Sons and Daughters (21 page)

Charlotte stared at him, at the young, handsome face that was at the same time ugly with malice. With a strength and resilience that she hadn’t known she possessed, she straightened her shoulders and said tightly, ‘If you will let me pass, I will ask one of your men to stable Midnight. I must see your father.’

A flicker of fear crossed the boy’s face. His hand shot out and he gripped her arm, his fingers biting into her flesh. ‘Don’t you say a word to him about this. Don’t you dare. You’re not supposed to know.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I’m not.’ She shook herself free of his grasp. ‘No doubt my father was saving this little piece of information for an appropriate moment.’ She forced a smile. ‘But I’m very grateful to you for telling me, Philip. Very grateful indeed. At least it allows me to make my own plans. I can leave now without any guilt, without any shred of filial duty left. And as for the farm, I hope you’re up to running it because, unless you take over right now, by the time you inherit it, it won’t be worth the paper his precious will is written on.’

‘Me? Run a farm? I’ve no intention of running a farm.’ Once more his mouth curled disdainfully. ‘I’m no country yokel. But my brother, Ben, now, Father has him earmarked to take over running our lands one day.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Buckthorn Farm will just become part of the estate and he can pay me a fair rent.’

‘You really are despicable, Philip. How you come to be the son of such a kind and caring man as your father I don’t know. Now, if you’ll kindly let me pass, your father is waiting for me to sample his mulled wine.’

‘Come in, come in,’ Miles cried when Charlotte found her way through the kitchens to the morning room. ‘We thought you’d got lost.’

‘I ran into Philip,’ she said, taking the glass of steaming mulled wine gratefully. She’d become chilled, standing talking in the cold, but that was nothing compared to the bleakness in her heart. ‘I’d come to offer you Midnight back, now he’s broken in. He’s a wonderful animal, but he still needs careful handling – gentle treatment. The horse is ready, but I’m not sure – now – that Philip is.’

‘I give you my word—’ Miles began, but at that moment Philip entered the room, a look of apprehension on his face when he saw Charlotte and his father deep in conversation. Georgie followed close behind him.

Before anyone else could say a word, Georgie piped up, ‘Miss Charlotte’s trained Midnight for you. She’s brought him back.’ Then he frowned and added as sternly as a little boy of six could manage, ‘But you’ve got to promise not to whip him any more.’

Philip glanced from Charlotte to his father and back again. He bit his lip and muttered morosely, ‘I promise.’

Miles smiled and said benignly, ‘Good, good.’

But Charlotte was not so sure as she watched the boy turn and leave the room. Philip had just proved, to her at least, that he was not capable of keeping confidences. It did not bode well for his chosen profession in the law, Charlotte thought, with a surprising hint of silent amusement, considering the disastrous news she’d just heard.

‘Now, we’re having a party for all the staff here tonight in the big room they tell me used to be used as a ballroom, but on New Year’s Eve I’m planning a quiet dinner party. Just the family, you and your father, Mr Iveson and an artist friend of mine. He lives in London now and although we’ve always kept in touch, we haven’t seen one another for several years. He’s on his own, so I’ve invited him to come here for New Year. It’s Ben’s birthday that day and it’s what he’s chosen.’ He smiled. ‘No big birthday party for the quiet one of the family. Now, do say you’ll come?’

With a defiant sparkle in her eyes, Charlotte said, ‘I can’t answer for my father, but yes, I’d be delighted to come to your dinner party. Thank you.’

She raised her glass to him and they smiled at each other.

‘Papa,’ Georgie said, ‘Brewster and Wilkins have put the tree up in the hall. Please can we decorate it now?’ He came to Charlotte’s side and slipped his hand into hers, beaming up at her. ‘And may Miss Charlotte stay and help us?’

For a brief moment, Miles hesitated, his expression suddenly melancholy, but then he forced a smile and said quietly, ‘Of course.’

They went out into the hall where Philip and Ben were coming down the stairs, carrying down the boxes of Christmas decorations for the tree. Georgie hopped excitedly from one foot to the other. ‘Where’s the fairy for the top? Papa always puts the fairy on last. We’ll do the bottom branches, Miss Charlotte, and Philip and Ben—’

As Charlotte touched the paper decorations in the box, gently lifting the first one out, Philip said harshly, ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

She looked up to see him glaring at her, his face thunderous.

‘I—’

‘Miss Charlotte’s going to help us decorate the tree,’ Georgie said, rummaging in each box, trying to find his favourite ornaments.

‘Oh no, she isn’t,’ Philip snapped. ‘That was always Mother’s job and no one –
no one
– is ever going to take her place.’

As he glared at her, Charlotte could see that he was not just referring to the decorating of the family Christmas tree. She dropped the paper chain as if it was burning her fingers. Huskily, she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Phil, please—’ Georgie began, but his brother rounded on him.

‘You can’t remember. How could you? But
I
do. And Ben does.’

Charlotte saw Ben’s head drop and he said nothing. Then she saw tears start in Georgie’s eyes. She squatted down in front of him. Taking a deep breath, she smiled and said as brightly as she could manage, ‘I ought to go, anyway. I’ve so much to do at home.’

It was a lie; there was nothing to do at home. Christmas was not celebrated at Buckthorn Farm.

‘I’ll come and see your tree when you’ve got it done. I promise.’

She stood up, turned away and walked quickly to the front door and all the while she was acutely aware of Miles watching her with troubled eyes. She pulled open the door and paused, just a moment, to look back. Georgie was delving into the boxes, his excitement overcoming his brief disappointment. Ben now avoided her glance, but Philip caught and held her gaze, a smile of triumph curving his mouth. It was a double victory for the scheming young man.

The news Philip had given her stunned Charlotte and, as she walked home, she was proud of herself that she’d managed to carry off her conversation with the rest of the family without giving away the fact that she was in a state of shock. Who else knew about this? Did Mary or Edward? And how could she find out anything more without causing embarrassment to them? If nothing else, the knowledge that her father intended to leave her quite penniless strengthened her resolve. She would indeed, she told herself, need to plan her future carefully. But how – and where – to start? That was the problem.

Apart from a slight change in the usual food, Christmas at Buckthorn Farm was a dull affair. Mary cooked a goose with all the trimmings and proudly presented a plum pudding she’d made weeks earlier. Charlotte, Mary and Edward exchanged small gifts but their dinner was eaten, as always, in the kitchen whilst Osbert ate alone in the gloomy room across the hallway.

Charlotte couldn’t help her thoughts returning to the manor. How she’d love to have seen Georgie opening his Christmas presents. She could imagine his excitement and his indulgent father and brothers watching. They’d make the day special for the little boy. Even Philip would unbend a little, she was sure. There’d be warmth and laughter and love in that household. How she longed to be a part of it.

But, despite the shattering news about her inheritance, Charlotte carried on as normal. She was as courteous and obedient as ever to her father, affectionate as always to Mary and Edward – and to Peggy, who’d now become a part of the household. She wondered if Joe knew about it.

And then, the day after Boxing Day, she suddenly realized that there was someone she could confide in. Someone she could trust with her life. Jackson. She could talk to him. He would tell her, if he knew anything. And if he didn’t, then he was the very person to find out.

But that same morning, Peggy came with news that halted Charlotte’s plan – at least for the moment.

‘Our Jackson’s got the influenza. He’s ever so poorly.’ Peggy bit her lip. ‘We even had to get the doctor.’

If that was the case, Charlotte realized, then the young man must be very ill. People like the Warrens didn’t often call the doctor in, if they could help it. Doctors needed paying and country folk, knowledgeable in the ways of Nature’s remedies, seldom called upon Dr Markham’s services.

‘Jackson must stay off work as long as he needs to,’ Charlotte reassured her.

‘Thank you, miss. I’ll tell him what you’ve said.’

Later that day, Charlotte inspected the contents of her wardrobe. It was dismally inadequate. There was nothing there that was suitable for another dinner party. She fingered the dress she’d worn the last time she and her father had dined at the Manor. She allowed herself a wry smile; it was the
only
dinner party she’d ever attended. She turned away with a sigh and sat down at her dressing table and regarded her reflection critically. She had a well-proportioned face, with smooth skin that was lightly tanned from being out doors in all weathers. Removing her spectacles, she leaned closer to the mirror. Her eyes were violet, with thick, black lashes. Her nose was the right size and shape for her face and her mouth generous and turned up at the corners as if she were ready to smile at any moment. And, despite the harshness of her life, she was. Until now, she’d never really stopped to compare her life with that of others. She’d always been housed, clothed and fed. She’d always had the affection of Mary and Edward, the friendship of the men and boys who worked on the nearby farms – and in some cases, that of their wives too. And as for the lack of love from her father, well, she’d never known any different. So how was she to know that her life was unduly harsh, very different to what it would have been as the daughter of a loving father? But now she was becoming painfully aware of the differences. She remembered all the times she’d visited the Warrens’ cottage home. How there was affection between each and every member of the family for one another. How Joe treated his daughter, Lily, with the same love he had for his boys. If anything, Charlotte thought wistfully, it was a love that was even more tender and protective. And Lily’s brothers looked out for her too. Charlotte smiled at herself in the mirror. And that was how she thought of Jackson. He was like a brother to her.

Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the quick footsteps on the stairs and she jumped when an urgent knock sounded on her bedroom door.

‘Miss Charlotte, Miss Charlotte. Come quickly.’

Charlotte rose at once and hurried to the door, flinging it open. ‘What is it? What’s the matter? Is it my father?’

‘No – well – yes, in a manner of speaking.’ Mary was standing there, twisting her fingers together agitatedly.

‘Is he ill?’ Charlotte hurried to the head of the stairs and began to run down.

Mary, following close behind, said, ‘No, but he will be if he carries on like he is doing.’

As they reached the hall, Charlotte heard raised voices in the sitting room, her father’s voice loud and angry above another, female, voice. It was not a voice she recognized. She hurried into the room.

There were two visitors in the room with her father, but it was immediately apparent that they were not welcome. Osbert was standing in front of the fireplace, holding on to the mantelpiece as if for support. But he was shaking his fist at the woman standing straight-backed before him and shouting, ‘Get out! Get out of my house.’

The woman was middle-aged. Tall – stately, Charlotte thought irrationally – and elegantly dressed. Tiny curls of brown hair escaped from beneath her tight-fitting felt cloche hat and she wore a knee-length crossover coat trimmed with fur at the collar and cuffs and fashionable, pointed-toe T-bar shoes. Behind her, a man was standing near the window, keeping out of the altercation. Of medium build – neither fat nor thin – balding and sporting a moustache.

As Charlotte entered the room, they all turned to look at her – the man and the woman with interest, her father with anger. ‘And you can keep out of this, girl. Go to your room and stay there.’

The woman was smiling and coming towards her, her arms stretched wide to embrace Charlotte. ‘My dear, dear girl. We meet at last! Come, kiss your Aunt Euphemia.’

In a trance, Charlotte submitted to the woman’s embrace and kiss on her cheek. Then the stranger stood back and held Charlotte at arm’s length. ‘Let me look at you. My, my, such a pretty little thing . . .’

Charlotte smiled weakly, more at the misplaced compliment than anything else. ‘Did you say
aunt
?’

‘I did indeed. I am your father’s sister.’

Charlotte gasped in surprise. ‘Father’s – sister? I didn’t know he had a sister.’

The woman threw back her head and laughed. ‘Dear me, am I such a black sheep that he hasn’t even mentioned me in all these years? I hoped you might remember us, but then you were only four – or was it five? – when we were last here.’

‘Euphemia . . .’ The warning note in Osbert’s voice was unmistakable, but the woman carried on smoothly, as if she hadn’t heard him and certainly as if she intended to take no notice.