Windfall
by Penny Vincenzi

List Price: $15.95
Pages: 528
Format: Paperback
ISBN: 9781590204061
Publisher: Overlook Hardcover

Chapter 1

June 1935

Cassia Tallow was scrubbing the altar steps when she heard that she had inherited half a million pounds. She often thought afterwards, given the storybook nature of the whole thing, that it could not have been more auspicious; had she been doing one of the other things that typically filled her life --- like bathing her children, or tending to her garden, or presiding over her dinner table, or seeing to the rota for the Women’s Institute, or taking one of the hundreds of phone calls that came into her house every week, requesting her husband’s presence at some sickbed or other --- then it would not have made nearly so poignant a story. However, the juxtaposition of those two events, being down on her knees, scrubbing stone steps, for heaven’s sake, and hearing that she had suddenly become extremely rich: that was really very intriguing indeed, worthy of the highest drama.

Of course it hadn’t been quite as dramatic as she afterwards remembered it: Edward had simply arrived at the church with her godmother’s solicitor, Mr Brewster, who had been very agitated to find her not at the house, given the importance of the news he had to impart. She had in fact arranged for him to come, only she had forgotten, and Edward, irritated by her inefficiency as usual, had brought Mr Brewster down to see her.

‘Mr Brewster said it was vital he spoke to you himself, showed you the will, in fact. He’s come all the way from London. I do think it’s too bad of you to have forgotten,’ Edward said.

Cassia apologised, and went to sit in the church porch with Edward and Mr Brewster. He was an extraordinarily dull-looking caricature of a solicitor, dressed in a dark grey suit, dark grey tie, black bowler, and carrying a rather battered black briefcase. His voice was equally dull, monotonous and slightly whining, but Cassia listened to it attentively while he read her the relevant section of the will, and explained it to her carefully. And when he had finished, when she had heard the extraordinary words, when she had told him that yes, she did understand, and asked him if there was anything she should do immediately, and he had said there was not, she asked if he would mind if she just finished washing the steps. Mr Brewster, who had clearly long ceased to be amazed by any behaviour, however eccentric, said that of course he would not, but Edward followed her down the aisle and stood over her as she started wringing out the cloth again.

‘You did realise what he said, didn’t you?’ Edward said. Cassia sat back on her heels and studied him. ‘I mean the amount. You did hear him?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course I did. Thank you.’

‘Right. I just wondered. Your reaction does seem a little... odd.’

‘I’m sorry, Edward. What did you think I should do?’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Burst into song, or perhaps utter a fervent prayer of thanks?’

‘No, of course not. You just seem so calm. I... well, I don’t feel very calm, I must say.’

‘Sorry,’ Cassia said, not quite sure for what.

‘And I do think you should come back to the house.’

‘Is there any huge hurry? I mean I ought to finish this. Really. If you take Mr Brewster back and ask Peggy to give him a cup of tea, I’ll be back very soon.’

Edward stared at her, then pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He always did that when he didn’t know how to react. ‘Cassia,’ he said, ‘I really do wonder if you’ve actually grasped---”

‘Edward, I’ve grasped it perfectly. Thank you. I’ve been left half a million pounds. By my godmother. But it’s not going to go away, and Mrs Venables will be furious if I leave this unfinished. There’s a wedding tomorrow. And as Mr Brewster’s come all this way anyway, I’m sure he won’t mind waiting another ten minutes or so.’

‘Yes,’ Edward said, staring at her, as if he wasn’t quite sure who she was any more --- rather accurately as it happened. ‘Yes, all right.’ Then he turned his back on her and walked rather quickly back to the porch. She heard him talking to Mr Brewster, and then their footsteps slowly fading as they walked down the path.

Cassia squeezed out the cloth, and wiped the steps very carefully, making sure there were no streaks left on them, then she carried the dirty water out into the vestry and tipped it down the sink.

It was a lovely day; an appropriately lovely day, she thought, as she walked slowly back to the house, and then thought how silly that she should expect the weather to fit in with her extraordinary news. If it had been an unseasonably horrible day --- or seasonably perhaps, given that this was June and England --- wet and windy, that might have seemed quite appropriate too, for she could tell herself they could all go somewhere warm and sunny for a holiday, to the south of France for instance, and that might even be rather better.

Cassia wondered why she didn’t feel more odd. Maybe she was in shock; shock did strange things to people. When she had worked in Casualty, she had seen people quite literally with their fingers or toes cut off, sitting calmly waiting for the doctor, discussing the weather with whoever was sitting on the next chair. On the other hand, she didn’t feel as if it had been a shock, and nor did she feel it couldn’t be true, or that there had been a mistake.

The nearest she could get to defining how she felt, finding something to compare it with, was... what? When she heard she had passed her finals with exceptionally high marks? No, because that had been down to her, a result of her own work and cleverness. When Edward had asked her to marry him? Or rather told his father she was going to marry him? No, because that had been a rather more complex state of affairs. When Bertie was born? Or even William? No, that had been a pure wild happiness, nothing to do with this calm, warm acceptance.

Perhaps, though, when they had told her Delia was a girl. A nice quiet little girl, she had thought, smiling up at them through the clearing pain, a contrast to the awful, noisy, lovable little boys. That had been a sense of simple straightforward pleasure (not knowing, of course, that Delia was to be the noisiest of the lot). That was nearer, but it did seem rather awful to compare the arrival of a much longed for daughter with that of a large sum of money.

Cassia gave up. This wasn’t like anything she had ever known, and how could it be? She didn’t feel anything really, anything at all. Not yet.

***

It was a very nice walk from St Mary’s to their house: Monks Ridge House it was called, being built high on the ridge above the village of Monks Heath, with its view right over the small valley, of the winding river, the tight complex of houses round the picture-book green, the church set at the back of it. Square, redbrick early Victorian, it was a classic West Sussex country house, with a very dark slate roof and an exceptionally pretty fanlight over the front door. However tired Cassia was, however discouraged by her failure to perform as the perfect doctor’s wife, however cross or anxious over her unruly children, her heart lifted as she turned the last corner in the lane and looked at Monks Ridge. It was like seeing a friend standing there, waiting for her, uncritical, undemanding, pleased to see her. There was so much that was critical and demanding in her life, she found the house extraordinarily soothing.

Cassia had loved it from the first moment she had set eyes on it. Edward had said they should look at others, but she had known this was the house she wanted. You move in here, it seemed to say, and you won’t get any trouble. And they hadn’t. It was warm in winter, cool in summer; its pipes never froze, its fires burnt beautifully; its rooms were neither too large nor too small, its garden good tempered and undemanding.

There was a large extension at the side, not beautiful, added in the last year of the old Queen’s reign, which made a perfect surgery for Edward, and at the back, a small conservatory with a black and white tiled floor and arched windows, where Cassia had managed to grow a vine, and where on summer nights when she couldn’t sleep (usually because she was trying to soothe a crying baby) she would sit in her rocking chair, watching the stars.

Cassia had always loved the stars: one of her very early memories was of standing in the garden at night, holding her father’s hand and gazing up at the sky while he showed her the constellation after which she had been named. She could never actually work out the shape of a lady sitting in a chair, holding out her arms, but she pretended she could to please him. She liked too the story he often told her of how Cassiopeia had been sent to the heavens for boasting about the beauty of her daughter Andromeda.

Cassia loved the conservatory --- it was known as her room --- although Edward said it wasted heat and space. She could see his point about the heat, but the other objection was clearly nonsense: there was at least half an acre of garden beyond it, mostly grass, studded with shrubs and fruit trees and sloping gently down to the valley.

Oddly (significantly even, she thought), she found Edward sitting in the conservatory now, with Mr Brewster.

‘Hello. Sorry I was so long. Is Peggy making tea?’

‘Yes, and I really should be on my way. Lot of calls this afternoon. Can you manage now?’ Edward said.

‘Yes, of course. We can manage, can’t we, Mr Brewster? I don’t suppose there’s a lot to manage. You can tell me a bit more, I expect, and I can listen.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr Brewster.

As Edward left them, Peggy came in with the tea tray, looking flustered. Strangers in the house unsettled her, made her nervous.

‘Thank you, Peggy. Mr Brewster, would you like a piece of cake?’

‘That would be delightful. Thank you.’

The cake wasn’t delightful at all, of course, as Cassia had made it. It had sunk in the middle and the icing had streaked down the sides, but Mr Brewster ate it uncritically and accepted a second piece.

‘Now then, perhaps we should go over this again. So that you are quite clear about it all.’

‘Yes, I’d like to look at it properly. Was anyone else left anything?’

‘Only a few small bequests to servants and so on. Lady Beatty obviously felt you were the most worthy recipient.’

‘Yes. I’m sure I wasn’t, though.’

‘Well, clearly she made up her own mind on that matter. And having no children, and being estranged from Sir Richard...’

‘Does he know about this?’

‘Not yet. I will be informing him, as a courtesy, as they were married for many years.’

‘Yes. I wrote to him when Leonora --- Lady Beatty --- died,’ Cassia said.

‘You were notified of her death by her brother, I imagine?’

‘Yes. Well, actually by her brother’s wife. Cecily Harrington. We have remained quite close. Nothing for any of them in the will?’

‘Only a small bracelet for the eldest child. Here, see.’

‘Oh, yes, Fanny. Dear little thing, she is. Well, not so little now, she’s nearly ten. I’m sorry, Mr Brewster, not very interesting for you.’

Mr Brewster smiled at her. ‘Fortunately, I do find other people’s families of endless fascination.’

Cassia stared at the will, at the words: ‘I exercise my power of appointment in relation to the Maple Trust, in favour of my goddaughter, Cassiopeia Blanche Tallow...’

‘It doesn’t say how much money it is, though,’ Cassia said.

‘No. That is because the money was invested by the trustees, and at the time the will was drawn up, it was not possible to say how much it would be worth. As it happens, it is worth a little more than five hundred thousand now, five hundred and eleven to be precise.’

‘Goodness,’ said Cassia. ‘It grows, doesn’t it, money?’

‘Well invested, yes. Of course it can also shrink.’

‘Why didn’t she just leave it to me? I mean, why the trust and everything?’

Mr Brewster cleared his throat. ‘I believe Lady Beatty was a little... extravagant. She explained to me that it was thought best to put the money in trust for you.’

‘Yes, well, that’s certainly true. I see. And the Harringtons, they don’t know about this either?’

‘No indeed. I visited your godmother in Paris last March, at her request, to draw up the document. You are naturally the only person to have had sight of it. You and your husband, that is.’

‘That was at the apartment in Passy, I suppose?’

‘Indeed so. Very beautiful it was, I must say.’

‘Yes, I heard it was very nice. She must have been quite ill then?’

‘She certainly did not appear to be in robust health, no,’ said Mr Brewster, ‘although she was clearly being very well taken care of.’

‘Was she alone?’

‘Yes, I saw her quite alone. Apart from the staff in the apartment, of course, and I understood there was a resident nurse.’

‘I see.’ So at least Leonora had lived out her last days in comfort. Cassia had wondered --- wondered and feared. ‘Well, what happens now, Mr Brewster?’

‘There are certain formalities. The money is not available for your use quite yet. As the executor, I have to obtain grant of probate, but you need have no concerns about it. Oh, and here is a letter, also lodged with me, from your godmother.’

Cassia took the slightly worn-looking envelope from him, opened it very carefully. It felt odd, almost as if Leonora had come suddenly into the room, and was holding it out to her. Reading the extravagant writing, slanting loopily across the thick cream paper, was like hearing her voice, her husky, amused, voice.

‘My darling Sweet Pea...’ Oh, that stupid name, Cassia thought, that ridiculous name, and suddenly she was back there, on the terrace at the Ritz, twelve years old, led in by Benedict...