Daughter of Riches (7 page)

‘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.

‘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.

The family had long since given up trying to understand what had motivated her; Catherine was a law unto herself. Then, just when they had thought that she had left Jersey for ever she had proved them wrong yet again. When she had reached the age of sixty, a year ago, she had retired from her profession, sold the flat which she had occupied for more than thirty years and returned to the island where she had been born. Sophia had suggested she should move into La Grange to keep her company – fond as she was of Deborah and David she liked the idea of having her sister around, especially since they both now had plenty of time on their hands. But Catherine had declined the offer. She had been on her own too long now to be able to fit in with anyone else, she explained, and she had bought herself a charming cottage in the very heart of the island.

For all her reluctance to live with them, however, Catherine saw a good deal of her family. She was one of the few people who got along with Vivienne and usually had dinner with her and Paul at least once a week, and she was a frequent visitor at La Grange. She was delighted now to see Juliet, whom she had pressed to visit her, and she hurried to the gate to greet her – albeit with a warning.

‘You'd better not leave your car there. The road is dreadfully twisty and not very wide. I'll open the gate so you can bring it into the drive. Then we'll go in and have a cup of tea.'

‘Sorry – I'm not used to being so cramped for space,' Juliet apologised when she had parked the car behind Catherine's on the tarmacadamed drive.

Catherine led the way into the cottage, throwing her hat down on a comfortably cushioned chair in the kitchen and setting the kettle on the stove. Instantly a smell of burning sugar filled the kitchen.

‘Damn,' Catherine said. ‘I must have spilled something on that ring again. Oh well, it'll burn off, won't it?'

Juliet smiled. There really was no point of comparison between Catherine and the rest of the family. At La Grange Sophia employed a housekeeper, a daily woman and a gardener, and Viv, though her home was smaller and much less elaborate, had all the paid help she needed to avoid carrying out any onerous domestic chores for herself. All of them lived a lifestyle of unashamed luxury – paid for, presumably, by the success of the hotel and leisure empire.

And fashioned on the same lines, Juliet thought wryly. One of the first things she had done on arriving in Jersey had been to look around each of the four hotels and she had been duly impressed by what she had seen. En suite bathrooms were furnished with monogrammed towels and bathrobes, a heated towel rail and a special line in toiletries. In the bedrooms a television set received satellite programmes as well as the usual channels, there was a stereo radio console and each room had its own well-stocked and refrigerated mini bar. But this was just the beginning of the special care lavished on the guests who were, from the moment they walked through the doors, treated as honoured visitors. Regardless of the hour of day or night porters whisked luggage upstairs in one of the huge mirrored lifts while receptionists took orders for morning papers, laundry and special dietary requirements. Five minutes after arrival a pot of tea was delivered to the room (a trick Bernard had borrowed from the great hotels of the Far East) and when the maid turned down the beds at night she laid a chocolate or a flower on the pillow.

Juliet, used to the much more functional life of well-to-do but not excessively wealthy Australia, was fascinated and amused, as she was when she had visited the smart offices that formed the hub of the Langlois empire. As David had shown her along the corridor, carpeted and hung with framed water colours, to the board room where a buffet lunch had been laid out in her honour she had noticed the deference with which staff treated him and thought that it was easy to imagine the other members of the family commanding exactly the same respect.

Perhaps, she thought, it was because they expected it that they were treated like visiting royalty – even Sophia, who had served time for the killing of her son, would still merit the same approach from the staff, most of whom had probably long since forgotten what had happened anyway. But Catherine was quite different. The staff might like her very much indeed – they almost certainly did – but their approach would reflect her own friendliness. Catherine did not stand on ceremony. She had no time for it at all. It was not that she was embarrassed exactly by the glamour and opulence, rather that it had quite simply passed her by. She did not notice it and certainly did not seek any special treatment and because of this Juliet was totally at ease with her in a way it was not possible to be totally at ease with the others after only a week's acquaintance however much she might like them. They belonged, quite obviously, to the island's aristocracy. Catherine, not to put too fine a point on it, was unashamedly
ordinary
.