Page 48 of Sunset at Embthwaite Farm
“Oh, daring.” Anna stood up and went over to embrace her daughters. “It’s all right.” She hugged her tightly. “It’s all right.”
“That’s that, then,” Rachel said. She sounded both shocked and numb.
Ben managed a crooked smile. “Whatever else you want to say about him, he was a good farmer.”
Harriet gave a wobbly laugh and wiped her eyes. “Yes, he was that.”
They were all silent for a few moments, absorbing the reality of Peter’s death, and then Harriet went to the kettle.
“I need a cup of tea,” she announced, and for some reason this elicited a watery laugh from Rachel.
Anna glanced down at her phone; the search results for Ruth Hatch had finally come up, and the first one gave her a jolt.
It was a notice of the arrangements for her funeral, three years ago.
Chapter Nineteen
The next fewdays passed in a muted flurry of activity; Anna had forgotten, from her own parents’ deaths, how many prosaic practicalities had to be dealt in the midst of the daze of grief. A doctor had to be called, to sign the death certificate, and a funeral home, to arrange the removal of Peter’s body. The church, to arrange the funeral, and various neighbours and acquaintances to let everyone know.
In typical Yorkshire style, casseroles and pies and Tupperware filled with scones or cookies came to the door of the farmhouse, sometimes left with a note, sometimes not. Within forty-eight hours, their fridge was completely full.
Anna had gone back to her house for some clothes and toiletries before returning to the farmhouse. She’d agreed to stay there until the funeral; it seemed silly not to, when there were so many different things to deal with, and the tensions that had meant they needed to be apart had eased or maybe even disappeared altogether.
Still, she found she missed the cosy comfort of her little house, and more significantly, she missed James. There hadn’t been so much as a moment to see him since Peter’s death, and while she knew he understood, she felt the uncertainty of their relationship like a tangible thing. They’d kissed, but they hadn’t talked about it. Things were complicated, but they hadn’t really explained how. She didn’t know where they stood, or even where shewantedthem to stand, or whether she would stay in Mathering. It was a lot of unknowns to be dealing with, Anna reflected, but right now her priority was her daughters, so she pushed all her own worries and doubts aside to focus on them.
After her absence in their lives for the last twelve years, it felt like a good and necessary thing.
*
Three days beforethe funeral, Rachel was contacted by Edward Hale, a solicitor in York who had managed Peter’s estate, to talk about the will.
“He says he wants all three of us to come in,” she said, sounding apprehensive. “As the will might not be what we expect. But we already saw it—”
“Dad told me he changed it,” Harriet interjected. “Just before he died. He said he made it right, his exact words.”
Rachel brightened. “Do you think he went back to splitting it between us fifty-fifty? You know I would have given you half anyway—”
“I know,” Harriet replied with a small smile. “But maybe now you don’t need to. And in any case, I’d want the sentiment to come from him.”
It was a grey, wintry afternoon, with an unforgiving wind rolling off the moors, when they headed to York. Harriet had spent the morning making scones for the refreshments after the funeral, and Rachel had been filling out various paperwork regarding Peter’s death.
“I cannot believe how many death certificates you need, to prove someone is actually dead,” she’d exclaimed in frustration. “It feels like adding insult to injury.”
Anna, in a bid to be helpful and because both girls had insisted it wasn’t something they wanted to do, had cleared out Peter’s bedroom, including her old clothes. She’d forgotten how many she’d left here, and almost every item held a memory—the dress she’d worn to her own father’s funeral, the cardigan she liked for cold winter mornings. The dungarees she’d used when out in the garden. The colourful blouse that Harriet had always loved to see her wear. It gave her a pang of loss, to consider how much she’d left behind when she’d walked out of the door that day, yet twelve years later she didn’t know if she could have done any differently. If she’d had the strength.
Which reminded her, she’d recalled uneasily, that she needed to talk to the girls about Ruth Hatch…and, more importantly, Daisy.
A sigh had escaped her as she’d sank onto the bed. She’d done another search for Daisy Hatch on the internet, but nothing had come up. As far as she could tell, Hatch Farm was no longer in operation. Ruth was dead, and Daisy had disappeared. Was there anything more Anna had to do?
The question was still rattling around in her brain as Edward Hale ushered them into his old-fashioned office, all mahogany and leather. He was in his sixties, with steel-grey hair combed into a severe side part, but his brown eyes seemed kindly behind his spectacles.
“Please, Misses Mowbray, Mrs Mowbray, do sit down.”
They all took seats on the chairs drawn up in front of his desk; something about his expression was making Anna worried. It looked more serious than the usual I’m-sorry-for-your-loss face that most people put on in this situation. He looked, she realised, almost nervous.
“As I mentioned on the telephone, Mr Mowbray changed his will a few months ago, when he realised he had a terminal brain tumour. I believe you’ve seen a copy of his old will, which was made approximately thirteen years ago?” He raised his eyebrows, and Rachel nodded rather tersely.
“Yes, the one where he basically wrote Harriet out of it,” she stated succinctly, and the solicitor winced noticeably.
