Easterleigh Hall at War (36 page)

Three days later he was in London, leaving his Pall Mall club for pre-dinner drinks at his father's house, with his uniform smartly pressed and his boots gleaming. In the heel was the compass, still. He walked to Eaton Place. How strange to be here, in peacetime. How strange peace was, full stop. How quiet, how drab, how wonderful.

He was admitted by his father's new butler, Mr Aston, who waited to take his cap, document case and swagger stick. Auberon refused because he would need to leave pretty smartly, and knew all about the need for speed in a retreat. He followed Mr Aston upstairs, passing portraits of his stepmama's ancestors. He touched his pocket. The slight crackle of paper reassured him. He walked along Indian carpets to the drawing room, entering as Mr Aston announced him. His father stood by the roaring fire, a brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other. The munitions industry had done him proud. The wallpaper was cream silk, there were more ancestors on the wall. How many did the woman have, for God's sake? Chippendale furniture was scattered about, just as at Easterleigh Hall.

Auberon bowed to his stepmother who sat, a cocktail in her hand. She sipped. The drink didn't touch her lips. She inclined her head slightly. Auberon stopped a yard from his father, who barked, ‘Brandy for my son, Aston.'

Auberon put up his hand. ‘No thank you, Aston, I have a train to catch. This is a fleeting visit.'

‘Nonsense,' his father said. ‘We have much to talk of. You are expected to dine.' The ash on his cigar was as huge and brash as he.

Auberon repeated, ‘No, I have no time to dine. I have business to attend to in the north. Stepmama, you might like to leave the room, you too, Aston.'

His father gaped, and the ash fell to the Indian carpet. What was it with the man and his Indian rugs? Was it he, or his stepmama, who was so devoid of imagination that each house had to replicate the other?

Auberon continued, ‘Or I'm perfectly happy to discuss this in front of the butler and my mother's replacement.'

His father was bulling up, on to his toes. Auberon had faced far too much to feel even a flicker of the fear he once had. He merely stared straight into his eyes. ‘It really would be best,' he said quietly.

It was his father who dropped his gaze first, waving Aston and his wife from the room. Auberon waited until he heard the door close with a click. His father still held his brandy glass, and now took a quick drink. His cigar ash was growing again.

From his document case, Auberon drew out photographs of the letters and accounts he had taken from the deposit box. ‘Perhaps you would like to put your glass down, and your cigar. I have papers which will be of interest to you.' He held up the photograph of the letter confirming the sale of cordite to Germany, via agents in Rotterdam,
after
the declaration of war and when Britain was in dire need of it, and then others of the accounts.

He handed them to his father who paled. Sweat broke out on his forehead, his hands shook. Auberon knew all about the symptoms of panic and fear. His father turned and groped for the mantelpiece, placing his glass on it, throwing his cigar on to the flames, staring at the photographs and then into the fire for a moment. Auberon could almost hear his brain working, but there was no way out for this traitor and bastard, thank God.

Auberon said, when his father turned to face him, a degree of arrogance back, ‘I have the originals. I will ruin you without a second thought and just as you warned your daughter of the consequences of her actions, I now point out yours.'

‘What do you want?' his father said, planting his feet wide apart, his hands behind his back. Auberon had to give him credit for his courage.

‘Easterleigh Hall and its estate and farms, Easton and Hawton pits, and my mother's money which is in trust until I am twenty-five. I am twenty-eight. Veronica requires her money, in trust until her marriage. She is married. Miss Wainton left us the money that my mother left her. We require that money. This is to happen within the next two days. Is that agreeable to you?'

There was silence except for the ticking of the French clock on the mantelpiece. It would chime seven in five minutes. His father cleared his throat and nodded, saying, ‘You will then hand me the originals.'

‘Just two more things,' Auberon said, watching as his father threw the photographs on to the fire. They flared, curled, and died. It was like the war all over again. ‘The first is that I know you have recruited an agent to pursue Millie Forbes for the return of your silver and harass the Forbes family. This ceases from today.'

His father took a step forward. ‘Outrageous, that little bitch took some of your stepmother's ancestral silver, and don't think the Forbes are uninvolved. That boy has worked against me in the mine, stirring up the unions, and as for that kitchen slut . . .'

Auberon held up his hand. ‘Jack protested on behalf of the workers and that was before the war. He has no involvement in this whatsoever. Evie . . . Well, it stops, do you understand? They both deserve peace, the whole family do.' At last his father nodded.

Auberon breathed heavily, because he had thought the Forbes' demand might just push his father beyond the bounds of common sense. ‘The second is Miss Wainton. What happened, the truth now? You dismissed her, but did she jump? Did she really?' He took a step closer to his father, his swagger stick in his hand. His father watched that, and only that.

‘It was an accident,' he said. ‘She made me angry because she argued, for God's sake. I walked from her on to the balcony and she came after me. I had made it quite clear I had finished, quite finished with the whole conversation. She pulled at my arm and I threw her off, and over she went. It was an accident.' His eyes were as though glued to the swagger stick. It was then Auberon realised that his father was frightened. Perhaps he always had been. He thought of his grandfather, bluff, but with big hands and hard eyes, the man who had built the steelworks, the brickworks, the mines. He said, ‘Did Grandfather hit you, Father, as you hit me?'

His father dragged his eyes from the swagger stick, and nodded.

Auberon said, ‘Do you miss my mother?'

His father swallowed. ‘With all my heart. She was a good woman, not a lady like your stepmama, but a doctor's daughter and a good woman. She made me a better man.'

Auberon knew a woman like that. He turned on his heel. His father called after him, ‘I'm sorry, Auberon. I'm sorry for it all.'

Auberon reached for the door. ‘So am I, Father, but you are quite safe as long as you keep your distance from us, and do nothing to harm us in any way. I have the papers safely where you will never find them. Two days, remember, by which time I will be home. Send a telegram to me at my club in Durham, with your lawyer's confirmation.'

Auberon travelled to Durham, and waited. Once confirmation arrived he drove in his new car to Easterleigh Hall, having heard from Veronica by telegram that morning that flu had arrived in the shape of Roger. He had replied to say that he would be arriving at eleven o'clock. Would Evie produce coffee, as there were things to discuss?

EVIE AND MRS
Moore had cleared the end of the table nearest to the door, and Veronica and Richard sat there, watching the clock. Evie concentrated on preparing luncheon at the other end because hungry stomachs waited for no man, while Mrs Moore collected herbs from the store. They were down to half the patients now, but the flu was spreading so Matron and Sister Newsome feared that the numbers would rise again, as the villagers had need of the hospital. Evie wondered how Roger was today. It seemed, with this flu, that you died quickly, or you lived. Though, true to the pattern of his life, Roger wasn't doing either, he was just comatose, poor bugger. His mother was dead, it seemed, and that was why he'd come to Easterleigh. The Hall was like a flame that drew moths, and her heart ached for the future. What was to become of all these souls?

Just this morning a demobbed soldier and ex-patient, Sid Yoland, had arrived on the kitchen doorstep. The length of his thigh bone had shortened since amputation but the medical board would not remeasure it, and his original pension was still being paid though he deserved more. Richard was receiving letters almost daily, still, asking for help. Veronica called him the pensioners' friend, and he was happy with the title. Now that the war had ended, several such pensioners had found their way back to Easterleigh for advice.

Evie had given Sid hot cocoa because in her opinion that sorted a world of problems, and hoofed Mrs Moore off her stool nearest to the ranges. Si, who had been reading the
Daily Sketch
at the table and getting in everyone's way, had raised his eyebrows. ‘Cocoa,' he had scoffed. ‘A beer, more like.'

Sid, who had been a private slogging along the wide plank road in Ypres when he'd been hurt, had shaken his head, ducking to sip the hot brew held between white frozen hands. ‘By, lass, this is the best.'

Annie had notified Ron, as Richard was checking the accounts, and he'd collected Sid and taken him through to his small office, calling back, ‘Chocolate for visitors only, is it then, Evie? Bad show, that.'

She'd grinned, but Simon hadn't. ‘It's all right for those who sat out the war here, I suppose. It's given them time to get cheeky.'

Evie had reminded him that Old Stan wanted to show him the rose Simon had planted for Bernie, last time he was here, and had some hyacinths for his mam, if he cared to get them to her. He'd left Mr Harvey's newspaper on the table, hugged Evie, and said into her hair, ‘I'll cycle the hyacinths down to Mam. She'll be right pleased.'

Evie had been relieved to see him gone, and then felt guilty because of it. She would make time for him this afternoon.

At eleven sharp, the sound of a car driving into the garage yard was heard in the kitchen. Did Aub come bearing news of their eviction? Could they hope for anything different? What the hell was going on? Veronica gripped her husband's hand. Richard seemed to know something, but not enough to tell them anything, or so he'd just said.

‘Then tell us what do you know,' his wife yelled, just as Auberon walked into the kitchen. He had said to prepare coffee for eleven, and eleven it was. Simon had remarked before he left to meet Old Stan, ‘Taking orders from the boss again, are you, Evie? They don't have that sort of thing in America.' She was sick to death of hearing about America and his friend Den, and had snapped, ‘Just go and see Old Stan, he needs you.'

Auberon brought in the cold, in a great wave. He shut the door, and removed his driving cap. His mufti coat was grey and well tailored. ‘The Tourer is quite the thing, but damned cold,' he told them. He unwrapped his scarf and rammed it into his cap, just in time, for Veronica was hurling herself into his arms. He hugged her, looking over her shoulder to Evie. He grinned, and Evie smiled, feeling a great warmth. Richard was on his feet, pumping Auberon's hand while Veronica still clung to him. ‘Just in time for Christmas, how wonderful, and to have you safe, and what on earth have you been up to?'

Evie bustled to the range, removing the coffee pot from the brick warmer, and filling the cups ready on the tray. Auberon pulled clear of his sister, going to Evie. ‘Are you well, Evie? Let me take this.' He picked up the tray and moved to the other end of the table, where the biscuits she had baked after breakfast waited on one of the best china plates. ‘You've made enough for Mrs Moore, I hope?'

Evie laughed. ‘I'd be in trouble if I hadn't.'

He placed the tray on the table as Veronica sat on her stool, and Richard on his, like schoolchildren waiting for their lessons, Evie thought. Auberon stood, pulling off his gloves and pushing them into his pocket, looking at her. Had his eyes always been so blue? Surely his hair was fairer, and it still flopped over his left eye. He was so thin, drawn, scarred, tired. He spoke, looking only at her, and she remembered that moment in the camp hospital, the feeling of his arms around her, the sense that she was about to learn something. It had brought back the sea, the day she almost drowned. ‘Simon is home safely? Jack, Mart and Charlie too?'

The memory was being chased away. She said, ‘Thanks to you. They start their first shift back tomorrow. Charlie is helping Simon and Old Stan at the moment. Poor Roger is ill . . .'

‘For heaven's sake, darling Aub, sit down and tell why you've called us here.' Veronica was tapping the table with impatience.

He gestured to the stool to his right. ‘Please sit, Evie. This is your domain, and you're Commandant.' He turned as the kitchen door opened. ‘And here's my old friend Mrs Moore, soon to be Mrs Harvey, I dare say.'

Mrs Moore dropped her herbs, blushed to the roots of her white hair, and flapped her hands at him as he picked up the rosemary and sage. ‘Oh, Mr Auberon, I can't believe you're here at last.'

‘Please sit,' he said and did the same, settling himself on the stool at the head of the table. ‘Easterleigh is safe, and ours. All we need to do is to keep it solvent. I am to run the mines, Father keeps all his other concerns. We have the estate and Home Farm, and the tenant farmers are now our responsibility.'

Solvent, that word rang in the air, along with the burbling of the kettle. Evie sat on her hands as the others looked at one another. ‘Solvent? Presumably the rents from the farms and the income from the pits will cover that?' Richard pondered.

‘Hardly,' Auberon replied, his eyes on Evie. He called to her, as she started to respond to the kettle which was simmering, but soon to boil. ‘Leave it for a moment, Evie, because Jack tells me you have a first-class idea. You wrote him about it.' His smile was gentle. He had a scar across his eyebrow; how close it had come to his eye, Evie thought. Yes, she had an idea but now the moment was here she could hardly speak.