The Legacy (5 page)

‘Two vodkas on the rocks,' Rolf said. He turned to the woman. ‘As expected: they are at each other's throats. There'll be a fight and she won't win.'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘That's a very dogmatic thing to say. How do you know?'

‘Money,' he answered. ‘I know the family's financial situation. There's a very big house, upkeep something like eighty thousand a year in maintenance, staff, outgoings. The let farms bring in a big income, but as they're tenanted, they're not realizable. Pictures, furniture, all valuable, but no one item would reach the magic million. And she'd have to pay heavy capital gains taxes if she did sell assets. To raise a really substantial sum, she'd have to strip the place, and she won't do that. If she sells the agricultural land, there isn't enough revenue to maintain the house—it's a catch twenty-two. I don't think she even realizes that yet.'

She smiled slightly. ‘But you'll point it out to her.'

‘I will. I'll also point out that her stepson is in a financial position to ruin her with litigation. Farrington Fast Foods have franchises and properties worth millions. He's one of the new rich, and he knows how to use money. She won't have a hope. I can't understand why the firm let the old man try to disinherit his son. Even if the will and the trust are unbreakable, there'll be nothing left after years of legal fighting, court appeals and lawyers' fees running into a fortune.'

‘You sound almost sorry for her,' she remarked. She had dark eyes, an odd combination with the blond hair. They examined his coldly. ‘Are you?'

‘There's an eleven-year-old child in the middle of this mess,' he answered. ‘I feel sorry for her.'

‘A lot of children suffer in this world,' she remarked, ‘we can't afford to be selective. So what happens next?' He accepted the rebuke. The fact that they had slept together on occasions did not alter their relationship; that had never been touched by sentiment.

‘Alan Farrington opens the battle and we respond. Humfrey Stone has a big corporate case coming up and won't be able to give her the time, so I become Mrs Farrington's legal adviser. If she accepts me.'

She put down her drink. ‘If? Why shouldn't she?'

He said coolly, ‘Because she doesn't like me; I can tell. She's not fighting for herself; she's fighting for her daughter. I think she's honest and she has a mind of her own. Unless I can get her to trust me, she won't take my advice.'

‘Then you'll just have to be charming,' she mocked him gently. ‘You can be, I know. Charm her Rolf. Whatever it takes.'

‘It may take a lot,' he said. ‘Another drink? Are you free for dinner?'

‘Yes, and I'm free for sex too. I've had a long and boring day; I think we could both do with some relaxation.' She laid a hand on his thigh and pressed hard. They looked at each other, sexually responsive, intimates who would never even be friends.

‘Why waste time with dinner,' Rolf remarked. ‘We can eat afterwards at my apartment. I'll get the bill.'

The waiter watched them go and swore crudely in Italian. The potato head hadn't left a tip.

2

James Farrington steeled himself to ring his elder brother. He had hesitated and put it off for three days; he had meant to telephone Christina too. The dinner date he'd used as an excuse was dull and unproductive; his friend ordered the most expensive dishes, drank everything on offer and refused to have sex with him afterwards. He felt sorry he hadn't cancelled and stayed at RussMore. But facing Alan frightened him. He played with the idea of just flying back to the States and doing nothing about either of them, but he couldn't face that either; he needed Alan's approval, even if he had to take a verbal beating first to get it. It was the pattern of his bullied childhood continuing on into their adult relationship—he had been afraid of his father and dominated by his brother. He never succeeded in pleasing either of them, but Alan, at least, paid him attention, and even helped him in a patronizing way, so long as he remained compliant and admiring. Any hint of independence and the support was withdrawn, accompanied by some crushing verbal assault that left him naked of self-respect. He was a very intelligent and sensitive man, and surprised his New York therapist by understanding his own problems so clearly. He couldn't fully relate to women; his mother had been an ineffectual shadow, drifting in and out of his life as he grew up, absorbed in her addictions and her bouts of treatment; her reactions to him unpredictable. An extravagant embrace, kisses, maudlin expressions of love, followed by angry rejection. He could never forget that phrase, often shouted and always so deeply wounding,
Oh, for God's sake go away, you little bore!

He would creep away like a hurt animal. When she'd died he felt a guilty sense of relief, and also fear because she wasn't there to abuse him any more, so he turned to his elder brother for the mixture of brutality and security he needed. Alan was full of anger; unlike James he was his mother's favourite and, for such an overbearing boy, he loved her with uncritical devotion. It was the New York therapist who'd suggested he might have been in sexual competition with his own father. James had simply shrugged that suggestion aside; it was glib psychobabble and he didn't take it seriously; motives went far deeper than the simplistic theories of Freud. Alan had loved his mother because she was weak and it made him feel strong. He couldn't bear strength or determination in anyone because it challenged him. James understood that; their father never did. All he saw was a rebellious bitter-tongued adolescent, who accepted no point of view but his own. It was all very sad and, when the family broke apart, he felt more like an observer than a member of it. He didn't hate his stepmother, Christina. He thought she was a nice girl, rather naïve and bewildered by the situation with her husband and his elder son. He didn't see her in the role of money-grabbing tart—Alan's savage description; he felt his father, who was so much older and more sophisticated, had rather tricked her. He didn't dare say so, of course. He had made his career in the States and been glad to escape, but he kept in touch because he couldn't help it. He didn't want to be shut out, even though contact with his father always hurt.

Finally, four days before he was due to fly back, he telephoned Alan at his office. He knew better than to try Fay as a mediator; she despised him and he knew it.

‘Who shall I say is calling?' Alan's secretary asked.

He was so successful now; a young industrial tiger, already on the prowl for other businesses to add to his restaurant chain. James admired that fearful energy.

‘His brother, James,' he answered. There was a long pause while music trilled in his ear from the telephone system. He sometimes wondered why people had to have a maddening tinkle playing to assure them they hadn't been cut off.

Then, ‘I'm putting you through, Mr Farrington.'

James swallowed with nerves. ‘Alan? Hi … how are you?'

‘Fine. What the hell do you want?'

‘I'm leaving in a few days; I wanted to say goodbye. Any chance we could meet?'

‘No chance,' was the answer. ‘I'm surprised you're not down at RussMore, kissing her arse.'

‘I didn't,' James protested. He knew the formula; he was going to submit to the tongue-lashing and then, when he'd grovelled, they'd make peace. ‘I knew nothing about the will or Dad leaving me Langley. For God's sake, I made a duty visit once a year! He was getting old and I thought …'

‘Yeah, yeah, you thought you might worm something out of him … and you did, didn't you! And that cow will release the money and think she's only got me to worry about because you've been bought off. You shit …'

‘Alan, don't be like that. I'm your brother; I've always been on your side, you know that. She asked me to stay after the funeral and I said no. If you're going to fight the will, I'll do anything I can to help.'

‘Once you've got the money,' his brother sneered. James said, ‘Yes, of course, once I've got the money.' He must have become more assertive, he thought, to say that.

He heard a short laugh. ‘Well, that's honest, anyway.' A pause, and Alan's voice was kinder. ‘Look, you want to help me?'

‘I said so,' James protested. He was suddenly worried, then remembered he was leaving for New York and a promise was easy when he was 3,000 miles away.

‘Fine,' his brother said, ‘then go down and see her. Be nice; talk to her; find out what she's going to do, then tell me.'

As a child James had listened at doors, read any letter left lying around, pried and spied on everyone. Even if he was shut out, he had his secret knowledge of things he wasn't supposed to know.

‘All right,' he agreed, ‘no problem. I'll call today. She was disappointed when I said no; I'm sure she'll see me. I'll be in touch; maybe we can meet before I go.'

‘Maybe,' Alan said and hung up.

Belinda had gone to stay with a friend; the family lived ten miles away. Both girls were pony mad and there was an older sister who liked teaching them; she was a serious Pony Club competitor, and she was Belinda's heroine.

Richard had refused to let her do more than hack around the park on a safe old pensioner. ‘I won't have her growing up into a typical horsey English girl,' he'd insisted and then admitted to Christina that the real reason was fear for her safety. ‘I had a first cousin,' he had told her. ‘She was killed out hunting. She was twenty-two and lovely. Lindy's bold and brave—like you, darling, with your skiing. She'd take risks and I couldn't bear it.'

Christina hadn't argued. He'd suffered enough from one accidental death. Now she encouraged Belinda to go to her friends and stay as long as she liked. The child hadn't mentioned anything since the funeral, but she was subdued, and Christina was sure that she cried for her father in secret. There was so much to do in the days after Richard was buried: letters to be written, accounts to be settled, and always the threat of Alan hanging over her. Every phone call made her jump with nerves, expecting it to be from Humfrey Stone. But there were no calls and nothing came in the post, and the silence made her more uneasy.

Sometimes she found herself talking to Richard Farrington aloud. ‘If only you could tell me what to expect … you knew him, you were able to cope. You always said I couldn't … I wish you hadn't protected me so much.' The dead do not answer. The Farringtons from the past looked down at her from the walls and gave no help. This was a battle she must fight alone, with an enemy she had never got to know. When the call came from her stepson, James, she said yes quickly. ‘Please come down; stay the night.' She was actually looking forward to seeing him. He came in time for lunch, still awkward and vaguely uneasy, just as he was when Richard was alive. He presented a box of Harrods chocolates like a shy schoolboy.

‘They're handmade,' he explained. ‘I don't know if you like chocolates … I think they're rather good.'

‘I love them,' Christina said. ‘How sweet of you.' They sat out on the terrace overlooking the rose garden before lunch.

‘Wonderful scent,' he remarked. ‘That's one thing I miss in the States: England in summer …'

‘Then why don't you come home? You could make Langley a lovely house. We're stuffed with furniture and pictures here; you could take anything you wanted. Why be an exile if you're not happy? Life's too short, James.'

‘That's very generous of you,' he said. ‘My father wouldn't have suggested that, or offered me anything. Funny isn't it … but you do.'

‘You're wrong about that,' Christina said gently. ‘He loved you, but he wasn't good at showing it. He felt you were influenced by Alan; he was a very proud man. I've always found this obsession with pride very difficult to understand; I'm not proud at all, when it comes to someone I love.'

James smiled briefly. ‘No, I'm sure you're not. It's odd, you know, I keep thinking he'll walk through the door and come out and join us. I can't believe I'll never see him again. I suppose that's some kind of tribute, but I'm not sure.'

‘I think it means you loved him,' she said. ‘I can't believe it either. I find myself pouring out two drinks in the evening … some letters came this morning, and I didn't open them because they were addressed to him. Every time I open the library door I expect to see him.'

‘We never went into the library when we were children,' James remarked; ‘that was the inner sanctum. Father was looking at his manuscripts and nobody was allowed to disturb him. Only Alan did, but then he would, because he resented being told not to come in. There'd be a shouting match and my mother would cringe and pretend not to hear. She called his collection, “Those dreary bits of paper”; it used to madden him. Perhaps that's why he was so defensive and secretive about it; after all, it was just a hobby. Did he show any of it to you, Christa?'

‘No,' she looked surprised, ‘he never mentioned any hobby. Oh I think he did once, when we first met; I didn't really take any notice. He did spend time in the library, but I just thought he loved browsing through his books. He never asked me to join him and I let him have his space; I felt that was very important, and for me, too.' She shook her head. ‘He never talked about manuscripts. What kind were they?'

‘I don't know,' James answered. ‘I expect they'll turn up when everything's listed for probate. It's going to be a huge hassle, with so much stuff to go through, but I expect you'll manage. Knowing Father he won't have left anything to chance. Mind if I smoke, Christa?'

‘Of course not.'

‘What an easy person you are,' he remarked. ‘People in the States are such bloody bores about cigarettes and pollution. This political correctness thing drives me ape; I long to say that women, blacks and gays are all inferior, but I don't have the nerve. I'm so brave in my imagination.' He inhaled with exaggerated relish.