for it. Making it happen would be wrong for everybody concerned. Scouting Europe was next on his agenda. He wasn’t about to set that aside, and it was plain irresponsible to establish a nest he knew he’d be flying out of.
His long-legged stride beat all the other passengers to the immigration counter. He was through that bit of officialdom in no time and luckily his duffel bag was amongst the first pieces of luggage on the carousel. Having hefted it onto his back, and with nothing to declare, Beau headed straight for the arrival hall.
As he came down the ramp he spotted Wallace, his grandfather’s chauffeur, smartly attired in the uniform he was so proud of—convinced it added a dignified stature to his shortness—and clearly determined on maintaining the correct standard of service.
The sense of emptiness that had been eating at Beau was suddenly flooded with warmth. Wallace had taught him everything he knew about cars. Wallace had acted as father-confessor through troubled times. Wallace was much more than a chauffeur. He was family and had been since Beau was eight years old.
“It is so good to see you, sir,” Wallace greeted in heartfelt welcome, his eyes moistening.
Beau hugged him, moved by affection and a rush of protectiveness, patting him on the back as though the wiry little man was now the child in need of comfort. He had to be feeling the loss of Vivian Prescott as much, if not more than Beau. Wallace was in his late fifties and though spry for his age and certainly competent at his job, probably too old to start over with a new employer. His future was undoubtedly feeling very uncertain. Beau silently vowed to fix that, one way or another.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Wallace,” he said, drawing back to re-establish appropriate dignity.
“Nothing you could have done for him, sir,” came the quick assurance. “No warning. He just went in his sleep, like he always said he wanted to, right after a bang-up party. As Nanny Stowe says, the Angel of Death took him kindly.”
The unctious Angel of Death declaration instantly conjured up a complacently righteous woman stuffed full of sweet homilies. Beau barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He had to bite his tongue, as well. Nanny Stowe clearly had Wallace’s respect. Giving voice to a stomach-felt, “Yuk!” was definitely out of place.
He managed a smile. “Well, a bang-up party was certainly Grandpa’s style.”
“That it was, sir. Always had marvellous parties.”
Beau’s smile turned into a rueful grimace. “I should have at least been here to organise a fitting funeral for him.”
“Not to worry, sir. Nanny Stowe took care of it.”
“Did she now?”
Beau balefully added officious busybody to complacent and sickeningly righteous. How dare a mere nanny take over his grandfather’s funeral? Sedgewick would have known what was required, having butlered for Vivian Prescott for nigh on thirty years, but a nanny who hadn’t rated highly enough to be mentioned by his grandfather while he was alive? Beau was deeply offended at the high-handedness of the woman. Who the hell did she think she was?
“Well, let’s get on home. The sooner the better,” he said, feeling distinctly eager to let Nanny Stowe know her presumptuous reign of authority was over.
“Can I take your bags, sir?”
“This one.” He handed over the flight bag for Wallace to feel useful. “Might as well leave the other on my back.” The little man’s knees would probably buckle under the weight of it.
“I could get a luggage trolley, sir.”
“Waste of time.” He waved towards the exit doors and set off, steering Wallace into accompanying him through the crowd of people still waiting for other arrivals. “I’d like you to tell me about the funeral,” he added through gritted teeth, wanting to know the worst before he met the interloping nanny.
The chauffeur looked pleased to oblige. “We did him proud, sir. As Nanny Stowe said, it had to be a grand funeral for a grand man. And so it was, sir.”
“How grand, Wallace?’ Beau demanded, extremely dubious that Nanny Stowe would have a full appreciation of his grandfather’s scale of grandness.
“Well, sir, we started with a splendid service in St. Andrew’s Cathedral. It was packed. People overflowing outside and on the streets. Couldn’t fit everyone in. Nanny Stowe got the notification list together and it included all the charity boards your grandfather sat on, all his friends from far and wide, politicians, everyone from the arts. It was a big, big turn-up.”
At least she got that much right, Beau brooded.
“You know how your grandfather loved handing out red roses...”
His trademark.
“You’ve never seen as many red roses as there were in that cathedral. I reckon Nanny Stowe must have cornered the market on them. They covered the casket, too. And everyone who came to the service was handed a red rose in remembrance.”
A nice touch, Beau grudgingly conceded.
They emerged from the hall into bright morning sunshine. A sparkling blue-sky day, Beau thought, his spirits lifting slightly. The chauffeur pointed to where the car was parked and they turned in that direction.
“Go on, Wallace,” Beau urged. “Describe the service to me.”
“Well, sir, the boys’ choir sang beautifully. They started off with ‘Prepare ye the way for The Lord’ from the musical, Godspell. It was one of his favourites, as you know. Loved the theatre, your grandfather did.”
“Yes. It gave him a lot of pleasure,” Beau agreed, beginning to have a bit more respect for Nanny Stowe. The woman did have some creative thought, though it probably stemmed from an ingrained attention to detail. A nitpicking fusspot came to mind, nothing escaping her eye or ear. Nevertheless, his grandfather would have relished the theatrical note at his funeral service so however it came about could not be overly criticised.
“Sir Roland from the Arts Council made a wonderful speech...”
His grandfather’s closest friend. The obvious choice.
“The bishop got a bit heavy with his words, I thought, but the readings from the bible were just right. Nanny Stowe chose them. All about generosity of spirit.”
“Mmmh...’ Beau wondered if Nanny Stowe was plotting to spark generosity of spirit in him, too.
The Rolls-Royce was parked, as usual, in a No Parking zone. Beau reminded himself to ask Wallace how he got away with that, but he had other things on his mind right now.
“The choir finished with a very stirring ‘Amazing Grace.’ Beautiful, it was,” Wallace went on, as he opened the trunk of the car to load in Beau’s luggage. “Then at the graveside, we had a lone piper playing tunes of glory. Sedgewick thought of that. Your grandfather was very partial to a pipe band when he was in his cups, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir.”
“Good for Sedgewick.” Beau warmly approved. Nanny Stowe hadn’t known everything! She’d probably be the type to follow the “early to bed, early to rise” maxim and had never witnessed his grandfather in his cups.
“What about the wake?” he asked, freeing himself of the duffel bag.
“Oh, we all knew what your grandfather would want there, sir. Oceans of French champagne, caviar, smoked salmon, pickled quails’ eggs...everything he liked best. Mrs. Featherfield and Sedgewick made the list and Nanny Stowe got it all in. She said the cost was not to be a consideration. I hope that was right, sir.”
“Quite right, Wallace.”
Though he’d certainly be checking the accounts. A blithe disregard for expenses was fine for his grandfather. For such an attitude to be adopted by the ubiquitous Nanny Stowe raised a few ugly suspicions about where the money went. Feathering her own nest before the grandson and heir arrived might be right down