Determined Lady. Margaret Mayo

for someone? I’m afraid Mrs Harwood——’

      ‘I’m Mrs Harwood’s great-niece,’ cut in Saira.

      ‘You’re Saira?’ The old lady peered more closely and recognition dawned. ‘Goodness, so you are.’

      And Saira remembered Mrs Edistone too, though she hadn’t seen her very often on her visits to Yorkshire. The woman had a reputation for knowing more about other people’s business than they did themselves, Aunt Lizzie had used to say laughingly.

      ‘It was sad Lizzie dying,’ said the woman, her pale eyes watering.

      Saira nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. ‘Indeed it was, a very great shock.’

      ‘We all miss her. She was so well-loved in the village. What are you doing here? Have you come to sort out her things?’

      ‘Not exactly,’ admitted Saira, smiling inwardly. If Mrs Edistone wanted to know something she never hesitated to ask. ‘I’m your new neighbour. Aunt Lizzie left the cottage to me.’

      The older woman frowned, her pale eyes puzzled. ‘But that can’t be; Lizzie sold it.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ Saira looked at her in astonishment, a frown drawing her brows together, a faint sense of unease creeping over her.

      ‘Lizzie sold the cottage,’ the woman repeated, tapping her stick on the floor as if to emphasise her words.

      Saira shook her head. ‘You must be mistaken, Mrs Edistone,’ she said gently. ‘My aunt definitely left it to me in her will.’ The woman was old; perhaps she was confusing it with some other cottage in the village.

      ‘I’m never wrong,’ returned the older lady. ‘The squire bought it off her.’

      ‘Did Aunt Lizzie tell you that herself?’ asked Saira, still convinced there had to be some confusion.

      ‘Not exactly,’ she admitted, ‘but I heard it from a reliable source.’

      Saira had heard about Mrs Edistone’s reliable sources. Her aunt used to think that the voices were inside the woman’s head, that she made most of her stories up. ‘Who is this squire?’ she asked. ‘I’ll go and have a word with him.’

      ‘Jarrett Brent,’ answered her neighbour at once. ‘He owns Frenton Hall. We call him the squire because he’s bought up most of the property around here. Everything that goes up for sale he buys—and some that don’t,’ she added darkly. ‘I don’t know what he’s trying to dobuild up the estate again, I think. But those days are long since gone. I remember when——‘

      Saira was forced to listen to a long story about life as it used to be and it was another quarter of an hour before she could get away.

      ‘Maybe I’ll see you again?’ the woman suggested pleasantly. ‘You’re welcome to pop in for a cup of tea any time.’

      ‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Saira. At the moment all she wanted to do was find this man and sort the matter out without delay. Mrs Edistone was wrong, Honeysuckle Cottage did not belong to Jarrett Brent— whoever he was—it was hers, and if he dared to say differently she would fight him every inch of the way. She left her suitcase out of sight on the back doorstep and marched around the corner to Frenton Hall.

      She remembered it clearly, having peered through the railings often as a child, wondering what sort of a family lived in such an enormous place; she had never seen any children and had made up stories about them being kept imprisoned by a wicked stepmother.

      The Hall did not seem so intimidating as it had in years gone by; although it was indeed a huge house built of stone with long narrow windows on all sides.

      In its own parkland, it was set well back from the main road, and black and gold wrought-iron gates prevented any intruders from accidentally wandering into the grounds. Saira unlatched the gates and stormed along the well maintained driveway. She was angry, very angry, more angry than she had ever been in her life. She did not take kindly to being cheated out of her inheritance by some stranger.

      She stopped at the immense solid oak door and rang the bell. This man was probably taking advantage of her aunt’s death. He probably assumed she had no relatives and spread the word that he had bought it. But Aunt Lizzie’s will was legal and binding and if he dared to refute it she would take him to court. Already in her mind she was rehearsing what she was going to say.

      The door opened and the woman who stood there looked at her questioningly, the expression on her face suggesting that she should not be there. She was tall and unhealthily thin, her grey hair fastened back in a bun. ‘Yes?’ The word was snapped out, making it very clear that she did not welcome uninvited callers.

      ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Jarrett Brent,’ said Saira firmly. At five feet nine and in her heels, with her head high and her eyes blazing she looked formidable, but even so she found this woman extremely intimidating. She was determined, however, to stand her ground.

      ‘I’m afraid Mr Brent is not at home,’ the woman answered haughtily, not in the least daunted by Saira’s attitude. ‘May I tell him who called?’

      Saira groaned inwardly; she had not contemplated the possibility that he might not be in. ‘When will he be back?’ she asked. ‘It’s very important that I see him.’

      ‘I do not know.’ The woman looked at her coldly and began to shut the door.

      Saira panicked and put out her hand to stop her. ‘Please, I must see him today. Surely you must have some idea?’

      ‘I expect he will be in for his lunch,’ she admitted grudgingly, ‘but Mr Brent never sees anyone without an appointment.’

      ‘Then I’ll make one now,’ said Saira firmly. ‘I’ll be back at two o’clock; please make sure he knows. My name is Saira Carlton.’ She turned swiftly on her heel before the woman could put her off again.

      Lord, she hated the man even before she had met him. ‘Mr Brent is not at home.’ ‘Mr Brent never sees anyone without an appointment.’ The words echoed mockingly in her head. Hell, who did he think he was? He was obviously a man of some means, and he was trying to add Honeysuckle Cottage to his list of properties, but it would be over her dead body. Her aunt had wanted her to have it and no way was she going to let him trick her out of it. There was justice at stake here.

      With over an hour to wait, Saira decided to have lunch in the Challoner’s Arms, Amplethwaite’s only pub. It was virtually empty when she first entered but the oak-beamed room was brimming with people before she had finished her plaice and chips.

      She did not recognise any of them from her past visits to Amplethwaite and guessed they were all holiday-makers. She even asked the barman about Jarrett Brent, but he did not live in the village and knew very little about him. ‘He never comes here. I’ve never seen him,’ was all the answer she got.

      At five minutes to two she left and at two o’clock exactly she stood on the doorstep of Frenton Hall and pressed the bell, her heart for some reason hammering uneasily. This time the door was opened straight away, the same dour woman appearing on the threshold, her face still fierce and unwelcoming. ‘Mr Brent will see you,’ she said, standing back for her to enter.

      Saira hid her tiny smile of satisfaction. It felt like a major achievement getting past this woman. They passed through a small entrance hall into a much larger gracious hall and she looked about her with curious eyes. It was colossal, with great white columns and a three-tiered staircase and doors leading in every direction, but rather than admire it she resented the fact that this man had all this wealth while he was apparently trying to do her out of one tiny cottage.

      ‘Through here,’ muttered the woman, pushing open one of the doors.

      The library was of the same immense proportions, each wall filled with books sitting in orderly fashion on glassfronted shelves; deep, oak-framed armchairs flanked the stone fireplace, and in the hearth an arrangement of fresh roses spilled out their heady perfume.