Easter at the Villa Victoria , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Iain Gordon

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141 pages

English

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It is 1995 and the Morton-Stewarts assemble at the 'Villa Victoria' in Antibes, which has been in their family since 1880. The purpose of the gathering is to discuss the future of the house and of the two elderly aunts who, apart from their internment during the war, have lived there all their lives. Isolated from the social change around them, they run the villa like an Irish country house, ignoring the fact that 'The Season' has changed from winter to summer and that the society in which they were brought up no longer exists. As Frances, their great-niece, observes: 'They are living a 1920s lifestyle in the 1990s, and if they can no longer afford it, surely we must do something about it!' For Charlie, the current owner of the house, it is a time to review the principles and prejudices which have governed his life so far and to question their morality and relevance in today's world.For Sylvia, the widow of James, Charlie's 'black sheep' brother, and her daughter Emma, it is a time of anxiety; Sylvia was a barmaid who 'trapped' James and was the cause of his disinheritance many years ago. She has been ostracised by the family for twenty years; how will they react to her now? Seduced by the glory of a Riviera spring and surrounded by the memorabilia and traditions of a century of occupation, the family settle down and start getting to know each other - quite unprepared for the momentous revelations that are to come...Easter at theVilla Victoriais a romantic, character-driven novel, full of humour and set in the 1990s. It will primarily appeal to female readers.

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Contemporary romance

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	13 novembre 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785897443
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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By the same author:
Soldier of the Raj Admiral of the Blue Bloodline Lifeline
The Night Hunter’s Prey
Easter at the Villa Victoria
IAIN GORDON
Copyright © 2016 Iain Gordon
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the and publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside Copyright those terms Iain should Gordon be sent 2016 to the publishers.
All characters in this book are imaginary and any resemblance to any person either living or dead is purely coincidental.
The photographs used in this book are to downloaded be from as Wikipedia of Commons and are either in the Public Domain or licensed under the Copyright, Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported Licence and are attributed to the individual originators as shown.
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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
In fond remembrance of ‘The Old Riviera’ 1850-1950
The Descendants of Captain James Stewart and Victoria Morton
Dramatis Personae
FAMILY
Miss Katherine Morton-Stewart, 81,
‘Aunt Kate’, the more starchy of the two old sisters, ‘The Aunts’, who have lived in the Villa most of their lives.
Miss Martha Morton-Stewart, 88, ‘Mattie’, the more relaxed sister.
Lieutenant-Colonel (Retired) Charles Morton-Stewart, 55, ‘Charlie’, recently retired army officer, nephew of the Aunts and present owner of the villa.
Mrs. Frances Curtis, 37, daughter of Charlie’s cousin, Dr. Stephen Tyler.
Richard Curtis, 42, Husband of Frances, MD of London Advertising Agency.
Masters Stephen and John Curtis, 10, twin sons of Frances and Richard.
Mrs. Sylvia Morton-Stewart, 38, widow of Charlie’s ‘Black Sheep’ brother James.
Miss Emma Morton-Stewart, 19, daughter of Sylvia.
STAFF AT THE VILLA
Miss Bridie Hogan, 62, Irish housekeeper from West Cork who has been with the family for 40 years.
Dhanibahadur Limbu, 72, ‘Dhani’, ex-Gurkha rifleman, gardener, chauffeur and general factotum at the villa.
Manjulika Limbu, 65, ‘Manju’, Dahni’s wife, a superb cook, trained and worked in 5-star establishments in Hong Kong.
Henri, late teens, the garden boy.
Monsieur Verrechia, late 60s, retired waiter at the Martinez who helps out at the villa for important dinner parties.
FRIENDS & ACQUAINTANCES
Steve Fitzgerald, late 20s, Emma’s boyfriend. American diplomat, works in US Paris Embassy, of Boston-Irish stock.
Lady Wroughton, early 80s, ‘Frills’, widow of senior British officer, lifelong friend of the Aunts, lives on Cap d’Antibes.
Dr. Marcel Chouard, early 40s, the Aunts’ doctor, an Anglophile and Epicure.
Madame Elise Chouard, late 30s, Marcel’s glamorous and flirtatious wife.
Rupert Saint John Powell, (pronounced Sinjun Pole) mid 40s, Christeby’s Art Expert from London, a social climbing name dropper.
Herbert Pontefract, mid-40s, Christeby’s manager in Nice and an expert on English furniture.
Mrs. Maud Pontefract, mid-40s, Herbert’s wife.
Tour Grimaldi, Antibes Photo: PATRICK ROUZET
Prologue
H enri, the garden boy, preferring the frivolous levity of French patisserie to the wholesome solidity of good Irish baking, was neither overjoyed by the extra slice of fruit cake which Madame Hogan, the housekeeper, slid maternally onto his plate, nor caring of the cordiality which the gesture bespoke.
‘Non, non, non.’ he said rudely with a dismissive sweep of a deeply tanned and unwashed hand.
Bridie Hogan, aware that the boy’s interests extended no further than his noisy motorcycle and the new waitress at the pizzeria on the corner, and that he spoke no English anyway, resumed the discussion of her employers with Manjulika Limbu, the Nepalese cook whose husband, Dhanibahadur, was gardener, chauffeur and handyman at the villa.
‘I don’t know what’s for the best, chust, what’s for the best.’ Bridie always repeated things twice – the two pronouncements linked by the word ‘chust’. It was a habit which was of particular value to foreigners who had difficulty in understanding her West Cork brogue which remained unalloyed though she had not seen Ireland since the age of seventeen – forty-five years ago. ‘It would kill them to be put to a home,’ she continued, ‘chust, it would kill them to be put to a home.’
‘Oh yes,’ Manjulika affirmed, ‘it would kill them. Isn’t there anyone in the family who could come down here to live with them and take over some of the responsibility?’
‘Colonel Charlie could come himself. He’s retired now and he has no ties, chust, he has no ties.’
Henri, the garden boy, rose from the table scraping his chair noisily on the quarry-tiled floor of the kitchen. He left the room without a word, scratching himself.
‘That boy!’ said Bridie in an exasperated tone, scrubbing pointedly at the butter he had smeared on the table, ‘I don’t know how much longer I can put up with him. He’s a proper little tinker, chust, a proper little tinker.’
Presently she had an inspiration: ‘He should get them all together,’ she said, ‘Colonel Charlie should get the whole family down here together to discuss how they can help and what’s to be done, chust, what’s to be done.’
She crossed the room and closed the window savagely to shut out the sound of Henri who was crooning in the whining, nasal fashion of a Kentucky hillbilly as he watered the rose bed beneath the window.
* * *
By the time BA345 from Nice had touched down at Heathrow, Lieutenant Colonel (Retired) Charles Morton-Stewart had reached much the same conclusion as Bridie. He had been pondering the matter since his pre-flight drink in the Pullman Bar in Nice Côte d’Azur Aeroport where, his thoughts undisturbed by the depressing presence of the masses, who were excluded by the exorbitant bar prices, he had started to address the problem which he knew would not go away. Now, with a two hour wait until his connecting flight to Inverness, he headed for the bar in the domestic departure area of Terminal 1 to develop his thoughts and to cauterise, with a large glass of whisky, the unpleasant taste of the in-flight meal.
He must assemble the family, he had decided, and involve them in the decision as to what to do about his two ancient aunts and the house in Antibes.
By the time his flight landed at Inverness Dalcross, he had drafted a letter which he would drop off on his way home with the worthy Mrs. Urquhart on the Muirtown Estate, who worked for the Clydesdale Bank in Inverness and obliged him with the odd bit of typing as and when he required it:
Mrs. Urquhart – I wonder if you could very kindly type these letters for me. It is the same basic letter to all recipients with individual postscripts as indicated. I have to come to Inverness on Thursday so could collect them from you on my way home (about 6.45 pm) if you can manage it by then? If I don’t hear from you before Thursday, I will assume they will be ready. Hope your daughter has now fully recovered from the measles.
Many thanks,
Yours sincerely,
Charles Morton-Stewart 4/12/95
Letters to:
1. Mrs. Sylvia Morton-Stewart
The Flat, 4a Cannock Mews,
Kensington, LONDON W8
2. Dr. Stephen Tyler, MD, MRCP,
Vereholt House, Little Snodbury,
near CHULMLEIGH, Devon
3. Mrs. Richard Curtis,
137 Twickenham Way,
RICHMOND, Surrey
4. Neville Tyler, Esq.,
c/o Dr. Stephen Tyler,
(address as at 2 and mark ‘Please Forward’
5. Mrs. Vernon Korpecki,
32 West Side Residence
University of Santa Cruz,
California, USA
(Friday’s date please)
(Dear . . . I will top and tail)
I have recently returned from spending six weeks in Antibes and fear there are some major decisions which must be made in the course of the next few months regarding both the house and the future plans for the Aunts.
As you know, Mattie is now 89 and Aunt Kate 82. Mentally, Mattie is still as sharp as a button but she has become increasingly frail over the past year and is very deaf. Poor Aunt Kate suffers terribly from her arthritis and is now entirely confined to her wheelchair.
Having lived at the villa continuously for nearly eighty years now, apart from their internment during the war, it would be a terrible wrench for them to leave. Yet common sense suggests that the time may now have come when we should at least consider the alternatives. It cannot be too long before Aunt Kate requires round-the-clock nursing care. Already she has to be lifted in and out of bed by Bridie and Mrs. Limbu neither of whom is themself in the first flush of youth nor trained for this sort of work
Overlaid on this is the financial situation: the Aunts have, I suspect, been living above their income for some years (which is not helped by the current strength of the Franc) and their capital must necessarily have been eroded. I do not think they would understand that economies could be made (Champagne is still served at 11.30 every morning!) and it would be unreasonable to expect them to change their ways radically at this time of their lives. There does not appear to be a financial crisis but I believe it is another aspect which we must look at.
You are aware, of course, of the understanding between Father and myself that, when I inherited the house from him, the Aunts would be allowed to finish their days there, or stay on as long as they wished. This, naturally, is sacrosanct