Sommersgate House (2 page)

“Miss Tamsin
loved this house, as does Ruby,” Mrs. K replied.

Ruby was
standing next to Julia looking up at her with sparkling blue eyes
and Mrs. K took that opportunity to study the child.

Ruby had taken
the last five months surprisingly well, but then, at four years
old, how much could she understand about the horrible events that
rainy night? It was William, and especially Elizabeth, who had
suffered the most.

Julia seemed
to realise where she was and what she was saying. She bent low and
kissed the top of Ruby’s curls before her eyes returned to the
housekeeper.

“I’m sorry,
Mrs. K, I’m exhausted. The trip, selling my house, car… the last
week has been day after day of going away parties, meals out with
friends, finding a place for every last hair pin. It’s been
insane.”

Mrs. K
understood; the last few months had to be upheaval for Julia. She’d
had to give up everything.

She gave Julia
a reassuring smile. “I’ve got the kettle on. Let me get you a
cuppa. A warm drink always helps. Coffee?”

Julia nodded
gratefully and Mrs. K shuffled her into what she knew was Julia’s
favourite place at Sommersgate, a smallish room off the grand
stairwell that had a tile and flagstone floor and butter-coloured,
stone walls. It had wide entryways to both the stairwell and the
drawing room and grand, double French windows that lead to the
front gardens.

This space was
once the entry to the house in the days when horses clattered to
the front. Motor cars, and an ancestral baroness who detested them
and refused to see them out her front door, had changed the traffic
of Sommersgate. She modified the drive to complete at the studded
doors at the side, added the fountain and laid the old front drive
to gardens. She then altered the huge space within the house to
what was now one of the warmest places you could find, literally
and figuratively. It held comfortable, button-backed leather
couches, chairs and ottomans surrounding another ornate, grand
fireplace with sturdy but fine tables here and there on which to
lay drinks, trays, books or puzzles, as the case may be.

Of course, no
one used the space much, the lord of the manor and his lady mother
weren’t the kind who casually wiled away time with games and
puzzles.

Mrs. K’s mind
moved from the space, back to Julia.

“You wait
here. I’ll be back in a snap,” Mrs. K assured her.

She bustled
away, hearing Julia’s chic pumps hit the floor one-by-one as she
took them off and, in a teasing voice, she addressed Ruby.
Listening to Julia, Mrs. K. nearly ran into Veronika who was hiding
in the shadows by the dining room

“She arrive
safe?” Veronika asked in broken English.

The Russian
girl had been at Sommersgate for six months, the longest Mrs.
Kirkpatrick had been able to keep a daily for several years, and,
for that alone, she cherished the girl. It took an extraordinary
amount of time hiring staff, training them in the very specific
tasks they had to perform, then losing them and having to hire
more.

Veronika not
only stayed, but she did a job at which many people would turn up
their noses and she did it with pride and unending amounts of
energy. Especially these last months when so much more was required
of them with the arrival of the children.

“She’s safe,
you’ll need to unpack her cases,” Mrs. K informed the girl. “But
first, I want you to meet her.” Her orders were voiced kindly but
Veronika shrunk into herself and Mrs. K’s heart went out to the
girl.

Veronika had
not shared much but Mrs. K knew something was not right. She was
timid and scared of her own shadow. Monique Ashton unnerved her and
Sommersgate House petrified her, both of which weren’t unusual and
often why the other girls never stayed very long. But Veronika
needed the job, or she would likely be shipped back to wherever she
came from, something, Mrs. K thought, terrified her most of
all.

Where Douglas
Ashton had found the petite, young, pretty, dark-haired girl was
something that Mrs. Kilpatrick did not want to know. He’d simply
told Mrs. K one day that a girl was coming to fill the daily job
that had gone vacant for several weeks.

“If she’s
suitable, keep her. She’ll have no references but that’s not your
concern, just put her to work,” he’d said.

The comings
and goings of Douglas Ashton, titled Baron Blackbourne and sixth
master of Sommersgate House, were none of Margaret Kilpatrick’s
business and, even if she could know, Mrs. Kilpatrick didn’t want
to know. Further, she’d never question Lord Ashton, not in a
million years. She’d be sacked, without references, even if she had
been in his life since he could remember. He’d do it, she had no
doubt, and he’d not entertain another thought in his handsome head
about it.

Mrs.
Kilpatrick had come to Sommersgate when Douglas Ashton was an
infant. Even knowing him since he was a wee lad, as a man, she
admired him greatly, she feared him and she worried about him, in
that order.

Given
his privileged birth, he could have chosen an entirely different
path. However Douglas Ashton was driven to something else and this
drive, to attain whatever it was he desired, was what Mrs. K
admired. Although a cold man, Mrs. Kilpatrick felt (with some
pride, even though it had naught to do with her) that Douglas
Ashton was not a bad man (not like his father). One couldn’t say
exactly that he was a
good
man but he certainly wasn’t cruel and, considering his
upbringing, to avoid that end was a feat in itself.

His
determination was what she feared, along with his rumoured ruthless
tactics. No man should work that hard, that long, sacrificing
whatever morals and ethics (and, if gossip could be believed, were
all of them) to get what he wanted. Lord Ashton was not a man to be
denied, if he wanted something, it was his. If he wanted Mrs. K to
employ a pretty, young Russian girl with no references, no
experience and nothing but a passport, then he’d have it. And he
did. And Mrs. K was just one in a small army of people who did his
bidding, or faced the consequences.

She
worried about him because he seemed so unapproachable, so cold and
so very alone. He had no one and needed no one and Mrs. K couldn’t
believe anyone, truly, lived like that, at least not happily. Even
though Douglas Ashton never gave any indication he cared one whit
about Mrs. Kilpatrick, she was the kind of woman who cared about
just about everyone. She had a special place in her heart for the
two children she watched grow up at Sommersgate,
both
of them, even Lord Douglas
Ashton. It wasn’t his fault he was the way he was, indeed, he could
have turned out very,
very
different.
That
was why
Mrs. K loved him, was devoted to him and his house, even though he
would never know how she felt.

Margaret
Kilpatrick’s attention returned to Veronika. “Help me with the
coffee, then you can meet Miss Julia and then you can see to the
unpacking.”

As ever,
Veronika did as she was told and they brought a tray to Julia with
an exquisite silver coffeepot, a delicate china serving set and a
plate of biscuits all sitting on a crisp, lily-white linen
serviette.

Julia stood, a
smile on her lips, when she saw Veronika.

“Veronika,”
she started, again putting out her hand to shake the girl’s. The
girl hesitantly allowed this but gave a small cry of surprise when
Julia pulled her in for a swift kiss on the cheek. Julia
thoughtfully ignored Veronika’s startled cry when she continued. “I
hear you’ve been taking care of my nieces and nephew. Thank
you.”

Veronika
nodded and stepped back, this warm reception was not something
she’d encountered before from anyone, not even Mrs. Kilpatrick.
Veronika Raykin and Julia Fairfax had met only once and the
circumstances at the time were most dire.

Julia smiled
at her and Veronika looked at a loss of what to do next. “I unpack
your case,” she announced finally and then fled the room.

“She’s a
little shy,” Mrs. Kilpatrick explained.

Julia nodded,
her face thoughtful as she watched Veronika go.

“Her timing
wasn’t great, just coming to this gothic monstrosity when…” Julia
stopped and looked at Ruby then she started again. “Tell me, how
are things?”

Mrs.
Kilpatrick knew exactly what Julia was asking.

For the past
five months, Julia was at home in Indiana preparing to move to
England and care for her brother’s children under the strict terms
of he and his wife’s will. These terms were rigid and, to
everyone’s surprise, included that the children be brought up in
England, live at Sommersgate and be reared under the guardianship
of Lord Douglas Ashton and Ms. Julia Fairfax. Unless Julia was
willing to give up custody, which she obviously was not, this meant
she had to quit her high-paid job, sell her home, disburse her
belongings, say good-bye to her friends and family and move to a
foreign country to live at Sommersgate for at least the next
thirteen years.

Julia had done
all of this without murmur, leaving the country four and a half
months ago after the funerals and after the will was read,
shattered from grief and jetlag, and spent the ensuing time
readying herself for this change in life.

In that time,
Douglas Ashton and his mother Monique had not changed their habits
one iota. They’d left the care of three bereaved children, who also
had left their home to move to Sommersgate, in the hands of Mrs. K,
her husband, Roddy, Veronika, and Sommersgate’s chauffer and
handyman, Carter.

Mrs.
Kilpatrick didn’t mind. She openly adored Tamsin Ashton Fairfax,
who shared not a single trait with her mother, father or brother,
all proud and haughty. Fifteen years ago, Mrs. Kilpatrick had
immediately fallen in love with the tall, athletic, fair, blue-eyed
American boy from the Midwest, Gavin Fairfax, who was friendly and
outgoing and who thought Tamsin resided on a pedestal (Mrs. K
agreed). And in loving them both, Mrs. K loved their children and
would do anything for them.

But she was
not their family. Monique Ashton had not showed an interest in
mothering her own two children and she showed even less of an
interest in her grandchildren.

Douglas Ashton
was worse. He worked long, inhuman hours, day and night, travelling
from city to city, country to country, continent to continent. On
those very rare occasions when he wasn’t working, he was playing
and he played with the same intensity as he worked. An expert
skier, an avid horseman and a collector of tall, young,
frighteningly skinny blondes, brunettes and redheads, he was a man
who was responsible to no one but himself. And even though, on a
dark, wet road five months ago, that had changed, Douglas Ashton
had not.

Mrs.
Kilpatrick didn’t know why Douglas worked so hard. He was born to
money, property and a title. He was immensely good-looking and was
one of Europe’s top bachelors.

Roderick
Kilpatrick, Mrs. K’s husband, reckoned it was power. Mr. Kilpatrick
worked as groundskeeper for both Douglas and his father and he felt
in the position to have a pretty reliable opinion on the subject
(indeed, Roddy felt he was in the position to have a pretty
reliable opinion on a lot of subjects).

Mrs. K would
always cringe and more often than not quickly cross herself when
thinking of the older Ashton because he surely existed in
purgatory, or worse, for what he put his son through. She tried not
to think about it, the scenes, the shouting, the ugly, hideous
words. As a mere servant, she didn’t exist to the Baron, therefore,
it didn’t matter what she’d heard and she’d heard a great deal.

How young
Douglas had borne it, she couldn’t imagine but it was a testament
to his strength of will. It wrecked Tamsin, who idolised her older
brother. Those two were inseparable when they were young, clinging
to each other in a home where controlled violence or absent neglect
were the only constants.

Mrs. K never
saw evidence of beatings, and there were times when she wished for
it, for no matter what lofty a position Maxwell Ashton held, Social
Services would frown upon physical violence and Mrs. K would have
reported it, make no mistake. But there was never any physical
evidence of the type of lashings Douglas would endure.

When he wasn’t
verbally abusing his son, Maxwell spent his time in the pursuit of
power and pleasure which were the sum total of his interests for
his short sixty years. Years that ended in a massive heart attack
on a ski slope in Gstaad.

Monique seemed
quite happy to be left to the pursuit of her own pleasures. And
this was exactly what she did, leaving her children to fend for
themselves most of the time.

Roddy
Kilpatrick felt that perhaps Douglas wanted to prove he was worthy
of some attention from the both of them, the kind a proud father
and mother would show.

Mrs.
Kilpatrick didn’t believe that. Maxwell Ashton had been dead for
years and there was no sign Douglas intended to slow down or settle
down. Further, he seemed to regard his mother, as with everyone and
everything else, with a cold disregard. She existed and he
acknowledged that fact, and that was the end of it.

Rumour
had it he’d more than quadrupled the family fortune and the way he
did it was, no other way to say it,
suspect
. He had an office in Bristol and held a full staff at his
offices in London. What he did to make his money, Mrs. K had no
idea. He had a reputation as a dangerous man and it was a fact that
he’d mysteriously disappeared for two years, without word or
sighting. He had returned with no excuses for his absence looking
no longer boyishly handsome but with a thin scar marring his hard
mouth and lines etched into the sides of his eyes that were caused
by wind and sun, and obviously not from playing polo.