Cordelia looked thoughtful for a while. ‘Mary was the youngest, and I probably spoiled her. But she was a demanding child, often sly and cruel. She saw something and wanted it. Took it, then discarded it. It was always the acquiring that drove her, never the actual possession. I can remember many toys being deliberately destroyed so no one else could get pleasure from them.’
‘No wonder the aunts don’t like her,’ sniffed Sophie. The sadness on Cordelia’s face made her reach out. ‘I’m sorry, Gran. She’s your daughter and you must love her.’
Cordelia’s sad expression deepened. ‘I don’t know that I do,’ she admitted softly. ‘I suppose, deep down there has to be some remnant of feeling, because I’ve never given up with her. But I find myself disliking her for what she’s done, and what she’s become. And yet I’m sad for what she might have been. Mary has spirit. She’s clever and inventive. What might she have achieved if all her anger had been directed elsewhere?’
‘But why is she so angry? What happened to make her the way she is?’
Cordelia closed her eyes as if the question was too painful to face. ‘Perhaps I didn’t love her enough when she was little,’ she said finally.
‘That’s rubbish, Gran,’ Sophie retorted. ‘If you cared for her half as much as you cared for me, then she has no excuses.’
‘But did I?’ Cordelia whispered. ‘I wonder if somehow, Mary realised she …’
Sophie touched the fragile arm as Cordelia’s voice tailed off. ‘Realised what, Gran?’
‘Nothing,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m letting my thoughts run away with me. Mary had everything a child could want both materially and emotionally. There are no excuses for her behaviour, and I should be old enough by now to stop blaming myself for what she’s become. That girl will never accept responsibility for the harm she’s wreaked, and she’ll go on blaming everyone else until the day she dies.’
Cordelia blew her nose, tucked her handkerchief into her sleeve and made a visible effort to regain her composure. ‘It’s probably genetic,’ she said firmly. ‘Goodness knows there’s enough manipulative, greedy ancestors in the gene pool to provide an entire family with Marys.’
‘That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Manipulation. From the minute we’re born we twist people to our will. The baby’s tears to bring an anxious parent. The child’s tantrums and wheedling to wear down opposition. The teenager’s wilfulness. The adult’s emotional blackmail.’
Cordelia smiled. ‘How right you are. You’ve come a long way from the schoolroom, Sophie. I hope you didn’t find the lesson too harsh?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘Living in the shadow of Grandad taught me about manipulation. Yet, I think it’s your story of Rose that’s finally underlined those years of Jock’s influence, and shown me how vulnerable we all are. Rose is manipulated by her mother and her circumstances. So are Isobel, Charlotte and Captain Fairbrother. Amelia Ade is both manipulated and the manipulator. Her social class and upbringing the defining factor. John Tanner is influenced by his origins, the squire by his wife.’
‘And Kathleen? What do you suppose was the defining influence in her relationship with her daughter? She obviously loved her sons, so why not Rose?’ There was a curious intensity in Cordelia’s eyes as she waited for Sophie’s reply.
Sophie thought about the woman she couldn’t help but compare to Mary, and shook her head. ‘Kathleen’s an enigma. She was educated and conducted herself in a way that belies her social standing. Her marriage appeared strong and loving and her affection for the boys was never in doubt.’
She gave a wan smile, the image of Rose traipsing along that lonely, pitted village lane still so clear in her mind. ‘Sentiment must have been a luxury for people of her class in those days. Perhaps she saw Rose as a younger version of herself, and was trying to harden her for what she knew must lie ahead.’
Cordelia nodded. ‘Maybe,’ she said softly. ‘But perhaps we shouldn’t condemn her for that.’
‘Why not? If it hadn’t been for your loving influence when I was little, God knows how I’d have turned out. Rose had no one.’
Cordelia laughed. ‘You’d have been all right, Sophie – whoever reared you. You have it in you to be a success regardless of anything Mary or I might have done. Just like Rose.’
‘How can you be so sure of that, Gran?’
‘Because I’ve watched you grow and mature. Seen the determination you have to succeed regardless of the pitfalls. It’s almost as if you want to prove something to the world.’
‘Maybe I just wanted to prove something to myself,’ she replied. Suddenly it all seemed so clear, that she was amazed she’d never realised it before. ‘Maybe I needed to prove to myself that I was worthy of something far more than I could have got from Mum, or Crispin, or anyone else,’ she said quickly. ‘Maybe it was my revenge for all past hurts and slights and I need to stick two fingers up at those who doubted me.’
Cordelia’s smile was sad. ‘You could be right, Sophie. But I hope you don’t see your victories as vindication. See them for what they are. Your success in the business world is the result of hard work and a keen mind, nothing less. Be proud of who you are and what you’ve achieved by all means – but regard your success as a triumph of self-esteem, not revenge.’
Sophie’s spirits lifted as she saw the pride in the old lady’s eyes. All the hard work and sleepless nights were worth it just to see that expression. Yet she suspected she might never have achieved so much if she hadn’t had the spur of her mother’s rejection to instil that determination to prove herself.
‘It’s late, Gran. Perhaps we should get some sleep?’
Cordelia shook her head. ‘I want to finish this part of the story tonight, Sophie. There isn’t much more left, but it will tie up a few ends before we move on to the next section.’
*
John Tanner was sitting on the steps of the vardo in the late-afternoon sunshine. It had been a good day at the fight booth in Lewes fair. Most of the horses had been sold, the stock of pegs and baskets and bits of lace were low, and the fortune-telling booth had been busy all day. And yet he felt restless.
Grandmother Sarah jingled the coins in her purse and grinned. ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ she said.
He didn’t reply. His mind was on Rose and the confrontation in the churchyard.
Sarah nudged him. ‘Look who’s here. Ain’t she a sight for sore eyes?’
His spirits sank even further. Sabatina was a Zingaro – a gypsy of Italian birth – who was distantly related. And Grandmother obviously had her sights set on pairing them off. ‘Ciao Sabatina,’ he called. ‘What you doing here?’
Her black hair glistened blue in the sun, reminding him of Rose’s. Dark sloe-shaped eyes regarded him mischievously beneath the circlet of galbi – gold coins – she’d fixed in her hair. She was beautiful and she knew it.
‘The famiglia thought it was time for me to catch up with you,’ she said huskily.
Sarah eased her joints as she climbed down from the vardo. ‘Take this. John’s got another week of fighting to do. Rub that into his back and shoulders for me.’ She handed over a dark blue bottle with a wooden stopper. ‘Get your shirt off, boy. I got to visit my niamo.’ With that she turned and shuffled away, her bright petticoats fluttering in the brisk breeze that swirled around the ring of vardos and tents.
John and Tina looked at one another, smiling with shared understanding. ‘Our puri daj doesn’t change, does she?’
Tina shook her head, her gold earrings swinging. ‘Grandmothers never change,’ she giggled. ‘But to respect them is our duty.’ She looked at the bottle and unplugged it. ‘Phew,’ she gasped. ‘What is this?’
‘Horse liniment,’ he said gruffly as he took off his shirt. ‘It’s Gran’s special concoction and although it stinks to high heaven, it works wonders.’
The almond eyes slid over his torso before returning to his face. The galbi glittered in the dying embers of the sun and her skin h
ad taken on the soft hue of a ripening peach. She was more beautiful than he remembered, he admitted silently, but his feelings for her had never gone beyond those of kinship.
Tina’s long hair feathered his chest as she began to massage his arms and shoulders. He could smell her scent, the oils she used in her hair and on her sinuous body, and as her fingers worked their magic, he thought he could feel an almost magnetic power drawing them closer.
He closed his eyes and imagined it was Rose touching his skin. Rose who sat so close to him he could feel her body heat.
Sarah returned from her reunion with the other members of her extended family an hour later. She smiled with satisfaction when she saw the vardo door closed and no sign of the young ones. John was so like his father Max, she thought. Healthy, handsome and strong with an appetite for life – he couldn’t stay shav forever. It would take greater will-power than his to resist a beauty like Sabatina Zingaro – especially since Sarah had coached her so well.
Tina was the daughter of the Zingaros’ dukkerin, and therefore royalty. A match with John would bring the two sides of the powerful family together again, and her father had already agreed so long as Tina didn’t object. And Sarah knew she would never do that, for she had eyes for no one but John. If the girl had done as she’d advised, then their one night together would lead to a wedding and all this nonsense over the Fuller girl would come to an end.
Sarah was about to pass by when the door opened and John came out on to the steps. ‘Where’s Tina?’ she demanded.
He frowned. ‘How should I know?’
His grandmother was grim-faced as she grasped the railing and pulled herself up the steps. The boy had to be made of stone. When on earth had gone wrong? She cuffed him round the ears. ‘Don’t mess with the fates,’ she snapped. ‘Tina’s meant for you – and I’ll do everything in my power to make you see sense.’
*
Squire Ade was leaning back against a pile of pillows, lavishly spreading butter and honey on his bread, when his wife Amelia entered his room without knocking. That she had come to his bed-chamber at all surprised him, but to enter fully dressed at this time of the morning, and without warning, meant something was afoot and he had a strong feeling he wasn’t going to like it.
‘There’s no time for breakfast, Charles,’ she said busily. ‘Gilbert will be back soon.’
‘So what if he is?’ the Squire mumbled through his bread. ‘Prefer me own company up here where I can be left in peace.’
Amelia eyed him with contempt. ‘No doubt,’ she said waspishly. ‘But this is more important than your need for solitude.’ With her hands folded tightly at her waist, she tilted her chin and met his gaze squarely. ‘Gilbert has asked to speak to you regarding Isobel,’ she said triumphantly.
His appetite vanished and he dropped the remains of his breakfast on the tray and shoved it aside. ‘Does she know?’
His wife clucked impatiently. ‘Of course. We had a long talk last night, and she is delighted.’
Charles looked into her eyes. He could see no sign of deception here, no clue that underhand manipulation had been used on Isobel – and yet he had his suspicions. Amelia was devious, and his daughter too pliant and meek to stand up to her.
‘I wish to speak to my daughter first, madam,’ he said firmly. ‘For if, as I suspect, she is against this match, then I will refuse my permission.’
‘That is quite impossible, husband,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Isobel is dressing and the Captain is expected at any minute.’
Charles threw back the covers and climbed out of the four-poster. He was at a disadvantage lying in bed with Amelia standing over him. Drawing a dressing gown over his night-shirt, he tied the belt around his waist. ‘Then the Captain will have to wait until Isobel and I are ready,’ he growled. ‘I will not be bullied in my own house, madam.’
‘But, Charles dear …’.
‘But nothing,’ he roared. ‘Isobel must be consulted. She’s a sensible girl. She’ll listen to reason once she understands that scoundrel isn’t good enough for her.’
Amelia stood before him, arms akimbo, green eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t you dare spoil this for our daughter, Charles. She’s in love with the Captain. This will give her a chance to live the kind of life we’ve always wanted for our girls – a chance to blossom. If you go storming in, you’ll terrify her into submission and she’ll lose her one chance of happiness.’
Charles was uneasy. He hated to see Amelia cry – didn’t know how to handle it. And although he couldn’t be sure of its authenticity, his wife’s argument was strong and he did want Isobel to be happy. But there were things about the Captain she should know before she tied herself to him. Things he found repellent and which would surely devastate his daughter and shatter what little confidence she had left after that humiliating debut in London.
Amelia reached for his arm, perhaps sensing his hesitation and his thoughts. ‘I know you want the best for her but she’s mature enough to know her own feelings in this matter and I don’t wish her to be hurt again, Charles,’ she said softly, tears trembling delicately on her eyelashes. ‘Remember how she was after London? It quite destroyed her confidence. Now she has hope again. Would you wish to destroy that?’
‘Of course not,’ he replied gruffly as he patted her hand. ‘But I don’t like the fella. Never have. Isobel could do better, don’t you know.’ His gaze slid away from her, acknowledging the truth that Isobel’s chance of finding a husband at all was a slim one.
‘But she loves him, Charles,’ his wife coaxed. ‘If she sees Gilbert’s faults, then she accepts them willingly.’
He thought of the report he’d had from the stables about the beating Gilbert had given his horse when it threw him. Remembered the to-do when he’d tried to get his way with Rose. ‘He won’t be faithful to her, Amelia. Won’t look after her properly. He’s not a gentleman.’
‘Gilbert is smitten with her. Of course he’ll be a faithful, caring husband,’ she said firmly. The scrap of lace and linen was dabbed delicately at her tears.
Charles doubted that, but for Isobel’s sake he would listen to what the Captain had to say and make up his own mind. ‘There are times, madam, when I wish I knew my daughters better,’ he said regretfully.
‘It is a rare father who knows everything about his children, Charles,’ she murmured. ‘Especially daughters. But you would take great pleasure in them if you could see them now. They are both so excited at the news, and their bedchamber is a positive riot of dresses and ribbons and petticoats. I haven’t heard Isobel laugh so happily with her sister for a long time.’
Charles watched as she swept out of the room. His judgement had had no part in the decision foisted upon him. Amelia had, as usual, outwitted him. For if he was to refuse the Captain, then he would condemn both his daughters and never be forgiven.
‘What to do, what to do?’ He muttered as he stared out of the window. Was a man ever so put upon? If only he’d had a son. A man knew where he was with sons.
*
‘It is all arranged, my dear. Your father is delighted to grant Gilbert an interview this morning. Quite the best news he’s heard in a long time, so he said.’ Amelia bustled into the bedroom and began to pull dresses from the cupboard.
Isobel plucked at the ribbons on her petticoat. Her corset had been fastened so tightly she could scarcely breathe, and Rose had fixed her hair so firmly with pins she knew she would soon have a headache. But that was nothing compared to her agony of indecision over the forthcoming proposal.
‘Papa approves then?’ Her voice quivered with doubt and excitement. It was a heady mixture.
‘Of course he does,’ Amelia replied vaguely. ‘Now, the yellow silk or the green stripe?’ She eyed both dresses, holding them up to the light of the window.
‘The yellow is Charlotte’s, Mama. You know the colour doesn’t suit me.’
‘Neither does grey,’ muttered Amelia as she discarded dressed after dress and threw them to
the floor. ‘But that doesn’t seem to stop you wearing it.’
‘Mama,’ she protested, reaching down to pick up her favourite dove grey silk from the floor. ‘Please, Mama. Let me choose what to wear.’
Amelia eyed her thoughtfully. ‘With your colouring, you need to have something to liven up your complexion. What about this? You’ve hardly worn it at all since it was delivered by the dressmaker.’
Isobel looked at the rose pink gown and chewed her lip. The embroidered bodice was cut so low she felt naked when she wore it, and the lacy frills at the elbow and around the décolletage were fussy enough without the silk rosebuds stitched to them. ‘It’s a little …’
‘It is perfect,’ stated her mother. ‘I’ll get Rose to help you dress and you may borrow my suite of pearls. Rubies would be too much for daytime.’
‘Mama.’ Isobel reached for her hand to still her fussing. She was in an agony of doubt. ‘Gilbert does love me, doesn’t he? Truly? It’s not just the dowry?’
Amelia gave a soft laugh and embraced her. Then she drew back and held Isobel’s hands, her expression indulgent. ‘You silly goose! How could he fail to love you when you look so charming? I do declare, Isobel, love has put colour in your face and a sparkle in your eyes. Why, you are almost a beauty.’
She turned as she reached the door. ‘Take your time my dear. Mrs Patterson has prepared the morning room for you, so make your way down there when you’re ready. I shall come back in a while to see you have not forgotten anything, then wait for Gilbert to finish with your father and escort him to you.’ Amelia blew her a kiss and, with a wide smile, left the room.
Isobel was used to her mother’s lack of tact, and the veiled insult about her almost being a beauty was lost in the first tremor of excitement. She had been silly to suspect Gilbert’s intentions for Papa approved the match – and his judgement was always good. She had no more need to fret. The dreams she had hardly dared believe in were coming true at last.
*
Jacaranda Vines Page 9
