Araluen (34 page)

Emma posed a potential threat in a number of directions. Should the story of a bastard granddaughter reach the press, the unpleasant stigma of illegitimacy would tarnish her image and (of far greater offence to Penelope) it would remind everyone of her true age. But above all, there was the feminine competition Emma could pose. Competition which could affect not only Penelope’s relationship with her husband and grandson but her status within the Ross household itself.

Even colourless little Vonnie, who had always remained in the background, had been an annoyance to Penelope. ‘But I believe young Mrs Ross doesn’t fancy kidneys,’ the cook might say as Penelope drew up the week’s menu. Or, ‘Young Mrs Ross has asked if breakfast might be served on the terrace,’ the maid might say. The ‘young’ so rankled with Penelope that she wanted to snarl, ‘Tell her to leave the kidneys on the side of her plate then’, or ‘Tell her she can breakfast in the billiard room or the bathroom for all I care.’

Penelope hadn’t wished it upon poor Vonnie, who was definitely strange and lived in a world of her own, but it had been a relief when she was diagnosed with a mental illness which made it necessary
for her to be transferred to a home where her condition could be properly monitored.

It was a comfortable home in pleasant surrounds an hour’s drive out of the city. For the first six months, Penelope had visited her fortnightly, for appearances’ sake. But Vonnie never seemed to know she was there – indeed she had never seemed happier – so eventually Penelope had stopped going.

Since then, no other woman had been in a position of command in the Ross household. Penelope reigned supreme and that was the way she intended to keep it.

The status quo must be maintained, she decided. She must keep the girl a secret. And to keep the girl a secret, she must keep her on side. They must become friends. If she dismissed her the girl might well approach Franklin or, God forbid, Michael.

‘Perhaps you would like to visit The Colony House and see where your father grew up?’ she offered. That would mollify her surely. ‘And I can show you some photographs of him,’ she added for good measure.

‘Oh, Mrs Ross … Penelope,’ Emma corrected, ‘that would be wonderful!’ She was thrilled by Penelope’ s offer and the fact that her grandmother wanted to maintain contact. It was far more than Julia had led her to hope for.

‘I have a rather full itinerary for the next week or so,’ Penelope said, rising. ‘Shall we say the Tuesday after next?’ Franklin would be out of the country by then and Michael always worked late at the studios on Tuesdays.

‘Yes, of course.’ Emma jumped to her feet. ‘What time?’

‘Make it mid-afternoon and we’ll have tea. Say around three? Here’s my card.’ She handed it to Emma and they walked to the door. ‘In the meantime,’ she continued, ‘I’m sure I could find you a little more writing work if you’re interested. I have many contacts.’

‘You mean … here, at the studio?’ Emma couldn’t believe her luck.’

‘Oh no, dear, I’m afraid that would be quite impossible. Not only are there no openings but television scripting is very specialised work and we have a full team of highly qualified, experienced writers.

‘However, I do a lot of readings for the Blind Society,’ Penelope explained, ‘and I’m sure there would be some freelance work available for you in the way of book precis and the like.’ It would be a good idea to develop a neutral ground for them, Penelope thought, somewhere well away from any possible contact with Ross family or staff.

Emma nodded eagerly. ‘That’d be fantastic’

‘Yes,’ Penelope smiled. ‘Very good training, I would think, for a future novelist. Ring me here at the studios tomorrow morning and I’ll give you the contact name and phone number. I’ll have had a chat with them by then – they’re bound to have something for you.’ Penelope would make sure they did; she was a generous benefactor of the Blind Society.

‘Thank you, Penelope, thank you so much. I’m sorry for … ’

‘Not at all, my dear. It’s a delight to meet you.’ Penelope kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘It’s sad that we must keep our little secret but you understand, don’t you, it’s for your own good?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’ She opened the door. ‘Goodbye, Miss Clare,’ she said for the sake of the receptionist.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Ross,’ Emma replied.

On the morning of the designated appointment at The Colony House, Emma awoke a little nervous at the prospect. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was Julia’s negativity. Julia hadn’t been remotely impressed by Emma’s ecstatic account of her first meeting with Penelope.

‘Don’t trust her, Emma,’ she warned. ‘The woman’s up to something. She has her own motives for wanting to see you again and it has nothing whatsoever to do with grandmotherly affection. She’s a hard bitch.’

Emma found her mother’s venom unreasonable. Julia herself swore that Franklin would most certainly disown her, so what possible motive could Penelope have for their meeting other than a genuine desire to get to know her? Besides, when Emma had telephoned the following day, she’d received a warm and generous reception.

‘The Blind Society has some work for you, dear. The head of the book reading department is waiting to hear from you,’ Penelope had said. She gave Emma the details, wished her luck and told her not
to hesitate to ring should she need any help or any further details for her article. Then, before hanging up, she reminded Emma of their appointment at The Colony House the following week.

Still Julia was not impressed. ‘I don’t care what she says. She’s hard and cunning and she’s up to something.’

‘But you only ever met her once,’ Emma argued.

‘I only need to meet someone like Penelope Ross once to know that I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could spit,’ Julia said.

Emma decided not to push the matter further. Julia’s dislike for the Ross family had become an obsession, she decided, and it was impossible for her mother to see reason.

Nevertheless, as she walked up the circular drive to the main doors of The Colony House at precisely five minutes to three on Tuesday afternoon, Emma felt a certain foreboding.

The maid showed her into the lounge room where Penelope was waiting.

‘My dear, how lovely to see you.’ Penelope rose and brushed her cheek against Emma’s.

‘Hallo, Mrs Ross,’ she said, for the sake of the maid.

‘Tea in ten minutes, thank you, Tina,’ and the maid left. ‘I think we can stick with Penelope in front of the staff, my dear,’ she smiled. ‘After all, we’re associates in our work for the Blind Sociey now, aren’t we? Come along and I’ll show you the house.’

All of Emma’s misgivings disappeared as Penel-ope
gave her a personal tour of The Colony House.

‘This is one of our major guest suites,’ she said as she opened one of the upstairs doors. ‘Rumour hath it that Mr Ross was challenged to a duel in this very room.’ Penelope was rather enjoying herself. She liked playing queen of the manor and it was difficult not to warm to the wide-eyed girl who was obviously overwhelmed by the wealth and style of The Colony House.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Emma breathed, looking about the elegant sitting room with its french windows leading off to the balcony. Through the open carved doors she could see the adjoining bedroom with its massive four-poster bed. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Penelope agreed. She led the way out onto the balcony. ‘Look,’ she pointed, ‘you can just see the statue of the dueller from here.’

Emma looked out over the lawns to the harbour edge and saw the lifesize bronze in the distance, its arm outstretched, pistol pointing towards the Harbour Bridge.

‘He’s not frightfully pretty, I’m afraid,’ Penelope laughed, ‘but he’s quite impressive and he does have a history. He was presented to my husband by the man with whom he had the duel. Samuel Crockett – still alive, although very old now. He’s a movie producer,’ she explained, ‘a movie producer in Hollywood. I actually made several films for him.’

‘How fascinating,’ Emma said. It was.

‘Yes. The duel caused a furore, I believe. Of course I was virtually a child at the time. I hadn’t
met my husband then.’ She laughed girlishly, con-spiratorially. ‘Needless to say, Mr Ross won.’

Emma was overwhelmed by everything about her, The Colony House, the servants, the opulence. She didn’t belong to this world. But she delighted in the communication with Penelope herself. This wasn’t her grandmother at all. This was a woman sharing confidences and, to Emma, the relationship was precious.

Penelope was fully aware that she was playing the situation on exactly the right level and gaining the girl’s personal trust. ‘Come downstairs, dear, and we’ll have some tea,’ she said. ‘The cook has made a batch of shortbread which is positively sinful.’

It was most pleasurable to have some feminine company, Penelope decided an hour later as she ordered more tea and showed Emma her collection of press clippings and photographs. Feminine company which posed no threat to her position. Pretty, young, feminine company which made her feel like a girl again.

‘I do envy you, my dear,’ she found herself admitting quite truthfully. ‘You have a career ahead of you. A lifetime ambition to fight for. The struggle up each rung of the ladder will be such an exciting achievement for you.’

Emma recognised the regret in Penelope’s voice and was surprised. ‘But you had such a remarkable career yourself, Penelope – all those West End productions and Hollywood movies. Surely you achieved everything you wanted?’

‘Oh yes, yes, I achieved my ambitions,’ she agreed. ‘But you see, I left at the height of my
career.’ (Penelope had convinced herself of this over the years). ‘And I do so miss it at times.’

‘Why did you give it up?’ Emma asked.

‘My husband,’ Penelope answered. ‘My husband needed me. You see Mr Ross is a great deal older than I and, when we met, he was already a highly successful businessman who needed a supportive wife at his side. There was no room for a young actress with a career of her own, so … ’ She shrugged nobly. ‘I suppose we all have our sacrifices to make.’

Emma felt privileged that Penelope had chosen to share such intimacies with her and she was moved by the woman’s history of self-denial. Franklin certainly appeared every bit the ogre Julia had painted him.

‘And then, of course, the children came along … ’ That had been the end of it all, Penelope remembered, Franklin’s lust for sons. She had moved herself almost to tears with the account of her lost career. And she’d told her story without bitterness or rancour. Hers had been a noble life.

Penelope had never had a female companion with whom to share her sacrifices and now here was Emma, obviously sympathetic. For a moment she had completely forgotten to whom she was talking. The look on Emma’s face suddenly reminded her. ‘Yes,’ she said briskly, pulling herself together. ‘Your father was the first-born. I promised to show you some photographs, didn’t I.’

‘Forgive my indulgence, my dear,’ she said stiffly as she crossed to the corner cabinet, inwardly cursing herself. How could she have allowed herself to get so carried away?

‘Oh, please don’t apologise, Penelope,’ Emma begged. ‘It was fascinating, every word.’

Penelope paused and looked at Emma. The girl meant it. She had no ulterior motive. She’d been genuinely enthralled and sympathetic. Penelope couldn’t help but like her.

They sat together on the couch and leafed through the old photo album. It had been a long time since Penelope had looked at the early family photographs and again she found herself moved. Terry and James at Mandinulla. Family holidays. She’d forgotten that once they’d been a family. It seemed a lifetime ago. If she’d known what was going to happen perhaps she wouldn’t have allowed her bitterness to deprive her of those moments. Perhaps she might have enjoyed her young sons more. Perhaps … Maudlin rubbish, she told herself, and turned her attention to Emma as the girl studied the photos of her father.

‘He was a lovely looking boy,’ she said as she watched Emma, mesmerised, slowly turning the pages. ‘I don’t have many pictures of him as an adult. We didn’t seem to take so many photographs then. I suppose one doesn’t when they grow up. There’s one here, though … ’ She turned a couple of pages quickly and Emma wished she wouldn’t. She wanted to study each one slowly. ‘Ah, yes, here we are, this is one of my favourites.’

It was a young man in formal evening dress, probably only a few years older than herself, Emma thought, and incredibly handsome.

‘The Hunt Club Ball,’ Penelope said, ‘Terry always looked good in black tie.’

Emma said nothing. Her eyes were glued to the photograph. ‘A smile and eyes that could charm the devil’, that’s what Julia had said. This was him, her father, this was the man Julia had fallen in love with.

Penelope watched the girl studying the photograph, and she suddenly heard herself say, ‘Would you like to have it?’

Emma turned to her, her eyes glowing. ‘Really? But you said it’s one of your favourites.’

‘Of course, my dear,’ Penelope answered briskly. It was time to draw an end to this conversation; things were becoming far too intimate. ‘I have others.’ Good grief, how long had it been since she’d looked at the damn album? And it would be a long time before she looked at it again. She withdrew the photograph and gave it to Emma.

Emma recognised the signs immediately. Their meeting was over and she mustn’t overstay her welcome. As it was, she hoped that Penelope hadn’t regretted the confidences she’d shared. Emma deeply admired her grandmother but she felt a surge of sympathy. Penelope was a lonely woman.

‘It’s been a lovely afternoon,’ she said formally, preparing to take her leave. ‘Thank you.’

But, before she could rise, a young man bounded through the hall and into the lounge room. ‘Hi, Penelope, I’m home,’ he called.

‘What are you doing back at this hour? It’s Tuesday.’

‘Reg and I had an argument so I walked out,’ the young man replied. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

‘Of course, darling. This is Emma. Emma Clare, Michael Ross.’

‘Hi,’ Emma heard herself say.

‘Where did you spring from?’ he asked, but she found herself merely staring up at him. The eyes. The smile. She was looking at the photograph of her father. Fortunately Penelope answered for her.