2

The Church of St John the Evangelist was the principal Episcopalian church in the town. Charles Schriber had been a generous patron although he wasn’t a regular attendant at the services. Isabel was driven up in her husband’s large grey Cadillac. Her stepson was beside her. They didn’t speak during the drive from Beaumont. She glanced at him; he was looking out of the window. He seemed perfectly relaxed. Ellie had sewn a black armband round the left sleeve of his grey jacket. He wore no hat, and his hair gleamed dark red in the sunshine. They turned into the main road. The streets were crowded, and the traffic slowed them down. The silence began to grate on her. He had declined breakfast or even coffee; in spite of the second glass of whisky which he had taken before they drove off, he seemed perfectly sober.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said. ‘I’m dreading this service.’

‘You needn’t,’ he looked round at her. ‘My father was very popular with everyone. They’ll all be your friends today. Where do you want me to sit?’

‘With me, of course,’ she stared at him. ‘Where else – you’re his son!’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re being very nice.’

‘I’m not being nice at all,’ Isabel said. ‘Please don’t say that. I want you to take your rightful place.’

‘The congregation won’t appreciate it,’ he said. ‘But I’d like you to know that I do.’ The car drew up outside the church, and the chauffeur jumped out to open the door for her. As she came into the church her stepson took her arm. It was a bright building, whitewashed and colourful with flowers and great sprays of evergreen foliage. For a moment the altar seemed a long distance away, the figure of the minister a blur. There was a discreet voluntary being played on the organ. And then she noticed it. There was a murmur that followed them as they walked slowly down towards the front pew. People were whispering to each other. She could feel them staring as she walked, her hand lightly resting on Richard Schriber’s right arm. She saw the Grahams, his wife wearing deep black, in the pew immediately behind the first row. She saw the expression on both their faces, and Joan Graham turn to whisper agitatedly to her husband. She took her place and her stepson sat beside her. The music changed for the opening hymn and they stood up. Several times her eyes filled with tears. There was a horrible feeling of being stared at, which was not connected with being Charles’s widow. It was because of the man at her side. He stood for the hymns but he didn’t sing. He knelt for the prayers but he made no pretence of praying. He showed no emotion at all. The body of the church was full of people. The senator had flown in; she saw him on the opposite side, with his wife and son.

The minister gave an address. He had released the text to the newspapers and in the corner of the nave a television camera turned. He spoke of Charles Schriber as a man of honour and generosity of heart; he called him a great sportsman, a good neighbour and a faithful friend. He praised his courage, using a phrase that struck at Isabel. In time of personal trial her husband had never faltered. He had been an example to them all. She felt Richard Schriber stir beside her; she glanced at him but he showed nothing. The remark about personal trial could only refer to his first wife’s suicide. She thought it an odd way to describe a tragedy. People in the congregation were weeping. There were men blowing their noses and women wiping their eyes. The minister addressed himself to the TV camera as he finished his address. A fine man and a great Kentuckian; the world no less than the bloodstock industry, would be a poorer place without him. Behind them Andrew Graham paused to kneel for a moment when the service was over. Isabel had always been headstrong, resenting his advice; it was inconceivable that she had ignored his warning and sent a message to Richard: but there was no other explanation. It was incredible that he should parade himself, escorting his stepmother into the church before everyone in Freemont. Without a trace of shame. By the time they left the church Andrew was shaking with anger. Charles had spoiled Isabel, that was the trouble. Her obstinate and ignorant action had made a public mockery of her husband’s memorial service.

He set out to follow the Cadillac back to Beaumont; beside him, Joan Graham said nothing. She had seen the grim expression and the tight line of his jaw. She knew that this was not the moment to comment; she laid a hand on his knee to comfort him as they turned into the gates.

The burial was a simple service, carried out according to Charles’s wishes. His body had been cremated early that morning; the small casket was buried in a consecrated plot close to the paddock west of the house. Sunshine patterned the ground through the branches of trees overhead.

Isabel stood apart from the small group of mourners. It was a private moment, a farewell which belonged only to her. She didn’t need comfort or support; she stood very straight as her husband’s ashes were lowered into the grave. He had left her the responsibility for what he had loved most; the stud and his horses. However difficult the task ahead might be, she promised at his graveside not to fail him.

She turned to the minister and shook hands. Then she spoke to the group of mourners. Her stepson was standing a little apart from them.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ she said. ‘You were dear friends of Charles. I hope you’ll join me for lunch back at the house.’ She came up to Richard. His isolation had not escaped her. ‘Drive up with me,’ she said. They walked back to the car together. He offered her a cigarette.

‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘They taste of nothing at the moment.’

‘You don’t mind if I do? I thought you were very brave back there.’

Isabel looked at him. ‘It’s what your father would have wanted. He hated fuss. I’m very glad you came, Richard. I’m just so sorry it was too late to see him.’

He had a curious smile, which she saw for the first time. There was a cynical twist to it. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’d have been pleased to see me. But it was a nice thought. I want you to know I appreciate it.’

They had arrived at the house; the chauffeur opened the door and he got out first. He gave his hand to Isabel and helped her out. They walked up the steps to the entrance together.

By mid afternoon the lunch was over; the buffet was cleared away, Rogers served liqueurs and cigars on a massive silver tray, and people began to say goodbye. Isabel found herself having to talk to her stepson. He wasn’t ignored; Charles’s friends wouldn’t commit a breach of manners, but nobody stayed to talk for long. Andrew and Joan Graham didn’t speak to him at all. He didn’t seem to mind; he helped himself to food and drink. He stood alone without self-consciousness. Harry Grogan spent some time talking about his father. He had drunk too much and he was becoming maudlin. The disquieting little smile was on Richard Schriber’s mouth again as he listened.

Tim Ryan made Isabel sit down. ‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘These are all Charles’s old friends. He wouldn’t want them hurried away. I can rest after they’ve gone. Come in and have dinner with us tonight.’

Us. He noticed the word. He didn’t know anything about Richard Schriber except that he was a forbidden subject at Beaumont, and if Charles had cast him off, then Tim assumed he had good reason. A man like that would have rejoiced in a good son.

‘Is he staying then?’ He looked towards Richard. Grogan was leaning near him, talking hard.

‘Yes,’ Isabel said. ‘He flew all the way from England. I’ve asked him to spend the night. It’s the least I can do. You’ve met him, haven’t you – I saw you talking.’ She didn’t ask him what he thought; he answered the unspoken question.

‘I had a few words with him. He’s an odd fellow. Nothing soft about him. I expected some kind of lounge lizard – I don’t know what to make of him.’

‘He came as soon as he got my cable,’ Isabel said. ‘It should have been sent much earlier. That was my fault, listening to Andy. He had no right to interfere; they might have come together.’

‘Whatever he’s feeling,’ Tim said, watching him, ‘he isn’t showing it. I’ll go and get Grogan away from him; he’s boring drunk and he ought to go home.’

She went to the front door and said goodbye to the last of the guests; there were emotional embraces and offers of help and friendship. Isabel went back to them. Richard Schriber had a fresh drink in his hand.

‘Tim’s joining us for dinner,’ she said. ‘I told Rogers to get your old bedroom ready, Richard. I hope you’ll find everything comfortable.’ He lifted the glass to her in salute.

‘I know I shall,’ he said. ‘I was saying to Mr Ryan here, I haven’t been made so welcome in my old home for a very long time. In fact I can’t remember when. Sleep well.’

She went upstairs and kicked off her shoes; she was suddenly mentally and physically exhausted. The sense of anti-climax after the drama of death and burial made the silence seem oppressive. As oppressive as the atmosphere in the church when she appeared with Richard Schriber. She couldn’t get rid of the image of him, standing apart among that group downstairs, a background figure, watching and aloof on his own account, contemptuous of their attempts to make him feel unwelcome. That was what she had sensed in him, and what disturbed her. Contempt. There was arrogance and contempt for them all. But not for her. He was curious about her. She had felt that from the moment she walked into the study that morning.

He hadn’t made up his mind how he felt about the stepmother who had taken his own mother’s place. And he hadn’t given any indication why he had answered that cable by flying all the way from England. To be reconciled with his father – to attend the funeral. Or to see her. Isabel didn’t know.

It was the sound of a car on the gravel outside that woke her. She got up and looked through the window. Andrew Graham’s blue convertible was parked square outside the front door. She hadn’t invited him to call that night. If he had come to lecture her or to embarrass Richard Schriber, then she was going to be very angry. And anger was the last thing she wanted that night. It was a time to try and heal old wounds.

She dressed quickly in a plain black dress which had been one of her husband’s favourites, and fastened his anniversary present of three matched rows of pearls round her neck. As she came down the stairs to the hall, she could hear voices coming from the study. Angry voices.

‘Just because your father’s gone you think you can walk back here and get away with it! Well you’ve made one mighty big mistake –’ Andrew Graham stood facing Richard Schriber; his face was scarlet and his fists were clenched. He looked ready to hit him. ‘You rotten son-of-a-bitch, coming here, walking into that church. You’ve no right to show your face at Beaumont! Just because that fool woman doesn’t know the truth!’

Richard looked at him over a glass full of whisky. ‘Why don’t you tell her? But you’re too loyal, aren’t you – too much the good friend to dirty the image.… You can go ahead and yell your head off. I’m here and there’s damned well nothing you can do about it.’

‘Oh yes there is,’ Andrew shouted at him. ‘I’ve written off to Charles’s lawyer and Isabel can get an injunction forbidding you the house! You’re not coming back here to start any more trouble –’

‘I got the trouble,’ Richard Schriber said. ‘Maybe it’s time I made some for you and a few other people around here.’

‘You bastard,’ Andrew said, his voice had dropped. ‘One day somebody’s going to beat the hell out of you!’

‘Not any more,’ Richard said. ‘The last time my loving father laid into me I was sixteen – I told him I’d kill him. He never tried it again.’

‘He didn’t do it enough,’ the doctor snarled at him. ‘He couldn’t make anything of you, whatever he did. And you turned on him when he needed you most.… What kind of a man are you, that you could show up at his grave today! Get out of Beaumont! There’s no place for you here, and there’s enough of us who loved your father to run you out – don’t push us, Richard. You just might get hurt!’

‘You know something – I think you’re scared.’ He actually smiled as he said it. ‘I’ll tell you – I’ve come out of curiosity. I wanted to meet my stepmother, and I’m going to stay around and get to know her. She seems all right; I’d like to know what she saw in that old bastard apart from his money.…’

‘I’ll tell her that,’ Andrew threatened. ‘I’ll go right upstairs and tell her what you’ve said. She’ll throw you out –’

‘I don’t think she’ll listen to you,’ Richard said calmly. ‘She’s a woman with a mind of her own. She thinks I’ve had a rough deal. She wants me to feel at home. If she tells me to go, I’ll go. It’s her house now.’

He turned as he spoke and Isabel was standing in the doorway. Andrew saw her and started forward.

‘Now see here, Isabel,’ he began, his voice rising, but she held up a hand.

‘Just a moment, Andrew. I must ask you not to shout. I didn’t invite you here, you asked yourself. I’m not very happy to hear angry voices in my house tonight. What’s been happening – why are you and Richard arguing?’

‘He wants me to leave,’ Richard said. ‘He thinks I’ve forced myself on you.’

‘That isn’t true,’ Isabel said quickly. ‘I asked Richard to come and I asked him to stay. This is his home as much as mine, Andrew. As far as I’m concerned he’s welcome to stay for as long as he likes. You have no right to come here and interfere.’

‘I was your husband’s oldest friend,’ Andrew said. ‘You’re a fool, Isabel. Charles warned you about him –’ he gestured angrily at Richard.

‘I am the best judge of that,’ she said. Richard came up to her.

‘I can drive down to Kellway and catch a plane to New York. I don’t want to upset things here, Isabel. It’d be better if I went.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It would be better if Andrew went. I want you to stay. Good night, Andrew.’

Graham didn’t answer; he hesitated for a moment, glaring at Richard and then he turned and hurried out of the room. The door didn’t close quietly behind him.

Richard went and poured a drink; he gave it to Isabel.

‘I’m very sorry about all this,’ he said. ‘I should never have come back.’

‘Why not?’ she turned to him. ‘Why shouldn’t you come to see your own father before he dies? Why shouldn’t you go to his funeral and stay in your own home! I don’t understand any of this – I know things went wrong between you and Charles. But I don’t want to be a part of it. I think it’s horrible, and I’m only upset because Andrew attacked you like that.… How dare he do it!’

‘He’s held a very privileged position in this family,’ he answered. ‘Old habits die hard.’

‘I shan’t have him here again unless he apologizes,’ she said. She sipped the drink and tried to calm herself. The scene had sickened her. She looked up at Richard Schriber. ‘Please forget what happened. There’s Tim –’ She got up as the door opened. He and Ryan shook hands.

While Isabel gave them a drink, Richard watched the Irishman. He couldn’t hide his proprietary attitude to Isabel. She might be his employer, but that wasn’t how Tim Ryan saw her. They dined in the huge dining room, gathered round one end of the fifteen-foot table that shone with silver and gold plate.

His stepmother looked very attractive by candlelight; he had a connoisseur’s eye for beautiful women, and while she didn’t stand comparison with the starlets and models who had trooped through his bedroom in the last few years, she was still very attractive. She was cool and self-contained, which interested him. She made no conscious effort to attract, and he wondered if she even realized that Ryan was in love with her. They were talking about horses; mentally he cut off. Beaumont hadn’t changed. He couldn’t remember a single occasion, even as a child, when the topic round that dining table had been anything else. The portrait of his father was behind him. His mother’s portrait used to hang opposite. She had been very beautiful. She was always associated in his mind with scent and lace and chiffon, except when she was hunting, when she seemed most frail and vulnerable in the elegant dark blue riding habit. She had been brought up to ride side-saddle. He had a permanent memory of her sitting on a big chestnut hunter, whom she once confessed she found a terrifying ride. When he asked her why she did it, she had smiled her nervous smile and said it was because she had to. His father expected it.

‘Richard –’ He turned to Isabel.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away. You were talking about Father’s horses –’

‘Silver Dancer’s colt; Silver Falcon,’ Ryan was explaining. ‘He’s the best two-year-old we’ve got.’

‘I know,’ Richard said. ‘He won the Champagne Stakes and the Futurity this year.’

‘Charles believed he was the best colt he’d ever bred. I can’t tell you how he loved that horse.’ Isabel leaned towards him.

‘I can imagine,’ her stepson said.

‘I helped choose his name,’ she said. ‘The Silver Falcon. He was almost impossible to break; in the end Tim had to do it. Nobody else could get the roller on him. And Charles couldn’t have been more pleased!’

‘He loved spirit,’ his son said. ‘In horses.’

‘He believed Falcon would win the Derby,’ Ryan said. ‘He’s proved he can stay a mile and a quarter with plenty in hand. And we were bloody careful. He hasn’t been overdone.’ He leaned back and helped himself from the decanter of port, passing it left-handed to Isabel. ‘I know the tendency here is to race two-year-olds hell for leather, and I believe it’s ruined more good horses than we’ll ever know. I had some pretty tough arguments with your father about it.’

‘I can imagine,’ Richard said. ‘Don’t tell me you won?’

‘He did,’ Isabel said. ‘He persuaded Charles to give Falcon a training run in April, and then the two races only. And he was right. Falcon won the Champagne by three lengths and the Futurity by a length and a half.’

‘Instead of being wrecked, he was improved. His strength hadn’t been overtaxed, and he’d enjoyed himself. At that stage in a horse’s career it’s vital he should associate racing with having a good time. Frank Gill rode him; he was told not to touch him with the whip and he never needed to; he just asked the question of him in the final furlong and that was quite enough. He’s a hell of a good horse.’

‘And does all this mean you’re going to run him in the Derby, Isabel?’ Richard looked at her, his eyebrows slightly raised. ‘You realize you’re talking to a compulsive punter, don’t you – after all this, you’ll get very short ante-post odds.’

‘I never bet,’ she said. ‘And I’m not going to do it for myself. It means taking the horse to England and putting him into training there. That was your father’s wish. He wanted to win the Derby more than any race in the world. He was living for next June, and then he started to be ill.… And he knew he’d never see it. I promised him I’d run the horse, and I’m going to keep that promise. And he’ll run in Charles’s colours.’

‘So he gets what he wants even after death?’

‘That’s not what Isabel means,’ Ryan said sharply. ‘It’s in his memory.’

‘I know what she means,’ Richard answered. ‘Pass me the port, will you, Isabel – thanks. You want to do something for father, carry out his dying wish, and the rest of it. You’re not interested in the glory or the money from your own point of view. Right?’

‘Yes. Absolutely right,’ Isabel said. ‘What I hoped is that you would think it was a good idea. I hoped you’d share my feeling about it.’

‘If it will make you happy,’ Richard Schriber shrugged, ‘then I think it’s great.’ He looked across at Tim Ryan.

‘My father and I weren’t exactly buddy buddies,’ he said. ‘In fact we didn’t speak for the last ten years. Isabel tried to bring us together and I guess I was ready to be reconciled if he was. It was unlucky that I came too late. But don’t expect me to feel the same about him as she does, or you do. All right, he wanted to win the Derby. He always wanted to win; not only with horses. But if she wants to go ahead, then I wish her all the luck in the world. Here’s to the Silver Falcon.’ He raised his port glass. Isabel did the same and after a second’s hesitation, so did Tim Ryan.

‘After all,’ Richard said, smiling at both of them. ‘Why shouldn’t my old man win – he always did!’

There was no formal reading of the will. Charles’s lawyer, Henry Winter, came over from Kellway, and lunched privately with Isabel. She had asked Richard to join them, but he had refused. ‘I don’t think it’s going to concern me,’ he said. ‘And please believe me, I don’t give a damn. I’m going to take off for the day; you can tell me all about it this evening.’

After lunch the lawyer cleared his throat and wiped his lips with his napkin.

‘I have to talk to you about the will, Mrs Schriber. And one other matter.’

She got up from the table. ‘Then let’s go and talk about it over some coffee,’ she said. ‘And we can go through our business at the same time.’

‘I think,’ Henry Winter said, ‘that it would be better if I give you the copy of your husband’s will first. I don’t think you’ll find it complicated, but I’ll just explain the important points before you come to them. As I am sure you know, you are the beneficiary.’

Isabel poured the coffee. ‘So he told me. But that’s all I know. I imagine it’s on trust.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it’s not. I must confess we advised him to set up a series of trusts for you, because that is the normal way when there’s such a large estate involved, but he wouldn’t agree. He has left you everything without restriction. Except one clause. Beaumont is yours, the stud, the bloodstock; his stock holdings, chattels, art collection, everything.’ He paused. ‘I estimate the value of the whole estate at something like twenty million dollars.’

She drank some of the coffee and then put the cup down; a little of it spilled into the saucer. Twenty million dollars. Even when they were married she had never regarded herself as rich. It was his money. Twenty million.

‘I don’t think I can cope with that, Mr Winter,’ she said. ‘It’s too much money. I don’t need it.’

‘I should read the will,’ he suggested. He drank his coffee and grimaced. He liked it decaffeinated.

Isabel had forgotten him. She was reading slowly. It was not so much a legal document as a testament of Charles Schriber’s love for her and his gratitude for what he described as three years of perfect happiness, and the most tender devotion in the last months of his life. The words were very clear and free from legal jargon. ‘I give and bequeath to my beloved wife Isabel Jane, the house known as Beaumont House, with all its parks and amenities, the stud and all bloodstock therein, all chattels inside and outside the said house, to include my collection of sporting pictures and trophies; I also give and bequeath to the said Isabel Jane my racehorses and the following stock holdings and investments herein designated.…’ There followed a long list of shares and Blue Chip investments. And then the clause the solicitor had mentioned. In the event of her remarriage, the estate reverted to a central trust fund in favour of any children she might have, the income to be hers for life. If she died unmarried within a period of two years from the date of the will, Beaumont with its stud and bloodstock was bequeathed to Dr Andrew Graham, his stock holdings to be held on trust for the Graham child who was his godson during his minority. His collection of sporting art was left to the Kellway Museum. There was a codicil, added a week before he died, in which there was a bequest of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Timothy Robert Ryan in the event of the Derby being won by Silver Falcon, and the said Timothy Robert Ryan being still in his widow’s employment. The will stated that no bequest had been made to his son Richard Anthony, since adequate provision had been made for him under his mother’s will. Isabel put the paper down and looked at Henry Winter.

‘I can’t accept this,’ she said. ‘He’s left his only son without a dollar. I think it’s dreadful.’

‘Richard Schriber was left two million in a trust fund by his mother,’ the lawyer said. ‘I have copies of her will with me. I can assure you, Mrs Schriber; I know your stepson’s financial circumstances and there is certainly no hardship.’ He gave a brief smile which she didn’t like. ‘He’s an extremely rich young man. Which considering his mode of life is probably a pity. He was a great disappointment to Mr Schriber, and your husband had us draw up this will in such terms that if his son did decide to contest it, he wouldn’t have a chance of winning. Your husband made his wishes and his devotion to you very clear. I don’t think you need feel any embarrassment.’

‘Embarrassment is not the word,’ she said. ‘I feel bewildered. I can’t believe my husband could dismiss his son like that. Not a word of affection, not a personal token. All right so his mother left him everything. It doesn’t justify treating him like this! What am I going to say to him –’

‘Well,’ Henry Winter said. ‘That brings me to the other matter. I received a letter from Dr Graham. I know the doctor and I must say straight away, I have a great respect for his opinion. He asked me to prepare an application for an injunction, to prevent Richard Schriber from coming to Beaumont. I wonder if you’d consider signing it?’

‘No I certainly would not!’ Isabel snapped. ‘My husband is dead. I live here now and I shall say who comes to visit and who doesn’t. How dare Dr Graham do such a thing – I’ve never heard of such a disgraceful suggestion!’

‘Mrs Schriber,’ the lawyer said. ‘Please. Consider your husband’s wishes. And I assure you, the doctor is only acting in your best interests. He’s trying to protect you!’

‘From what?’ she demanded. ‘I’m not criticizing my husband, Mr Winter. He took a certain attitude towards his son and nothing I could say could change it. But I don’t have to follow on. I shall tell Dr Graham myself what I think of his writing to you behind my back!’

Henry Winter stood up. ‘Very well, Mrs Schriber. As you please. There will be certain formalities until the will is probated but that shouldn’t present any problem. If there is anything we can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call.’

Isabel shook hands with him. ‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She went to the door with him and called Rogers to see him to his car. She went back into the study. Twenty million. The magnificent house and the stud, all his bloodstock. She didn’t begin to understand the significance of that list of shares. She didn’t feel elated; it suddenly seemed a crushing responsibility. She could do what she liked, travel anywhere, buy anything. And she didn’t want it like that. It gave her the most awful sensation of loneliness. She went out to the hall and the entrance and walked down the steps onto the yellow gravel. It was a bitterly cold, grey day and she shivered. It was all hers. Just three and a half years ago she had come to Beaumont to work for a few weeks, and now it belonged to her. She turned back into the house. And she had made up her mind what must be done.

‘You really mean it, don’t you?’ Richard said. The inevitable glass of whisky was in his hand; he stood in front of the fireplace, warming himself. She had gone to find him as soon as Rogers told her he had returned. He seemed in a mischievous mood, mocking and casual; he had lifted her face by the chin and looked at her. ‘You’re looking mighty grave,’ he said. ‘Lawyers don’t agree with you.’

‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ Isabel had said. ‘In fact I can’t. You’d better read the will for yourself.’ She watched him carefully, searching for signs of hurt or anger on his face. It was unnaturally smooth and expressionless; not a flicker in the blue eyes or round the mouth. He put the will down and looked at her. There was a slight smile on his lips.

‘There’s nothing I didn’t expect. What’s wrong, Isabel – you look unhappy. You ought to be flattered. It’s quite a testimonial. I never knew he had it in him to love anyone.’

‘I am unhappy,’ she said. ‘It’s a dreadful will. He had no right to cut you out like that. I don’t want the money.’

Her stepson actually laughed. It was a strange sound. ‘It was his money. He had the right to do what he liked with it. I tell you, if he hadn’t married you he’d have left it to the local dogs’ home before he gave anything to me. Or he’d have given it to our pal Andrew Graham. They were such close friends.’ He drained the whisky down and went to re-fill the glass.

‘I wish you wouldn’t drink like that,’ Isabel said. ‘I know you’re hurt whatever you pretend. You’re his son; he could have given you something as a token, said something affectionate. It’s not the money that matters.’

‘Just the sentiment,’ Richard said. ‘I see. Well the only sentiment he had for me was pure gut loathing. He couldn’t put that in the will.’

‘I want you to have half the estate,’ Isabel said quietly. ‘I was thinking about it this afternoon. And that’s what I want to do. The money isn’t entailed in any way – the lawyer said so. I can do what I like with it. I’m going to make over half to you.’

And that was when he said it. ‘You really mean it, don’t you?’ He was rocking slightly in the way men have when they’re standing on a curb in front of a fire, with a full glass in their hand.

‘You’d give me ten million dollars, just like that. Because you think my father wasn’t fair to me?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m going to call Winter tomorrow and tell him that as soon as the will is probated, I want to transfer half the value to you. Will you take it in stock holdings and maybe some of the pictures? I don’t know exactly what everything is worth.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. He frowned, looking into the whisky. ‘I’d have to take advice.’

‘Of course you would,’ Isabel said. She came up and put one hand on his arm. ‘Richard, I’m so very glad. Take whatever you want. I feel so much happier.’

‘You know I’m not exactly short of money?’ he asked. ‘My mother left me a couple of million, my grandmother left me half her estate; oddly enough I’ve invested very well. It’s worth almost double. You still want to give me the money? You might change your mind tomorrow –’

‘I never change my mind,’ she said. ‘When I make it up, that’s the end of it.’

He finished his drink and lit a cigarette.

‘Don’t be a damned fool, Isabel. I wouldn’t take a cent of the money. I never asked for anything when he was alive and I wouldn’t touch it with a twenty-foot pole now. But I appreciate the offer. It’s not often I meet someone who wants to give me ten million dollars.’

‘Richard please,’ she began, but he stopped her.

‘Don’t mention the goddamned money again,’ he said. ‘But there is something I would like to have. There was a portrait of my mother used to hang in the dining room. Where the Herring is, opposite the picture of my father. I’d like to have it.’

‘Of course,’ Isabel said. ‘I don’t know where it is, I’ve never seen a picture of her anywhere – not even a photograph.’

‘He got rid of them all after she died,’ Richard said. ‘But she was painted by an expensive artist. Father didn’t like wasting anything; I’ll bet it’s put away somewhere. Ask Rogers; he’ll know.’

They went up to the attic floor together; Rogers showed the way. The top floor was used for storage; there were rooms full of cases and furniture shrouded in dust sheets. The butler picked his way through and stopped before a stack of pictures standing against the wall. He didn’t look at Richard.

‘Ah think the picture’s here, Mis Schriber,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll get it out for yuh –’

‘No,’ Richard said abruptly. ‘I’ll do it.’ She knew that he didn’t want the butler to stay; there was an atmosphere of hostility between them. ‘Thank you, Rogers.’ He went out, and Richard glanced after him. ‘When I was a kid,’ he said, ‘I caught that bastard screwing one of the maids. She was only sixteen; if they didn’t lie down for him he got them fired. Here it is.’

It had been covered by a green cloth; there was no dust on it. It was a big picture, the companion to the three-quarter-length portrait of Charles Schriber downstairs. He turned it round to the light.

‘She was beautiful,’ Isabel said. ‘She had your colouring.’

‘Yes,’ Richard said. He propped the picture upright. ‘Red hair ran in the family. They were all good-looking. She was said to be one of the most beautiful girls in Carolina.’

The woman in the picture was in a white dress, cut low and showing a pair of sloping shoulders. She carried a posy of spring flowers on her lap. The face was a true oval, framed in long red hair styled in the fashion of thirty-odd years ago. The eyes were large and blue and they gazed at Isabel with a strange mixture of innocence and apprehension.

It was a bad picture. Dated and unreal, a typical portrait of a pretty socialite of the early forties. And yet in spite of the artist’s ineptitude, something disturbing had come out in the canvas. Something sad and vaguely frightened.

‘How old was your mother when this was done?’ Isabel asked. He didn’t answer for a moment. He looked grim and distant, as if his mind were somewhere far from the attic room.

‘Twenty-two,’ he said. ‘She’d just married my father. I’d like to have this, Isabel.’

‘Of course,’ she said. The silence was awkward. He seemed tense and odd; he kept staring at the picture.

‘You loved her very much, didn’t you,’ she said quietly.

‘I guess I did.’

‘Charles told me she committed suicide,’ Isabel said. ‘What a terrible thing. He’d never talk to me about it.’

‘No,’ Richard said. ‘I guess he wouldn’t. Let’s go down. I feel like a drink.’ He draped the green cloth over the picture. ‘Thanks. It’s the only thing in the house I really wanted. If you don’t mind I’ll get it crated up and sent to England.’

They spent the evening quietly; Tim phoned to say that one of Charles’s most valuable two-year-olds had colic and he didn’t want to leave the yard. Richard watched the television and Isabel read. It was a best-selling novel concerned with the sex life of Washington senators, and she had been enjoying it. That night she couldn’t concentrate. The wistful, lovely face of the dead woman kept blurring the page. Suicide. Instability, emotional or mental breakdown. The seeds of tragedy were sown when she sat for that picture, even at twenty-two.

She glanced up and saw Richard Schriber’s face. He wasn’t watching the screen or even aware of the programme. The same look of grim intensity was there that she had seen in the attic. Charles wouldn’t discuss what had happened and nor would he. The dead woman had been buried and the portrait banished out of sight. She wished she hadn’t gone to find it with him.

When Joan Graham was indignant her neck broke out in red blotches. As a girl, facing the ordeal of dates and dances, she was embarrassed by the ugly nervous patches on her throat. She was very angry that December day.

‘Three weeks after the funeral,’ she said, ‘and he’s still there! It’s the talk of the neighbourhood! How could she, Andy? Hasn’t she any idea how people round here feel?’

‘I don’t think she cares,’ her husband said.

‘And look at the way she’s treated you! It makes me boiling mad – after all you did for that family –’

‘She doesn’t know about that,’ he answered.

‘Why didn’t you tell her?’ his wife said. He looked up at her sharply.

‘Don’t be a damned fool. She isn’t one of us. She’s the last person in the world I’d want to know. You shouldn’t even talk about it.’

‘But I think about it,’ Joan Graham said. She came and sat beside him. She loved him and admired him. In her view he was always coming to the rescue of people far less worthwhile than he was. He worked very hard, and he made do with so much less than everyone else, with their big houses and cars and money behind them. Her damnfool father-in-law had gambled till there was very little left for his family. By comparison with most of their friends the Grahams were poor. ‘I think about what you did for Charles, and whatever you say, he should have made it up to you!’

‘You don’t put a price on friendship,’ her husband said.

‘Deep down,’ Joan said, ‘I never really trusted her. She took all of you men in with that English way, but she didn’t fool me. I said to myself when I heard he was going to marry her, he’s making a fool of himself over a young girl. Old enough to be her father, and she took advantage of his vanity – I know, I know,’ she lifted her hand as he started to protest. ‘You won’t have me say he was vain, but you know he was vain as a peacock! Having a young wife to show around was just his ticket – it’s the only time Charles’s judgement failed him: when it came to women. First Frances and then this one. My, Andrew Graham, when I think of that will!’

He didn’t answer her. What she said was true. His old friend had indulged his vanity the second time around; it was fortunate for him that he hadn’t lived long enough to see Isabel’s true worth.

Only she had been clever enough to disguise her feelings while Charles was alive. Now her real colours were flying. Richard Schriber stayed on at Beaumont, while he, Charles’s greatest friend, was forbidden the house.

‘I don’t know why you bother yourself,’ his wife said. ‘Let her go ahead – she’ll find out what Richard Schriber’s really like. If you ask me, they’re probably sleeping together!’

The remark jarred on him. He looked up at her irritably. ‘Don’t say a thing like that!’ he said. ‘She’s just being bull-headed, keeping him around. He’ll go in time.…’

‘Maybe,’ Joan Graham said. ‘But it’s mightly funny him hanging round this long. They’re about the same age; she’s been tied to an old sick man for almost eight months. I wouldn’t be surprised what they were up to!’

‘He hated his father,’ Andrew said slowly. ‘Hated him enough to do anything to get back at him. Even now. If you’re right, Joan, and you may be, then it will be a kind of judgment on her. And since she won’t see me, I can’t warn her.’

‘No,’ his wife said flatly. ‘You can’t. And don’t you fret. You forget about those Schribers and think of yourself for a change.’ She got up, and for a moment her hand stroked his hair. ‘You look tired, Andy. I’m going to make you a cup of milk with a little Comfort in it. It’ll do you good.’

Downstairs in the office, Richard Schriber was going through his father’s desk. He sat down and began methodically, opening each drawer and reading through every paper. In the bottom drawer there was a flat cardboard file. The name of his father’s attorneys was on it. He took it out and began to read through the letters. When he found the copy of Charles’s will, he leaned back in the chair, tipping it slightly. He put the letters back, replaced the will in the end of the file and closed up the desk. He moved the chair away to its place against the wall. He went back to the study and sat in the big leather chair which Charles used, and lit a cigarette. His father’s library of racing books and references were either side of the fireplace. The Plazzotta bronze of his favourite brood mare, Silvia, with her foal at foot, stood on a table by his elbow. Richard reached out and ran his finger down the mare’s back. Horses. All his life he had lived with horses; seen them, smelt them, been put up to ride as soon as he could walk across the nursery floor. Hunting, breeding, racing. Men with legs slightly bowed, as distinctive in their profession as boxers or footballers. He had always thought that there was a horseman’s face; several varieties indeed. The long, lean huntsman, the narrow foreshortened jockey with his monkey stature, the stable man and the amateur with features slightly bruised and coarsened. Always the talk of horses, the phrases that were part of a language unintelligible to outsiders. The mystique, perpetuated by people involved in what was essentially a tough and money-making industry. His father, surrounded by the sentimental paraphernalia – photographs in silver frames, that solid wall of trophies, paintings and sculptures, reminders at every turn in the house that Beaumont and everyone in it owed their existence to the horse. He had always hated them. As a child he had been terrified.

He had hunted, the only one among the crowd of local children tearing their way across country who thought the ritual death of the fox was a cruel and disgusting climax to hours of danger and discomfort. He remembered his mother being brought home unconscious after a fall out hunting; he was only nine and he had cried all night because he thought she was going to die. As he grew older, he lost his fear and became as good a horseman as anyone on the place. But it was done with an object in view. At the age of twelve, when he was at home on holiday, he told his father that he would never ride again. It had given him a moment of soaring satisfaction to stand in front of his father and say in his English accent, acquired at a Swiss private school which he detested, that he wouldn’t get on a horse again his in life because he loathed the animals. What he was saying, and which he felt sure was understood, was that he loathed his father.

He lit a cigarette, got up, mixed himself a whisky from the drinks tray, and sat back in Charles’s chair. He thought about his stepmother Isabel. The news of the marriage had reached him in Paris. He had rented an apartment on the Rue Constantin and was living there with a beautiful French actress. It had amused him one night to give her politician friend some competition; he had been drunk at the time. He couldn’t believe it at first. But there was a photograph of his father in Le Monde, under the heading ‘Millionaire to wed secretary’. His reaction was instinctive. He got out of bed, pulled the bedclothes off the actress and yelled at her to get up.

For a moment her perfect, nude body had enraged and disgusted him. With the paper crumpled in his hand he had told her to get dressed and get out. So his father was going to re-marry. After ten years as a widower, the object of many ambitious women’s attentions, he had chosen an English girl thirty years younger than himself, and blazoned his romance with her across the newspapers. He had formed a mental picture of Isabel Cunningham. She was described as the daughter of a university professor; she had come to work at Beaumont as his father’s secretary. He had spent that day in the flat alone. He drank but without getting drunk. When the first reporter called for his reaction, he said he hadn’t met the bride-to-be, and only wished his father happiness. Then he took his phone off the hook. It was so close to his mother’s anniversary; just ten years ago she had been buried privately in Freemont, with the minimum of ceremony. He had torn up the newspapers, one by one. When the actress arrived at the apartment to collect her clothes and indulge in a dramatic scene, which might, she hoped, end in a reconciliation, Richard had slammed the front door in her face.

Now, just a week before Christmas he was leaving Beaumont. Isabel had asked him to stay; he sensed, with irony, that she was dreading the holiday period, in contrast to Tim Ryan, who could only see it as another opportunity to comfort the widow. It amused Richard, who knew more about the pursuit of women than the Irishman would learn in the rest of his life, to watch him make his moves. Very carefully, with great regard for the proprieties. A gentleman dealing with a lady. He was so obviously in love with her that she must be blind not to see it. Richard believed that Isabel, unlike most women, did not equate herself and her relationships with people in terms of personal gain or simple vanity.

She was an unusual woman; in some ways over simple, in others complex and obdurate. A generous spirit and a strong will. It was strange to him to find these qualities in her, rather than the ones he had been expecting. The cable had warned him not to pre-judge too quickly. The first impression of her confirmed his suspicion that his father hadn’t chosen a clever little fortune-hunter as his second wife. He was no fool; he judged human beings as he did horses. The only standard was their usefulness to him. He had found a rarity in Isabel Cunningham, and added her to his possessions. And then he had succeeded, after three years of failure, in breeding his colt by the dam immortalized in bronze. He got his Derby prospect after all. The only justice was in the cancer that killed him before he could see it win. And even that he was determined to thwart. He pushed the chair back and got up from the desk. He thought of the terms of that will, and a smile flitted briefly across his face. The terms were unbreakable. Isabel, or her children if she remarried, inherited everything. Unless she died within two years. He went to the door and opened it quietly. He looked out; the passage leading into the main hall was empty. Isabel had gone into Freemont; the servants were in their rooms for the afternoon. He closed the office door very quietly and sprang lightly up the stairs. Nobody heard him; he reached his own room and shut himself inside. When Isabel returned he came down to meet her smiling, and took her parcels. He mentioned that he had taken his father’s terrier for a walk in the woods. And then he had finished his packing.

Isabel went to the airport to see him off. It was freezing cold; she was wrapped in a fur coat and hat. They said goodbye in the departure lounge. There was a sad, empty feeling which she couldn’t explain. She hadn’t wanted him to leave. A part of Charles was with her while he stayed at Beaumont. Tears were quite near as he shook hands.

‘I’m not very good at saying thank you,’ Richard said. ‘So I’ve thought of something to do it for me. Happy Christmas.’ He put a small package into her hand. And then he bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘From a grateful stepson,’ he said. Then he turned, waved once and walked through to catch his plane. Isabel opened the parcel in the car on her way back to Beaumont. There was a flat gold box, with her initials on it in diamonds. Inside it was a letter.

‘To remind you of the prodigal. To say thank you for the fatted calf, and the enclosed is to make sure I see you again. I’ve included Ryan in case he makes you go to England with him and his damned horse instead. I can promise you’ll enjoy it. Richard.’ Inside the letter were two air tickets to Barbados, dated the first week in January.

Christmas was bearable because of the efforts made by Tim Ryan and the staff at Beaumont. It was his suggestion to carry on Charles’s tradition; to have the huge tree with its load of presents, to keep open house for their friends. It had worked because everyone close to her was determined that it should. A lot of old faces presented themselves; people sent flowers or personal presents, but there were exceptions. Andrew Graham, his wife and children, and some of their intimates did not appear, although Isabel had sent the Graham family a corporate message, asking them to call and see her. She was going to the West Indies for a holiday and then on to England, where the Silver Falcon was going into training for the coming season.

The festival came and passed; she survived the Communion Service, sitting in the pew reserved for Charles, which he had occupied only at Christmas and Easter out of consideration for the minister. It was painful and yet it heartened her. She felt that he was very close during that time; the friendship and good wishes of their neighbours were a comfort. And there was Tim Ryan, solicitous, reliable, never obtrusive but always at hand. With the first biting January days, she prepared for the trip to Barbados. At first she had hesitated; it was Tim who insisted that she should go. The holiday would do her good; they could spend a lazy three weeks in the sun, while the Falcon settled into his new quarters at Lambourn. He was going to Nigel Foster, top of the Flat trainers’ league for the third year running, an old friend of Charles, and responsible for his string in England. The Derby was the objective; everything was being carried out exactly as if Charles Schriber were alive and in command. As the winter gripped them, and the anti-climax of Christmas made her feel even lonelier, the prospect of escape into the Caribbean became ever more attractive.

Three days before they left, a cable arrived from Richard. He had cancelled their reservations at the Sandy Lane Hotel. They were staying with him at the house of an amusing friend, Roy Farrant. The name was familiar, and Ryan filled in the details. ‘Farrant,’ Tim said. ‘He’s quite a figure in English racing. I’m surprised you haven’t met him.’

‘I may have done,’ she said. ‘But there were always such crowds of people when Charles and I were over. Doesn’t he own Rocket Man?’

‘He does,’ Harry Grogan said. ‘And Trembler and Harrabin. He’s one of the most successful owners in England. But he’s a bit persona non grata, if you know what I mean. They don’t like them larger than life in the Jockey Club.’ Grogan didn’t like the English racing establishment and he never missed an opportunity to criticize.

‘He had a Derby hope last year,’ Tim said. ‘As usual. He’s been trying to win the race for years. It’s as big an obsession with him as it was with Charles. He’s spent a fortune trying. And he’s going to lose to us this time!’

‘Funny Richard being such a friend,’ Grogan remarked. He hadn’t forgiven Charles’s son for telling him how much he disliked racing. ‘Considering he hates horses.’

‘I’ll be interested to meet him,’ Tim remarked. ‘I’ve heard a story or two about him … they say he’s a real character.’ He smiled at Isabel. ‘I bet he’s anxious to meet you too,’ he said. ‘And find out all he can about the Falcon. I think we’re going to enjoy ourselves.’ Isabel smiled back at him.

‘You can talk horses to your heart’s content. I’m going to swim and lie in the sun. And I’m sure he’s nice, or Richard wouldn’t have invited us to stay with him.’

She had put the gold box in her bedroom; the room where Charles had died was kept shut up and she had moved permanently into the green room suite. His letter was folded up inside it. ‘To say thank you for the fatted calf. And to make sure I see you again.’ To lie in the sun, to swim in the warm West Indian sea, to live for a while in a different environment, where there was no Beaumont, no role to fill as Charles’s widow. No feeling of guilt because she was beginning to feel stifled. She hadn’t admitted to herself until that night, sitting with Tim and the Grogans, talking about the Falcon and Roy Farrant, just how much she was looking forward to seeing Richard Schriber again.