Authors: Lulu Taylor
Poppy sniffed loudly. ‘Oh, I knew you wouldn’t feel the same way. I knew you wouldn’t. You’re always so
in
charge of yourself. But don’t you see … it’s our
mother
. She’s dead and gone. It’s only natural to cry, to
mourn
her.’
Jemima stared at her sister’s waves of dark hair and stroked her velvet shoulder almost absent-mindedly.
Christ
, she thought.
I can’t muster a tear. I must really have hated the old bitch after all
.
The funeral passed off in the style of so many of the Trevellyan family occasions. It was all done perfectly properly and in absolutely the best taste without a trace of gaudiness or ostentation.
The three sisters stood together in the front pew. Behind them were the dead woman’s sons-in-law and grandchildren and then rows of family and distant relatives, the local gentry and smarter friends from London, the women in discreetly expensive black outfits that glistened with ropes of pearls and diamond brooches. Many of Mrs Trevellyan’s staff had turned out for the service, though they were mostly at the back and behind the pillars. Jemima spotted Alice, the long-serving, hugely loyal housekeeper, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. She obviously really cared that the old woman was dead. Then there were the lawyers and directors of the family company, all very sober and respectful, pretending they actually gave a damn.
Jemima glanced back over her shoulder and saw a whole row of crusty old men with white hair or balding heads, wrinkles and rheumy eyes peering through glasses. The directors of Trevellyan, no doubt, not that she could remember ever meeting any of them before.
Among
them stood a younger man, distinctively dressed in an exquisitely soft-charcoal suit that Jemima recognised as Prada, and a vibrant purple silk tie. She liked that. Purple had a nice imperial touch to it, and it was a colour of mourning after all.
Who is he?
she wondered. He was shorter than Harry but with broad shoulders that promised a lean, muscular physique. He stood out not just because he was significantly younger than the men around him, but because of his dark looks: hair that was almost black, heavy brows over deep brown eyes and an olive skin.
She turned back to the front. No doubt another of those ghastly men, the ones her mother had employed who grovelled and fawned in front of her like she was God. All right, so she had owned Trevellyan and held all of their destinies in her hands – that certainly made her very important but did Jemima have to be constantly reminded of it?
It made the woman bloody unbearable
, she thought.
Jemima could sense a kind of excitement in the church, a nervous anticipation perceptible in everyone from Harry to her mother’s staff.
They’re all wondering what’s going to happen now. What’s going to happen to Trevellyan? Well, join the club
.
The order of service was printed on beautiful ivory-cream card tied with a tiny black watered-silk ribbon. Another excellent job by Smythson, noted Jemima. The funeral proceeded exactly as stated: Tara went up to read the lesson in her commanding voice that shook a little only at the end; the vicar gave the address,
describing
a woman who sounded vaguely like the mother Jemima had known but whose many virtues, ‘great love for human kind’ and many charitable acts were, frankly, fiction. Then the managing director of Trevellyan, a dusty-looking old man with bad spectacles, got up to declaim the prayers and they all obligingly mumbled the responses. There was another hymn –
God, what a dirge!
thought Jemima, although the people around her seemed to find it very moving, lots of them sniffing loudly into handkerchiefs – and then the service was over and it was time to go to the graveyard for the entombment.
It was outside, when she saw the open tomb where her mother’s coffin would be placed alongside her father’s, that Jemima felt something for the first time that day. It was horror.
They can’t put her in there!
she thought, appalled. It looked unbearably dark and cold. Her mother had always slept with the little rose-coloured lamp on in the corner of the bedroom because she hated the dark so much.
But of course – she’s dead
.
The finality of it hit her with a sudden and unexpected force. She felt a huge tremor somewhere deep in her chest and swayed for a moment. She put out her hand and clutched at Poppy’s coat. The velvet was slippery and treacherous in her grasp and for an instant she was afraid that she would topple forward and fall down. Then Poppy reached out and took her arm and on the other side of her, Tara took the other.
The sisters held tightly to one another as the plain black coffin containing the last remains of their
mother
was lowered into the deep pit. The vicar intoned the final words of the interment, reminding them all what they had come from and what they would return to.
‘Oh my God,’ whispered Tara. ‘It’s over. She’s really gone.’
Poppy had stopped crying and was staring downwards with huge green eyes. ‘I can’t believe we’ll never see her again.’
‘I know.’ Jemima squeezed their hands. ‘Lucky us.’
2
THE WAKE WAS
held at Loxton Hall, the family home of the Trevellyans. The long driveway curved downwards to a tree-ringed hollow and sitting cosily in that was the house, a solid and strong Victorian red-brick mansion constructed with the fortune of the first notable Trevellyan. In the mid-nineteenth century, he’d cashed in on the craze for cashmere shawls and the mania for the brand new Paisley pattern, importing shipfuls of exquisite pieces from India. With the fortune he acquired, he built Loxton Hall and founded his company, Trevellyan, a name that became synonymous with luxury.
The broad sweep in front of the house was full of expensive cars. Mourners were greeted at the door by maids bearing trays of champagne, then directed through to the ballroom, a Gothic creation dominated by vast stone fireplaces at either end and an oak-panelled ceiling.
While staff patiently circulated the room with trays
of
canapés, the sisters stood apart, surrounded by people offering their deepest sympathy and their sincerest condolences.
‘Your dear mother was a wonderful lady,’ said one elderly lady in a black dress printed with jaunty daisies. She was wearing a navy blue hat, Jemima noticed, that didn’t match her dress. Her irritation at this stranger grew as she listened, or tried to. ‘You must be heartbroken, heartbroken,’
‘Oh … yes, yes we are. We’re just devastated.’ Jemima eyed a passing tray of small smoked-salmon sandwiches and remembered that she’d eaten nothing that day and was ravenous. ‘How did you know Mother?’
‘She was gracious enough to be a patroness of our society. We are behind the church appeal, you know. The roof badly needs restoration as does the bell and we’re trying to raise several hundred thousand pounds. Your mother donated generously, both of her time and money.’ The old lady looked hopeful. ‘I wondered, Lady Calthorpe, if you were thinking of taking on any of your mother’s duties. We would be most delighted to have someone of your position, of your stature, on our committee …’
‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. How frightfully kind of you to ask but I’m afraid I just don’t do things like that.’ Jemima giggled. ‘It’s so funny to think you might want me but really I’d be awful at it. I’m utterly hopeless, everyone knows, far too lazy to be any good to anyone.’
‘What a shame.’ The old lady was crestfallen and a
little
startled by Jemima’s levity. She had obviously been hoping to bag a title as her patron. She glanced eagerly over to where Tara was deep in conversation with a distant cousin. ‘Perhaps your sister might have more of a mind to help us?’
‘I’m afraid you haven’t got a hope there either. Tara works all the hours God sends. She literally doesn’t have a minute to give to anyone. When she’s not working, she’s with her children – but she’s working all the time, I promise. I’m sure she’d be good for a donation, though, if you ask her. One thing about working all those hours – she has absolutely stacks of cash.’
‘Thank you, Lady Calthorpe. And perhaps you might consider a small token to aid the church?’
Got to give the old girl marks for persistence
, thought Jemima. ‘You’re talking to the wrong sister for that, I’m afraid. Ancestral homes need a great deal of upkeep, I’ve discovered. Now, I’m so sorry, will you excuse me? I’ve seen someone I simply must talk to.’
Jemima slid gracefully away, careful not to make the mistake of meeting anyone’s eyes. She knew that her path was beset by people desperate to talk to her – relatives, neighbours, snooty ladies keen to be seen with a real, live viscountess – but she had only two goals in mind. One was a glass of champagne and the other was the dark Prada-suited man she had seen in church, who was now standing by one of the windows gazing out at the lawn beyond.
She picked up a glass of fizzing liquid with a deft
gesture
as she passed one of the maids and came quickly up behind the man.
‘Are you admiring our flora or our fauna?’ she purred.
The man turned, surprised, and then smiled when he saw she was there, her head cocked on one side, a sweet smile on her face and her eyes wide. ‘I wasn’t aware there was any fauna out there.’
Jemima looked out of the window and then shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. Sometimes the cats sleep on the terrace when the sun has warmed up the stones. We used to see lots of rabbits, munching up the lawn. My father liked to get out his gun and take pot shots at them from the terrace. We used to beg him not to. We would cry buckets over their little furry bodies.’
‘It must be strange having such a big garden. It’s more like a bloody great field, isn’t it?’
‘I never knew any different. It’s just a sodding hassle to look after, to be honest. Actually, this all looks rather small and poky to me now.’ Jemima took a sip of her champagne.
The man laughed. ‘Really? You must be joking.’
‘No. The house I live in now is twice the size of this. And twice the bloody expense.’
He laughed again. ‘I ought to take you home and show you where I’m from. Six of us in a three up, three down. We were considered the posh ones on the street because we had the end house on our terrace and a bigger garden than the rest. By big, I mean about twenty feet long.’
She gazed up at him coquettishly. ‘I love your accent. Where is it from? Birmingham?’
‘Birmingham? I ought to deck you for that. Can’t you tell an honest Liverpool accent when you hear one?’
‘No, sorry. I’m not much good on accents further north than Gloucester.’
The man raised his eyebrows at her. ‘You should be ashamed to admit that. Ignorance is never something to be proud of, as I learned at Cambridge.’
Jemima raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Well, well. Feisty, aren’t you? You needn’t suppose I’m a snob, you know. I can’t help my upbringing and I’m very well aware of its limitations. Anyway, you ought to be nice to me. After all, it
is
my mother’s funeral.’
‘Yes, I couldn’t help but notice you during the service.’ He bowed his head slightly. ‘May I offer my condolences on this sad occasion, Lady Calthorpe, and my sincere apologies for speaking so impulsively.’
‘Yes, you may and apology accepted.’ Jemima looked carefully at him. Now that she stood next to him, she could see that he had a rather beautiful face. His dark looks made him appear aggressively masculine but close up she was startled by the strong, slightly aquiline nose and the long black lashes hovered over deliciously soft brown eyes. The sensual mouth was just too inviting, especially when it spoke in that attractively direct way. ‘So you know who I am.’
‘Of course I do. Your social life is not something one can avoid. You seem to have made party-going an art form.’
Jemima laughed. ‘It’s true, I do like to amuse myself going out. And can I help it if the media seems to take an interest in me? I can’t think why anyone is bothered.’
‘Let me see – you’re stunning, titled and wealthy and you know everybody who’s anybody. You’re in the newspapers and gossip magazines every week. I think that rich, beautiful young women with the world at their feet have fascinated people since Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships.’
She looked at him from under her long lashes. ‘No one’s ever compared me to her before. You’re quite the smooth talker. What’s your name?’
‘Ali. Ali Tendulka.’
‘Ali. I can see that you’ve done rather well for yourself and, by the looks of your Prada suit and Patek Philippe watch, you’ve managed to escape the slums in Liverpool –’
‘I wouldn’t exactly call Whitworth Road the slums.’
‘No doubt you also drive something very fast in silver and have a modern apartment in London with glass walls and a river view. All very commendable.’ She smiled at him. ‘But why don’t I show you a few old bits and pieces we’ve got here? There’s a real Stubbs in the dining room.’
He looked at her with mild surprise. ‘Don’t you have to mingle?’
‘I loathe mingling. Unless I’m with chums, I’m bad at it, very bad. It’s much better for everyone if I don’t.’ Jemima drained her glass and put it down on the window seat. ‘Come on, I’m sure we can find some fun away from all this dreariness …’
Ali smiled and lifted two more glasses of champagne from a passing tray. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’
She led him through the throng of people, using him like a piece of armour against the those she knew were clamouring to get to her. There was Aunt Daphne and all the Boyle cousins, always so desperate to oil up to the Trevellyans. She spotted Poppy listening to a long speech from the village doctor, who’d known them all since they were babies and was now silver-haired and somewhat doddery. Where was Harry? She looked across the room for his broad back and the mess of fair hair she knew so well. Oh, there he was, deep in conversation with the man from the estate office. No doubt they were talking about land management, or something equally boring. Well, that would keep him occupied for a while longer, at least.