The Inheritance

‘His eyes were sort of half closed,’ Angela went on. ‘I can’t describe it exactly, but he looked dreamy and peaceful and … content. I think he might be in love.’


‘I doubt it,’ said Brett. ‘Love doesn’t make you content. It makes you anxious and miserable.’

‘Thanks a lot!’ Angela laughed, trying to make light of this comment, but Brett could hear the sadness in her voice. It wasn’t just his own happiness he was ruining with his black moods. It was Angie’s too.

I’m bringing her down.

As ridiculous as it sounded, he almost felt as if Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had put some sort of curse on him, in revenge for him ‘stealing’ her inheritance. As if he were under a spell that meant he would never find happiness under Furlings’ roof.

Finally succumbing to sleep as they prepared for landing, Brett had wild, vivid dreams of witches and moorland. Angela was old and wizened, leaning over a cauldron next to him, while Tatiana danced naked around them, a cold wind blowing through her long, streaming hair. In the background, Jason was playing the piano. Beautifully. But it was a melody that made Brett cry, a song he hadn’t heard since childhood, since before his mother died.

‘Welcome to Heathrow.’

The steward’s voice woke him with a start. Looking down, he saw the front of his shirt was wet with tears.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The night of Jason Cranley’s twenty-first birthday party finally arrived, and everyone agreed that Furlings had never looked more beautiful. In its last few years under Rory Flint-Hamilton’s care, the old man’s ill-health had meant that the house had been allowed to fray a little at the edges. Nothing dire or drastic. Peeling paint around a window here, crumbling brickwork there, the wisteria that snaked over half the fa?ade allowed to explode unchecked, so that its roots worked their way into the stone, causing deep cracks, like lines in the mud of a dried-out river bed, or wrinkles in the face of a very grand, very old woman who had once been a great beauty.

Over the last year, however, Angela Cranley had begun to change all that, painstakingly starting to restore Furlings to its former glory with a combination of love, patience and good taste, all washed down with limitless money. She’d stuck to her guns and made sure that the theme for this evening was very much ‘Birthday Party’. As well as the contested balloons, found everywhere in cheerful clusters of yellow, red, blue and green, and emblazoned with kitsch gold sparkly number 21s, she’d ordered Jason an enormous chocolate cake in the shape of a grand piano, and had tablecloths made up out of photographs from Jason’s babyhood and childhood years, printed against a background of the Australian flag. But despite these relaxed, youthful touches, the house itself radiated understated elegance and good taste, as every grand old English estate ought to. A wonderful smell of roses and gardenias, combined with beeswax wood polish, filled the grand state rooms. Bathrooms were lit by Jo Malone candles in mandarin or lime. Priceless antique rugs and solid, Jacobean English furniture shared space with modern sculptures and artwork, but it was a testament to Angela’s skill with interiors that the juxtaposition never felt forced or awkward. Similarly, none of the guests seemed put off by the fact that, having approached the house through a formal lavender walk, accompanied by a violin quartet playing Handel, they walked into a brightly lit hallway throbbing to the beat of pop music.

The guest list was huge and eclectic, but somehow on the night it worked, with Jason’s village friends and local schoolteachers rubbing shoulders happily with Brett’s property-tycoon cronies and a decent smattering of celebrities, many with second homes in the idyllic Swell Valley. The age range was equally broad, with at least two ladies from the Fittlescombe Conservative Association topping the hundred mark, and Logan’s posse of St Hilda’s Primary School mates starting at just seven.

Max Bingley was one of the first to arrive, arm in arm with his new love, Stella Goye. In her late forties, with a sleek bob of dark hair that Max always thought made her look rather French, and a face that was attractive and intelligent rather than pretty (long nose, high cheekbones, small, expressive mouth and merry green eyes, deeply wrinkled from years of smiling), Stella had gone for a floaty, vintage look tonight. Privately, Max wasn’t a fan of the gypsy look. (His daughters informed him it was known as ‘boho’ these days, but to Max Stella’s tasselled patchwork dress and jangly gold bangles made her look as if she lived in a caravan and/or read tarot cards for a living.) Her graciousness and warmth more than made up for any fashion-related shortcomings, however, and Max felt proud introducing her to Angela Cranley.

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