Silverbridge (13 page)

“I didn’t hear a thing,” he said apologetically. “I had
a headache last night, and I took some pills, and they always knock me out. I’m sorry.”

“We managed without you,” Harry returned as he pulled into the driveway of the parish church.

“We’re fifteen minutes early,” Tony complained. “Honestly, Harry, you’re just like Papa, insisting that one arrive at church before everyone else.”

Tracy swung her long, slim legs out of the car, and Harry could not help looking at them. “Your father sounds exactly like my father,” she said. “He always herded us off to church
eons
before mass started. And if you were still combing your hair or something, he would invariably reply, ‘When you get to the Pearly Gates, I hope Saint Peter doesn’t say to you, “I’m too busy combing my hair right now to let you in. You’ll have to step below.” ’ ” Her laugh was like the ringing of deep-toned bells. “Of course, there was no answer to
that.”

Harry picked up on the mention of mass. “Are you Roman Catholic?”

“Yes. But I’m quite sure the Lord won’t mind if I attend a Church of England service.”

“All Saints is so High Church, it’s probably more Catholic than most of the churches you go to,” Tony said ironically.

They walked toward the front door of the familiar stone building, where for centuries the Oliver family had been baptized, married, and buried. “The church was built in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries,” Harry said to Tracy, who was walking by his side. “It’s been the parish church for Silverbridge forever.
”

“Good morning, my lord.” An elderly man was stand
in
g by the front door of the church, and he beamed as Harry came abreast of him.

“Good morning, Matthew,” Harry replied. “How is your arthritis today?”

“None so bad, my lord, none so bad,” the man replied.

Harry noticed that Matthew, who worked as the church’s handyman, was staring at Tracy as if he had just seen a vision. She smiled at him, and said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, miss,” he croaked.

“Perhaps it’s a good thing that we did come early,” Tony remarked from behind. “If we had to parade Tracy down the aisle when the church was full, we’d cause an uproar.”

Tracy didn’t even make a polite attempt to disavow Tony’s statement.
She’s a bloody movie star, for God’s sake,
Harry thought.
I mustn’t let myself forget that.

He spoke to a few more people who were gathered in the vestibule, exchanging news about crops and weather, then they entered the main part of the church. Beside him he heard Tracy catch her breath.

Harry had always felt a strong connection to his parish church, and today he thought it was looking its best. The mo
rn
ing light streaming in through every window fell on Georgian woodwork, patched and bleached from years of use. The flagstones underfoot had been worn to unevenness by centuries of worshipers, and the paneled box pews in the front boasted their original hinges and locks. The pew that had belonged to his family for generations was directly below the splendid
three-decker pulpit, and along the walls were memorials to various of his ancestors.

The church was already a quarter full, and all of the people dressed in their Sunday best gazed with fascination at Harry and his entourage as they walked past. He stood aside to let first Tony, then Meg, then Tracy enter the pew. He followed, closing the pew door and lifting somber eyes to the cross that was raised behind the altar.
Please, dear God,
he prayed,
let me be able to afford to rebuild the stable.

He sat back, shut his eyes, and tried to let the peace of the church dispel the anxiety that had had his stomach twisted into a knot all morning.

All of Harry’s childhood associations with All Saints had been positive. His first lessons had been given to him by the old rector, Dr. Warren, who had been like a second father to him. When his parents had sent him to Eton, he had fought against leaving the safety of the rectory library and Dr. Warren’s gentle goodness. He had been packed off to school, of course, like every other English boy of Ms class, but it was Dr. Warren’s compassionate morality that had stayed with him over the years.

Always remember, Harry, that the ends don’t justify the means.
He could almost hear Dr. Warren’s precise scholarly voice speaking those words in his mind.
The greatest evil happens when men convince themselves that any behavior is acceptable as long as the end is desirable. That is never true.

The somber words of the fire officer he had talked to earlier sounded in his mind: “I am very much afraid that
the fire was deliberately set, my lord. There are signs that kerosene was used.”

What kind of ends would justify burning a stable and perhaps incinerating ten innocent horses?

Money or revenge,
he thought. Those were the main motives for arson.

Since he couldn’t think of anyone who would want revenge against him, the answer had to be money. Could Mauley have set the fire as a way of forcing him to sell?

I am not selling my land,
he thought with grim determination.
I have just put a fortune into repairing cottages and buying new machinery and more cattle. I understand land. I can make money out of farming. I am not selling it off to be a golf course.

The organ in the back of the church sounded a sonorous, attention-getting chord, and the choirmaster announced the opening hymn. Everyone stood, the organ began to play, and Harry, along with the choir and the rest of the congregation, lifted his voice in the familiar words of praise. Then, from beside him, he heard a clear soprano voice join with his deeper baritone.

He felt strangely comforted to know that she was there.

13

W
hen
Tracy and the church party returned to Silverbridge, they found a striking young woman having coffee in the kitchen by herself. “My God, Harry,” the visitor
said, as he, Tracy, and Tony en
tered looking for some breakfast. “I’ve just been down to the stables. What a horror. Thank God you got all the horses out.”

“We were very fortunate,” Harry agreed. “Tracy, I’d like you to meet Gwen Mauley. Gwen, this is Tracy Collins.”

Gwen’s slanting green eyes regarded Tracy with a look that was not precisely welcoming. Robin Mauley’s stunning daughter had short black hair, high slashing cheekbones, and a pointed chin.
She looks like a cat,
Tracy thought as she said politely, “So nice to meet you.”

“How do you do,” Gwen responded imperiously.

The spaniels had got off the sofa the moment that
Harry entered and now they followed him as he crossed to the almost-full coffeepot. “Thanks for making the coffee, Gwen,” he said as he poured a cup. He lifted it and turned to face Tracy. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

He brought her the cup, and said, “Sit down. You must be starving. I’ll scramble some eggs.”

As Tracy took her seat, Gwen said suspiciously, “Did you go to church with Harry?”

Tracy lifted her brows to indicate her surprise at the tone of the other woman’s voice, and said coolly, “Why, yes, I did.”

Tony said, “We all went, Gwennie, dear. You know how patriarchal Harry can be about the things he considers his baronial duty. The peasants expect to see the lord of the manor at church and so, if you’re staying in Harry’s house, you get carted along as well.”

Gwen snapped, “
Tracy Collins isn’t staying in this house.”

Tracy frowned slightly and wondered what exactly was the nature of the relationship between Gwen and Harry.

Tony said innocently, “Oh didn’t you know? Tracy has been staying with us ever since the Wiltshire Arms burned down.”

Gwen’s eyes opened wide. “The Wiltshire Arms burned down? Good God. Is everything around here going up in flames?”

“I hope not,” Harry said. “Coffee, Tony? Do you want a refill, Gwen?”

Both said yes, and after Harry had poured the coffee
he went to the refrigerator and removed a bowl of eggs. The dogs followed at his feet, tails wagging hopefully.

“Are you really going to cook?” Gwen asked in surprise. “Where is Mrs. Wilson?”

“Sunday is her day off,” he replied, “and yes, I am going to cook. I don’t cook many t
h
ings, but I do very good scrambled eggs. Now, who wants some?”

“I do,” Tracy said immediately. “Do you have bread? Shall I make toast to go with the eggs?”

“A splendid idea,” he replied. “The bread is in the bread box—over there.”

Tracy’s high heels clicked on the wood floor as she crossed to the bread box. Gwen remarked acidly and audibly to Tony, “She certainly seems to be making herself at home.”

Tracy’s back stiffened, and her eyes narrowed, always a dangerous sign.

Tony prudently changed the subject. “Harry didn’t tell me you were coming today.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Gwen replied. “But the house party I was at was a perfect bore, so I left a day early.” She turned her head to flash a smile at Harry. “
I
couldn’t wait another moment to see what you thought of Dylan. Do you think he’ll make a Grand Prix horse?”

“I have no doubt that, provided he stays sound, he will be a marvelous Grand Prix horse,” Harry returned. He was scrambling eggs briskly with a fork. “He has incredible talent and, what is equally important, he likes to work. However did you manage to acquire such a gem?”

“An American rider had him, and you know the Americans. They all want big German warmbloods to
ride.” Gwen said this as calmly as if she h
ers
elf had never ridden a warmblood. “I thought he had terrific gaits, so I made her an offer and she took it.”

“You can’t ride him like a warmblood,” Harry warned. “You do realize that?”

“I think I know how to ride a horse by now, Harry,” she said imperiously.

“Well, I think he’s a great horse, a once-in-a-lifetime horse,” Harry said as he poured the egg mixture into a pan. “You’re very lucky, Gwen.”

Gwen put her elbows on the table and cradled her pointed chin in her hands. “Yes, well what are you going to do with my once-in-a-lifetime horse now that your stable has burned down? I certainly don’t want him living in a paddock.”

Harry was now scrambling the eggs. “I am going to put up temporary stalls in the indoor riding school. The horses can stay there until I get the stable rebuilt.”

Gwen’s jet-black brows drew together. “I suppose that will be all right—as long as it’s not for too long.”

“The toast is ready,” Tracy said as she lifted the bread out of the oven. “Shall I butter it while it’s hot?”

“Do I detect a little hint?” Tony asked gravely.

She gave him a quick look and laughed. “You most certainly do. Like most Americans, I don’t enjoy stone-cold toast—which is the way you English always seem to serve it.”

“Go ahead and butter it,” Harry said, “but before you do, let me have a slice for the dogs.”

Tracy handed him one, which he broke in half and gave to the eager spaniels sitting at his feet Next he
gave Tony a commanding stare, and said, “Get out some plates, will you?”

“Where is Meg?” Gwen asked, as Tony put a plate in front of her. “Didn’t she go to church with you?”

There was a beat of silence, then Harry said, “She did, but she didn’t want any breakfast.”

Gwen took her elbows off the table so Tony could give her some silverware. “Is that girl still starving herself? Really, Harry, you must do something about her. It’s embarrassing to have a sister who looks like a skeleton.”

“She is seeing a therapist,” he replied woodenly as he removed the pan of eggs from the stove.

Tracy finished buttering the toast, piled it onto a plate, and brought it to the table, where Tony had finished setting out the plates and silverware. At the counter, Harry was scraping the eggs into a blue-and-white bowl.

“She needs to go into hospital,” Gwen said. “One of those private treatment places where they brainwash you and force you to eat.”

Harry said pleasantly, “I am M
eg’s legal guardian, Gwen, and I
believe I am the best judge of what she needs and doesn’t need.”

“If you’re not sending her to a private treatment program because you think you can’t afford it, then maybe you better sell Daddy that land he wants,” Gwen said.

“I can afford whatever Meg needs,” Harry replied. He was eating hungrily.

“You’re going to have to sell the land anyway,” Tony said. “You’ll need the money to rebuild the stable.”

Harry helped himself to a slice of toast. “I have no intention of selling my land. The insurance will pay to rebuild the stable.”

Tony looked skeptical. “Isn’t the stable a listed historic building? Along with the house and the riding school?”

“Yes.” Harry regarded his brother with a level stare. “Doesn’t that mean you have to restore it to the full level of its original condition.”

A muscle jumped in Harry’s jaw. “Yes.”

Tony went on relentlessly. “Which means you would have had to have it insured at well over market value in order to cover the cost of rebuilding.”

“Yes.” Harry continued to hold his younger brother’s eyes.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Did you have it insured over market value?”

“I have the house insured for four times its market value,” Harry replied. He broke eye contact with Tony and ate another forkful of eggs. “All of the outbui
ldings, including the stable, a
re insured at market value. It would have been prohibitively expensive to do otherwise.”

A brief silence greeted this information.

Then Tony said, “In that case, the insurance money isn’t going to be enough to rebuild the stable, not if you have to duplicate the original work.”

Harry had finished his eggs, and he took a bite of toast. “I’ll get a waiver from the local English Heritage officer.”

“Not bloody likely,” Tony replied.

Tracy had also been eating hungrily, but she looked up, and inquired, “What is an English Heritage officer?”

Tony answered. “An English Heritage officer is the vigilant guardian of any property that the state has declared to be a fixed and timeless piece of art. Tangentially, he has absolutely no interest in the needs of the family who happens to own said property.” He turned to Harry. “Do you know it took the Alanbys
five years
to get approval for an addition to their kitchen?”

Ha
rr
y shrugged.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” Tony exploded. “Can’t you see the writing on the wall? Take Mauley’s offer, and you will have the money to rebuild the stable and make any repairs to the house that you desire. You will have the money to send Meg to the best sanitarium in the world. Christ, you’ll have the money to buy yourself a new car! Why are you being so stubborn?”

Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said evenly, “I inherited that land from my father, and I am going to guard it and improve it and pass it down to my son. And that is all I have to say on this matter—now or ever.”

He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Would you like to ride Dylan, Gwen, and see how his training is coming along?”

“That’s what I came to do,” she replied, gesturing to her breeches and boots.

“I’ll go change then. It won’t take me long.”

After the door closed behind Harry there was a short silence in the kitchen. Then Tony said, “Christ, but Harry can be a bloody mule.”

Tracy began to gather the empty dishes.

Gwen made no motion to help. “Daddy says that Ambrose Percy will choose another location for his hotel if Daddy can’t get the land soon.”

Tracy carried the dishes to the sink, then returned to the table to collect the coffee cups. “Why doesn’t your father just buy some other land?” she asked Gwen.

Gwen gave her the kind of look a very rude person might give a moron. “Because there
is
no other land that’s equal to Silverbridge. That amount of suitable land, in a convenient location, is almost impossible to come by these days.”

Tony chimed in. “And even after the sale, Harry would still have over twelve thousand acres! It’s absurd for him to act as if he’s being asked to sell the family heritage.”

“I thought I understood that Mr. Mauley wants all the farmland.” For some reason, Tracy felt impelled to defend Harry. “If your brother gives up his farms, then he will have no income.”

Tony’s eyes were bright with anger. “He won’t need the bloody farm income! He’ll have the money from Mauley, which he can invest.” He looked from Tracy to Gwen. “Do you know that Harry has virtually no investments? There are some safe, low-retu
rn
stocks that have been in the family for ages, but to all intents and purposes, today’s economic race has left him behind. Fortunes have been made all over Britain, but, except for a few cases, not by the aristocracy. It’s unbelievable, but Harry still believes in land over stocks.”

Tracy had carried the cups to the sink and now she began to run the water. Tony said quickly, “You don’t need to do that, Tracy.”

“I’ll just rinse them and put them in the dishwasher,” she said. “I hate the thought of dirty dishes.”

“American women are so housewifely,” Gwen said. She did not mean her statement as a compliment.

“American women do everything well,” Tracy returned condescendingly.

She wanted to remain in the room in order to overhear Tony and Gwen talk, so she reined in her strong desire to annihilate Gwen and held a plate under the faucet.

Gwen dropped her voice, and asked Tony, “Is he over the Dana Matthews scandal yet?”

“I think so.” Tony had lowered his voice as well. “I’ll never understand how he came to be involved with her in the first place. She was a cokehead. Of course, Harry didn’t know that when he first started going out with her. Everyone else in town knew, but not Harry. Then she became so dependent on him that, when he did find out, he felt he couldn’t desert her. It was the screaming-and-throwing tantrum she threw in Harrods that finished him off. It was in all the papers—you must have seen it.”

“Of course I did.”

“So, unfortunately, our chance to annex Dana and her fortune went down the tubes.”

“
Our
?” Gwen drawled. “Were you looking to share in Dana’s largesse?”

Tony said something that Tracy couldn’t hear, and Gwen laughed. Then Tony said, “How about you, darling? Are you ready to move in now that Harry seems to have recovered from the Dana fiasco?”

“It might be fun to be a countess,” Gwen said lightly.

Tracy felt such a surge of jealousy feat she had to put down the cup she was holding because her hand was shaking.