by Renée Dahlia
Chapter 6
“Yes.” Rosalie swallowed down the ugly lump of envy at Priya’s perfect family who believed in her and supported her choices. The mass landed in her stomach like a tentacled rock racing along a Rube Goldberg machine. Squirming and wriggling inside her, reaching into all the crevices until she was doomed to be consumed by it. “My grandfather, who you admire so much, was a constant in my childhood. I suppose I wanted to be like him.”
“An excellent aim. If your grandfather raised you, I take it your parents...” Priya’s voice trailed off.
“Are not in the same class as yours.” Rosalie closed her eyes, not wanting to see pity on Priya’s pretty features.
“Excuse me?” A frown marred Priya’s brow. “But if your grandfather owned the bank, then they couldn’t have been poor?”
Rosalie shook her head, a sharp violent movement, her hair swishing against her ears. “You misunderstand. I don’t mean financial class. Having money doesn’t always equip people with quality. I’ve met many people with much less money who’ve been classier than my parents.”
“Understood. I also didn’t mean to imply that the poor are lacking in manners. That’s not my experience either.”
Rosalie inclined her head in agreement. “There is no correlation between wealth or lack of it and a person’s kindness. Many other factors impact on a person’s outlook. My father, well... He was the only child of my grandfather, and consequently was spoiled rotten.”
Priya held up her hand. “Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Being an only child doesn’t necessarily mean spoiled.”
Rosalie nodded. “Of course. From what I’ve seen, especially among the bank’s clients, is that most only children have a weight of expectation that negates any benefit of wealth. Perhaps my grandfather would have spoiled all his children, regardless of number.”
“Perhaps.”
“My father never had to lift a finger to do anything for himself, and the result was that he had no ambition.” It was the nicest way of phrasing her father’s selfish and generally inept attitude to life. “When I showed a little mathematical talent, as well as a serious nature, my grandfather decided that, as he said, the unfortunate fact of my gender was of no consequence. He’d made a mistake in the way he raised my father, and he was determined to make amends. I suppose you could say that I had little choice but to follow in his footsteps.”
“I don’t imagine it was easy to be the one to carry those expectations.” Priya’s brown eyes shone under the bright electric chandeliers and Rosalie hoped the emotion she saw in them was concern, not pity. A faint headache formed at the memory of Grandfather’s often fierce overcompensation for letting her father do nothing and she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“For the most part, I enjoyed it. The work suited me. I have a good brain for financial strategy and the economy.”
“And the rest?”
“The rest?”
Priya shrugged one shoulder. “You said you enjoyed the work for the most part. Which bits didn’t you enjoy?”
“The usual slights at my gender.” Rosalie ran her tongue along her teeth. “Oh fine. If you must know, the part I really didn’t enjoy was when Grandfather retired. My father declared that he would step into the role as Executive Director, and Grandfather was almost swayed. It took some work—” An understatement if ever there was one. “—to convince Grandfather that the bank’s clients would prefer someone with skill running the bank, not merely a man.”
“Men are accustomed to being the first choice for everything.”
Rosalie nodded enthusiastically. It was so typical of her self-absorbed father to assume he would get the job when he’d never earned it. “Grandfather eventually had to face the reality of the situation. He had to choose between his son and the success of the bank.”
“He loved his son.”
“Yes, it was probably his only failing. Love isn’t a failing on its own, but in this case, love made him blinkered to reality. He never really saw how frivolous my father was. Grandfather always hoped that Father would grow up, as if being a foolish roux when he was nearly fifty damned years old was merely a stage... He hoped, forlornly, that Father would one day be capable of the job he was born to do, and...” Rosalie sipped her wine, unable to communicate the depths of her anger at being overlooked for someone who cared more about the cut of his coat than the goodwill of their clients.
“And yet, here you are.”
“It was a close run thing. I still remember the sneer on Father’s face when he stood before Grandfather and said, It’s Sanderson and Sons, not Sanderson and Daughters.”
Priya blinked twice, slowly, her nostrils flaring. “How dare he? Sanderson and Daughters would be brilliant.”
“No. He was correct on that point. We would have lost at least half our clients if we’d taken such a name. I have since used the phrase as a jest; it is occasionally useful to derail someone by saying what they are thinking before they have the opportunity to sneer.”
Priya nodded. “I have used that strategy before. Given that you are in the main role now, I take it your arguments had enough sway?”
“Yes and no. Initially Grandfather proposed that Father take the main role as an honorary position with me...”
“Doing all the work while he took all the credit?” Priya’s eyebrows shot upwards, and the cold lump in Rosalie’s stomach warmed.
“You understand.” Rosalie put down her wine with a rush of breath. “Obviously, I wasn’t keen on that, especially because the position would give Father the opportunity to make ridiculous decisions and enforce them. Eventually Grandfather saw sense, and now Father has an honorary role on the Board. He is one of only eleven voices, so his vote is largely irrelevant, while also giving Father a sense of importance without having to come to the office daily.” Her father hadn’t even bothered to attend the last three Board meetings, and they only held them quarterly.
Priya smiled. “Eventually... That word is doing a lot of work. Congratulations on a stellar achievement against the odds.”
“Thank you.” Rosalie preened at the compliment. It wore away at the spiney lump of jealousy in her stomach until only a tiny pebble remained. She might not have the loving family Priya did, but she’d overcome the lack and created a good life regardless. As Priya said, it was something to be proud of.
“I find myself in a place where I must apologise again.” Priya surprised her with a change of direction and Rosalie peered at her.
“You do?”
Priya leaned forward. “I do. I’m sorry I was so artless in discussing my family.”
“It’s no matter. Honestly, I might have been unlucky with my parents, but my Grandfather was a brilliant man, and my sister is wonderful. A blessing.” Rosalie hoped that would end the conversation, she really wasn’t keen to outline all her family troubles. Her mother currently resided in New York with her latest lover. At the first sign of war, she’d left Europe for more peaceful waters in which to ply her wiles. Mother had the same magnetism as Gloria and she’d used that to manipulate her father into marriage as a young woman, barely in her majority. Rosalie had been an eight-month baby, something the family kept hushed up, although Rosalie was quite certain she was a Sanderson. She had her father’s thin nose and pointed chin. Gloria was much younger. She’d only been born when Grandfather had threatened her parents with a loss of income if they didn’t behave in a fashion more appropriate to a family. The pretence had worked for a while, but with both her parents loving the social scene and having money to travel, Rosalie and Gloria had been raised by highly paid servants with Rosalie provided Gloria’s emotional needs as a much older sister. When she was old enough to realise that her own desires meant she’d never have children, she’d been glad. Relieved because she’d already done her part in raising a child, and no child should have to be a parent to their sibling, or to themselves. She loved her nephews, Gloria’s sons, and especially liked being able to hand
them back at the end of a visit.
“Your sister is a delight. It’s a credit to your Grandfather that you have both become exceptional people.”
Rosalie’s cheeks burned with heat. “A credit to his ability to pay household staff, but yes, thank you.” She didn’t miss the implication that Priya thought she was an exceptional person. Rosalie wished she didn’t need to hear the positive comment, but she’d had so few compliments growing up, that even now at forty-two, an honest, heartfelt compliment could turn her head. The waiter saved her from further comment by arriving with their food.
They ate in silence, a comfortable relaxed quiet that reminded Rosalie of her true desire. She wanted to come home from the bank to this easy companionship every day with interesting conversation and happy silences. The rest of the evening passed quickly. They chatted about Mrs de Seletsky’s violin performance last week, and Rosalie heard about Priya’s favourite moments in the theatre. It was very pleasant and relaxing and when Priya stood up after dessert, Rosalie wanted to stay longer.
“It is getting late and I have a busy day tomorrow.” Priya waved to the waiter who brought over a note. Priya opened her reticule and paid for the dinner, and Rosalie followed her out of the restaurant.
“Please, let me pay for my half.”
“No, it’s fine. Perhaps you could pay next time?” Priya said, and Rosalie’s chest swelled with hope. There might be a next time. It made her feel giddy, like she had as a small child when Grandfather had shown her the gold in the vaults. She’d wanted to reach out and touch the cold blocks that represented the strength her Grandfather had built at Sanderson and Sons. It’d been the moment when she’d known she wanted to run the bank. Did this giddiness mirror the same yearning for a future together?
“I’d like that.” Rosalie shouldn’t be this easily swayed by a pretty face, intelligent conversation, and a couple of compliments. The sharp reminder that she was no longer the child practising her arithmetic until Grandfather said she was perfect should’ve been enough to maintain her distance from Priya, but just as she had been when they first met, Rosalie was drawn to Priya’s vibrancy. For her to demonstrate such empathy during dinner only made her want to lean in closer, like she’s been caught around the waist by a rope and was being pulled physically towards Priya. In the intervening six years, Priya had grown up. When they’d first met, Priya’s fresh-faced innocence had made Rosalie realise how jaded she’d become. It had attracted her while simultaneously reminding her of their age differences. Six years—and a world war—later, Priya’s brown eyes captured a depth of knowledge that Rosalie found irresistible. She breathed out. The reasons why she ought to resist were rapidly decreasing. Who was she kidding? She hadn’t resisted six years ago when the experience gap between them was much vaster than now.
Priya bowed her head in acknowledgement, then drifted across the stairs to stand under a glowing electrical lamp. The light cast shadows over her face and made her jewels flicker and shine. Priya was so beautiful that it made Rosalie’s skin prickle and her pulse race. She wanted to trace her fingers over Priya’s cheeks, along her jaw, and down her throat, to taste her like she had once before. Time slowed down and every breath hung in the cool summer evening air, not cold enough to create a fog, but somehow still giving the same impression of anticipation. Rosalie tried not to shiver as they held each other’s gaze. She summoned her willpower and struck out her hand for a handshake. Anything to break the atmosphere between them, even a business-like touch. There was nothing functional in the handshake, as electrical tingles rushed up her arm.
“Thank you for listening to my apology and I look forward to working with you.” Priya’s voice rose in volume as a cab drove up to the front of the steps outside the Goring Hotel.
“As do I. It’s been important to clear the air, so we can go forward.”
A flash blinded Rosalie and she blinked, then squinted into the dark.
“Miss Sanderson and Miss Howick?” A voice called out.
“Yes?” Priya asked, and she dropped Rosalie’s hand. A buzz lingered on her palm and she clenched her fist, then shook it a little to no avail.
“Bloody reporters. There’s no story here. Why would they want our photo?”
Priya leaned forward and whispered. “Your cab is here. Thank you so much for having dinner with me.” If Priya could ignore the media, so could she. Presumably, given her family connections, Priya was accustomed to having her photo taken when she went out in public. The reporter wasn’t going to find anything interesting about tonight. They were merely a pair of spinsters chatting about business; people, mostly men, came here to discuss business all the time. No one else needed to know they’d really been discussing more personal matters, such as Priya’s surprising revelation and apology and her own family dramas. Rosalie knew she’d spend too much time tonight lying awake in bed trying to figure out who might have gossiped about her that night six years ago, but as she’d left before joining everyone in the main drawing room, it would be a futile effort. She really needed to convince her brain that she’d never know because it was impossible to know who was present that night. It was an impossibility that shouldn’t be allowed to nag at her and keep her awake all night. If only it were as simple as commanding her brain.
Rosalie’s mouth moistened at the reminder of their single night together, and the anticipation of another one. Before she could break down and beg Priya to come home with her, she deliberately walked towards the cab, towards a sensible decision. A reporter was watching, after all, and she didn’t want them to pay particular attention to them. A banker and a client having dinner was no news; two rich spinsters having dinner together didn’t register with most people either. No one would guess Rosalie’s secret desires—to the world she wasn’t seen as a person with needs, merely a stuffy banker—that she might want a wife of her own, so to speak, was something no regular person would ever imagine. It just wasn’t the type of thing anyone spoke about in public. When two spinster women got into the same cab, most people wouldn’t take note. The only exception was the newspapers were obsessed with the Carlingford family and Rosalie would bet that everything Priya did in public would make the gossip pages. Rosalie preferred to stay away from such nonsense. When Priya opened the door of the cab and held out her hand, Rosalie tried not to jerk in surprise at the overly romantic gesture. She placed her hand in Priya’s and allowed herself to be assisted into the cab. She wouldn’t read too much into it.
“Good evening.” Rosalie’s voice cracked and she wet her lips again. Every fibre of her body screamed at her to ask Priya to join her, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. An apology for misunderstanding her motives six years ago was nothing more than that; a clarification so they could work together and help people with Rowley’s Mile. Rosalie shouldn’t let herself hope that it might signal a new direction for their burgeoning relationship.
Chapter 7
Priya flicked out the newssheet and spread it on the breakfast table beside her. The crisp feel of the paper under her palm couldn’t be more different to the soft warmth of Rosalie’s hand. It wasn’t physically or rationally possible to still feel Rosalie’s touch on her hand, and yet she could. They’d shared a fraught moment after dinner when Priya had held out her hand to help Rosalie into a cab. The simple touch had seared her. She’d done well not to rip her hand away and cradle it, and she could still feel tingles this morning. Her imagination could anyway. A headline caught her attention and she gasped. It wasn’t the headline she’d planned to go with the photo of her and Rosalie; quite the opposite in fact. She leaped to her feet and bolted to the house telephone, stumbling a little in her rush as she called the mews.
“Mr Sharma, please get my car ready now.” Last night he’d scolded her for driving home after dinner. It was well known that people shouldn’t drive their horses home after drinking wine, and Mr Sharma often said the same logic applied to motor vehicles. At least a horse could get itself home if the driver was insensible
. Mr Sharma Junior took one sniff of her last night as she’d parked her car, and promptly told her off. The risk of accident when driving a car after any type of shock or change to the system was too high in his humble opinion. Her protest that it had only been one glass only resulted in the type of cool look one got from a staff member who was completely assured of their job. They both knew that she’d never sack Mr Sharma Junior for showing concern over her safe return to the house.
She stepped outside into the warm summer morning just as Mr Sharma drove her car out of the mews to the front steps of their house. “I am very sorry I worried you last night.”
“You must take care of yourself.”
She nodded and stepped into the vehicle. As soon as she’d seen the headline, there was only place she needed to be. Sanderson and Sons. The car roared as she stepped on the accelerator pedal, and she hauled it through the gears, navigating the traffic. She tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel as the traffic ground to a halt. Damn it. Perhaps she ought to have called first. No. This type of thing needed to be dealt with in person. If Rosalie believed the obviously invented headline... The busy road gave her the breathing space to think through all the implications.
By the time she’d left her car with the bank’s valet and paced up the central staircase in the bank and along the hallway of offices towards where Mrs Patel sat, guarding Rosalie’s office, Priya had a better handle on what to say.
“Mrs Patel, I’m terribly sorry, but I must speak to Miss Sanderson with some urgency.” Her words came out all ragged between heaving breaths.
Mrs Patel had obviously read the papers as she nodded. “She is expecting you.”
“She is?” Priya swayed on her feet, and she couldn’t blame her rush for the sudden loss of air. All of her planned words disappeared.
“Yes. You may go in.”
