Beyond Her Manner (South Downs Romance #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

G illian Carmichael wiped her eyes with a tissue, knowing it would remain dry. No tears had been shed, and none would be shed, not even as she watched the pallbearers lower the coffin of her late husband, Jonathon, into the frozen January earth.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t loved him; it just wasn’t in the way a wife should. Their relationship had grown into a companionship rather than a traditional marriage, devoid of deep emotional attachment or affection.

She’d known what she was getting into when she agreed to marry him. They had both gone into it knowing it was transactional, and they had fulfilled their roles precisely. Jonathon would get a beautiful woman on his arm to show off to his wealthy friends, and Gillian would have all the money she could want. In recent years, though, the money had dried up almost as much as she had.

The arm of her best friend, Bridget, slipped around her own and squeezed, no doubt bringing comfort to the stout, unassuming woman. She was the type of person who was always there for others — not that Gillian was ever in need of anyone else. On this occasion, she would let Bridget feel useful, even though she didn’t require the comfort herself. It would do her no harm to look like a grieving widow in need of some support from a friend.

As Bridget’s body began to vibrate, Gillian stepped forward. She didn’t need to be standing beside someone crying real tears. She threw an orange lily into the grave and finally felt she’d broken free from her shackles. This was her chance to redefine herself. Turning away from the grave, the weight of the past lifted slightly from her shoulders, leaving her uncertain yet quietly hopeful about what the future might hold.

A ringtone sounded, cutting through the heavy silence. A rustling rippled through the crowd of mourners as they checked their phones. Realising the sound was coming from inside her handbag, Gillian dived in to retrieve it. As she silenced the phone, she noticed several glares aimed her way, which she ignored. Life continued, relentless as ever. It always had, and it always would.

She watched as the large, solemn, black-coated crowd began to disperse, noting that it was mainly comprised of local villagers with nothing better to do. Taking the crowd’s dispersion as her own cue to leave, Gillian turned to a tall, grey-haired man, resplendent in a white alb.

“Thank you, Reverend. A satisfactory service as always,” she said dryly.

He opened his mouth to reply, then, seemingly thinking better of it, closed it again, giving her a slight inclination of his head in acknowledgement. It reminded her to have words with him about his recent sermons. They were too depressing for a Sunday morning, and far too long.

Signalling to Bridget that it was time for them to leave, they took the public footpath through the Kingsford Estate, following an avenue lined with beech trees that connected the manor house to the church. Once a path between two places, it now felt like a corridor leading her to a new chapter of her life. An Elizabethan house came into view with wisteria wound around its Ardingly Sandstone facade and mullioned, leaded glass windows. A trio of steeply pitched slate roofs with gable ends topped it off.

Despite every attempt to keep a smile from her face, she couldn’t fight it. The manor was all hers now. She was finally free to take charge, make decisions, and, most importantly, implement changes. No longer would she voice her opinions only to have them shut down as too expensive, untenable, or ridiculous, which had always been Jonathon’s three go-to responses whenever she proffered an idea to improve the estate.

She inhaled the earthy scent of the beech trees as she surveyed the view over the Kingsford Estate, her home for the last thirty-five years. It comprised fifty acres of land, a Tudor manor house, a Georgian lodge, and three old farm cottages in the village, which were, regrettably, in a poor state of repair.

She’d encouraged Jonathon for years to invest in the properties, only to be told they were not a priority. She could never quite determine his exact priorities, but it was clear they centred on collecting anything he believed held hidden value or might appreciate over time. Despite his abundance of self-belief, Jonathon did not have an eye for antiques; everything he had sunk money into turned out to be worthless.

He had sold off most of the tenable land over the years to neighbouring farms, claiming it was a pain to manage. A lot of the remaining land was less suitable for farming and of little use for anything other than recreational purposes. Having acres of land to run wild with Dudley, her Friesian horse, suited Gillian perfectly. She was looking forward to taking on some new horses for herself as well as extending the stables and livery. There was so much potential in the estate that Jonathon hadn’t had the foresight or business acumen to exploit.

Continuing along the path, she and Bridget passed a bench on the brow of the hill. It was Gillian’s favourite place to sit and admire the estate. The low winter sun caught a gold memorial plaque screwed into the backrest, another reminder of how precious and short life could be. She made a mental note to ask one of the gardeners to give the old oak bench a sand and a fresh coat of oil to ready it for the spring.

Although tempted to sit and prolong returning to the manor, which would be full of people with words of condolence she could do without, she refrained. Bridget was in the throes of updating her on a rather heated meeting of the Women’s Institute she had missed last night, and she didn’t want to ruin the serenity. Bridget was inclined to go on a bit when left to it, and this appeared to be one of those moments.

Gillian couldn’t help feeling that if she’d been at the meeting, there would have been no opportunity for disagreements. Attending such a gathering the night before her husband’s funeral, however, wouldn’t have given the right impression.

Once they reached the manor, they slipped into the back hall, a cosy space with a servant staircase leading from it and doors to the cellar, kitchen, great hall, and a small cloakroom. Gillian needed a moment to compose herself before facing the crowd of mourners. She suspected most, if not all, of them had only come for a free feed and to socialise. They were like a rent-a-crowd. With the average age of the villagers being over sixty-five, it felt like there was a funeral every few weeks. It was the only time some of the villagers left their houses.

Passing her black woollen coat and black hat to Bridget, Gillian shook out her s houlder-length, blonde, wavy hair in the mirror beside her. She poked and prodded at it until the shiny locks relented, reaching the shape she desired.

“Right, let’s get this over with. A large glass of wine or two is in order, don’t you think?”

“Most certainly,” Bridget replied, heading for the door to the great hall.

Catching another glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed it, Gillian backed up and took in her appearance again. Stretching out the muscles in her face, she slapped on a more appropriate sullen look and followed Bridget.

She stepped into the wood-panelled great hall, where a fire flickered and glowed in the original Hamstone fireplace. A smile spread across her lips as she took in the grandeur of what was now entirely hers. The stone floor and high-vaulted, elm-beamed ceiling echoed her guests’ voices and the chinking of crystal and silverware. Chandeliers hung from the crossbeams, casting a warmth across the tapestries which hung between the tall windows.

The room was mainly used for dining when they entertained and was a particular favourite as a venue for all the local events, which Gillian organised. She considered it to be her forte. Having spent the best part of thirty-five years as hostess at Kingsford Manor, she could manage any event necessary.

Her stomach rumbled as she passed an array of culinary delights exquisitely laid out on the old banqueting table. Mrs Johnson, her cook, had prepared everything to Gillian’s exacting standards. Waiters weaved their way through the throng of people, offering up trays of hors d’oeuvres and wafting a symphony of aromas around the hall. Her stomach rumbled again, begging to be satisfied. It would have to wait; etiquette prevented her from mingling with a mouthful of food.

Noticing Bridget had already abandoned her in favour of the buffet table, Gillian approached the nearest group of people.

“Ah, Mrs Hawkins, so glad you could make it! I hope you didn’t have to close the shop.”

“No, got my daughter to run it, didn’t I?” she replied.

Gillian suppressed a wince at the grating twang of the woman’s accent; it never got easier to listen to. When she’d moved to the village, Gillian had been tempted to offer the woman elocution lessons until she realised it would involve spending a considerable amount of time with her. She flashed a smile, hoping it would be an end to the conversation, only to find Mrs Hawkins opening her mouth again.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t miss this. End of the Carmichaels, innit?”

“ I am very much alive, Mrs. Hawkins,” Gillian countered through gritted teeth, her jaw tightening as she tried to maintain her forced, polite smile.

“I mean the proper Carmichaels. You’re married in, aren’t ya?”

“Please excuse me. I must mingle,” Gillian said, biting back a response. Any other time she would have given the woman a stern talking-to, but spotting her hairdresser from the village standing alone, she needed to seize an opportunity.

Walter, the family solicitor, stepped into her path.

“Gillian, I must speak with you.”

“Not now, Walter. Can’t you see I’m entertaining?”

Stepping around him, she approached a small-framed young woman.

“Hannah, it’s good of you to come.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Book me in for a cut and colour a week tomorrow. Usual time.”

“I’ll have to check I don’t have anyone else booked in.”

“You do that. I’ll see you then,” Gillian replied, giving the girl a tap on the arm. She felt it was important to support the locals in their endeavours. “Do help yourself to something to eat, won’t you?”

As she moved away, an arm slipped around her waist in a vice-like grip, and a booming voice resounded in her ear.

“Gillian, my dear. You’ve outdone yourself yet again.”

The arm belonged to Major Hargreaves, a short, rotund man in his seventies who looked like he’d sneezed a large slug onto his top lip. Gillian always found him to be a rather odious, pompous sort of man, but at least he was of the right breeding.

“Thank you, Major. Now I must mingle.”

She pulled away, slipping from his tight grasp as unwelcome memories flooded her. Jonathon always had a way of making her feel trapped too. What had initially felt like attentiveness turned out to be control; his touch was more about possession than affection. At parties, he paraded her about like a trophy, keeping her within reach to ward off any other man who might dare approach. She was his, and he made sure everyone knew it. The thought still turned her stomach.

It took a year or two of marriage for her to realise what she had fallen in love with was Kingsford Manor, not Jonathon. By then it was too late. All other aspects of her life were perfect, so she convinced herself she could be content in the marriage. Living on the estate was worth any hardship she had to endure, particularly in the bedroom.

She was still young — well, fifty-five, but she wasn’t dead yet — not that she would be looking to remarry again. There would be the required mourning time to go through. How long was that? A week or two? A month? Hearing the major laughing heartily at what was undoubtedly his own joke and still feeling the grip of his fingers on her waist, she vowed to stay off men entirely.

Relieving a passing waitress of a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, she gulped at it and checked her watch, desperate for the charade to be over so she could get on with things. There was much to do and many changes to make. Taking another sip, she regretted not serving champagne. Bridget had pointed out that offering it at such a time might come across as inappropriate, and at the time, it had seemed like sound advice. Now, in desperate need of something light and bubbly, not doing so felt like the wrong choice.

The octogenarians from Kingsford House, the second-largest property in the village, approached with their arms linked. Childhood friends and both unmarried, they had moved in together after one inherited the house from her aunt. Despite their age, they were always eager to lend a hand at the WI and other village events. They were amongst the few people in the village Gillian could tolerate.

“Oh, Gillian, you must be in pieces. We’re sorry for your loss,” Elouise said, squeezing her arm. Her companion, Louisa, nodded her agreement.

“Thank you, ladies; I will bear it as best I can. Stiff upper lip and all that.”

The two women smiled and nodded.

“You must excuse me; it’s time for me to make a speech.”

Taking a spoon from the buffet table, she took a couple of steps up the grand wooden split staircase on one side of the hall to elevate herself. A high-pitched sound silenced the crowd as she tapped the spoon against the crystal glass.

Walter appeared in front of her again, his face pale and his eyes wide. “Gillian, please,” he implored, his voice strained.

Gillian lifted a finger in his direction in response, hoping he would get the message. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he stepped back.

“Thank you everyone for joining me on this sad occasion. Jonathon will be sorely missed by everyone who knew him. Death is never the end but a chance for a new beginning, and we now enter a new era at Kingsford Manor. With me at the helm, it will be transformed. I have big plans for the estate, starting with increasing the livery offering. If anyone is in the market, do let me know. Over the years, Kingsford has been synonymous with openness, generosity, and, above all, courage. I aim to continue this ethos.” She raised her glass. “To Kingsford Manor,” she said, before adding quickly, “And Jonathon.”

Voices echoed in agreement around the hall, and the crowd dispersed into smaller groups. She hoped her speech would mark the end of the proceedings, but the villagers did like to linger.

“I must insist we speak, Gillian,” Walter’s voice hissed from behind.

“Can’t it wait until another day, Walter?” Gillian asked, swapping her empty wine glass for a full one as a waitress passed.

Walter’s face twitched. “It’s urgent!” He took a glass of wine and handed it to her. “You’re going to need more than one.”

Gillian’s stomach tightened at his firm tone, and she relented, gesturing for him to head to a door off the large hall. Following behind Walter, she issued a few smiles to guests as they moved through the hall.

“What’s this about, Walter?” Gillian asked as she closed the door to the drawing room behind them.

“I’ve finished assessing all the finances for you,” Walter replied as he sat on the brown leather Chesterfield next to Agatha, a small black cat.

Placing her wine glasses on the coffee table, Gillian took a box of matches from the mantelpiece and lit the ready-made fire in the hearth.

“It can’t have escaped your notice that funds have been a little tighter in the last few years,” he continued.

Lifting one of the wine glasses as she sat opposite Walter, she noticed a chip in the rim. Turning it around, she took a large gulp and placed the glass back on the table.

“Jonathon spoke about redirecting funds into some investments,” she confirmed. “Tightening our belts a little now to enable us to live more comfortably in our final years, he’d said. I’d always thought there was no better investment than the manor.” Noticing Walter shifting uncomfortably and scratching at his balding head, she asked, “Why? Have the investments gone bad?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, good,” Gillian added, exhaling noisily with relief.

Walter winced as he said, “I’m afraid they were never good.”

Gillian’s body tensed as if each muscle was under an invisible grip. “How much is left?”

“Very little, I’m afraid.”

“But I have the estate; I have the manor.” Gillian’s breath caught in her throat. “Please, tell me I have them at least.”

“Well, yes. If you can pay for them.”

“Pay for them!” Gillian screeched. “Jonathon owned them… I own them!”

“Not according to the mortgage taken out four years ago, you don’t.”

A cold sweat ran through her. She wiped her hands on her knee-length, black dress. “Mortgage?” Gillian chuckled. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Walter remained silent, his lips pressed together as he met her gaze, the sadness in his eyes speaking more than words could

“What about my plans? I can make the estate pay; I just need the chance!”

“I’m afraid you won’t have the chance.” Walter extracted some paperwork from his briefcase and placed it on the table between them. “From what I can establish, he re-mortgaged to cover some bad debts and has been rerouting money from other loans to cover the payments ever since.”

Gillian ran her hand around the back of her neck and rubbed it to relieve the tension which was building as Walter continued.

“As you can see, the monthly payments are here.” Walter pointed halfway down the page.

Gillian’s hand shot to her chest, feeling the wind knocked out of her. “No wonder the bastard had a heart attack. I think I’m about to have one.”

“The bank has decided to foreclose. I’m sorry, Gillian, but you will have to sell the estate. It’s not simply the mortgage; it’s the other loans as well.” Walter proceeded to extract more papers from his briefcase.

Gillian’s mind raced as another cold sweat made her shiver. This couldn’t be it; there must be something she could do.

“Walter, the Carmichaels have owned this house for over four hundred years. We’ve lived through civil wars, world wars, famines, plagues, and even the decimation of our local railway network. Are you telling me there is nothing I can do to save it?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve made some calculations and have some suggestions that won’t leave you completely destitute. You’ll have a small income, but you will need to tighten your belt — considerably. I’ll fetch you another glass of wine before we talk details.”

Gillian looked at the two empty glasses in front of her, not even recalling having drained them. Her hand reached out to Walter as he passed, grasping at his arm in desperation, wanting him to take it all back.

“It’s finally mine. All mine. I can’t give it up! I can’t.”

He patted her hand and sighed. “I’m sorry, Gillian, but you don’t have a choice.”

“I made that speech. Why didn’t you warn me?”

His gaze fell to the floor. “I did try.”

Gillian’s arm dropped as Walter walked away, and she slumped back into the sofa. Would she have to sell her beloved Chesterfields? They had been a wedding present from Jonathon’s mother. They may be a little tatty now, but it was part of their charm and character. They were part of Kingsford Manor, like everything else. Like her.

“Is everything okay, Gillian?” Bridget said, poking her head around the door. “I saw Walter leaving looking rather concerned.”

“Come in,” Gillian said, dejected.

Bridget took in the room as she entered. “What a lot of sympathy cards.”

“Yes. I find they cheer the place up a bit.”

“Oh, Gillian,” Bridget chided her with a smile.

“What? You know there was no love lost between me and Jonathon.” Bridget was the only one who knew their marriage wasn’t all it had appeared to be. “I despise him even more now he’s left me destitute.”

“Destitute? Surely not.”

Gillian nodded, her jaw clenched as she fought to keep her anger and tears in check. Her hands began to tremble so wildly she sat on them.Even in front of Bridget, emotions weren’t something she displayed too often.

“I’d strangle the bastard if he wasn’t already dead!”

“Is there nothing you can do?” Bridget asked, sitting beside her.

“Apparently not,” Gillian replied, letting out an exasperated sigh.

Bridget gave her a soft smile as she tucked strands of her light brown long bob behind her ear. “You’ll sort it out. I’ve never known you not to solve a problem.”

Bridget wasn’t wrong. This time, however, she wasn’t so sure, and her friend’s blind belief in her did nothing to improve her mood.

“Why don’t you eat something? It always makes me feel better,” Bridget said with an encouraging smile.

“I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my appetite.”