bother. When will Mrs Worsley be back?’
‘I’m back now.’
The disapproving Scottish voice that Tatiana knew as well as her own rang out behind her, filling the room that until a few months ago had been Rory Flint-Hamilton’s study.
‘What do you want, Tatiana?’
Tatiana looked at the housekeeper with narrowed eyes. She was certain the old witch must have known about the changes to her father’s will. She’d probably encouraged him. God knows she’d had enough opportunity to sow the seeds of doubt in Rory’s mind. Tati could hear her now:
‘It would be tragic to think of Furlings going to wrack and ruin.’
‘Poor Tatiana’s her own worst enemy. The last thing she needs is more cash in her hand.’
She probably thought Daddy would leave her something as a token of his appreciation. The sanctimonious, money-grubbing, scheming old shrew.
Underneath Tatiana’s anger there was love there, and a grudging respect for the woman who had practically raised her. But, as on Mrs Worsley’s side, the hurt feelings ran deep, with both women feeling let down and betrayed by the other.
Tatiana had insisted on staying at Furlings in the run-up to the fete, but Mrs Worsley clearly hadn’t wanted her there. Perhaps unsure of her status since Rory’s death, she had given in and allowed it anyway, despite her better judgement. But now, with the Cranleys safely installed, she obviously felt emboldened.
‘You know you shouldn’t be here,’ she chided.
‘I’ve come for Granny’s painting,’ Tatiana responded stiffly.
‘I see. Well, you know where to find it.’
‘Obviously.’
While the two women glared at one another, arms folded, the doorbell rang yet again.
What now? thought Jason, irritated to have to go back to the front door rather than stay and watch the standoff.
‘Can I help you?’
It was a man at the door this time, blond and stocky and with a disarmingly genuine smile.
‘Gabriel Baxter. We’re neighbours.’ Gabe offered Jason his hand. ‘Is your father at home?’
Just at that moment, Angela came downstairs. Fresh from the bath, with her still damp hair tied up in a bun, she looked younger than her forty-two years in a plain white Gap T-shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans. She wore no make-up and seemed fragile and tiny in her bare feet.
‘My husband’s still in London.’ She smiled at Gabe. Having made such a poor impression on Max Bingley, she was determined to be friendly to any other villagers who showed up on the doorstep. ‘We’re expecting him this evening. I’m Angela. Would you like a cup of tea?’
Tatiana, her painting tucked under one arm, marched back into the hallway. She was about to storm straight out but stopped in her tracks when she saw Gabe.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked rudely, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Tatiana knew Gabe was one of the leading voices against her in the village. She also knew that when her father had been alive, Gabe had tried relentlessly to convince Rory to sell off parcels of Furlings’ land. She didn’t trust him an inch.
‘Just being neighbourly,’ lied Gabe. ‘How about you?’
I live here, Tati wanted to shout. It’s my fucking house. But she managed to restrain herself.
‘I’m collecting a painting. My grandmother’s portrait. One of the few pieces of my inheritance that wasn’t stolen from me,’ she added caustically. Belatedly catching sight of Angela, she introduced herself, extending the hand not holding the painting with regal disdain.
‘Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.’
‘Oh!’ Angela smiled warmly. ‘Hello. I didn’t know you were coming. I’m Angela. I’m so sorry about the mess. You should have called.’
‘Should I indeed?’ Tati’s voice quivered with resentment and hostility.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Angela blushed. ‘I just meant …’
‘Don’t apologize,’ Gabe Baxter interjected. ‘It’s your house.’
Tati shot him a look that would have turned a lesser man to stone.
‘Besides, you’re quite right. Tatiana should have called.’
‘Don’t you have a ewe that needs lambing, Gabriel?’ sniped Tati. ‘Or an episode of The Archers to listen to? Gabriel’s terribly rustic,’ she added patronizingly to Angela and Jason. ‘A real local character. If you ask him nicely, I expect he’ll come round and do a spot of Morris dancing for you, won’t you, Gabriel? It’s really quite adorable.’
Gabe’s features hardened. He looked at his watch.
‘My goodness, is that the time? You’d best get home to your rented cottage, Tatiana. It’s almost coke-o’clock.’
Blushing scarlet, Tatiana pushed past him and stormed out, throwing the painting into the back seat of her Mini Cooper and driving off. Gabe Baxter followed swiftly after, promising to come back and call on Brett at the weekend.
Once the door closed behind him, Angela and Jason exchanged shocked glances.
‘Is everybody in Fittlescombe so … dramatic?’ Angela asked Mrs Worsley.
Or so attractive? thought Jason. Watching Gabe and Tatiana going at it was like watching a pair of peacocks fanning out their tails for battle. Terrifying but beautiful.
‘No ma’am,’ said Mrs Worsley with feeling. ‘I can assure you that most of your neighbours are quite normal, sane and friendly people. Miss Flint-Hamilton – Tatiana – I’m afraid she can bring out the worst in folk. Especially around here.’
Angela bit her lower lip anxiously. She’d already heard whispers in the village about Tatiana’s legal challenge to the will. Brett had assured her that the legacy was watertight, and Furlings was theirs. But having seen Tatiana in the flesh, Angela got the strong sense that Rory Flint-Hamilton’s daughter was a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps Brett had underestimated her?
‘You don’t think she plans to cause trouble, do you?’
She looked at Mrs Worsley nervously.
‘Unfortunately Mrs Cranley, Tatiana’s done nothing but cause trouble since the day she was born. And since she turned fifteen …’ She rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘Her father was always too soft on her, bless his soul. Try not to worry, though,’ she added, noticing Angela’s tense expression. ‘She’s full of hot air about the will.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Oh, yes. She would need the support of the whole village to be able to launch a challenge, and she certainly hasn’t got that. Even if she did, Mr Flint-Hamilton was a clever man, and a thorough one. These so-called loopholes are all in Tatiana’s head.’
‘I do hope so,’ said Angela.
The thought of packing everything up and returning to Sydney, Tricia and their old life now was more than she could bear.
Twenty minutes later, pushing open the stiff door of Greystones Farm, Tatiana collapsed on the ugly, brown sofa feeling exhausted and depressed.
It had been a pretty devastating two days.
Unable to afford a decent London lawyer, she’d retained a local, Chichester man, Raymond Baines of Baines, Bailey & Wilson. Their meeting yesterday had been less than Tati had hoped for.
‘To be perfectly honest with you, Miss Flint-Hamilton, I don’t believe you have a case.’
Short