Fairfield Hall (50 page)

Theo was now the Earl of Fairfield.

When the news reached Fairfield Hall, the dowager countess took to her bed, overcome with grief, but Dorothea sat down at her desk to write to her son. In the trenches, both Bertie and Charlie
began to call Theo ‘My lord’, but he refused to answer. ‘I don’t want the title or the estate. They’re yours, Charlie. You’ll see when we get home . .
.’

Annabel received a personal visit from James’s solicitor, bearing the letter, which had been left in his safekeeping. She opened it with trembling fingers. The letter was dated on the same
day that the three cousins had visited their families in turn.

Wordlessly, she handed the letter to her grandfather who read it through and then looked up to meet her gaze. Huskily, she said, ‘Gramps, the next time you go to market and you see Ben,
please will you ask him to come to see me – if – if he would like to, that is.’

Edward nodded. I won’t wait for market day, he thought. I’ll go now. He said nothing to either Annabel or Martha, but he harnessed the pony and trap and set off at once to Joe
Moffatt’s farm.

‘Where’s Ben?’ he asked Joe after a cursory greeting.

Joe’s smile faded. ‘Bad news, is it, my old friend?’

They were all becoming inured to it; every day they heard of someone they knew being killed or wounded, or a family they knew losing a loved one. The Somme was proving to be a
slaughterhouse.

‘The earl has been killed in action.’

Joe nodded sadly, understanding at once why Edward had come. ‘I’ll find Ben.’ He turned and shouted to a young boy who now helped on the farm. ‘Find Mr Jackson, lad, will
you?’ He turned back to Edward. ‘Come into the house while you wait, Edward, won’t you?’

‘No offence, Joe, but if you don’t mind, I’ll talk to him out here.’

‘None taken. These are hard times we’re living in. Did you hear that William Broughton has enlisted?’

‘No!’ Edward shook his head sadly. ‘It’ll kill his parents if owt happens to him. Couldn’t he appeal? Farming’s surely classed as “important war
work”?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Seems like he didn’t want to. Didn’t want to be thought a coward, I expect.’

Several young men had gone from Fairfield, including Eddie Cartwright, and Thorpe St Michael seemed to have only young boys and old men left walking its streets.

Edward sighed heavily. ‘Where will it all end, Joe?’ But it was a question his friend could not answer. Instead, he said, ‘Here’s Ben coming now. I’ll leave you to
it.’

‘’Morning, Edward.’ Ben approached, an anxious look on his face. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘The earl’s been killed in action. Annabel heard this morning.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. How – how is she?’

‘Ben, I want a straight answer, man to man. Do you love Annabel?’

‘You know I do, but—’

‘No buts. You’re coming back with me now to see her. And I won’t take “no” for an answer.’

Ben shook his head. ‘I can’t. I mustn’t. It’d only set the tongues wagging again and . . .’

‘Damn the gossips, Ben! Annabel is more important – and she needs you. You’re coming if I have to put you over my shoulder and carry you there!’

When Edward pulled into the yard, Annabel was watching for him. After only a moment’s hesitation, Ben held out his arms to her and she went into them, laying her head
against his shoulder and nestling into his neck.

‘Oh Ben, what if Charlie doesn’t come back?’ she whispered.

He stroked her hair but could not find the words to comfort this woman whom he loved so much and had done so, he realized now, almost from the very first time he saw her. He could not offer
empty words of reassurance, for he guessed what life at the battle front would be like for all the young, innocent soldiers who had marched away in a blaze of patriotic fervour. Already the
casualty lists appearing in the newspapers were growing longer with each day. And now James Lyndon’s name was added to that number.

His heart ached for this mother as it did for all mothers. He could even find it in his heart to feel sorrow for Dorothea despite her vindictive treatment of Annabel and her son. Now, both their
sons – and Nancy’s too – faced a far greater enemy and family feuds seemed petty and insignificant in comparison. He sighed heavily, wishing that the boys had not gone together.
Ben didn’t believe in ‘pals’ battalions’. The losses – and he knew they would be heavy before all this was over – would crush whole communities where every
street would lose its sons.

April 1917

‘Bertie!
Bertie!
’ Charlie’s voice was frantic. ‘Theo’s been hit. You must come and help me carry him to the dressing station. Sarg has
given me permission.’

‘Oh my God! Is it bad?’

‘Bad enough. He’s been hit in the shoulder.’

The two young men hurried to the trench where Theo lay, propped against the side, other men scrambling over his legs as they ran to take up their positions on the fire step.

‘Keep your head down, Bertie,’ Charlie warned. ‘They’re shelling us.’

‘Leave me,’ Theo gasped as they lifted him. ‘I’m done for. Look after yourselves.’

‘You can’t die, Theo,’ was Bertie’s only response. ‘We won’t let you.’

They carried him to the dressing station and laid him down gently beside the other wounded being brought in thick and fast.

‘I’ll get a doctor.’

‘Listen – please!’ Theo’s tone was urgent, demanding. ‘I’ve made a will. It’s – it’s in my pocket and I’ve sent a copy to my solicitor
back home. You must do the same, you hear me? Make a will, chaps. Promise me, you’ll both make a will. And – and –’ his voice was getting weaker – ‘look after
Aunt Annabel.’

Bertie and Charlie glanced at each other.

‘We promise – we’ll do everything you say – but just lie back and save your strength. You’re going to be fine. You’ve got a Blighty one, old chap. You lucky
devil, you’ll be going home.’

Lincolnshire, 10 March 2013

A door banged making Tiffany jump. They had been sitting opposite the portrait of Lady Annabel whilst the guide told her the story. Outside, the winter dusk had turned to
darkness and flakes of snow spattered silently against the window. The door at the side of the room opened and a young man entered. He was tall and slim with brown hair and brown eyes that twinkled
merrily.

As he strode towards them, the guide struggled to his feet, murmuring, ‘Ah, Mr Jamie, we were just—’

‘Hello, Mr Merriman,’ the newcomer greeted him cheerfully. ‘You still here? No – please – don’t get up.’

Merriman? Was he . . .? Tiffany wondered.

The older man sank back gratefully into the chair as the young man he had addressed as Jamie smiled at Tiffany. ‘And we have a visitor on this cold afternoon.’ As he held out his
hand Tiffany got up and found her own hand enveloped in a warm, firm grasp. ‘James Albert Lyndon-Banks,’ the young man said, ‘but I’m usually known as Jamie.’ Tiffany
could not prevent a gasp of surprise escaping her lips and her eyes widened.

Jamie chuckled. ‘I can see that Mr Merriman has been filling you in on the family history.’ There was a pause as – reluctantly, it seemed – he released her hand and
asked, ‘What brings you to Fairfield Hall?’

Her gaze went once more to the portrait. ‘Lady Annabel. I’d heard about her and I wanted to see her for myself.’ Her voice trailed away as, once more, she was entranced by the
beautiful woman in the portrait.

‘And have you heard the whole story?’ He glanced at Mr Merriman.

‘Not quite, Master Jamie. We’d just got to where the three young men went off to war. The first war, that is.’

‘Ah, then perhaps I can continue the tale. It’s high time you went home, Mr Merriman. I’ll get Perkins to drive you.’

‘Thank you, but there’s really no need.’

‘There’s every need. It’s dark and cold now and the driveway is slippery.’

‘Well, thank you, then, sir. I would be grateful.’ He turned to Tiffany. ‘Goodbye, miss. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.’ He gave a courteous little bow and
Tiffany was sure that if he’d been wearing a hat, he would have raised it to her.

‘I’ll just sort out transport for Mr Merriman, but I’ll be back,’ Jamie said. ‘You’re not in a hurry to leave, are you?’

‘No, no.’

He smiled and his eyes twinkled as he turned away, but he was back in a few minutes.

‘That was Raymond Merriman. His grandfather, Gregory, used to be gardener here.’

‘Are there any other descendants from Lady Annabel’s time still in the village?’

‘Oh yes, quite a few. The Broughtons are still at Chaffinch Farm.’

Tiffany raised her eyebrows. ‘William came back from the war, then?’

‘Yes, he was wounded, but he married and had two children. I think he lived into his eighties. The Parrish family are still here. Josh never went to war. His family have turned the old
smithy into a little museum and craft shop and, of course,’ he smiled, ‘the Jenkins family are still here.’

‘Harry survived?’

‘He was badly wounded when the earl was killed but Nancy nursed him back to health. He was invalided out of the Army, and they had three boys, two of whom still live in the
village.’

‘And you’re related to the Cartwrights, aren’t you? Are any of them still around?’

Jamie laughed. ‘Oh yes, they’re all over the place. They have Blackbird Farm as well as Sparrow Farm now. Now,’ he said, ‘let me show you the photographs of the three
cousins when they went to war.’

He led her closer to the huge portrait of Lady Annabel and pointed. ‘There, you see? We’ve put the photograph of them right next to her. We know that’s what she’d have
wanted.’ There was a pause whilst Tiffany regarded the faces of the three cousins who had gone off to war together.

‘That’s Theo seated with Bertie and Charlie behind him,’ Jamie explained. The two were standing proudly, almost as if to attention, but she could read the fear of the unknown
in the eyes of all three.

‘So did he tell you who came back?’ Jamie asked softly.

Tiffany shook her head, her glossy black hair swinging. ‘No, but he said that Theo was wounded. That’s where we’d got to. Did he recover?’

‘Let’s sit down near the fire.’ He led her to the two armchairs again. When they were seated, his face sobered. ‘Sadly, no. Theo died of his wound at the Battle of Arras
in a field hospital and is buried out there.’

‘So, Charlie was then the earl, was he? Or had he been disinherited?’

Jamie shook his head. ‘No. Despite his sister’s wiles, James Lyndon never took any action to disown Charlie, whom he finally believed to be his son.’

Tiffany frowned, still puzzled by the name of the young man sitting opposite her. She was sure he’d said James Lyndon
Banks
. And there’d been an Albert in there somewhere. So
how . . .?

James chuckled softly as he saw her puzzled frown. ‘Let me explain. The three cousins made wills leaving the Fairfield Estate to each other – well, sort of. Theo left it to Charlie
– just in case there should be any more wrangling – and Charlie willed it to Bertie, for while Bertie couldn’t inherit the
title
, he could inherit the estate.’

She began to understand. ‘So,’ she said huskily, already feeling Annabel’s grief. ‘Charlie didn’t survive the war either and – and—’

‘My great-grandfather – Bertie Lyndon Banks – inherited the whole estate and the house, much to the disgust of Dorothea.’

Tiffany smiled. ‘I bet!’ She paused and then asked softly, ‘What happened to Charlie?’

‘That was really tragic. He was one of a relatively small number of men killed in March 1918, in one of the very last battles the ‘Chums’ were to fight in. Sad, isn’t it,
to think that he’d gone through all that only to lose his life when the Armistice was almost in sight?’ His glance now went to the portrait. ‘Poor Lady Annabel. She was
distraught. She was married to Ben Jackson by then and their son was born only days after she heard the dreadful news. I think his name was Richard, but after Annabel died in the early sixties we
lost touch with the Jackson family.’

‘Mm,’ Tiffany murmured, her gaze still transfixed by the lovely face in the picture.

‘Shame, really,’ Jamie went on. ‘My father can just remember Lady Annabel, but my grandfather knew her well. He adored her and never tired of telling us about her. She was an
amazing woman. I only wish I’d known her.’

‘Mm, so do I,’ Tiffany said, more to herself than to the young man sitting opposite her. His intense gaze was on her face and, reluctantly, she looked away from the portrait to look
into his eyes.