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IN THE EARLY HOURS of January 5th the telephone woke James and Grace. They looked at each other as James climbed out of bed. A shrill ring in the night rarely brought good news, and it didn’t this time. Lord Melton had suffered another stroke. The doctor didn’t expect him to live long. James called his brothers, and they agreed to meet at the home. Alexander and James were at their father’s side when William Melton died. Ted wept when he arrived too late.
The men were struck silent. Grief and shock struggled with relief that their father’s torturous descent had finally reached its conclusion. Empathy filled the air between them. Three grown men stood by the bed, distanced from their father by illness and bitterness, but humbled by the awful finality of his death.
Necessity and convention girded them through the following hours. Decisions had to be made and procedures followed. The staff of the care home were gentle and sympathetic. Grace joined them, having called on Bert to mind the children. Ted made an emotional phone call to Anju. Celia, only just back home after the Christmas holiday, packed a suitcase and headed for Draymere. The funeral director conducted their thoughts with a steady, guiding hand. They followed his lead numbly.
Alexander focused on his breathing. He wanted to block his senses, to shut out the hideous floral wallpaper behind his father’s bed, and the wincing compassion of the funeral director. The man’s tone grated, the words cut into his brain: body, father, peaceful. There was nothing peaceful here. A vice was closing around his chest; somewhere deep inside him a hollowness grew. He had to get out before that hole swallowed him up.
Alexander left the building at the same time as Lord Melton. He turned away from the sight. He drove directly to work; his dogs, unfed, were forgotten at home. He was at his desk before the night staff clocked off.
News spread fast through the small community, out to the farms and holdings, channelled through the village shop. By midday, few had not heard of Lord Melton’s passing, but none heard it from Alexander. Ewan sought him out and suggested that he might like to take a few days off. Alexander was the picture of a man in control. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine. He was very ill. It had been expected for a long time.’
Hettie heard the news from Bert when he arrived at the yard. She called Grace and said how sorry she was, then spent the morning agonising over whether or not she should call Alexander. They had been friends, once. More than friends. Now, he had lost his father. But would he want to hear from her? He had Ruby and his family. She wasn’t a part of his life anymore. Wracked with indecision, she asked Bert what she should do.
‘Sure, none of us know what’s best at these times. No doubt the boy will take it bad. Unfinished business can be the hardest, and there’s unfinished business aplenty there. But he’s never been the best of talkers. You might send him a card.’
Hettie drove to the village at lunchtime to buy a sympathy card. There wasn’t a lot of choice in the local shop, but she found a nice one with an orange sun setting over the sea. Her pen hovered above the inside page; she stared at it blankly, too much to say and none of the right words. In the end she settled for two short sentences.
So terribly sorry to hear about your Dad. I’m here if you need me.
She licked the envelope and sealed it before she could dwell on how weak the message was, and how insignificant, when she thought about what he was going through. She walked to the postbox at the end of the lane, and dropped the card in before she could change her mind.
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CELIA BUSIED HERSELF, making sure there was tea in the pot. Sophie was in her arms, and Georgia, by her feet, was working up to another tantrum. The house routine had been upended, it was past Gog’s bedtime. The poor child felt the misery in the house, yet didn’t know what to do with it. Celia could sympathise with that.
Her three sons sat at the kitchen table, all knocked sideways by a grief it wasn’t her place to share. James shouldered the additional burden of the will that would change all their lives; Ted’s eyes filled at every comment; and Alexander, so cold, it would be easy to believe he felt nothing at all. But Celia knew him better than that, and of the three it was Alexander she worried for most. She suggested to Grace that she might spend a couple of nights at the Gatehouse.
‘Of course. You’re here for your boys this time, Celia. James has me, Ted has Anju. Alexander needs someone.’
But Alexander was dismissive. ‘I’m not a child, Mother. You missed that boat.’
‘I realise that you’re not a child, but I know that you’re suffering, and I’d like to be there to help you.’
‘So, now the old bastard has gone, you can swan back in and claim your place as the head of the family.’
‘Alexander! Don’t be cruel, I loved him once too—’
‘The last thing I need is you at the Gatehouse, Mother.’
The card from Hettie arrived the next day, and by that time Alexander had strapped his emotions so tight the message barely registered. The only disturbance was his attention, caught by the coincidence of the picture, the bay of Porth Wen.
Anju told Ted to move back home. Recriminations would wait.
Grace rose to the task of supporting her husband as well as her four children. She kept the house running and food on the table, and she shared the weight of his worst fear: Draymere Hall and its land no longer belonged to them. It kept them both awake at night.
James anticipated the worst. ‘I know what Bert said, and I hate myself for doubting his word, but... he’s with Anna now. Surely that changes everything? He said we were the only family he had, no one else to leave Draymere to. Now, he has a family of his own.’
Grace wanted to reassure him, but the fear gnawed at her too. She snapped too often at her children and then punished herself with guilty recrimination. The circle of worry, blame and sleeplessness left her weary and tearful.
Celia watched the family unravel. She called on Alexander every evening, in spite of his cold reception. She ferried the children, minded the baby, and was liberal with hugs and words of comfort. Despite her efforts, no one was comforted, and for the first time since her reunion with her sons, she wondered if she’d done the right thing by keeping in touch with them. Without her they would be safe at Draymere and free to deal with their loss and mourn their father without bitterness.
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CELIA STAYED AT THE Hall with Sophie and Georgia on the afternoon of the funeral. Lord Melton’s three sons, his two grandsons, and Grace and Anju occupied the front pews in the small village church. Artie and Fred stood stiff in their grey school coats. The nave was unable to absorb all the mourners. Villagers, farmers and well-wishers packed into the transepts and spilled out onto the porch. A vibrant scarf or collar flashed occasionally among the greys and blacks. The church bell tolled a sombre back note to the muted voices of the congregation. All rose as the coffin was carried into the church. Couples closed the spaces between themselves.
Hettie was at the funeral. She gave up her place beside Anna and Bert when an elderly woman limped in on the arm of her son. She and the son found space to stand at the back of the church, behind the font. She could just see Alexander’s shoulder, and she fixed her gaze on his black overcoat and willed her sympathy to him through the fusty air.
She wouldn’t go back to the Hall for the wake. It had taken some juggling to get to the funeral at all. Afterwards, she asked her mum and Bert to pass her apologies to the Meltons, and left as soon as it was appropriate to do so.
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ALEXANDER’S BREATH fogged in the cold air outside the church. He watched the Landy drive away. What if he needed her now? The thought was uninvited, and he shook his head to chase it away.
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CATERERS HAD LAID A buffet in the dining room. The elders settled at the edges of the room to sip their tea from china cups and nibble triangular sandwiches. The men gathered to toast Lord Melton with smoky malt whiskey. Voices grew louder. Georgia joined her brothers. She and Fred ran through the legs of the adults, but Artie stood close to his father, answering the jolly questions aimed at him with well-spoken manners. James squeezed his shoulder. Grace flitted from group to group, circulating, overseeing, her feet never still.
Bert found Alexander. ‘Hard times.’
Alexander nodded.
‘You checkin’ the mares next week?’
They talked about the horses and Alexander’s work.
‘Hettie wanted to apologise for not making the wake. She’s been thinkin’ of you a lot.’
‘How kind.’ Alexander threw back his whiskey and welcomed the burn in his throat.
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THE FAMILY SLUMPED into chairs when the last of the mourners had gone. Grace kicked off her shoes. ‘Thank God that’s done. I might have a whiskey myself now.’
James stood up to pour her one. ‘While I’ve got you all here, we will need to get together to discuss this blasted will and Father’s estate. Not right this minute, of course.’
‘No, best let him get cold in the ground first.’
All eyes turned to Alexander, but it was Ted who voiced the rebuke.
‘We’re all grieving, Al.’
‘For Father or the Hall?’
Grace sprung out of her chair, her stockinged feet square on the floor. ‘Have you any idea of the pressure that James is under? While you wallow, he’s battling on like he always does, carrying the burden for all of you. For once, Alexander, you should try thinking about someone other than yourself. You have no bloody reason or right to sit judgement on him.’ Angry red spots had formed on her cheeks.
James hurried back with the whiskey. ‘Grace, Grace...’
Alexander turned and left the room, passing his mother without acknowledging her. He took the steps two at a time. The cold air slapped his face.
Wound up, strung tight, he cut across the grass to the Gatehouse, slammed his front door behind him and paced the sitting room. He needed to clear his mind, obliterate his thoughts, still the anger that simmered. The card from Hettie sat on his mantle. Porth Wen drew his eyes, and he read the message again. He didn’t need her, he didn’t need anyone, but he did need something she could give him.
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HETTIE HEARD A CAR pull up, saw the light pass over her living-room wall. She looked at her watch; it was nine o’clock, late for callers. She peered around the edge of the curtains and saw Alexander’s car and the shadow of his unmistakable profile. Her heart beat in her throat as she looked at him. He wasn’t moving, and for a number of seconds neither did she. Why was he here? The funeral today. Why wasn’t he getting out? Was he upset? This last thought moved her to action.
Alexander appeared not to see her. His hands were still on the steering wheel as if he might drive away any moment. She tapped on the window. ‘Do you want to come in?’
Alexander turned his head and lowered the glass. ‘Are you alone? I thought I saw someone.’
‘Not here you didn’t. Just me. Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.’
He followed her to the house, his movements slow.
Hettie kicked off her boots in the porch, and held the door open. ‘Come on.’
Doris and Pig barked, scampered to the door, squirmed when they found Alexander’s legs.
‘The dogs are pleased to see you.’
He still didn’t speak. Hettie carried the kettle to the sink. His stillness was making her wary.
‘Have you got anything stronger?’
‘I might have a bottle of wine kicking about somewhere.’
‘Might? Unusual for you.’
Was that a barb? ‘Early mornings and responsibility.’
She found a dusty bottle of cheap red plonk in the larder. Alexander leant on the table as she hunted for a corkscrew. Her efforts at conversation were defeated by his refusal to talk. She passed him a tumbler of wine. ‘Why are you here, Alexander?’
‘Why do you think I’m here?’
Hettie met his eyes, and their statement was clear, that darkening of lust. She turned away, flushed hot to the roots of her hair, and poured herself a generous mugful of wine. ‘Right. Just like that. And what about Ruby?’
‘What about her?’
‘As I understand it, you two are together.’
‘And in your opinion being together means you can’t be with someone else?’
‘Oh, clever.’ She turned her back to him, rested her elbows on the kitchen worktop. Game, set and match to Alexander. ‘Intentionally, yes.’
Alexander moved closer, she could feel the warmth of his body behind her, and then his breath on her neck, ‘So let’s have sex unintentionally.’
Hettie closed her eyes. ‘No.’
He ran a finger down her spine. ‘Really, Hettie? Does your body agree? Maybe you just need more wine?’
She stepped away, out of the trap he was laying, and moved to the other side of the table. ‘You’re playing me, Alexander, but it won’t work. You’re in a relationship with somebody else. The answer is no.’
‘What a muddled set of morals you have.’
‘Not really. I know what’s right, and I know what’s wrong. Sometimes I fuck up. Get over it.’ If it was a fight he wanted, he could have one, dead father or not.
‘I didn’t come here to talk about that, and I’m not with Ruby anymore. I came for sex.’
‘Mindless and unintentional, with someone you don’t like.’
‘Your words, not mine.’
Hettie faced him. The air sparked across the table, fizzed with the fight that hadn’t happened. The words unsaid curled through with lust.
Her eyes latched onto his. ‘Alright. Sex it is.’
And there it was, the crack in his arrogant mask. It was almost fear she saw shift across his face before he caught it. Finally, a fucking emotion. ‘Did you think I would be your conscience for you, Alexander?’
Their bodies crashed together, hungry, craving. Fingers gripped, chin grazed chin. Teeth bruised lips, hands roamed and clasped. Alexander dragged her sweatshirt upwards; his coarse palm on her breast, his touch hard and urgent. Her fingers tugged at his waistband. Their breath hitched. A mug of wine fell from the table when Alexander pushed her against it. China shattered, and red droplets hit Hettie’s leg.
On the table, Hettie lifted her hips to free the jodhpurs Alexander pulled off her. A fleeting second of eye contact, then he pushed her legs wider.
Breathless, lips apart, but she saw his pain before he dropped his head and grasped her hips, entering her with barely reined brutality. His fingers bruised her buttocks, his breath was harsh and jagged. He pulled her deep and held her there.
She gasped at the sensation, felt him tremble, but he held her still.
Too long for Hettie, she didn’t want his control; she wanted to break him, needed release herself. She threw back her head and tightened her muscles around him, heard the groan that wrenched from his mouth. His grip loosened and she felt him pull back. She locked her legs around his waist. Her power now, her control. She moved, thrust against him.
Their eyes met again.
She read the question and looked away, clung, pulled him closer. Her heels on his buttocks, driving him on. She flung her arms wide and gripped the tabletop. Thrust met thrust. Mindless, control abandoned, she drove them both to shattering climax.
The aftermath was awkward, undignified and sticky. They moved apart like strangers, turned to shield their adjustment of clothing as their heart rates returned to normal. The silence sat heavy. No loving endearments, no laughter or words to ease the moment.
Hettie trod in the pool of red wine, it soaked into her sock. She noticed Alexander still had his shoes on.
She offered him another drink, the question forced and light.
He declined with a shake of his head, and left without saying goodbye.