The Mother And The Millionaire

When Jack called at the front door—a first—the new cook was instructed to show him into the dining room.

Arabella disappeared through an interconnecting door and her mother instructed Esme, ‘Stay silent.’

So she did, silent and forgotten at one end of the table.

Jack barely glanced her way. ‘You changed the lock,’ he directed at their mother. ‘What did you think I was going to do? Smash the place up?’

‘For all I know,’ Rosalind Scott-Hamilton sniffed back, ‘you’re capable of it… Now you’ve been thwarted.’

‘Thwarted?’ Jack echoed. ‘Meaning what exactly?’

‘Meaning, young man—’ from her sitting position her mother still managed to look down her nose ‘—your attempts to compromise my daughter have come to naught.’

‘Compromise?’ A ridiculously old-fashioned word, it was clear Jack thought so, too.

‘But in case you’ve failed to get the message—’ her mother paused briefly before launching into a vituperative speech, making it crystal clear that Jack wasn’t fit to court her eldest daughter.

As Arabella was listening in the next room—and Arabella was quite capable of defying their mother and interrupting— Esme assumed this tirade had her approval.

Esme watched the anger darkening Jack’s brow, heard his intake of breath, then cheered silently as he finally retaliated to her mother’s snobbery with a few well-chosen words.

When he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him, her mother still had her mouth hanging open.

Esme pushed back her chair to follow.

‘And where are you going?’ Her mother turned on her.

‘To my room.’ She could hardly say, After Jack.

Her mother might have insisted she stay, but when Arabella reappeared the focus of her attention shifted.

‘Yes, all right.’ She waved Esme away.

Esme knew she was already forgotten and could please herself. She hurried to the front door, imagining Jack had exited the same way he’d entered, but there was no sign of anyone in the drive. She retraced her steps, creeping past the dining room en route to the kitchen.

The new cook, Maggie, was putting the finishing touches to dessert. She glanced up at Esme, noted her expression, then gestured towards the back door.

‘He’s gone to the barn.’

‘The barn?’

Maggie nodded. ‘I gave him a bottle to keep out the chill.’

‘A bottle? A bottle of what?’

‘Whisky from the larder. I’ll replace it, of course.’

Esme wasn’t worried about that, but frowned. ‘Jack doesn’t drink.’

Maggie shook her head—over Esme’s naïveté. ‘All men drink. Trust me… He’ll need it tonight, too, if he’s to sleep in the hayloft.’

‘But why…?’ Esme was still trying to catch up with events.

‘He has nowhere else,’ Maggie relayed. ‘Your mother’s dumped his stuff and had a locksmith in. It seems she didn’t like him and your sister being so friendly.’

Esme had gathered as much but why now, so suddenly? Arabella had been hanging round Jack for weeks and her mother had done little to prevent it, being indulgent in the extreme to her elder daughter.

‘I fetched this down earlier—’ Maggie indicated a blanket draped over a chair ‘—but he’s gone off without it.’

‘I’ll take it to him.’ Esme picked it up.

‘Are you sure?’ Maggie looked a little uncertain but didn’t try to stop Esme, adding, ‘I’ll leave the door on the latch.’

‘Thanks.’ Esme went out into the night.

It was almost nine, but, being summer, it was still light as Esme crossed the stable yard to the barn at the end.

The door squeaked on rusty hinges; she called out, ‘Jack,’ faintly at first, then louder at his lack of response.

‘Up here.’ Reluctantly admitted, it came from the hayloft above.

Esme stepped fully inside. Very little light filtered into the barn but she knew her way by memory. She reached the ladder and started to climb, pushing the blanket up before her. She was hardly attired for the occasion, in a summer dress, but she stayed poised at the top while her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness.

‘It’s me, Esme.’ She identified herself in case he’d hoped for someone different.

His voice came from the far wall and sounded gruffer than usual. ‘I know it’s you. What do you want?’

‘I—I…’ What did she want? To tell him she was sorry, she supposed. It suddenly seemed inadequate and his tone was scarcely welcoming.

‘Well, while you’re deciding,’ he mocked her stammering, ‘either come up or go down before you fall and break your neck.’

A torch was switched on and shone across the floor so she had some light to guide her. She still couldn’t see him but it was obvious he was indifferent as to whether she stayed or went.

Esme hovered for a moment longer, then scrambled all the way into the hayloft, ripping the hem of her dress. Uncaring, she edged nearer on all fours until she reached the back wall.

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