Determined Lady. Margaret Mayo
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The front door led straight into the sitting-room and she dumped her bag and looked around, smiling sadly to herself. It was just as she remembered: a little dusty, but otherwise looking as if all her aunt had done was step out for a while.
It was a comfy, cosy room, the traditional chintz very much in evidence, lots of brass—which needed cleaning—lots of pictures and ornaments and lace mats, the usual bric-a-brac old ladies would collect over the years—and, most poignant of all, her aunt’s rocking chair.
Saira felt tears spring to her eyes and her mouth twisted ruefully as memories flooded back. She had spent so many happy hours here; her aunt had read to her, played with her, loved her, kissed her better when she fell down, bathed her, fed her, brushed her hair; and as she grew older listened to her teenage problems, dispensed advice, never lectured, always understood.
Saira’s own mother had always been very strict and consequently Saira had never been able to talk to her, always turning to Aunt Lizzie. She truly missed her.
But it was no good standing here crying, she must ring her mother, she must sort Jarrett Brent out. Mentally she straightened her back. To her horror the telephone line was dead, and when she tried the light switch there was no electricity either. Not altogether surprising, since the cottage had lain empty for a couple of months, but she began to wonder whether Jarrett Brent hadn’t deliberately suggested she stay here knowing there were no conveniences. From what little she had seen of him so far it seemed the sort of despicable thing he would do.
Her first thought was to march back up to the Hall and confront him with it, but that was probably what he expected; he probably even hoped she would turn around and go home! It had been his cruel way of getting rid of her.
Saira’s chin came up with characteristic stubbornness. She could manage for a day or two; she would light a fire to heat water, even cook that way if necessary. He would soon find she wasn’t so easily put off.
Saira used the phone box at the end of the village and Margaret Carlton was equally horrified by the claims this man was making. ‘Of course I’ll send you the letter, but why don’t you go and see Mr Kirby? Goodness, Saira, do you want me to come and sort this man out?’
Saira laughed, though there was not much mirth in her voice. ‘Really, Mother, I can look after myself. I just need proof that I’m Elizabeth Harwood’s niece and that I’ve inherited the cottage.’
Perhaps her mother was right, though, and she ought to see Mr Kirby, thought Saira as she made her way back. She glanced at her watch; almost four on a Friday afternoon—far too late. But on Monday, if nothing had been sorted out, if Jarrett Brent hadn’t done the decent thing and admitted that the cottage belonged to her, she would go to see him.
She found firelighters and matches and coal and soon had flames leaping up the chimney. But her sense of achievement was short-lived when foul-smelling smoke bellowed back into the room, making her cough and choke and run to open doors and windows.
Having only ever known central heating, Saira wasn’t familiar with open fires and it took her a second or two to realise that the chimney must be blocked—probably by a bird’s nest.
The acrid smoke belched out ever more thickly and, not knowing what else to do Saira filled a jug with water and flung it over the coals. The joys of country living, she thought despondently. Oh, well, a sandwich and a glass of milk would have to do for her supper—if the village shop was open! Otherwise it would be another visit to the Challoner’s Arms.
Fortunately the shop had not closed and Saira stocked up with a few provisions, and found out that Mrs Edistone had already spread the news that Saira Carlton was claiming Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘I wish you luck,’ said Mary, the elderly shopkeeper; ‘the squire’s not an easy man to tangle with.’
Saira spent the next hour cleaning and polishing. Little smuts of soot had settled everywhere and the smell was acrid. Aunt Lizzie had kept the place spotless and Saira wanted everything to be the same; she wanted nothing changed.
She slept that night in her aunt’s spare bedroom, the one she had always used as a child, the one with rosesprigged wallpaper and old walnut furniture, and although she was desperately tired thoughts of the obnoxious Jarrett Brent kept her restless.
The day’s totally unexpected events churned round and round in her mind—and she still had a fight in front of her! Something else puzzled her, too. There was something about this big man that nagged in the back of her mind. She felt sure she had seen him some place before but could not work out where. She tossed and turned and thought and pondered, but no answer came.
She was up at dawn and thought longingly of a cup of strong, hot tea, and to take her mind off it she went for a walk. She watched the sun paint the sky with touches of red and gold, she walked through the lanes, she looked at Frenton Hall and called Jarrett Brent all the names she could of, and then went back to the cottage and ate cornflakes with cold milk.
What time did the postman come? she wondered, sitting in her aunt’s rocking chair, positioned where she could see out of the window. Aunt Lizzie had spent hours here watching the world go by and now Saira did the same, rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, her thoughts seesawing in just the same manner, from Jarrett to her aunt, from her aunt back to Jarrett. Could she believe that he’d had some sort of friendship with her?
It was almost nine before she saw the familiar red post van making its way slowly down the street and she was outside on the doorstep when he neared Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘Saira Carlton?’ he asked, and when she nodded, ‘I didn’t know anyone was living here. I heard the old lady had died. A shame, I liked her.’
‘That was my aunt,’ said Saira, and hoped he was not going to stay and talk too long. She was anxious now that she had Mr Kirby’s letter to go up to the Hall and confront Jarret! Brent. He would not expect her to get irrefutable proof quite so quickly.
To her relief the postman bade her good-day and continued on his rounds and Saira, after checking to make sure it was Mr Kirby’s letter, pulled on her jacket and set off for the Hall. She kept her finger on the bellpush for several seconds and when Mrs Gibbs opened the door Saira smiled wickedly. ‘I’d like to see Mr Brent, please.’
‘Is he expecting you?’ The same dour expression was on his housekeeper’s face.
Here we go again, she thought, and tilting her chin she looked the woman in the eye. ‘Oh, yes, he’s expecting me all right.’
‘I have not been told.’
‘Nevertheless he is expecting me,’ Saira insisted. Did this woman have orders or something to let no one through? ‘Is he in?’
‘Well, yes, but——‘
‘Then kindly tell him I am here.’ Saira impressed even herself with her manner. It was actually quite alien for her to behave like this, but this man really rubbed her up the wrong way. She would get nowhere if she kowtowed; she had to be strong.
He was here now, walking towards the door, wearing a navy suit with a white silk shirt and a maroon spotted tie. ‘What are you doing here this early?’ His eyes were cool and hard and Saira resented the two steps up into the house which gave him an even bigger advantage.
She stretched herself up to her full height. ‘I told you I would be back.’
‘But not this soon; I wasn’t expecting you today.’ A frown of annoyance creased his brow.
‘Well, I’m here, and I have my proof,’ she told him haughtily. ‘May I come in?’
‘I was actually on my way out,’ he announced, a touch of arrogance in his tone now. He was clearly not used to having his plans thrown into disarray—or was it hotheaded women on his doorstep who annoyed him?
‘It won’t take long,’ said Saira, and ascended the steps before he could say another word, standing as close to him as she dared, silently demanding that he let her in, feeling the pungent smell of his aftershave assail her nostrils.
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