‘Lovely to see you again, old chap.’ Charles Barrington-Smythe, dressed in tweedy suit and subdued tie, eased himself from the leather armchair in the large room he’d appropriated as his office. He shook Tom’s hand, beamed. Then the tubby, grey-haired man flopped back into his chair. Tom listened to the squish of air escaping through holes in the worn leather upholstery.
‘Whisky?’ Charles offered.
‘Perhaps later, thank you.’
‘Oh, I forgot. You’re probably a beer man. Orstralian and all that, what?’
‘Whisky will be good. Later.’
‘Well then. Let’s get to business, shall we?’ Charles nodded towards an empty chair. ‘Laetitia wanted to join us, but I told her this was men’s business.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Now Tom. We don’t want this little chat to be all formality. Of course not. But you’ll be aware that there’s a tradition of sorts appropriate to situations like this.’ He smiled. ‘When a young man has, shall we say, serious intentions about a young woman, then it’s traditional for said young man to have a little chat with said young woman’s father.’
‘Indeed.’
‘The fact of the matter is, there are some traditions which have, shall we say, stood the test of time.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I’ll come straight to the point then, Tom. First, the little matter of where you’ll take up residence. As a married couple, I mean.’
‘Yeah.’ As he said the word, Tom almost laughed. Kate would have told him not to use it in polite society. At this moment, it sounded exactly right. Apposite, she’d have called it.
‘So what has Laetitia said to you? So far,’ Charles said. Tom felt a mite uncomfortable.
‘Nothing, really.’
‘I’m surprised.’ Now Charles looked uneasy. ‘I say. I rather think our tete-a-tete would flow more smoothly if we had a nip of whisky.’
‘Very well.’
Charles flicked a bell on his desk. An expressionless woman entered, wearing a shapeless grey dress. He’d likely have recruited her as secretary for their weeks in Sydney. Her lips held their thin unsmiling line.
‘Whiskies, sir?’ she murmured. He nodded and she left. Seconds later she returned with a decanter and two glasses on a silver tray. Charles poured two generous nips, and took a man-sized mouthful. Tom ignored his glass.
‘So what are your views on the matter, Tom?’
‘I’m a farmer. I run a property that carries a few hundred thousand sheep. I have to be there a fair whack of the time.’
‘A few hundred thousand? That must bring in a pretty penny.’
‘Wool prices are not so bad these days. They keep moving up.’
‘Which raises the matter, does it not, of your taking your rightful place in the overseeing—the ownership even—of Barrington Hall.’ Charles eased back in his chair, took a hearty swallow from his glass. ‘I mean to say that as Laetitia’s husband, you’d have a—shall we say—traditional right, a responsibility, for the old place.’
‘What does the law say?’
‘I really don’t know. But tradition, man. Tradition is everything in our world. At our level of society. You’re not overly familiar with the comings and goings of people in our position?’
‘Should I be?’
‘Your mother came from a very well-regarded family. From a village not ten miles from Barrington Hall. A beautiful old pile, the place she grew up in. Envy of everyone of substance in that part of the world. I’m sure she loved it. Wanted her son to respect it. Perhaps even to own it? Now that you’ve come into a bit of cash?’
Charles had struck a low blow. Tom remembered his mother’s endless reminiscing about the family seat in the faraway green hills of Hampshire.
‘I want you to visit my old home, darling. As soon as you can,’ she’d said a few weeks before she died. ‘Perhaps you’ll live there one day? In England, the place where you’re born is very important. And Marley Manor is more special than most. Promise me you’ll go there one day.’
Tom never forgot what he later came to see as his mother’s deathbed wish. Eventually, he paid his obligatory visit to the stately home, and decided he was a farmer, not a gentleman. Now he faced precisely the same challenge.
‘I’m a farmer, Charles. Like I said.’ Tom eased back in his chair. He’d ignore the whisky for a while. ‘Reckon I’ll spend most of my life at Kenilworth. And I hope Laetitia will too. I hope there’ll be children. We’ll need them to take over the place one of these days.’
‘But—’ Charles took another swig from his glass, then topped it up. ‘Your obligations regarding Barrington Hall, Tom? As Laetitia’s husband? How do you propose to accommodate them?’
‘You mean money?’
‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes. The old place needs a little maintenance from time to time, you’ll appreciate. And don’t forget, you’ll own it one day. In a sense. You’re aware that Laetitia is my only child. So if you marry—’
‘Very well. A man’s gotta look after his responsibilities.’
Relief washed over Charles’s face.
Tom sat back, puzzled at the man’s reaction. The whispers Tom had heard on his last visit to Hampshire, about the family being embarrassed by their looming lack of ready cash, were very likely true. Another question popped into his brain. Had Laetitia kept him dangling since his last visit so she could lay her hands on some of his money? Because she surely hadn’t seemed too interested in the other offerings he might contribute to their future. If ever they were to have one.
‘Well then.’ Charles took a celebratory swig from his glass. ‘I should call Laetitia. Tell her the good news.’
‘Good news?’
‘Well, Tom. That you’re happy to accept your responsibilities towards Barrington Hall.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ Tom said.
‘What do you mean, old chap?’
‘There’s a few things Laetitia and I have to sort out first.’
‘Indeed? Such as?’
‘For starters, Laetitia hasn’t told me if she’d want to live at Kenilworth. And if she doesn’t, well—’
‘Oh. So everything we’ve agreed to so far is subject to her moving to Orstralia?’
‘I didn’t say that. But now you have, why shouldn’t it be that way?’
Tom let the silence gel.
‘I’m a farmer, remember,’ he said eventually. ‘I want a wife and children. To share my life with me. I want my children to grow up on the land. I want them to take over the property when I go. It’s been in my family for three generations. I’ve already told you that.’
‘And you haven’t discussed it with Laetitia?’
‘No.’ There was no need to tell Charles that Laetitia had ignored his plea whenever he mentioned it. She was an Englishwoman to her boot heels, she’d said. And there was no way she’d ever live on a dreary farm ten thousand miles from Hampshire, and a hundred miles from the nearest respectable shops, surrounded by thousands of bleating sheep.
‘Well then,’ Charles said. ‘Laetitia and I should have a little chat about it. In private, if you don’t mind.’
‘Why should I mind?’ Tom murmured as he pictured the ‘little chat’.
‘Excuse me.’ Charles tapped the bell again. The woman in grey opened the door, stood silent, staring into the middle distance.
‘Fetch Laetitia for me, Jane,’ Charles said. ‘She’ll likely be in her chambers. And Tom. Would you mind taking a little stroll? Jane will call you when we finish our chat.’
‘Very well.’ For the second time that day, Tom needed time to think. Like a nobleman of old, Charles was willing to sell his daughter to the highest bidder to rescue his estate from the jaws of the hungry bankers who might even now be circling. But Laetitia had a mind of her own. That had attracted Tom from the moment of their first meeting. It had told him she was more than just a thoroughbred show pony. What would she think?
Tom had loved Laetitia for a long year—had dreamed of their creating an idyllic life together at Kenilworth. He’d pictured his children—a son who would grow into a champion horseman, a tall blonde daughter who might one day wear the Miss New England crown at Sydney’s Royal Easter Show. If they were born into the elite of rural New South Wales, wealth would be handed to them on a plate. And Tom would be the proudest father in the nation.
Since the first moment of his infatuation with the elegant English rose, he’d seen her as his mother’s dream daughter-in-law. She was high-born, beautiful, mannered. If he had to buy her by tossing a few thousand pounds into the hat Charles now held out to him, very well. Perhaps the money would be put to good use, maintaining the mansion that would one day belong to Laetitia and himself.
As Tom strolled into the garden, a picture of Kate popped into his mind—a cheeky bird fluttering above his head. He saw her smile, her slender body, the flick of her hands as she stood beside the blackboard in his study … Stop! he ordered himself. He must think of his future with Laetitia, nothing else.
***
‘Saluté!’ Charles shouted as he waved Laetitia into the room. She took a seat and looked up at him, puzzled as he beamed at her.
‘What’s all this “saluté” nonsense, Father? It’s a long time since I’ve seen you so pleased with yourself.’
‘My wonderful son-in-law! He’s as good as promised me a hatful of money. If the two of you marry.’
‘Really? And if I don’t want to marry him?’
‘Oh, but you do.’ Charles smiled. ‘You’ve told me, you’ve told your mother, that you think he’s quite a catch—if muscles and looks have anything to do with it. You, of all people, can polish the rough edges off him in time. He’s rather a diamond in the rough right now, I agree. But he has the right blood, the right bank account. What more do you want?’
‘It’s more a matter of what I don’t want.’
‘And that is?’
‘Living in a godforsaken hole in the middle of nowhere. Thousands of miles from everything I absolutely must have to survive. Friends, shops, dining out.’
‘Well, reading between the lines somewhat, I rather think that living on his farm is a condition of the arrangement. So—a compromise?’
‘It’s all very well for you, Father dearest. Back home in your ancestral mansion, sitting on a pile of cash while I milk sheep. Or whatever it is they do with sheep.’
‘I don’t think they milk them. They milk cows, I believe.’
‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to do it.’
Charles sipped at his whisky, thoughtful.
‘Ah! I think I have it!’ he said suddenly.
‘Do go on.’
‘Marry Tom. Live happily ever after for a little while—a few months, perhaps. While he’s still in honeymoon mode, so to speak. Then we winkle a few thousand pounds out of him. Tell him there’s a deadline falling due at the bank. Which indeed there is. Those accursed sheep. My grandfather told me his bankers had urged him to sell off his cattle, replace them with sheep. Then a year or two later, damned if the Australian wool doesn’t flood the market. The property’s miserable woolclip didn’t even pay the wages of the men who sheared the sheep. And so it has continued for the past century, more or less.’ He took hold of his whisky glass, saw that it was empty, returned it to the table with a thud.
‘If Tom doesn’t come good, we’ll be bankrupt within the year. We’ll be out on the street, my child. You understand the urgency?’
‘Yes. I suppose so,’ Laetitia said reflectively. ‘But after you ease the money out of his pockets, what becomes of me?’
‘You’re living at Kenilworth, the cheerful newlywed. Then one day, some disaster happens—I’ll leave the details to your creative mind. I’m sure you’re quite capable of inventing something. Then you absolutely refuse to stay there another minute. You sail home into the arms of your loving parents, and live happily ever after in our debt-free mansion. Which will be yours, lock, stock and barrel, when your mother and I shuffle off our respective mortal coils. Then, when you’re ready, you can organise a quick divorce, take up with a chap from the army of eager young bloods who’ve come courting you over the last year or two..’ His pause was long, deliberate. ‘Otherwise—’
‘Mmm.’ Laetitia eased into her chair. She could likely tolerate a few months at Kenilworth, given the undoubted benefits that would flow from her sacrifice. But first she must talk with Tom. She had some ideas of her own to put before him.