Daughter of Riches (10 page)

‘That's a bit harsh, Viv,' Paul said, completing the manoeuvre and setting the car on the road home.

‘Is it? Molly is a child who never grew up and Robin …' By leaving the sentence unfinished Viv left no room for doubt as to her feelings about Robin. She drew on her Winston and the car began to fill with a cloud of pungent smoke. ‘Still, I suppose they at least achieved what we never did – an offspring,' she added wryly.

Paul said nothing and after a moment she continued, her voice dangerously bright.

‘It's rather strange when you come to think of it how this family has shrunk. There were four of you, after all. One would have expected a dynasty, the sort of family tree that runs off the edge of the paper. And what happened? Nicky dies, Catherine never marries, you … have me. Only Sophia has children – three of them. And sons to boot. Three boys to carry on the name of Langlois, if not the Carteret name. But between them those three boys have only managed to produce one child and she is a girl. Ironic, don't you think?'

‘If you say so.'

Though Paul liked to think of himself these days as a driving force in the business dealings of the Langlois empire there was a great deal of acquiescence in his nature. At the office he often blustered in a conscious effort to appear forceful and decisive but in private he all too often opted for the easy way out, especially when his wife was at her most loquacious and waspish. Arguing with Viv was tiresome and seldom got him anywhere – he had never known anyone so determined to have the last word – and he had never been able to summon up any enthusiasm to join in her habit of dissecting the vagaries of fate. Now he switched off as he usually did when she began on one of her discourses, deliberately distancing himself so that her rather shrill voice became as much a part of the background as the hum of the engine and he was free to pursue his own undemanding train of thought.

‘I wouldn't mind betting David would like a family,' Viv continued. ‘A couple of sons to carry on the business when you are all past it and a pretty little girl to sit on his knee and gaze at him with adoring eyes. But somehow I can't see it happening. I can't imagine Deborah …'

She laughed suddenly, a snort of mirth so piercing not even he could ignore it.

‘What's funny?' he asked.

‘The idea of Deborah in a maternity smock, with that wonderful figure of hers of which she is so damned proud going to pot underneath it. No, the Fall of the House of Carteret is down to one thing – the men marry women who can't, or won't, have children.'

She was angling, Paul knew, trying to needle him into saying something he would later regret. That was the trouble with Viv, too much drink sometimes made her maudlin and she would pick away at the old scabs until she revealed the raw and bleeding wound beneath.

‘You can say what you like about Deborah, but she has been more than good to Sophia,' he said amiably, trying to divert her from the path of self-destruction he sensed she was set upon, and to his relief the ploy seemed to succeed.

‘One could argue that Sophia has not exactly treated Deborah badly,' Viv said, stubbing out her cigarette and closing the ashtray with a snap. ‘She lives in the lap of luxury at La Grange.'

‘Married to David she would live in the lap of luxury anywhere. I suppose it's true that she would not be married to David if it weren't for Sophia, but daughters-in-law are not known for being as nice to their acquired parents as Deborah is to Sophia. And before you say she's after something I would again point out she has nothing to gain from sucking up to Sophia. No, I think she is genuinely fond of her. She was there, remember, when Sophia needed her most – when a good many of her so-called friends were only too ready to desert her. And she's been there ever since. Quite honestly, I don't know what Sophia would have done without Deborah.'

Viv smiled. ‘At risk of sounding a complete cow I would still like to turn that one on its head and ask what Deborah would have done without Sophia. It's not just a question of money – it's much more than that. Look, just ask yourself, Paul – who
is
Deborah? Where did she come from?'

Paul was silent.

‘You see?' Viv spread her hands expressively, then folded them around her ample, black organza-clad bosom. ‘That is not a question you care to answer, is it? So Paul – I rest my case!'

‘Grandma, are you asleep?'

Juliet pushed open Sophia's bedroom door and peeped in. Lights were still burning, two wall lamps and a table lamp, and they bathed the room in a warm glow.

‘It's all right, my dear, come in.'

Sophia was in bed but propped up against the pillows – stark white embossed cotton which contrasted sharply with the old-fashioned brass bed. Bernard had liked white cotton, to him its fresh crispness had symbolised everything he had wanted from life far more than any more ostentatious material could have done and Sophia had never tried to persuade him into anything else. Let the boys have what they wanted – Sophia had never forgotten Bernard's disgust when Louis had insisted on changing his bedlinen to black satin – ‘Good God, what next!' he had exclaimed. ‘Anyone would think this was a bordello!' – but she was happy to go along with his wishes. Only one thing had she changed since his death – there was now a frilled white broderie Anglaise beauduvet on the bed instead of the brown and gold throwover and gold wool blankets that Bernard had favoured.

The bed was enormous and they had shared it to the end – not for them the separate bedrooms of the class to which they had been elevated; after her enforced absence Sophia had found returning to it one of the most comforting aspects of her homecoming. Now she eased herself up a little more and patted the bed beside her.

‘Sit down, Juliet.'

Juliet sat, half afraid of creasing the broderie Anglaise.

‘How are you feeling?'

‘Oh, I'm fine now.'

‘I find that hard to believe,' Juliet said. ‘ In fact there are a lot of things I find hard to believe about you, Grandma.'

The moment she said it she regretted it. She hadn't meant to raise the subject at all unless the moment was right, doing so now, with her grandmother unwell, was unforgiveable. ‘I'm sorry,' she said quickly.

‘It's all right, my dear.' Sophia patted her hand. ‘Don't worry. I expect you are a great deal more sensitive about certain things than I am. I will talk to you about it, I promise – though I'm not sure I can tell you any more than you already know. But not tonight.'

‘No, of course not … I didn't mean …'

‘I know.' She patted Juliet's hand again but she was not looking at her granddaughter. Juliet, disconcerted, followed the direction of her gaze and saw a photograph in a silver frame on a small occasional table beside the bed. The man in the photograph was not anyone she knew but instinctively she knew exactly who it was for somehow the expression on her grandmother's face identified him more explicitly than any words could have done.

Louis. It had to be Louis. His hair was obviously fair although the photograph was black and white, his face square with regular features. He looked quite young in the photograph, perhaps nineteen or twenty, yet already there was the smallest hint of something less than flattering about the eyes. Oh, he was handsome, yes, without a doubt – the studio portrait endowed him with almost film star good looks – but Juliet thought with a small sense of shock that she was not sure she would trust him.

She could not expect Sophia to think like that, of course. She was his mother. Even if she had killed him …

‘Whatever must you think of us all?' Sophia asked.

Juliet, engrossed in the photograph, had not noticed her grandmother's shift of attention. Now she jumped almost guiltily as if she had been caught snooping.

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Our way of life here must be very different to what you are used to.'

‘It is different, but I've enjoyed myself very much. I really don't think I am going to want to go home.'

‘And I for one shall not want you to. But your parents would be very upset, I expect, if we persuaded you to stay. And you have your fiancé too.'

‘Yes,' Juliet said and felt her heart sink. Oh God, she thought, why should it
do
that whenever marriage or engagement was mentioned? She loved Sean didn't she …
didn't
she? Yet it came to her now that one of the reasons she had so enjoyed the last days was that she had felt absolutely completely free – free from the gentle loving pressures Sean exerted on her, free to be herself with no commitments to anyone.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than the guilt came rushing in. Sean would be missing her, wondering about her, and all she could do was relish her freedom.

‘Do you think I could phone him?' she asked.

‘Of course, my dear. Why ever didn't you ask before?'

Juliet did not answer. Because I didn't want to, she thought, and felt the guilty colour rising in her cheeks.

‘Go and phone him now,' Sophia continued. ‘It will be the middle of the day in Australia, won't it? And you are not to worry about me any more. When I've had a good night's sleep I shall be perfectly fine, you'll see.'

‘I certainly hope so. Goodnight, Grandma.'

‘Goodnight, Juliet. God bless.'

Something sharp and sweet twisted deep within. A half-forgotten memory – a little girl being tucked into bed – ‘Goodnight, God bless.'

‘And you, Grandma,' she said.

The line to Sydney was perfect, so clear, Juliet thought, that if it had not been for that split second's delay between speech and reply it would have been impossible to believe that she was halfway across the world.

‘How are you?' she asked Sean. ‘How is Australia?'

‘Much as you left it. I was beginning to think you had deserted us completely.'

‘Of course not! It's just that there has hardly been a moment to turn around!' Liar, she thought. ‘ This is really the first chance I have had to telephone.'

‘You're enjoying your holiday then?'

‘Yes, it's fantastic. You should see the hotels, Sean. And Grandma's house! Sheer unadulterated luxury.'

‘I can see you are not going to want to come back.'

It was what she had said herself earlier but to hear him voice it made her feel dreadfully guilty again. ‘What a silly thing to say!'

‘Is it?' A pause. ‘What about the family mystery?' he asked, tone deliberately light. ‘Have you solved it yet?'

‘Not yet. But I'm going to.'

‘Oh yes. How?'

‘I have one or two ideas. But never mind that. Tell me about you. How is the job going?'

They chatted for a few minutes more then Juliet said: ‘I'd better go. I'll ring you again.'

‘Promise?'

‘Promise. Goodnight, Sean.'

‘G'day, lady. Love you.'

‘Love you too.'

She replaced the receiver, surprised to realise she suddenly felt a little homesick. You see, you
do
miss Sean, she told herself almost aggressively. Hearing his voice had reminded her of the good things they shared and she found herself thinking how nice it would be to crawl into bed beside him, feel his arms around her, gentling her, his lips on hers, his body, hot and hard, pressing into the soft sensitive cushion between her legs. The very thought aroused the excitement in her that was always there at the start of one of their encounters, making her forget for the moment the let down that inevitably followed.

‘Did you get through all right?' Deborah asked, coming out of the drawing-room.

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Would you like a nightcap?'

Juliet hesitated but only for a moment.

‘Yes, I would. It's been quite a night one way or the other, hasn't it?'

Deborah smiled serenely without replying. Does nothing ever phase her? Juliet wondered. She stood now beside the drinks cabinet, stunningly beautiful in her purple and fuchsia pink, the soft shaded standard lamp catching the highlights in her hair and turning them to silver.

‘What would you like? Brandy – scotch – a liqueur?'

‘Have you any Cointreau?'

‘We should have. With ice?'

‘Please.'

‘David, would you …?'

‘Of course.' David, who had been sitting in one of the deep armchairs, long legs stretched out in front of him, got up and made the drinks.

‘Does Grandma have these attacks often?' Juliet asked, perching on the little love seat.

‘More often than we would like. She's supposed to have the condition under control but the tablets don't always work as well as they should. Frankly she worries us, doesn't she, darling?'

David handed Juliet her Cointreau.

‘Things do seem to be getting worse rather than better. That's why I'm so glad you've come now, Juliet. I think we live in fear that one of these days she is going to suffer a heart attack proper and it would have been so sad if that had happened before she had had the chance to see you again.'

Juliet felt slightly sick.

‘That's an awful thought! She seemed much better when I went in to see her just now though. Tired and a bit pale, but very cheerful.'

‘She is almost always cheerful,' David said, settling back into his comfortable chair. ‘ Considering the life she's had I think it's a miracle.'

There was a slight pause; Juliet sipped her drink wondering if she dared raise the subject of Louis. This was after all the best opportunity she had had. David had practically raised it himself.

‘There was a photograph in her room. Right by her bed. I wondered if that might have been …?' Her voice tailed away. The atmosphere had suddenly grown cold. Juliet looked uncomfortably from one to the other of them, David rigid in his easy chair, Deborah, her fingers curled too tightly around her glass of brandy.