Barbara Erskine - Kingdom of Shadows

She knew the woman wouldn’t swim. She never did. For all Clare’s determined efforts to make a friend of her, Sarah Collins seemed equally determined to keep her distance, to draw demarcation lines. Mistress and servant. Lady of the house and housekeeper. Confidante – that was a traditional part of the role – but giving nothing in exchange, so not a real friend. Ever.

Clare shrugged. She picked up the towel again and, drying her hands, she took the letters. Glancing at them without interest she threw them down on the white-painted wrought-iron table.

Already Sarah was walking back to the house. The gate clicked behind her and Clare was alone again. Sighing she poured herself some juice from the jug on the table, but she didn’t drink it. Instead she walked over to the mat on the pool’s edge. She would do twenty minutes’ yoga practice now, whilst her body was clean and invigorated and relaxed from the swim.

Slipping out of the wet bikini she tossed it on to one side, sitting, gracefully naked, on the mat. Taking a deep slow breath she closed her eyes and began deliberately to relax, muscle by muscle, limb by limb, letting her mind float blankly as, slowly, she drew her legs up into the first asana.

‘Yoga, meditation, relaxation. First-class, my dear. They’re all first-class.’ She could still hear John Stanford’s slightly patronising tones. ‘Anything to help you unwind and remove the stress. Now don’t worry about it at all. The tests are going to prove there is nothing wrong. You’ll see. When nature thinks you’re good and ready you’ll conceive and not a moment before. We can’t hurry these things, you know.’

‘But don’t I have to go into hospital or anything?’ She had expected worse than those tests; a hospital appointment, talk of a D and C; something. Not a pat on the back for going to yoga classes.

He had shaken his head. ‘You’ve been on the pill for five years, Clare. It can take a while for your fertility to return. I’m sure in my own mind that is all it is. Is Paul putting the pressure on you, my dear? Wanting a son and heir and all that? I’ll have a word with him about it. Leave it to me.’

And that had been that. And meanwhile Paul’s family surrounded her reproachfully with their children. Gillian with three and another on the way; Chloe, her other sister-in-law, with two; and even Em, her best friend, Paul’s baby sister, had Julia.

She opened the first of her letters as she walked back towards the house, once more clad in the bikini for the sake of Sarah’s susceptibilities. She was reading it as she reached the soft mossy grass of the back lawn.

We understand that you are the owner of the hotel, castle … and policies of the area known as Duncairn … Scotland. Our client has indicated that he would be interested in purchasing the above-mentioned property in its entirety … negotiation of a price to be undertaken …

Clare stared down at the letter in disbelief. A wave of anger swept over her. Did they seriously imagine she would sell Duncairn? Sell her birthright, sell seven hundred years of history, her inheritance from Aunt Margaret; sell all that beauty and wildness and memory? The letter had an official, demanding tone; the impersonal legal phrasing implied more than a casual interest, it implied knowledge of the place, and of the extent of her ownership; it implied the right to buy. Suddenly she was filled with panic.

Clutching the letters in her hand, she began to run towards the house, her bare feet silent on the old polished boards as she pushed open the french windows. The drawing room was cool, shaded from the sun by half-drawn curtains, and Jocasta, her long-haired golden retriever, was lying in there in the cool, asleep. The dog raised her head as Clare appeared and wagged her tail in greeting as her mistress threw the rest of the post on to a chair.

Not even pausing to read the letter again, Clare sat down at her desk, pulled a piece of headed notepaper from one of the cubby-holes in front of her and grabbed her pen.

Nothing, nothing would ever induce her to sell. No amount of money would be sufficient incentive. Her pen raced over the paper. The property was not and never would be for sale. How dare Messrs Mitchison and Archer even ask? She scratched her signature and folded it into an envelope. It was then that she realised her hands were shaking with fury.

With a loud sigh the dog lay flat again and closed her eyes. The action brought Clare up short. She stared at Casta for a moment, then slowly she tore the envelope in two. She took a deep breath. Body awareness, Zak called it. Be aware of your body; notice when it’s under stress. Be conscious of your pulse, your heartbeat. Feel the heat in your face. Notice how you are breathing. Give yourself more oxygen. Nothing is worth that much hassle … His cool voice came back to her. Time. Take time. She hadn’t realised she was trembling, reacting to the threat as though this man, this unknown lawyer with his importunate letter was in the room with her.

Slowly she stood up. Idiot that she was. There was no hurry. The letter could be posted any time. He could do nothing. The land was not for sale. Whatever his client wanted it for, they could find somewhere else. Nothing and no one could force her to sell …

She thought suddenly of Paul and she found herself swallowing nervously. What would Paul say when he heard about the offer?

And with the same thought she knew with calm certainty that she would never tell him.

Upstairs she showered, then, wrapping herself in a bathrobe, went into her bedroom. It was a pretty room, full of sunlight, the dust-pink curtains and frills making it warm and friendly whilst the silver-grey carpet gave an impression of cool self-possession. She could smell the roses from the silver and glass bowl on the table by the window. Meditate. That was Zak’s remedy for situations she couldn’t handle. Meditate, relax, take time. Then face the problem and do something about it. Then forget it.

She opened the cupboard in the corner of the room and brought out a candle in a squat cut-glass holder and some matches. Lighting it and placing it carefully on the carpet, she drew the curtains, then cross-legged she sat down before it, eyes closed, wrists hanging loosely on her knees.

Her favourite exercise wasn’t really meditation. She had tried the various forms Zak had suggested, but none had the appeal of the first visualisation exercise he had taught her. ‘Close your eyes and think of your favourite place. The place you feel happiest and most relaxed. Picture the scene. Make it so real that you can smell it, feel it, hear it, feel the sun on your skin, hear the birdsong, smell the grass, make a mental ashram there.’ She always chose Duncairn.

It was in June she had been there last, on Midsummer’s Day, just after she and Paul had had their first quarrel.

The will had been quite explicit. To Clare came the ruined castle, a thousand or so acres of moorland around it, the old-fashioned, sleepy, hotel and the feus of the fishing village which nestled at the foot of the cliffs. As she had a rich husband to support her, she had no need of money, so the three farms and the money, all of it, went to James, who was so like his dead father; as did Airdlie, the Perthshire house and estates, although their mother and her second husband, Archie, had life tenancy there.

‘Did you know what the old bat planned to do?’ Paul turned on her the moment they were alone in their hotel room after the reading of the will.

‘No, I didn’t know.’ Her voice was bleak. ‘She always said she would leave everything to us both. I was to get Duncairn – I’ve always known I’d get Duncairn – but I thought she’d leave me some money too.’

‘Some money!’ Paul lowered his voice. ‘Margaret Gordon was worth over one and a half million, Clare, in securities alone. With the farms another three at least.’ His handsome face looked drawn and pale as he caught her arm and swung her to face him. ‘And she left it all to James! You will have to contest it.’