The Hartford Inheritance

By Jane.A. Hobden

Intense, gripping, psychological thriller.

As a child, Kitty Harmer had her world turned upside down when her twin sister, Sarah, was taken into care. Now aged 26 and struggling, she is contacted about the inheritance of a property she has never heard of miles away. Kitty seizes the opportunity and moves into Belford Hall, set on acres of land in Norfolk.
Kitty is soon drawn to the charms of the Norfolk countryside, and a local farmer. As she settles into the primitive manor house, she discovers a book titled Hartford Place locked in a library drawer. Kitty soon learns of the stories surrounding the Hall, a curse made in the 1800s and a past she knew nothing about. Her Hartford ancestors mirror Kitty with their raven hair and emerald eyes and have all suffered tragedy, with veiled secrets buried deep.
When the twins reunite, Sarah reveals a hardship that unsettles Kitty’s memories of her own childhood. Is there a curse on the Hartford family? Is there a ghostly presence at the Hall? This thriller takes Kitty on a journey through a past that emulates her future. With twists and turns through history and the present, you will be swept into the Hartford Inheritance and the passionate jealousy that shadows the identical twins through the generations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane.A. Hobden
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781910100271

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Sarah and I are identical twins, born just 21 minutes apart, with Sarah leading the way. We learnt to smile, laugh and touch within minutes of each other. Sarah crawled just a couple of hours before I did and we both took our first steps together, encouraged by our proud mother. Mum said we spoke our first words one after the other at 14 months old but I know differently, for Sarah and I had our own language and we communicated a long time before. Having a twin is a bond that only a few are lucky enough to have. It is a soul mate, a very special person in your life. It is like having a built-in best friend, more special even, for you are never alone and all of your experiences, your sad times, and your happy times are shared. The worst thing that I could imagine as a child was for us to be separated and that is exactly what happened when we were 12 years old. I have dreamed of Sarah without fail every night since.

We did everything together, usually pushed along by Sarah. She was the stronger, more independent and outspoken of the two of us. I was demure and painfully shy around everyone except my twin. If we were asked a question, I would look to Sarah, blushing scarlet whilst she answered. Sarah was able to articulate herself in a way that demanded adults pay attention. She would stand with her head tilted, a smile lighting her face, a twinkle in her eyes, her long tanned legs with grazes and cuts from top to bottom, twirling her black, tangled hair peeking out from beneath her crooked heavy fringe, with an air of aloofness that I once heard my dad describe as cockiness. My own hair, which was of course identical to Sarah’s, would be tied back neatly in a ponytail with a brightly coloured Alice band holding it in place. My legs never displayed cuts or grazes and my knee-high socks were always pulled up as high as they would go in an effort to look smart.

Sarah’s attitude became worse over the years and Dad, who always lacked patience with Sarah, finally had enough when we were 12. My dad said they just needed a break for ‘a couple of weeks.’

The day Sarah left was a normal Monday school day. Mum had been ill for a while and had been spending a lot of time shut away in her bedroom. Dad, if he was around, or, more often, our next door neighbour, Trinny, would make sure that we were looked after and had something to eat. On this particular day, I should have noticed that it wasn’t an ordinary day. Firstly Dad sat at the breakfast table with us, drinking his coffee as we tucked into our cornflakes. He never joined us at the table but would sit on the sofa behind a newspaper with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He even spoke to us, asking if we’d had a good sleep. Also, rather oddly, he spoke about Mum. He explained that Dr Durant had told her she needed to rest and to take some medicine to make her well. I was excited about this.

Mum needed to be happy again. When she was around, she would burst into tears at the slightest thing. Since she got back from her stay in hospital, the only conversations she had with Dad involved shouting and name-calling and ended in tears and slammed doors. Sarah and I never talked about what was happening in our house except when Sarah told our teacher that she hadn’t finished her homework because our mum had been in hospital to have her stomach pumped. I didn’t even know what this was, let alone how Sarah knew.

As soon as we finished our breakfast, I leapt up to go and get into my school clothes. ‘Please sit down, Kitty,’ said Dad, with a serious edge to his voice that I had never heard before. I sat down. Even Sarah, who never took any notice of anyone around her, looked up expectantly.

‘Sarah,’ my dad said bluntly, looking directly at her, ‘most of Mum’s problems come down to you.’ I gasped and Dad took my hand, patting it with his calloused fingers, which matched his nature. ‘We need to make Mum better,’ he continued. ‘You ain’t going to school today. Dr Durant has found a special school for you to go to for a couple of weeks, till Mum gets better and to try and sort out that attitude of yours.’ I gasped a second time and turned to Sarah. She didn’t flinch. I felt like I should know how she was feeling and how to make this all better. My stomach was knotting and I felt sick. ‘Mum did want to come down and see you off but she’s just too ill, love, so I want you to be a good girl, go up and brush your teeth and then we need to get off.’ Sarah continued to stare at Dad and though I could see he was trying to meet her gaze, he looked away before Sarah did.

I was struggling to find words to say – words to say to Dad and to Sarah but as my mouth opened, the only noise that came out was a pained scream. Dad looked to me and then stood up, almost embarrassed. He patted my shoulder as he walked past and, through my tears, I watched him pick up a bag from the hallway that had stood unnoticed by anyone.

‘Sarah, go and brush your teeth now,’ he said, becoming impatient. I thought Sarah was going to do as she was told but instead she pulled out one of Dad’s cigarettes and lit it, not taking her eyes from his face. Even he looked a little shocked.

‘Sarah, I’m going to lose it with you; do as you’re damn well told.’

This was the final warning before Dad lost it completely and started speaking with his fists. Sarah dragged on the cigarette, staring at him as she did so. Then she stubbed it out, leaned over to me and gave me a hug. I stood almost unable to breathe as tears flooded my eyes. Sarah walked past me, heading towards the door whilst Dad picked up the bag and followed her.

I panicked and ran, barging into Dad to get to Sarah, hysterically shouting, ‘Mum, Mum, get out of bed, you have to stop Sarah. Please Dad, don’t take Sarah. Dad, Dad, please, I’m begging you.’ I was shaking his arm desperately. ‘Sarah, tell him you’ll be good. Tell him, please, you can’t leave. SARAH, SARAH.’

As I got to Sarah, Dad had reached the door, opening it and bundling himself and the bag out as quickly as he could. I grabbed at Sarah to hold onto her for dear life but she calmly removed my arms, saying, ‘Kitty, don’t get upset, it’ll be OK. It’ll be good for me to get away from here for a while, from that fucking wanker.’ She indicated Dad with a nod of her head. With a sudden whack, Dad’s hand connected with the side of Sarah’s face. I screamed and my knee-jerk reaction was to step back. Sarah’s hair swung as her face moved from the force of Dad’s blow but she didn’t make a sound, and with that she followed him to the car. I stood on the steps uncontrollably crying as my dad pulled away and my twin was taken away from me.

I went straight to my parents’ bedroom. Mum was awake, lying in bed, crying, and I ran over and flung myself at her. ‘Kitty,’ she said gently, with tears streaming down her cheeks, ‘Sarah needs help from a team that can work with her. We can’t help her as she is at the moment. She winds your dad up terribly and I can’t bear it. I’ve done all that I can but it won’t be forever, I promise you. It won’t be forever.’ But forever it was.

I missed Sarah terribly. Sarah said that I was the good and she the bad but I told her she was wrong for I chose to ignore her mean streak. I remember our first day at school aged five. We were standing in the playground, me feeling nervous but excited and Sarah with that cocky smile she wore with pride. I watched the children playing near to us, longing to join in. My mum gripped my hand and I held her tightly back. Sarah didn’t look scared but nothing frightened her. I remember seeing a little girl falling flat on the ground in front of us and whilst my mum was fussing over the child, who lay screaming, I saw Sarah’s leg retreat under her. At that time I never thought for a second that Sarah could be responsible.

Nor do I remember it being Sarah’s fault when a child fell off the climbing frame at the park, despite looking up to see Sarah at the top with that smirk on her face and a complete air of nonchalance. Sarah’s disdain of authority and bravado was the polar opposite to my timidity and she would backchat with teachers and our parents as if she were addressing her peers.

Sarah was constantly having outbursts that continued into junior and secondary school, at least until she left to go to the children’s home. Then, sadly, I don’t know what she was like. Sarah didn’t care if she had a temper tantrum wherever she may be and her cruelty towards our classmates was extreme. More than once I would hear her name-calling or assaulting other children. On one occasion she rammed Jessica Saunder’s head into a mirror so hard that the mirror smashed; another time she held Anita Jones down and stuffed worms and nettles into her knickers, rubbing them around to the point where Anita’s screams reached fever pitch.

She would talk about Mum in a derogatory way, referring to her as a bitch or a whore. ‘What’s a whore?’ I would innocently ask. ‘Mum!’ Sarah would respond, smirking. But she didn’t just refer to our mum like that behind her back, she would talk like that to her face as well. Most of the time Mum would ignore her. Looking back I can see now why my parents’ patience finally came to an end.

Sarah never mentioned Dad. They weren’t close and mostly she didn’t acknowledge his presence. If Dad told her off, she just ignored him and if he punished her, she just brushed it off. She acted as though he was invisible.

I think the final straw for Mum was when Sarah held Molly Hubbard down on the floor of the boys’ toilet and carved SLAG deep into her arm. By the time the teachers were alerted, Sarah was long gone. The police were called in and their view was that the best way to deal with matters was to get Social Services involved. The social workers, following their assessment of the school records, advised Mum that Sarah should see a behavioural psychologist. However, for my mother, it was one step too far and the embarrassment that she now felt every time she dropped us at school was too much.

Despite Sarah’s behaviour, I missed her terribly. I missed our chats and the games we would play. I missed the cuddles we shared when Mum left the room at night and she would climb on my bed for us to snuggle up. I’d think of the time when, aged eight, we spent two weeks away from school with chicken pox, huddled on the sofa, sharing stories and watching videos. I can still picture the scar that sits on Sarah’s eyebrow from her frantic scratching. In those moments it felt like Sarah was carrying a chip the size of a boulder on her shoulders and all I wanted to do was lift it for her.

But something else happened when Sarah left that had a poignant effect on our lives. From the moment Social Services took her into their care, Sarah cut all ties with her family.

Sarah was taken to a children’s home for kids with problems called Treetops. Once a week, Mum and I would go to the communal living area to see Sarah and each time she would refuse to leave her room. Mum would speak to Sarah’s key worker in the office whilst I sat outside, staring at the stairs waiting for her to appear but she never came down. We were told that she was doing really well and Mum was handed the reports to read through. Everyone agreed that Sarah was in the best place for her but no one ever asked me and it hurt immensely that Sarah shut us out. At those times I don’t think I ever gave any thought as to how Sarah must feel, I was just so focused on how it was affecting me.

Dad, on the other hand, never bothered to go to Treetops; instead he continued to drink beer on the sofa at home.

A couple of times, as we left Treetops, I swear I saw the curtains moving in a room upstairs but I could never be sure. I would get back on the bus and return to life without my twin.

Six months after Sarah had been taken to Treetops, my father also left. My mum still spent a lot of time in bed though she had seemed to be getting a little better but the regular arguments continued. My dad would get crosser and crosser and then the sound of slapping and screaming would take over from the shouting. I heard a loud bang as the door slammed and my dad was gone and never returned. To say that I cared would be a lie because my dad was never worth the title but it would have been nice if he could have kept in touch. It was as if he had suddenly walked off the edge of the earth and been swallowed into nothingness.

The day Dad left, Mum immediately changed. It was as though, overnight, she became my mother and I hated being separated from her. Her parents had died in a car accident when I was four years old and Dad’s parents rarely saw us so it felt as though the only person I had left was Mum.

When Sarah and I were nearly 14, Mum stopped going to Treetops completely. I could see the hurt that she carried around with her but she never discussed it with me and, likewise, I never discussed any of my feelings with her.

As Mum closed the chapter on Sarah, she focused all her attention on me. By this time she had gained employment in an office whilst I was at school but she would always be at home waiting for me when I put my key in the door. She would cook wonderful though basic meals and spend hours cuddling up to me on the sofa as we watched a good movie or chatted about my day. At Christmas she always cooked the fattest bird and spent all the money she could on buying me lovely clothes and jewellery, just the two of us at home; Mum a little tipsy on sherry and me hiding the sadness that I felt every year. Neither of us ever said a word about Sarah but she was always there. Looking back I think it was a way to paper over the cracks. It felt like if we didn’t acknowledge that Sarah wasn’t there, we wouldn’t have to deal with it.

As Mum and I grew closer, I began to grow in confidence and shed a little of my shy persona. As I reached 16, I embraced fashion, enjoyed the company of friends and fended off requests for dates from a selection of boys.

Jemima Kemp had been my best friend at school since I was 13 and remained as such. We spent days and nights together just chatting and experimenting with make-up and hair, discussing boys and French kissing. Jemima was very short in stature, only 5’2 to my 5’8, and I towered above her but we would make jokes about it and the boys in our year would refer to us as ‘little and large.’ Whilst I was willowy in those teenage years, Jemima was much curvier, with a 32EE bust by the time she reached the age of 17.

Jemima and I would spend hours discussing what we wanted to do with our lives. ‘You should try and model, Kitty, with that raven hair and your white skin and a name like Kitty, you could be a supermodel.’ We would giggle about that and I would, of course, be flattered. Jemima, on the other hand, loved to care for things. Even when we were considering our options, I knew she would end up as a nurse, a doctor or a vet.

I didn’t want to be a model or have any kind of high-flying career that would mean travelling all over the world. I wanted to stay on the coast with my mum and that was a lot of the reason that I decided on a route that didn’t involve going to university, so comfortable was I in my life. I needed Mum to be near me and I needed to stay here in case Sarah wanted to find us, for Sarah was always in my thoughts and every night before I got into bed, I would look out of the window into the black sky and smile at the stars that I knew were also looking down on Sarah. Then I would meet Sarah once more in my dreams.

When I reached 25, fate dealt me the ultimate heartbreak. I had left my childhood home and was now living in a small mortgaged flat in the same town, a short walk away from Mum. It was a flat I adored and spent a lot of time making tiny adjustments to, giving it my own stamp. I kept a special photograph of Sarah and me, on our 12th birthday, by my bedside.

The first time I realised there was a problem with Mum was at the end of August, 2010, when I went round for dinner. I let myself in, as I always did, and could hear her vomiting upstairs in the toilet. I had left the office where I worked as a secretary early. As Mum wasn’t expecting me until 6pm, she hadn’t bothered to shut the bathroom door. Normally I would have put it down to a stomach bug; however, as she came down the stairs I noticed how frail she appeared. She looked as though she had lost a stone in a handful of days and she was tinged a shade of yellow that a dandelion may just be proud of. Her jet black hair looked lank and greasy as if she hadn’t washed it for a couple of weeks and her skin, always so clear and fresh despite her 58 years, looked spotty, and there were dark bags underneath her eyes.

‘My God, Mum, what’s wrong?’ I asked, taken aback.

‘I’m fine, darling. I’ve just had this awful headache and diarrhoea and sickness for the last couple of days. I’ll be fine in a couple of days.’

I so wanted to believe her but that shade of yellow haunted me. I didn’t demand that she go to the doctor immediately and hoped that she was right, that it was just a stomach bug and that in a couple of days she would be fine.

But she didn’t get any better and two weeks later she finally made it to her GP, who sent her straight up to the hospital where she was admitted. By that stage she was so frail and had lost so much weight that she could barely operate. I sat in the chair next to hers holding her hand, unaware of any discussions that had taken place in my absence. I wasn’t aware of any results of x-rays or blood tests until the consultant used the word cancer. From the look on my mother’s face, she had either suspected this or they had already told her. Mum turned to look at me and grabbed my hand as if she wanted to shield my pain.

‘Mrs Harmer,’ the consultant said, ‘I’m afraid, as we suspected, you have cancer of the liver.’ I stifled a gasp. ‘The tests we carried out show that the cancer has also spread to your lymph nodes, the right kidney and your bowel,’ he said, very matter of fact. ‘The cancer has taken such a hold of your internal organs that it is, unfortunately, inoperable. If we open you up when you are already too weak to undergo a general anaesthetic, we feel that you won’t survive the operation.’ He hesitated and I looked at Mum. Sadness was etched across her face. ‘The best course of action, we feel,’ as he said this he looked at his very young junior assistant, ‘is to prescribe you the best drugs available so that you can live pain free.’

I didn’t take my eyes away from Mum’s face. Suddenly she didn’t look like Mum any more. She looked like a lost child who’d awoken on the day after the Armageddon to discover that she was the last remaining human being. She started sobbing into her arms. As I grabbed her, I could feel the pain and fear coursing through her body. The agony of exactly what it must feel like to be told that you are dying, that there is nothing the doctors can do, that life as you know it is over.

‘We think,’ and once again the consultant looked towards the junior assistant, ‘that the best place for you would be to go to a hospice, as their care is second to none. They will be able to give you the care you require to make the next few weeks as restful and peaceful as possible.’ And just like that, it was out there. The next few weeks, that’s all my precious mum had left.

The doctors were, of course, right; Mum only lived for three weeks. I took all of my holiday leave and sat by her bedside for the entire time. I held her hand whilst she slept and I sat reading her stories in the moments that she was conscious until she drifted off. In other lucid moments, we would chat about all the things we had done together over the last few years. Once again we never discussed Sarah. I would tell little anecdotes about Jake, my boyfriend, whom I had been dating for the past year. Mum had met him and though she said that she liked him, I always suspected that she wasn’t overly keen.

During the last few days of her life, Mum suddenly seemed at peace, as if the tension she had carried around for years had gone and as though she was ready to embrace death. On the 10th October, 2010, my wonderful, kind, loving mother Charlotte Harmer died as she slept. I was by her beside at the time. Just as with Sarah leaving all those years before, it felt like a part of me died inside and I was utterly alone.

CHAPTER 2

‘Are you all right, Kitty?’ asked Jemima, twirling her long blonde hair around her fingers. I was standing in Mum’s lounge, feeling incredibly lost and distracted, looking about the room that now felt terribly small and deserted. There were people milling about in close proximity of the tiny room, home to so many emotions and experiences. A handful of Mum’s friends had turned up together with the next door neighbour, Trinny and Jemima, Laura and Jake. Jake had once again disappeared up to the toilet, no doubt to do another line of cocaine. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to pick him up on it again as it was an on-going battle that I would never win.

‘Yes, I’m OK,’ I responded after a short hesitation. ‘It just feels so wrong that she’s dead. Two months ago everything was fine. It’s just frightening, how much can happen in the blink of an eye, overnight.’ I couldn’t carry on, the pressure of the tears building becoming too much. The last thing I wanted was to break down in front of all these people. I had kept it together since Mum had died the previous week and at the crematorium, hoping that, after the funeral, I would find some sort of peace.

‘I know, sweetie, but just remember, we’re here for you and always will be.’ Jemima gently touched my shoulder. I smiled at my dearest friend. ‘I know Jake might be in his nosebag as per usual, dickweed that he is, but you’ve always got me.’ Her piercing blue eyes bore into mine as she squeezed my hand. Jemima made no bones about her dislike for Jake.

‘Jake is not snorting coke!’ I said, a little too loud and defensive. ‘It’s just these tablets that he is taking at the moment to help his hay fever.’ I was a terrible liar and I knew that Jemima could see in my eyes that I was telling her an untruth.

‘Thanks for coming, Laura. You didn’t have to,’ I said as Laura approached us. Laura was my friend from work and I was so grateful that both she and Jemima were here. Laura was a big ball of bubbliness and fun. She had two kids from a marriage that