His Wedding-Night Heir. Sara Craven
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she’d feared. She could well be panicking unduly. Yet some gut instinct—some sense of self-preservation—seemed to be warning her again. Otherwise, why the dreams?
In any case, there were valid, practical reasons for her to leave Wellingford.
For one thing, the job she’d enjoyed so much no longer existed, and at the end of the week she would receive her final wage packet from the Hartley family. Who would begrudge her every penny of it.
She sighed as she cleaned her teeth. She could still hardly believe that Genevieve Hartley was dead. She’d seemed indomitable—eternal. Even now, six weeks later, Cally half expected to see the large car draw up at the end of Gunners Wharf and Mrs Hartley’s small, silver-haired figure alight.
Riding to our rescue, Cally thought grimacing. Except it was far too late for that.
I hope the dead can’t see the living, she told herself with sudden fierceness. I hope Mrs Hartley doesn’t know what her ghastly sons and their expensive wives did to her dream for Gunners Wharf even before she was cold in her grave. All those hopes and plans and hard work just swept away. All those people suddenly discovering they needed somewhere else to live.
It shouldn’t have happened, of course. Mrs Hartley’s intentions had been very different. She’d meant the Gunners Wharf project to survive and thrive even when she was no longer there to supervise it. She’d been to see her lawyers, to draw up the necessary adjustments to her will, only to succumb to a sudden devastating heart attack before the all-important document could be signed.
Even so, the residents had all hoped that her wishes would be respected. She’d made them clear enough even to her resentful children.
So they’d collected for a wreath, and attended the funeral to demonstrate their affection and respect for the woman who’d encouraged their visions, only to find themselves totally ignored by the family, their presence unnecessary and embarrassing.
A bad omen, Cally had thought at the time, unease twisting inside her.
And her premonition had been quite correct.
Within two weeks all the tenants had received notice to quit, and Gunners Wharf had been sold for redevelopment. They’d protested, naturally, but legally, they’d been told, they didn’t have a leg to stand on. Their leases had been privately agreed with Mrs Hartley, and the rents kept deliberately, unrealistically low.
But there’d been nothing in writing, and her sudden death had prevented her from regularising their position in law.
Besides, it had been added, in a final blow to their hopes, most of the houses were still waiting to be renovated, and could well be deemed unfit for human habitation.
As she put on her clothes Cally tasted the acid of tears in her throat, and swallowed them back. She’d become genuinely fond of Genevieve Hartley, and her death had been a personal blow, quite apart from all the other ramifications.
On the other hand, the abandonment of the Gunners Wharf housing project would give Cally a personal release.
I always knew my time here was limited, she reminded herself, applying moisturiser to her pale skin. But I thought I’d be the first to leave.
Once again someone she loved had been suddenly and tragically taken away from her. And once again she was left floundering in a kind of limbo.
Genevieve Hartley had been almost the first person Cally had met when she’d arrived in Wellingford.
She’d been sitting in the bus station buffet, drinking coffee while she looked through the small ads in the local weekly paper, scanning them for job opportunities and room rentals, when she’d spotted the last entry in the ‘Situations Vacant’ column.
‘Administrative assistant required for housing project with Children’s Centre,’ she’d read. ‘Enthusiastic and computer literate. Able to work on own initiative.’ Followed by a telephone number.
Less than an hour later she’d been in Mrs Hartley’s elegant drawing room, being interviewed.
She’d been unfazed to find that her future employer was a chic elderly woman with steely blue eyes and an autocratic manner. She was used to ageing despots. In fact, she’d spent most of her life with one, she thought ruefully. So Mrs Hartley’s brisk, searching interrogation had come as no real shock.
Cally had sat composedly, answering the older woman’s questions with quiet candour.
Yes, she had references, but mainly for waitressing and shop work. She’d been taking a kind of gap year, she’d added, mentally crossing her fingers, travelling around and working at whatever jobs offered themselves.
‘But you have worked with computers?’ Genevieve Hartley poured China tea into thin porcelain cups. ‘I need someone who can do word processing, keep records and oversee the on-going renovation scheme. Also act as liaison between the builders, the tenants and the Town Hall.’ She paused with a faint smile. ‘My tenants at Gunners Wharf have not had easy starts in life, and this has made them wary, so sometimes the situation can become—shall we say volatile? I’m looking for someone who can sort out any snags before they become real difficulties.’
Cally hesitated. ‘I took computer studies during my last year at school.’
‘Which school was that?’
Cally told her, and the plucked brows rose. ‘Indeed?’ said Genevieve Hartley. ‘Then I suggest a fortnight’s trial on both sides. After all,’ she added drily, ‘you might find some of the tenants rather too much of a problem.’
I’d find not eating a much greater one, Cally thought wryly. Thought it but did not say it.
‘In addition to the administrative work you’ll be asked to take your turn at the Children’s Centre, particularly helping out in the coffee bar.’ She gave Cally an unexpectedly sweet smile. ‘So your past experience could be useful, my dear.’
The money Mrs Hartley had offered was reasonable, but not lavish. It had enabled Cally to live, yet hadn’t encouraged her to put down roots. Which was exactly what she needed.
In time, when she was entirely free of her former life, she would find a home, and a career. Until then she would continue to be a nomad, because it was safer that way.
Tonight, she thought, adding a muted lustre to her lips, she would get out her map book and decide where to go next.
The river might sparkle in the sunshine, but the brightness did no favours to the dilapidated warehouses and crumbling sheds along Gunners Wharf itself.
In many ways redevelopment was exactly what was needed for the entire area, Cally conceded reluctantly as she walked down to the Centre, where the admin office was based. But why did it have to happen at the expense of the housing scheme? Why couldn’t they have existed side by side?
Here, in the back street running parallel to the wharf, nearly half the properties had already been restored, with new windows and roofs, freshly pointed brickwork and gleaming paint. A lot of the work had been done by the tenants themselves, as an act of faith—an investment in a future that had now been taken from them, she thought bleakly.
Mrs Hartley had provided the Children’s Centre at her own expense, patiently providing funds to meet every new Health and Safety regulation that the local council could throw at them. It was no secret that it had cost her a small fortune, and maybe this was what her sons had resented so much. Because it was also known that Hartleys department store, like many other High Street shops, had been struggling for a couple of years, and needed a cash injection.
Well, they certainly had it now, Cally thought, biting her lip. The sale had gone through so fast that they must have had a string of potential buyers already lined up. While the single mothers and families in badly paid work they were turning out would struggle to find alternative housing that they could afford.
She sighed. But, as her grandfather had always said, one man’s gain was another’s loss. And the whole scheme