Anna Jacobs (2 page)

* * * *

After the funeral, kept simple because of wartime restrictions, their lawyer read Grace’s will to them. It was short and contained no surprises. She had left everything she owned to her husband, except for her jewellery, which she had left to her daughter and a small bequest to her maid, Ruby.

When the lawyer had gone, Ernest took out one of his cigars and prepared it carefully for smoking. As he was about to light it, he said casually, without even looking at Serena, “Let me have your mother’s jewels and I’ll put them in the bank for safekeeping.”

She took a deep breath, finding it was one thing to plan rebellion, another to carry it out. “They’re—um—already in the bank, except for her wedding ring and gold locket.”

“Oh? Dewison didn’t mention anything about a recent deposit.”

“No. They’re in my own bank. Mother told me about her will and gave her jewellery to me a while back, because she knew she’d never wear the pieces again. I wanted to keep them safe.” Which was a lie. She’d wanted to keep them from him. There were a few pieces from her mother’s family which she loved and she didn’t want him selling them.

He’d been bending to light a spill in the fire but straightened up abruptly. His voice grew even quieter but a pulse beat rapidly in his throat, always the first sign of his anger.
“I wasn’t aware that you even had a bank account. Why did you not consult me about it?” The spill burnt his fingers and he threw it into the fire, not taking his eyes off her. “How much do you have in it and where did you get the money?”

She’d practised what to say, but couldn’t prevent her voice from wobbling as she answered, “The money came from birthday and Christmas presents mostly. It seemed foolish to leave it lying around when it could gain a little interest, and you made sure I never lacked for anything, so what would I have spent it on?” She despised herself for the flattery, but hoped it would soften his anger.

“How much do you have in the account?”

“Just over thirty pounds.”

He stared at her, his eyes gleaming like chips of ice in his pale, neat face. “Which bank?”

“The Yorkshire Penny Bank.”

He made a scornful sound. “That place is for housemaids and mill workers! You had better move your account to my bank so that I can be sure your money’s safe. You can get the jewels out tomorrow and bring them to me at the office.”

He was turning away even as he spoke, so sure was he that she would do as she was told. She didn’t reply but watched him go into his study where he sat most evenings, a habit started once her mother became bed-ridden. He would sip a glass of brandy as he read the newspaper, never seeming to need company. Serena said nothing, went back up to her room to think.

When he came home the following evening, he reminded her about the account and the jewels.

“I f-find the savings bank more convenient for my needs, thank you, Father.”

There was a long silence. He kept his eyes on her face, waiting for her to break, but she didn’t.

“On your own head be it, then, but I’m not leaving your mother’s jewels there. It’s a shabby little place and I don’t trust the people who run it.” His voice became steely. “You will fetch them for me tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

The following morning Serena pretended to come down with the influenza. Since the epidemic had already killed many people and had put fear into the hearts of those who were still well, he didn’t come near her for the whole week that followed. It was tedious staying in bed, but she had to gain some time because she wasn’t yet thirty, couldn’t yet gain control of her inheritance.

Even when she left her bed, she played the invalid for a few days, lying on a sofa in her bedroom, complaining of a headache and eating very little. That was easy enough to do because she wasn’t hungry, hadn’t been since her mother died.

She was not only bored but nervous. Fear skittered down her spine every time he walked up the stairs, in case he came into her room and insisted they go and get the jewels. But as the days passed and he still didn’t come near her, she began to put her plans into operation.

* * * *

The train stopped at Horton’s small branch-line station and Marcus Graye got out slowly, signalling for the porter, who was a female. He was forced to let her take his luggage because he was still too weak to carry both bags himself, but it went against the grain to let a woman do that and he couldn’t help asking, “You’re sure they’re not too heavy for you?”

She gave him a cheeky grin and he couldn’t help smiling back.

“Thank you, sir, but I’m quite used to it now. Do you want a cab? Vic Scott’s waiting outside. His cab’s a bit old but it’s clean.” Then, as they turned to leave the station, she caught sight of his right cheek and her smile faded. In a softer voice she added, “Copped one, did you? We’re all grateful to those who fought for us.”

He found it touching that she would come straight out with that remark, but then Lancashire folk had always been known for being forthright. “It’s not serious, just annoying.” The wounds had been deep but not life-threatening as long as they didn’t get infected, so he’d had to wait to get them tended, lying on a stretcher in a cold tent, hearing the screams coming from other more seriously wounded men.

He hadn’t thought himself vain, but now hated to see himself in the mirror. That side of his face would always be a mess of scars, though they said it’d look better when it healed properly. He’d had to let a beard grow, since he couldn’t yet shave the injured cheek, so that added to the strangeness of the face that looked back at him every morning.

Two weeks before the war ended, it’d happened. Several men closer to the blast than him had been killed by the same shell, poor devils, so he was fortunate really. But the deep wounds on the right side of his body and his right leg were taking a long time to heal and this journey had proved that he wasn’t as well as he’d thought.

But at least he was back in Blighty for good, invalided out early instead of having to wait months for a discharge, sent home to recover in his own time. He still found it hard to believe he’d survived the horror of four years of killing, unlike most of his friends. But it had left its mark on him, he knew, as it had on all who’d been out there.

Realising he’d been standing lost in thought while the porter waited patiently, he apologised and limped through the station entrance into the circular turning space outside. But there he had to stop again because seeing it proved that he really was home. It was two years since he’d been back to Horton and then only to bury his father, but he’d dreamed of it many a time and nearly wept as he woke up to find himself still in the trenches.

The horse cab was driven by another ex-soldier, who had an artificial leg from the stiff way he set his foot down. You got to recognise those who’d served. Something in the upright posture, perhaps, or the smart way they were turned out, or just the look in the eyes. They exchanged understanding glances then the other asked, “It’s Mr Graye, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You look familiar. Should I know you? I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

“We played together as lads during the school holidays. Then I went to work in Tinsley when I was a fourteen and didn’t come back to Horton all that often. I’m Vic Scott. My brother was one of the gardeners at the Hall, but he was killed in ’16.”

Marcus offered his hand. “You’ve changed but I do remember you now.”

“We’ve all changed, haven’t we? War does that to you. Mind your greatcoat.” Vic closed the door of the shabby but clean vehicle and swung himself nimbly up on to the driving seat.

The gentle gait of the elderly mare was soothing and Marcus leaned his head back thankfully, closing his eyes as the animal trotted the half-mile or so to his home. He must have dozed off because he was woken by cool air on his face and Vic’s voice.

“We’re here, sir.”

“What? Oh, yes. Sorry.” Marcus shook his head to clear it and stepped carefully down, grateful his companion didn’t try to help him, because he preferred to manage on his own. 

Vic was frowning at the untended garden and shabby cottage, which had no plume of smoke coming from the chimney. “Shouldn’t someone have opened up the place for you, sir, lit a fire at least?”

Marcus stared at what had once been the gatehouse and was now called the Lodge. His mother had been the younger of the two children born to her generation of the Lonnerden family who’d been squires of Horton for more than two centuries. She’d been bookish, had married late in life a man despised by the family because of his studious ways and lack of fortune. And then she’d died within the year in childbirth, leaving his father and a hired nursemaid to look after him.

Saul Graye had made it very plain that he hadn’t wanted the bother of a young lad in his old age, so Marcus had been sent away to boarding school when very young and had come home only for Christmas, Easter and the summer holidays, to run wild in the grounds of the Hall.

He realised he was getting lost in his thoughts again. “Sorry, Vic. I’m more tired than I expected. I didn’t have time to let the family know I was coming back. They needed more beds at the convalescent home, so turfed a few of us out early. I’ll nip across to pay my respects to my cousin and aunt, and ask Cook to give me enough food to last until tomorrow. It’s not far to walk to the big house if you cut through the kitchen garden. I can manage that. And perhaps you could come back tomorrow morning and drive me into Tinsley? I shall have to do some shopping and put an advert in the Tinsley Telegraph for a daily maid.”

The other man stared at him, pity in his eyes. “Didn’t they tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“About your cousin being dead.”

“John? Yes. He was killed in ’15.”

“Not John, Lawrence. He died last month. Influenza, it was. He never really recovered from being gassed.”

Shock made Marcus reach for the gatepost to steady himself. “I didn’t know. If anyone wrote to tell me, I didn’t receive the letter. I’ve been moving around a bit, though, from France to England, then from the hospital to a convalescent home.”

“Well, there’s only old Mrs Lonnerden left now. She hasn’t been well for a while, but I heard she had to be sedated when Mr Lawrence died. They’re all at sixes and sevens at the big house, from the sounds of it. Cook held things together after your uncle passed away, but she died in the spring and there are only two elderly maids left now.”

“Cook’s gone as well? Ah, I’m sorry for that, though she must have been nearly eighty, so she had a long life! The place won’t seem the same without her, though.
Why
didn’t they let me know?” He’d been very fond of Cook, who’d had a lot of time for a lonely, motherless lad when he was growing up. “What about Hill? Is he still running the stables? And Parker—is he still in charge of the gardens?”

“Hill’s looking after the horses though there are only a couple of them now, ones that were too old to go to war. Parker’s getting old and went to live with his daughter a few months ago, so Hill does a bit of gardening when he can. But he’s half-crippled with rheumatism. I take Mrs Lonnerden shopping sometimes.”

“Oh, hell!” Marcus rubbed one hand over his beard then stared down at himself. “I’m in no fit state to go calling on a lady, but I think I must pay my respects to my aunt anyway and let her know I’m back.” He turned to walk towards the small house, tripped on the uneven paving and lost his balance.

Vic caught his arm and steadied him. “You look like you need a bit of help.”

Marcus nodded, hating to admit it.

“I could stay. Help you unpack and change, then go with you across to the big house and carry stuff back. Old Dolly here will be happy to be turned loose on that lawn of yours. Only I’ll have to ask for some payment, I’m afraid. I’m still paying off the loan for the cab, you see, and only just scraping through. But I might as well work for you as for anyone else and I’d only charge you three shillings for an afternoon’s work, because that’s what I’d normally make.” He sighed. “It doesn’t bring in as much as I’d hoped, driving a cab, not in a small place like Horton.”

“Thanks. I’d be most grateful for your help.” Leaning on Vic’s arm, he started off again towards the front door of his house. “You’re very steady on that peg leg of yours.”

“I was lucky. Got used to it quickly, and since I lost it below the knee, I can still bend my leg. How about you? You’re favouring your right leg? Will you always limp?”

“No. But it’s still healing and that whole side hurts when I do too much, as I have today.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones, then.”

Another person telling him that! Marcus didn’t feel lucky, just extremely weary.

And if his two cousins were dead, what would happen to the Hall? It wasn’t all that big, a pleasant little Georgian manor set in a few acres. He could see its outline through the bare-branched trees. He hoped it wouldn’t be sold to some war profiteer.

But whoever inherited the Hall couldn’t touch the Lodge and its half-acre garden, because that had been his mother’s dowry and now belonged to him. Not that he’d be able to stay here for long. He’d have to rent the place out because he needed to find himself a job and would probably have to go back to his old one in Manchester. He was going to find it hard to settle down to working in a bank again after so much time in the open air.

Time enough to make decisions and plans when he was feeling better.

After a hasty wash Marcus donned a clean shirt, hoping its crumpled state wasn’t too obvious. He limped across to the big house, steadying himself with a walking stick he’d found in the hallstand. Vic walked with him but didn’t offer help, except to open and close the two gates. It felt comforting not to be on his own.

He wasn’t looking forward to seeing his aunt again because his being alive would rub salt in the wound of her loss. She’d cared about nothing in life except her two sons, certainly not her husband, a bluff man of few words, who’d died before the war. It was dreadful that she’d lost both John and Lawrence, dreadful.

He stopped for a moment to stare in shock at the vegetable garden, which hadn’t been cleared for the winter, and was a mass of mainly dead vegetation, with a few cabbages and Brussels sprouts standing sentinel in one corner and something green drooping in the middle.