Inherit the Skies (2 page)

Sarah frowned and crow's-feet deepened the web of tiny lines around still-beautiful blue eyes as the insistent chant repeated itself once more inside her head.
Something has to be done
. But then she was aware of a treacherous floe of regret: why now? Why should I have to be fighting again now just when I thought I could relax a little. Sometimes it seems my life has been one long battle and I am tired, so tired.…

She crossed the hall, the heels of her smart town shoes clattering on the polished floor as she skirted from habit the exquisite Aubusson rug in muted pinks and blues which lay in the centre like a patch of spring flowers in a winter-dulled garden. Often she paused in the hall to drink in the essence of the house, in some ways unchanged from the time she had first known it, yet in a thousand other ways her own creation. The George Jack chest stood at the foot of the sweeping staircase as it had always done but now it was brightened by a vase of flowers – daffodils today – lending a splash of colour to an otherwise dark corner, the walls were hung with the precious tapestries she had discovered gathering dust in an attic room and a heavy gilt-framed mirror. A grandmother clock in a hand-crafted case of dark oak now filled the once-echoing silence with a gentle and comfortable ticking and on the refectory table one of Sarah's favourite pieces, a graceful T'ang horse, arched his thoroughbred's neck proudly.

Today however she passed him by without a second glance, making straight for the study. Once the study had been a retreat of Gilbert Morse, whose foresight, business flair and money had been the foundation of Morse Bailey, and it was one of the few rooms in the house which Sarah had left virtually unchanged. There was so much essence of Gilbert here and she could not have borne to remove the stamp of his powerful personality. The bookshelves that lined the walls were still full of the books he had loved, the antique swivel chair, upholstered in soft dark green leather, was the same one where he had sat to ponder problems in the early days, the heavy oak desk bore the scars of a cigar which had sometimes rolled unheeded from the ashtray onto its polished surface. Flowers graced the desk now – a small crystal vase of snowdrops – and the ashtray was empty and sparklingly clean, but Gilbert's leather tooled blotter still occupied pride of place and his collection of antique maps still decorated the pale cream walls.

One picture dominated the room – a water colour in a frame of light oak and gilt. It portrayed an aeroplane – a quaint unstable construction with an open fuselage and intricate framework of white wood and piano wire – a monstrous kite on bicycle wheels which would surely never fly. But the artist commissioned by Gilbert had painted those wheels rising above the green meadow grass and the portrayal had been neither mere wishful thinking nor artistic licence. For this was MB1 or ‘The Eagle' as the family had affectionately named it, the very first of the Morse Bailey aeroplanes and forerunner of a string of aircraft whose reputation had spread around the world.

Chewton Leigh – 1909
read the inscription but it might have been just yesterday, Sarah thought as the memories crowded in. She shrugged out of her coat, dropped it carelessly on the leather swivel chair and crossed to look more closely, as she so often did, at the painting.

Designed and flown by her own beloved Adam, paid for by Gilbert's money and foresight, the aeroplane in the picture epitomised all she was fighting for, and looking at it now only served to strengthen her resolve. Whatever happened she could not allow all this history, all these dreams and hard won achievements, to fall into the hands of the one person who had once come close to destroying it. Something had to be done. And there was no-one but her to do it.

‘Granny! I thought I heard you come in!' The voice was light, bright and brimming with youth, and Sarah, her reverie shattered, swung round, a smile of surprise curving her lips.

‘Kirsty, my dear, what are you doing here?'

‘Well I've come to see you, of course! Only I'd forgotten it was the day for your silly meeting so I've had to while away the afternoon in the kitchen chatting with Grace.'

‘Oh my goodness, I hope you haven't been interrupting her!' Sarah said anxiously. ‘I'm having a dinner party this evening so she has a great deal extra to do.'

‘Granny! You know perfectly well Grace is more than capable of producing a banquet fit for royalty and chattering nineteen to the dozen at the same time. She's had a lifetime's practice at it. No, I'm the one likely to suffer. She's been feeding me all the delicious bits and bobs plus some freshly made scones and cream and I shall soon be as fat as a house.'

She came into the room to kiss her grandmother, a slender pretty girl in an oversized man's sweater and tight fitting denim jeans, and Sarah was unable to suppress a smile of amusement. Kirsty – fat? Never! She had always been thin – too thin, Sarah had thought – as a child and now, in the ridiculous uniform which young people who were also students seemed to adopt she looked small and waif-like.

‘Let's go into the drawing-room and make ourselves comfortable, shall we?' Sarah suggested. ‘If Grace knows I'm home she will probably be bringing in a pot of tea at any moment and we don't want it to get cold. Besides, a nice cup of tea is exactly what I could do with after an afternoon spent listening to Guy and the others all trying to outdo one another.'

‘Guy!' Kirsty snorted, her tone expressing more eloquently than any words her distaste for the man who now headed the board of Morse Bailey, and Sarah smiled, a little grimly.

Her own feelings exactly. Guy had a good head for business, he was decisive and generally far-seeing and he gave the impression of being altruistic. He could be charming, if a little pompous, and he commanded respect among employees and competitors alike. But Sarah had long suspected he could also be ruthless and venal where his ambitions were concerned and this afternoon's meeting had only confirmed this. But then of course he was very much Alicia's son. With a mother like that it was only surprising he was not a great deal worse.…

At the very thought of Alicia it was as if the door had slammed shut inside Sarah. Perhaps later she would have to think of Alicia. With things the way they were after this afternoon's board meeting there might very well be no alternative. But for the moment she was unwilling to let business worries mar Kirsty's visit. The time she could spend with her granddaughter now was all too short – and much too precious. The golden days of Kirsty's childhood when the family had teased her for practically
living
at Chewton Leigh House were gone now and when she graduated, found a job, married, perhaps moved away from the area, she would have less and less time for visiting however good her intentions. Knowing this saddened Sarah and filled her with a sense of urgency and determination to make the most of every moment.

‘Let's not talk about the business,' she said now gaily. ‘ I want to hear all your news, Kirsty. How is college?'

‘Oh fine. Though how anyone can believe an art degree is a soft option, I can't imagine. I'm permanently snowed under by work. But at least I'm lucky enough to be doing what I want to do and I know I have you to thank for that. I don't believe Mummy and Daddy would ever have let me go to art school if you hadn't persuaded them. I think they saw it as a den of deepest iniquity.'

Sarah smiled. ‘There's good and bad everywhere, Kirsty. It's all a matter of what
you
make of it.'

‘Of course it is – and you have the sense to see that, Granny.' Kirsty linked her arm companionably through Sarah's. ‘ Now come and sit down. You look all in.'

She propelled Sarah out into the hall in the direction of the drawing-room and Sarah felt some of her anxiety evaporate in a warm glow of love. From her earliest childhood Kirsty had been devoted to her grandmother, spending far more time at Chewton Leigh House than she ever did at her own home, Chorley Manor, on the other side of the valley, and showing far more interest in the aeroplanes which were a constant topic of conversation there than she did in the horses which were her mother's life.

‘I don't think I like horses that much,' she had confided to Sarah once. ‘ They frighten me a bit, though Mummy gets cross with me if I say so. And they do
smell
so.'

Sarah had laughed. She could imagine Sheila being very cross indeed with Kirsty if she had been unwise enough to mention the smell which Sheila preferred to any expensive perfume. Such a criticism would be regarded as the sheerest heresy. But she could understand Kirsty's fear. If she was truthful she had to admit that horses frightened her a little too, though she had always been ashamed of the fear which she considered to be a weakness. She had been a reasonably competent horsewoman until the fall had given her the excuse she needed not to ride again.

‘What I'd really like to do is learn to fly,' Kirsty had said wistfully and at once Sarah had experienced this strange heady empathy which occurs when two minds, two personalities, reach out to one another.

Flying – yes. Flying was different. She felt no fear when piloting an aeroplane – except perhaps that sharp shaft that strikes when things go wrong. And even then it was a different sort of fear. Whatever the circumstances, at the controls of an aeroplane Sarah always felt she was the mistress of her own destiny, holding her fate in her own hands. Which was more than she could say for the terror she had experienced more than once on the back of a horse – and the uncomfortable, ever present knowledge that if the mount took it in into his head to do things
his
way there was nothing whatever she could do to stop him.

‘You shall learn to fly, Kirsty, just as soon as you are old enough,' she had promised, and seen the child's eyes light up.

She had kept her promise and Kirsty had gained her licence in record time. She flew whenever she could, which was less than she would have liked now that the degree course in graphics at the West of England College of Art was absorbing more and more of her time.

Kirsty looked like her grandmother, some people said – and when she studied early photographs of herself Sarah was forced to admit it was true. Those high cheekbones and the small straight nose, the neat heart-shaped chin, the clear blue eyes. Her hair was lighter in colour than Sarah's, which had once been deep, almost reddish brown, and her mouth was fuller and wider, but the likeness was still there and it added to the closeness which Sarah felt to her granddaughter.

The drawing-room lay across the hall from the study, a large pleasant room which overlooked both the lawns to the front of the house and the deer park to the side. Furnishings in shades of gold, cream and apricot seemed to bring sunshine into the room on even the darkest of winter days, and the deep brocaded sofa and chairs were bliss to Sarah's tired bones at the end of a long business session. The family portraits which had once lined the walls, Sarah had relegated to the dining-room where they now presided over formal entertaining and family meals alike and Sarah had replaced them with art works of her own choosing – a Turner, a Hogarth, two lovely misty Monets and some more up-to-date paintings by artists whose names were not yet household words. An exquisite Chinese rug covered the polished wood floor, an ebony boule commode with a beautiful serpentine front stood in one corner, a plinth displaying a bronze bust occupied another. Although the velvet window drapes had not yet been drawn, the lamps in their delicate apricot shades had been lit to give the room a golden glow and in the hearth a log fire blazed a cheerful welcome.

As they entered Kirsty gasped a groan of mock horror.

‘Oh my goodness – more scones!'

Clearly Grace had indeed heard Sarah arrive home. The sofa had been drawn up close to the fire and before it a small table had been laid with a plate of dainty sandwiches, a cut-and-come-again fruit cake and a dish piled high with buttered scones. A crock of-thick yellow cream and a dish of home-made strawberry jam was close by.

Sarah sat down thankfully on the sofa and indicated that Kirsty should join her.

‘I'm sure you can manage some more, darling. Though I must admit all I want is a nice cup of tea.'

‘And here we are, Mrs Bailey! I had the kettle singing on the hob ready for you.' As if by magic Grace appeared in the doorway bearing a heavy silver tray which held a gleaming Georgian tea service. She set it down on the second of the small tables which stood ready and waiting. ‘Would you like me to pour for you, Ma'am? If you don't mind me saying so I reckon you could do with it. You look all in to me.'

‘Thank you, Grace, that would be very nice. And yes, I am tired. It was a long meeting.'

She reached for a small linen napkin and spread it over the softly pleated skirt of her deep blue dress, then sipped gratefully at the searingly hot tea which Grace poured into the fine porcelain cups. As the housekeeper left the room she became aware that Kirsty was looking at her anxiously.

‘Grace is right, Granny,' Kirsty said, her voice concerned. ‘You
do
look all in. Are you sure you haven't been overdoing things?'

‘No, darling, I haven't. You know they don't allow me to these days. Your Uncle Roderick is very firm about that.'

‘Quite right too,' Kirsty said vehemently. ‘ But something
is
wrong, isn't it? I can tell just by looking at you. What is it? Did something happen this afternoon?'

Sarah hesitated, on the point of denying it, then changed her mind. It would be nice to talk to somebody about her worries and who better than Kirsty? There was nothing she could do to help of course but the very fact that she was one step removed from the machinations of the business and not directly involved as most of the family were made her an ideal confidante. And she would have to know sooner or later. They all would.

Sarah set down her cup and the slight tremble in her hand made it rattle against the saucer.