The Inheritance (14 page)

Life here can’t have changed much since Elizabethan times
,
she thought happily. It was odd to feel a connection to the past generations of Fittlescombe dwellers – essentially to dead people – but Angela found that she did, and that the idea of being one in a long line of people who had lived here and loved the place gave her a profound sense of belonging.

Relations with her living neighbours were a little more problematic. Thanks to Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s negative PR campaign, a solid third of the village had taken against the Cranleys before they’d even arrived. Angela had done her best to reverse this, knocking on doors, mucking in at school events, making sure that everyone knew the door to Furlings was always open. But it wasn’t easy, not least because the antipathy wasn’t personal, but rooted in age-old traditions that Angela could barely understand, let alone change.

As Mrs Preedy at the shop put it, ‘It’s not about you, dear. I’m sure you’re lovely. It’s not about that Tatiana either. It’s about what’s right and proper and fair. Not having a Flint-Hamilton at Furlings would be like not having a river in the valley. Old Mr F-H should have consulted local feeling before he went out and changed things, all secretive like, behind people’s backs.’

Not having ever met Rory Flint-Hamilton, there was little Angela could say to this. Even those who approved of the inheritance kept their distance. As the new, rich, foreign owner of ‘The Big House’, Angela was treated with polite deference by the other mums at school, rather than being met as an equal. Without equality there was little chance of friendship. Gabe Baxter’s wife Laura had been kind, even though she obviously disapproved of Brett. As had Penny Harwich, another local engaged to Sussex cricketing hero Santiago de la Cruz. Penny had gone out of her way to include Angela in village WI meetings and girls’ nights out. But Angela still missed her girlfriends back home, and wondered if she would ever truly fit in in the Swell Valley, as much as she loved it here. Of course, if Tatiana won her court case in September, it wouldn’t matter. They’d all have to move again. Angela couldn’t imagine that Brett would agree to stay in Fittlescombe if they lost Furlings. With a shudder, she pushed the thought out of her mind.

She’d arrived at the school gates now. Hovering behind a group of mothers in Logan’s class, about to steel herself to go and join them, she stopped when she overheard a snippet of their conversation.

‘Apparently he’s a total sex addict,’ one of the mums was saying. ‘Worse than Tatiana Flint-Hamilton. He was known for it in Australia.’

‘Well I don’t know about that,’ said her friend. ‘But Oliver saw him in The American Bar at the Savoy on Tuesday night with a girl half his age on his lap, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world.’

‘Yes, well, he doesn’t does he?’ a third woman piped up. ‘He’s got his lovely house, his lovely wife, his lovely life in London. Cat that got the cream, I should say.’

‘Is Oliver sure it was him?’ the first mother asked.

They all laughed at that. ‘You can hardly mistake him. He’s so bloody good looking.’

‘Do you think so?’ The first mother wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ve only met him once but he gives me the creeps. Anyway, what was
your
husband doing at The Savoy on a Tuesday evening, that’s what I’d like to know? Oliver might have made the whole thing up to cover his own tracks!’

‘Yeah, right. Somehow I don’t think my Ollie has quite the pulling power of Brett Cranley.’

The mothers’ conversation moved on. Behind them, Angela Cranley stood rooted to the spot. She felt dizzy all of a sudden. The sounds of birdsong and chattering voices and the school bell ringing all merged into one muffled dirge that grew louder and louder until she found herself clutching her head. Spots swam before her eyes.

‘Are you all right?’

Someone was touching her arm. Angela turned to look at them but could see nothing but blackness. She felt herself falling, sinking. Then nothing.

‘Mrs Cranley. Mrs Cranley, can you hear me?’

Angela opened her eyes. Max Bingley, Logan’s headmaster, was standing over her. He had one hand on her forehead and the other on her wrist, apparently taking her pulse. When he saw her look up at him he smiled reassuringly.

‘Thank goodness. You had us all worried there for a moment. Mrs Graham, would you fetch Mrs Cranley a large glass of water?’

While the school secretary scuttled off, Angela took in her surroundings. She was in the headmaster’s study, stretched out on the sofa. Copies of the latest OFSTED report lay neatly stacked on the coffee table, and the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Bingley had an eclectic collection, everything from teaching manuals and curriculum guidelines to Victorian novels and books on travel and adventure.

‘You’re a reader,’ Angela croaked.

‘I should hope so, in my job,’ Max Bingley said amiably. ‘I think you must have had a touch of sunstroke out in the playground. How do you feel?’

‘Embarrassed,’ said Angela. ‘I can’t believe I fainted.’

Painfully, the mothers’ conversation came back to her.
It doesn’t mean anything
,
she told herself angrily.
It’s just gossip. A man in Brett’s position gets that sort of crap all the time.

The secretary returned with the water and Max handed it to Angela, propping her up with cushions.

‘Nothing to be embarrassed about,’ he said kindly. ‘Its ridiculously hot out there. I suspect you got a bit dehydrated, that’s all.’

In fact, Max knew what had happened. After Angela passed out, one of the mothers admitted they’d been talking about Brett.

‘We had no idea she was there. None of us would have said a word otherwise.’

‘And you’re sure she overheard you?’ Max asked.

‘I’m not sure, no. But she keeled over right afterwards, so I’d say it’s a fairly safe bet. We all feel dreadful.’

Max loathed gossip, but unfortunately it was the very lifeblood of almost all schools, and St Hilda’s was no exception. In any case, the whispers about Brett Cranley could be heard well beyond the school gates. Everybody in the village knew that Furlings’ new owner was an inveterate womanizer, and that the Cranleys had moved here at least in part to escape an impending sexual scandal back in Oz.

Max Bingley for one couldn’t understand it. Angela Cranley was a beautiful woman, and not just on the outside. There was something luminous about her, a glow that could only come from a truly kind spirit within. If Max were married to a woman like Angela, he wouldn’t dream of playing the field. Then again, he suspected that he and Brett Cranley had very little indeed in common, in this area or any other. There was a reason that Max was headmaster of a tiny village primary school and Brett was an international real-estate mogul, a reason that went far deeper than their respective sexual mores.

‘Where’s Logan?’ Angela asked. She didn’t know why but she suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to get out of this room, away from Max Bingley’s kindness and sympathy.

‘Bertie Shaw’s mother Harriet took her home. She’s fine.’

Bertie Shaw, aka Naughty Bertie, was a great friend of Logan’s.

‘She’s going to have tea with Bertie and Harriet will drop her off at Furlings later. Or she can stay the night there, whatever you prefer. Have you got her number?’

Angela nodded weakly. Logan was bound to want to stay the night, which was fine with her. It was about time her daughter had a night off from perching at her bedroom window clutching binoculars, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gabe Baxter. Plus it would also be easier to talk to Brett with Logie out of the house … if she
wanted
to talk to Brett. Right now she wasn’t sure. It was so much easier, so much safer and less troubling to believe that what she’d overheard this afternoon was idle gossip. To dismiss it, refuse to allow it into their lives.

‘I gave Dr Grylls a call.’ Max Bingley’s voice brought her back to reality. ‘Once he’s taken a look at you I can run you home, if you like.’

‘Oh, no. God no, please. I don’t need a doctor.’ Finishing her water, Angela sat up straight, then gingerly got to her feet. ‘I’m completely fine.’

Max Bingley frowned. ‘I think you should see someone, Mrs Cranley.’

‘Angela, please. And I assure you there’s no need. Please,’ she turned to Max’s secretary, ‘ask Dr Grylls not to come.’

Mrs Graham looked to Max for approval. He nodded, although his expression made it plain he was still concerned.

‘I don’t need a lift home either,’ said Angela hurriedly. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I’m perfectly capable of walking. Despite appearances, I assure you I’m not some pathetic, feeble damsel in distress.’

She laughed, but Max Bingley answered seriously.

‘I never for a moment thought of you as either feeble or pathetic,’ he said. ‘Far from it.’

There was something terribly intense about him. When he focused his attention on you, it was like sunlight burning through a magnifying glass. Angela felt as if she might burst into flames at any moment.

‘However, I’m afraid I do absolutely insist on driving you home.’

Max Bingley said this in a tone that made it clear he would brook no argument. Tired suddenly, Angela acquiesced.

Max drove a very old Land Rover, the back seat of which was piled high with books, papers and classical music CD cases. The CDs themselves were strewn liberally on the front passenger seat. Scooping them up, apparently unashamed of the mess, he chucked them into the glove compartment so that Angela could sit down.

‘They’ll get scratched, you know,’ she warned him.

‘I know,’ said Max, pulling out of the school and heading along the green in the direction of Furlings. ‘I’m awful about putting them back in their cases. But I like having them to hand. CDs are my one extravagance. I love music.’

‘So do I,’ said Angela. She found herself telling him about Jason’s talent as a pianist. How she’d always encouraged him, but Brett disapproved.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Max. He’d yet to meet Brett Cranley in the flesh, but he was finding it harder and harder not to dislike the man. ‘What about Logan? Is she musical too?’

Angela laughed. ‘Unfortunately not. She’s tone-deaf like her father.’

‘She’s a sweet little thing,’ said Max. ‘Seems to have settled in really well.’ Angela could hear in his voice that he had a genuine love of children. It made her like him even more.

‘She’s a handful. She’s growing up so fast,’ Angela sighed, thinking about the sheet of signatures in Brett’s drawer.

‘Oh, they’re all a handful,’ Max grinned. ‘Some of them just wait a little longer than others to let it show, that’s all.’

‘Do you have children?’

They’d arrived at Furlings just as she asked the question. Angela hadn’t even noticed them turning into the driveway before the car juddered to a halt.

‘Two daughters,’ he said. ‘They’re both grown now, of course.’

Angela longed to ask about their mother. She knew that Max lived alone, but she wasn’t sure if he were divorced or widowed. For some reason she was curious, but she didn’t want to be rude or to overstep the boundaries.

‘Well. Thank you. For the lift and … everything.’ She opened the passenger door. ‘Sorry again for all the drama.’

‘Not at all.’ Max smiled, but it was a brisk, distant smile, the smile that a headmaster would usually employ when addressing a parent of one of his pupils. The fleeting intimacy Angela had felt hovering between them on the short drive was gone now. Although perhaps intimacy wasn’t the right word? It was more a sort of paternal affection. Angela realized with a pang that she missed her own father. She would call him tonight. Hearing his voice, even from thousands of miles away, always made her feel safe.

Standing outside the front door of Furlings, she watched Max Bingley drive away.

Then she turned and went inside, smothering her doubts and fears like someone throwing a wet blanket over a fire.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Through Him, With Him, In Him. In the Unity of the Holy Spirit, One God, for ever and ever.’

Reverend Slaughter enjoyed the sound of his own voice as it resonated throughout the packed church. Few things pleased him so much as seeing St Hilda’s full to the rafters. Clearly his Fittlescombe flock had been as eager to hear his sermon on Our Lord’s passion and its relevance today as he was to deliver it. No one ever gave sermons on the passion outside of Easter week. Reverend Slaughter was convinced it was the way that he ‘changed things up’ and kept his parishioners guessing that was tempting them back to Sunday services in ever-increasing numbers.

It hadn’t occurred to him that it might be the soap opera being played out in the front three pews that had actually dragged seo many of the reluctant faithful from their beds. The war over Furlings was the most interesting thing to have happened in Fittlescombe in many a long moon, not least because both factions were so glamorous and attractive. Up till now, the key battlefields had been the school, the pub and the village shop, where Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had been relentlessly campaigning. But, perhaps sensing he was losing ground, Brett Cranley had decided belatedly to make his presence felt in the village. Last week Brett had attended church for the first time and had ostentatiously led his wife and children to the front left-hand pew, a bench that for three hundred years had been the exclusive preserve of the Flint-Hamilton family.

Naturally this had instigated a frenzied round of gossip in the village. Once news reached Tati, suitably embellished (by the time Tati heard the story, Brett had been ‘strutting like a rooster, as if he owned the place’) it was only a matter of time before she would show up in person to defend her birthright.

It was all wildly diverting. From the moment the first bells had begun pealing for the ten o’clock service, at nine forty-five that morning, it had been standing room only in St Hilda’s Parish Church.

Max Bingley, who had somehow managed to rise above the drama and was out of the ‘Pew-gate’ loop, sat in his usual spot in a pew about halfway down the nave. He’d arrived early to light a candle for his wife, as he always did on Sunday mornings, and exchanged a few kind words with Angela Cranley, until her husband appeared and hurried her away. Max couldn’t be sure, but he got the sense that Mr Cranley didn’t like his wife talking to other men, even if those men were years older and the headmaster of her child’s school. It was clearly one rule for the goose and another for the gander in the Cranley marriage.