Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (80 page)

‘On that score, Mrs Elliott, you need have no worries at all. The estate has increased in value quite dramatically, as you know. And there are a lot of arguments we can present yet. For one, why wait till now? The law doesn’t like delay. Although’ – he hesitated – ‘I have to say Wyley Ruffin Wynne are extremely clever lawyers. I would love to know who has instructed them. There must be a very canny guardian involved.’

‘The children aren’t going to like this,’ said Annabel Elliott, ‘they aren’t going to like it one bit.’

‘Would you like a drink, Keir? You look terribly tired.’

He did; exhausted. Of course looking after two small children all day wasn’t exactly restful, but he looked what her mother called ‘tired tired’.

He hesitated. ‘No. No, I don’t think so. Thank you. I have to get back.’

‘What on earth for? It’s Saturday. Or are you going out this evening?’ That thought hurt.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, but I have a lot of work to do.’

He was very subdued; less hostile. She took heart from this.

‘For Wesley?’ He had started there two weeks earlier; there had been a lot of publicity in the trade press about it. ‘Honestly Keir, if Granny knew you were working for Wesley, she’d send down a thunderbolt. She hated them so.’

‘All the more reason for moving there,’ said Keir. But he smiled: just faintly. Elspeth saw the smile and struck.

‘Go on, stay for a drink. You can help me put the children to bed.’

‘Yes, yes!’ Cecilia started clamouring, jumping up and down.

He sighed.

‘All right. Just for a bit.’

He had never helped her bath the children, in all the years since Cecilia was born; they were hugely over-excited by it. A rather wet hour later, Robert was in bed and Cecilia eating scrambled egg; Elspeth fetched a bottle of wine.

‘Or would you rather have whisky? Like a true Scot?’

‘Aye, I would.’

He poured himself a very large one; she opened the wine for herself.

‘I’ve learned to do all sorts of things since you left, you see. How is it at Wesley, anyway? Is it as wonderful as Kit always said?’

‘They’re very good publishers. Yes. I’m enjoying it.’

‘Will – will you be coming to the memorial service?’

‘I – don’t think so.’

‘Oh Keir, why not? You should. You know how Granny loved you, what a lot she did for you. She’d have been so hurt.’

‘Well, she won’t know, will she?’

‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’

‘I – really don’t feel I could, Elspeth. To be honest. Your family must think very badly of me. Turning down her gift, I – well, I don’t feel I could face them.’

‘I think they think quite badly of me,’ she said soberly, ‘but you should come, Keir. Promise me to think about it.’

‘I – I will think about it. Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And how is it at Lyttons at the moment? I suppose you’re working full time, are you? Now that you’ve got rid of your jailer?’

‘No,’ she said steadily, ‘only three days a week. I said I wouldn’t leave the children yet and I haven’t.’

‘Oh,’ he said, looked slightly discomfited, ‘oh, yes, I see.’

‘I think, Keir,’ she said, her eyes meeting his very steadily, ‘you really have got me rather wrong. I’m not the harsh, power-crazed woman you seem to imagine.’

‘Elspeth,’ he said, ‘Elspeth, I—’

Robert started to cry; she got up, ‘Excuse me, please.’

When she came back, he had his coat on.

‘I must go,’ he said. His voice was hostile again. ‘Really. I have a lot to do.’

It was only after he left that she realised there was a letter on the windowsill, with an American stamp on it. It was actually from Izzie, but he had no doubt thought it was from Marcus. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Just when they might have been getting somewhere.

‘This is such an honour!’ said Jenna to Cathy. She was reading a letter. ‘I absolutely can’t believe it. This is from Venetia and Adele. They’ve asked me to speak at Celia’s memorial service. Me! Not even a relation. She’s got hundreds of proper grandchildren, and they’re asking me.’

‘Wow! Let me see. Oh, my God, Jenna. What will you wear?’

Jenna was still very fond of Cathy, and always would be, but they were definitely growing apart. She was learning to accept that and not fight it. If she wanted to talk hair and clothes and boys, Cathy was great; if she wanted to discuss politics, or travel, or art, there was no point even trying.

Of course Cathy had been wonderful about her mother, just the best friend, wonderfully supportive and always ready to talk or listen, or cry with her, and that had made an unbreakable bond, she would never forget it or stop being grateful for it. But a soulmate Cathy was not.

‘I – don’t know,’ she said now. ‘I’ll have to think about it. All of it. I’m not even sure I’m brave enough to do it.’

‘Oh Jenna, of course you are. You’ll be wonderful.’

‘I hope so.’

It would be terrifying. Absolutely terrifying . . . which was no reason not to do it; her mother had taught her that. ‘If you know something’s important to you,’ she had said to Jenna once, ‘then you owe it to yourself to try. However frightened you are.’

She would be doing it for her mother as well as for herself. She could talk about Barty, say how Celia had brought her up, done so much for her, all that kind of thing. And say how much Celia had helped her when her mother had been killed. It wouldn’t be easy, though; she could feel the tears rising even at the thought of it.

Adele and Venetia had said there was plenty of time for her to think about it, although they’d like to know quite soon. ‘We have just over four weeks. If it’s no, we’d like to know as soon as possible, because we have to find someone else.’

No, she must do it. She would write at once and tell them so, before she could change her mind. She smiled at Cathy.

‘Yes, I’m going to say yes.’

‘You’ll be great. So – what
are
you going to wear?’

Jenna looked at Cathy thoughtfully, smiling almost indulgently. She felt much older than her in lots of ways: although Cathy had left Jenna far behind in one respect; she was most definitely not a virgin, she had slept, to Jenna’s certain knowledge, with three boys since the gardener.

‘Cathy Patterson isn’t fast,’ one of her classmates at Dana Hall had remarked, ‘she’s the speed of light.’

She was absurdly pretty, with her vast blue eyes and neat little turned-up nose, a china doll of a girl, very small, but with a bosomy figure and beautiful legs. She was simply a honeypot to boys; they flocked to her. It was well known that if you wanted to have a good time you didn’t go out with Cathy Patterson in a foursome. You’d be left watching miserably all night while she flirted with both of the boys.

Jenna worried about Cathy, about her sleeping around; it wasn’t just the risk of her getting pregnant (although Cathy assured her she wouldn’t), it was what it would do to her reputation, make everyone think she was cheap. That was something no one could afford. Cheap girls just got used.

And there was something else: Cathy drank, quite a lot. Not just at parties, when everyone did, but before she went out, always at mealtimes, and sometimes she would sneak to the sideboard or the fridge at home and pour a slug of vodka into a jug, then top it up with orange, so it looked like she was just drinking orange juice while she watched TV.

Her father had once questioned her about this, had asked her quite seriously if she had been drinking his vodka, it went down so fast; Jenna listened and watched, incredulous and even impressed while Cathy’s blue eyes filled with tears and she reproached her father for even thinking she would do such a thing. He always believed her . . .

Jenna didn’t like alcohol, but she did like boys; in fact, that summer, after she got back from England, slightly disappointed about Lucas, she had been in love for the very first time, and it had been just so wonderful and exciting. He was called Tommy; he was seventeen years old and summering at Southampton. He hadn’t just been trying to get her to neck with him all the time, he’d liked talking and he’d been really funny, really fun, and so good-looking as well. He was a terrific sailor and they’d been out on the beach one night, having a barbecue, a whole load of them, and Tommy had asked her to go for a walk with him, and he’d suddenly stopped and she’d thought here we go, only he didn’t try to get his hands up her T-shirt, he said he wanted to tell her that he loved her. She’d been so surprised and so happy that she’d thrown her arms round him and told him she loved him too before letting him kiss her, really kiss her, and for the rest of the summer they’d been inseparable. Only then he’d gone back to school, he was at Choate, and although he’d been really good about writing at first, the letters had tailed off and she realised this wasn’t for life after all. She managed to put it behind her; and look forward to seeing Lucas at the memorial service in November.

‘There is one thing,’ said Jonathan Wyley. ‘Are you quite sure that Mrs Elliott did not specifically waive any rights to a share of the estate for her child? That would be a powerful argument against our claim; indeed, it would entail a trial on the claim itself.’

‘I – don’t know,’ said Charlie, and his heart seemed to have stopped beating entirely, ‘but surely if she had, they wouldn’t waste any time telling us?’

‘Of course. Which is why I think it unlikely. But there will be documentation left with her own lawyers, or it might conceivably be linked in some way with her will. Although that would have come to light by now, I would have thought. Anyway, it needs to be confirmed before we go to court.’

‘So?’

‘So, you have to check on that. They could demand absolute proof that the second Mrs Elliott did not waive her rights to the money, given the time that has elapsed since Mr Elliott’s death and the ample opportunity she had to make the claim. It would save a lot of time. Mrs Elliott’s lawyers would know, without doubt. She would have had to go to court to waive the claim.’

‘It’s a question I would find difficult to ask them.’

‘I don’t see why. It’s very straightforward. Because, if she did waive the claim to those rights, then it would be a waste of time and money trying to proceed.’

‘Could anyone else waive them on her behalf at this point?’ He wouldn’t put that past Jamie Elliott, if he got wind of this.

‘No. Only the mother. And once we’ve put this process into motion, nothing can stop it. It’s inexorable. And as Jenna’s guardian, you do have the right to do that. But as I say, we can’t go forward without this information.’

‘Yes, all right,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Jenna says she’d be proud and happy to accept,’ said Venetia to Giles.

‘Good. I’m delighted. Does she want any help with what she’d like to say?’

‘Knowing Jenna, I would think that very unlikely,’ said Adele. ‘I have never known a girl more sure of her own mind. Now, where is she going to stay? At Cheyne Walk? That would make the most sense.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’

‘It would mean having Charlie and Cathy as well.’

‘I like Charlie,’ said Adele firmly. ‘I think you’ve all got him wrong. I’d love to have him to stay. And Cathy’s quite sweet and she certainly can’t be left under the same roof as Fergal again, Venetia.’

‘Oh, Fergal’s in love,’ said Venetia, ‘with a girl he met during Cowes week. She’s perfectly sweet, Boy and I adore her.’

‘Must be very well connected then,’ said Adele, winking at Giles.

Venetia’s snobbery had become as great, possibly greater, even, than her mother’s.

Again and again, Giles wondered what he should do with the diaries; the burden of the secret was increasingly intense. He worried desperately about them being discovered, worried they would somehow fall into the wrong hands – although how he could not imagine – worried that he was wrong to keep them to himself. Wouldn’t Sebastian love to have sight of them, to read of that lifelong passion; didn’t the twins have a right too, and Kit, perhaps, as well?

But then he thought of the darker side of the stories: of the dreadful sadness of Izzie’s and Kit’s love affair, of Boy Warwick’s unfaithfulness, of Adele’s humiliation in Paris, her escape from France, Luc Lieberman’s dreadful end. Were they not best buried, these things, safe in the care of those they belonged to, revealed only by choice and reshaped and retold, even to one another, as their owners saw fit?

But what right did he have to decide the fate of the diaries? To say they should be preserved or destroyed, revealed or kept secret? They weren’t his, they were his mother’s; what would she have wanted for them? And should not all her children share in that decision?

He had reached no conclusion as the family began to arrive for his mother’s memorial service.

CHAPTER 44

Charlie was getting desperate. As he understood it, all that stood between him and roughly thirty million dollars was a piece of paper that might not even exist. If it did exist, then the thirty million dollars was staying in the Elliott bank account; if it didn’t, then it would come winging over into his. Well, Jenna’s, anyway. Give or take a few months and maybe a couple of million either way.

He was fairly sure that if Barty had waived her claim, she would have filed a copy away herself, even if it was also with her lawyers. He had never known anyone so obsessed with copies and filing. Every damn letter she’d ever written, certainly about Jenna, was filed away; if there was anything about this, then he’d find it. Just pray God he didn’t.

So far, he hadn’t; there was nothing at Number Seven, anyway. A weekend at South Lodge, sifting through the rather meagre papers she had kept there, revealed nothing more intriguing than the document confirming her membership of the sailing club, a few receipts for donations to the Parrish Art Museum, copies of letters she’d written to the local paper and the various local residents’ associations. He’d even asked Mr and Mrs Mills if they knew of anywhere she might have kept documents; they said no, although there were some boxes of papers in the loft he might like to look through. He spent several hours looking through boxes of old English newspapers, mostly about the last war; his spirits rose with every hour.

‘What if it can’t be found, this thing?’ he said to Wyley. ‘Surely that means it doesn’t exist?’

‘Of course not. I really don’t understand your problem. There will be records. You simply have to check it out with her lawyers.’

The thing was, Charlie was scared of doing that. They’d tell the trustees; or they might. Martin Gilroy, one of that grisly trio of trustees, was a lawyer himself, although not with the firm Barty had generally dealt with. They’d tell him about it without a doubt.

He was in the bath after another long evening sifting through all the papers for the second time when he had the brainwave: it was so simple and yet so bloody clever . . .

‘You’re a genius Patterson,’ he said aloud.

‘Jenna darling, I need to know something. For a form I have to fill in.’

‘I don’t suppose I can tell you.’

‘You might. Could I just ask you?’

‘Sure. If, after that, you’ll listen to my speech.’

‘Of course I will. Honeybunch, you know that rather sorry business, just before Celia died, when I wanted to find out if you were due any more money from your dad?’

‘Yes, of course. Charlie, you’re not—’

‘Of course I’m not,’ he said, his voice and eyes very hurt.

‘Sorry. Sorry, Charlie.’

‘But I do need to know something, God knows why.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Well it’s not me, it’s the IRS. The income tax people. They need to know if your mother officially waived any claim to that money.’

‘Why on earth should they need to know that?’

‘God knows. But they do. It seems that in some way it could be considered a potential asset. Your share, I mean. If she didn’t waive the claim.’

‘How odd. An asset of yours?’

‘Well – as your guardian, yes. I suppose they think I could claim it.’

‘Why don’t you ask the trustees? They’d know.’

‘And risk another earful from them? I don’t think so.’

‘Charlie, I thought they were being nicer to you now. That they’d helped you last time.’

‘They did, darling. But they gave me a hell of a lecture first. About how I should be able to manage on what I got from them, all that stuff. As if I was a kid of sixteen.’

‘Oh God.’ She looked at him, then went over and put her arms round his neck. ‘Charlie, I’m so sorry. They are horrible.’

‘No, they’re not. Of course they’re not. They’re doing their job, safeguarding your interests.’

‘And you’re not, I suppose? God, they make me so angry.’

‘Well – do you think you could ask them that? Without mentioning me?’

‘Sure. If it’s important. I’ll see what I can do.’

She phoned Jamie; she didn’t really want to see him, she was too angry.

‘I need to know something. You know my father’s estate, apparently I could be due a lot more from it.’

‘You could?’ He sounded wary. ‘Who told you that?’

‘I read about a similar case, Jamie. In the paper. Nobody told me.’

‘I see. Well – what about it?’

‘Do you happen to know if my mother waived the claim to my share?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I’d like to know, that’s all. Anything wrong with that?’

‘No. You’re not – thinking of claiming it, are you?’

‘Of course I’m not.’ Her voice was scornful. ‘You know how I hate that whole thing. I hate everything to do with money, and I certainly hate what I have to contend with, all the rubbish about the trust and not being allowed to do what I want with it. Not even help a friend.’

‘Jenna, we have helped Charlie. If that’s what you mean.’

‘Yes, sure, and gave him a lecture into the bargain, I hear.’

There was a silence; then Jamie said, ‘Jenna, did Charlie ask you to get this information for him?’

‘Jamie,’ she said, and her voice was outraged, ‘I find it shocking you should even think such a thing. I just want to know. And if my mother didn’t write, waiving this claim, then I want you to. She’d hate me to be going after that money, as much as I would. OK?’

‘I really don’t think we’re empowered to do that, Jenna. But I’ll look into it, and let you know.’

‘Oh God,’ she said, and he could hear her temper rising, ‘I can’t tell you how glad I’ll be when I’m in control of my own affairs, do what I know is best for me.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ said Jamie. ‘Anyway, I’ll check this out for you. ’Bye Jenna.’

He put the phone down and looked at it thoughtfully. Then he picked it up again and spoke to Kyle.

‘I think that bastard’s up to something. And he’s using Jenna to help him. We need to talk to Gilroy.’

Gilroy was clearly shaken.

‘I imagine this is about Jenna’s right to a share of her father’s estate. As his afterborn child. And of course unless the claim was waived, she’s entitled to one third of it. Even now.’

‘Serious money,’ said Kyle. His eyes were thoughtful.

‘Very serious indeed. And Charlie has an absolute right, as her guardian, to petition for it. Moreover, as her guardian, he would have control of it, if he got it. He could administer the funds, on her behalf.’

‘Jesus, what a thought.’

‘Absolutely.’

He came back twenty-four hours later.

‘I’ve made some enquiries. Our friend has been to see Jonathan Wyley, of Wyley Ruffin Wynne.’

‘Christ. That must have cost him a bit.’

‘I imagine he thought it would be worth it,’ said Jamie.

‘Well – it could be,’ said Gilroy, ‘it’s interesting, isn’t it?’

‘It could be more than interesting,’ said Kyle, ‘it could be an absolute bloody nightmare. So – he could actually get his hands on this money?’

‘In theory. As I said, he is her legal guardian.’

‘Why Barty appointed him, I’ll never know.’

‘We talked about that,’ said Jamie, seriously, ‘the fact is, and she admitted it, he is wonderfully fond of Jenna. In lots of ways he’s been terribly good to her. And she loves him in return. Don’t forget, Barty had no anxieties on the financial front, she knew his hands were well and truly tied. Plus, of course, it didn’t seem to her very crucial. As everyone keeps saying, she didn’t expect to die, she was a young woman. I guess she thought she’d sort it out sometime.’

‘She sorted Lyttons out in time,’ said Kyle.

‘I know she did. But I think they were two completely different matters in her mind. Anyway, what shall I tell Jenna?’

‘Oh, tell her we’re making enquiries. It’s perfectly true. And it might take a few days. Mr Patterson will have to be patient.’

‘Difficult for him under the circumstances.’

‘Poor little Jenna,’ said Jamie. He felt genuinely upset.

‘Charlie? It’s about that thing, you know—’

‘What thing is that, darling?’

‘You know, the claim, whether my mother had waived it or not.’

‘Oh – yes. I’d forgotten all about that. And—’

‘Kyle Brewer just phoned me. They’re checking it out. They’re going to let me know as soon as they can. Is that OK? Charlie are you OK? You look terrible.’

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ said Charlie.

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Not even a drink?’

‘No. Just leave me alone, Jenna, would you? I have work to do. I need a bit of peace.’

He was so rarely even irritable with her, she felt near to tears.

The memorial service was on the tenth of November. Izzie was arriving in London on the third, and the boys were following five days later: ‘We can’t leave the shop for too long, darling. Sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Izzie, ‘I can spend some time with father, on my own. He’ll like that.’

They were all three to stay at Primrose Hill; Kit and Clementine were also staying for a few days. Mrs Conley was very excited.

‘It’ll do Mr Brooke all the good in the world,’ she said to Mrs Morrison, who now came in to what she called ‘help her with the cleaning’, and Mrs Conley called ‘taking over’. ‘It’ll take him out of himself a bit. That and the baby, all heaven-sent.’

Mrs Morrison, who didn’t know the history, couldn’t quite see why Mr Brooke should be so excited about someone else’s baby, and said so; Mrs Conley put her right.

‘Mr Brooke is a very kind and generous gentleman,’ she said, ‘and Mr Kit is Lady Celia’s son and therefore a very good friend.’

‘Funny, you know,’ said Mrs Morrison, ‘I often think Mr Kit looks rather like Mr Brooke.’

‘Really?’ said Mrs Conley vaguely, ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘She’s very large, isn’t she, Mrs Kit?’ said Mrs Morrison, ‘she’s going to have a bad time, that’s for sure.’

Mrs Conley agreed. ‘Terribly small hips. And she’ll have her work cut out, looking after a baby
and
Mr Kit. He’s very nice, and he manages wonderfully, but my goodness is he spoilt!’

Mrs Morrison said it was natural, she supposed, given his problem, and went upstairs to make the beds.

Izzie was longing to get to London; she was very tired, and it would be a relief to have some time on her own. It was very nice, working with Nick, but it did make for a rather non-stop relationship. Which again was wonderful, when things were going well at Neill & Parker; when they weren’t, it was very exhausting. And she was longing to see her father, and Kit and Clementine – she had heard Clemmie was huge – and everyone else. Much as she adored New York, she did occasionally feel a physical yearning for London.

She supposed New York was now her home; there was no way she and Nick could settle in London. He was rooted in New York, and Mike too, trying to resettle them in London would be impossible; rather like moving rockery plants into a water garden and expecting them to thrive.

She worried about her father endlessly; all alone as he was, in what seemed suddenly such a big, quiet house. Of course Celia hadn’t lived in it with him, but she had been there so much, and she had made sure the others visited him too. Izzie had a horrible feeling they’d all slowly drift away without Celia’s vigorous nagging. He’d coped with the shock of her death very well at first but, later on, when the drama was over, the grief really began to set in.

‘Poor Father,’ she said suddenly with a heavy sigh to Nick, as she packed her case, the night before she left. ‘He hasn’t had much luck in his life really. His personal life, I mean.’

‘Oh I don’t know. He had a lifetime of Celia—’

‘She wasn’t his. Not really.’

‘I think she was. He had her heart.’

She smiled at him. One of the things she most loved about Nick was the way he put new perspectives on things, quite ordinary things. ‘I suppose so.’

‘And he had you for – what? Twenty-nine years. More than I’ve had. Although I plan to try and catch up now.’

‘Oh Nick.’ She went over and kissed him. ‘I do love you. I’m sorry I’ve been so – mean, lately.’

‘I wouldn’t call it mean. And if you promise to keep loving me, I could even handle mean. You’ve been fine, Princess. Just a bit – down. I know you’re tired. You’ve had a lot to cope with.’

She kissed him again and suggested they went out for dinner. After that, they could make love; it wasn’t anything like the right time, but it would be nice anyway . . .

It was to be in the afternoon at three o’clock, a little unusual for a memorial service, but it meant they could entertain the chosen many, as Boy put it, for drinks afterwards, and the family could then relax over dinner.

The changes were still going on with only a week to go; a third and final programme had just been proofed. There had been much argument over the music and in particular what would be played before the service.

‘Mummy wasn’t religious, she just loved beautiful words and music, of all sorts,’ said Venetia. ‘I think we should have lots of lovely Bach and Brahms, all that sort of thing, and maybe even some Mendelssohn. We’ve got the hymns, after all, and—’

‘But this is a service, it’s in a church, for God’s sake.’

‘Giles, so what? We’re not suggesting a bit of swing.’

At which point Lord Arden intervened; his personal request for the service was ‘
Panis Angelicus
’ and it was decided that this should precede Sebastian’s address.

‘But I’ve been thinking, I would also like something of Fauré’s
Requiem
,’ he said, adding slightly apologetically, ‘if that would be all right and not too late. It’s so uplifting, despite being a requiem.’

‘Of course it would be all right,’ said Adele, kissing him, for she was, of all of them, the most fond of him, ‘and actually, why don’t we have that before the service, Giles? It’s so lovely, and I know Mummy would approve. Nice and long too, in case people are late.’

Lord Arden said surely they wouldn’t be late, but Venetia said he didn’t know the publishing world very well, if he thought that; Lord Arden turned amused blue eyes on her and said that indeed, no, not very well at all.