The legacy, p.1
The Legacy, page 1
Caroline Bond was born in Scarborough and studied English at Oxford University before working as a market researcher. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Leeds Trinity University, and lives in Leeds with her husband and three children.
Also by Caroline Bond
The Forgotten Sister
The Second Child
One Split Second
Published in hardback in Great Britain in 2021 by Corvus,
an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Caroline Bond, 2021
The moral right of Caroline Bond to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN: 978 1 83895 282 2
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 928 8
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 927 1
Printed in Great Britain
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
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To Alex, Rachel and Geena.
We promise not to include too many surprises in the will.
Chapter 1
RACHEL HEWSON was nervous – which was unlike her. In her twenty-six years as a solicitor she’d drafted innumerable wills and overseen the distribution of hundreds of thousands of pounds of assets: property, investments, jewellery, boats, shares in race horses and, in one memorable case, three fields of rare-breed pigs. During that time she’d witnessed all manner of behaviour by the family and friends of the deceased, from the truly appalling to the impressively magnanimous. She’d seen greed and generosity, meanness and big-heartedness, connivance and cooperation. A death tended to bring out the best, and the worst, in humanity – although, in her experience, most people didn’t so much change as become more exaggerated versions of their true selves. But in all her years spent administering the last wishes of the dead, she’d never before been asked to put together a will like Jonathan Coulter’s.
He’d phoned the firm, out of the blue, one morning in early June and asked to be put through to a senior partner. Rachel – who was the only senior partner at the firm, now Charles had finally retired – had taken the call. It was a short conversation, focused mainly on her availability to oversee the drafting of a new will, as soon as practicably possible. Mr Coulter had been adamant that she must personally conduct the whole process, from beginning to end, including working with the executors after his death. Rachel had reassured him on all counts, though she’d pointed out that it was difficult to commit to being available to assist the executors in their responsibilities, given that the date of ‘implementation’ was impossible to predict. His final question had been a surprisingly practical one. ‘I presume you have a downstairs office we can meet in.’ Rachel was able to confirm that wouldn’t be a problem.
When Jonathan Coulter arrived at the offices of Greenwood Solicitors four days later, Rachel understood his ground-floor office request. Her new client was obviously seriously ill. He clattered into the reception area leaning heavily on a walking frame – the type with wheels, much favoured by old ladies who strung their shopping bags between the handles – but Jonathan Coulter was no old lady. He was a smartly dressed man in his late fifties/early sixties. He must, Rachel guessed, have been over six foot tall, though it was hard to tell, given his pronounced stoop – the result of him having to lean forward and steer the walker. It looked a very uncomfortable way of getting around. His movements as he headed towards Rachel were rapid, but unstable. The woman accompanying him, who was not introduced, stayed close behind, presumably ready to steady him, should she need to. He stuttered to an abrupt stop, raised himself nearly upright and extended his hand. As Rachel took it, she had to swiftly recalibrate, because Mr Coulter had no strength in his fingers. The resulting handshake was a light touch of palms and fingertips. It felt oddly intimate.
He grimaced. ‘Sorry. It’s the best I can do.’
‘Hello, Mr Coulter.’
‘Jonathan, please.’
Rachel smiled her acknowledgement. ‘It’s very nice to meet you. Please, come through.’ She turned and led the way. The clatter of the walking aid against the hardwood floor was loud – an erratic syncopation of frame and dragged footsteps. She slowed her pace.
Once inside the room, Jonathan collapsed into the proffered chair, with evident relief, and shoved the frame away. ‘Do me a favour, Lisa. Take this damn thing out with you, will you?’
‘Lisa’ grabbed hold of the contraption and backed out of the room, banging it against the paintwork on her way out. It was a small office, unsuited to cumbersome disability aids. As Lisa awkwardly pulled the door closed she said, ‘Of course.’ There was a beat. ‘But, please, shout me when you’re ready to leave.’
Jonathan bristled. ‘Message received and understood. No dancing out under my own steam, I promise.’
With Lisa gone, he shifted his body around awkwardly, obviously trying to get comfortable. He lifted his right hand with his left and positioned it on the arm of the chair. Rachel waited, respectfully trying to avoid watching as he reassembled himself. The end result was surprising. Once seated and settled, Jonathan Coulter seemed to lose ten years in age and gain five inches in stature. His face grew smoother, the tension dropped away and he smiled. He really was quite a good-looking man, with a strong jaw and intelligent eyes. His voice, though breathless, was deep, his accent hard to pin down.
‘Thank you for agreeing to our meeting today. I appreciate you fitting me in at such short notice. But, as you can see, getting my will sorted is something of a priority.’
Struggling to think of an appropriate response, Rachel pulled her notepad towards her and uncapped her pen. ‘I’m listening.’
Which is what she’d done as Jonathan coolly and calmly laid out the plans for his estate after his demise. He was concise, reflective and, above all, rational. Rachel heard him out without interrupting – the same as she would any client – making a record of his wishes as he spoke. When he’d finished, she read back through her notes, buying time. Then she fulfilled her legal responsibilities by highlighting the difficulties inherent in his proposal and pointing out the potential consequences, intended and otherwise, of his approach. He listened politely – but respectfully, and very firmly, refused to change a thing or elaborate on his decisions.
By the end of their half-hour together, Rachel was in no doubt as to Jonathan’s mental capacity, despite his very evident physical frailties. There was nothing left for her to do but fulfil his instructions.
That had been five months ago.
Now Jonathan was dead.
And within the hour his family would be arriving to hear his last will and testament.
Chapter 2
MEGAN PULLED the front door closed behind her, carefully. She didn’t want Chloe to hear her leaving; she needed a little time to compose herself before the meeting at the solicitor’s. It still felt wrong living in The View with Jonathan’s youngest daughter. When Chloe had moved back home, just before Christmas – after Jonathan’s symptoms had taken yet another turn for the worse – it had been positioned as a temporary arrangement. One designed to support Jonathan, help Megan and give Chloe some time to sort herself out – again. And although she couldn’t deny that Jonathan had liked having his daughter around, Megan had not. For her, Chloe’s presence had proved more of a strain than a help. Living under the same roof had certainly not brought the two of them any closer together. And now, in the wake of Jonathan’s death, their very personal sorrow was only making that tension worse.
Hence Megan’s need for half an hour on her own.
She walked up the driveway, glad to have escaped the claustrophobic confines of the house. The wind was a welcome shock. Cold, unforgiving. It roused Megan. When she reached the top of the drive she stopped and looked back.
The View. An almost-grand, late-Victorian villa, built – according to Jonathan – by one of the town’s mayors for his son and family, in the days when nepotism was flaunted, and respected. The View epitomised solid, small-town wealth and ambition. It was a lovely house, with big rooms, high ceilings and ornate cornices. But it was the view out, as much as the space inside, that made the house special. From its vantage point, perched on the edge of the South Cliff, the views out across the bay were glorious. Megan had given up her life in Darlington, her friends, her job and her independence, to come and live with Jonathan in this large, looming house on the edge of a cliff, in a small seaside town, at the end of the line.
Five years.
So much happiness.
So much pain.
Had it been the right decision?
She was no longer sure.
The realisation that Jonathan was gone for ever thumped into her all over again, like a fist hitting a bruise, but she made herself keep moving. She turned onto Belvedere Avenue, leaving the house behind. Even buckled with grief, she knew that the sight and sound of the sea would be good for her soul. And her soul was sorely in need of something to soothe it.
When she reached The Esplanade she sat down on the first empty bench and looked out across the bay.
Jonathan was the first man to ever truly love Megan. He had made her feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful; utterly confused and, at the same time, sure. She had known as soon as she met him, at a teachers’ conference in a faceless business centre in Newcastle, that there was something between them and that, if she pursued it, it would lead somewhere exciting, but scary. He was, of course, totally wrong for her. A married man. Much older than her. A respected professional colleague. He was exactly what she did not want – and yet she had.
And he had wanted her.
That had been both the problem and the joy.
An attraction that led to a flirtation. Texts and emails that blossomed into deep, interesting conversations. A craving that led to sex. Sex that deepened and strengthened their connection. The emergence of a deep and abiding affection – which turned into love.
Megan took three deep, lung-filling breaths, trying to draw some of the calmness of the view inside herself. As much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t stay where she was, clinging on to her memories of Jonathan. The clock was ticking. She had an appointment to keep.
The trouble was, she knew she was walking towards, not away from, more upset.
Jonathan’s children, en masse. Her ‘stepchildren’ – in theory, but not in practice.
There were many reasons why Megan had never fulfilled the role of stepmother, not least because they already had a living, breathing and presumably loving mother. It had also been made painfully clear – by all three of them, in their own very different ways – that the last thing they wanted was the woman who had wrecked their parents’ marriage ‘playing Mum’.
Chloe, Noah and Liv.
Youngest to eldest.
Twenty-six, thirty-four, thirty-seven.
A Performing Arts graduate turned shop assistant. A travel rep turned hotel inspector. A star student turned A&E consultant.
‘Underdog’ to ‘top dog’.
Shambles to success.
Jonathan’s children.
There were so many different hierarchies at play. So much intertwined sibling history that she hadn’t been around to witness or shape. Even if they had been less hostile, Megan knew she would still have struggled. They were like a knot that was too tightly entangled to be unravelled, at least by her. The thought of having to face them at the solicitor’s, without Jonathan at her side, filled Megan with – she tried to identify the feeling pressing down on her – dread was probably the most honest answer.
She ‘got’ why they had never accepted her, and she understood why they would never forgive her. But surely, after all that had happened, there had to be a chance they might find it in their hearts to let old resentments go. They were all hurting. All grieving Jonathan’s loss. This surely was the moment for them to come together – share what they had in common, rather than dwell on what divided them.
The tide was beginning to retreat, leaving behind an arc of pristine wet sand. It was a beautiful blowy November day, fresh, clean. It gave Megan’s flattened spirits a nudge.
Perhaps the meeting would go okay.
Perhaps it would give her a chance to prove to them that she’d only ever wanted Jonathan – not what came with him, or after him.
Perhaps they would embrace and let old enmities die.
Perhaps.
Chapter 3
RACHEL HEWSON decided to take a stroll away from her desk. She had all the paperwork for the Coulter meeting in order. She’d mentally rehearsed what she was going to say and had speculated as to the questions they were likely to ask. She was ready. There was nothing more she could do.
She headed down the corridor into the small room next to the kitchen. The room was little more than a cupboard really. It was home to the Hoover, the reams of paper that they still went through and – the real motivation for Rachel’s visit – the three video monitors. They’d had the security cameras fitted in the summer after an incident with an estranged, enraged husband who had felt the need to vent his frustrations on Greenwood’s, having been explicitly prohibited from doing so on his long-suffering partner. The cameras covered the pavement in front of the offices, the conference room and reception area. Death and divorce were all good for business, but less so for tempers. Rachel hoped this wouldn’t be the case with Jonathan Coulter’s family – though given his idiosyncratic instructions, it was highly likely that the meeting was not going to be straightforward.
Rachel scanned the monitors. By the look of it, the first member of the Coulter family had already arrived. She was fairly confident that the woman pecking at her mobile with slim fingers and glancing repeatedly out through the big plate-glass windows at the high street was Olivia, the eldest daughter. From the telephone conversations they’d had, and the follow-up confirmatory emails, it was obvious that Olivia had nominated herself ‘head of the family’, now that her father had passed. It was always useful to know who was the key decision-maker in inheritance cases. If you had a grasp of the dynamics within families and knew who had the most influence, who the least, it was sometimes possible to reduce the degree of conflict. Reduce, but not avoid it altogether. On the phone Olivia had been polite, organised, but she’d sounded hassled. All their exchanges had been about the practical arrangements, as if her priority was the speedy resolution of the matter rather than the substance of it. Rachel suspected that Olivia’s perspective might well be about to change.
In the flesh, or at least in the grainy black-and-white image on the small screen, Olivia gave off the same sense of impatience as she had on the phone. A trait she’d inherited from her father, possibly? Even with the tremors caused by his illness, it had been obvious that Jonathan Coulter was a restless, energetic person. Children inherited so much from their parents – not just their money. People tended to focus on the similarities in appearance, but Rachel had worked with families where the link between the ‘parent’ and the ‘child’ was much more deep-seated; mannerisms, temperaments, values, indeed whole personalities were passed on through the genes.
A change in Olivia’s posture alerted Rachel to the arrival of another member of the Coulter clan. Recognition bloomed on Olivia’s face as the door to the offices opened. She rose from her seat and greeted the woman with a brief hug. This must be the younger sister, Chloe. They exchanged a few words that Rachel couldn’t hear. The new arrival carried her grief more obviously than Olivia. It was evident in her posture and the way she shrugged off her coat as if the pockets were filled with bricks. Underneath she was wearing a plain shift dress that, through the unforgiving lens of the camera, looked very creased. The contrast between the two women was marked. Olivia – smartly dressed, poised, present. Chloe – dishevelled and curiously absent. Greetings over, the women chose their seats and looked away from each other.
Ten minutes later the door opened again and another young woman entered – in a flap – all scarves and apologetic gestures. Again there was a short dance of welcome, with brief hugs and limited words.
And then there were three.
The new arrival sat next to Olivia and struggled out of her jacket. Then, for a second, both women looked up and stared directly at Rachel through the camera lens. Two very different dress styles and manner, but the same eyes and shape of face. That’s when Rachel realised her mistake.
There were not three relatives in reception, but two. The second woman to arrive had been Megan, Jonathan’s partner, not his daughter.
Rachel’s error brought a flush of embarrassment to her face, which she was thankful there was no one around to witness. She knew, of course, that Jonathan Coulter had been divorced and that his new partner was his junior by quite a few years, but seeing the three woman together brought home how close in age the offspring and the new partner were. It was yet another ingredient that was bound to make the coming meeting fraught. As she watched them sitting there, not speaking, Rachel wondered if she was reading too much into the fact that the daughters had chosen to sit together – opposite, rather than next to, Jonathan’s partner, Megan. The poor woman! It was unprofessional to take sides, of course, and Rachel knew she would be scrupulously professional in her dealings with the Coulter family, but she couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for her.
