Local gossip said there was hardly a pie in a radius of two hundred miles that he didn’t have a finger in. And what he touched invariably turned to gold, Joanna reflected, wincing inwardly. He’d already more than doubled the fortune his father and grandfather had left, and at thirty-three years of age it was reckoned his career had barely even started.
To the outrage of the local landowners, he’d acquired Craigmoor House and its park, which had been derelict for years, renovated it completely, and, in the face of strenuous opposition, turned it into a country club, with an integral restaurant and casino, and a challenging nine-hole golf course in the reclaimed grounds.
Within a year, all those who’d been most vociferously outspoken against the plan were among the club’s most stalwart members.
But the Chalfonts were not among them. Since the original breach between the first Callum Blackstone and Jonas Chalfont, all those years ago, the families had never knowingly met under the same roof. The Chalfonts had let it be known that they would accept no invitations which had also been extended to any member of the Blackstone clan, and the rule had been rigorously applied by Cecilia Chalfont, Joanna’s mother, who came from an old county family and carried considerable social clout.
The two families had still been at daggers drawn when Cecilia had died from an unexpected heart condition while Joanna was in her early teens.
I’m almost glad, Joanna thought fiercely, walking to the window and staring down at the formal rose garden, glowing with summer bloom, which it overlooked. At least Mother was spared the knowledge of this—betrayal by Simon. But keeping it from Dad will be another matter.
Anthony Chalfont had his own suite of rooms on the first floor. Severely crippled by arthritis, he rarely ventured forth from them, but was looked after devotedly by his manservant Gresham, and Joanna’s own elderly nanny.
Just recently, her father’s mind had begun to wander, and he seemed to prefer to dwell very much in the past. A couple of times since her return, Joanna had found herself being addressed by him as Cecilia, although she could see little resemblance in herself to her mother’s haughty beauty. But there were other days too when his brain was as sharp and lucid as it had ever been. If Cal Blackstone turned them out of their home, the effect on her father might be disastrous.
She took a deep breath. ‘Tell me again—slowly—what happened. How you came to do this thing. After all, when I went away the workshop seemed to be doing well. The order-book was full.’
‘It was.’ Simon’s shoulders were hunched, his whole attitude despondent. ‘Then everything started to go wrong. Two of our biggest customers gave us backword. They said the recession was biting, and the property market was going into decline. They reckoned people weren’t prepared to spend that kind of money on handcrafted furniture and kitchens any more. We were left with thousands of pounds’ worth of specially designed gear on our hands.’
‘And what about our partner, Philip the super-salesman?’ Joanna asked. ‘What was he doing about all this?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Philip tried to find other markets, but the answer was always the same. Property development was being cut back, and prices kept down. They wanted mass-market stuff people could afford in their show houses.’
Joanna bit her lip hard. It was Philip who’d urged expansion, she thought angrily. Philip who’d persuaded Simon to take on more men, and buy more machinery to fulfil a demand he was confident he could create. In vain, she’d argued that small was beautiful, that they should concentrate on quality rather than quantity, and feel their way cautiously for a while until their markets were firmly established.
But Simon hadn’t wanted to listen. He’d wanted to make money fast, and restore the shaky Chalfont fortunes. He’d also wanted to marry Philip’s pretty sister Fiona, so anything Philip suggested was all right with him.
And at first their growth had been meteoric, just as Philip had predicted. Simon and Fiona had been married with all the appropriate razzmatazz, and the couple had moved into Chalfont House. The Craft Company had continued to flourish, and, although Joanna’s instincts had still warned her that they should be cautious, she was having deep problems of her own, and her involvement in the business was becoming less and less.
I should have stayed here after Martin died, she thought with a small silent sigh. I shouldn’t have run away like that. But I felt I needed time—to lick my wounds—to try and heal myself. There were too many memories here. Too much I needed to forget.
Her headlong flight, after her husband’s funeral, had taken her to her godmother’s home in the United States. Aunt Vinnie had extended the invitation in a warmly affectionate letter of condolence as soon as she’d heard about Martin’s fatal car accident. Joanna hadn’t planned on staying more than a few weeks in New Hampshire, but had become interested in spite of herself in the running of the art gallery Aunt Vinnie owned. She’d started helping out for a few hours each week, but had soon grown more deeply involved, and gradually her stay had extended into months.
If her godmother hadn’t reluctantly decided to sell up and retire to California, she had to admit she might still have been there.
Clearly, eighteen months had been a long time to absent herself. Too long, she castigated herself.
‘We had suppliers to pay, and the wages bill to meet,’ Simon went on. ‘Things were looking really black. The bank refused outright to allow us to exceed our stated overdraft. In fact, they started pressing us to repay some of it. Jo—I didn’t know where to turn.’
She didn’t look at him. She continued to stare rigidly down into the garden. ‘So you turned to Cal Blackstone. Why?’
‘It wasn’t quite like that.’ The defensiveness was back in his voice. ‘He approached me. He was the guest speaker at the Round Table dinner, and the people I was with asked him to join us afterwards for a drink. I couldn’t very well avoid him. We were left on our own, and at first he just—made conversation.’
‘But later?’ Joanna asked matter-of-factly.
‘Later—he began to talk about the Craft Company. He seemed to know we were in trouble. He said that things were generally difficult for small businesses, and mentioned a few of the problems some of them were having at Chalfont Mill. He said he’d been able to help in a lot of cases. That it would be a pity to go under, if a simple injection of cash could save the day.’
‘Cal Blackstone, philanthropist.’ Joanna gave a mirthless laugh. ‘And you fell for it!’
Simon came to stand beside her. ‘What else was I supposed to do?’ he almost hissed. ‘Things were bad and getting worse every day. Our creditors were pressing, and the bank was threatening to bounce the wages cheque. If someone offers you a lifeline, you don’t throw it back in his face, for God’s sake.’ He paused. ‘Besides, Fiona had just told me she was pregnant.’
With her usual immaculate sense of timing, Joanna thought resignedly. ‘So how much did you borrow from him?’
‘Twenty thousand to begin with. The rest, later.’
‘Using your power of attorney from Dad to put this house up as collateral, I suppose.’
‘We had to do something,’ Simon said stiffly. ‘And Phil’s flat is only rented.’
‘Lucky Philip! I hope he’s got a spare room. You and Fiona are probably going to need it. And the baby when it arrives, of course,’ she added,
