Tall Poppies (23 page)

She would never be alone, he thought. Denton would always be there when she needed him.

The mist thickened, blotting the scene. Turning, he smiled at his men as they crowded around him.

Fourteen

Even while knowing her husband didn't have long to live, Richard's death seemed sudden to Livia, and losing him was a great shock.

They'd live one day at a time, they'd said. Now Richard had run out of his days.

‘It's as though the sunshine has left my life,' she told Denton, who had decided to stay on until the funeral was over. ‘Everything seems to have been leached of its colour. I can't even cry.'

‘It's delayed shock. You'll weep eventually.'

Beamish did everything, and although beset by his own grief, he was in a better state than she was and became her rock to lean on.

‘Has Richard's father been invited to attend the funeral?' she said, when she asked him what she should do.

‘He's been informed of Richard's death. The captain didn't want you to be worried, and told me exactly what he wanted done, and who to contact. I expect the major will attend. After all, Richard is his son. I'll make sure he doesn't bother you.'

At her insistence, she saw Richard again before they closed the coffin. Denton and Beamish came with her. Tears in his eyes, his jaw tense from holding in the sadness he felt, Denton paid his respects first. He left to wait by the car, leaving her with Beamish.

Richard was dressed in his uniform, except for his cap, which would go on top of the lid. He looked healthy, and she could have sworn he was wearing rouge. He fitted into the coffin without an inch to spare.

‘He's lying to attention,' she said, giving a watery smile. ‘I hope he doesn't want to turn over.'

Beamish grinned at her, but it was a guilty grin they shared, in case smiling in the presence of the newly dead might offend the undertaker.

‘Thank you for everything, Mr Beamish. You've been an absolute brick.'

‘So have you, Mrs Sangster. He would have died long ago if you hadn't taken the emptiness from his life and allowed him to live in as normal a manner as possible. You gave him back his self-esteem.'

‘He did more for me than I did for him. He was a wonderful and generous man. He knew the end was near. He arranged his own farewell party, didn't he?'

Beamish nodded. ‘It seems so.'

‘It is so. Would you mind leaving us now? I won't be long.'

When Beamish had gone, she ran her fingers through Richard's golden curls. His scalp was cold and waxy under her fingertips, so she formed the impression that he'd been changed from a living, breathing man into a beautiful marble statue. She wished she could see his intense blue eyes once more, but his lids were closed and his lashes feathered against his skin. She kissed the tip of her finger and touched each of the closed eyelids.

She heard a faint footfall behind her.

‘I just want to tell you again that I love you, Richard Sangster. You're my tall poppy, along with Denton and Beamish. But I don't think I'll ever forgive you for leaving me. Goodbye, my love, I'm going to miss you.'

She took a step back, nodding to the undertaker who had entered, and who stood a respectful distance away, then went out to join Denton.

Outside, the comrades-in-arms who'd been reunited with him just a week ago had formed ranks, with Beamish at the head. They moved through the bright day with Denton and herself a short distance ahead of the hearse, so they could be at the church before Richard arrived. The soldiers came on behind. They would carry the coffin into the church then on to the burial ground afterwards, to honour their officer.

Denton took her hand in his, and she was comforted. Chad and Esmé came to the service with the cook and Mrs Anstruther. They were subdued by the event, but Chad couldn't wait to get back to school, and Esmé had accepted Richard's death and had already shed her tears. She was too young to grieve for long.

Livia had thought that Major Henry might not come. But tradition died hard, and duty was duty. He was waiting at the church, and seated himself next to her in the pew. Immediately she became rigid with tension, but was thankful Rosemary was not with him.

At the gravesite she moved to where the Elliots' stood, leaving the major alone. The less time she spent in his company, the better. They stood on opposite sides of the neat oblong hole that had been made ready to receive Richard's body. It was next to his mother's grave. Denton stood behind her with his parents, so close that she could almost feel his breath warm against her neck.

Under Livia's sober black dress and concealing tunic, the baby quickened. She'd been told what to expect, but nothing could have prepared her for this soft fluttering of new life in the midst of death. It was as though Richard had sent her a reminder that life moved on – that he'd claimed this child as his own, and she must treat it with the respect it deserved.

Her face softened. Richard had trusted her to do the right thing by the child, and she would, but she would have liked to have shared this moment with him, and watch his smile come once more.

The major didn't gaze at her once, but for the sake of convention he came back to the house for refreshments afterwards.

He approached her then, his face desolate. ‘I did love my son, you know.'

‘Yes, of course you did. You're Richard's father and he was a wonderful man.'

‘Are you well, Livia?'

‘I'm expecting an infant.'

He looked startled for a moment. Then he gave a faint frown, as though he'd recalled the incident and had calculated the possibility. He laid down his own terms. ‘So  . . . I'm to become a
grandfather.
'

He was making it clear what relationship to the child would be acceptable. She wasn't going to argue, but she wasn't going to encourage him in that role, either. She was too numb to be angry. Did she want Henry in her life in the future? Not really, but the infant might.

‘Yes, I suppose you are  . . . since you're kin to Richard.'

‘We should forgive and forget,' he murmured, giving a faint, cajoling smile.

She had no intention of falling for his charm, especially on this of all days. Forgiving him was out of the question. Her loathing for him was buried too deeply. Forgetting would be impossible when she had the child to bring up.

When he patted her hand she jerked it away and took a step backwards. Beamish appeared at her elbow, his gaze steady on the man like a dog waiting for the command to attack.

Henry edged away, collecting condolences on the way to the door and murmuring to anyone who was listening, ‘I must go now. It's such a sad thing to bury one's only son.'

Livia couldn't help whispering as she moved away to talk to the reverend, ‘Perhaps you'd see the major off, Mr Beamish.'

The amused twitch of his lips was only just discernible. ‘It would be a pleasure, Mrs Sangster, but I think I'll allow him to leave without that particular indignity.'

Denton crossed to her side. ‘How are you holding up?'

‘It doesn't seem real. I expect to hear Richard's laughter, and I keep putting two cups on the tea tray.' She gazed up at him. ‘You'll be going back to London soon, I imagine.'

‘In an hour or so. I've come to say goodbye.'

‘Would you like anything of Richard's to remember him by?'

‘We were friends throughout our childhood and into adulthood. I have my memories to draw on. You should keep his personal effects for his child.'

‘Yes.' She smoothed a hand over her stomach. ‘This doesn't seem real to me either.' Livia was moved to share her special moment with him. ‘I felt the baby move when we were at the gravesite, and I wanted to share it with him.'

He grinned wryly at her. ‘You've shared it with me instead. Usually a baby doesn't quicken until between the fourth and fifth months.'

Alarm nudged at her, she'd forgotten Denton was a doctor. ‘Yes, you're right, of course. It was probably my stomach gurgling.'

‘Then again, it might be a baby with long legs who needed to stretch them a little.' He gazed silently at her for a moment, his eyes contemplative, then he brushed a kiss against her cheek. ‘I'll be back in time for Christmas.'

The urge to hug him was strong, and had to be avoided. ‘I'll see you then. Keep well.'

He walked away, tall, straight and strong, and her heart reached out to him, willing him to turn.

He did, and their eyes met for one precious second before he was gone.

A little later, when the mourners had departed and the children were in bed, Livia went into Richard's room.

It was neat. His personal goods were packed away, his clothing folded into the drawers in which Mrs Anstruther had placed lavender bags. Livia packed Richard's clothing into a trunk. Beamish could have them if he wished, though he was more sober in his dress than Richard had ever been.

She placed Richard's personal effects – his diary, gold cufflinks and a gold watch with an inscription in it, a gift from his parents for his twenty-first birthday – into the safe with his mother's jewellery.

The next morning, Simon Stone came to read Richard's will. There were small legacies made to the house staff, depending on their length of service; nothing more than an acknowledgement really. They were dismissed from the room.

‘Mr Beamish, will you stay please,' he said. ‘Richard Sangster was appreciative of your comradeship during the time you spent in the defence services together. He was grateful for your ongoing loyalty, and your unstinting service during his illness. He has requested that you will accept as a legacy the sum of one thousand pounds.'

Beamish swooped in a breath and turned pink. Livia had never seen him in such a flap before, when he stammered out, ‘But I can't  . . . it's too much  . . . a fortune.'

Livia gave a little grin, even though it wasn't really the time or place for it, and placed a hand on his arm. ‘You'd better let Richard have the last word this time, Mr Beamish, else he'll likely come back and haunt you.'

‘But one thousand pounds,' he spluttered. ‘The captain must have been mad when he made his will. I can't accept it.'

‘I will attest that he was totally sane, Mr Beamish. He said he hoped you would see it as a reflection of the trust he placed in your discretion, your honesty and your friendship.' Simon Stone slid a paper across the desk. ‘Don't be embarrassed about this sign of his appreciation, Mr Beamish. I'm sure you've earned every penny. Sign on the dotted line, if you would.' When Beamish's signature was exchanged for a cheque, Simon Stone shook his hand. ‘Thank you, you may go.'

When the door closed behind the stunned Beamish, the lawyer turned her way. ‘Mrs Sangster, how are you? I'm sorry we meet again under such tragic circumstances.'

‘Richard's death was a shock, even though expected.'

‘Quite  . . . Your husband has left everything else to you, a mixture of trusts and property, with money set aside for the coming child  . . . who is, of course, the Sinclair heir. Richard Sangster was comfortably off in his own right  . . . and that estate is now yours. But there's one problem. Major Sangster has decided to challenge his son's will.'

She felt as though she'd been punched in the chest. The hypocrite! He'd been nice to her the day before, when all the time he'd been plotting her downfall.

‘He will cite that you took advantage of his son's weakened physical and mental state and used your  . . . and these are his words, Mrs Sangster  . . .
womanly wiles to entice Richard Sangster into marriage, so as to gain monetary advantage from his imminent death.'

She stared at him, dumbstruck.

‘Moreover, he's claiming custody of the infant you are carrying.'

‘My baby? He was unaware of its existence until yesterday.' Surely he wasn't going to shame her by confessing to having fathered the child. ‘Because?' And she whispered, her mouth dry, for this double blow had left her reeling.

‘He said he wants his grandchild to be raised in the manner it should be, not brought up by a former maid. What are your thoughts on the matter, Mrs Sangster?'

The child suddenly became very precious to her. Richard had defended the right of this child to live a life free of guilt. In his generosity he'd given the child his name, and to both of them, his support. Now she would fight for its very identity. It was with a strong motherly instinct that she stated, ‘Major Henry is entitled to put in a claim for his son's estate, but he's not getting my child without a fight.'

‘Good, I was hoping you'd say that. On the strength of that statement I'm going to fight for your rights, and those of the child. With your permission I'll send my clerk down, who will take statements from yourself and your staff. We will then prepare our case to present to the court.'

She nodded.

‘In the meantime, you can continue to live in Foxglove House.'

‘Richard wanted the child to be born here. He said it was his birthright. He was determined that it would be a boy.'

‘Quite so. A man always likes his first child to be made in his image.'

Only this one might be born in the major's image, she thought.

Simon Stone rose and patted her hand. ‘These things take time. The major has yet to prepare and lodge an objection. Indeed, his solicitor has only just received a copy of the will. Do you have the means to support yourself and your sister?'

She had a bank account of her own, into which Richard had deposited money that would give her a private allowance for at least a year. She nodded, and told him the source of the account.

‘Fine. That should last you a while.'

‘Richard gave me his mother's jewellery as well.' She twisted the sapphire ring on her finger. ‘I'd rather not part with this. Richard was so sweet when he proposed with it.'