The Inheritance (53 page)

‘I wanted to see you to clear the air and to set a few things straight,’ she said.

‘Okaaaay,’ said Brett, still distrustful. She looked particularly beautiful today, which somehow made things worse.

‘Jason and I will get a divorce. It’s all very amicable. Once the money comes through from the Hamilton Hall deal, I’ll repay every penny from his trust fund, plus interest. What’s left we’ll split fifty-fifty.’

Brett couldn’t conceal his surprise. This was a more than generous offer. Hamilton Hall had been Tati’s business. It had been Tati who’d created the value, Tati who’d worked to make it what it was. No one, least of all Jason, would expect her to give half of her profits away in a divorce.

‘Why would you do that?’ Brett asked.

‘For the principle,’ said Tati.

‘What principle?’

‘To show … people … that I didn’t only marry Jason for his money.’

They locked eyes. For the first time Tati felt her inner calm start to falter, replaced by the nervous churning of the stomach she always felt in Brett’s presence.

‘Also, because I love him. And it’s the right thing to do.’

Brett’s stare turned to a frown.

‘What will you do with the rest of the money?’ he asked brusquely. ‘You could start another business, another school. You’re good at it.’

‘Thank you.’ The compliment was so unexpected, for a moment it threw Tati off stride. ‘But what I’d really like to do is buy my house back.’

Brett shook his head. So
that’s
what this was all about.

Furlings.

Again.

The food arrived, providing a few moments’ welcome distraction. Then Brett cut to the chase.

‘I won’t sell to you, Tatiana.’

‘Why not?’

‘Are we really going to do this dance again?’ asked Brett, stabbing his cheese with a fork.

‘I’m not angry,’ said Tati. ‘I’m curious. I genuinely want to know. Why won’t you sell to me? When you don’t want the house, and you know I do?’

That’s exactly why
, thought Brett.
Because you want it and I have it. It’s my only card, the single ace I have to play with you. The day I sell Furlings back to you, I’ve lost you forever.

‘I do want the house,’ he lied. ‘And Ange really wants it. She loves that place. She wants us to retire there. I wish you could let it go, Tatiana.’

‘So do I,’ said Tati truthfully. That would be true freedom. Not wanting Furlings. Not longing, constantly, for the past. For her birthright. But that was like not breathing.

‘Would it make any difference if I told you I was pregnant?’ She played her last card. ‘I want my child to grow up there, Brett. I know that’s what my father would have wanted too.’

Brett put down his knife and fork. He looked horrified.

‘Are you serious? You’re pregnant?’

Tati gave a wry smile. ‘No need to look so happy about it.’

‘But, Jason …? You said he was—’

‘He is. But we’ve been married a long time. It hasn’t been a completely celibate marriage.’

Brett held up a hand. ‘Don’t,’ he winced. He didn’t want to think about Tati and his son making love. Couldn’t think about it. But if Tati was pregnant, carrying his grandchild, that was it. There could be no chance for them, not even in some distant, imaginary future.

Ever since he’d got back together with Angela, Brett had told himself that his feelings for Tatiana were dead. Acquiring Hamilton Hall had been a final act of revenge, the last piece of a puzzle that would allow him to get closure. That and moving to New York, away from Fittlescombe and Furlings and all the reminders.

Now he knew that he’d been fooling himself. Tatiana was pregnant. Pregnant with his grandchild! The pain was indescribable, like swallowing a handful of razor blades.

‘I don’t think Jason’s the father.’ Her voice cut through the agony. Brett clutched at the sliver of hope, unable to stop himself.

‘You don’t?’

‘It’s highly unlikely.’

‘So who …?’

‘Leon di Clemente,’ said Tati. ‘But don’t worry, he won’t be involved. I know he was the one who helped you take over Hamilton Hall.’

Brett opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. There was no point denying it now.

‘I don’t care anyway,’ said Tati. ‘That man is dead to me. All I care about is the baby. And Furlings. Please reconsider.’

Brett looked at her with genuine compassion. The truth was, in their different ways, they were both trapped, prisoners of desires they could neither deny nor fulfil.

‘I’m sorry, Tati. I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I promised Angela. She … we … might want to go back eventually.’

This was true, but it wasn’t
the
truth. The truth was that if he let go of Furlings, Brett would have nothing left that Tatiana wanted. He would be letting go of her, for good. Forever. That was what he couldn’t do.

A look of dismay crossed Tati’s face. At first Brett thought it was about Furlings. But a few seconds later it intensified into a grimace of pain.

‘Are you all right?’ He pushed his plate aside.

Tati clutched her stomach. ‘No.’ She let out a short, sharp cry and doubled over, so violently that her head hit the table. ‘Oh my God. Help me!’

Brett ran around and scooped her up into his arms. Looking down he saw that blood had already stained her white skirt.

‘Call an ambulance!’ he bellowed at the waiter. ‘Hurry!’

The doctors at Roosevelt Hospital on Tenth Avenue were efficient, compassionate and fast. Ectopic pregnancy was diagnosed less than ten minutes after Tati arrived. Ten minutes after that she was in an operating theatre, and an hour later Brett was by her side in the recovery room.

Stroking her forehead, gently pushing damp strands of hair back from her ghostly pale face, he had never felt so helpless in his life. She was still unconscious, the anaesthetic had yet to wear off, but her breathing was deep and steady, which the nurses assured him was a good sign. ‘Some people take longer than others to come around. You did the right thing, bringing her straight in. Ectopic miscarriages are rare, but they can be fatal if you don’t act fast. You probably saved her life.’

Brett didn’t feel heroic. He felt terrible. Looking at Tati lying there motionless in her green hospital gown, he felt like crying. She was so small and fragile, so utterly vulnerable, it was like looking at a child.

Her eyelids began to flicker. She looked at him, peaceful for a moment, then winced with pain.

‘I think she needs something,’ said Brett.

A nurse brought water and some painkillers. Tati swallowed them, then slumped weakly back onto the bed.

‘I lost the baby.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears.

‘It would never have survived, sweetheart,’ Brett said gently. ‘If they hadn’t operated, you’d have died.’

Tati nodded. Her face crumpled.

‘Please don’t cry,’ said Brett.

‘I want my baby back.’

‘I know.’

Tati’s voice was slurred and sleepy. Brett looked anxiously at the nurse.

‘It’s the drugs,’ she whispered. ‘They’re pretty powerful. She’ll be up and down for a few hours yet. In and out of consciousness. Tearful.’

Tati murmured something that Brett couldn’t hear. He bent closer, turning his ear towards her lips.

‘What was that, angel?’

‘I want … my house … back.’

She sighed heavily and sank back into a deep sleep. Brett stood over her, watching, as the nurses moved in and out of the room, going about their business. Under his breath he whispered.

‘I know you do, Tatiana. And I want you. But neither of us can have what we want.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Max Bingley watched the raindrops racing one another down his kitchen window, pushing the tension and anxiety out of his mind. He was alone at Willow Cottage this Saturday morning. Stella had gone to stay with her sister in Suffolk, ostensibly a painting trip, but they both knew it was more than that. She needed some time away from him, away from Fittlescombe and the school and the cottage and their life together. Or, as she would put it,
his
life.

‘I feel like a guest here,’ Stella told Max the day before she left. ‘Like a visitor in my own marriage.’ It hadn’t been said in anger. One of the things Max loved most about Stella was her calm, even temperament. Theirs was a relationship that had begun quietly and without drama. If it ended, he hoped and believed it would end the same way. Not much of a silver lining, perhaps. But where there had been no great, passionate love, at least there could be no agonizing, passionate parting. Wagner’s
The Valkyrie
was on Radio 3, its sweeping, triumphant refrain filling the tiny cottage with sound.
Perhaps, if I’d never been married to Susie, Stella and I could have worked.
But having tasted real love, no imitation would do. Max and Susie had both adored their opera. Rosie had been conceived to Wagner, if Max remembered correctly. Stella had tried to take an interest for his sake, but it was obvious opera didn’t move her. When he’d taken her to Covent Garden to hear the sublime John Tomlinson as Hagen, Max had turned to Stella at the end of the
Götterdämmerung
, tears of emotion streaming down his face, only to find her fast asleep and snoring beside him.

He couldn’t blame her for not being Susie. Stella was a wonderful, talented woman in her own right. Max respected her as much as anyone he’d ever met. The problem was he wasn’t in love with her, nor she with him. Not really. They’d married to save themselves from loneliness, and because Max’s daughters had so wanted them to. But the irony was they both felt lonelier now than they had before. Something had to change.

The knock on Max’s kitchen door was so faint at first that he didn’t hear it over the radio. It soon grew louder, however, an insistent banging that demanded an answer. Biting back his irritation – as headmaster of a village primary school, one was always on duty – Max turned down the Wagner and opened the door.

‘Angela!’

His irritated frown vanished instantly.

‘Come in, come in! You look like a drowned rat.’

This wasn’t true, of course, and Max instantly regretted the turn of phrase. Mrs Cranley looked as beautiful as ever, her skin sparkling wet beneath a mask of raindrops and her blonde hair sticking to her cheeks and neck like a mermaid’s tresses. She was wearing a scruffy old pair of corduroy gardening trousers and an army green macintosh coat that seemed to have done little to protect her from the elements on this foul, rainy morning. But even in her bedraggled state she was radiant, her smile lighting up the room and Max’s heart in the same, glorious instant.

‘Thanks.’ She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. ‘Sorry to drip all over your floor. I wanted some advice.’

‘Of course, any time. And don’t mind my floor, it could do with a wash.’ Taking her wet coat he dashed into the downstairs loo for a towel. ‘Here. You can dry yourself off with this.’

Angela took it gratefully, rubbing her wet hair beside the Aga.

‘I thought you’d be packing,’ said Max, filling an ancient cast-iron kettle and putting it on the hot ring of the Aga to boil. ‘The whole village is agog about the new tenants taking over Furlings. Rumour has it you’ve let it to some pop star. Please tell me that’s wide of the mark.’

‘Actually, that’s what I came to talk to you about,’ said Angela. She pulled a letter out of her trouser pocket, carefully wrapped in a clear plastic sandwich bag to protect it from the rain. ‘This came this morning. I’d like your opinion.’

Max took the letter and read it, slowly.

‘But, that’s wonderful!’ he said to Angela. ‘You’ve been accepted onto a Masters course in art history. The department at Sussex University is one of the best in the country. Congratulations!’

‘Thank you.’ Angela smiled shyly. ‘It’s rather a long commute from New York, though.’

‘Ah.’ Max put the letter down on the table. ‘Yes.’ He thought for a moment. Then, trying his best to sound upbeat, he said, ‘Perhaps you can transfer to a US college? A lot of the universities have reciprocal arrangements these days. The main thing is that you’re doing something for yourself. Something unconnected to Brett or the children. You deserve that, Angela.’

The kettle started to boil, a loud hissing sound that made them both jump. Max made tea and cut the last of Stella’s home-made fruitcake into slices. He cleared a space at the table amidst the paintbrushes and newspaper supplements and they both sat down.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Angela blurted. ‘I … I think I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Then don’t go,’ said Max.

Every time he looked at her, she noticed how piercing his eyes were, how intense. In every other way he looked his age. His face was lined, his hair grey and his back slightly stooped, the way that older men’s so often were. In all these ways, he reminded Angela of her own father. But his eyes still danced with the light of youth and energy and intelligence. It was his eyes that made him attractive. That and the kind smile that, over the past decade, she had truly come to love. Max Bingley’s smile was as much a part of Fittlescombe to her as the church or the green or the annual Swell Valley cricket match. Max Bingley’s smile was home.

‘It’s not just America. It’s everything. Me and Brett …’ She tailed off. Max found himself waiting with baited breath for her to finish the sentence. When she said no more, he prompted her gently.

‘You’ve changed your mind?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. It’s not that I want to end my marriage. It’s that it
has
ended. I’m just watching from the sidelines. That probably sounds stupid.’

‘No,’ Max assured her. ‘As it happens, I know exactly what you mean. Have you spoken to Brett?’

She shook her head. ‘He’s away in America. Finalizing things at the new house. He gets back tomorrow.’ She looked at Max bleakly. ‘What am I going to tell him?’

‘The truth?’ Max suggested, gently.

‘It’s not that easy,’ said Angela.

‘The important things in life rarely are,’ said Max.

‘Yes but purely on a practical level. Half our life is already on a boat! We have tenants supposed to arrive in a week. We signed a contract.’ Angela grimaced.