The Last Baronet

by Caroline Akrill

  Lavinia frowned. She looked at Anna in annoyance. ‘I don’t know why you are telling me about these people. I don’t know any of them. And I don’t think I have yet had my morning tea. When did you say Vivian will be back?’

  Mavis was waiting for Anna outside the door. Her mascara and powdered lids we no longer the glory they had been when she arrived for her breakfast shift. Anna closed the door and leaned against it. ‘I can’t get through to her at all. It’s as if she doesn’t want to know.’

  ‘Not doesn’t want to, Miss Gabriel, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. She can’t. Her brain won’t process the information; it won’t retain anything at all. You mustn’t worry about things you can’t change. We’ll do the grieving for her. We’ll all grieve for Sir Vivian. We all loved him; he was a wonderful man. He was the last of a dying breed and he was a true gentleman, he absolutely was.’

  ‘You know what we should do, Mavis, don’t you? You are familiar with the procedures? After your experience with Arnold,’ Anna said. ‘You will be able to advise us?’

  Mavis looked nonplussed. ‘After my Arnold? Oh, God bless you, Miss Gabriel, my Arnold isn’t dead! My Arnold left of his own volition. It was probably pre-ordained but I couldn’t see it. “Mavis,” he said, “It’s no good, I just can’t live with you any longer. I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried, but this is the end of the road and I’m off.” Oh yes, he went off, Miss Gabriel, and he didn’t go off alone, I might tell you; he went off with Glenda Franklin from the Happy Baker in Stradishall High Street. Not what you might call an oil painting, in my opinion, and a bit overweight, I have to say it, but a very nice sort of person in her way, very jolly, always a smile for everybody, the sort you could warm to, although it hurts to admit it, it really does.’ Mavis blotted her eyes, took Anna by the arm and steered her back to the kitchen. ‘Now, Miss Gabriel, we have brunch to prepare and guests departing, and the grieving and the procedures can wait. Sir Vivian isn’t in a hurry to go anywhere and the least said the better for the moment. Let’s put a brave face on it and get everybody looked after and leaving in a happy frame of mind. “Smile in public, weep in private,” that’s what my Arnold used to say, and he was right about that, he really was.’

  THIRTY SIX

  ‘Henry, I am speaking to you!’ As they drove out of the Rushbroke gates, Penelope looked across at her husband in annoyance. ‘Are you with me, Henry, or are you already in Snape?’

  Henry, who had indeed been thinking of Snape; of an unencumbered future spent arranging books on shelves, patted Penelope’s knee in a friendly manner. ‘No, I am not in Snape, my love, I am listening to every word to have to say. Speak up, Penelope. Fire away.’

  ‘I was just saying that it would be nice to keep in touch,’ said Penelope. ‘I should like to keep in touch with you, Henry. I shall want to know how you are. I would not want you to think that because I am going to Tunbridge Wells I no longer care what happens to you. I would like there to be a line of communication open between us. I want to keep in touch.’

  ‘Of course you do, my darling,’ said Henry agreeably. ‘Of course you want to stay in touch, and so do I. Just because I was planning to murder you, just because I had arranged to escape to a new Penelope-free life in Snape, doesn’t mean that my feelings have changed, does it? Of course it doesn’t! We must certainly stay in touch, my dearest, what had you in mind? A quarterly letter? A twice-yearly telephone call?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Henry, as this Christmas treat of yours was such a good idea, and has been so very enjoyable, I thought it would be rather nice if we agreed to meet up here again next Christmas. If it proved successful, we might make it an annual event. It would provide us with an enjoyable opportunity to catch up. Something to look forward to. Christmas might be rather dreary otherwise.’ Henry Lamb beamed at his wife in delight. ‘Now that really is a commendable idea, Penelope, an absolute brainwave! Oh, clever, clever, Penelope, what a diamond you are! We shall make the reservation the minute we get home!’

  ‘Separate rooms, of course,’ said Penelope.

  ‘Separate rooms, of course,’ Henry chuckled. ‘Separate rooms, Penelope, my precious jewel, definitely.’

  *

  ‘Dad, are you really serious about buying the grey horse?’ Emily wanted to know. ‘When I talked to Nicola about it, she said it was suicidal in traffic.’

  ‘Not any more it isn’t.’ This was the truth. Many horse boxes and vehicles had passed them as they had made their way back from the hunt and the grey gelding had not turned a hair. Tony, with his loose reins and insecure seat had seemingly worked a miracle. Nicola had been astonished enough to dig a little further into his background and had discovered that the horse had always had male owners until his latest owner; a girl who had herself been already traumatised by a traffic shy horse. A sensitive beast, it had not taken the grey gelding long to pick up the fact that, to his rider, a vehicle was a threat. So his traffic problems had become a gender issue. The grey gelding liked to be ridden and handled by men. Nicola remembered how he had tried to follow Rupert up the lane, when they had first met. How he had immediately taken to Tony. Wisely, she did not communicate her findings to the owner, who had agreed to sell the horse for a fraction of his worth. It was a marriage made in heaven. ‘I have already agreed a price and Nicola tells me it’s a fraction of his true worth. She’s going to livery him here at the Rushbroke Home Farm.’

  ‘And what will you do with him when the anti’s persuade the government to ban hunting?’ Emily cuddled the youngest Shih Tzu protectively. ‘Because they will, Dad. It’s only a matter of time. It really is a gross sport; it’s totally barbaric.’

  ‘I’ll show jump him, probably. Nicola says he also has potential as an eventer.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Mary, thinking of the unlimited potential for future disasters that this represented. ‘It’s great that you’re buying one of the stable apartments,’ Tom said with enthusiasm. ‘I think that’s an ace idea.’

  ‘Especially as you are going to get to live in it,’ said Emily sourly.

  ‘You will have to keep it clean and tidy,’ said Mary. ‘I shall expect the kitchen and the bathroom to be spotless. We shall be visiting regularly to check.’

  ‘No parties. No fags. No orgies,’ said Tony.

  ‘As if I would.’

  ‘You’ll be kept too busy for any of that anyway,’ Tony said, ‘if I know Rupert.’

  ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you all about houses,’ said Mary. ‘Because now Tom is leaving home, and as Emily goes to Uni next year, I think we should start looking for a smaller property.’

  ‘Move?’ Tony was astonished. ‘Move from The Glebe? I thought you liked the house.’

  ‘I have never really liked The Glebe,’ admitted Mary, ‘and I should very much like to live in an old house; a house with a bit of history to it; something with character.’

  ‘But what about us?’ Emily protested. ‘We shall need to come home in the holidays. We won’t be away all the time.’

  ‘I realise that. I thought we could find a place with an annex. Somewhere separate for you and Tom, so you can have a bit of independence,’

  ‘Sounds great to me,’ said Tom.

  ‘Sounds OK, I suppose,’ Emily agreed grudgingly.

  ‘Well, this holiday has certainly brought some changes,’ Tony marvelled. ‘Tom’s got himself a job, Emily’s got herself a dog, I’ve got myself a horse; we’ve paid a holding deposit on the largest apartment in the stable block, and now your mother’s going to find us a new house.’

  ‘And Gran’s in the rose bed,’ added Emily.

  ‘Where she will be very, very happy,’ said Mary confidently.

  *

  ‘I should like you to arrange a return visit at Easter, Harry.’ Clarissa was sitting on the front seat for the first time, and enjoying the experience. Harry, although he was wearing his dark suit, had dispensed with his chauffeurs cap.

  ‘Mr Truscott senior…’

&n
bsp; ‘Len,’ interposed Harry.

  ‘Len,’ agreed Clarissa, ‘Len tells me that the detailed plans for the apartment will be ready for inspection by then. We shall need to advise him of any small alterations and adjustments we would like him to make. We shall need to keep a close eye on the project, Harry; we shall need to ensure that all our requirements will be met.’

  ‘We certainly will,’ said Harry. ‘We shall need to keep a very close eye on the project indeed.’

  ‘And I thought we might be married at the same time,’ Clarissa said. ‘Mr Truscott…’

  ‘Rupert,’ interposed Harry. Married. He felt a little tug of joy at the word. Married to Madam! Harry Featherstone married to Clarissa Maitland-Dell!

  ‘Rupert,’ agreed Clarissa, ‘says they will have a licence for civil ceremonies by then. Perhaps you and he could liaise regarding the details. We shall require just a simple ceremony, Harry, nothing too extravagant. Just some extremely tasteful flower arrangements for the ceremony room, followed by a delicious meal in the private dining room would be ideal, don’t you think?’

  ‘You can leave the arrangements in my capable hands, Clarissa,’ said Harry warmly. ‘Perhaps I could ask Len if he would be my best man.’

  ‘You could indeed,’ agreed Clarissa.

  ‘Were you thinking of inviting the Pomeroy family?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Clarissa said comfortably. ‘They are such a wonderful family, and it will be the perfect opportunity to be reunited with dear little Oscar. I have become very fond of Emily, despite her odd appearance, and I know he will be very happy with her. She did save his life, after all.’ She glanced at the family through the window. They were already fast asleep on the back seat, totally exhausted by their first experience of a holiday; snuffling and snoring in their Shih Tzu dreams. ‘They have had such an enjoyable time,’ she said fondly. ‘They are all quite worn out.’

  ‘We have all had an enjoyable time,’ said Harry. ‘It has been extremely congenial. A most wonderful holiday indeed.’ The holiday had indeed turned out to be a resounding success. And now he was to be married to Clarissa at Easter. An Easter wedding! Who would have thought it! Who would ever have believed it! He patted Clarissa’s hands, so small and delicate and clad in Harry’s favourite eau-de-nil leather gloves, so soft and elegant and nice. He would have to buy her an engagement ring. He would enjoy that. They would choose it together.

  ‘On our next visit, Harry, I am thinking of asking Mrs Sholto…’

  ‘Mavis,’ interposed Harry.

  ‘I am thinking of asking Mavis…’ agreed Clarissa.

  ‘If she would be a witness?’ supplied Harry.

  Clarissa gave a mischievous little smile and put a daintily gloved hand on Harry’s knee. ‘What a very good idea, Harry, but actually I was thinking of asking her if it would be possible to have astrological charts drawn up for all the family.’

  *

  In the chapel, Anna lit the altar candles. She sat on one of the little chairs. She had felt the need for solitude. She needed time to think.

  So much had happened it was difficult to get her thoughts in order. Vivian had made provision for Nicola with a hefty insurance policy payable on his death. Whatever else he had not paid, he had kept up the payments on this. Anna thought back to the millstone and the mere and wondered if they would have paid out on a suicide? She doubted if Vivian had ever perused the small print. And what now for Lavinia? She was not safe to leave alone in the apartment. She wondered if Norman would move in with her. She thought he probably would. He would certainly look after her. He loved her. She may not remember him but it did not worry him. ‘I remember her,’ he said, ‘I have remembered her for almost forty years, every day of every week, of every month, of every year. And that is enough. After all, she has the rest of her life to get to know me again.’ Well, Anna thought, thank heavens for Norman.

  To discover that Norman Simkins was almost certainly her father had been a shock and a surprise and she was still coming to terms with it. Vivian had been extraordinarily pleased, as had Rupert. They still had to introduce Norman to Grace, who was coming to stay at Rushbroke for a week before she returned to school. They planned to close Rushbroke Hall for two weeks after New Year to rest and plan the work schedule for the following year. Grace would move to Rushbroke as soon as the gatehouse lodge was ready for occupation. She couldn’t wait. She may have lost one grandfather but she had gained another; one who would help her with her violin and piano studies. The musical talent had skipped a generation, Anna thought ruefully, yet she had her own creative talent, her cooking and kitchen organizational skills and they had certainly been tried and tested during the Christmas break. She had not been found wanting, and she was happy about that.

  They had known that Vivian was fading, of course they had. Nevertheless, his death had been a shock. But really, if he had to die, Anna supposed he could not have picked a better time. Perhaps he had chosen to give up the struggle, to let go, now that everything was in place; the business up and running and likely to be a success; Nicola moving into Home Farm with David Williamson; Norman reunited with Lavinia, Rupert and Anna restoring the Gatehouse Lodge to make a home for themselves and Grace. The chapel restored and ready to receive him. She could imagine him rubbing his bony, spotted hands together. ‘All done,’ he might have said. ‘All sorted. Best not to hang around.’ She smiled at the thought.

  Sitting in the little chapel with the flickering candles casting their uncertain light on the memorial plaques and the tombs of long departed Rushbrokes, Anna felt a rush of gratitude toward her adoptive parents, without whose legacy none of this would have been possible. With her eyes tightly closed and her hands clasped together (as if God might actually be listening; as if he might even be capable of passing on her message) she sent them silent but heartfelt love and thanks. After that, as a paralysing chill seeped into her bones, peace seeped into her soul at last.

  The King James Bible was open on the lectern. Her message, her final message, was ringed in black. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excelleth them all.

  *

  ‘No!’ Nicola faced the Reverend Nicholas Beresford Barnes in steadfast and determined defence of the doorstep. ‘You are not coming into this house with your talk of retribution and damnation! You are not welcome here! Go away!’

  She would have closed the door but the Reverend had been a replacement window salesman before taking holy orders and was skilled at preventative measures. ‘If you can bear to hear me out,’ he said, regarding her with gravity, having inserted himself neatly between the door and the frame, ‘I have come to ask if I might be allowed to conduct the funeral service at St. Saviours.’

  As Nicola made no move, he said, ‘The Rushbrokes have maintained the church for centuries, it is their church, just as much as it is ours. It will not be possible to hold the service in your own little chapel because the whole village will wish to attend. He has been their baronet, as well as yours, and they will wish to pay their respects. Already they have insisted that the new development be renamed in his honour: Rushbroke Avenue, Vivian Drive, Valentyne Close. We even have plans for a memorial plaque in the chancel.’

  And as Nicola still made no move to admit him, he said, ‘I promise that I have come here in peace. I have come in a spirit of humility. I have come to make amends. I have come to apologise. I… we, need Sir Vivian to come back to St. Saviours. He needs to know that he is welcome, that it is his church. He needs to know that he is forgiven.’ The Reverend Beresford Barnes added in a softer tone, ‘and so do I.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Nicola, ‘you had better come in.’

  *

  One week after a packed service at St. Saviours Church, Rushall St. Mary, conducted by the Reverend Nicholas Beresford Barnes, Sir Vivian’s ashes were interred in the Rushbroke chapel during a simple ceremony with appropriate readings from the Old Testament.

  The engraving on the slab, lifted with the most enormous difficu
lty and slotted into place by Len, Barry, Norman and Rupert, read as follows:

  SIR VIVIAN VALENTYNE RUFUS PERCIVAL ALGERNON RUSHBROKE Bt.

  1902 -1986

  THE LAST BARONET

  HE DIED AS HE LIVED

  IN GLORY

  According to Anna, God was most certainly present at the ceremony.

  About the Author

  Caroline Akrill has been a riding school proprietor, an equestrian journalist, a publisher and a hotel proprietor. She is the author of the best-selling Eventing Trilogy and her autobiographical anthology, Not Quite a Horsewoman has been continually in print since 1985. The Last Baronet is her first mainstream novel.

  You can find Caroline on Facebook.

  Acknowledgements

  For faith and encouragement I would like to thank Christine Lunness, Lesley Gowers, Gill Jackson, Chris Stafford and (for untiring efforts on my behalf) Jane Conway-Gordon. For unflagging support when things got tough I send blessings to my husband, James, and the Lehain family. To Emma James, who produced the lovely artwork for the cover, thanks for your care and patience in interpreting what was never a clear brief and for coming up with exactly what was required. Finally, my very special thanks to Karen Bush, without whose unstinting help and advice The Last Baronet would still be in a dusty cardboard box marked Caroline’s Unfinished Novel.