Another Homecoming (11 page)

Silence again. Joel’s father seemed too angry to even respond. Joel turned back to his half-finished plate. He had to eat all that remained before he could leave the table, but his appetite had vanished. All he wanted was to flee the room.

At length his father stirred slightly and demanded, “What are they asking you to do?”

Joel found himself reluctant even to respond, not wanting to start the whole controversy over again. “They just wanted me to join them for the singing and reading time, then stay for a late lunch. They call it dinner.”

Again silence. At long last his father spoke again. “Don’t suppose it would hurt anything,” he said without even looking up. “Might give us a chance to catch up on some sleep around here, with you out of the house.”

Joel let his astonished gaze travel from his father’s lowered head to his mother’s still-flushed face. She simply nodded.

As an afterthought she added, “Make sure you wash your face and brush your hair before you go. Folks are supposed to look their best for church.”

9
 

“Mrs. Rothmore will be with you
directly, Mr. Crawley,” Bertrand announced solemnly, leading him into the library. “She asks that you wait for her here.”

“Fine, fine,” Randolf replied absently. When the tall double doors closed behind the departing butler, the young man resisted the urge to pace about the room. It was not like him to suffer from nerves when meeting with Abigail. But something about her summons worried him mightily.

When he had taken over his father’s position on the Rothmore board, Randolf had discarded many things. One had been the ‘Junior’ attached to his name. Another had been the deferential attitude he had formerly used around Abigail. The first time he had addressed her as an equal had been in this very room. She had noticed it instantly, of course. Very little escaped Abigail’s notice. She had acknowledged the change in his attitude and its intended message with a regal nod.

There was much that remained unspoken between the two of them. Which was fine with Randolf. As far as he was concerned, some of life’s most important matters should never be spoken of aloud. Such as the hunger for real power they seemed to share. The kind of power that could be theirs,
would
be theirs, once the reins of Rothmore Insurance were firmly in Randolf’s grasp.

Randolf lowered himself into the leather armchair and glanced about the room. The Rothmore library had always fascinated him. Whenever he saw himself taking over control of the family assets as well as the family company, it was to this room that his daydreams took him. If any chamber of the Rothmore manor spoke of opulence, it was this room. The rich wood of the oiled wall panels, the enclosed shelves heavy with leather-bound volumes, the hunting scenes and the full-length portrait of Abigail that graced the walls, the Oriental carpets strewn across the polished floor—somehow the room managed to be both masculine and elegant, a marvelous combination in his eyes.

His reverie was interrupted by Abigail’s entrance. “Ah, Randolf, so good of you to come,” she said as she swept toward him. “I hope it wasn’t too much of a bother to join me so early on a Saturday morning.”

“Not at all.” Something about her tone brought a new surge of nerves. Yet Randolf managed to hold to his outward calm and languidly rose to greet her. “Your call sounded rather urgent.”

“No, not urgent. Just desirable. With the reading of Lawrence’s will set for the day after tomorrow, this could not be put off any longer.” Rather than settle upon the sofa opposite where he had been seated, she marched to the other side of the hand-carved cherrywood desk. “Won’t you be seated?”

He had no choice but take the high-backed chair across the desk from her. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been doing some thinking.” She hesitated, toying with the open ledger on the desk before her. Then she added, “About Kyle.” Another long moment of silence before Abigail offered, “She’s still very young.”

Randolf had the sudden impression that all this was staged. Making him wait, seating herself behind the desk, the hesitation—all of it was simple theatrics. No, not simple. Not with Abigail. Everything had a purpose. Even this. And the implications of where this was headed filled him with foreboding.

“I know I have been pushing you to seek, well, some sort of commitment.” She picked up the gold-plated dagger used as a letter opener and rolled it back and forth between her fingers. The light flickered directly into his eyes. “But recently I have been experiencing second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts,” he echoed, his mind racing.

“I have been rather demanding at times, I’m afraid.” Abigail sighed dramatically. “And this loss of her father has been most difficult for her.”

Randolf knew he was expected to respond, but he could not. The words would not come. His one chance to wrest full control of Rothmore Insurance was suddenly slipping through his fingers. And yet he could not fathom why. He studied the woman seated across from him, searching for the purpose behind her actions.

“I’ve been wondering if we should not push her so,” Abigail continued. “Perhaps Kyle should be given more time to grow up.”

Randolf resisted the urge to scream, to tear his hair, to leap to his feet and rage from the room.
But what about our plans?
he wanted to shout.
What about all my ambitions?

He took a breath. Another. Only when a semblance of calm was restored did he say, “But I thought you were concerned that she might . . .” He was uncertain whether he should even mention out loud what had never before been spoken. But with all his dreams going up in smoke, he had no choice. He pressed forward with, “I thought you wanted to be certain that she had no opportunity to . . . to select a husband of her own choosing.”

A small smile flickered around the corners of her mouth, though she tried hard to disguise it. “That is not so pressing now. With her father gone . . .”

“Ah.” The word was a release of both pent-up tension and hope. It was clear to him now. Bitterness tainted his voice as he demanded, “So you are severing me from any relationship with your daughter?”

“Oh, my dear Randolf.” She leaned back in the big desk chair. Her small figure looked dwarfed by its size, yet a new sense of authority gave the impression that she was quite at home there. “Quite the opposite. I would be perfectly thrilled if Kyle were to choose you. But I also feel that we can now allow her a bit more freedom. After all, she
is
little more than a child.”

“That scarcely concerned you before,” Randolf pointed out acidly. It no longer mattered, though. Nothing would change Abigail’s mind. He knew that for certain. She was going to run the company. She would make her own rules.

Abigail studied him carefully for a moment before replying coldly, “Think what you might, Randolf, but the fact is that all I have done for Kyle has been done with her best interests in mind. She is such a child. She thinks the world is made up of sugarplum fairies and doting fathers. I have had to take a firm hand because no one else would.”

Randolf hesitated. She sounded so sincere. Perhaps she cared more for the girl than he had realized. “But I care for your daughter as well, Abigail,” he ventured. “She is attractive and intelligent, a rare combination. And her sweet sense of innocence is most refreshing. Business was far from my only motive, I hope—”

“Of course I knew that.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I would not for one moment have encouraged you if the business had been your only motive.” Abigail’s gaze held a new quality, a sense of realized power. “Your qualities are well known to me, Randolf. I will continue to require them, both as an ally within the company as well as a suitable gentleman for my daughter.”

His shoulders slumped with sudden relief. All was not lost. Not entirely. Just postponed. Perhaps. “You mean—”

“I meant just exactly what I said.” She held him with this new, powerful gaze of hers. “I intend to take a firm hand within the company, and I expect another firm hand to take over when I depart. I know full well how quickly fortunes can rise and fall. My grandfather had wealth, as you full know. My father managed to lose almost all of it, not because he was not intelligent, but because he was weak. I cannot permit either this family or this business to fall into weak hands.”

Randolf pushed himself to his feet. He felt drained. Trapped. Abigail was so incredibly in control. “So I should still continue to see her.”

“Of course, my dear Randolf.” She looked directly into his eyes. “But there is no need to press. Not for the moment, at least.”

He nodded mutely and turned to go. He knew the words were his dismissal.

Kyle had begun the habit of rising with the sun. She found it gave her a much-needed respite from her mother, as well as time for quiet reflection. She would dress and walk through the garden, occasionally stopping for a chat with old Jim, but usually preferring solitude. Those winter walks became her refuge, when frost covered the grass with diamond shards and all the world seemed to hold its breath.

Dawn came late and slowly on those mornings, and the sun’s arrival formed stark etchings in the frozen yard. Everything was either bathed in frigid shadow or sparkling with a myriad of tiny rainbows. Each of her footsteps whispered through the thawing grass, marking her passage with dark imprints. She carried bread with her, feeding crumbs to every bird she saw. By early December, the birds had come to expect her and would flutter about with quietly drumming wings as she sprinkled the glittering lawn with food.

Afterward, Kyle went into the kitchen and had her breakfast with Bertrand and Maggie. They sat down together, said grace, and ate as they discussed plans for the day. Then Bertrand left to do his morning rounds of the house, and Maggie took out her Bible and read quietly. Several times she offered to read out loud, but Kyle shook her head. She was happy to just sit there and feel the peace as Maggie read to herself.

Kyle avoided the house’s big rooms as much as possible. They echoed with her father’s absence. There was nothing left to keep the cold, precise emptiness of her mother’s style and personality at bay. Whenever Kyle walked through the great hall or the formal chamber or the dining room, with their beautiful paintings and sparkling chandeliers and waxed floors and polished silverware, she felt as though she had wandered into a strange and empty museum.

That first Saturday in December, when Maggie rose to begin her chores, Kyle donned an apron and worked alongside her. Maggie protested, “Child, you’ve got a score of other more important things to do than work here beside me.”

“I don’t, really,” Kyle said, holding to her matter-of-fact tone. “Emily Crawley and some of her friends are coming over for tennis, but not until eleven.” Several of the wealthy families had built communal courts, one indoors and another outdoors, at the bottom of their garden. “Besides, I didn’t invite them. Mother did.”

“Speaking of which,” Maggie continued, “if your mother found you in here working she would not be pleased.”

Kyle’s hands stayed busy washing the greenhouse strawberries Bertrand would serve with morning coffee for their guests. “Don’t send me away, please, Maggie. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

The older woman’s tone softened as she asked, “What on earth are you saying?”

Kyle kept her hands busy. It helped her hold to the calm tone. “I don’t belong here. I’ll never be the proper lady Mother wants me to be.”

“Oh, honey, my dear sweet Kyle.” Maggie walked over and settled one arm around Kyle’s waist. “You are the most wonderful young lady I have ever set eyes on, and that is the truth.”

“Not according to Mother,” she replied. The sunlight streaming through the back window became a lancing blade, and Kyle had to stop to wipe at her eyes with the back of one hand. “She’s been at me nonstop since Daddy . . . since the funeral. Nothing I do is good enough. And she’s right.”

“No she isn’t,” Maggie said, her voice quiet yet firm.

“Yes she is.”

“Look at me, dear.”

Kyle let the berries drop into the plastic strainer and turned to face her friend. The sunlight was revealing as it rested upon the old woman’s features. Yet a lifetime of hard work had not dimmed the clarity of those wide-set gray eyes. They regarded her now, the gaze clear and direct and loving. “My dearest child, I love you like you were my own daughter, you know that.”

“I know,” Kyle whispered.

“Then believe me when I tell you, life will always try to bring you down. If it were not your mother, it would be something else. Do you know why?”

Kyle found herself unable to answer, so she made do with a little shake of her head.

“Because your heart is too big for this world. You hold too much love, too much tenderness. It is clear to anyone with eyes open to the truth.” A cloud began tracing its way across the sky overhead, cutting out all the light except for the single ray falling upon Maggie’s face. It transformed her gray hair into a shimmering silver crown and made the light in her eyes so strong that they seemed to hold the sun itself. “A heart like yours needs protection, my beloved child. It needs the shield of prayer to keep it from seeking out the shelter of cynicism and hardness. Do you understand what I am saying?”