She sighed. ‘What a tragedy that was. I’m not a superstitious woman, but it’s almost as if there’s been some dreadful curse on the Maynard family.’
Chloe stared at her, the flippant retort that there was and that she’d seen it alive and well an hour ago dying on her lips.
‘What do you mean?’
Mrs Jackson looked surprised. ‘Well, I was thinking of Andrew, of course, being killed in that dreadful accident.’
Chloe’s cup clattered back into its saucer. ‘Andrew Maynard—dead?’ She stared at her aunt. ‘Never!’
‘Why, yes, dear. Surely you saw it in the papers? And I told you about it in one of my letters.’
Had she? Chloe wondered guiltily, knowing that, once she’d made sure that everyone at Axford Grange was well and happy, she hadn’t always read on to the end.
‘I—I must have missed a page somewhere. What happened?’
‘He was in the Cairngorms climbing alone as he often did. Apparently, there was a rock fall, and he was swept away.’ She shuddered. ‘Horrible.’
‘And Sir Gregory?’
Aunt Libby shook her head. ‘A stroke, brought on by the news.’
Chloe picked up her cup. Swallowed some tea. Schooled her voice to normality. ‘I thought I glimpsed Darius Maynard when I stopped for petrol. Is that why he’s come back? Because he’s now the heir?’
‘I think that it was concern for his father rather than the inheritance that brought him.’ Aunt Libby spoke with gentle reproof and Chloe flushed.
‘Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve—never liked him.’
‘Something for which your uncle and I were always profoundly grateful,’ her aunt said with a touch of grimness. ‘He was always far too attractive for his own good.’ She sighed again. ‘But he’s certainly provided Sir Gregory with the very best of care, hiring a charming girl as his live-in nurse who seems to have inspired the poor man and literally brought him back from the grave.
‘And Mr Crosby, the agent, reckons Darius is really putting his back into running the estate these days, so perhaps he’s become a reformed character during his absence.’
And maybe pigs might fly, thought Chloe. She took another piece of raisin bread. ‘And—Mrs Maynard. Penny. Is he still with her?’
‘No-one knows or dare ask. She’s certainly not at the Hall. And she didn’t attend Andrew’s funeral, or the memorial service.’ Mrs Jackson refilled her niece’s cup. ‘Apparently Mrs Thursgood at the post office asked Darius straight out if he was married—well, she would!—and he just laughed, and said, “God, no”. So we’re none the wiser.’
‘But it’s hardly a surprise,’ Chloe said evenly. ‘He’s never been the marrying kind.’
‘On the other hand, he’s never been the next baronet before either,’ Aunt Libby pointed out, cutting into a handsome Victoria sponge. ‘That may change things.’
‘Perhaps so.’ Chloe shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s considering the charming nurse up at the Hall.’
‘Lindsay?’ Her aunt sounded almost startled. ‘Oh, I don’t think she’d do for him at all.’
‘But, then, who would?’ Chloe helped herself to a piece of sponge with its strawberry jam and cream filling. ‘If I go on like this,’ she added wryly, ‘I’ll be the size of a house by the time of the wedding.’
Aunt Libby gave her a swift glance, then looked back at her plate. ‘Nonsense,’ she said firmly. ‘If anything, you could do with a few pounds. Real men don’t want skeletons to cuddle.’
The wisdom according to Uncle Hal, no doubt, Chloe thought with an inward smile.
They were such darlings. Living proof of how well marriage could work, given the chance. And if their childlessness had been a sadness, they’d kept it well-hidden, opening their home and their hearts to her instead, when her mother, Aunt Libby’s younger sister, had died suddenly of a thrombosis only two days after giving birth.
Her father, an engineer in the oil industry had been on his way back from Saudi Arabia to see his wife and child when the tragedy happened. Devastated by his loss, and with two years of his contract still to run, he knew that taking his newborn daughter back with him was impossible. Apart from the environmental problems, he’d been an only son and had no experience with infants. He’d been almost at his wits’ end when his grieving sister-in-law had stepped in, making her momentous offer, which he’d thankfully accepted.
The original plan had been that Chloe should go to him as soon as he found a more appropriate job, but another contract succeeded the first, and from the conversations the Jacksons had with him when he was in the UK on leave, they knew that he’d become an ex-pat in spirit as well as fact. That he liked his life just the way it was. And contributing to his daughter’s support was as far as he was prepared to go.
Eventually they heard that he’d met an American girl and was going to remarry, and resigned themselves once more to Chloe’s loss. Only it didn’t happen.
Her father’s new bride-to-be, Mary Theresa, had reacted badly to the idea of a female stepchild when it had been put to her, and Chloe remained in Willowford.
She’d eventually been invited to Florida to see her father and meet her stepmother, together with the twin boys born a year after the marriage, but the visit was not a success, and had not been repeated. Now he was little more than a name on a Christmas card. Her birthday was clearly a date with associations he preferred to forget, and although this was bound to sadden her, she decided she could not altogether blame him.
But at some point she would also have to decide whether he, or Uncle Hal who’d loved her like his own, should give her away at her wedding. And that could be tricky.
When tea was finished she loaded the china and cutlery into the dishwasher and switched it on, then checked her mobile phone for a message or a text from Ian, but there was nothing.
She sighed inwardly. ‘Do you need a hand with supper, or shall I take my things up to my room now?’ she asked her aunt, replacing the phone in her bag.
‘Yes, go and unpack, dear.’ There was an awkward note in Mrs Jackson’s voice. ‘We’ve been decorating upstairs, doing some renovations too, so you’ll find it all rather different. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘On the contrary, I’m intrigued.’ Chloe spoke lightly, but when she opened her bedroom door, her reaction was stunned.
It was completely unrecognisable from the cosy, slightly worn haven that she’d loved, she thought numbly.
The rose-coloured carpet she’d begged for in her early teens had vanished, replaced by stripped, sanded and varnished boards. The pretty sprigged wallpaper had given away to plain walls in a rich, deep cream, and the curtains she’d made herself to go with the carpet had disappeared too. The new drapes were in a vivid blue, matching the tailored spread fitting the single brass bed.
The familiar shabby furniture had gone, but the small cast-iron
