The Heiress of Epsom Read online

  “I’ll be a minute.”

  She looked up to see Oliver’s face peering at her through a crack in the doorway. Strands of dark hair stuck to his forehead and over his dripping ears. He glowed red from scrubbing.

  She pursed her lips at him and dangled a list at him. “All our neighbours will be in attendance; shall we be exempted from society on account of your stubbornness?”

  “No.” He grinned, and his face disappeared.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and she asked Vivian to come in. The door opened, and her maid’s face was there.

  “There’s a ruddy boy outside the door, m’lady.”

  “Has he come with a message?”

  “I imagine it is not unconnected with m’lady and My Lord’s outing tonight.”

  “Have him wait in the study then.”

  Vivian’s eyes widened a little in that bewildered way it did when she must insist, against her wish.

  “I’m afraid he’s in there already.”

  ◊

  The ruddy boy was named Ollie Curran. A flat cap was tilted carelessly on his head, and a tuft of blond hair sprang from under it. His apparel was like those of a caddy, and his freckles gave him the innocence of a farm boy. He was not a farm boy though for the Kilbournes did not keep a farm except the horse ranch in the country where they vacated in spring. The boy was indeed a caddy for Jack Kilbourne. Caroline had seen the boy hang around her cousin’s court sometimes. He had bright blue eyes that seemed to want to see everything at once, and a precocious pert to his pink mouth. He looked about eight, but his utterances were those of someone older.

  “Hello, m’lady,” he piped in a small voice. “Lord Kilbourne asked me to tell you the party has been postponed till tomorrow. He’s sorry for any inconveniences this might cause for you and the noble Mr Oliver.”

  Vivian had gone to get tea. She placed two cups on the small table. Caroline sat, motioned for the boy to do the same. He looked down at the chair, perhaps considering the implications to his status if he were to take such a lofty position as sitting on the chair here instead of hover unseen.

  “Sit Ollie; this isn’t the golf course.”

  “But you folks are nobles, and your husband is a gentleman, m’lady.”

  Vivian snickered behind her, and Caroline shook her head in wonder. “What else did Lord Kilbourne say to tell us, Ollie?”

  “That you and your husband, if you do not mind, seeing as you are such important folks in the county would honour dinner with him and his family— alone.”

  Caroline rubbed her palm over her thigh. Oliver walked into the study; he wore evening clothes. His collar was up, and he was fixing his cuff links in his shirt. He glanced from Caroline to the boy. Vivian left the room while Caroline raised her cup and sipped tea.

  “Good evening, Lord Oliver.”

  “Oh good evening, Ollie. How nice of you to drop by.”

  The boy smiled then said, “I’m on official duty, sir.”

  “Official?”

  Caroline said, “Kilbourne cancelled.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “It’s dinner instead, with his family, alone.”

  Oliver considered for a moment before saying, “Tell Lord Kilbourne we’ll be there.”

  The boy bowed and was gone out the door as quietly as if his small body hadn’t been in the study moments before. Oliver took the seat opposite his wife. With him in it, the study suddenly felt smaller. Oliver had that effect on the study. Here there were two paintings, too; one was a Picasso that hung over a table on which there was a stack of stationery. The second was one of obscure smears on white canvas. It was Oliver’s favourite of the whole set.

  “I know how you feel about him, Oliver. If you’d rather ...”

  “No, my love. It’s good for me, you know.”

  She nodded.

  Kilbourne’s Court was a medium-sized mansion on the hill off the country road. Lord Kilbourne had bought it five years before from a certain Irish food merchant who was also a tanner. According to gossip, he had bought it at a bargain price.

  Oliver had seen it many times in the day, surrounded by maple trees and those firs that gave it the appearance of a palace in the Middle East. The Victorian architecture was what appealed to him the most. It was painted white, the pillars and arches blue. Crawling plants went up the sides. Its windows were long, almost touching the roof and base. The property had also come with an acre of ranch behind it that Kilbourne had let go to fallow.

  It was completely dark when the carriage pulled up the hill. Kilbourne’s valet was an uninteresting, aloof Irishman with eyes that gave very little away about him. His moustache coiled up on both sides, and his scanty hair was oiled and combed back over his white pate. His head was shaped like an egg. He always looked poured into his jacket with matching pants, both of them black. His chin went up when Oliver and Caroline stepped down from the carriage. His left hand went to the small of his back, and his right hand hung thinly in front of him.

  “Welcome, Mr Oliver,” he said in a high pitched voice.

  He nodded at Caroline and took her hand after she had curtsied. They followed from the foyer into a lighted hallway where the walls were expensive wood. Kilbourne was a man given to reading and collecting of books. He dealt in books —antique and contemporary— like some people collected stamps. And he read them too. Books of varying sizes lined the walls on numerous shelves, behind glass cases that slid open.

  The hallway widened and they came upon a sparsely but well-furnished living room, more books on shelves, four chairs set around a small table, and by the foot one of the chairs lay a white cat that purred when it saw them. There was another table set against the wall where the shelves of books stopped, and there was a window. On the table there was a big ball on a tiny pedestal. The ball had markings on it.

  “What’s that, Oliver?”

  Oliver glanced at the ball and shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  The valet walked on unconcerned. He led them up a small staircase, and the house levelled out into the dining room where candles burned on a table around which sat Kilbourne’s family. Oliver swore the picture looked torturous.

  “I had hoped I was not impugning on you folks to come out tonight,” Jack Kilbourne boomed in his characteristic voice.

  “Please, sit,” he invited.

  The girls, Judie and Shirley said greetings shyly. Lady Kilbourne wasn’t just fat; she had crossed that country a long time ago and was wandering about in the land of the enormous. She wore an oversized blouse and her hair was done up in a style that Caroline found strange and Oliver found disgusting. Her plump face swelled in delight.

  “Quite a while, Caroline. How’s the county been for you?”

  Caroline said she was settling in. Lady Kilbourne said she certainly should, “Took me awhile too, but when we had Judie and then Shirley also came along, I knew this was where I wanted to be.”

  Caroline wasn’t sure where Katherine —for that was Kilbourne’s wife’s name— meant by this. The meal included fish and chips, bangers and soup, then wine for the adults, even though the Kilbourne daughters looked like they did more than drink wine.

  Jack Kilbourne had a bunch of chips in his cheek when he said, “I see you’re doing a good job, Oliver, taking care of business for Zachary. Such a feat, I’ve seen what you do. Word is you acquired the Rockets. Amazing.”

  “Word really does get around,” said Oliver.

  “Like ringworm,” said Lady Kilbourne.

  The daughters gave their mother a look that suggested that they thought her comparisons were tasteless. Jack Kilbourne turned to Caroline, his fork wrestling down a piece of chip; he would rather cut the poor thing in two than eat it whole. Caroline thought Katherine should lend a leaf from her husband’s eating habits.

  “If ringworm was a good thing. Only it isn’t,” said Kilbourne.

  Caroline gave a curious stare. She felt full already as she waited for the wine. There was a maid that came and went at the flick of Kilbourne’s wrist or the sultry whine of the daughters. She looked a little older than 20 and had been out of sight all the time. Her name was Zoe, dark and lovely with curly hair and large eyes. Only Katherine didn’t seem to have any need for the Garcon.

  “Oliver, the life of a man is such a bumbling junket, don’t you see?”

  “Yes it is, Sir.”

  Oliver finished eating his food too. He looked every bit enervated like his wife. And surprised he was that even Caroline should not be enjoying the visit with his relative. He pushed his plate forward, and Shirley did the same. Oliver watched her; she shared a striking resemblance with his father with that high forehead and the bend of the head to the side whenever someone spoke. It was as if such orientation of the ears afforded better clarity. He knew he was being tested and screened, the constant invitations to parties and dinners by Caroline’s family; it was all assessment of how well he progressed.

  “I have always had confidence in your abilities. Albeit Zachary did have reservations. Take The Rockets deal, for example. You know how long Zachary had tried to get that old fool to sell that drag of a place?”

  Oliver smiled, Caroline gave him a sideways glance which he ignored.

  “The man is insufferable. How could one hold on to a business that is well on its way to its eventual death? And he’d rather go down with it; I’d heard him say it. Even Zachary would not have attempted what you did in a hundred years.”

  “Men develop a sentiment for the objects of their life’s work, I propose. I would.”

  “Oh, come on.” Kilbourne waved his hand.

  Plates were getting pushed away, thankfully so, thought Caroline.

  “But ... I should let you know first-hand,
I’m proud of what you are doing, and I’m sure Zachary is too.”

  Kilbourne plucked the wine off the table. He popped it and said, “Well, this calls for a celebration of sorts; it’s worth drinking to, don’t you think?”

  Oliver said he thought so too. The boy Ollie appeared suddenly and began pouring the wine. Then he was gone into the shadows again. Oliver loved the efficiency of the little boy. Kilbourne raised his glass.

  “To progress.”

  “To progress,” Oliver said; he raised his glass.

  ◊

  “I’ll be seeing your father first thing tomorrow morning.”

  They were riding back home. Caroline rested her head on Oliver’s shoulder, her gloved hands held in his. She closed her eyes as the carriage rocked gently, lulling her. She breathed easily, nursing an inner satisfaction.

  “I’m sure he’d love to hear how you did it.”

  “There really isn’t a big story there. Just sheer luck, I think. Yet I’d like to tell him about other deals he could go into.”

  Caroline raised her head as Oliver yawned.

  “And Jack too, he is in town tomorrow.”

  “Is he? Oh, and Laura?”

  “Oh, not Laura.” Caroline scoffed. “But she intends to visit soon, I asked her.”

  “You never mentioned it.”

  “I’m sorry, my love. I’ll be needing the company seeing as you will be gone for so long on your trip to France.”

  “It will be only for a few days.”

  “The days pull slow when you are not here, Oliver.”

  He sighed, and her head came back to his shoulder. Absorbed in his thoughts, he closed his heavy eyes. It had indeed been a long day for him. The next day would be an even longer one, shortly after seeing his in-law. He drifted in thoughts, from what lay ahead, to the impact all of the 'progress' he was having on their marriage. The night had worn along fine enough, but all he wanted was to lay down, yet out there in the borders of his mind where disturbing thoughts usually lingered he heard the call to questions. Queries that must be answered.

  Caroline woke startled when they rounded a bend; then she went back to rest. Oliver pondered exhaustion; it seemed like an indulgence every human engaged in, whether they be as busy as he was, a junketer or as domestic as his wife. She seemed exhausted by her existence albeit uncluttered like his. He thought that perhaps he should indulge her need to attend these parties. Besides, his own social status needed advancement as well. Oliver took his dozing wife’s hand and gave it a slight squeeze.

  CHAPTER 2

  HEATHER CATOGHAN WANTED to know if Lord Zachary was relinquishing his authority of their estate to his son-in-law. And she wanted to know fast. But Lord Zachary was not such a man to indulge the caprice of his wife. Epsom Mansion was abuzz with life. Servants clad in white flowing gowns drifted or hurried about like angels on errands; windows were open, and drapes hung from where they were hooked to let the light of the morning sun “bathe the living room and the rooms.”

  Lady Heather and Lord Zachary sunbathed on the terrace that overlooked the manor. Surly faced and prim looking, her hair in rolls gave her the resemblance of Medusa; her feet were placed on an ottoman. Heather drank from a steaming cup of tea, with her other hand folded over her bosom.

  Lord Zachary smoked Sheffields. White smoke plumed around his head as he squinted his eyes at Jack Catoghan on horseback. The young lad had come in late the previous night against his earlier postponement to the following week. Zachary was still in his nightdress, a heavy grey robe and a preponderate expression on his face.

  “You’d let your son-in-law have control of your estate instead of your son.”

  “It is not control, Heather.”

  “If I think it is, he would too.” She gestured neatly cut nails at the son on horseback.

  As if on cue, Jack waved from faraway at his parents. The horse neighed and galloped in an arc around the field. An oversized sun went up every second as if pulled by some cosmic string, and its warmth on the terrace receded too. Behind them in the house something shattered, and Heather jumped.

  “Heavens me! Someone get themselves in tow out there, please!”

  Lord Zachary remained unmoved. Mostly stoical, Zachary carried with him an air of stiffness that was surrounded by a soft edge that he presented first. Jack had now ridden out of sight; Heather’s attention had been held by the theatrics of his son’s ride around the manor. Zachary knew the subject of Oliver’s responsibilities to him would remain on the table for debate.

  “How will you explain it to him?”

  Zachary looked at her. “I will be doing no such thing, Heather. There is no need reinforcing what isn’t true.”

  “He’ll be offended, don’t you see.”

  “You are offended, that is all I see. He will see that, Heather. Perhaps we should both worry about that.”

  Heather put her teacup on the table beside her and drew herself together. Another crash occurred somewhere in the house, but before it could draw a complete reaction from her, Jack was back into view, rising from the corner of the mansion.

  “I don’t like that you make these things about me, Zachary,” she said, “you know as well as I do that when you give common people an inch, they take a mile, and if you so much as give them a mile they’ll be all over the earth. That is what I’m trying to say to you; we have a son.”

  Zachary scoffed again; he belched smoke and squinted to let the pollution pass by. It did, and he looked at his wife through the remnant of fog, shaking his head.

  “We would own half the county if my men had taken a mile instead of an inch, Heather. Half the county.” He shook his head again.

  Jack Catoghan dropped off his horse easily. He patted the horse and stroked its mane. He said something to the beast and grinned. Straight backed and a proud stance, he looked every inch like his mother. Zachary knew though that his son was his through and through, in disposition, that was.

  Jack looked up at the mansion as he walked towards the house. He waved once more. That was Jack again, authentic in every way. He would wave a greeting thirteen times if you appeared to him those number of times.

  “Did Kilbourne cancel a whole party last, goodness gracious,” said Heather idly.

  “It is just a party, not a pass into heaven.”

  “Every gentleman knows it is as good as a pass into heaven to send out invites for a party.”

  Zachary wondered how he had put up with his wife’s vanity all these years. Perhaps it must be because his wife’s vanity was also every woman’s vanity. And it was fair to think this way, wasn’t it? He’d enquire of Oliver what he thought of this little deduction of his.

  “Father, Mother.”

  Jack had come in and was behind them. He kissed his mother on the cheek and squeezed his father’s strong shoulder.

  “Still smoking your Sheffields; how’s your heart taking it?”

  “Like it’s taking everything else, Son.”

  Father and son laughed. Mother rolled her eyes at the two men in her life. Jack put his butt on the ledge of the balcony and faced both his parents. Drying perspiration gave his forehead a shine that made his colour deepen. His blue shirt was darker around his armpit where sweat had soaked it. He clasped his hands together as men did in boardrooms, thought Heather. Jack would make an able administrator or owner of a business.

  She felt bored at once; men thought with their hands when they weren’t doing it with their private parts. They’d start talking stocks, bonds, and debentures, and nothing else would matter to them, nothing whatsoever, not even the legitimate fears of their wives. She would have to speak with Caroline about this new foolishness of her father. Caroline would understand. She was now a woman, even though still a swooning one. A swooning woman was more reasonable than a debenture talking man.

  “Still arguing with Mother?” asked Jack after contemplating the two of them.

  His father raised his two hands, palm facing out, “I’m innocent; you know me.”