that they’re a far cry from anything that Smith woman might aspire to.’ He turned to Lisa with a brilliant smile. ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ve booked us into The Royal Crescent Hotel.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so,’ Lisa muttered. ‘If we have to go to Bath and not London, then I’m certainly not slumming it.’

  Anna went over in her mind what she’d just heard – blocking out the unkind reference to Jenny, knowing from experience that retaliation was pointless. The Royal Crescent was only a short walk from Bennett Street, but her work would take her several miles in the opposite direction, and her social life even further away, metaphorically speaking … She felt her shoulders relax; in reality there’d be little chance of their paths crossin
g and, with any luck, Walter and Lisa would be too busy enjoying their five-star surroundings to parade themselves around Bath like C-list celebrities.

  Minty leaned forward and glared at Walter. ‘The rent from The Lodge and a few greenhouses won’t go very far at The Royal Crescent. Quite frankly, I’m astonished that you’re even considering living in Bath when you’ll still be paying for the upkeep of this enormous house.’

  Walter ignored her and fixed his cold blue eyes on Anna. ‘We will, of course, expect to see you occasionally. Although I find it incomprehensible that a daughter of mine wishes to waste her life being a university lecturer, I’m not above offering her a helping hand with her career. I imagine the head of your department will be honoured to receive an invitation to dinner from Sir Walter Elliot, 8th Baronet.’

  Anna smiled sweetly at him. ‘As she’s a committed socialist, I imagine she’ll be anything but.’ She had no intention of letting her father disrupt the measured pace of her life in Bath. It had been years since she’d let his bullying – there was no other word for it – affect her. Still, might as well show some interest; and, after all, forewarned was forearmed. She said, ‘When do you–’

  Lisa cut in with, ‘Here’s Cleo now, coming up the drive. She’ll have to do me first, I’ve an appointment with my stylist at one. Party at Pen’s tonight, and my hair’s a complete and utter mess.’ She gave her perfectly groomed mane a petulant flick; then added, in Anna’s direction, ‘They won’t mind if you tag along. You can do the driving, I’ll be having a few drinks.’

  Just as Anna opened her mouth to object, Walter intervened. ‘I’m afraid she’s wanted at Uppercross, darling. Mona’s not well and it’s Harvest Festival tomorrow morning at St Stephen’s, someone has to take the boys and Charles is off fishing as usual.’ He half-turned to Anna. ‘And you really need to go there this afternoon and make their harvest baskets. The boys want a dinosaur theme, nothing too taxing.’