by Marie Laval
‘Really? And you never told me, even when I asked you about Mum’s family?’
‘It wasn’t my place, sweetie. I promised your mother not to say anything.’
Rosalie’s fingers squeezed the phone receiver more tightly and she swallowed hard. The feeling of betrayal and hurt was almost too hard to bear. Her mother had chosen to confide in a friend about her family, rather than in her own daughter. Why? Had Rosalie been such a hopeless daughter? Had she meant nothing?
‘At least you can tell me if these people were my grandparents.’
‘Yes, they were.’
‘Are there any other relatives I don’t know about? Maybe I could contact them, visit them.’ She heard the uncertainty, the almost childish hope in her voice.
Lorna didn’t answer. ‘I don’t think so, love.’
‘Why did Mum never talk about her parents? Did they argue and throw her out? Were they horrible people? They look very nice in the photo.’
‘All I can say is that she had her reasons. Very good reasons.’
Rosalie tutted, annoyed now. ‘What’s the big secret, Lorna? I think I have the right to know.’
‘You do, but it’s difficult, and I’d rather not say anything over the phone. In fact, that’s what Geoff wanted to talk to you about before his operation.’
‘So he also knows all about my mother’s family? Of course! And what else do you two know? Do you have my father’s name too, his address even?’
Lorna gasped. ‘Rosalie, please. I don’t want to talk about it, not now, not on the phone.’ She sounded as though she was about to burst into tears.
Even if it was clear there was something in her mother’s past she’d never even suspected, Rosalie was reluctant to upset Lorna further.
‘All right.’ She sighed, resigned. ‘I’ll wait until you come back or until Geoff is better.’
‘Perhaps I will cut my holiday short and come home after all,’ Lorna said. ‘You must be lonely at Raventhorn now Marc Petersen has left. I know you said you had plenty of work to keep you busy, but I worry you won’t look after yourself properly.’
‘I’m not lonely at all,’ Rosalie lied. She had said nothing to Lorna about Kirsty Marsh’s unwelcome arrival yesterday. ‘I meet Alice and Niall most nights and we … hmm … go to the Stag’s Head or the Four Winds.’
They talked a while longer about what Lorna had been doing and the other excursions Lorna’s sister had planned for that day and the following few days. As soon as she put the phone down, Rosalie stared at the photo of her mother and grandparents. Why the secrets, why the mystery, and why did Lorna and Geoff know more about her relatives than she did?
Perhaps she could carry out her own research. After all that’s what the internet was for. She would use Geoff’s old computer in the library. Kirsty was busy in the drawing room and with any luck she would leave her alone for a while. The woman was infuriating with her constant demands and complaints. Would Rosalie fetch a scarf from her room or some paper from the study? Would she get some fresh fruit, bottled mineral water or a fashion magazine from the shop in Irlwick? Could she turn the heating up … or down, switch more lights on because the weather here was so gloomy, or make a cup of coffee or pour another glass of wine?
Actually, Rosalie thought with a wry smile, given the ease with which Kirsty had knocked back glasses of wine the previous evening, it was surprising she’d managed to complete any work at all. Maybe she should bring up a few more bottles from the cellar …
She switched on the computer in the library. Where to start? She looked at her mother’s graduation photo – her mother’s beaming face, her parents’ proud smiles. Sophie had always been interested in art and history, in music and literature, but how could Rosalie find out what she had actually graduated in?
She typed the name of the polytechnic – now a university – but didn’t get very far, even on the alumni page. She decided to key in her mother’s name into the search engine. Nothing relevant came up. It looked as though she would indeed have to wait for Lorna or Geoff to talk to her. Disappointed, she clicked on the images section and started scrolling down the screen. Together with the many pictures of hearts she had expected, there were photos of girls and women, dozens of them –Sophie Heart must be a popular name. She scrolled right down the screen, and was about to give up when she spotted a black and white photo with a familiar face on. It was the photo Geoff had taken of her mother and herself, the one that hung on the wall in her flat.
Frowning, she leaned closer to the screen. How did it end up on the internet? A couple of rows below was a photo of herself standing next to a pink cab. Curious, she clicked on it and the link took her to the website of a London magazine and an article about young entrepreneurs. Of course, now she remembered!
When the Inverness Courier had featured an article about Love Taxis back in May, she had told the reporter about her mother being her inspiration, and had given him a copy of her mother’s photo for the front page. Rosalie had been delighted when the story had then been picked up by a couple of newspapers in Glasgow and Edinburgh. Any mention in the press was publicity, and publicity could only be good. Couldn’t it?
Geoff however had flown into a rage. Had she gone mad to tell the press about her mother, to let them have Sophie’s photo? He had shouted and ranted so much Rosalie had driven off in her pink cab in tears. When a few weeks later, a London magazine about young entrepreneurs had contacted her to write a piece about Love Taxis, she had been glad of the free publicity but hadn’t dared mention it to either Geoff or Lorna for fear of causing more arguments.
She went back to her search, and this time caught a glimpse of the cover of a rather old-fashioned and very tacky glamour magazine. That was strange. The woman looked just like … Her finger froze in the air, her heart skipped a beat, her mouth gaped open in shock.
It couldn’t be, surely she was mistaken!
Marc squinted against the bright sunlight as he lifted the blind ready for landing at Hong Kong International Airport on Lantau Island. He rubbed his unshaven chin and glanced around the Airbus 380 business cabin. After a twelve-hour flight from Paris, he wasn’t the only passenger to look tired and dishevelled. He’d debated earlier whether to take advantage of the facilities to freshen up, but he wasn’t meeting anyone at the airport so showering and shaving could wait until he reached his hotel.
He looked down. Today the South China Sea was the colour of lapis lazuli. Islands of all sizes dotted the surface of the water, some tiny and covered with lush forests, others a jungle of tower blocks. The plane flew over Hong Kong’s main island, compact and overcrowded with skyscrapers that rose straight from the foot of the mountains, and he watched the late morning traffic snake along the Tsing Ma suspension bridge.
Not long to go now. He reclined against his seat and closed his eyes, waiting for the impact of the aircraft tyres on the landing strip, trying to hold back the thoughts and feelings that had churned inside him ever since he’d got the message that the investigation into his father’s helicopter crash was closed at last, and that the Hong Kong coroner had given the authorisation to cremate and repatriate his father’s body.
Two hours later he checked into the Four Seasons Hotel, and took the lift to his room on the thirty-fifth floor. As he slid his card into the electronic door lock, he couldn’t help thinking about the last time he’d been there. His father had asked him to give a presentation at an important meeting. They had clinched the deal, then celebrated at Caprice, the hotel’s French restaurant. How different he felt today.
He dropped his bag down onto the thick dark red carpet and walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Victoria Harbour. He’d always liked the view, with the ships crossing the bay, the tower blocks reaching for the sky, and the emerald green mountains in the background. Today, however, all he could think about was his meeting with the Hong Kong police and the coroner later that afternoon and the depressing prospect of his flight back to Paris with hi
s father’s ashes the following day.
After a shower, a shave and a belated lunch, he sat at the desk to do what he should have done before. Phone his mother. It would be mid-morning in France, so he might have a chance to speak to her before she went out shopping or for lunch with her friends.
‘Ah, it’s you chéri, you just caught me on my way out.’ His mother always spoke to him in the same hurried and impatient tone of voice that made him feel like he was an unwelcome interruption in her busy schedule.
‘You sound a little preoccupied,’ she added with unusual insight after he returned her greeting. ‘Is there anything the matter?’
In a few short sentences, he explained why he was in Hong Kong. His parents may be divorced, but Céline had been the first person he’d called when he got the news about the helicopter crash, and she was once again the first he informed of his plans.
‘I didn’t think it would be appropriate to hold a grand funeral with Dad’s friends and business contacts and make a big show of it in London or Paris,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to travel all the way here either.’ He paused to give her time to protest. When she didn’t, he carried on. ‘So it will be just me at the crematorium tomorrow … I thought I’d let you know.’
His mother sighed at the other end of the phone. Her voice sounded sad when she next spoke. ‘He was such a formidable man, wasn’t he? It’s hard to imagine that he won’t be travelling to the four corners of the world any more, to plan and plot to make his company bigger, better, stronger.’
She paused. ‘I think you’re right about the funeral, mon chéri. I think that’s exactly what he would have wanted. Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about your father these past few weeks and I think there is something else he would have wanted.’
‘What is it?’
She sighed again. ‘To return to the place where he grew up.’
Marc frowned. ‘You mean my grandfather’s farm?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’
Marc frowned. ‘But he never mentioned the place, or North Jutland. He didn’t even talk about his father.’
‘That’s because he felt guilty. He knew he’d hurt and betrayed him, and he never forgave himself for it.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Marc stiffened. Tension made his shoulders ache. His hand gripped the phone harder. His mother was mistaken. His father was and had always been self-centred, and totally focused on business. He’d never been sentimental or prone to soul-searching.
‘Marc, listen to me,’ his mother interrupted. ‘Sigmund always wanted to make amends with his father, that’s why he sent you to the farm every summer. He also wanted you to know where you – and he –came from and feel a connection with the past and the family.’
‘Then why did he never stay with me? Come to think of it, why did you never spend holidays there either?’
‘Because you were always so happy there and we would only have spoilt your fun. I know you loved your grandfather, but the truth is he could be a very harsh man. He never hid his contempt for my job as a model or his disappointment about your father’s decision to make his own way in the world instead of following in his footsteps. He loved having you there, but he didn’t want us.’
Marc had always thought his parents never spent holidays with him because they had far better things to do than stay on a windswept farm. What his mother said now put a completely new slant on his memories, on his perception of the past and his childhood, and of his parents.
‘Why did father stop me from going to the farm when I was thirteen if he knew I loved it so much there?’ he asked, his throat tightening. ‘Those holidays on the farm were the only time when I could be free, when I didn’t have to study, compete, be the best.’
His mother sighed. ‘They had an argument. Your grandfather wanted you to live with him all year round. He wanted to teach you about the land and the farm so you’d be ready to take over. Your father refused, and your grandfather gave him an ultimatum. He said that if you didn’t come and live with him, then he didn’t want to see you any more. Your father pleaded with him to let you come for the holidays, but there was nothing he could do to change his mind. They never spoke again.’
Marc was speechless. Everything he thought he knew about that time blown into a thousand pieces.
She paused. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I should have told you this before.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ He closed his eyes a moment. So he’d had it all wrong. He’d had the people in his life all wrong.
‘Then again,’ he said, ‘we never really talked, did we?’
There was another silence. ‘Sadly that’s true. Now, chéri, I do have to dash out, but will you think about what I said?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ He had a lot of thinking to do, and not just about his parents and the past.
‘And Marc,’ his mother added, and from the tone of her voice he could tell she was smiling now, ‘please come and see me soon. Christmas is wonderful on the Riviera. You’d love it. And more to the point, I would love to spend some time with you. Good luck for tomorrow. I’ll be thinking about you.’
It wasn’t luck he needed. It was courage.
‘Thanks,’ he said anyway. ‘I’ll be in touch, and I’ll try and come to see you soon.’ As he put the phone down, he realised that he’d meant it, for once.
He walked to the window and stared at the bay, and the ever-changing light glimmering on the surface of the sea, until it was time to leave for his meeting with the coroner at the High Court.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Where are you, Lorna?’ Rosalie almost shouted as she left the message on the answerphone. ‘Call me back as soon as you get this. It’s important. It’s about Mum. I found something I don’t understand, something horrible, and I really need to talk to you about it.’
Why did Lorna have to be out, again? She slammed the receiver down, and put a hand over her heart. She should calm down, and think, but her mind was a turmoil of thoughts and questions, and she felt like she was about to be sick.
‘What’s going on?’ Kirsty stared at her from the doorway to the library and shook her head in an impatient gesture. Her sleek, blond hair fell back in place, framing her perfectly beautiful face. She had accessorised her skinny black jeans and a plain black tunic with a beautiful gold pendant and matching gold ring, and she looked incredibly chic and glamorous.
‘Nothing,’ Rosalie mumbled, her hand still shaking as she brushed her curls away from her face. ‘I have things on my mind.’
Kirsty shrugged. ‘I suppose I might as well finish work for the day. Not that I have made much progress. I don’t know what Marc’s father was thinking of when he bought this place. Marc will be lucky if he recoups half of the money the company paid for Raventhorn, never mind make a profit. Even Marc’s American contacts have gone cold about the idea of turning the castle into a hotel. I called them all and no one is prepared to commit to an investment now. I am wasting my time.’
‘So you’ll be leaving soon, then?’ Rosalie asked, although right now she had other, much more worrying things on her mind than Kirsty Marsh or Raventhorn.
‘It looks that way. I’m thinking of hiring a house clearance firm, put the castle up for auction and be done with it.’
‘You can’t do that! They’ll take away all the paintings and the furniture and pay you a pittance for them.’
Kirsty snorted. ‘I don’t think we’ll get much anyway. Talking of furniture, I’m not spending another night in that horrid crimson bedroom. There’s a cold draft blowing through the window. The wardrobe creaks, the bed curtains twitch, and don’t even mention the door to the bathroom which slams shut on its own in the middle of the night. I hardly slept a wink. Poor Marc, no wonder he looked so exhausted after a couple of weeks. I had a look around this morning and I decided to move my things into the nice pink and white bedroom down the corridor.’
Rosalie felt the blood drain from her face. ‘No, you can’t sleep in t
here. You can have my room, or any other room, but not that one.’
Kirsty arched her eyebrows. ‘And why on earth not? It’s empty, isn’t it?’
‘It’s my mother’s room.’ The mother she had loved and trusted, the mother who’d always been there for her, strong, supportive and truthful –the mother who had lied and hidden her past from her all her life.
The enormity of what she’d just found out finally dawned on her.
‘Is she coming back any time soon?’ Kirsty looked puzzled.
Rosalie stiffened and replied in a harsh voice. ‘She won’t be back. Ever.’
‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry.’ Kirsty nodded, her eyes softened and for the first time she looked almost kind.
‘Listen, I need a break from this place tonight. I’m not cut out for spooky old castles. I need to see lights and people, to listen to music. Is there anywhere around here where I could have a decent meal?’
‘The Four Winds Hotel has a nice restaurant,’ Rosalie replied.
‘A hotel, did you say?’
Rosalie nodded. ‘It’s a four star hotel.’
‘You’re a lifesaver,’ Kirsty said with a relieved sigh. ‘I’ve had enough of draughty rooms and creaky wardrobes. I’m off to pack. I’ll stay at the hotel tonight and until Marc arrives.’
Rosalie’s heart lurched, her throat went dry. ‘Oh. So you have heard from him.’
Kirsty pursed her lips. ‘He emailed to say he should be back in London by the end of the week and will probably make his way up here.’
Rosalie turned away and pretended to stack up some old telephone directories in a neat pile so that Kirsty wouldn’t see the blush that heated her face. Marc was coming back!
‘It’s such a shame about his father,’ Kirsty carried on. ‘We’re all still in shock about his death. He was an extraordinary man – the archetype of the powerful businessman, driven, cool-headed, completely dedicated to making his company bigger, stronger, and more successful. Marc is very much like him.’
Driven, cool-headed, dedicated to making money, Rosalie thought. Yes, that summed up Marc all right. And yet in the weeks he’d spent with her, she had seen another man. A strong, warm, if reserved, man. A man she could fall in love with. She’d probably imagined him, made him all up.
