Bittersweet Passion

‘Look at the car Dane’s travelling in!’ Steve nearly broke his neck peering out at the long, opulent limousine with its tinted windows, which was parked at the end of the church lane. ‘My mother must be going green with envy!’

Carter delivered him a scornful glance. ‘Did Celia inform Dane of Adam’s death?’ he demanded, Celia being Carter’s aunt and Steve’s mother.

Claire chewed her lip uneasily. ‘No, that was me, Carter.’

He looked at her in astonishment ‘You?’ he parroted.

‘He had a right to be told,’ she stated levelly, though her cheeks were pale. ‘I contacted his secretary in London. She didn’t tell me where he was. Actually, at the time I didn’t think she paid much heed to my message. I had enough trouble just getting to speak to her.’

Steve laughed, understanding. ‘I doubt if Dane ever felt the need to name-drop grandfather’s existence.’

Carter was still staring at her, flushed by angry incredulity. ‘You should have discussed it with me first. Dane hasn’t been up here in years.’

‘Three years,’ Claire inserted. ‘And you know Grandfather told him not to come again. He was very rude to him on that last visit.’

‘No ruder than he ever was to anyone else.’ Carter let down his sanctimonious front to stab, ‘To attend his funeral now is the height of bad taste and, if Dane’s expecting to find any profit for himself out of the reading of the will, he’ll soon find his mistake.’

Her distaste threatened to choke her. Aside of the last couple of months when it had been clear that Adam Fletcher was on his deathbed, Carter had been a very infrequent visitor here. Once he had reached that realisation he had visited regularly, showing a calculation Claire had despised. It had not been lost on her, either, that her grandfather had belatedly reached the conclusion that Carter would make her an excellent husband. Stolid and careful in his ways, and equally penny-pinching, Carter had managed to impress Adam deeply.

She was glad when the car glided through the tall, rusty gates and came to a halt on the weedy gravel fronting the granite bareness of the Hall. Hard winters had scarred the paintwork, neglect had done the rest and on a prematurely dark, wintry afternoon, the Hall proffered a gloomy welcome.

Seeing Mr Coverdale’s stately old Rover already parked, she hastened from the car. ‘I’ll see that some tea is served first. It’s bitterly cold.’

In her opinion the will would contain no surprises. The estate would be divided equally between all of them. For what reason other than that belief would Carter have asked her to marry him a mere week ago? As she passed the hall mirror her own colourless and drab exterior mocked her.

She had not grown up pretty. Those teenage fantasies had died years ago. She was short-sighted, undersized and, at any gathering, likely to be the one offering the refreshments around. Carter was too grasping to have proposed without the conviction that she would bring with her a sizeable dowry.

Money! A bitter smile crossed her small face. She glanced at threadbare curtains and worn carpets, furniture that had never been anything other than cheap and functional even in its day. There was no heating. The hot water supply was unreliable and the kitchens prehistoric. Precious little enjoyment her grandfather had taken from his money!

A year ago Claire had been naïvely happy. Max Walker, the trainee estate manager at Ranbury, had asked her to marry him. Her shyness and reserve briefly forgotten, she had flown straight to her grandfather to tell him. Adam had sacked Max and, before she could pack her bags and follow, Adam had not only informed her that he had cancer but that if she disobeyed him he would dispense with the elderly servants still in his employ. The threat of unhousing Maisie and Sam Morley, who lived in a tumbledown cottage on the edge of the estate had horrified her. Nor had it been necessary.

Duty was a yoke that Claire had never shirked and she had done everything possible to ease her grandfather’s last months alive. She had also sought to persuade him to make some small provision in his will for the old couple who, as housekeeper and gardener, had worked for him throughout his life. But since he had considered them the Social Service’s responsibility to house and keep, she had small hope that his attitude would have softened.

Hanging her coat, she hurried into the kitchen. Maisie took one look at her tense, wan face and abandoning the tea trolley enveloped Claire in a warm, reassuring hug. ‘It’s done now and everything will come all right,’ the old lady promised kindly. ‘And don’t you let anyone bully you into thinking otherwise.’

Claire blinked back tears. She had been dry-eyed all day. But Maisie’s rough affection touched her to the heart, for the old housekeeper had to be concerned about her own future. She was in her seventies, with an ailing and not very mobile husband, and accommodation that was tied to her job. She had much more to worry about.

‘Yes, everything’s going to be fine.’ There was a calm quality to Claire’s voice as she pulled herself firmly together. Adam was bound to have left her enough money to ensure that the Morleys’ remaining years were comfortable ones. The family had always talked as if he was loaded. A pension, she planned absently, and that little house—such as it was—signed over to them. It might even be possible to have the cottage refurbished.

Some of her tension drained away as she thought daringly of her own plans. In the heat of a long ago summer’s day, Max had shyly confided that his dearest ambition was to have a farm of his own. Since neither of them had had any money, it had seemed just a dream. But now Claire wondered dizzily just how much a small piece of land and a modest house could cost. They’d be able to get married immediately instead of waiting—Max was still without a job. He wouldn’t need one if he had land of his own to work. Things might be tight but that was nothing she wasn’t used to … and they’d be together as two people in love ought to be together. Not subsisting on a diet of unsatisfactory letters to keep their relationship alive. Poor Max, he found letters such a labour. She still treasured each and every one of his missives, though they mainly catalogued his daily doings and his frustration with inactivity.

‘Claire!’ Carter snapped. ‘Mr Coverdale’s waiting.’

Her eyes gleamed with annoyance as Maisie guiltily returned to making the tea.

‘She’s only the housekeeper. I wish you’d remember that,’ Carter complained as she followed him. ‘You’re much too familiar with her.’

Prevented by the presence of others from an angry and unashamed rebuttal, she contented herself with the reflection that Carter’s snobbery scarcely mattered now. It would be a relief, not a hardship for Maisie to retire. Apart from Claire, none of the Fletchers had ever cherished the smallest warmth towards her. If there was anything the family respected apart from the great god Money, it was the dividing line between family and hired help. Claire had always straddled the borderline between. Oh, she was a Fletcher now when Carter considered her worthy of a marriage proposal, but for long years she had just been Adam’s unwanted ward who helped around the house. Carter must think she had an incredibly short memory!

Her grandfather’s solicitor, a small man in his late fifties, came forward to greet her, apologising for his unavoidable absence from the funeral. Steve and his parents, James and Celia were already standing close to the miserable fire flickering in the large drawing-room grate. Carter’s older sister, Sandra, who had kept house for him since the death of their parents, was already seated. Dane strolled in last, and she remembered abruptly that he hated tea and sped past him to head for the kitchen again.

Although Adam had raved in his moments of religious fervour about Dane’s notorious reputation and jet-set life-style, Claire could dimly recall occasions during her unhappy childhood here when Dane had been carelessly kind to her. Indeed, when she had been sixteen she had developed a quite hopeless crush on Dane who, to her adolescent eyes, represented every woman’s fantasy. She was rather glad he hadn’t noticed it. Not that she had flaunted her feelings. Her wayward emotions had made her more tongue-tied and self-conscious than ever and in any case, she had nurtured no fantasies on wish-fulfilment.

Dane was one of the Beautiful People, fěted in the gossip columns and the subject of many a risqué kiss’n’tell story by discarded exes, recountals in Sunday newspapers that Claire had once been avidly glued to. Even then the mere concept of Dane even registering that she was female had amused her.

‘Where are you bolting off to now?’ His lazy enquiry was accompanied by a restraining hand on her sleeve. ‘Go and sit down. You look exhausted.’

And could have done without being told so. She stole a rueful glance up at his strikingly handsome features, the silvery-blond hair luxuriantly curving over his collar in such effective contrast to the winged ebony brows and spiky lashes he had inherited from his Italian father. It was an arrogant face, his strength of character underwritten by his superb bone structure. The long, narrow-bridged perfection of his nose lent decided hauteur to his features, and cynicism and sensuality combined in the hard, chiselled line of his mouth. He was quite breathtakingly good-looking. Little wonder that he went through women like a fox in a hen-yard, she allowed grudgingly.

‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ Circumspectly she dragged her eyes from him. What did he see? Poor, bullied, plain spinster cousin Claire? He would be surprised how much purpose seethed beneath her composed exterior. Even more surprised perhaps to learn there was a man in her life.

‘Coffee for Dane, Maisie!’ she called into the kitchen.

‘Claire!’ Carter erupted afresh, somewhere in her wake.

She hastened back, rather flushed and harassed, to take a seat in one of the hard, overstuffed armchairs. Mr Coverdale was unfurling papers from his briefcase. ‘Firstly—’ he cast a rather wary glance round the room ‘—there are people present who do not benefit from Mr Fletcher’s last will and testament.’

‘We’re all family,’ Carter said loftily. ‘Please continue.’

The older man sighed. ‘Mr Fletcher had for some time intended that Miss Claire Fletcher be the sole beneficiary of his estate, but a year ago he made alterations to his will. I did seek to reason with him about the terms he included, but to no avail, and I feel it my duty to inform you, Miss Fletcher, that …’

‘The sole beneficiary? The sole beneficiary?’ Celia was repeating furiously.

An expression of rich enjoyment crossed Dane’s faintly bored features and he lowered himself down gracefully into a chair near the window, his air one of strong anticipation.

‘That it is very unlikely that you could combat those terms in court,’ Mr Coverdale completed.

‘She’s getting everything?’ Celia ranted, still not over the first statement, her plump face a blotchy pink.

Carter curled his lip over his aunt’s annoyance. ‘And who more deserving, Celia? Claire was a very dutiful granddaughter. I’m sure no one could argue that anyone else was more entitled. If you listen, however, you will realise that Grandfather didn’t make the bequest without qualification.’

Under the loud backlash of family comment, Claire had paled. A year ago the will had been changed. Her romance with Max had shaken her grandfather up more than he had admitted. She wasn’t disapppointed. In fact, she was grateful not to have received the entire estate. She could hardly feel it was her due. As long as there was still enough for the Morleys, she told herself squarely, and mentally crossed her fingers.

‘Unfortunately Mr Fletcher’s affairs are in quite a tangle and I don’t yet have adequate valuations on the investments my client made out in South Africa. He mortgaged this house to do so. However, I can tell you that—’ the solicitor advanced, affecting not to hear the gasps of surprise ‘—the money does rest in those investments and I imagine that the amount will be a considerable one. Now I shall read the will, if I may.’

Taken aback by the news that the Hall was mortgaged, Claire resolutely attempted to avoid Carter’s meaningful smile in her direction. He seemed expectant, excited almost, as though the contents of the will were already known to him.

‘… being of sound mind do bequeath my estate in its entirety to my granddaughter, Claire, on the condition that she marries one of my grandsons, such choice being an obvious one … He did insist on writing this himself,’ Mr Coverdale murmured uncomfortably, as if the unearthly silence that had fallen and Claire’s shocked stillness had penetrated even his bland good humour. ‘You see, he believed it would take a man to run his business affairs, Miss Fletcher, but Mr Carter Fletcher assured me that you were only holding off from a formal announcement out of respect for you grandfather’s demise. Or am I premature in mentioning the matter?’

Shattered by Carter’s unforgivable machinations to line his own pockets, Claire was incapable of speech.

‘Congratulations.’ Sandra kissed her cheek with newly discovered cousinly affection. ‘It’s by far the fairest arrangement.’

Claire’s teeth sank into the soft underside of her lower lip and she tasted blood. ‘It’s iniquitious … humiliating …’ Her stifled voice wasted away.

‘Claire, you’re overwrought.’ A heavy hand came down to pat her shoulder.

Instinctively she flinched from Carter’s proprietorial hold, too disgusted even to look at him. Well, his visits to their grandfather had certainly paid good dividends! ‘What happens if I don’t marry Carter?’ she asked.