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The Inheritance

By Jo-Anne Berthelsen

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Chapter One
Michael opened the door and halted, his hard gaze resting on the woman seated alone at the dining table. Justine Trevelyan appeared older and thinner than he remembered, yet as regal and indomitable as ever. For a brief moment, the light shining from the heavy chandelier above gave her silvery hair the appearance of a halo. He shook his head impatiently in an effort to dismiss such an incongruous thought. Then, taking a deep breath to settle himself, he moved towards her.
He was the first to speak.
‘Hello, Mother. We meet again at last!’
He noticed her fingers curl where they rested on the snowy, white cloth. She did not rise, but turned in her chair to greet him, stiff and erect.
And as she did, he knew at once she was remembering the last time they had spoken. The years had neither softened her nor changed her opinion of him.
‘Good evening, Michael. Please sit down. Dinner will be served soon,’ she informed him in the rather peremptory tone he remembered so well.
He seated himself to her right, where she had indicated, and was silent.
It was a welcome interruption when Nettie and William entered, bearing the steaming dishes containing their main course. As the covers were lifted, displaying the succulent roast lamb and neatly arranged
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baked vegetables, the familiar smell of Nettie’s fresh herbs assailed his nostrils, almost overwhelming him. His mind was catapulted back to events long ago—carefree, boyhood days spent chattering to a younger Nettie in the kitchen as she chopped and sliced the fresh ingredients from the garden—but also to formal, rigid, silent meals in this same dining room which had remained unchanged over the years. Memories that even now made him feel like escaping, running like the wind across the lawn and along the path leading to the woods, as he so often had over the years.
With an effort, he allowed his mother’s voice to recall him to the present.
‘That will be all, thank you.’
Nettie and William silently left the room.
He watched and waited as his mother prepared to begin the meal. Her hands were shaking, betraying the tension in her body, and she seemed to be making a deliberate effort to breathe deeply, her thin chest rising and falling with each breath. Then she drew herself even more erect and looked straight at him.
‘Before we eat, I shall say grace, Michael, if you don’t mind,’ she said decisively.
He felt an anger welling up from the very depths of his being. Yes, I do mind, he wanted to scream—I mind very much! Every part of me minds! But he remained silent. What difference would it make, anyway? Then, just as his mother opened her mouth to begin, he heard his own voice erupting out of him as if from some subterranean level, harsh and rough.
‘You can’t make me, Mother. You can’t make me pray to a God I no longer believe in—a God who takes more than He gives. Thank Him yourself, if you wish, for this meal our own people have worked hard to prepare. But don’t expect me to join in.’
The expression on his mother’s face did not change with this sudden outburst, apart from an almost imperceptible tightening of her mouth. Then she bowed her head.
‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly
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thankful. Amen.’
For a moment, he wondered how the Lord would make him do that. But, with a sigh, he let the thought go. With eyes wide open, he watched his mother raise her head again and prepare to eat.
‘So tell me, Michael, what places have you visited lately in your travels?’ she asked, as if he had never spoken the harsh words that still lay between them. ‘You mentioned you couldn’t come to see me any earlier because you would be away.’
‘I’ve been in Edinburgh this past week for a medical conference—and before that, in Munich.’
He could hear the terseness in his voice, but had no desire to make pleasant conversation. He glanced around him and, as he did, more memories came flooding back. In his mind’s eye he could see Miriam seated across from him, her sparkling eyes dancing with mischief, full of joy for all life promised her. Her golden curls were shining in the light from the chandelier as she tossed her head and wriggled her body, refusing to sit still. She was looking straight at him, laughing, pulling a face as if daring him to say something that would stir up one or the other of their parents.
Then she was gone, her chair empty. He almost jumped to his feet to search for her, to find her before it was too late. He could feel his heart beating faster and his hands were clammy. How could she have disappeared like that? Where had she gone?
Confused, he dropped his fork with a clatter and bent to retrieve it. And as he straightened, it was as if twenty years had passed and he was again in the present, alone with this woman who was his mother.
He seemed to be walking a tightrope between the past and the present, between love and hate, hope and despair. His heart was still beating fast, as if urging him to keep his balance at all costs. No, he did not want to give her the privilege of seeing him fall. He wanted her to see him as strong, successful, in control of his life.
They continued eating without speaking, but his food tasted like ashes. And, in his mother’s silence, he felt her bitter condemnation and
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familiar lack of forgiveness. He became aware of a pain somewhere in the region of his heart, a pain that only increased as the silence lengthened between them. Yet he found himself reluctant to break it. He refused to be vulnerable, ever again.
Attacking his meal with renewed vigour, he focussed his energies on leaving nothing on his plate. In contrast, out of the corner of his eye he noticed his mother barely touching her food. She had been given only a small amount, yet she did not appear to have made any significant inroads into what had been put before her.
Soon she put down her knife and fork and dabbed at her lips with a dainty, linen napkin. He thought he heard her sigh, but her face showed no emotion he could detect in one swift glance, no sign of warmth or relief that he was here at last after all these years.
Nettie returned to remove their plates, bringing with her his favourite dessert—a sumptuous apple pie with hot custard and clotted cream. As she placed them on the table near his mother, for a moment her eyes met his. And in them he saw what he was sure was a hint of compassion, an acknowledgement of the bond that had once existed between them. Again he almost started from his seat, this time to touch Nettie’s arm, to look into her eyes and search for that spark of understanding and perhaps even love he was certain he had glimpsed. But again he stayed where he was, aware this was not the moment to pursue such matters.
‘Would you like some apple pie, Michael?’ his mother asked then, her voice devoid of emotion.
‘You know I would!’ he burst out before he could stop himself.
It was the same phrase he had used many times as a child, and the shame of it overwhelmed him. To his ears, his words still held a hint of the old eagerness he had always displayed at the sight of his favourite dessert and that unmistakeable note of panic lest he miss out. It was not what he wanted to convey at all. Rather, what he had been striving for was an impression of mastery, of seeing through all her pretence. He could sense within him a deep, driving desire to crush her, to let her know her little games would come to nothing.
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She was not going to control him anymore.
He sat back in his chair and looked at her, his eyes cold as glass. But her attention was focussed on cutting a liberal portion of pie for him, her hand shaking as she took care to position the large slice in the centre of his sweets dish.
And then she met his glance.
‘Custard? Or would you prefer cream?’
‘I’ll take care of it. I’m not a child now. I’m thirty-four, in case you’d forgotten.’
Again they ate in silence, until he felt he could not hold back any longer.
‘I thought I saw Miriam before, you know, Mother,’ he said in a conversational tone. ‘She was sitting right there in that chair. Strange, isn’t it, how returning to a familiar environment can bring back so many memories?’
He was aware his words were cruel, but he was beyond caring. He noticed his mother’s face blanch and her hands shake even more. Yet when she spoke, her voice was still firm and authoritative.
‘Michael, you know you saw nothing of the sort!’
The words were spoken in the same tone he had heard so many times after Miriam’s death—a tone that contained more than a hint of stern rebuke for refusing to face reality.
‘As far as I’m concerned I did,’ he heard himself say.
‘No, Michael, you didn’t!’
He remained silent, staring at her. Now her voice held an even more dominant note.
‘You mustn’t imagine things! You must accept what happened. Miriam’s gone, Michael—forever.’
Her voice was harsh, but now he could see beyond that, beyond the definite, commanding tone she was employing. He sensed the fear there that he might shatter her illusions, the careful construct she had placed on the course of events way back then.
Now the image of Miriam sitting opposite him had been replaced in his mind by another—this time of Miriam lying in her
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coffin, so young and vulnerable, so ethereally beautiful. And once more he was ensnared in the horror of it all, unable to escape. He heard again the lid of her coffin closing with a dull thud. He watched as they carried her out of the church and up the hill to the graveyard. He saw himself at fifteen, standing beside the freshly dug grave as her body was lowered into that cold, cold earth. He heard his own boyish screams—‘She’s not dead! She’s not dead! Please don’t put her in that hole! Open the lid—she’s not dead! Let her out!’
He watched again as his father and uncle tried to quieten him, to reason with him. But he was past being consoled.
‘She’s not dead, do you hear?’ he heard himself crying out to all the black-garbed people present. ‘She’s not dead—not my Miriam!’
And then he was fleeing, running like a wild thing down the hill towards the woods, to sob out his grief in that hidden private place known only to himself and Miriam.
With a start, he realised his mother was speaking again.
‘I brought you here against my better judgement,’ she was saying, ‘because I believe we need to sort out some important matters. But I cannot and will not tolerate your raking up the past in such a childish, insensitive way. And I won’t tolerate your contradicting me. I am still your mother, even though we have seen so little of each other in recent years.’
He was damned if he’d apologise. She was not going to be allowed to see things from her perspective only. Besides, ‘sorry’ had been absent from his vocabulary for some time, at least as far as his mother was concerned. And saying sorry would be betraying Miriam in his books—a bit like sleeping with the enemy. Yet how could this now frail woman seated nearby be his enemy? She was his mother. She had borne him—and Geoffrey and Miriam. But she was his enemy just the same.
‘It is strange, Mother,’ he repeated, as if she has said nothing. ‘Very strange how old, familiar surroundings can bring the memories flooding back, whether we want them to or not.’
‘Then I suggest you exercise some self-discipline and give your
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full attention to the matters I wish to discuss,’ she snapped, her voice conveying a mixture of exasperation and rigid determination to retain control of both herself and the conversation. ‘I’m reluctant to waste your time, Michael. I’m very aware, as you’ve often pointed out, that you’re a busy man. I brought you here because Doctor Hope is concerned about a few health problems of mine. I’ll refrain from boring you with the details. No doubt you have much more important medical issues on your mind than my maladies. Anyhow, I’ve always been uncomfortable discussing my personal health with family members. Suffice it to say that I decided I need to tell you face to face what I intend to do with Whitecross when I die. I feel I owe it to the memory of your father, who poured so much of himself into this estate.’
He sighed and glared back at her.
‘I thought I told you when I left that you were free to do whatever you wished with this place. Why you have to drag me down here to tell me something that could easily have been put down on paper is beyond me. So I’m suspecting some ulterior motive, and I’m sure you won’t disappoint me in this, at least.’
He knew he was behaving badly. He could hear the cynicism in his voice and feel the stinging sarcasm of his words. Yet he could not seem to help himself. He saw his mother flinch and suspected her resolve might falter. But then she took a deep breath and squared her thin shoulders.
‘I want you to know that as the firstborn Trevelyan, by rights you should inherit Whitecross,’ she said, with barely a hint of a tremor. ‘It’s what your father wanted and what everyone would expect. I’ve put a lot of thought and prayer into this whole matter over the past months in particular. In fact, I’ve spent many sleepless nights agonising over what would be the right thing to do. Michael, I need to tell you something I’ve never mentioned before, since it impacts the decision I have chosen to make. Perhaps then you’ll understand my dilemma. This is a very personal matter—hence my hesitance to speak of it and cause pain for us both. Also, it involves those no
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longer with us, but I feel I must proceed. Whatever you think of me at this stage, I need to tell you the truth.’
His mother’s words and manner were irritating him beyond belief. What could she have to say that he hadn’t already heard? With sudden clarity, it dawned on him then how little he knew about her as a person. For most of his life he had been allowed to see only that well-mannered, respectable, disciplined part of her she chose to present to the world. After his father’s death, she had become even more remote, implacable in her refusal to discuss things—especially Miriam’s death. He had given up and gone away in the end, after one final bitter confrontation. His mother hadn’t wanted to talk then. Yet here she was facing him now, somehow a little pathetic in her plea to be heard.
‘Go on, then,’ he heard himself say. ‘But please keep it short. I didn’t come here for a sermon.’
She was looking straight at him, her jaw firm and her lips pursed. Her skin was still quite smooth but sallow now, he noticed, and there were dark rings under her eyes. No, she did not look well.
‘You are thirty-four, as you reminded me earlier,’ she began, breaking the icy silence. ‘I was twenty-eight when you were born and had been married for four years by then. On the whole, they were four lonely years; your father was forty by the time you arrived and preoccupied with his business interests, as well as with setting this estate to rights after it had become so rundown. I would often travel with him to London and spend my time shopping or meeting with friends while he dealt with his business matters. Then in the evenings we’d go out. I loved parties and balls—but he hated them. So sometimes your Uncle Edward would fill in for your father, with his blessing. Edward and I had great fun together. We enjoyed meeting new people and he was a good dancer. And of course, he often visited us here. After all, this had been his home as well.’
She paused as if to regain her strength. Where was this all heading, he wondered? He knew his face must betray his boredom, but decided not to interrupt. Better to let her get on with it.
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‘I want you to know I loved your father, Michael,’ she continued, her voice faltering a little. ‘He was kind to me and indulged me more than he should have. He often used to say he couldn’t believe his good fortune that a smart, London belle like me would want to marry a confirmed bachelor like him. He made me feel secure, but I let him down in the end. Several times in that fourth year of our marriage, he made trips to London without me. I knew he’d be busy. Besides, we were redecorating here and I needed to be on hand to ensure everything was as I wanted it to be. Edward was here quite often around that time—he’d had several girlfriends but couldn’t seem to settle with any of them. I can’t understand now how it happened or even give any excuse for it, but Edward ... well, he became more than a kind brother-in-law to me in the end. He was always charming and persuasive, but I was to blame too, I know. Michael, this will come as a shock, but you have to be told. You see … your Uncle Edward was your real father.’
Her voice had become almost a whisper as she uttered these last few words. At first, he was unsure he had heard correctly. For a moment, he sat stunned, staring at her in disbelief. There were two red dots high on her cheeks and she seemed to be swallowing hard. His mind whirled and his whole body seemed to fill with horror and revulsion.
He knew she was telling the truth. This would explain his uncanny likeness to his uncle—something that had always been attributed merely to the Trevelyan family traits of curly, dark hair, wide forehead and resolute jaw.
He felt almost paralysed, but somehow he summoned the energy to speak.
‘Uncle Edward? But how can you be so certain? Did … did my father know this? And what about Uncle Edward? Did he know?’
‘I’ve never told anyone, except your Aunt Martine. I did discuss the matter with my solicitor in recent days, but he, of course, would never divulge such information. I think your father wondered—he was away for some weeks around the time you were conceived.
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But, by the grace of God, you arrived three weeks early, so he could never be sure. I hated deceiving him, but I knew I could never betray Edward. I simply couldn’t cause trouble between them. After all, your father thought the world of him, having waited so long for a younger brother. As for Edward ... well, I decided it was best for him not to know. If he were to marry, it would only complicate matters. As it turned out, he never did, but I still thought it better to leave things as they were. Michael, I know this is a terrible blow for you …’
‘You’re damned right it’s a terrible blow, as you put it! What an understatement—Uncle Edward, of all people! I’d sooner it have been the gardener or the travelling salesman. Anyone other than him. Don’t … don’t you remember what he did to Miriam, Mother? Oh no, of course you don’t! You never did believe he could have done such a thing and now I see why. You still loved him, didn’t you, even though he was so despicable? He destroyed my Miriam, Mother! And now you tell me he was my real father!’
Even in the midst of his tirade, he could see the effect the scorn and derision in his voice was having on his mother. She had gripped the edge of the table hard as if to hold herself upright and he was sure he detected beads of sweat on her forehead. He would have liked to see her crumble completely, but he knew she would not give in.
‘I’d like to stop at this point, Michael, for your sake as well as mine,’ she continued then, ignoring his comments about Miriam. ‘I know I should give you time to recover from the shock of it all, but I need to go on. I’m not getting any stronger and this moment might never come again.’
‘That’s right, Mother, keep making excuses—keep refusing to face the truth about Miriam!’ he taunted her, unable to help himself. ‘Nothing changes, does it? You still refuse to acknowledge you were wrong—that you should have listened to her. But go ahead and say what you want. Nothing could shock me more than what I’ve just heard.’
‘I intend to, when you stop dragging up the past yet again,’ she said, her voice cold and tired. ‘It’s in God’s hands, and He is a just
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judge. All I can do now is to make things as fair as possible for you and Geoffrey. After consulting with the solicitor, I’ve decided to leave Whitecross to you, despite … despite Edward being your real father. You may not sell it—I won’t permit it. And I will not have you renting the property out or being here only now and then. You must live here for at least six months each year or you must give up your inheritance and the entire estate will be handed over to Geoffrey, who is not obliged to recompense you in any way. My solicitor will keep a close eye on matters. Should you choose not to live here as stipulated, he will inform Geoffrey and make the necessary arrangements for him to take over ownership of the estate.’
It was all he could do not to laugh outright.
‘Oh come on, Mother! You know I’m part of a very busy London practice we’ve worked hard to build up. I couldn’t live here—not even half the time. You might as well have left it to Geoffrey straight off.’
‘Whatever else you accuse me of, it will not be said I was unfair to you,’ she responded, meeting his eyes and holding them. ‘As you are now aware, it could be argued that Whitecross should not be yours, but I believe I’m doing what God would want me to do. I’ve given you a choice, Michael. You cannot say you were cut out of your inheritance, except in that you are unable to profit financially from it by selling or renting it out.’
‘So I suppose it’s fair, is it, that Geoffrey can do what he likes with the estate? Of course it is—I forgot! He’s the legitimate heir, isn’t he?’ he sneered. ‘So he’d come home and give up his alleged “calling” then, if the carrot of owning Whitecross were dangled in front of his nose? Very interesting. And hypocritical. But then the Trevelyans are quite adept at being hypocritical, wouldn’t you agree, Mother?’
She was not to be drawn, he saw that. He should have remembered too that criticising Geoffrey had never got him anywhere.
‘I discussed all this with Geoffrey and Jennifer when they were here a few months ago,’ she went on.
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‘You mean you told them Uncle Edward was my real father before I even knew?’ he interrupted at once. ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me—it’s just another act of betrayal. And of course, you and he have this whole God thing in common, don’t you? Do Geoffrey’s high morals stretch as far as still owning me as his brother, now he knows the truth? Or will hypocrisy win out again with the next generation of Trevelyans? I might have expected ...’
He broke off then as he heard footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, Nettie entered, carrying their after dinner coffee. He watched as she glanced at them both before taking her time to remove the remains of their dessert. It was clear she would love to know what was happening.
Yet his mother was not going to give her that opportunity.
‘Please leave us, Nettie,’ she said in an impatient voice. ‘We’re almost done. I’ll ring when I need you.’
He could also see his mother did not intend to let him finish what he had been saying. Now she had drawn herself up to her full height again, ready to resume control of the conversation.
‘Geoffrey does not know who your real father was, and nor will he. All I told him were my wishes concerning the estate. He never questioned my reasoning, but did come back with a proposal of his own. Should you not choose to inherit the estate, given the restrictions I’ve placed upon you, he also wishes to give up his inheritance. Instead, he’d like Whitecross Manor to be used as a retreat and recovery centre along the lines of the one he and Jennifer run in Australia. So he would come home, under those circumstances, but he wouldn’t give up his calling, as you put it.’
‘Oh, charming!’ he sneered. ‘So Whitecross is to be used as some kind of halfway house for dropouts and run by a bunch of “do-gooders” like my brother, eh? Over my dead body! Do you think I’m going to let you salve your conscience by handing this place over to God? Is this your final redemptive act—to barter my inheritance in exchange for your soul, perhaps? ... Well, it won’t work, Mother. I know what you’ll say, “The past is gone. All has been forgiven. God is
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a just judge.” But the past has not been dealt with at all. And, from my perspective at least, nothing’s been forgiven. And how could God be a just judge? Where is the justice in what happened to Miriam? Tell me that, Mother! But no, you won’t. You prefer to hide in your ivory tower, surrounded by your hypocrisy and your guilt and your shame. Yet you bleat to me about God’s forgiveness. How dare you?’
He was on his feet, pacing about the room. Then he halted behind the chair where he had seen Miriam earlier. He could feel his hands shaking as he rested them on the smooth, carved wood and looked straight at his mother.
‘You’ve never forgiven me, have you, for my part in Miriam’s death? Oh yes, you’ve told me many times you have, but you were lying. I could see it in your eyes. Perhaps you managed to fool yourself, but you never fooled me. How is it, I wonder, that you’ve been able to forgive Uncle Edward—my father—and exonerate him, yet continue to heap blame on me?’
‘Michael, you’re imagining things, as always,’ she sighed. ‘I refuse to go into all this again. And you know I forgave you long ago, as God has too. You were young and it was all a horrible accident. And Miriam—well, she was wild and headstrong even at that age, just as I was as a girl. And she was given to flights of fancy, again just as I was. So, you see, I understand more than you think. And I make allowances even now for your behaviour. After all, this must have been a gruelling evening for you. All I can do now is leave you in God’s hands.’
‘Be assured I will do my utmost to stay out of your God’s hands and to thwart any plans you or Geoffrey might have for this place,’ he spat out. ‘At the moment, it escapes me how I can manage this, but you can be sure I’ll give it a great deal of thought on my way back to London and my “heathen ways”, as you put it last time I was here. Still, now I can say it was all Uncle Edward’s fault—it’s my heritage that’s to blame. Well, this has been a most enlightening evening. But I’ll leave you now, if you don’t mind. I have a long drive ahead. I’d prefer to go home tonight rather than stay here. Give my regards to Nettie and William. I’ll let myself out. Now that you’ve got all of that off your chest, perhaps your health will improve and we needn’t worry about all this for years. I hope so, because it would be very inconvenient for me to have to consider moving right now. Goodnight, Mother.’
With that, he strode from the room.
Just as he opened the front door, however, his glance was drawn towards the wide staircase leading to the bedrooms above. And again he thought he saw Miriam, skipping down the stairs and throwing herself at him with abandonment as she had years ago, so excited he was home for the holidays. For a moment he stayed rooted to the spot. He could feel her arms around him and smell the scent of her hair as he returned her hug.
With a supreme effort, he pulled himself together and stepped out into the cool of the night, slamming the door behind him. The darkness seemed to engulf him, snuffing out any glimmer of hope that there would be anything positive to be gained in returning to Whitecross. As he started his late model sports car and accelerated too fast down the driveway, he remembered other times he had fled from his home with that same desperate hopelessness.
Oh God, would the torment never end?

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