Teena Thyme (3 page)

'Miss Amelia Jane Spigwell,' he said. He folded back the cover, revealing a top sheet of paper covered with scrawl identical to that I'd already seen. 'Miss Amelia Jane Spigwell, born in Lavant, West Sussex, eighteenth of December, in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and seventy-one. Died March first, nineteen hundred and seventy-four. Last year,' he added.

'Last year,' I agreed. 'And?'

'And you've never heard of her, I presume?'

'Never.' I shook my head. 'Who was she? A distant relation, I suppose?' Not that distant, I thought to myself, not if she'd lived in Lavant all her life. Call it a dozen or so miles, at a guess? But of course, we weren't talking distances measured in miles.

'She would have been. Let's see now and make sure I've got this right...' He wrinkled his already wrinkled forehead into several more lines and I could almost hear the antique cogs meshing. 'Yes, Amelia would have been your great-great-great aunt. On your father's side, of course.'

'Of course,' I said. Mum's family name was Hooper, in case you were wondering.

'Amelia Spigwell never married,' Mr Swann said. 'She was apparently once engaged to a young army officer, but according to her diaries, he was killed in the Boer War, at the beginning of this century, that is.'

'First or Second Boer War?' I asked. He looked surprised, but then, as I said, I was good at history in school. He peered back down again and I guessed that he did a lot of peering, as he had it off to a fine art now.

'Nineteen hundred and one,' he said. I nodded.

'Second,' I said smugly, hoping to God I was right, but guessing that he wouldn't know the difference anyway.

'Yes, that's right,' he said, but I suspected he was guessing. Unless, of course, he'd actually been there in person - he certainly looked old enough. He coughed and cleared his throat. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'as I was saying, Amelia Spigwell never married and, when she died, by the terms of her will her estate was to go to her oldest surviving female relative.'

'Me?' It came out like a squeak.

'You,' Mr Swann confirmed, with another nod.

'Are you sure?' Stupid Teena, of course he was sure, otherwise he wouldn't have sent for you. Any doubts were quickly dispelled.

'We've searched all the relevant records,' he continued, 'and though there are a few gaps here and there, the law only requires that we search what exists to be searched and that we also advertise in the proper quarters for any other possible claimants, which we did last year.

'None,' he said, with suitable gravity, 'have been forthcoming. There was a Nigel Spigwell from Cumberland, but if he ever did have any connection with
our
Spigwells, then it would have to date from well before Amelia's birth, so it wouldn't count.'

'I thought you said eldest surviving
female
relative?' I demanded. I don't miss much, as you'll see. Mr Swann nodded. He nodded as efficiently and neatly as he peered.

'Yes,' he said. 'Nigel Spigwell has a daughter, Hayley.'

'Ah.'

'But don't worry,' Mr Swann assured me, smiling again. 'As I say, any claim in that direction couldn't possibly hold up, so you, miss, er, Teena - with two "e's" - are the rightful heir, or heiress, perhaps I should say, to the entire estate of Amelia Jane Spigwell.'

'Wow!' I said and let out a long breath. I hesitated. 'And?'

'And you'd like to know how much,' he said, reading my mind. Not that it took much reading, I suppose. After all, anyone would have been wondering the same thing, wouldn't they? He did some more peering, some more nodding and then peered again.

'There's a cottage,' he said.

'Lavant?' I guessed. He shook his head, which made a change from all the nodding.

'Rowlands Castle,' he said. This time I nodded.

'Nice,' I said. 'Pretty area.' Pretty expensive, too, or at least it was in those days.

'The cottage is called
Rose Lea
,' he continued. 'That's Lea spelt with an "a", nothing to do with Gypsy Rose Lee. It has three bedrooms, two reception rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. Oh yes, and a quarter of an acre of garden.'

'Full of roses?'

'Quite possibly.' He peered over his half moons and smiled at me and I could tell that he liked me. Actually, it might just have been my short skirt and the several acres of black tight clad thigh I was displaying when I first entered his room. My legs have that effect on men - unless they're gay, of course.

'There are also shares in several companies,' he went on, 'plus you now own the freehold on four other cottages, though there are sitting tenants in all of those. Ah, and you also own a one third share of
The Ploughman's Respite
. It's a public house, I believe, on the road between Rowlands Castle and Havant.'

Double wow! A pub! I love pubs. I mean, not that I was an alcoholic or anything, but I was prepared to practise and learn. Mr Swann did yet more peering and finally laid his sheet of paper down.

'All in all,' he summarised, 'the current valuation of your inheritance, including the money on deposit in various bank accounts and allowing for death duties, etcetera, etcetera...' he paused, '...the current valuation, which isn't strictly current as it takes no count of interest accrued on deposits since it was calculated three weeks ago, is a grand total of four hundred and eighty-nine thousand pounds and seventy-three pence.'

My previous self-control, kept together mostly by my slightly obtuse sense of humour and my ability to treat most things as if they aren't really happening to me anyway, collapsed. And I collapsed with it.

'Wh-what?' I managed to gasp, eventually. 'How much?' He repeated the figure and I held my hand to my head, as if it might fall off at any moment. My head, that is, not my hand.

A moment here, for explanation and expansion. Nearly half a million quid - pounds to you overseas readers - a lot of money. A real lot of money. Not many eighteen-year-olds get that sort of thing thrown into their lap. But wait - there's more.

This was nineteen seventy-five we're talking about. Nearly half a million pounds in the mid-seventies would equate to something like three million in today's money, give or take the odd hundred thousand here and there! I felt my stomach contract, go cold, turn a slow somersault and then try to vacate my body through a part of it that no lady should ever mention in polite company. And, as I already said, I know all about being a lady.

I also know all about not being a lady, too, and who says you're polite company anyway? So, all right, I nearly soiled my new knickers and, if it hadn't been for the timely intervention of Mr Swann, who's obvious previous experiences of traumatised females had led him to secrete a bottle of brandy and a glass within easy reach, I think I would have passed out.

A generous double measure of Hennessy Cognac coursed its velvet way down my frozen throat and then I heard myself let out a long, low groan. No, not of pain; it was just a reaction and, a moment later, it was all I could do to stop myself from jumping up on Mr Swann's two hundred year old desk, platform-soled boots and all and dancing around, screaming: "I'm rich! I'm rich!"

Very unladylike.

She heard him approaching from afar, the sound of his heavy measured stride reverberating along the passageway and, when he paused before entering, it was all Angelina could do to prevent herself from trying to look round. Her small jaw set firm, she closed her eyes and kept herself pressed tightly against the wooden rack.

'You seem very quiet now, my little spitfire,' he drawled, and there was no mistaking the mockery in his voice. 'The benefits of a spell of solitude, no doubt.'

Angelina made no reply, neither did she open her eyes, but she could picture him clearly in her mind: the languid posture, the broad shoulders, with the tightly cut jacket emphasising every muscle, the close fitting breeches and, probably, his favourite riding boots. His face, however, suddenly refused to form itself clearly in her head.

She could see the shock of black hair plainly enough, with the unruly curl that perpetually flopped across his brow, but below that his features seemed to swim in a mist, so that even his square and arrogant jaw seemed to be dissolving into a constantly shifting mist.

'Still nothing to say?' he said, and she heard his boots sound twice upon the floor as he moved further into the room. Angelina swallowed hard and clenched her teeth. 'I see,' he said again. 'Then perhaps a proper and fulsome lesson is in order.

'Madame,' he continued, taking yet another step closer to her, 'your reticence and feigned innocence have become very tiresome to me and the prospect of the dowry offered by your guardian cannot compensate for the icy aspect
you have continued to present.

'God knows that I have tried everything and have been patience personified, but your pretended saintliness has finally cracked my resolve. You shall be my wife and you will learn that I am the master in this house. And do not for one moment think that your guardian will come to your aid in this matter.

'Indeed, I think - nay, I know, madame - that Lord Pickering will be only too relieved to be shot of you as a responsibility. His fortunes, of late, have suffered and the merest hint from myself that I would accept a smaller dowry to take you off his hands would be more than enough to stifle whatever might remain of his scruples.'

'You think that money is the answer to everything,' Angelina snapped, unable to maintain her silence any longer. 'Well, sir, I tell you this. There is not enough gold in the world to buy what you expect from me. I would rather rot in Hell.'

'Boldly said,' Hacklebury chuckled, 'but perhaps you would not be so willing if you truly knew what Hell was. Mayhap I shall give you a glimpse, albeit of a hell that is of this world. I think,' he continued, his voice suddenly sounding unnaturally hard, 'that I should have done so these many weeks past.'

Mum went one better than me when I broke the news to her and dad, later that day. She fainted, but then she was sitting in that big old armchair of hers, so she didn't come to any harm and, following Mr Swann's example, I had a small bottle of something reviving in my handbag.

Two double cognac's later:

'Teen, you're rich!' dad exclaimed. Not slow, my dad. You can see where I get it from.

'Very rich,' mum said. She had gone very quiet, even though the colour had come back to her cheeks.

'I'm still getting used to the idea,' I admitted. I paused, thinking. 'Will you both come over with me and see this cottage?' I asked eventually. 'Dad?' Dad still drove regularly, though his battered Wolseley saloon had of late been wearing far worse than he was. He nodded.

'Of course,' he said. 'I'll drive us all over tomorrow, if you like.'

'And I'll buy us all lunch at my new pub,' I said. 'Well, my third of it, anyway. We'll have to stop at the bank in Havant, though,' I added. 'I need to give them my signature and then I can draw some money out.'

Oh, that sounded good. I was warming to the idea of being an heiress. Me, an heiress - and with a part share in a pub. Ye gods, I was every man's dream girl and blonde into the bargain.

Suddenly I started laughing and I couldn't stop, not for ages, not until the tears were running down my cheeks and dripping all over the front of my new top and soaking it through to my new bra, the one that matched the new knickers that nearly met an untimely end in Mr Swann's office.

Okay, okay! I only said I've had plenty of practise at being a lady. I never claimed I was ever any good at it!

2
.

Silk ripped easily in his hands and Angelina gasped as her body was jerked backwards under the onslaught, but his attack upon her beautiful dress was remorseless and he did not stop until it lay in a ruined pool about her feet, leaving her standing in just her corset and chemise, with her stocking clad legs exposed to his view, complete with the rosette garters she had received from Philip Lothwell only the day before.

Hacklebury's keen eye missed nothing and suddenly Angelina felt something hard press into her thigh, just where the garter held her left stocking. She started and looked down before she could stop herself and a small gasp forced its way past her lips, as she saw the whip handle.

'And where might these have come from, my lady?' Hacklebury demanded. 'I'll wager you never brought these pretty fripperies with you when you came here.' Angelina swallowed and took a breath as deep as the strictures of her corset would permit.

'Sir,' she replied, as steadily as she could, 'no gentleman would ever comment upon a lady's personal things in this way, but then I think you have already proven that you are no true gentleman, despite your title and all your wealth.'

'And you, my sweet little Angelina, are no lady, of that I am sure. Cuckolding me in my own house and with that idiot boy Lothwell, indeed. Rest easy, madame, that I shall deal with him, too, in good time. Would that he were here now, to bear witness to your punishment, but the scoundrel has gone up to London.

'However,' Hacklebury continued, with an air of relish and anticipation that brought a new edge to his voice, 'there will be plenty of opportunity for me to demonstrate the error of his ways and you two lovebirds can bear witness mutually.'