Эмили Бронте – Fame and Wuthering Heights (страница 10)

Tish was doing what all the books said you should never do. She was waiting. Hoping, praying that eventually Michel would see the light and realize that the two of them were meant to be together. He’d make a wonderful father for Abel. So noble. So dedicated …

‘Tish!’ Carl, one of her co-workers, was tapping Tish forcefully on the shoulder. ‘Did you hear me?’

‘Hmmm?’ She blushed. ‘Sorry. I was, erm … distracted.’

‘There’s a problem back at Curcubeu, Carl repeated patiently. Curcubeu was the name of Tish’s children’s home. It meant ‘rainbow’ in Romanian. ‘Child services just showed up on the doorstep. They’re saying Sile hasn’t got all his releases signed.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. Of course the releases are signed. I picked up his paperwork myself.’

‘Whatever, they reckon he needs something else. They tried to seize him on the spot.’

‘What?’ Tish placed the sleeping baby back in her crib. Sile was an adorable, curly-haired two-year-old boy, the latest addition to her happy brood at Curcubeu. He’d only been with them a week and already child services were kicking up a fuss, no doubt hoping for yet another backhander. ‘How dare they!’ she seethed. ‘They have no authority.’

‘Yes, well, don’t worry,’ said Carl. ‘Lucio didn’t let them in the door. But they’ll be back in the morning with a warrant. We need to get it sorted, today.’

Damn, thought Tish. She’d really wanted to talk to Michel today, to get his advice. Yesterday, she’d received a letter, rather a distressing letter, from home. The letter meant that she might need to leave Romania, at least for a while, an idea that filled her with such a conflicting mix of emotions that she’d barely been able to string a sentence together since she read it.

Michel will know what to do, she thought. He’s always so level-headed. But now there’d be no time to consult him. By the time she’d sorted out this bullshit with Sile and child services, she’d have to race home in time to put Abel to bed, and Michel would already have left for Paris. He was flying home for the weekend to attend his sister’s wedding. Maybe once he sees her in a white dress, making that commitment, sees how happy and glowing she is …

‘Tish?’

‘Yes. Sorry. I’m coming.’ Tish reluctantly switched off the fantasy. ‘Go down and start the car. I’ll explain what’s happened to the nurses and meet you downstairs in five.’

The rest of the day passed in a blur of frenetic activity and stress, with Tish and Carl breaking every speed limit in the book in Tish’s ancient Fiat Punto, tearing from one government agency to the next in an effort to prove their legal guardianship of little Sile. Two bribes, a phone call to the British Consulate and countless vicious screaming matches later – Romanian Child Services did not consider Letitia Crewe to be ‘too nice’; as far as they were concerned, she was a bolshy, strident, harridan who’d been a thorn in their side since the day she set foot in the country – the matter was at last resolved. ‘For now,’ the Child Protection Officer warned Tish sternly.

As if we’re any bloody threat to him, Tish thought furiously as she finally started the drive back to her flat in the city. As if anyone on God’s earth gave a crap about that little boy until we took him in. Sometimes, most of the time, her work was so frustrating it made her want to scream. The Romanian government were like dinosaurs, terrified of change, resentful of any ‘outsider’ who wanted to help. As if any of the foreign NGOs wanted to be there. Don’t you think we’d love it if you sorted out your own bloody country and took care of your own kids, so we could all go home?

Home.

The word had been turning over and over in Tish’s mind all day. She would have to make a decision soon, tomorrow probably, and start making some concrete plans. She’d wanted Michel’s advice today, but deep down she already knew what he would have told her. Go. Go home and do what you need to do. There was no other way.

Home for Tish was Loxley Hall, an idyllic Elizabethan pile in the heart of Derbyshire’s glorious Hope Valley. Much smaller than neighbouring Chatsworth, but widely considered more beautiful, Loxley had been the ancestral seat of the Crewe family for over eight generations. Growing up there as a little girl, Tish had never noticed the house’s grandeur, not least because behind the intricately carved, exterior with its stone mullioned windows and fairytale turrets, the family actually lived in a distinctly down-at-heel ‘apartment’ of seven, shabby rooms, and not in the immaculately preserved ballrooms and dining halls that the public saw. What Tish was aware of, however, was Loxley’s magic. The beauty of her grounds, with their ancient clipped yew hedges, endless expanses of lawn and deer-covered parkland beyond, punctuated by vast, four-hundred-year-old oaks. At the front of the house, beneath a crumbling medieval stone bridge, the river Derwent burbled sleepily, little more than a stream in the narrow part of the valley. As a child, Tish would sit on the bridge for hours, legs dangling, playing Poohsticks with herself or watching hopefully for an otter to make a thrilling, sleek-headed appearance. Her older brother Jago had never shared her fascination with the river, nor her romantic belief in Loxley Hall as some sort of magical kingdom. Mostly, Tish remembered him as rather distant and aloof (‘sensitive’, their mother called him), always playing inside with his computer games or his older, sophisticated friends from Thaxton House, the local boys’ prep school. Tish’s childhood playmates were her Jack Russell, Harrison, the family housekeeper Mrs Drummond, and on occasions her elderly but much beloved father, Henry.

Henry Crewe had died two years ago and Tish still missed him terribly. It was Henry’s death that had set off the chain of events leading to the current crisis. Amid much familial wailing and gnashing of teeth, Henry Crewe had broken Loxley’s four-hundred-year entailment and left the house lock, stock and barrel to his estranged wife Vivianna, Tish and Jago’s mother. This was partly a romantic gesture. Although Vivi had left him and their children the better part of two decades ago to start a new life in Italy, visiting England only rarely, she had never actually divorced Henry. To the bafflement of all his friends, not to mention his daughter, who felt Vivianna’s abandonment deeply, Henry maintained a nostalgic attachment to his wife that only seemed to intensify as the years passed. The Crewes remained on friendly terms, and Henry never gave up hope that one day Vivianna would see the light, tire of her stream of younger lovers, and return to the bosom of her family.

Needless to say, she never did. But changing the will had not solely been about Vivi. It had also been an attempt to mitigate Jago’s influence over Loxley’s future. The withdrawn, distant brother Tish remembered had grown up into a feckless, selfish and completely irresponsible young man. Blessed with good looks and a big enough trust fund never to have to earn a living, Jago Crewe partied away the years between eighteen and twenty-two in a narcotic-induced haze, eventually winding up depressed and seriously ill in a North London Hospital. It was after he had emerged from this self-styled breakdown that Jago had decided the time had come to change his life. He had shown no interest in ‘knuckling down’ at Loxley Hall, however. Pronouncing himself teetotal, Buddhist and a committed vegan, he had proceeded to disappear on a spiritual journey that had taken him around the world from Hawaii to Tahiti to Thailand (first class, naturally), spending family money like water as he tried out one spurious, navel-gazing cult after another.

Meanwhile, Henry’s health had been failing. Clearly, something had had to be done. And so it was that Henry had willed the house to Vivianna, intending that she would let it out for the remainder of her lifetime, perhaps to the National Trust, and leave it on her death to whichever of the children, or grandchildren, looked like the safest bet at the time.

Things had not worked out that way. Having failed to come home for his father’s funeral, or even send flowers, Jago showed up at Loxley two months later, announcing that he’d had a change of heart filial-duty-wise and had returned to claim his inheritance. Vivianna immediately made the house over to him (she never could say no to her darling boy) and retreated to her villa outside Rome, considering her duties to her former husband fully discharged and all well that had ended well.

Meanwhile, stuck out in Romania, Tish was concerned about the situation, but as a single mother with a full-time children’s home to run, had problems enough of her own. Besides, as the months passed and nothing disastrous happened at Loxley, she began to relax. Perhaps Jago really had grown out of his immature, selfish stage this time and was going to make a go of things on the estate? He was still only twenty-eight, after all. Plenty of time to turn over a new leaf.