Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  Outside, the sun was setting. But even though it was growing dark, the air was still warm. Caitlin walked by the pool and down the stone steps. At the bottom, instead of turning left onto the path that led to the floodlit tennis courts, she headed in the other direction, down the sweeping lawns and on toward the walled garden.

  She entered the garden through the Acorn Gates. She loved it in there, preferring the haphazard displays to the manicured beauty of the rest of the grounds. There was something romantic about the high stone walls covered in ivy; roses, clematis, and honeysuckle tumbling over each other, filling the air with perfume, attracting bees and butterflies.

  Caitlin made her way toward the center of the garden, her favorite place. Hidden in a circle of beech trees was a small clearing, with a pretty pond. No one else ever went there. It had become her hideout, where she would go to sketch, or just escape from the house and the Melvilles. There was an old swing, made with heavy ropes tied onto a strong branch. The first time she’d seen it, she’d been worried it might not hold her weight. But the ancient tree had stood true. After that, she often went to sit there when she was feeling miserable, swinging gently back and forth, staring into the deep waters of the pond. It was the one place she felt at peace.

  But tonight, as she pushed through the leafy branches and emerged into the clearing, she found that someone was already there. Sitting on the swing, moving back and forth in the cool evening breeze as he smoked, was the young man she’d seen frolicking in the pool earlier.

  He was even better looking close up: tall and stocky, with the imposing build of a rugby player; dark eyes to match his dark hair; a strong jaw and symmetrical face.

  Suddenly she caught herself. What was she thinking? She began to back away. He was so engrossed in his cigarette that he hadn’t looked up. She was nearly back within the cover of the trees when she trod on a twig and it snapped, breaking the silence. Damn. There was no way he could miss that.

  She was right. He—whoever he was—looked up, alerted to her presence. She stared at him, her blue eyes wide like a startled deer. He stared right back, although a lot more calmly. In fact, he didn’t seem the least bit unnerved by her presence. He took another long drag on his cigarette as he looked her over, his eyes lingering on her breasts. She felt her cheeks heating up and instinctively pulled her cardigan closed across her chest.

  “And who, may I ask, are you?” he said finally. He spoke in low, unhurried tones, pronouncing every word with slow deliberation, an upper-class drawl.

  “Caitlin.” The word came out almost like a squeak. She felt herself turning an even deeper shade of red.

  He grinned then, as though something had amused him. “Ah,” he said. “So you’re Caitlin.” He sounded her name very precisely. In fact, he took his time over every syllable he spoke, as though he was used to the world waiting for him to finish whatever he had to say. “As in Elizabeth’s mysterious half sister.”

  She nodded. It seemed as good a description as any. “That’s right,” she said, smiling awkwardly at him.

  “Well, Caitlin,” he drawled, “it just so happens that I am one of Elizabeth’s very closest friends. So why don’t you come over here.” He patted the seat of the swing next to him. “And we can get to know each other a little better.”

  She hesitated for just a moment and then did as he asked. All thoughts of getting away had magically disappeared.

  “I’m Elliott, by the way,” he said, as she sat down next to him. “Elliott Falconer.”

  He said his name as though it should mean something to her. It didn’t. But he didn’t seem too bothered by her lack of recognition. In fact, he looked decidedly unbothered about everything. She realized for the first time that he was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. She wondered how he’d gotten away with that. From what she’d seen since arriving at Aldringham, everyone dressed formally for dinner.

  He transferred his cigarette to his left hand and offered his right to shake. She took it, surprised at how cool his skin felt despite the warmth of the evening.

  “So why haven’t I seen you around so far this weekend?” he asked.

  She stayed silent, not sure how to answer. He seemed to sense her dilemma, and his grin widened.

  “Let me guess. Your lovely half sister decided that it would be better for all concerned if you stayed hidden away in your room?”

  Caitlin smiled a little but still said nothing.

  “Hmmm.” He took another long drag on his cigarette. “The silence tells me everything.” He looked sideways at her, fixing those dark, penetrating eyes on her. “Well, try not to take it so hard. It’s nothing personal. Lizzie’s like that with everyone.” Reaching into his pocket, he produced a packet of Marlboros and held it out to her.

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but I don’t smoke.”

  He chuckled softly. “Good for you. Terrible habit. I keep meaning to quit.”

  But his reassurances had the opposite effect on Caitlin. She suddenly felt naïve and uptight. As Elliott smoked in silence, she tried to think of something intelligent to say. Nothing came to her. She was almost on the verge of changing her mind and accepting a cigarette, just to make conversation. But before she could, there was the sound of twigs breaking as someone else came through the bushes.

  They both looked up to see who was there. Caitlin recognized her straightaway. It was the blonde girl from the pool, the one who had been horsing around with Elliott. In a short, glittery dress that Caitlin would never have dared to wear, she looked wonderfully glamorous. Caitlin felt a twinge of disappointment at the interruption. The blonde didn’t seem very happy either.

  “Bloody hell, Elliott, there you are,” she snapped. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  He looked unperturbed. “I’ve only been gone twenty minutes, Morgan. There was no need for a frigging search party.”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. She turned her attention to Caitlin then, looking her over carefully. Caitlin got the feeling she didn’t like what she saw.

  “And who’s this?” Her gaze was still on Caitlin, but the question was clearly directed at Elliott.

  “This is my new friend, Caitlin.” Elliott looped his arm around Caitlin and squeezed her shoulder. “You know—Elizabeth’s half sister.”

  “Right.” Morgan sounded unimpressed. “Well, anyway, I just came out to tell you that Elizabeth wants to serve dessert. Everyone’s waiting on you.”

  “I’m sure five more minutes isn’t going to kill them,” he replied.

  Morgan’s jaw tightened a fraction. “Fine,” she said shortly. “Do whatever you want. But I’m going back in.” With a last disparaging glance at Caitlin, Morgan flounced away.

  Elliott turned to Caitlin and rolled his eyes theatrically.

  “Ah, well. Duty calls.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and then threw it onto the ground, stubbing it out under his shoe. He stood up and gave her a little half-bow. “It was a pleasure to meet you, though, Caitlin.”

  She watched as he strutted back toward the house. Suddenly the prospect of going to Greycourt didn’t seem so bad after all.

  6

  _________

  The second Sunday in September brought with it the first fall of leaves and a chill to the air that signaled the end of summer. It was also the day that the three Melville girls packed up their belongings and set off for Greycourt Independent Coeducational School.

  Elizabeth was the first to leave Aldringham, speeding off early—alone—in her silver Porsche 911 Carrera, a seventeenth birthday present from William. That left Perkins to drive Caitlin and Amber later that morning. There was the predictable last-minute tantrum from Amber. She had three trunks and four suitcases, packed full of clothes from the almost daily shopping sprees she’d been on with her mother during the vacation. Unsurprisingly, they wouldn’t all fit into the trunk.

  “Darling, you can’t take everything,” Isabelle tried to reason with her. “There simply isn’t enough room in the car
.”

  Amber’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “But I don’t want to look like a hick.”

  The argument went on, until William was eventually called in.

  “You can’t seriously need all those clothes,” he said wearily. “Five days a week you wear your uniform.”

  Backed into a corner, Amber did what she always did in these situations—burst into tears and ran into the house.

  Isabelle followed her. As she passed Caitlin, standing quietly by, waiting for the fireworks to subside, Isabelle couldn’t help wondering what Katie O’Dwyer’s secret had been. How had the single mother managed to raise such a sweet, placid child, who was never any trouble? Compared to her own two children . . . Sometimes Isabelle despaired. Elizabeth might be smart and sensible, but she was also a cold fish. And Amber . . . well, she was turning out to be a brat. Where had she and William gone wrong?

  Half an hour later, a compromise had been reached. For practicality’s sake, one of Amber’s trunks would remain at home and then be sent on to Greycourt the very next day. The girl’s tears miraculously dried up, and they were on their way.

  Caitlin’s first glimpse of Greycourt sent a shiver of anticipation through her. It was everything she had imagined an English boarding school to be. The ivy-clad stone buildings were old and dignified; the lawns immaculate; the playing fields stretched to the horizon. In the cold, bright autumn sun, it was beautiful in an imposing way.

  Greycourt was the fourth-largest boarding school in Britain, after Eton, Millfield, and Oundle, and by far the most illustrious. It commanded fees of thirty thousand pounds a year and had an attitude to match. Founded in 1840 by David Greycourt, a philanthropic industrialist, to “educate the sons of gentlemen,” it occupied one hundred acres of greenbelt, a picturesque mile-and-a-half walk outside the pretty little town of Towcester, in Northamptonshire.

  While Greycourt prided itself on its strong sense of tradition, it had also learned over the years that the key to survival was to move with the times. Like many of its brethren, it had decided—after much heated debate—to admit girls in 1983. The board of governors had never had any cause to regret the decision. Now, Greycourt provided a first-class education to just under a thousand pupils between the ages of eleven and eighteen, seven hundred boarding, the rest day pupils. The school’s record spoke for itself: 25 percent of last year’s graduating class had gone to Oxford or Cambridge; it regularly topped The Times’ annual school statistics for exam results; and it had just been given a glowing write-up in the Daily Telegraph’s educational pages.

  William had explained all of this to Caitlin when he’d first broached the subject of sending her to Greycourt. Being educated there was a Melville family tradition, and one not to be argued with.

  Usually, pupils were only accepted if they passed an entrance exam and an interview with the headmistress, Dr. Phillips, but William managed to have the rules waived in Caitlin’s case. And, as the day for starting at Greycourt drew nearer, the girl found herself almost looking forward to it. After a summer spent in the claustrophobic confines of Aldringham, she was longing for a change of scene. Plus, she would get to see Elliott Falconer again.

  Greycourt’s glossy prospectus proudly informed parents that the school was made up of fourteen houses: eight for boys and six for girls. Caitlin had been assigned to Berrylands House. She couldn’t help feeling disappointed when she first saw it. Buried as an afterthought at the far end of the campus, it had been built during that architectural nadir, the sixties. It had none of the old-fashioned charm of the magnificent buildings that lined the entrance. The only redeeming feature seemed to be the rows of blackberry hedges that fringed the small garden and lent the house its name.

  “You weren’t expecting somewhere so modern, were you?” Mrs. Collins, Berrylands’ housemistress, gave her a knowing smile. “Most people prefer to be in Gladstone or Pankhurst, the original houses. They’re beautiful inside, full of oak paneling and spiral staircases. But trust me,” she said conspiratorially, “in this case, looks really aren’t everything. We may not have original wood beams in Berrylands, but we do have power showers, and that’s far more important. The plumbing in those Victorian buildings leaves a lot to be desired.”

  Caitlin warmed to Mrs. Collins straightaway. A rotund woman in her mid-fifties, she chattered nonstop as she showed Caitlin to her room. Every house had a set of houseparents, she informed Caitlin; a married couple who taught at the school. She was a home economics teacher, and her husband headed up the Physics Department. “Eamon will come by to introduce himself later.”

  Caitlin was relieved to have met someone so open and friendly. Predictably, neither Amber nor Elizabeth had shown any interest in helping her settle in. Elizabeth was too busy, her afternoon filled with hosting a meeting of the student council, her first duty as president, followed by tennis practice. Amber, who was also a newcomer to Greycourt, already knew a lot of her classmates through the feeder prep school that she had attended. That meant, as soon as she arrived, she’d immediately been surrounded by a group of girls, all eager to hear about her summer.

  Caitlin’s room was on the fifth floor. As they passed a large window in the hallway, she saw that Berrylands had a dazzling view across the grounds. Buildings from every decade over the past hundred and fifty years lined the campus, clashing architectural styles documenting the history of the place. Outside, Greycourt was in the throes of moving-in day. Pupils had started arriving at eight that morning. Harried parents and children rushed from cars to buildings and back again, carrying boxes, trunks, and suitcases up long, narrow flights of stairs.

  “Here’s your room,” Mrs. Collins said, stopping outside an anonymous beige door labeled 5c. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted with your roommate. Her name’s . . . er . . .” she quickly consulted a list. “ . . . yes, you’re with Georgina Mitchell. Lovely girl. I’m sure you’ll get on.”

  Inside, the new roommates eyed each other warily. Caitlin relaxed first. She took one look at Georgina and decided she had nothing to worry about. If appearances were anything to go by, Georgina wasn’t anything like Morgan. A stocky girl with short, wiry hair and a ruddy complexion, she clearly didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of her. Dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a baggy T-shirt, she seemed almost masculine.

  Caitlin nodded at Georgina’s side of the room. “I guess you like horses, then.”

  It was an understatement. The walls, desk, and closet door were covered with equestrian paraphernalia—posters of Grand National winners, photos of Georgina in competitions, and trophies celebrating her wins.

  Georgina grinned. “You could say that!”

  It did the trick. Within half an hour, the two girls were friends. It turned out Georgina—or George as she preferred to be called—had been equally worried about sharing with one of the Melville girls.

  “But you seem like a good sort,” she declared. “Nothing like Elizabeth.”

  Caitlin smiled. She’d been right. Being at Greycourt wasn’t going to be so awful after all. She wondered briefly if George knew Elliott but decided to wait until later to ask.

  Greycourt tried hard to foster a sense of community among its pupils. As such mealtimes were formal occasions, served in the school’s magnificent dining hall. The lower school—seventh through ninth grade—sat down at six on the dot. The upper school, the sophmores, juniors, and seniors, then convened at the more civilized hour of seven-thirty.

  The dining room itself was a re-creation of a Tudor banqueting hall, with vaulted ceilings, massive wooden beams, and large arched windows dividing the stone walls. Huge candelabras lit the room—a health and safety nightmare, but why let that get in the way of tradition?

  At twenty past seven that night, George and Caitlin filed into the hall with the rest of the upper school. George pointed to the far end of the room. “My friends always sit over there.” She waved at one of her pals, who had been instructed to save them places.

  The air crackled w
ith excitement. It was the first dinner of the term, so everyone was milling around, taking a while to catch up and settle in. George and Caitlin had to force their way through the crowds to get to their seats. As Caitlin squeezed between the wall and a burly rugby player’s back, she caught sight of a familiar face in her path. It was Elliott, leaning casually against the wood paneling, chatting to a couple of girls. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and tried to think of something intelligent to say. Nothing came to her. Instead, as she drew level with him, she slowed down and gave him a shy smile.

  “Hi, Elliott.”

  “Hey.” He looked blank for a moment, and then there was a flicker of recognition. “It’s Elizabeth’s sister, right?”

  “Caitlin,” she filled in, trying not to feel disappointed that he’d forgotten her name.

  “Right, right. Caitlin. Sure.” He gave her a lazy grin. Her stomach turned over. “I knew that. Good to see you again.” Then he turned back to the pretty redhead next to him and resumed their conversation.

  Caitlin stood there for a moment, feeling foolish. She’d spent weeks fantasizing about the moment when she saw him again. And that was it. He’d barely glanced at her. She was trying to think of something else to say to him, but before she could, George grabbed her hand.

  “Come on. The teachers will be here soon. We ought to sit down.”

  Caitlin had no choice but to follow.

  “Do you know Elliott?” she asked, once they were away from his group.

  “Everyone knows Elliott Falconer.” The way George said it didn’t sound especially complimentary. She paused and looked back at Caitlin. “Why? When did you meet him?”

  Caitlin quickly explained. “He seemed really nice,” she added, wanting to get the other girl’s opinion of him.

  George snorted. “Yes. Elliott can be awfully charming when he wants to be.”

  “So, how well do you know him?” Caitlin pressed. “Are you friends?”

  George didn’t answer right away. By now, they had reached her group. Once they were seated and quick introductions made, George gave Caitlin a sidelong look. “Look, there’s something you ought to understand about Greycourt. There’s a strict social hierarchy. People like us,” she indicated her set of friends on the bench, “aren’t friends with the Elliotts and Morgans of the school. And, to be honest, that’s no bad thing.”