Master of His Fate

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  The Marsh had always intrigued him since the first time he had seen it. It was so full of mystery and old wives’ tales about smugglers and booty and the haunted parts where spirits came out after dark. The rising mists early of an evening and the shining sea which looked high in the sky from lower ground only added to the pleasure he derived. What pleased him so much these days was that Alexis loved the farm as much as he did and appreciated nature and all the wildlife.

  At one moment they stopped, and he turned her around to face him. He said, “I treasure this land of mine … my land, our land, yours and mine from now on. It will be the land where our children will grow up, and, one day, it will be theirs when we leave this earthly paradise.”

  Staring at him, looking into those cool, translucent gray eyes, she choked up, filled with love for him. Longing for the future he spoke about, her emotions flared, rendered her speechless. She could merely nod and hold him tightly in her arms.

  Twenty-four

  Mrs. Ward always sent a hansom cab for James when he was going to her house to do paperwork for her. It arrived at exactly three-thirty on Sunday afternoon.

  It was the same driver as usual; seemingly she had a special arrangement with the man who was to be available when he was needed.

  James sat back against the leather seat as the horses began to move, his mind focused on Mrs. Ward. He had noticed the worried expression in her eyes last night, when she had mentioned selling her shares. It had alerted him to problems. No doubt there was trouble ahead for her, and, unquestionably, it would be trouble with her brother-in-law. She had spoken about him several times and always in a dismayed, even sarcastic tone. James had perceived that there was great dislike between them. But then that was often the case in families when money was involved.

  James glanced through the window as they left the High Street and drove toward the city’s outskirts. Mrs. Ward’s house was on the edge of Hull, standing on a small promontory overlooking the North Sea.

  He liked her house, which was a small manor in the Georgian style, and he much admired her good taste. She had used lovely clear colors and antiques from the Georgian period. He thought it reflected her talent for creating warm, comfortable rooms.

  Within twenty minutes he was alighting from the cab. A second later Mrs. Ward was opening the front door to him, smiling as she ushered him inside the manor house.

  The entrance hall smelled faintly of lavender. As she led him toward the library he relaxed. It was always cool and quiet here; the tranquility reflected her disposition.

  Once they were in the library, she turned to him, indicated a chair, and asked, “Would you like a glass of lemonade, James? Or something else?”

  “Thank you, the lemonade would be nice, Mrs. Ward. It’s been quite warm today.”

  “It has indeed.” Georgiana Ward swung around, moved lightly across the room, her hips swaying slightly. Her dress was a similar blue to the gown she had worn last night; obviously it was her favorite color. Several strands of aquamarine beads were looped around her long, swan-like neck, matched dangling aquamarine ear clips. Her raven-black hair, upswept, added to the elegance of her appearance. For a moment, he was awestruck as she moved around lithely, with a dancer’s grace, going to the desk, picking up several notebooks, bringing them to him, then gliding over to a table, pouring the lemonade.

  Once she had handed him the glass, she sat down in the chair opposite and said, “Thank you for agreeing to come this afternoon. First of all, I trust you implicitly to keep my confidence, and secondly, I trust your judgment about financial matters.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ward, you can indeed trust me to be silent about what we discuss, but I’m not sure I can advise you on your financial affairs. After all, I’ve only ever done paperwork for you, paid your bills, and given you totals.”

  “That’s true. But you can also read between the lines, I think. I would like you to look at these two notebooks, which my husband gave me when he was gravely ill. He told me that if I wanted to sell the shares in his company, which he was leaving to me in his will, I should wait three or four years before doing that. He said the notebooks would guide me.”

  James nodded his understanding. “And do they do that?”

  “Yes and no. He valued the shares highly and put down what they would be worth now, not three years ago, when he was on his deathbed. Recently, I told his brother I wanted to sell the shares and quoted Preston’s valuation. Ernest, his brother, disagrees, and he will only pay half the amount.”

  “I see,” James said, his eyes narrowing, wondering if the brother-in-law was trying to cheat her, whether her late husband had overvalued his shares, or if the shipping company was not doing as well as he had expected. However, he remained silent.

  “Look at the book with the small number one on the first page,” Mrs. Ward now urged. “Then the second one.”

  He did as she asked, studying the books carefully, reading slowly, and then rereading certain parts of each book yet again. Once he had finished, he placed the two black leather notebooks on a side table and looked across at her.

  “I understand what your late husband did, Mrs. Ward. The first book explains the founding of the shipping company and its progress over the years, right up to his illness. The second one is a sort of … prediction … of what it will become and how the shares will grow in value.” James paused, stared at her. “That’s correct, I’m sure you will agree. Your husband is crystal clear in his writing and assessment.”

  “That was the way he was, and from what I know of the company today, it has succeeded as he predicted. Unfortunately, my brother-in-law doesn’t agree. He says it’s not in the black, it’s in the red, and that my shares are now worth much less.”

  “My advice to you is to hire a good—no, great accountant, one who can be trusted, and a solicitor who is also of good repute. They should sort this out for you.”

  “But I want you to do it,” she said somewhat vehemently, staring at him, her blue eyes flashing.

  “I would if I could, but I can’t. I work for my great-uncle. I have an important job and a great deal of responsibility. I could never devote the amount of time to your problem which is needed, I believe. Nor am I really qualified. You need seasoned men, honest men with the right attributes—” He broke off, looking at the window as lightning suddenly flashed.

  Mrs. Ward’s little white dog, asleep near the fireplace, awakened, started barking, and jumped out of the wicker basket.

  The dog ran to Mrs. Ward. She patted it and exclaimed, “Calm down, Polka, calm down.” But the dog kept running around her, still barking, obviously excited and alarmed by the noise.

  Lightning bolts flashed over and over again, and behind them, thunder rolled through the air, growing louder by the second. Georgiana hurried over to the French doors and looked out. She saw the sky darkening. Turning to James, she cried, “We’re in for a huge thunderstorm! It’s coming off the North Sea. Oh dear, I do hope my seawall will bear up under it.”

  “I can’t believe this,” James exclaimed. “It was a lovely sunny afternoon when I arrived. Now look at it.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she told him, “This is Yorkshire. One minute it’s a lovely day, the next a storm blows in and takes over, creating havoc. You’ll see, trees and bushes will be blown down and the flower beds destroyed. Nothing’s safe in its path.”

  Before he could stop her, she opened the French doors and stepped outside, the dog running after her.

  James jumped up, instantly filled with alarm as he went onto the terrace. Mrs. Ward was running down the garden path, heading for the seawall.

  “Come back!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Mrs. Ward, come back! The rain is starting.”

  Even as the words were leaving his mouth, he knew he had said the wrong thing. It was not merely rain but a deluge. And there was a high wind gathering speed that whipped the rain, turned it into a force to be reckoned with. Sheets of rain drenched him.

&n
bsp; When he finally reached the seawall, Georgiana was clinging to it, the little dog wedged between her feet. “Can you rescue Polka first?” she screamed, her voice almost drowned out by the thunderclaps.

  “I can,” James answered. He bent down and grabbed the little dog that was terrified and trembling. He pushed her down inside his coat, which was buttoned tightly. The dog struggled but he managed to secure her safely, and quite suddenly she snuggled against his chest and stopped trembling.

  He put his arms around Mrs. Ward and tried to pull her away from the seawall. But for a moment she wouldn’t let go, until he yelled at her. “We must leave. The rain is getting heavier. Come on. We will drown out here.”

  With one hand she held on to his arm, and finally brought the other around to grab the back of his jacket. Clinging onto each other, they endeavored to make it up the path, swaying from side to side, buffeted by the wind, which was already becoming a gale. They almost fell several times, but James was strong and he managed to keep them upright until they finally reached the terrace.

  Wrenching open the French doors of the library, they staggered inside and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Their clothes were sodden through, dripping water. But they were too exhausted to move and simply lay there trying to breathe normally, thankful they were safe inside the house.

  * * *

  It took a moment for James to gather his scattered senses, and then, pulling himself together, he opened his jacket and released the struggling dog. It shook itself vigorously, shedding rain, and ran across to the basket near the fire.

  Pushing himself up to his feet, James bent over Mrs. Ward and carefully helped her into a sitting position. She looked pinched. Her complexion was almost gray and her soaking-wet hair fell down around her shoulders in dishevelment.

  There was a stricken look in her eyes when she gazed back at him. He asked gently, “Do you think you can stand up?”

  She simply nodded and made a great effort as he brought her to her feet. “We must go to the kitchen,” she said. “It’s the warmest room on this floor.”

  James put his arm around her for support and led her across the library, out into the entrance hall, and down a corridor. The little dog came running after them.

  “It is better in here,” James said as they went into the spacious kitchen. There was a large fireplace in the hearth, with a range and an oven on each side. Heat permeated the room. As they drew closer to the fireplace, James asked, “Is it Mrs. Mulvaney’s day off?” He was referring to the motherly housekeeper who always made him feel welcome.

  “Not exactly,” Mrs. Ward replied. “She prefers Thursday. But her daughter is not doing well, after giving birth to another child. She needed to see her today, and I sent my maid Sonya along to help out. Meg, that’s Mrs. Mulvaney’s daughter, lives at the other side of Hull on the Scunthorpe Road. They were due back at six o’clock, but I don’t think they’ll make it. Not in this raging storm.”

  “I agree. So let me undo the buttons on the back of your dress, so you can slip out of it. In fact, I must shed my outer clothes as well.”

  After unbuttoning the afternoon dress she was wearing, James moved to the other side of the kitchen, turned his back, and took off his suit and his wet shoes. His shirt, vest, drawers, and socks were also wet, but he decided to keep them on for the moment, not wishing to embarrass her.

  Hurrying across the kitchen, Mrs. Ward announced, “I’m going upstairs. My brother-in-law always keeps a few things here. Maybe he’s left something behind which you can wear until your clothes dry.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ward.”

  Left alone, James went back to the fireplace, stood in front of it, needing the warmth of the flames behind the fireguard. It seemed to him that the pelting rain had gone right through his clothes and into his body. He was still shaking slightly, as he knew Mrs. Ward was. Getting themselves warm and dry was an imperative. Neither of them could afford to catch cold, which so often led to bronchitis, and even worse, pneumonia, such a deadly and often fatal disease in their day and age.

  Once he was feeling drier, James took the kettle off the hob, filled it with water, and set it back to boil. They needed hot tea with a shot of whisky in it. That was a good cure-all.

  Within a few minutes Mrs. Ward returned. She was wearing a thick dressing gown and dry shoes, and was carrying a man’s dressing gown made of wool.

  “I’m afraid this is the only thing that might fit you. The room he shares with my sister Deanna is at the top of the stairs. I left the door open. You can change in there, where you’ll have more privacy.”

  He nodded, strode out, clutching the dressing gown, and ran upstairs. He saw the open door at once and went in, noticed some shirts and trousers laid out on the bed, and knew they were for a smaller man. In the bathroom he was filled with relief as he stripped off his shirt and underwear and put on the dressing gown, which did fit him, although it was a bit short. Shrugging, he went back downstairs to rejoin Mrs. Ward, already feeling warmer.

  She was huddled in a chair in front of the kitchen fire. He noticed she still looked pale and drawn. “How about a cup of hot tea?” he suggested.

  “Thank you, yes.” She half smiled. “I noticed you put the kettle on. Mrs. Mulvaney keeps whisky in that cabinet over there. I think a drop of it needs to be in the tea. It’ll take the chill out of us.”

  Twenty-five

  It was almost six o’clock by the time they sat down in the beautiful upstairs parlor to partake of their tea, which, in fact, had become a light supper.

  Mrs. Ward had gone into the pantry off the kitchen and brought out a pork pie, a veal-and-ham pie, a leg of lamb, and a variety of cheeses. She had cut slices of the pies and meat for each of them, placed the cheese on a platter with bread and butter, and then made the tea. James had carried the tray upstairs, and she had followed with the bottle of whisky and a bowl of food for the dog that trotted behind her.

  The upstairs parlor was everyone’s favorite. It was a long, spacious room with a big fireplace and four windows overlooking the sea. At one end a piano took pride of place; at the other, there was an antique desk at which Mrs. Ward worked every day. The center of the room was filled with a huge sofa and several armchairs grouped in front of the fire. Although the room was quite large, it still had a sense of coziness and warmth because of the peach and cream colors used. Mrs. Ward usually entertained guests in this rather unique parlor, which was so welcoming.

  Now the two of them sat in front of the fire, eating the food and sipping their cups of tea, which James had liberally laced with whisky.

  Outside, the storm still raged and the sky was heavy with dark clouds, the sheets of rain slashing hard against the windowpanes. They both knew the weather would not change for a long time and that they were in for the night.

  At one moment, James said, somewhat hesitantly, “I don’t want you to think I’m prying, but why have you suddenly decided to sell your shares? You don’t have to answer that, if you prefer not to.”

  Mrs. Ward shook her head. “No, no, it’s all right. I can answer because I trust you. I don’t like my brother-in-law. To be honest, he’s sort of … well, he wanted me to have an affair with him. Much to my utter disgust and revulsion. I want to sell out so that I don’t have to deal with him in the future. I must put distance between us.”

  “I understand, and I’m appalled he would attempt to start something with you. His brother’s widow! It’s reprehensible.” A look of shock settled on James’s face, and he sat back, staring at her in sympathy.

  She said, “I’m going to leave Hull, James. But again, that’s between us. I will put this house on the market once I have sold my shares in the shipping company. I have a small house in London, and anyway, my entire family lives there. I’ve been a little lonely here since my husband’s death, I must admit.”

  “It can be difficult for a woman who is widowed.” He half smiled. “Widows and single women don’t get invited too much, do they?”


  Georgiana smiled. “Perhaps I do get a few more invitations than others, because I have a number of good women friends. However, I do miss my sisters and the intimacy of being with family. Deanna and Vanessa do visit me, and I also occasionally get to London. Yet I still feel isolated up here in Yorkshire.”

  “I shall be going back to London, too,” James volunteered. “But that’s something I’m not discussing with my aunt and uncle at the moment. Promise me you’ll keep my secret.”

  “Of course I will. But Marina indicated to me that Clarence had really been impressed with you. He wants you to become a permanent member of the family and take a high position in the shipping company.” A black brow lifted and she eyed him, curiosity reflected in her eyes, the color of pansies.

  “It’s a wonderful offer, and I told him I’d think about it,” James answered swiftly. “But I have a plan—” He broke off, realizing he was perhaps telling her too much.

  “What kind of plan?” she asked eagerly, obviously interested in him.

  “I want to work in a different area, not just shipping, but I’d prefer not to discuss it at the moment. I still have to work it out,” he improvised, holding himself back. He was aware she was infatuated with him, and he was considerably tempted by her.

  “You are very clever, James, and highly intelligent. I know whatever you decide to do with your life you will be successful. You have ambition and self-confidence, which are most important if you want to make it in this rather hard world we live in.”

  “That’s what my grandmother has always told me. She and my grandfather have encouraged me to work hard and to reach as high as I can.”