The Proprietor's Daughter Read online

  Two hours later, when the meal was finished, applause rang out for the chef. Peg Parsons came into the dining room, a short, dumpy woman whose body was covered by a huge white apron that stretched from her neck to below her knees.

  “A triumph, Mrs. Parsons!” Roland declared. “Now we’re all going to have to walk over the common to work off the calories.”

  Roland lit one of the Davidoff cigars given to him by Katherine and Franz. Wearing an old sheepskin coat, he led the way out of the house, across the road, and onto the common. Katherine was glad to see that her father and Sally were walking the same way as Franz and herself, arm in arm, as comfortable together as if they were a matching pair.

  A brisk wind was blowing across the common, yet Katherine, wrapped up in a suede jacket identical to that worn by Franz, was delightfully warm. A good year was coming to an end. Perhaps the most fulfilling year of her life. And she was certain that an even better year beckoned.

  *

  Katherine took the following week off from work to spend with her children. In a whirlwind rush of activity, she took Henry and Joanne to Regent’s Park Zoo, where they spent a day gaping at the animals; then to the Tower of London, to see the Crown Jewels; to Madame Tussaud’s and the Planetarium on Marylebone Road; and finally to a brace of pantomime favorites — Dick Whittington and Cinderella.

  In the children’s eyes, the only outing to compare with the pantomimes was lunch with their grandfather, in the restaurant on the fifth floor of the main Adler’s department store on Regent Street. Katherine took Henry and Joanne there before the matinée performance of Cinderella. The restaurant was full of bargain hunters, who flooded into the West End this time of year for the seasonal sales; a long line of hungry people waited to be seated. But in one corner, overlooking Regent Street, was a solitary table for four with a reserved sign. “As important as the store’s customers are,” Roland said, as he sat down with his guests, “my daughter and grandchildren come first.”

  “Especially your grandchildren,” Katherine countered.

  “Only because they’re easier to please.”

  By the time the week was over, Katherine was physically and mentally exhausted. Running all over town with two active children, she told herself, could do that to a person. But then again, she’d enjoyed every single minute of it. As well as repaying the children for the times she had not been there during the year, she had more than amply recompensed herself as well.

  *

  The farm owned by Erica and Cliff Bentley wasn’t much as far as farms went. Not in size, anyway, its land having been sold off over the years in separate parcels, until only fifteen acres remained. The beauty of it lay in the farmhouse, a fully restored, spacious residence dating from the middle of the eighteenth century.

  It was in the farmhouse that the Kassler family welcomed in the new year. For Joanne and Henry, a year died and a year was born while they slept upstairs in one of the guest bedrooms. For Katherine and Franz, the transformation took place as they stood in the farmhouse’s drawing room, warmed by a fire roaring in a brick and copper hearth, and listening to an old grandfather clock wind itself up with much whirring and wheezing to strike twelve.

  As the first chime reverberated through the paneled room, Cliff Bentley solemnly raised a glass that bubbled with champagne. He was a stout man, three inches shorter than his wife, with a wide, perfectly round bald spot in the center of his head. At first glance, he could have been mistaken for an accountant or a lawyer, a member of a dry and dusty profession. Veterinarian, somehow, seemed too exciting for him. But his mild appearance concealed a healthy love of the outdoors and a robust, irreverent sense of humor.

  “To a wonderful 1977,” Cliff intoned solemnly as the grandfather clock’s final chime died away. “May it make us even happier than its predecessor did.”

  Standing next to Katherine, Franz said: “Is there anything that could make you happier in 1977?”

  Katherine thought it over. “Maybe just one thing.”

  “What is that?”

  “I’d like you to be home the next time I have something special to celebrate.”

  Franz gave her a quizzical look but said nothing. Only later, when they went upstairs to bed, did he bring up the subject. “All this time, have you been angry about my not being here in September?”

  “Subconsciously, I must have been. That remark about you being home came out all by itself,” Katherine explained. “I never meant to say it.”

  Embarrassed that she should have brought up the hurt again, she murmured something about seeing that the children were all right. She tiptoed down the hallway to the room that Henry and Joanne shared for the night. After standing in the doorway for a minute, watching as they slept soundly, she returned to Franz. She found him sitting on the edge of the huge four-poster bed that seemed so in character with the farmhouse’s atmosphere. He was wearing his shirt and underpants, and had one foot up in the air as he peeled off a sock. Katherine started to laugh.

  “What is so funny? You left here angry — at yourself, at me, I do not know — and you return amused.”

  “You look like Tom Jones.”

  “The singer?”

  “No, the character Albert Finney played in the film. You look just like him, sitting half naked on the edge of that four-poster.” Katherine stared down at the floor for a moment, then lifted her gaze to meet Franz’s clear blue eyes. “About before, I’m sorry I made that remark. Believe me, there’s nothing in the world that could make me any happier than I am already.”

  Franz let the apology pass. “I saw Tom Jones, and I remember that Mr. Jones spent most of his time doing this. . . .”

  Laughing, he tried to wrestle Katherine onto the bed. She darted away. As he reached out for her, she dived across the bed to the other side. Franz followed, grabbing her around the waist in a rugby tackle which sent her crashing to the floor with a bang that echoed around the room.

  Moments later, a bell rang sharply. Sitting on the floor, Katherine and Franz stared at each other. The ringing came again, and their eyes traveled to a bedside table. On it was a white telephone.

  “It can’t possibly be for us,” Katherine said. “It must be for Cliff. Probably a dire emergency” — she giggled — “some cat or dog that drank too much to welcome in the new year.”

  The telephone rang four more times. At last, Franz lifted the receiver and breathed a wary “Hello?” Cliff Bentley’s voice boomed out of the earpiece. “Having a spot of bother getting accustomed to the bed, old boy?”

  Franz gulped; his face turned scarlet. “No, Cliff, no. It was Katherine. She . . . tripped over a loose piece of carpet, that is all.”

  “All right then. If you need anything, our bedroom’s on the ground floor. Right beneath your room. Good night.”

  After replacing the receiver, Franz looked toward Katherine, who was clutching her stomach with one hand and pointing to the floor with the other. Franz’s eyes followed the pointing finger, all the way down to polished chestnut floorboards, with not a scrap of carpet to be seen!

  Franz arose at his normal time on New Year’s Day. Moving carefully to avoid disturbing Katherine, he slipped out of bed and stood by the window that overlooked the farm. Two miles away, bathed in the faint glow of the moon, was the sleepy Hampshire village. In some of the houses, tiny squares of light glimmered. As his eyes grew accustomed to the grayness, Franz could just discern the steeple of the church in the center of the village.

  He opened the window a fraction, welcoming the cold air that forced its way in. It drove the remnants of sleep from his brain and made him wish he was out there running, hearing the frost crackle beneath his shoes. But he had made a promise to Katherine. Just this once, while they stayed at the Bentley farm, he would forgo his daily exercise routine.

  Turning from the window, he saw Katherine sitting up in bed. “How long have you been awake?”

  “From the moment you lowered the temperature in here by fifty degrees. I
am absolutely frozen, you inconsiderate oaf. Close that window and come back to bed, where all civilized people belong on New Year’s Day.”

  Franz returned to bed, but could not fall asleep again. Accustomed to rising early, he found it hard to break the routine. He simply lay there, listening to Katherine’s rhythmic breathing, feeling her warm body next to his own.

  By eight o’clock, the house was alive with activity. Edna Griffiths worked in the kitchen, helping Erica make breakfast, while Katherine prepared the children for the day. Their only riding would be in the Jaguar, driven into the village by Edna, but they would not feel left out. Katherine had bought them hunting outfits so they would be miniature replicas of their parents.

  Following breakfast, the adults gathered in front of the drawing-room fire. Both Franz and Cliff wore tweed jackets and hard bowler hats. Erica and Katherine wore black jackets with velvet trim, and velvet-covered hard hunting caps. Four gleaming pairs of riding boots reflected flame from the fire, four pairs of breeches shone with a pristine cleanliness.

  Cliff passed out glasses, pouring a tot of Scotch into each. “To keep in the warmth and drive out the cold.”

  Frost was still on the ground when they went outside; a weak sun shone from between light, scattered clouds. Four horses were saddled: a large gray Irish cob for Franz, medium-weight gray geldings for Katherine and Erica, and a chestnut gelding for Cliff. Watching the adults prepare to mount, the children clamored to sit up on a horse. Katherine balanced Joanne on top of the gentle cob, while Erica held Henry on one of the gray geldings.

  Once the children were put into the Jaguar, Edna drove off toward the village. Franz was the first to mount, towering above the others. Katherine had to squint as she looked up at him. Framed by a wintry sun, he cut a haughty figure, back erect, reins gripped easily but firmly in his hand.

  “We should take a picture of you,” Katherine said, as she mounted her gray gelding and drew close to Franz. “You belong on the cover of Horse and Hound or Tailor and Cutter.”

  The others mounted. Erica rode alongside Franz, while Katherine followed with Cliff. They left the farm and rode sedately toward the assembly point, just outside the village. Thirty riders were already there, some resplendent in scarlet jackets, others in tweed or black. The riders formed into a long column of twos to begin the procession through the village. Cottage doors and windows opened as they passed, and villagers called out greetings. Katherine waved back, enjoying this moment of tradition. She saw Franz, riding in front of her, doff his bowler hat to one elderly woman who stood by the roadside to watch the hunt pass.

  In the center of the village was a cobblestoned square. The church stood there as did a dozen shops, shuttered for the day. Only the King’s Arms was open, ready with a warm welcome for the holiday trade. In front of the public house, a sizable crowd had gathered; village locals mixed with townspeople curious to see the customs of country life. Henry and Joanne, holding on to Edna Griffiths’s hands, stood at the very front of the crowd. Recognizing their parents, they began to jump up and down excitedly, and it was only with difficulty that Edna restrained them from breaking free and rushing over to the horses.

  The hunt assembled in front of the King’s Arms. The landlord emerged, bearing a tankard, which he handed up to the white-haired master of the hunt. A photographer from a local newspaper stepped forward to take a picture. As the master raised the tankard to his mouth, a disturbance broke out at the rear of the crowd. A dozen men and women, some waving placards that called for an end to hunting, pushed forward.

  “Ignore them,” Cliff advised, as Katherine swung around in the saddle to see what the noise was all about.

  “Are they dangerous?” she asked, worried more for the children and the housekeeper than for herself.

  “Nuisance value, that’s all.”

  In front, Erica turned around. “If we had the hounds out, those idiots would try to ruin the dogs’ sense of smell by waving aniseed-soaked rags in front of them.”

  On cue, the dozen protestors began to chant. “Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!” Which then changed to another slogan, three words rattled out in staccato fashion. “Ban the hunt! Ban the hunt! Ban the hunt!”

  The master of the hunt raised himself in the saddle to look down at the protesters. “Why don’t you cretins find something useful to do?”

  “We are doing something useful!” a man yelled back. “We’re stopping Hitlers like you from butchering helpless animals.”

  “We do not butcher anything! We drag hunt!”

  The master’s argument was drowned out by a chorus of jeers. A woman in a blue duffel coat, face hidden by the hood, shouted, “Liar! Liar!”

  The chant was instantly taken up by the other protesters. Katherine watched the master’s face grow as red as his jacket. His hands trembled as they held the reins, and she knew he was exerting every ounce of willpower to hold himself back. He raised a hand, the signal to depart. Horses began to move. The situation appeared under control. Then the woman in the blue duffel coat made a throwing motion. A firecracker arced through the air, exploding with a sharp report in the center of the hunt.

  Several horses shied away in terror. More fireworks followed as the protesters followed the woman’s lead. Katherine saw one land close to her own gelding. She pulled back on the reins to steady the horse. As it swung around, she spotted Edna Griffiths dragging the children away from the front of the crowd. Right next to them was the woman in the blue duffel coat. Even as Katherine looked, the woman raised her arm again.

  Katherine’s eyes remained fixed on the firework, from the moment it left the woman’s hand, until it landed directly beneath the large gray Irish cob.

  “Franz!”

  Katherine screamed her husband’s name in warning at the very instant the firework exploded. The cob reared up on its hind legs like a circus horse. Franz lost his grip on the reins. His feet slipped out of the stirrups and he tumbled backwards. The protective bowler hat skittered away into the forest of horse’s legs as Franz’s neck and shoulders slammed sickeningly into the cobblestones.

  Leaping from her own horse, Katherine ran to where Franz lay. She cradled his head in her hands. Blood matted his blond hair. His face was terrifyingly white, drained of its normal vibrant color. His eyes were fixed open, staring but unseeing. His breathing was ragged.

  A hand touched Katherine’s shoulder. She looked up to see Cliff. He helped her stand, then passed her to Erica, who held her tightly. Cliff knelt down beside Franz, the veterinarian filling in as doctor. There was nothing he could do.

  Erica maintained a steady patter of conversation to occupy Katherine’s mind. “Edna took the children back to the farm. She thought it was best to keep them out of the cold. That’s all you need, isn’t it? The children coming down with a cold.”

  “Franz . . .?” Katherine tried to turn her head. She saw the members of the hunt standing around awkwardly, mingling with the villagers. Where were the antihunt protesters whose wild actions had led to this tragedy? Where was the woman in the blue duffel coat?

  An ambulance arrived. Franz was loaded into it. Katherine elected to ride with him. Before the door closed, she called out to Erica to telephone her father. Then she sat down for the long ride to the hospital.

  *

  Roland Eagles enjoyed a quiet New Year’s Eve with Sally Roberts at her apartment. After dinner, they went out for an arm-in-arm walk, Sally snuggled up in a full-length mink coat, which had been Roland’s Christmas gift to her, and Roland equally warm in a new cashmere coat, which had been completed by Huntsman only the previous week, his Christmas present to himself.

  Eventually, they stood outside an imposing Regency house in Mount Street. A small brass plaque announced the existence of a private club named Kendall’s. Roland had been a member for many years.

  “Why?” Sally asked in mild protest, “did I just know that we would somehow wind up here?”

  “Because you’re psychic, and inordinately
clever,” Roland answered. “A few spins of the wheel, that’s all.”

  “And what will I do while you gamble?”

  “Stand by to bring me bundles of luck, of course. Just like you always do.”

  Once inside Kendall’s, after Roland had signed Sally in as his guest, they were transported through time to an earlier, more elegant era. Ornate crystal chandeliers hung from high vaulted ceilings; deep carpet muffled footsteps. Among the paintings on the wall were two Constables and a Gainsborough, depicting calm, pastoral English scenes of a bygone age, and a Hogarth with its satirical glimpse of eighteenth-century England. Even the hum of conversation around the roulette, blackjack, and chemin-de-fer tables was muted, as though club members were not engaged in gambling, but in holy worship.

  While Sally watched, Roland played roulette, swinging for half an hour on the pendulum of profit and loss. At one point he was ahead by two thousand pounds. When he decided to quit, he was behind by four hundred pounds.

  “You didn’t bring me any luck,” Roland chided Sally lightly as they walked back to her apartment.

  “I most certainly did. Unfortunately, it was all bad.” She snaked her arm through his and kissed him. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Just to show how magnanimous I am, I shall not hold you totally responsible.”

  “Big of you. Hardly an auspicious way to begin the new year, though, dropping four hundred pounds.”

  “We’re still in 1976,” Roland reminded her. “I was just washing out any bad luck with the old year. Like casting my sins into the river, the way orthodox Jews do on their New Year.”

  “Feeling for your roots?” Sally teased. “I never thought you were the superstitious kind, Roland Eagles.”

  “Show me a gambler who’s not superstitious, and I’ll show you a gambler with no heart.”

  They reached Sally’s apartment at ten minutes before midnight. She made hot chocolate, and as a clock chimed in the new year, they toasted each other with heavy mugs.