The Care and Management of Lies by Jacqueline Winspear Read Free Book Online Page A

resting her head on his knee, and his hunter, Bella, tethered outside. He was considered a kind man. More than anything, it was generally agreed that he was a sensible Hawkes, not one of those foolish members of the family, like his father and great-grandfather before him. The Hawkes family were not lords of the manor, not aristocracy, though they were well-heeled gentry with business interests overseas and at home. Four large farms belonging to the estate brought in a good income. It had once been five, but due to weakness on the part of his great-grandfather, the most productive of those farms now belonged to the Brissenden family, who had gone from tenants to owners in the time it took to throw a double top in a game of darts.
    Hawkes did not grieve for land that had never been his, though he could not escape what appeared to some to be a preordained element of character. It seemed that, throughout the history of the family, an heir of good sense followed an heir who could best be described as a dilettante. It was as if each generation bred a son at odds with his father. His great-grandfather had been a gambler, a man who would sit in the pub—any hostelry would do—and within a short time draw someone into placing a bet, even if that wager were money risked upon which of two raindrops would descend the windowpane first. There was no limit to what stake he might put on the table. His son, Edmund’s grandfather, had subsequently run a very tight estate, with every penny in or out of the accounts marked in a ledger at the end of each day. The restriction was like a noose around the neck of Edmund’s father, who grew to manhood with a liking for drink and a leaning towards profligacy. And so it began again. Edmund grew up knowing how to keep his father at arm’s length—and fortunately, his father had little interest in the activities of his son. A good estate manager kept Hawkendene Manor from complete destitution, and it was this man—Albert Hodges—who took Edmund under his wing, and taught him how to care for the land he had inherited. With his father rendered incapable by senility, Edmund could look back and know that it might have been worse for him. He’d spent most of his childhood in Sussex, at prep school, and then on to Bishopswell Hall, a senior school for boys where he had worked hard enough to secure a place at Oxford. He had studied politics and economics at university, but would rather have read novels all day and written poetry. Now, though, his work was the maintenance of the Hawkes fortunes, ensuring a good foundation should another generation fall foul of the whisky bottle or a passion for cards. If Edmund had a weakness, it was, as the village postmistress put it, He can be a dreamer, that one . . . Knowing this element of himself, he feared his son—a son yet to be born to a women yet to be met—might be a fierce man of purpose who forever moved at a brisk clip, in response to a father who preferred to stroll, and ideally to sit by the lake and work with verse rather than stocks and shares or trusts and investments. So Hawkes tried to balance desire and responsibility, and was generally considered to be a good man.
     
    “K ezzie, what are you doing here?” Thea came downstairs to greet her sister-in-law, having been summoned by the warden.
    “Did you not receive my postcard? It should have arrived this morning, second post at the latest. I actually sent it before I told Tom I was coming, dear love that he is.” She set down her leather case. “I’ve come to see you—to stay, if that’s all right. Just for a couple of nights.”
    “What—is my brother driving you to leave the farm already?” said Thea, responding to Kezia’s open arms, holding her close. She smelled the freshness of a Kentish morning in Kezia’s hair, and realized she had missed her friend very much. “And you’re forgetting—there was no post today, not on a bank holiday.”
    Kezia stood back but held on to