by Janet Tanner
Louis had loved power, he had enjoyed making people squirm. But the cocky little bastard had died at exactly the right moment. The debts had been put to one side and forgotten – Paul had discovered to his relief that Louis had not made any record of them beyond the casual IOUs he had deposited in the office safe and Paul had disposed of them by simply flushing them down the lavatory. Since Louis had not left any dependents this had not troubled his conscience over much. As for Paul’s position in the company, he had suddenly realised it was sounder than it had been at any time since Bernard’s death. With Louis no longer there to run things, Sophia in prison, Robin emigrating to Australia and David still too young for serious responsibility Paul had found himself in the driving seat. From that moment on he had made the most of his opportunities. Fate, he knew, would never deal him a better hand. By the time David was old enough to take up his heritage and become the figurehead of his father’s empire, Paul had established himself as elder statesman. David had never suggested, as Louis had, that his services would no longer be required and if he questioned Paul’s decisions he did so with a certain amount of deference and respect. Not that he was weak like Robin either. No, David had managed to steer a course between the extremes of his two elder brothers.
Perhaps, Paul thought, of the three boys David was the most like Bernard – clear-sighted and even-handed, tempering decisiveness with tact, able to implement even unpopular innovations with the minimum of resistance from the staff, and with the knack of eliciting loyalty from each and every one of them because each believed he was an important cog in the organisation who also mattered as a private individual.
Man-management was the secret of David’s success, Paul decided; with it he did not need to be a financial genius or even; a brilliant businessman, for there were always those who would carry out these tasks for him willingly and well. But it did not occur to Paul that in David’s handling of him, Paul, lay perhaps the most skilful piece of man-management of all!
Paul folded his newspaper and put it down on the table beside his glass, then he removed his half-spectacles, folding them and putting them into the soft leather case in his breast pocket. His hand was shaking slightly.
‘Do we have to talk about Louis?’
Viv shrugged and ran her fingers through her hair in a gesture that had remained unchanged since the days of her youth. Her hair had been her crowning glory in those days, luxuriant, flaming red, and she had been very proud of it. For a long time after it had begun to fade she had continued to have it dyed to something approximating its original shade, then one day she, had caught sight of herself in the mirror and realised that it no longer made her look stunning but old – a harridan, she had thought in disgust. The next day she had asked her hairdresser to do whatever was necessary to achieve a more natural colour and now only a silver rinse brightened the head of hair that had once been the talk of Jersey. But old habits die hard; Viv still tossed her head as she had used to do, still flicked her fingers through her hair as a careless gesture which nevertheless rarely failed to attract attention.
‘No, dear, we don’t have to talk about Louis if it makes you uncomfortable. But it might be a good idea to brush up on all your pretend responses when his name is mentioned – the ones you perfected twenty years ago.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I say. Twenty years ago you were very good at hiding just how much you hated Louis. Now I’m afraid you’re out of practice. You really have become quite transparent.’
‘For God’s sake, Viv, I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you?’ Her green eyes, clear as chips of emerald glass, regarded him coolly. ‘Then let me spell it out for you. Robin’s daughter is in Jersey. We are going to meet and socialise with her – we are going to dinner at La Grange tomorrow night, remember? It is quite on the cards that she is going to want to talk about Louis.’
‘Over dinner, with Sophia sitting there? Surely not!’
‘Well no, obviously not then. But we are two of the only people who knew exactly what happened. It is my bet that at some point Juliet’s curiosity is going to get the better of her. So, my darling …’, she raised her glass to him, ‘I suggest you had better be prepared!’
‘Oh Juliet, my dear, you have no idea how good it is to have you here!’ Sophia said.
Dinner was over, a pleasant informal meal when Juliet had felt surprisingly at ease in the company of the three relatives who were also virtual strangers. Now David and Deborah had tactfully withdrawn to their own apartments, leaving Sophia and Juliet alone.
‘It’s lovely to be here. I only wish I’d come a very long time ago,’ Juliet agreed, sipping coffee from a tiny gold-rimmed bone china cup and enjoying the comfortable glow that had begun with a glass of celebratory champagne and spread along with her share of a bottle of fine wine from David’s well-stocked cellar. ‘But being here, in this house, is the strangest feeling … I don’t really remember and yet I do. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do indeed. And one thing I promise. Practically nothing has changed – on the ground floor at any rate. Deborah has redecorated the rooms she and David use, of course. Several times over. But down here even when the paint is freshened or the wallpaper replaced the overall effect remains the same – mainly, I suppose, because rightly or wrongly I cling to the stubborn belief I could not improve upon it.’
‘I’m sure you couldn’t,’ Juliet said.
‘Well that, my dear, is praise indeed! After all, you are a professional, aren’t you?’
Juliet laughed. Yes, she was a professional now – but it still amused her to hear someone actually say it, and besides she was not at all sure that she had looked at La Grange through professional eyes. The moment she had stepped into the entrance hall with its granite flagstone floor, sculptured plaster ceiling rose and mouldings and sweeping staircase she had been transported back in time. It was not only the sight of the place that had done this but the smell – beeswax polish on the bannisters and the beautiful carved wood table, mingling with the slightly musty, though not unpleasant, smell that emanated from the enormous arrangement of dried flowers that filled and brightened one corner. Standing there Juliet had almost been able to hear the patter of a child’s sandals on the flagstone – her own sandals, the smart but functional leather Claries she had worn when she was little.
From the hall she had been taken to the drawing-room, less familiar because she had spent less time there. But she could appreciate it all the same, and enjoy the luxurious yet restful feel that came from the careful blending of shades of cream and apricot. Her practised eye had taken in the velvet curtains and watered silk wall hangings, the furniture which mixed the elegant with the comfortable – a peach chaise, an intricately carved love-seat, and a sofa and easy chairs so deep and inviting that she wished she could immediately sink into them. One wall was lined with book shelves; rich leather bindings bearing the lettering of rare first editions rubbed shoulders with well-loved childrens’ classics – Alice in Wonderland, The Wind in the Willows, The Water Babies. The lamps – table lamps and standards – were shaded in watered silk and all around were the treasures of a lifetime’s collecting – graceful art nouveau looking not the least bit out of place alongside Regency silver and Oriental jade. Only the carpet jarred slightly – wall to wall cream, deep, luxurious and immaculate. Somehow Juliet would have expected an enormous and beautiful Aubusson or something similar, gracing a floor of polished woodblocks.
Into the dining-room and here her instinct had proved correct. The floor was indeed woodblocked and carpeted with a sweeping circle of rich red, strong enough to complement the dark oak furniture, a long sideboard displaying a whole array of chafing dishes, chairs beautifully fashioned and upholstered in a red Regency stripe silk and a huge rectangular table laid now with crisp white linen, heavy silver and fine sparkling crystal. Yet impressive as every piece in the room was, it was totally dominated by the portrait which hung over the Victori
an mantel.
‘Grandfather!’ Juliet had exclaimed.
‘Yes, that is Bernard, your grandfather, but he never saw his portrait, I’m afraid. I had it painted after his death,’ Sophia said, then, seeing Juliet’s puzzled expression, she chuckled, a hint of mischief creeping into her poised demeanour. ‘He‘d never have been able to sit still long enough for anyone to paint him. Bernard was a do-er, and he’d have considered it a terrible waste of time. But I felt it was only fitting, as the founder of the family firm, that he should have his portrait in a place of honour, so I commissioned an artist to paint it from a photograph.’
‘Is it a good likeness?’ Juliet asked.
‘Yes, I think so.’
Juliet took in the strong face, the firm chin, the half-smiling mouth.
‘He looks kind.’
‘Yes,’ Sophia said simply. ‘He was.’
Something in her tone caught at a chord deep within Juliet, she lowered her eyes from the portrait to her grandmother. There was a faraway look in her sparkling amethyst eyes and a softness about her mouth.
She really loved him, Juliet thought. Perhaps she still does. My grandfather – Father’s father.
There was nothing in him that reminded her of her father, though. If anything Robin was more like his mother with slanting eyes and high cheekbones. ‘I have Russian blood,’ Robin sometimes explained. ‘Lola, my grandmother, was White Russian.’
David, on the other hand, was certainly like his father. During the meal Juliet had found her eyes straying more than once between her uncle and the portrait of her grandfather. Looking at David it was easy to see exactly what Bernard must have looked like at his age – even with the added years the similarity was striking – the set of the eyes, the shape of the jawline, the slightly hooked nose. For David himself it must be like a glimpse of his own future. So, David was almost a younger version of his father. But who had Louis been like? But there were no photographs to tell her and curious as she was she knew this was not the right time to ask.
Once more Juliet glanced at her grandmother. What had she expected of a woman who had killed her own son? She honestly did not know. The enigma had plagued her from the moment Molly had told her what had happened. But whatever she had expected, whatever images had half-formed in her imagination, they certainly bore no relation to the reality.
At sixty-six Sophia was still trim, still elegant. Her hair, though heavily streaked with silver now, was a shining cap, her eyes – those incredible amethyst eyes – still sparkled, unmarred by the deep crowsfeet or dark circles one might have expected, though in places the skin looked paper thin as if she had been rather ill at some time. Her taste was impeccable – her silk blouse had obviously been chosen because it was the exact same colour as her eyes, yet it also complemented her Chanel suit of cream wool. Her legs were still good, her calves shapely and ankles trim above a pair of black patent pumps with high slender heels. Yet none of this was necessarily incompatible with the ruthlessness one might have expected. No, it was her smile which gave the lie to that. In all her life Juliet did not think she had seen one sweeter. And now, as Sophia looked at the portrait of her husband, it was there again.
She never killed anyone! Juliet thought, shocking herself with her own vehemence. I don’t believe she could ever take a gun and kill anyone – especially not her own son. And what is more if she had done, it would be haunting her now.
A woman who could do something like that and then return to live in the house where it had all happened would be a very hard woman. Whatever else she might be Juliet would have staked her life on that one fact – Sophia was not hard. She turned her smile now on Juliet and it seemed that not only her mouth turned upwards but her whole face – no wonder she looked so young. Juliet thought. Then she leaned forward, taking Juliet’s hand in her own.
‘All those years!’ she said with a sigh. ‘My only grandchild and I’ve missed all your growing up. At the risk of driving you away for another twenty years I am going to tell you how sad that makes me. But now I hope we are going to make up for it. And I want you to begin by telling me everything – all about yourself.’
Juliet smiled back. ‘Well, all right. But first do you think I could have another cup of coffee?’
‘Of course you could! I’m sorry – I’m being a terrible hostess.’
‘You most certainly are not!’
‘My only excuse is that all I can think about is getting to know you.’
‘I know,’ Juliet said, sipping at her fresh cup of coffee and thinking that her own curiosity would have to wait.
By the time she climbed the stairs to the guest room on the first floor in which she would be staying Juliet was more puzzled than ever by the enigma that was her grandmother.
She had been keen to hear every detail of Juliet’s life, drawing out stories that Juliet had never told anyone, never thought anyone would find the least bit interesting – and she had shown a perception and wisdom that had been a little disconcerting, going straight to the heart of matters which Juliet had skated over.
‘Did you like riding?’ she had asked with that particular directness when Juliet had told her about the pony that she had been given for her sixth birthday and Juliet had had to admit that no, actually she didn’t. It was not an admission she had made to her parents for a very long time; she had been afraid they would think her dreadfully ungrateful and perhaps a little peculiar, or, worse, a coward. It was only after a really bad fall that she had got up the courage to admit she found it daunting to be expected to control an animal so much bigger than she was, particularly since her legs were too short to allow her to balance properly on the plump pony and she was forever sliding down and toppling off and was then unable to get back on again. Molly had been very sniffy about the whole thing – Juliet thought she probably fancied herself as the mother of a future Australian team show jumper or three-day eventer and she had indeed made Juliet feel something of a failure. Her grandmother, however, seemed to understand, anticipate the reaction, just as she understood when Juliet told her how she loved to play the piano and how she had had to beg to be allowed to learn the violin – ‘I don’t think I can stand the caterwauling!’ Molly had said.
But perhaps most startling of all was the way her grandmother had honed in on her feelings for Sean.
‘You have a boyfriend?’
‘Yes. I met him at college. He was a year above me so he’s really settled in his job now and doing very well. We are probably going to get engaged when I go home and get married next year.’ Juliet was sure she had not given away any clue to her doubts but Sophia’s voice had been serious.
‘You’re very young.’
‘Not that young. I’m twenty-three. Quite a few of the girls I was at school with are married already – mothers, even.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so. I was still in my teens when I married your grandfather. Well, as long as you are quite sure you love him. That is the most important thing.’ Her startling amethyst eyes, shadowed now, searched Juliet’s. ‘You are sure?’
A nerve jumped in Juliet’s throat. Yes, she wanted to say, – more because she did not want to discuss her deepest feelings with anyone at all, especially a grandmother she had only just met than because she believed it – but somehow she could not. She had the strangest feeling that Sophia was looking right into her heart and seeing the doubts that she had tried so hard to ignore.
‘Juliet?’ Sophia pressed her. ‘ You do love him?’
Juliet found her voice. ‘Of course I do.’
For a moment longer those sharp eyes continued to hold hers, then Sophia nodded.
‘That’s all right then. If you love him that is all that matters.’
But Juliet felt instinctively that she was not completely satisfied and she wondered how long it would be before Sophia returned to the subject.
The guest room had a bathroom en suite. Juliet washed her face, brushed her teeth and slipped between the cool cotton sheets. She was
very tired now – it had been a long day and jet-lag (which she always denied) was catching up with her. So many questions! she thought as the room drifted away from her. So many …
It was only just as she was on the point of sleep that another thought occurred to her. If Sophia cared so much, felt such a passionate interest in her one and only grandchild, why had she never once come to visit? Australia was half a world away from Jersey, the secrets of the past need never have been mentioned if the family had preferred them not to be. Yet she had not come. Instinctively Juliet sensed a gulf between her parents and Sophia that had not yet been adequately explained and her drowsy mind worried at it. But she was too tired to be able to think clearly. The pieces of the jigsaw were shuffling round and round in her mind, confused and oddly distorted. Then they were slipping further and further away and a few moments later Juliet was asleep.
Chapter four
‘Juliet, my dear, how very nice!’
Catherine Carteret was working in the garden of her cottage when the Metro which Deborah had hired for Juliet drew up at the gate and her great-niece slid out from behind the steering wheel.
Catherine straightened up, jamming her wide-brimmed straw hat more firmly down on to her iron grey curls, a small round woman with just enough similarity to Sophia to mark them out as sisters but a good many differences too. Where Sophia had poise Catherine seemed to be in a perpetual tizzy, where Sophia could be silent and mysterious Catherine was, and always had been, a chatterbox. Those who remembered them as children retained a vision of Catherine as bouncy, pretty and always laughing, not as beautiful as Sophia but with more than her fair share of personality, and nowadays she was known for her sense of fun and the wicked pleasure she derived from saying quite outrageous things. Yet surprisingly Catherine had never married. Soon after the war she left Jersey for England, trained as a teacher and spent her entire working life at schools in and around the most deprived areas of London.
