A Change of Fortune Read online

  Beryl Matthews

  A CHANGE OF FORTUNE

  Table of Contents

  Dear Reader

  A Change of Fortune

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  A CHANGE OF FORTUNE

  Beryl Matthews was born in Putney, London, but before the start of the Second World War her family moved to the outskirts of London. She stayed at home during the Blitz and her education was continually interrupted by air raids. The war was drawing to a close when she started work in an inspection office in the middle of a large hangar where they were still building Spitfires as fast as they could make them. She continued working in offices and over the years progressed from tea girl to accounts clerk to credit controller. After she retired Beryl began to pursue her dream of becoming a published author. In September 2002 Penguin published The Open Door, the first part in a family trilogy spanning the twentieth century. It was the bestselling book in W. H. Smith’s prestigious Fresh Talent promotion. Billy Hopkins, author of Our Kid, said of it, ‘A winner … She grabs and holds the attention of the reader from the very first page.’ Penguin published the second book in the trilogy, Wings of the Morning, in September 2003 and the last, A Time of Peace, in March 2004. Beryl is married and lives in Hampshire.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoy A CHANGE OF FORTUNE. I certainly loved writing it. I have always weaved stories in my head and written them down, and cherished the idea that one day I would be published. But it wasn’t until I had retired that I decided to do something about it.

  I know retirement is considered a time to take life at a more sedate pace, but I saw it more as an opportunity to do something I had dreamed about for some time. Now I had the time to see if I could become a published author. So, I didn’t put my feet up and let the world pass me by. I began to work very hard. I attended Writers’ Conferences, joined a Writers’ Group, talked to established writers, and kept on writing. I really didn’t know if I had a chance, but I knew that if I didn’t try I would regret it very much.

  My family were all devoted readers and I grew up surrounded by books. My mother would visit the local library and bring back as many books as allowed. These were devoured and returned as she searched the shelves again for something new, something she hadn’t read. We all loved books and I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t read. My house is still full of books, and I keep telling myself that I really must have a clear out, but it is so hard to part with them.

  I will read almost anything, but my particular love is historical novels by people like Sharon Penman and Dorothy Dunnett. Another on my list of must reads is anything by Barbara Erskine. In fact, anything in fiction and non-fiction finds its way on to my bedside table.

  At the age of seventy I was fortunate enough to be taken on by an agent.

  After that things moved very quickly and Penguin began to publish my books. How lucky can you get! A CHANGE OF FORTUNE is my fourth book with Penguin.

  I am sometimes asked where the ideas come from. The answer is that I honestly don’t know. When I reach the halfway stage of one story, I start to listen. Sometimes an idea comes quickly, others it takes time. But the idea forms; it might be triggered by an overheard conversation, a news item, or just by sitting quietly and allowing my thoughts to wander. I never try to force the idea but remain confident that it will arrive before I’ve finished working on the current book. As soon as I’ve written the last word of one story, I immediately like to start the next.

  I am very disciplined and write every day. It isn’t a chore. It’s what I love to do. But once a week I do treat myself to a swim. As I plough up and down the pool, I switch off, and after an hour feel refreshed and ready to start writing again.

  I am now busier in my retirement than I have ever been, and I would not have it any other way!

  Thanks for reading my stories – I hope you’ll continue to do so. After all, without you, the reader, there’s not much point in writing anything! I’d love to hear what you think of the books or if you have any memories of the places or periods I write about. You can write to me c/o Penguin at any time, and you’ll soon be able to sign up to receive a regular newsletter telling you exactly what I’m up to!

  Thanks once again and take care of yourselves.

  Happy reading,

  Love

  To sign up for Beryl’s new regular newsletter please visit www.penguin.co.uk/berylmatthews to register your details. Alternatively, please send your details and any other correspondence to Beryl Matthews c/o Abbie Sampson, Penguin General Publicity, 80 Strand, London, WC2R 0RL

  1

  November 1929

  It was a beautiful crisp day with hardly a cloud in the sky. Eugenie Elizabeth Winford glanced up from the essay she was attempting to write about her namesake: Eugénie de Montijo, French empress from Spain and the consort of Napoleon III. Worry gnawed at her, destroying her concentration. Why had her parents made her stay here during the entire summer holiday? Surely she could have gone home for a week or two. It had been her sixteenth birthday on 28 August, and her father usually made a point of being home at that time each year, but in July the head, Miss Patterson-Hay, had told her that she was to remain at school. No reason had been given. You were discouraged from asking questions and had to accept what your elders told you. She found the edict frustrating and had the utmost difficulty in holding her tongue. One brief explanation would have saved her weeks of wondering and worry. Even her father’s last letter had been unusually short: all he’d said was that he was very sorry but would come as soon as he could. His business was in America, so she understood that he couldn’t always be here.

  Her smile was wistful. Perhaps he would take her to the seaside again. They always had such fun together visiting museums, old houses and churches, walking along country lanes and stopping for tea in quaint village tea rooms.

  She gazed out of the window and watched the gold and red leaves floating down to form a colourful carpet beneath the ancient oak trees. The Templeton School for Young Ladies was a lovely place, set in the heart of the Kent countryside. She was happy here, but after weeks spent in this tranquil setting Eugenie found the thought of London exciting, and she longed to see her father again.

  ‘Miss Winford,’ Miss Staples said sharply, ‘that’s quite enough daydreaming.’

  Eugenie put her head down and tried to marshal her thoughts, chewing the end of her pen in concentration. The classroom was silent except for the scratch of nibs as the pupils set about their allotted task. When was it the empress had died? What was it the history book said? She tried to picture the words on the pages she’d been reading yesterday … Ah, yes, she remembered now. After Napoleon III was overthrown and captured in 1870, his empress fled to England and died at Farnborough.

  After putting in the final full stop, she grimaced at the page. Miss Staples wasn’t going to be very impressed with this effort. It was too short, and even the fact that she’d made her writing larger and spread the words out to cover more space c
ouldn’t disguise the puny effort. Well, it would just have to do; she really couldn’t think of anything else to say. Now, if they’d asked her to write about the Pankhursts, then she would have had plenty to say. She admired the way they had fought, and even been imprisoned for their passionate belief that women should be given the vote. Last year the voting age had been lowered to twenty-one, and that had been a tremendous achievement for all those women who had struggled for so many years.

  A quick look at the clock on the wall told her that there was still nearly an hour of the lesson left, so she put her head down as if working on her essay and returned to her musing.

  Would she be able to go home for Christmas? How she hoped so. The lovely house they had in Russell Square was always so festive, with a huge brightly decorated tree and crackling wood fires burning in the grates. Her mother made a great show, trying to outdo her friends. That was important to Elizabeth Winford: the social round and making an impression seemed to be the only things driving her mother’s life. Her daughter came very low on her list of priorities. Eugenie accepted that. She really didn’t know her mother all that well, as she’d had a nurse from the time she’d been born and then off to boarding school at the age of six. Her father loved her, though, and she adored him. He was from New York and still spent most of the year there. She didn’t know much about his business, but Cyrus D. Winford was obviously a wealthy man. She had asked him many times to explain his work, but she found it hard to understand. It was all very confusing. Still, she’d ask him again when he came home. He was very patient.

  ‘Miss Winford.’ Miss Staples was standing beside her. ‘You are to go to see Miss Patterson-Hay at once.’

  The head’s office was up a flight of stairs, at the end of a long corridor lined with portraits of past dignitaries who had either run the school or made some important mark in life. Eugenie was sure she’d never be one of them! She was bright enough but not academically brilliant. Not that that mattered too much at this school. The girls were taught all the social graces – how to run a large household, make polite conversation and generally fit into the upper echelons of society. She walked briskly, for it was not the done thing to keep Miss Patterson-Hay waiting. When she issued a command, it had to be obeyed with alacrity.

  On reaching the door, she paused to catch her breath, wondering what on earth she had done now. It wasn’t unusual for her to be hauled in front of the head for some misdemeanour, but she couldn’t think what this urgent summons was for. To be taken away from a lesson – something quite unheard of – was worrying.

  She knocked firmly and waited.

  ‘Come.’

  Turning the ornate brass doorknob, Eugenie stepped inside the room.

  ‘Ah, Eugenie.’ Miss Patterson-Hay studied her carefully for a moment and then sighed. ‘Sit down.’

  What? Now she really was worried. The girls were never called by their Christian names at the school, and certainly never told to sit in the presence of this lofty personage. She obeyed by perching nervously on the edge of the delicate regency chair, hands clasped in her lap.

  ‘You are to return home immediately. Pack a small bag. The maid will see to your trunk, and it will be sent on later.’ The head looked at her with something very close to sadness in her eyes.

  Eugenie was alarmed. ‘But why, Miss Patterson-Hay? Am I not coming back? Have I done something wrong? Am I being expelled?’

  Miss Patterson-Hay held up her hand to stop her. ‘You are not being expelled. Your family have sent for you. That is all I can tell you. Your father’s chauffeur is waiting outside the main entrance for you.’

  Forgetting her manners, Eugenie rushed to the window. The Rolls-Royce was parked on the sweeping driveway, with Edwards standing beside it.

  ‘You have been a bright student, if somewhat wilful at times, Eugenie, and we shall be sorry to lose you.’ The severe lady actually smiled. ‘Apart from the academic studies, we have tried to teach you self-discipline and strength of character. Those qualities will stand you in good stead in the future.’

  Her senses were reeling as she focused on the woman behind the desk. One thing was clear: she wouldn’t be coming back here, and that was upsetting. The thought of leaving her friends … She fought back the emotion that was trying to burst out, along with a torrent of questions. Now she was sixteen she’d known that she would have to leave soon and maybe go to a finishing school. Her mother was extremely old-fashioned in her outlook. But not walk out like this – not like this! ‘May I have the time to see my friends?’

  ‘You must leave immediately. You may write to them. Goodbye, Miss Winford.’ The dismissal was abrupt, as if the head wanted to be rid of this unpleasant task.

  ‘Goodbye.’ Eugenie’s voice shook and she left the room quickly, before she made a fool of herself. Self-control was a prized quality in this school and much encouraged. She closed the solid oak door behind her and ran. Tears clouded her vision, but she didn’t need to see where she was going: she’d attended this school for the last five years and knew every inch of the building. Although she’d wanted to go home for a visit, leaving Templeton was not something she’d thought of doing for a while yet. The regime was strict, but she had been happy here. A gulping sob escaped as she ran. What was going on?

  After packing a few necessities, she hurried to the waiting car.

  ‘Ah, there you are, miss.’ Without smiling Edwards took her bag and held open the rear door of the car. When she scrambled in, he closed it and put her bag in the boot. The trunk, her father always called it in his lovely American accent. Had her father come home unexpectedly and sent for her? But no, he’d have come for her himself if that had been the case. Her insides were turning somersaults with anxiety.

  Edwards got in, started the car and drove slowly down the long oak-lined drive. Her throat closed with distress as she swivelled round and gazed at the beautiful limestone mansion until it disappeared from sight.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked the silent driver, turning round to face the back of his head as they left the school gates. He was usually quite talkative, but today he’d hardly uttered a word.

  ‘Can’t say, miss.’ He closed the glass partition, making further conversation impossible.

  There was nothing for it but to wait until she arrived home, and she felt like crying in frustration. Why all the secrecy? She was so bewildered that it was impossible to stop all manner of disasters running through her fertile mind. Yet she couldn’t come up with one reason that could wrench her so abruptly out of the school. Fifteen minutes ago she had been struggling with an essay … She wiped away a tear as it trickled down her cheek. She’d never know what Miss Staples thought of it now.

  There was a strange hush about the house when Eugenie rushed into the drawing room. As soon as she saw the scene, she knew that some great disaster had befallen them. Her mother was prostrate on the couch, moaning, with her personal maid, Gladys, trying to comfort her. As Eugenie rushed to her mother, she was stopped as someone caught her arm in a fierce grip.

  ‘Leave her!’

  Eugenie looked into the harsh face of her mother’s sister: her Aunt Gertrude. How she disliked this woman. She was sharp, unkind and never had a good word to say about her father. Wrenching free, she knelt in front of her mother. ‘Where’s Papa?’ She used that term of address because it always made him laugh.

  Aunt Gertrude hauled her to her feet. ‘He’s dead. Lost all his money and shot himself, the coward.’

  Eugenie almost fainted as the callous announcement stunned her. She held on to the back of a chair to steady herself. The word that raged through her mind was not one Miss Patterson-Hay would have approved of. The bitch! The lying bitch!

  ‘Don’t look so shocked. I always knew he would end up in trouble.’ Aunt Gertrude’s expression was smug.

  Incensed, Eugenie lashed out at the considerable bulk of her aunt. ‘He wouldn’t do that!’

  ‘Well, he has,’ her aunt sneered, ‘but at least he
had the decency to do it in America. That saves us the expense of a funeral.’

  A red mist gathered in front of Eugenie’s eyes and she launched herself at the taunting woman but was caught from behind and lifted off her feet by the only man in the room. And if she disliked her aunt, she loathed him. He was supposed to be a good friend of the family, but she knew that her father had never liked him. And she tried to stay out of his way, because he was always trying to touch her. She kicked back with her foot and caught his shin, making him grunt in pain. He dropped her and laughed. He actually laughed.

  She spun round to face him, fists clenched ready for a fight. ‘You’re lying! How could he lose all his money? And if he did, he wouldn’t kill himself. He isn’t a coward! He isn’t!’

  ‘Your aunt’s right.’ He still had a smirk on his florid face. ‘Your father lost all his money in the stock-market crash last month and didn’t have the guts to face the consequences.’

  A loud moan came from her mother, who hadn’t opened her eyes or bothered to acknowledge her daughter’s arrival.

  The fight drained out of Eugenie. It must be true. She was finding it hard to accept. Her dear father was so kind, with a ready smile and soft rolling American accent. Her mother had hated it and tried to make him sound more English, but she’d loved it. She wouldn’t have cared if they didn’t have money. They’d have managed somehow. He shouldn’t have left her. How could you leave someone you love? He had loved her, hadn’t he? He had been the only one in her life who had shown he cared for her. Her mother’s one interest was in attaining a high position and moving in the right circles. Her Aunt Gertrude couldn’t stand the sight of her niece … and what the blazes was Albert Greaves doing here? He wasn’t family.

  ‘Now that you’ve calmed down, perhaps we can sort out this unholy mess,’ her aunt snapped. ‘We have only three days before the bank confiscates the house and its entire contents.’

  There was a strangled scream from her mother and Gertrude glanced over her shoulder. ‘Be quiet, Elizabeth!’ She turned her attention back to the girl standing in front of her. ‘At least you’ve got more fire than either of your parents. Your mother will be coming to live with me. I will not, however, be burdened with you as well. Albert will take you in.’