Page 1 of Beyond Her Manner
CHAPTER 1
Gillian Carmichael wiped her eyes with a tissue, knowing it would remain dry. No tears had been shed, and none would be shed, not even as she watched the pallbearers lower the coffin of her late husband, Jonathon, into the frozen January earth.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t loved him; it just wasn’t in the way a wife should. Their relationship had grown into a companionship rather than a traditional marriage, devoid of deep emotional attachment or affection.
She’d known what she was getting into when she agreed to marry him. They had both gone into it knowing it was transactional, and they had fulfilled their roles precisely. Jonathon would get a beautiful woman on his arm to show off to his wealthy friends, and Gillian would have all the money she could want. In recent years, though, the money had dried up almost as much as she had.
The arm of her best friend, Bridget, slipped around her own and squeezed, no doubt bringing comfort to the stout, unassuming woman. She was the type of person who was always there for others — not that Gillian was ever in need of anyone else. On this occasion, she would let Bridget feel useful, eventhough she didn’t require the comfort herself. It would do her no harm to look like a grieving widow in need of some support from a friend.
As Bridget’s body began to vibrate, Gillian stepped forward. She didn’t need to be standing beside someone crying real tears. She threw an orange lily into the grave and finally felt she’d broken free from her shackles. This was her chance to redefine herself. Turning away from the grave, the weight of the past lifted slightly from her shoulders, leaving her uncertain yet quietly hopeful about what the future might hold.
A ringtone sounded, cutting through the heavy silence. A rustling rippled through the crowd of mourners as they checked their phones. Realising the sound was coming from inside her handbag, Gillian dived in to retrieve it. As she silenced the phone, she noticed several glares aimed her way, which she ignored. Life continued, relentless as ever. It always had, and it always would.
She watched as the large, solemn, black-coated crowd began to disperse, noting that it was mainly comprised of local villagers with nothing better to do. Taking the crowd’s dispersion as her own cue to leave, Gillian turned to a tall, grey-haired man, resplendent in a white alb.
“Thank you, Reverend. Asatisfactoryservice as always,” she said dryly.
He opened his mouth to reply, then, seemingly thinking better of it, closed it again, giving her a slight inclination of his head in acknowledgement. It reminded her to have words with him about his recent sermons. They were too depressing for a Sunday morning, and far too long.
Signalling to Bridget that it was time for them to leave, they took the public footpath through the Kingsford Estate, following an avenue lined with beech trees that connected the manor house to the church. Once a path between two places, it nowfelt like a corridor leading her to a new chapter of her life. An Elizabethan house came into view with wisteria wound around its Ardingly Sandstone facade and mullioned, leaded glass windows. A trio of steeply pitched slate roofs with gable ends topped it off.
Despite every attempt to keep a smile from her face, she couldn’t fight it. The manor was all hers now. She was finally free to take charge, make decisions, and, most importantly, implement changes. No longer would she voice her opinions only to have them shut down as too expensive, untenable, or ridiculous, which had always been Jonathon’s three go-to responses whenever she proffered an idea to improve the estate.
She inhaled the earthy scent of the beech trees as she surveyed the view over the Kingsford Estate, her home for the last thirty-five years. It comprised fifty acres of land, a Tudor manor house, a Georgian lodge, and three old farm cottages in the village, which were, regrettably, in a poor state of repair.
She’d encouraged Jonathon for years to invest in the properties, only to be told they were not a priority. She could never quite determine his exact priorities, but it was clear they centred on collecting anything he believed held hidden value or might appreciate over time. Despite his abundance of self-belief, Jonathon did not have an eye for antiques; everything he had sunk money into turned out to be worthless.
He had sold off most of the tenable land over the years to neighbouring farms, claiming it was a pain to manage. A lot of the remaining land was less suitable for farming and of little use for anything other than recreational purposes. Having acres of land to run wild with Dudley, her Friesian horse, suited Gillian perfectly. She was looking forward to taking on some new horses for herself as well as extending the stables and livery. There was so much potential in the estate that Jonathon hadn’t had the foresight or business acumen to exploit.
Continuing along the path, she and Bridget passed a bench on the brow of the hill. It was Gillian’s favourite place to sit and admire the estate. The low winter sun caught a gold memorial plaque screwed into the backrest, another reminder of how precious and short life could be. She made a mental note to ask one of the gardeners to give the old oak bench a sand and a fresh coat of oil to ready it for the spring.
Although tempted to sit and prolong returning to the manor, which would be full of people with words of condolence she could do without, she refrained. Bridget was in the throes of updating her on a rather heated meeting of the Women’s Institute she had missed last night, and she didn’t want to ruin the serenity. Bridget was inclined to go on a bit when left to it, and this appeared to be one of those moments.
Gillian couldn’t help feeling that if she’d been at the meeting, there would have been no opportunity for disagreements. Attending such a gathering the night before her husband’s funeral, however, wouldn’t have given the right impression.
Once they reached the manor, they slipped into the back hall, a cosy space with a servant staircase leading from it and doors to the cellar, kitchen, great hall, and a small cloakroom. Gillian needed a moment to compose herself before facing the crowd of mourners. She suspected most, if not all, of them had only come for a free feed and to socialise. They were like a rent-a-crowd. With the average age of the villagers being over sixty-five, it felt like there was a funeral every few weeks. It was the only time some of the villagers left their houses.
Passing her black woollen coat and black hat to Bridget, Gillian shook out hershoulder-length, blonde, wavy hairin the mirror beside her. She poked and prodded at it until the shiny locks relented, reaching the shape she desired.
“Right, let’s get this over with. A large glass of wine or two is in order, don’t you think?”
“Most certainly,” Bridget replied, heading for the door to the great hall.
Catching another glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed it, Gillian backed up and took in her appearance again. Stretching out the muscles in her face, she slapped on a more appropriate sullen look and followed Bridget.
She stepped into the wood-panelled great hall, where a fire flickered and glowed in the original Hamstone fireplace. A smile spread across her lips as she took in the grandeur of what was now entirely hers. The stone floor and high-vaulted, elm-beamed ceiling echoed her guests’ voices and the chinking of crystal and silverware. Chandeliers hung from the crossbeams, casting a warmth across the tapestries which hung between the tall windows.
The room was mainly used for dining when they entertained and was a particular favourite as a venue for all the local events, which Gillian organised. She considered it to be her forte. Having spent the best part of thirty-five years as hostess at Kingsford Manor, she could manage any event necessary.
Her stomach rumbled as she passed an array of culinary delights exquisitely laid out on the old banqueting table. Mrs Johnson, her cook, had prepared everything to Gillian’s exacting standards. Waiters weaved their way through the throng of people, offering up trays of hors d’oeuvres and wafting a symphony of aromas around the hall. Her stomach rumbled again, begging to be satisfied. It would have to wait; etiquette prevented her from mingling with a mouthful of food.
Noticing Bridget had already abandoned her in favour of the buffet table, Gillian approached the nearest group of people.
“Ah, Mrs Hawkins, so glad you could make it! I hope you didn’t have to close the shop.”
“No, got my daughter to run it, didn’t I?” she replied.
Gillian suppressed a wince at the grating twang of the woman’s accent; it never got easier to listen to. When she’d moved to the village, Gillian had been tempted to offer the woman elocution lessons until she realised it would involve spending a considerable amount of time with her. She flashed a smile, hoping it would be an end to the conversation, only to find Mrs Hawkins opening her mouth again.
