Hill Manse ... Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Fiona had said nothing on the long drive from the cemetery to her flat. Occasionally she’d catch a glimpse of Richard’s somber profile when the driver swerved too quickly ‘round a corner knocking them this way and that. What’s he thinking? What’s he doing here? He’s being so quiet and gentle ... what does he want?

Steve, the limo driver, wasn’t fast enough getting around the bonnet to open the car door and help the distressed but pretty redhead from the backseat. The chap with her talked to her softly ... like she was an invalid ... assisted her without really holding onto her. If it had been him, he’d have shown the unhappy woman some real comfort. This bloke was bloody feeble.

“Let me, luv.” Taking her key, Richard slipped it into the lock and twisted it firmly, pushed open the front door and switched on the lamp he knew was near the chair that faced the sofa. Late October days were growing shorter and, though it hadn’t rained that afternoon, it had been overcast.

“When did you last eat, Fi?” He prompted. “Is there anything in the fridge I could heat up for you?”

“No, please ... I can’t eat. I’m so tired ... haven’t been able to sleep.”

“Alright,” He removed her coat and led her to the sofa. “Lie down here and rest a bit.” He lifted her legs onto the cushions and put a pillow under her head. “Close your eyes ... that’s right. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

In less than a quarter of an hour he came back into the lounge, lifted Fi into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.

Watching him warily beneath her drooping lids, Fi said nothing. He’d done everything right up to this point ... she’d wait to see what would happen next.

Richard perched her onto the edge of the bed, knelt down and took off her shoes and began rubbing her cold feet. “I’ve drawn you a hot bath full of those lavender scented bubbles you’re so fond of. Go on, now, and get naked ... then sit and soak the tightness out of your muscles. I’m going to call Mum and get her to walk me through how to make hot cocoa. She can’t brew a decent pot of coffee to save her life, but she’s smashing when it comes to cocoa.” He stood up, reached over to comb his fingers through her long auburn mane, but dropped his hand as he thought better of it, walked back into the lounge and closed the door behind him.

Wrapped modestly in her Japanese inspired dressing gown, the trousers of her turquoise pajamas peeking below the hem, Fiona watched Richard measure, heat and stir the ingredients for hot cocoa. He didn’t know she’d been leaning against the doorframe observing him for a while. Near his elbow on the counter was a half empty tumbler ... a scotch and soda, she supposed. On the table was a plate stacked with biscuits he must have found in the larder. She’d no idea how old they were, but dunked into the cocoa ... it hardly made a difference.

“Do you plan to get snogged on whiskey while medicating me with hot cocoa and stale biscuits?” she asked in a quiet voice.

Richard swung around surprised ... he hadn’t heard her come in. Looking at her wrapped up tight in an Oriental robe, hair brushed into shining thick waves across her shoulders and down her back ... he was nearly struck dumb. He’d known this woman well over a year, closer to eighteen months and hadn’t truly appreciated her. He’d liked being with the eye-catching redhead, they’d had fun together and occasionally slept together, but he hadn’t appreciated her ... hadn’t known he loved her. But, he knew it now.

“Feeling a little better?” Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the saucepan. His mother had said to keep stirring so the milky chocolate wouldn’t burn on the bottom of the pan. “This should be ready in a minute. I’ll have some with you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, I’d like that’, she said.

He poured the rest of his drink down the drain, rinsed the glass, filled it half-full of water, rinsed his mouth and swallowed, put the tumbler in the sink. “Would you like a beaker or a cup?”

“A beaker ... you?”

“The same.”

Fiona reached into the cupboard behind her and pulled out two white beakers, each bearing a Lion’s logo.

Carefully pouring from the saucepan, Richard mused. “I remember when we bought these. Lost that bloody game, the Lion’s did. ‘So they lost’, we said. ‘They’re still the best ... our team.’ We bought the bloody things from a souvenir vendor and had the barman at the pub fill ‘em with beer.”

“This is very good, Richard, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Uhh ... when you’ve finished, I’ll clean up in here. You go to bed ... try to sleep. I’ll check on you before I leave.”

Quietly opening her bedroom door, Richard crept to her bedside.

“I’m awake. Gah ... why can’t I go to sleep?” Fiona pushed herself back up against her pillows ... brushing away a couple of stray tears. “I’ve got the week off work ... bereavement leave, as called. But, I keep thinking about things ... Ma ... her house. The solicitor said I had to go through all Ma’s things ... sell the house to help pay for the coffin ... the funeral and everything.”

“He told you that ... the solicitor fellow?”

“Uh huh. It’s got to be taken care of right away, he said.”

“No wonder you can’t sleep, luv. You’re grieving and worrying yourself sick.” He sat down on the bed and smoothed her hair away from her eyes. “I’ll talk to Ornshaw, the legal expert at the paper, see what he says about it. Fi, don’t worry, please. We’ll get it cleared up.” Looking at her, comforting her, stroking her hair was causing Richard a great deal of discomfort. He wanted to be with her ... in the biblical sense and he knew that shouldn’t happen ... not now. “I should leave.”

“I know you want to leave ... it’s getting late, but ... Richard, please don’t go ... not yet, I mean.” She brushed away more tears turning her face away from him. “I don’t want to be alone. That’s feeble ... I know it.” She turned back to him. “And, it’s not a fair thing to ask you ... we haven’t been ... friends for a long time.” She wiped her eyes. “Maybe you could be here, quiet like ... ‘til I fall asleep?”

He took off his necktie, belt and shoes. “Move over. I’ll lay on top of the blankets until you fall asleep.” If this was the comfort she needed from him ... he’d do it. He thought he’d likely die in the attempt, though.

A weak shaft of morning light lay in a limp line across Fi’s bed. Richard inhaled the soft garden scent of lavender and slowly opened his eyes ... Fi’s sleeping face shone in the pale light. He had her cradled in his arms ... had apparently gotten cold during the night and slipped beneath the blankets. Fortunately, or maybe not, both were still dressed. Although, Fi’s silk pajamas didn’t conceal her fuller features well, at all. He brought his wrist close to his eyes to check the time ... his watch was in his jacket pocket. It must be between seven and eight. Maybe I can slip out without waking her. When he started to move, Fi snuggled closer, moving her head into the curve of his neck. Oh, dear God, I am going to die. Slowly ... patiently he inched his arm and then the rest of him to the edge of the bed.

“Richard,” a sleepy voice murmured. Did you stay the night?’ Fi’s eyes were heavy with the need for more sleep.

“Yes ... stay in bed ... sleep as long as you can. I’ll call you later.” He picked up his tie, belt and shoes and high-tailed it to the bathroom.

....

“I just stopped by to tell you that I am a full partner in a design studio ... an interior design studio.” Margaret stood in her sister’s entryway still holding her umbrella and handbag.

“That is absolutely ridiculous. Would you have people think Duff threw you out of Hill Manse once he married and now you must fend for yourself?” Rosemary Broadmoore had little patience with her sister at the best of times, but with her bridge club arriving in less than an hour, she was more harried than usual. “You may have a talent for spending Father’s money, our future inheritance ...mind you ... on new furniture, rugs and curtains, but you have no business sense. What has gotten into you?”

Margaret made no attempt to answer the rhetorical question and moved to the door. “I’ll be leaving now ... have a nice time this afternoon.”

“I’d ask you to stay, but I won’t be needing a forth.”

“In the future, Rosemary, I will be too busy to play bridge. Please, don’t bother calling me.” Margaret let herself out.

Rosemary just stood and stared at the back of her sister as she walked through the front door, closing it quietly behind her. Margaret was behaving very oddly. Becoming a partner in a business had to be expensive. Rosemary would ask Duff where she got the money to do such a crazy thing. She was also wearing a new outfit ... very stylish. It was hardly the kind of clothing she usually wore. Ever since Duff’s wedding, she had been acting almost jaunty ... as if something out of the ordinary had happened. As far as Rosemary was concerned, nothing special should ever happen to her errant sibling ... she didn’t deserve it. Her mother had felt the same way.

“Our new signage, Bourne and Gregor ... Interior Design, is being assembled as we speak.” Judith Bourne gathered up several sample books that were piled on the table in front of a burgundy velvet sofa and slid them into their proper places behind mahogany shuttered doors. “Please have a seat, Margaret. The tea will be ready presently.”

“Do you have the names and telephone numbers of furniture and fabric shops, as well as carpet, paint, and wallpaper supply houses in Aberdeen and Edinburgh?“

“Yes ... and I have the names and numbers of reliable workman in the area, too. As well, I’ve made arrangements to have our junior assistant, Helen, take care of the shop for the time we’ll be away, starting October 18th. November, December and January are very slow months ... so we needn’t worry that she will be overwhelmed with new business.”

“I told my sister-in-law that it was you that worked with me on refurbishing Hill Manse. You and I filled in one another’s creative gaps. She trusts us, Judith, to do wonders with her estate house. I hadn’t told you before, but Cara was our ‘angel’, our financial backer, not my father or brother. That’s why we will be paid only a small stipend for our labor and clever ideas.”

“Her investment has been a windfall.” Judith handed a cup and saucer to Margaret. “I know she will be pleased with our results and will recommend her friends as future patrons. We will be very busy and eventually, very successful women.”

Stirring a spoon of sugar into her tea, Margaret remarked. “ I don’t want to be intrusive, Judith, but I am concerned.” Keeping her voice businesslike, she continued. “Since your husband’s trial and your subsequent divorce, I know you’ve struggled financially. The concern I have is about your living arrangements. You’ve never mentioned a house or a flat or even a room. What are they ... exactly?”

Judith blushed. “I’m embarrassed to say ... you’ll think me a squatter.”

Margaret stiffened and set her cup and saucer on the table. “You are squatting ... in an abandoned building? Surely not!”

“Above the shop, here ... the attic. I put in a cot, a chair, a couple lamps, a small table ... let me see ... ahhh, yes ... I attached hooks all along one wall to hang my clothing, used hat boxes as drawers, bought a small radio, an alarm clock and an old fashioned enamel chamber pot with matching lid. Now you know what a peculiar business partner you have.”

“I hardly know what to say.” Margaret thought she ought to be horrified ... but she wasn’t. Rosemary would have been. Yes, Rosemary would have been scandalized. She would avow that Judith was exhibiting Bohemian behavior and she could not abide Bohemian behavior. However, Margaret was no longer modeling her actions after her sister. She was her own person and would decide her response accordingly.

“You obviously had few alternatives and chose a very resourceful one.”

“Thank you, Margaret.” Chuckling, Judith said, “I do miss a good long tub soak, though, and it is cold up there in winter and stifling in high summer. Otherwise, the commute is next to nothing and I’ve no noisy neighbors to keep me awake a night.”

“A partnership in an Interior Design Studio ... I’m proud of you daughter.” Alistair looked delighted. “You’ve received nothing but high praise for the work you’ve done on the Manse. Duff and I fussed over the expense, which was to be expected, since it wouldn’t help the vets find any peace of mind, and therefore, could gratify only our selves. But that’s men for you. Cara called us ungrateful brutes.”

“Cara has been a good friend to me, Da. Duff is a fortunate man.”

“Yes he is ... and, he knows it, too. Now, what’s this about you wanting to move into a home of your own? Hill Manse is big enough for all of us ... and more ... if some wee babes come along.”

“I know ... and, I like it here. It’s all I’ve ever known.” Scooting forward on her chair, Margaret took a breath and carried on. “Da, I’m thirty eight years old ... never been on my own. You’ve always looked after me, paid for my clothes, everything ... I’m terribly grateful but, also, terribly dependent upon you. I want to ‘spread my wings’ a bit. Is that being hopelessly selfish?”

“No, my dear. I think you are attempting something quite brave. But can you afford to buy a place this early in your career?”

“I have the legacy left me by my Godmother. I’m not sure how much it is, as you banked it for me years ago.” Margaret bit her lower lip as she looked up at her father. “Do you think it would be enough to put down on a smallish house?”

“I will look into the matter first thing tomorrow, my gel. Between Duff, you and me, we’ll figure something out, I’m certain.”

“There are lots of coats, jumpers, thick scarves, hats, gloves and winter woolies in the cedar-lined trunk in my bedroom. Both of you are to make use of it all and be warm as toast.” Cara was helping Margaret pack the suitcases Morris had dragged up from the basement. “I’m glad you won’t be alone, Margaret. Judith seems a competent person. As poised a woman as I’ve met in a long time. She’s not shy, as you tend to be, so she’ll see you meet the neighbors straight away and become well acquainted with the town.”

“While we’re away, Da is going to meet with some estate agents, see what houses are available in my price range near the design studio, pull together some comparables and have everything ready to show me when we return for Christmas.” Margaret heaved a relieved sigh and grinned. “I’m no longer on a monotonous treadmill ... I’m doing something ... something that I like and that I’m good at.”

“Yes ... and I want to hear from you often.” Cara patted her hand. “I’ll miss you. I hope I don’t mess up too badly trying to do your job, Margaret.”

“You know very well, Cara Gregor ... it is not all that difficult.”

....

“Guess what came in the post this afternoon, Richard.”

“Well, let me see ... a crate of live alligators?” After hanging his coat, scarf and umbrella on the hall tree, he moved into the drawing room.

“Not even close, dear.” Mrs. Hamblin reached for the envelope on the table beside her. “A letter from our Daisy. Would you care to read it?”

“I’d rather you give me the overview of what’s been happening in the life of the Yankee lovebirds. I’m going to fix myself a martini. Would you like to try one? They’re quite good, don’t you know.”

“Alright, I will. May I have two olives, please? I’m certain that must be the best part of the concoction. In the movie Alistair took me to see last week, Betty Davis ordered two olives in her martini, slid them off the pick with her ruby red lips and sighed in ecstasy.”

“To each his own.” He replied dryly.

Mrs. Hamblin proceeded to relate the events that began with Jackson and Daisy’s arrival in Omaha. Because they had stayed in London later than originally planned in order to attend Duff and Cara’s wedding, Daisy had to forfeit her teaching job at the high school. And, since weather-wise, September and October were quite pleasant months, they repaired and painted the little house she’d inherited from her parents and put it up for sale.

Daisy says that Jackson still misses the sporty MG he sold to Duff, even though he knows the right hand driving configuration wouldn’t be practical in the States. Daisy’s old Oldsmobile sufficed for a while, but after they’d settled on where they were going to live and work, they decided to purchase a one year old used Ford Fairlane.

Charlotte Hamblin had no idea whether or not to be impressed by a Ford Fairlane, but when Richard cocked his eyebrow and blew a low whistle, she surmised that she should be.

Jackson had written to major and minor newspapers in the Southern and Midwestern states researching job possibilities. In the meantime, Daisy wrote to the principals of high schools in the same areas, realizing she would likely have to re-qualify as a teacher before she’d be accepted.

By the second week in November, their efforts had paid off. A small newspaper in Fort Collins, Colorado, was interested in Jackson as an assistant editor, no less. And, the local high school English department would need a qualified substitute teacher in the spring.

Daisy’s postscript assured them she would send their new address as soon as they got one and wished them a Happy Thanksgiving ... although that particular holiday was not celebrated in the UK.

“Have you any idea where Colorado is located, Richard ... south or west?”

“One of the western bits, if I remember correctly ... not too far from the infamous Rocky Mountains. Their winters will probably be similar to those in Scotland. However, there is no seacoast for thousands of miles, which may be an indication of a lot more snow to be had. You may have to start knitting them some woolies, Mum.”

....

Fiona had returned to her job, lunched with her friends and was generally putting her life back together. Would the heaviness around her heart ever go away? Mrs. Hamblin had assured her it would. Mrs. Hamblin ... Fi wanted to call on her but hesitated because she might find Richard at home, too. He had been wonderful the day of the funeral. The following day he’d found her again ... kneeling on her mother’s grave, arranging the flowers left the day before. Insisting she should eat something, he took her to an Italian restaurant and ordered minestrone soup with crusty bread and a carafe of Burgundy.

Over a second glass of wine, he asked her about Jack Forester. “Didn’t see your boyfriend at the cemetery yesterday. Has he been out of town?”

Startled ... Fi looked up at him, then back at the Burgundy sparkling in the bowl of her wine glass. “I really don’t know where Jack is ... haven’t seen him for a while.”

“So ... you’re not dating him anymore?”

“That’s right.” She began to fidget.

“Make me a happy man, Fi. Tell me he was a jack-ass ... oh, sorry.” He grinned at the sly pun.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. Jack was a steady man ... a real gentleman. He stopped seeing me, actually, like you did ... said it wasn’t working out. It was a fizzle ... not a blow up.” Fiona pushed back from the table and reached for her purse. “Thank you for feeding me, Richard. It tasted wonderful.” She stood. “I have to go home now.”

“Oh gawd, Fi. I’ll take you home.” Richard started after her.

“No ... please. I’m just a few blocks around the corner.” Precarious tears shimmered in her eyes.

He stopped ... didn’t dare move any closer to her. Turning away from him, she cautiously avoided bumping into wine buckets, tables and waiters, walked out the restaurant door and finally reached home before the floodgates burst.

Damn, damn, damn! Mum warned me to keep my mouth shut. Said I’m not the charmer I think I am. Fi obviously feels terrible about the split with that Jack fellow; then her mother dies; then I make her shed more tears when that’s the last thing in the world I want to do. Fi blamed herself when I dropped her and it was 99% my fault. She’s probably doing the same damn thing with this Jackass bloke ... blaming herself.

....

“Hello, Fiona... Charlotte Hamblin here.

I’m fine, my dear. How are you doing?

Yes, I agree ... work can be a helpful distraction. Are you getting plenty of rest? Splendid!

What about your mother’s house?

I’m pleased to hear it. Richard is awfully good at sorting out business tangles.

Well, the reason for my call, dear, ... I’d like you to come to dinner ... tomorrow

night, if possible. My good friend Daisy ... who was teaching me to cook ... has gone back to the States. In her last letter she sent me this receipt, she calls it a recipe, for Fish Fillet Casserole. It seems straight forward enough ... haddock, wine, spinach ... but then she tossed in a cream sauce. The problem is, my sauces always turn out lumpy. I really do follow the directions faithfully, but in the past, the results have been masses of unappetizing clumps floating in a pot of yellow liquid. Are you any good at cream sauces?”

“How marvelous ... and your mother taught you how to do that?”

“Would tomorrow night suit you ... Friday being the end of the week and all?”

“No ... sorry to say, Richard won’t be joining us. I forget just where he will be ... but it doesn’t matter.”

“Nothing fancy at all ... come over after work and we’ll have some sherry or a nice French wine while we prepare the evening meal.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you, too. Good night, dear.”