Fairfield Hall

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘I’ll get a doctor.’

  ‘Listen – please!’ Theo’s tone was urgent, demanding. ‘I’ve made a will. It’s – it’s in my pocket and I’ve sent a copy to my solicitor back home. You must do the same, you hear me? Make a will, chaps. Promise me, you’ll both make a will. And – and –’ his voice was getting weaker – ‘look after Aunt Annabel.’

  Bertie and Charlie glanced at each other.

  ‘We promise – we’ll do everything you say – but just lie back and save your strength. You’re going to be fine. You’ve got a Blighty one, old chap. You lucky devil, you’ll be going home.’

  Epilogue

  Lincolnshire, 10 March 2013

  A door banged making Tiffany jump. They had been sitting opposite the portrait of Lady Annabel whilst the guide told her the story. Outside, the winter dusk had turned to darkness and flakes of snow spattered silently against the window. The door at the side of the room opened and a young man entered. He was tall and slim with brown hair and brown eyes that twinkled merrily.

  As he strode towards them, the guide struggled to his feet, murmuring, ‘Ah, Mr Jamie, we were just—’

  ‘Hello, Mr Merriman,’ the newcomer greeted him cheerfully. ‘You still here? No – please – don’t get up.’

  Merriman? Was he . . .? Tiffany wondered.

  The older man sank back gratefully into the chair as the young man he had addressed as Jamie smiled at Tiffany. ‘And we have a visitor on this cold afternoon.’ As he held out his hand Tiffany got up and found her own hand enveloped in a warm, firm grasp. ‘James Albert Lyndon-Banks,’ the young man said, ‘but I’m usually known as Jamie.’ Tiffany could not prevent a gasp of surprise escaping her lips and her eyes widened.

  Jamie chuckled. ‘I can see that Mr Merriman has been filling you in on the family history.’ There was a pause as – reluctantly, it seemed – he released her hand and asked, ‘What brings you to Fairfield Hall?’

  Her gaze went once more to the portrait. ‘Lady Annabel. I’d heard about her and I wanted to see her for myself.’ Her voice trailed away as, once more, she was entranced by the beautiful woman in the portrait.

  ‘And have you heard the whole story?’ He glanced at Mr Merriman.

  ‘Not quite, Master Jamie. We’d just got to where the three young men went off to war. The first war, that is.’

  ‘Ah, then perhaps I can continue the tale. It’s high time you went home, Mr Merriman. I’ll get Perkins to drive you.’

  ‘Thank you, but there’s really no need.’

  ‘There’s every need. It’s dark and cold now and the driveway is slippery.’

  ‘Well, thank you, then, sir. I would be grateful.’ He turned to Tiffany. ‘Goodbye, miss. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.’ He gave a courteous little bow and Tiffany was sure that if he’d been wearing a hat, he would have raised it to her.

  ‘I’ll just sort out transport for Mr Merriman, but I’ll be back,’ Jamie said. ‘You’re not in a hurry to leave, are you?’

  ‘No, no.’

  He smiled and his eyes twinkled as he turned away, but he was back in a few minutes.

  ‘That was Raymond Merriman. His grandfather, Gregory, used to be gardener here.’

  ‘Are there any other descendants from Lady Annabel’s time still in the village?’

  ‘Oh yes, quite a few. The Broughtons are still at Chaffinch Farm.’

  Tiffany raised her eyebrows. ‘William came back from the war, then?’

  ‘Yes, he was wounded, but he married and had two children. I think he lived into his eighties. The Parrish family are still here. Josh never went to war. His family have turned the old smithy into a little museum and craft shop and, of course,’ he smiled, ‘the Jenkins family are still here.’

  ‘Harry survived?’

  ‘He was badly wounded when the earl was killed but Nancy nursed him back to health. He was invalided out of the Army, and they had three boys, two of whom still live in the village.’

  ‘And you’re related to the Cartwrights, aren’t you? Are any of them still around?’

  Jamie laughed. ‘Oh yes, they’re all over the place. They have Blackbird Farm as well as Sparrow Farm now. Now,’ he said, ‘let me show you the photographs of the three cousins when they went to war.’

  He led her closer to the huge portrait of Lady Annabel and pointed. ‘There, you see? We’ve put the photograph of them right next to her. We know that’s what she’d have wanted.’ There was a pause whilst Tiffany regarded the faces of the three cousins who had gone off to war together.

  ‘That’s Theo seated with Bertie and Charlie behind him,’ Jamie explained. The two were standing proudly, almost as if to attention, but she could read the fear of the unknown in the eyes of all three.

  ‘So did he tell you who came back?’ Jamie asked softly.

  Tiffany shook her head, her glossy black hair swinging. ‘No, but he said that Theo was wounded. That’s where we’d got to. Did he recover?’

  ‘Let’s sit down near the fire.’ He led her to the two armchairs again. When they were seated, his face sobered. ‘Sadly, no. Theo died of his wound at the Battle of Arras in a field hospital and is buried out there.’

  ‘So, Charlie was then the earl, was he? Or had he been disinherited?’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘No. Despite his sister’s wiles, James Lyndon never took any action to disown Charlie, whom he finally believed to be his son.’

  Tiffany frowned, still puzzled by the name of the young man sitting opposite her. She was sure he’d said James Lyndon Banks. And there’d been an Albert in there somewhere. So how . . .?

  James chuckled softly as he saw her puzzled frown. ‘Let me explain. The three cousins made wills leaving the Fairfield Estate to each other – well, sort of. Theo left it to Charlie – just in case there should be any more wrangling – and Charlie willed it to Bertie, for while Bertie couldn’t inherit the title, he could inherit the estate.’

  She began to understand. ‘So,’ she said huskily, already feeling Annabel’s grief. ‘Charlie didn’t survive the war either and – and—’

  ‘My great-grandfather – Bertie Lyndon Banks – inherited the whole estate and the house, much to the disgust of Dorothea.’

  Tiffany smiled. ‘I bet!’ She paused and then asked softly, ‘What happened to Charlie?’

  ‘That was really tragic. He was one of a relatively small number of men killed in March 1918, in one of the very last battles the ‘Chums’ were to fight in. Sad, isn’t it, to think that he’d gone through all that only to lose his life when the Armistice was almost in sight?’ His glance now went to the portrait. ‘Poor Lady Annabel. She was distraught. She was married to Ben Jackson by then and their son was born only days after she heard the dreadful news. I think his name was Richard, but after Annabel died in the early sixties we lost touch with the Jackson family.’

  ‘Mm,’ Tiffany murmured, her gaze still transfixed by the lovely face in the picture.

  ‘Shame, really,’ Jamie went on. ‘My father can just remember Lady Annabel, but my grandfather knew her well. He adored her and never tired of telling us about her. She was an amazing woman. I only wish I’d known her.’

  ‘Mm, so do I,’ Tiffany said, more to herself than to the young man sitting opposite her. His intense gaze was on her face and, reluctantly, she looked away from the portrait to look into his eyes.

  Now it was her turn to take up the story, but there was a little more she wanted to know about Fairfield Hall before she did so. ‘What happened to Dorothea?’

  ‘When her brother was killed,’ James explained, ‘she refused to accept that Charlie was his heir. She did everything she could think of to contest it, but when she lost her son, she never recovered from the shock. Poor woman. She committed suicide in 1919, shortly before the dowager countess’s death. But the loss of her son, James, and then two of her grandsons, hastened Lady Elizabeth’s death too, I think. She was a very brave lady. It was she who made sure that the wills o
f both Theo and Charlie were honoured and that Bertie inherited the house and the estate.’

  ‘So she openly acknowledged him as her grandson, then?’

  ‘Yes, and she lived just long enough to see him move into Fairfield Hall with his wife, Emmot Cartwright.’

  ‘Did Lady Elizabeth ever see Annabel again? I got the impression they were fond of each other.’

  ‘Just once before she died and after that, Annabel used to visit the village frequently. The locals idolized her and she’d never forgotten them. She still advised Bertie about the estate and when he and Emmot had a son, Robert Albert, she was the baby’s godmother. They also took steps to have the hyphenated surname Lyndon-Banks made legal. So, here we are. Robert was my grandfather. He only died in 2005, so of course I knew him well. My father now runs the estate, but one day it will pass to me, though I hope that’s a long way off yet. My dad’s only sixty.’

  She smiled at him. ‘So, now it’s my turn.’ Again she glanced at the portrait. ‘Annabel and Ben only had the one son, Richard Charles. Annabel and Ben took over Meadow View Farm when her grandparents died. She lost Ben in 1951, but she lived another ten years. Richard took on the farm and married a WAAF during the war – the Second World War, that is, of course – but she was killed in the bombing of the airfield where she was stationed. He didn’t remarry for a long time – not until the mid-fifties – and then to someone much younger than him. He and Christine had two sons, Edward, who still runs the farm, and Stephen, who became a successful lawyer in London.’

  ‘Do you happen to know what happened to Annabel’s father, Ambrose?’

  Tiffany pulled a comical face and laughed. ‘Oh, he got his title eventually. He was knighted in the twenties for services to the fishing industry and he’d also made a lot of his steamships available for the war effort. A lot of them were lost, I believe.’

  James was looking at her, his head on one side. ‘You’ve done an awful lot of research into the family. Is that why you’ve come today, to find out about the other side or . . .’ He stopped as a thought struck him. ‘What did you say your name is?’

  Tiffany chuckled – a delicious, infectious sound. ‘I didn’t.’ There was a mischievous pause before she added, ‘It’s Tiffany. Tiffany Jackson.’

  Now it was James’s turn to look surprised. ‘So you’re . . .?’ He pointed to the portrait, not quite sure of the relationship, but realizing now that there must be one.

  Tiffany nodded. ‘I’m Lady Annabel’s great-granddaughter by her marriage to Ben Jackson. I’m Stephen’s daughter.’

  ‘How wonderful.’ He reached across the space between them and grasped her hand in both of his. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. Do go on, please. I want to hear everything.’

  ‘My grandfather – her son Richard – lived to be ninety. He only died five years ago, but his second wife – my grandmother – is still alive and living at the farm, though my Uncle Edward and his wife and son run it now. My uncle was born three years before Annabel died. He can’t remember her, though he has vague memories of being taken to visit an old lady in bed. Whenever we visited, Grandpops – that’s Richard – used to talk about her a lot, but Annabel would never talk about her life before she married Ben Jackson, he said, nor even about Charlie.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘Perhaps it was all too painful. I’m ashamed to say that my family – the Lyndons, that is – didn’t treat her very kindly, even though she rescued the estate. But the villagers worshipped her.’

  Tiffany nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘My own great-grandfather – Bertie – idolized her,’ Jamie went on. ‘She’d been very kind to him and his mother when everyone else shunned them. And it was he who insisted that both Ben and Lady Annabel should be buried here in Fairfield churchyard.’

  ‘And during the night before her funeral the villagers lined her grave with flowers. Is that right?’

  ‘It is. How did you know that?’

  ‘My grandfather told me and he also said that everyone in the village – from the youngest babe in arms to the oldest inhabitant – attended her funeral service.’

  ‘They did. My father remembers that day vividly though he was only eight at the time. But it made such an impression, he’s never forgotten it.’

  Jamie was gazing at her now, frowning a little. ‘Obviously, we’re connected by all this, but – but we’re not related in any way, are we? We’re not cousins, or anything.’

  Tiffany laughed. ‘No, no. I’m descended from Annabel and Ben Jackson, not James Lyndon.’

  ‘And I’m descended from the wrong side of the blanket.’ But his grin told her that he wasn’t in the slightest bit bothered.

  It was warm and comfortable by the fire and Tiffany didn’t want to move, but she had to. Reluctantly, she stood up and James rose too. ‘I hope you’re not driving far tonight. It’s very icy and more snow is forecast.’

  ‘No. I’m staying at The Lyndon Arms tonight. We’ve come to stay the weekend at the farm’ – she grinned – ‘for Mother’s Day, you know, but when I said I was coming here today, Dad insisted I should stay overnight in the village.’

  ‘Then will you stay to have dinner with us? I’m sure my mother and father would love to meet you.’

  Her long, sleek black hair framed her lovely young face as she looked into his eyes. Unless she was very much mistaken, he didn’t want to let her go. And she didn’t want to leave.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, her dark, violet eyes dancing. ‘I’d love to stay.’

  As he ushered her towards the door, she glanced back once more towards the painting that had been the focus of their attention and their conversation. ‘So, the portrait survived?’

  ‘Ah, now Mr Merriman could have told you all about that. When Dorothea gave instructions for it to be destroyed, his grandfather and Thomas Salt took it down to the village. Jabez made a box for it and it was hidden for years in the church. Of course, when Bertie inherited the Hall, he had it reinstated here in the dining room.’

  Again, he too gazed at the lovely woman in the picture. ‘You know, you’re very like her,’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh, I hope so, Jamie. I really do hope so.’

  The Clippie Girls

  Margaret Dickinson

  Rose and Myrtle Sylvester look up to their older sister, Peggy. She is the sensible, reliable one in the household of women headed by their grandmother, Grace Booth, and their mother, Mary Sylvester. When war is declared in 1939 they must face the hardships together and huge changes in their lives are inevitable. For Rose, there is the chance to fulfil her dream of becoming a clippie on Sheffield’s trams like Peggy. But for Myrtle, the studious, clever one in the family, war may shatter her ambitions.

  When the tram on which Peggy is a conductress is caught in a bomb blast, she bravely helps to rescue her passengers. One of them is a young soldier, Terry Price, and he and Peggy begin courting. They meet every time he can get leave, but eventually Terry is posted abroad and she hears nothing from him. Worse still, Peggy must break the devastating news to her family that she is pregnant.

  The shock waves that ripple through the family will affect each and every one of them and life will never be the same again.

  ISBN: 978-0-330-54431-3

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  Fairfield Hall

  Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dick
inson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.

  Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-seven further titles including Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed and Reap the Harvest, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy. Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county, but in Tangled Threads and Twisted Strands the stories included not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham. The Workhouse Museum at Southwell in Nottinghamshire inspired Without Sin and Derbyshire formed the backdrop for Pauper’s Gold. Part of the story in Suffragette Girl took place in Davos, Switzerland, but Forgive and Forget centres wholly on the rich history of the beautiful city of Lincoln. A visit to the wonderful National Tramway Museum in Crich, Derbyshire, was the inspiration for The Clippie Girls, set in Sheffield during the Second World War.

  For Fairfield Hall the setting returns once again to Lincolnshire, with the magnificent Gunby Hall being the inspiration for the house in the story.

  ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON

  Plough the Furrow

  Sow the Seed

  Reap the Harvest

  The Miller’s Daughter

  Chaff upon the Wind

  The Fisher Lass

  The Tulip Girl

  The River Folk

  Tangled Threads

  Twisted Strands

  Red Sky in the Morning

  Without Sin

  Pauper’s Gold

  Wish Me Luck

  Sing As We Go

  Suffragette Girl

  Sons and Daughters

  Forgive and Forget

  Jenny’s War

  The Clippie Girls

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS