Page 2 of Beyond Her Manner
“Anyway, I wouldn’t miss this. End of the Carmichaels, innit?”
“Iam very much alive, Mrs. Hawkins,” Gillian countered through gritted teeth, her jaw tightening as she tried to maintain her forced, polite smile.
“I mean the proper Carmichaels. You’re married in, aren’t ya?”
“Please excuse me. I must mingle,” Gillian said, biting back a response. Any other time she would have given the woman a stern talking-to, but spotting her hairdresser from the village standing alone, she needed to seize an opportunity.
Walter, the family solicitor, stepped into her path.
“Gillian, I must speak with you.”
“Not now, Walter. Can’t you see I’m entertaining?”
Stepping around him, she approached a small-framed young woman.
“Hannah, it’s good of you to come.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Book me in for a cut and colour a week tomorrow. Usual time.”
“I’ll have to check I don’t have anyone else booked in.”
“You do that. I’ll see you then,” Gillian replied, giving the girl a tap on the arm. She felt it was important to support the locals in their endeavours. “Do help yourself to something to eat, won’t you?”
As she moved away, an arm slipped around her waist in a vice-like grip, and a booming voice resounded in her ear.
“Gillian, my dear. You’ve outdone yourself yet again.”
The arm belonged to Major Hargreaves, a short, rotund man in his seventies who looked like he’d sneezed a large slug onto his top lip. Gillian always found him to be a rather odious, pompous sort of man, but at least he was of the right breeding.
“Thank you, Major. Now I must mingle.”
She pulled away, slipping from his tight grasp as unwelcome memories flooded her. Jonathon always had a way of making her feel trapped too. What had initially felt like attentiveness turned out to be control; his touch was more about possession than affection. At parties, he paraded her about like a trophy, keeping her within reach to ward off any other man who might dare approach. She was his, and he made sure everyone knew it. The thought still turned her stomach.
It took a year or two of marriage for her to realise what she had fallen in love with was Kingsford Manor, not Jonathon. By then it was too late. All other aspects of her life were perfect, so she convinced herself she could be content in the marriage. Living on the estate was worth any hardship she had to endure, particularly in the bedroom.
She was still young — well, fifty-five, but she wasn’t dead yet — not that she would be looking to remarry again. There would be the required mourning time to go through. How long was that? A week or two? A month? Hearing the major laughing heartily at what was undoubtedly his own joke and still feeling the grip of his fingers on her waist, she vowed to stay off men entirely.
Relieving a passing waitress of a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, she gulped at it and checked her watch, desperate for the charade to be over so she could get on with things. There was much to do and many changes to make. Taking another sip, she regretted not serving champagne. Bridget had pointed out that offering it at such a time might come across as inappropriate,and at the time, it had seemed like sound advice. Now, in desperate need of something light and bubbly, not doing so felt like the wrong choice.
The octogenarians from Kingsford House, the second-largest property in the village, approached with their arms linked. Childhood friends and both unmarried, they had moved in together after one inherited the house from her aunt. Despite their age, they were always eager to lend a hand at the WI and other village events. They were amongst the few people in the village Gillian could tolerate.
“Oh, Gillian, you must be in pieces. We’re sorry for your loss,” Elouise said, squeezing her arm. Her companion, Louisa, nodded her agreement.
“Thank you, ladies; I will bear it as best I can. Stiff upper lip and all that.”
The two women smiled and nodded.
“You must excuse me; it’s time for me to make a speech.”
Taking a spoon from the buffet table, she took a couple of steps up the grand wooden split staircase on one side of the hall to elevate herself. A high-pitched sound silenced the crowd as she tapped the spoon against the crystal glass.
Walter appeared in front of her again, his face pale and his eyes wide. “Gillian, please,” he implored, his voice strained.
Gillian lifted a finger in his direction in response, hoping he would get the message. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he stepped back.
“Thank you everyone for joining me on this sad occasion. Jonathon will be sorely missed by everyone who knew him. Death is never the end but a chance for a new beginning, and we now enter a new era at Kingsford Manor. With me at the helm, it will be transformed. I have big plans for the estate, starting with increasing the livery offering. If anyone is in the market, do let me know. Over the years, Kingsford has been synonymous withopenness, generosity, and, above all, courage. I aim to continue this ethos.” She raised her glass. “To Kingsford Manor,” she said, before adding quickly, “And Jonathon.”
Voices echoed in agreement around the hall, and the crowd dispersed into smaller groups. She hoped her speech would mark the end of the proceedings, but the villagers did like to linger.
“I must insist we speak, Gillian,” Walter’s voice hissed from behind.
