Alice believed that happiness was something one arrived at.
As a child, she had been enchanted by fairytales. She loved the beautiful princesses, the handsome princes and the magnificent castles, but most of all she loved the certainty of their endings. No matter what difficulties the heroine encountered, everything eventually turned out well. Love conquered adversity, goodness was rewarded, and those who endured their trials with patience received the happiness they deserved.
Alice found this profoundly reassuring.
Her Christian upbringing strengthened these beliefs. She attended Sunday school, learned her prayers and listened attentively to sermons about faith, forgiveness and the rewards of a virtuous life.
She believed that God had a purpose for everyone and that the disappointments of life were tests of character.
Goodness would eventually triumph.
She was quite certain of it.
As she grew older, Alice’s imagination became increasingly occupied with marriage and the life she hoped it would bring.
She pictured herself as a beloved wife in a beautiful home, surrounded by flowers, elegant furniture and the laughter of children. She imagined affectionate conversations beside the fire, summer evenings in the garden and Christmas celebrations filled with warmth and happiness.
She did not particularly dream of being wealthy.
Wealth was simply part of the setting.
What mattered was the love and happiness she believed accompanied it.
When she met Richard Fletcher in the summer of 1961, she was twenty-two years old.
Richard was handsome, charming and apparently sophisticated. He possessed the easy confidence of a man who had never seriously considered the possibility of being refused anything.
He came from a wealthy family whose fortune stretched back generations.
The Fletchers owned land, commercial property and substantial investments. Their wealth had been accumulated through a succession of advantageous marriages, shrewd financial arrangements and business dealings which, although sometimes questionable, had rarely attracted serious public scrutiny.
Richard’s father, Edward Fletcher, had devoted much of his life to increasing both the family’s wealth and its influence.
He was a formidable man, accustomed to being obeyed and possessing a deep contempt for those he considered unsuccessful.
Money, in his view, was not merely something to be enjoyed. It was the means by which power was acquired and maintained.
He had spent years cultivating relationships with politicians, businessmen, landowners and members of the aristocracy. He entertained lavishly, contributed generously to fashionable charities and ensured that the Fletcher name appeared regularly among the patrons of respectable institutions.
He was particularly proud of his connections within the Church.
His contributions to the restoration of the local parish church had been commemorated by a brass plaque, which he regarded with considerable satisfaction whenever he attended Sunday services.
Edward had equally ambitious plans for his son.
Richard had been educated at Eton and introduced to influential families at carefully selected social occasions. His father arranged invitations, cultivated useful acquaintances and encouraged him to regard every social encounter as an opportunity for advancement.
Richard absorbed these lessons readily.
Yet he also resented his father’s authority.
No achievement seemed sufficient to impress the older man, and Richard was determined to prove himself more successful than the man who had provided him with every advantage.
When he met Alice at a county fundraising dinner, he found her attractive and agreeable.
She was not the socially advantageous bride his father had envisaged, but Richard was amused by her innocence and flattered by her admiration.
He began courting her.
Alice was enchanted.
Richard took her to restaurants, drove her through the countryside in his expensive motorcar and introduced her to a world she had previously encountered only in magazines and novels.
She loved his confidence and mistook his possessiveness for devotion.
When she discovered that she was pregnant, Richard was initially irritated by the complication.
His father reacted with scarcely concealed disappointment.
There had been talk of a possible match with the daughter of a prominent industrialist, whose family connections might have proved exceptionally useful.
Nevertheless, Edward was practical.
A child would continue the family line.
And a respectable marriage would avoid unnecessary embarrassment.
Richard and Alice were married in the spring of 1962.
The ceremony took place in a beautiful country church decorated with white lilies.
Alice wore an ivory silk dress with a long veil.
As she walked down the aisle, she felt an almost overwhelming happiness.
She had waited for this moment all her life.
At last, the fairytale was beginning.
Richard brought his new wife to a magnificent Georgian house surrounded by formal gardens and mature woodland.
It stood at the end of a long gravel drive, its tall windows reflecting the afternoon sunlight.
There was a sweeping staircase, a drawing room overlooking the gardens, a library lined with dark wooden shelves and a dining room large enough to accommodate thirty guests.
Beyond the house lay lawns, an ornamental lake and a walled garden where climbing roses covered the weathered brickwork.
Alice was entranced.
She wandered from room to room, admiring the furniture and imagining the life that would unfold within these beautiful surroundings.
Richard watched her with mild amusement.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, Richard. It’s wonderful.”
He smiled.
“Well, you’ll be happy here, then.”
She threw her arms around him.
He kissed her absently and glanced at his watch.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got to go to London.”
Alice scarcely heard him.
She was looking through the drawing-room windows towards the garden, where the afternoon sunlight illuminated a row of white roses.
Later, she asked whether the house belonged to Richard.
“It’s held in one of Father’s trusts,” he explained.
“What does that mean?”
“Just a way of managing the family assets.”
“Then it’s ours?”
“For all practical purposes.”
Alice was satisfied.
She had no interest in legal arrangements or financial technicalities.
The house was beautiful, and she was living in it.
That was enough.
Their son, Thomas, was born a few months later.
Alice was delighted.
She imagined that fatherhood would awaken in Richard the tenderness she had always believed lay beneath his confident exterior.
It did not.
Richard was pleased to have a male heir, but his interest in the child was largely symbolic.
Edward Fletcher was equally satisfied.
“Another generation,” he remarked, looking down at his grandson.
The words were spoken with the same pride he might have expressed when discussing a successful investment.
Alice found the comparison rather cold, but she was too happy to dwell upon it.
She loved Thomas and believed that family life would gradually bring her and Richard closer together.
Instead, their marriage became increasingly lonely.
Richard was frequently absent, sometimes for several weeks. When he was at home, he seemed impatient with domestic matters and irritated by Alice’s attempts at conversation.
He seldom asked about her feelings or interests.
If she expressed disappointment, he accused her of ingratitude.
“You have everything you could possibly want,” he told her. “What exactly is the problem?”
Alice struggled to answer.
She did have everything she had imagined wanting.
The beautiful house, the gardens, the comfortable life, the handsome husband and their child.
Yet something essential was missing.
She tried to explain this to Richard, but he dismissed her concerns.
“Honestly, Alice, you make difficulties where none exist.”
Eventually, she stopped trying.
Their physical relationship became another source of unhappiness.
During their courtship, Alice had enjoyed Richard’s attentions. They made her feel attractive and desired. But after their marriage, his interest became infrequent and increasingly detached.
He approached her intimately only when he had been drinking.
At first, she welcomed these occasions, hoping they might restore some of the affection she missed.
But there was little tenderness in his behaviour. He seemed interested principally in completing the act, with scant concern for her feelings.
Over time, Alice began to experience their encounters as a duty.
She reassured herself that physical intimacy was part of marriage, something a devoted wife should provide.
Later, as her affection diminished, she found herself enduring Richard’s advances rather than welcoming them.
Eventually, she came to dread the sound of his footsteps outside her bedroom after an evening of drinking.
Sometimes she wished he would simply leave her alone.
Yet she rarely resisted him.
She had learned that objections produced irritation, recrimination and further humiliation.
It seemed easier to submit.
In the morning, Richard behaved as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Alice told herself that marriage required sacrifice.
She had heard this preached often enough.
Love was not merely a feeling but a commitment. A good wife remained faithful through difficulties, offered forgiveness and placed the needs of her family before her own.
She found comfort in these thoughts.
They allowed her to regard her endurance as a form of virtue.
During the years that followed, Alice became increasingly devoted to the house.
She developed a considerable talent for arranging flowers, choosing furnishings and organising social occasions.
She knew which rooms caught the morning sunlight and where the garden looked most beautiful in the late afternoon.
She discovered that she could spend entire days absorbed in small improvements: selecting curtains, rearranging furniture, discussing planting schemes with the gardener.
These activities gave her pleasure and a sense of accomplishment.
Unlike her marriage, the house responded to her efforts.
If a room was unattractive, she could transform it. If a border was untidy, she could have it replanted. If something was imperfect, she could arrange for its correction.
Her domestic world became increasingly beautiful.
Her private unhappiness remained carefully concealed within it.
Alice also became involved in charitable activities.
At first, these arose naturally from her religious convictions. She believed in helping the less fortunate and felt that those blessed with comfortable circumstances had a responsibility to assist others.
She began organising fundraising lunches, garden parties and charitable auctions.
The events were highly successful.
Friends congratulated her on her generosity, local newspapers published photographs and the church praised her commitment to good works.
Alice discovered that she enjoyed this attention enormously.
She loved welcoming guests into the house, receiving compliments on the flowers and hearing people speak admiringly of her efforts.
At a charity luncheon, the local vicar publicly thanked her for raising significant money towards the restoration of the church roof.
“Mrs Fletcher is a wonderful example of Christian generosity,” he declared.
There was applause.
Alice lowered her eyes modestly, although inwardly she glowed with pleasure.
Later, she repeated the compliment to Richard.
He barely looked up from his newspaper.
“Very nice, darling.”
She was disappointed by his indifference but comforted herself with the thought that others appreciated her.
Her charitable activities expanded.
She became a familiar figure at local fundraising events, frequently photographed beside large presentation cheques.
She enjoyed describing herself as fortunate and expressing gratitude for her blessings.
Yet the money she donated made no difference to her lifestyle or circumstances.
She never had to choose between helping someone else and purchasing something she wanted.
Nor did she often encounter the people whose suffering her donations were intended to alleviate.
Her charity remained largely ceremonial, conducted in beautiful rooms among well-dressed people who admired one another’s generosity.
Alice rarely questioned this arrangement.
She believed she was doing good.
And doing good made her feel good.
Edward Fletcher approved of her charitable work, although for reasons quite different from her own.
“A respectable family should always be seen to give something back,” he told her.
He also encouraged Alice to invite socially influential people to her fundraising events.
“Never underestimate the usefulness of a good cause,” he remarked.
Alice disliked the calculation implicit in his words.
But she reminded herself that Edward belonged to a different generation. He was a hard-headed businessman, not a sentimental man.
His manner could be brusque, but he had achieved much in his business affairs.
Richard frequently made similar excuses for his father.
“You don’t build a fortune by being soft,” he told her.
Alice accepted this as an unfortunate truth about the world of business.
Occasionally, however, she caught glimpses of something more disturbing.
Richard could be openly contemptuous of employees. He spoke about poorer people with an indifference that Alice found uncomfortable.
If someone complained about wages or working conditions, he dismissed them as lazy, ungrateful or incapable of understanding commercial realities.
Edward was worse.
He seemed to regard compassion as a weakness that other people exploited.
Yet both men attended church, made substantial donations and spoke frequently about traditional Christian values.
Alice noticed the contradiction.
She simply preferred not to think about it.
During the 1970s, Richard had begun developing a business operating private residential homes for elderly people.
He had initially acquired two establishments, both converted Victorian houses offering accommodation and personal care to older residents.
The business was profitable, although Richard complained frequently about the expense of employing sufficient staff.
By the early 1980s, changing arrangements for social security payments were creating opportunities for private residential care providers to expand.
Richard recognised the commercial possibilities immediately.
With financial assistance from his father, he acquired several additional homes.
He was particularly pleased that the business appeared capable of generating wealth independently of the family’s established property interests.
Edward remained sceptical.
“There’s money to be made, certainly,” he remarked. “But I wouldn’t confuse a few old people’s homes with a proper commercial enterprise.”
Richard resented the condescension.
He became determined to demonstrate that his business could produce substantial profits.
Managers were instructed to keep costs under control. Staffing levels were scrutinised, expenditure reduced and financial performance closely monitored.
Richard developed a reputation for demanding results and showing little patience with those who questioned his decisions.
Alice knew very little about the day-to-day operations.
Her husband had made her a director of one of the family companies, explaining that the arrangement was administratively convenient.
Occasionally, his solicitor brought typed documents to the house for her signature.
She seldom read them.
When she asked questions, Richard answered impatiently.
“It’s all perfectly routine, Alice. Just sign where they’ve marked it.”
And she did.
Gradually, disturbing stories began to emerge.
A care worker claimed that staffing levels were dangerously low. A family complained about the treatment of an elderly relative. A local newspaper reported allegations of neglect.
Alice mentioned the articles to Richard.
“Is everything all right at the homes?”
Richard sighed.
“Not this nonsense again.”
“I only wondered—”
“People complain about everything. If someone dies, it’s our fault. If we increase fees, we’re greedy. If we try to keep costs under control, we’re accused of neglect.”
He folded his newspaper.
“You wouldn’t believe what we have to deal with.”
Alice felt embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to criticise.”
“Then don’t.”
She said nothing more.
There were other incidents.
A senior manager resigned unexpectedly. A former employee threatened legal action. At a dinner party, Alice overheard one of Richard’s business associates laughing about the ease with which inspection records could be altered.
When she entered the room, the conversation stopped.
She found these moments unpleasant.
Sometimes she lay awake wondering whether Richard was telling her the whole truth.
But she reminded herself that running a business must involve difficult decisions.
She knew nothing about management, regulations or financial pressures.
Who was she to judge?
Besides, Richard was her husband.
Surely loyalty meant trusting him.
In November 1984, a young woman arrived at the house.
It was a wet Thursday afternoon.
Alice was in the drawing room considering fabric samples for new curtains when the housekeeper announced that someone was at the front door.
“She says it’s important, Mrs Fletcher.”
“Is she expected?”
“No.”
Alice sighed and went to see for herself.
A young woman stood beneath the stone portico, wearing a damp navy coat and holding a large brown envelope.
She looked tired and nervous.
“Mrs Fletcher?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Janet Lewis. I used to work at one of your husband’s residential homes.”
Alice felt an immediate flicker of apprehension.
“I’m afraid Richard isn’t here.”
“I know. I wanted to speak to you.”
“About what?”
The young woman glanced towards the entrance hall.
“Could I come inside?”
Alice hesitated.
She had a busy afternoon ahead, and she disliked unexpected visitors.
“I’m rather occupied at the moment.”
“Please. It won’t take long.”
There was something about the girl’s earnestness that made Alice uncomfortable.
“Well, perhaps you’d better tell me what this concerns.”
Janet took a breath.
“It’s about what happened at Roseyford Lodge.”
Alice recognised the name.
“There have been terrible things going on there,” Janet continued. “Abusive staff, people being left unattended for days. Sometimes there and no carers on shift through the night.”
Alice frowned.
“Those are serious allegations.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
Janet opened the envelope.
“I’ve got copies of the original duty rosters. They’ve been changing things afterwards to make it look as though there were more staff working than there actually were.”
She removed several sheets of paper.
Some were handwritten. Others were typed, with faint carbon impressions visible beneath the lettering.
“There was a woman called Margaret Price. She fell during the night. Nobody found her for two days. The records say she’d been checked every hour, but there was only one member of staff on duty for the whole building.”
Alice looked at the papers.
A small drop of rain fell from the girl’s hair onto the top sheet.
“Have you reported this?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“The county council. I’ve written to the social services department three times.”
“Then surely it’s being dealt with.”
“It isn’t. That’s the trouble.”
Janet’s voice trembled.
“We’ve been trying to get somebody to listen for months. People have lost their jobs for speaking out.”
Alice felt a growing desire to end the conversation.
“I’m not involved in my husband’s business.”
“But you could speak to him.”
“He has managers who deal with these matters. They’re the people responsible.”
Alice stiffened.
“Now, really, I don’t think—”
“Mrs Fletcher, I’ve seen you in the newspapers. You do so much charity work. I thought you might understand.”
The words unsettled her.
Janet looked towards the beautiful entrance hall, with its polished floor, fresh flowers and elegant furniture.
“You talk about helping people,” she said. “Well, these people need help.”
For a moment, Alice was unable to reply.
She thought about the photographs in the newspapers, the compliments, the fundraising lunches.
She thought about the wealthy guests who praised her compassion.
Then she thought about Richard.
And Edward Fletcher.
And the house.
The lovely rooms, the gardens, the comfortable life she had spent years creating.
She imagined the consequences if the woman’s accusations were true.
The newspaper stories. The disgrace. The unpleasant questions.
She felt suddenly afraid.
“My husband is a responsible man,” she said. “You must understand that businesses of this size are very complicated.”
“People are being hurt.” Janet looked down at the papers. “Will you at least read these?”
Alice could have taken the envelope.
She could have examined the documents, asked questions or spoken privately to someone independent of Richard’s business.
She knew this.
For one brief moment, she even imagined herself doing it.
Then she thought about the drawing room, where the fabric samples lay spread across a table beside a vase of white roses.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really can’t become involved.”
“Please.”
“I’m sure you understand.”
The young woman slowly replaced the papers in their envelope.
“Yes,” she said.
But her expression suggested otherwise.
Alice closed the door.
She stood in the entrance hall for several seconds, listening to the rain against the windows.
Then she returned to the drawing room.
She selected a pale blue silk for the curtains.
That evening, Alice prayed.
She asked God to protect her family, to guide Richard in his work and to preserve the peace of their home.
She thought briefly about Janet.
Perhaps the young woman was mistaken.
Perhaps she had misunderstood what she had seen.
Richard employed hundreds of people. It was impossible to keep everyone satisfied.
Alice reassured herself that she had behaved appropriately.
She was not qualified to investigate allegations about residential care.
There were authorities for such matters.
And she had been polite.
That was important.
She disliked unkindness.
Before going to bed, she looked out of the bedroom window.
Moonlight illuminated the gardens, and the house stood silent around her.
She felt grateful for its beauty.
There were so many people less fortunate than herself.
She must remember to organise another charity event before Christmas.
The scandal began the following spring.
Several former employees came forward with evidence of serious misconduct within Richard’s company.
Reports appeared in the local newspapers, followed by coverage on regional television.
Investigators uncovered falsified care records, inadequate staffing and the concealment of incidents involving vulnerable residents.
Richard dismissed the accusations as malicious.
Edward Fletcher employed expensive lawyers and began contacting influential acquaintances.
Alice continued to support her husband.
When friends asked questions, she expressed sorrow for the families concerned but insisted that Richard was a good man who had been unfairly targeted.
She became increasingly irritated by the persistence of the allegations.
Why couldn’t people leave them alone?
Why did they seem determined to destroy everything the family had worked for?
Then Thomas became involved.
Now twenty-two, he had spent a short period working within the family business and had become troubled by the discrepancies he encountered.
Without consulting his mother, he provided investigators with internal correspondence and copies of staffing records that supported the allegations.
The news provoked Edward Fletcher’s fury.
“Your son,” he told Alice, “has disgraced this family.”
Alice was shocked.
She had known Thomas was unhappy with aspects of the business, but she had never imagined he would act against his father.
Richard was beside himself with anger.
“After everything we’ve done for him.”
Alice tried to calm them.
She wondered whether Thomas had acted impulsively, without considering the consequences.
Edward was less concerned with his grandson’s motives than with the challenge to his authority.
“He thinks he’s going to teach us how to behave,” he said contemptuously. “A boy who has never earned a penny without this family’s help.”
Alice suggested that Thomas might simply have been confused.
“Then you had better help him see clearly,” Edward replied.
He looked at her for a long moment.
“I should hate for his foolishness to cause difficulties for you.”
Alice did not immediately understand the threat.
Edward Fletcher had spent a lifetime discovering how to exercise power over other people.
He knew that direct confrontation was not always effective.
People could become stubborn when openly threatened. They might even mistake resistance for courage.
It was often more useful to discover what they valued and threaten to take it away.
He understood Alice perfectly.
She loved her beautiful house, her position in society and the comfortable existence she had built around herself.
She was also completely dependent upon the family’s financial arrangements.
Edward decided that her vulnerability could be used to influence Thomas.
He instructed his advisers to review the financial support provided to Richard’s household.
Payments were delayed. Certain allowances were reduced. Questions were raised about expenses that had previously been authorised without discussion.
Richard complained bitterly, but Edward remained unmoved.
His son had become a disappointment. His grandson was a traitor.
Somebody had to learn a lesson.
Alice telephoned Thomas.
She had not spoken to him for several weeks.
“Darling, I wish you’d thought about what this would do to the family.”
Thomas sounded tired.
“I did think about it, Mum.”
“Your grandfather is terribly upset.”
“I know.”
“Couldn’t you have dealt with things privately?”
There was a pause.
“I tried.”
Alice sighed.
“Well, I don’t know what you expect us to do now.”
She could hear traffic in the background.
“Neither do I,” Thomas replied.
When the conversation ended, Alice felt deeply hurt.
She had expected more consideration from her son.
Whatever the truth of the allegations, surely he could have found another way.
The investigations continued.
Richard’s company lost contracts, creditors demanded payment and further evidence of misconduct emerged.
The newspapers began publishing photographs of the family’s properties, accompanied by reports of their wealth and influence.
Alice was horrified.
She felt exposed and humiliated.
At church, people who had previously greeted her warmly now seemed embarrassed in her presence.
Some avoided her altogether.
Her charitable events attracted fewer guests.
A fundraising committee quietly suggested that she might prefer to take a temporary break from her responsibilities.
Alice went home in tears.
After so many years of service, how could people treat her so cruelly?
Richard became increasingly irritable.
He drank heavily, slept badly and alternated between furious declarations of innocence and bitter attacks upon his father.
One evening, Alice found him sitting alone in the library.
“What will happen to us?” she asked.
He stared at the empty glass in his hand.
“Ask my father.”
She sat beside him.
“Surely he won’t let us lose everything.”
Richard gave a short, humourless laugh.
“You really don’t know him, do you?”
Richard died in the winter of 1986.
It was a sudden heart attack.
Alice found it difficult to distinguish her grief for Richard from her fear of what would happen next. She had spent so many years organising her life around his moods, demands and expectations that his absence left her strangely directionless.
She also felt an unexpected relief.
There would be no more drunken footsteps outside her bedroom, no more humiliating remarks at dinner, no more anxious attempts to anticipate his displeasure.
The relief made her feel guilty.
She prayed for forgiveness.
At the funeral, Edward Fletcher stood rigidly beside the grave.
He was an elderly man now, physically diminished but still capable of commanding a room.
The church was crowded with people who had known the family for decades.
Alice found comfort in the familiar hymns and prayers.
Surely, she thought, whatever difficulties lay ahead, the family would look after her.
She had been Richard’s wife for nearly twenty-five years.
She had borne his child, maintained his home and defended his reputation.
The first letter arrived six weeks after the funeral.
It concerned the house.
Alice read it several times before she fully understood its meaning.
The property was held within a family trust. Her occupation had been permitted through arrangements connected with Richard, and those arrangements were now being reviewed.
The trustees wished to discuss her future accommodation.
Alice telephoned Edward immediately.
“There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, Alice.”
“But this is my home.”
“It is a family property.”
“I’ve lived here for years.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that.”
She struggled to remain composed.
“Surely you don’t expect me to leave?”
Edward sighed.
“These are difficult circumstances.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
There was a silence.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you should have considered that before allowing Thomas to turn against his family.”
Alice was speechless.
“What could I possibly have done?”
“You are his mother.”
“He’s a grown man.”
“Then I suggest you explain to him what his independence has cost you.”
Alice visited Edward the following week.
He received her in his study, surrounded by the dark furniture, leather-bound books and family portraits that had always intimidated her.
She had prepared herself carefully.
She wore a sombre but elegant dress and spoke with the restrained dignity she believed the occasion demanded.
She reminded Edward of her years of marriage, her loyalty to Richard and her commitment to the family’s reputation.
She spoke of the charitable events she had organised and the contribution she had made to their social standing.
Edward listened impassively.
When she finished, he folded his hands.
“That’s all very admirable.”
Alice waited.
“But none of it alters the present circumstances.”
“Surely the family can afford to help me.”
“Of course we can.”
The reply startled her.
“Then why won’t you?”
Edward regarded her with mild irritation.
“Because there are principles involved.”
Alice almost laughed.
Principles.
She had heard the word so often.
Edward leaned back in his chair.
“Thomas has made his choice. He must understand that choices have consequences.”
“But you’re punishing me.”
“Perhaps that will teach him something.”
For the first time, Alice understood the deliberate cruelty of what was happening.
Edward did not need her money.
He did not need the house.
He was taking it away because he could.
“But I’ve done nothing to deserve this,” she said.
Edward glanced towards the window.
“My dear Alice, deserving has very little to do with anything.”
She stared at him.
He continued, almost conversationally.
“You’ve had a very comfortable life. I should have thought you might be grateful for that.”
Alice felt tears gathering in her eyes.
“Richard would never have wanted this.”
Edward’s expression hardened.
“Richard is dead.”
He stood, indicating that the interview was finished.
“And the house was never yours.”
The months that followed were the most unhappy of Alice’s life.
The family retained its considerable wealth, although Richard’s business interests were collapsing amid legal proceedings and financial claims.
Edward’s investments remained largely unaffected.
He continued to attend church, entertain influential acquaintances and make generous charitable donations.
His name still appeared in the local newspapers, usually in connection with some worthy cause.
Alice, meanwhile, found herself confronting a world she scarcely understood.
Much of the money she had enjoyed had come through arrangements controlled by Richard and his father. Richard’s remaining personal assets were entangled in the financial collapse of his companies.
There was less available to her than she had imagined.
Edward refused further assistance.
Eventually, Alice was obliged to leave the house.
She spent her final weeks wandering through its rooms, touching the furniture and recalling the years she had spent there.
The drawing room still caught the afternoon sunlight.
The gardens were as beautiful as ever.
The roses she had planted were beginning to bloom.
She found it almost impossible to believe that she was being forced to abandon everything.
On her last morning, she stood at the drawing-room window.
Beyond the glass, the lawn descended gently towards the ornamental lake.
She remembered her first afternoon in the house, when Richard had asked whether she liked it.
How happy she had been.
How certain that her life was beginning.
She thought of the charity luncheons, the garden parties, the compliments and the admiration.
She had worked so hard to make the house beautiful.
Surely that should count for something.
Yet the solicitors had been quite clear.
She had no right to remain.
Alice moved into a small rented flat overlooking a busy road.
The rooms were clean but ordinary. The carpets were worn, the kitchen was cramped and the windows looked towards a row of shops.
She found the surroundings deeply depressing.
She missed the silence of the countryside, the gardens, the scent of flowers and the soft light that had filled her drawing room.
She missed her housekeepers, her comfortable bed and the pleasure of entertaining friends.
More than anything, she missed being admired.
In her new circumstances, she was simply a middle-aged woman of modest means.
People no longer treated her as somebody important.
Occasionally, she encountered former acquaintances who greeted her with strained politeness.
Their sympathy embarrassed her.
She began avoiding them.
Her relationship with Thomas remained distant.
He had written several letters, but Alice found it difficult to read them without remembering the consequences of his actions.
She knew that his grandfather had behaved cruelly.
Yet she also believed that Thomas had provoked him.
If her son had simply remained loyal to the family, none of this need have happened.
It seemed to Alice that everybody else had been able to follow their principles without considering what those principles might cost her.
She had been left to suffer.
The unfairness consumed her.
In the autumn of 1987, Alice came across a photograph of Janet Lewis in a local newspaper.
The young former care worker was now involved in a small organisation supporting families affected by neglect in residential homes.
The article discussed the continuing consequences of Richard’s business practices and praised those who had helped expose the misconduct.
Alice read it with growing resentment.
Janet appeared confident and successful.
There was no mention of Alice’s suffering.
Alice thought of the legal difficulties that still troubled her.
Her solicitor had suggested that evidence of her lack of involvement in the business might help her position.
Perhaps Janet could confirm that Alice had known nothing about what was happening.
After all, when Janet had visited the house, Alice had expressed surprise at the allegations.
Surely that counted for something.
She found the organisation’s address in the newspaper.
Several days later, she decided to visit.
The office occupied two rooms above a shop in an unremarkable street.
Alice found the surroundings depressing.
The staircase was narrow, the paintwork shabby and the landing smelled faintly of cigarettes and damp wool.
She stood outside the office for several minutes before knocking.
Janet opened the door.
For a moment, neither woman spoke.
Then Janet recognised her.
“Mrs Fletcher.”
“Hello, Janet.”
Alice attempted a smile.
“I wondered if we might have a little chat.”
Janet hesitated.
Then she stepped aside.
“Of course. Come in.”
The office was small, sparsely furnished and rather cold.
There was a battered filing cabinet, a typewriter and a desk covered with papers.
Janet offered her a chair and made tea in a cramped kitchen.
Alice accepted gratefully.
She began by explaining her circumstances.
She spoke of Richard’s death, the loss of the house, the financial difficulties and Edward Fletcher’s cruelty.
As she talked, she became increasingly emotional.
“I’ve lost everything,” she said.
Janet listened quietly.
Eventually, Alice explained why she had come.
“My solicitor thinks it would be helpful if you could confirm that I knew nothing about what was happening at the residential homes.”
Janet put down her cup.
“But you did know something.”
Alice shook her head.
“No. Not really.”
“I came to your house.”
“Yes, but that was just an allegation.”
“I brought you evidence.”
“I didn’t look at it.”
“No,” Janet said. “You didn’t.”
Alice felt herself becoming defensive.
“I wasn’t involved in the business.”
“You could have asked questions.”
“I trusted my husband.”
Janet remained silent.
Alice continued.
“What was I supposed to do? Accuse him of terrible things because somebody turned up at the door?”
“You could have read the documents.”
There was something about the simplicity of the reply that irritated Alice.
“You make it sound so easy.”
Janet looked at her carefully.
“It wasn’t easy for me either.”
Alice looked away.
“I don’t think you understand what I’ve been through.”
Janet was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “I’m sorry you’ve suffered, Mrs Fletcher. Truly.”
Alice felt a small wave of relief.
At last, somebody understood.
“But I can’t say you didn’t know,” Janet continued. “Because I told you.”
The relief vanished.
Alice stared at her.
“You don’t seem to appreciate that I was a victim too.”
Janet did not argue.
She offered to put Alice in touch with an independent adviser who might be able to assist her.
Alice declined.
It was not the help she wanted.
On the bus home, Alice stared through the window at the passing streets.
She felt humiliated.
Janet had been polite, certainly, but there had been something unforgiving about her attitude.
The young woman seemed determined to hold Alice responsible for things over which she had possessed no control.
Alice thought bitterly about the unfairness of the world.
She had tried to be a good wife.
She had raised a son, attended church, supported charities and devoted herself to maintaining a beautiful home.
She had given money to those less fortunate than herself.
Surely that counted for something.
Yet she had been treated as though she were no better than the people who had actually committed the wrongdoing.
She remembered Janet standing on the doorstep years before, holding the brown envelope.
For a moment, Alice recalled the uncomfortable certainty she had felt that the young woman was telling the truth.
The memory disturbed her.
She pushed it aside.
What difference would it have made if she had read the documents?
Richard would have denied everything.
Edward would have dismissed the allegations.
She would only have caused trouble.
And she would probably have lost the house much sooner.
The thought seemed to settle the matter.
She had done what anyone in her position would have done.
That evening, Alice returned to her flat.
There was another letter from Thomas on the hall table.
She recognised his handwriting.
She placed it beside the others without opening it.
Perhaps she would read it later.
She made herself a cup of tea and sat beside the window.
Outside, rain had begun to fall.
The streetlights reflected on the wet pavement, and cars passed with a soft rushing sound.
Across the road, a woman was carrying shopping into a small terraced house. A child followed her through the front door, laughing at something Alice could not hear.
For a moment, Alice watched them.
The house was ordinary, almost shabby.
She wondered how anyone could be happy living somewhere so unremarkable.
Then she turned away.
On the little table beside her chair stood a framed photograph of the country house.
It had been taken on a summer morning many years earlier.
The gardens were immaculate, the stone walls glowed in the sunshine and the tall windows reflected a cloudless sky.
Alice remembered taking the photograph.
Richard had been away on business.
She had walked into the garden shortly after breakfast, carrying her camera, and turned to look back at the house.
It had seemed impossibly beautiful.
She remembered the feeling that had overwhelmed her.
Pride.
Gratitude.
Happiness.
The conviction that she had finally arrived at the life she was meant to have.
She took the photograph from the table and held it in her hands.
How could something so perfect have disappeared?
She thought of the first time she had seen the drawing room, with sunlight falling across the polished floors.
She remembered choosing flowers, arranging parties and welcoming guests.
She remembered the admiration in people’s faces.
The compliments.
The laughter.
The pleasure of belonging somewhere extraordinary.
Then she thought of Edward Fletcher, sitting in his study, calmly informing her that the house had never been hers.
She felt a familiar rush of anger.
How could he have treated her so cruelly?
After everything she had done for the family.
After all the years she had spent being loyal.
She began to cry.
Not for the elderly residents who had suffered in Richard’s residential homes.
Not for the families who had lost people they loved.
Not for Janet, who had stood in the rain asking her to help.
Nor for Thomas, whose letters lay unopened on the table.
Alice cried for the beautiful house.
She cried for the gardens, the elegant rooms and the life she had believed was hers.
She cried for the fairytale that had been taken away.
After a while, she dried her eyes and carefully returned the photograph to its place.
It had slipped slightly within the frame.
She straightened it.
Then she sat looking at the house until the room grew dark.
It was still beautiful.
It would always be beautiful.
And somewhere, deep within herself, Alice continued to believe that she had deserved to live there.
