Julia had done all of this without murmur, leaving the country four and a half months ago after the funerals and after the will was read, shattered from grief and jetlag, and spent the ensuing time readying herself for this change in life.
In that time, Douglas Ashton and his mother Monique had not changed their habits one iota. They’d left the care of three bereaved children, who also had left their home to move to Sommersgate, in the hands of Mrs. K, her husband, Roddy, Veronika, and Sommersgate’s chauffer and handyman, Carter.
Mrs. Kilpatrick didn’t mind. She openly adored Tamsin Ashton Fairfax, who shared not a single trait with her mother, father or brother, all proud and haughty. Fifteen years ago, Mrs. Kilpatrick had immediately fallen in love with the tall, athletic, fair, blue-eyed American boy from the Midwest, Gavin Fairfax, who was friendly and outgoing and who thought Tamsin resided on a pedestal (Mrs. K agreed). And in loving them both, Mrs. K loved their children and would do anything for them.
But she was not their family. Monique Ashton had not showed an interest in mothering her own two children and she showed even less of an interest in her grandchildren.
Douglas Ashton was worse. He worked long, inhuman hours, day and night, travelling from city to city, country to country, continent to continent. On those very rare occasions when he wasn’t working, he was playing and he played with the same intensity as he worked. An expert skier, an avid horseman and a collector of tall, young, frighteningly skinny blondes, brunettes and redheads, he was a man who was responsible to no one but himself. And even though, on a dark, wet road five months ago, that had changed, Douglas Ashton had not.
Mrs. Kilpatrick didn’t know why Douglas worked so hard. He was born to money, property and a title. He was immensely good-looking and was one of Europe’s top bachelors.
Roderick Kilpatrick, Mrs. K’s husband, reckoned it was power. Mr. Kilpatrick worked as groundskeeper for both Douglas and his father and he felt in the position to have a pretty reliable opinion on the subject (indeed, Roddy felt he was in the position to have a pretty reliable opinion on a lot of subjects).
Mrs. K would always cringe and more often than not quickly cross herself when thinking of the older Ashton because he surely existed in purgatory, or worse, for what he put his son through. She tried not to think about it, the scenes, the shouting, the ugly, hideous words. As a mere servant, she didn’t exist to the Baron, therefore, it didn’t matter what she’d heard and she’d heard a great deal.
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How young Douglas had borne it, she couldn’t imagine but it was a testament to his strength of will. It wrecked Tamsin, who idolised her older brother. Those two were inseparable when they were young, clinging to each other in a home where controlled violence or absent neglect were the only constants.
Mrs. K never saw evidence of beatings, and there were times when she wished for it, for no matter what lofty a position Maxwell Ashton held, Social Services would frown upon physical violence and Mrs. K would have reported it, make no mistake. But there was never any physical evidence of the type of lashings Douglas would endure.
When he wasn’t verbally abusing his son, Maxwell spent his time in the pursuit of power and pleasure which were the sum total of his interests for his short sixty years. Years that ended in a massive heart attack on a ski slope in Gstaad.
Monique seemed quite happy to be left to the pursuit of her own pleasures. And this was exactly what she did, leaving her children to fend for themselves most of the time.
Roddy Kilpatrick felt that perhaps Douglas wanted to prove he was worthy of some attention from the both of them, the kind a proud father and mother would show.
Mrs. Kilpatrick didn’t believe that. Maxwell Ashton had been dead for years and there was no sign Douglas intended to slow down or settle down. Further, he seemed to regard his mother, as with everyone and everything else, with a cold disregard. She existed and he acknowledged that fact, and that was the end of it.
Rumour had it he’d more than quadrupled the family fortune and the way he did it was, no other way to say it, suspect. He had an office in Bristol and held a full staff at his offices in London. What he did to make his money, Mrs. K had no idea. He had a reputation as a dangerous man and it was a fact that he’d mysteriously disappeared for two years, without word or sighting. He had returned with no excuses for his absence looking no longer boyishly handsome but with a thin scar marring his hard mouth and lines etched into the sides of his eyes that were caused by wind and sun, and obviously not from playing polo.
His disappearance was never explained and, as for the rest, it was simply none of her business.