The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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СКАЧАТЬ “Thanks for bringing me back.” She wanted to say, “And for being so understanding,” but instead she hastily retrieved her hand and tucked it in her pocket. “That’s Serena hooting in the car. The weather seems to be worsening by the minute. You’d better go.”

      “Right.” He paused, lingering. “When are you leaving?”

      “After the funeral. I have to get back home to Switzerland and work.”

      “I guess that’s it then. Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross one day. Thanks for the tea and the tour of the house. I really enjoyed it. Goodbye for now, and good luck.” He seemed to hesitate, then smiled. India wasn’t sure if it was the light or her imagination, but all at once his eyes seemed alight once more with depth and understanding. As though he cared. She told herself to stop imagining things, and watched him head down the stone steps.

      Halfway down he turned back, his eyes finding hers through the darkness. “And by the way, just to set the record straight, my name’s Jack, not Mr. Buchanan.”

      Her mouth broke into an involuntary smile. “I’ll remember—Jack. By the way, don’t forget your gun and the dogs—and your jacket. Tell Serena to stop at the side door. It’s open.”

      “Thanks, I will.”

      He disappeared, leaving her to the haunting emptiness of the night and the echo of the front door closing loudly behind him. India shivered, pulled the cashmere cardigan closer about her shoulders, and wandered over the ancient Persian rug, its hues mellowed by the passage of generations of Dunbars. She stopped at the drum table standing alone in the middle of the vast hall and looked down at the vase of roses set there. Once more her heart filled with grief.

      They were the flowers her mother had been arranging at the time of her death.

      They remained, just as Lady Elspeth had left them. She had placed the last delicate rose in the Waterford vase, then been struck by a massive heart attack, dying as gracefully as she’d lived. India decided to take the roses and dry them. They would be a tiny part of her mother that would remain with her always.

      Wandering over to the grand piano, she smoothed the surface of the instrument and sat down, gazing through the shadows at the keys. Slowly her fingers reached out to the keyboard and she began playing, the strains of Chopin enveloping her as she drifted into her mother’s favorite nocturne. India played in the dark, paying a last, solitary tribute to her mother, a woman she loved, yet who’d been somewhat removed from the realities of life.

      The notes lingered, reaching up toward the high-ceilinged dome. Outside, snow fell, heavy and silent. The sitting-room lamps flickered, and shadows danced eerily on the stucco walls as India poured her feelings into the music. Love, vexation and anger mingled with a deep, abiding sense of loneliness. Finally her tears flowed unimpeded.

      As nocturne came to a close, and the last resounding chords echoed, she lifted her hands from the piano and her tears flowed unimpeded. It was a precious moment she would always remember.

      India rubbed her eyes thinking now of the problems ahead—debts, tax issues and God only knew what else. Lady Elspeth had always skimmed over the subject, uneager to dwell on anything disagreeable, and India had no clue how the estate had been left. It was another subject non grata. In a way it might be easier if Serena inherited the lot. As for her mother’s house in Switzerland, India had learned only the other day that it was mortgaged to the hilt. Poor Mummy. If it hadn’t been for the Marchese, her old and faithful admirer who’d helped her take charge of her affairs during these last few years, she would have ended up penniless.

      But there was no point in dwelling on the negative.

      India closed the lid of the Steinway, then trod wearily up the stairs, the strain of the last few days finally taking its toll.

      On reaching the bedroom she flopped onto the faded counterpane of the four-poster bed, but the room was chilly, so she crawled under the covers, relieved that it would soon be all over.

      The more she thought about it, the more sense it made that Mummy would have left Dunbar to Serena. After all, she herself hardly knew the place. Tomorrow, by this time, the funeral and the reading of the will would be over. Then she could leave, back to Chantemerle, her house by Lake Geneva, and to sanity.

      She huddled sleepily under the quilt, wishing she’d brought a hot-water bottle. Turning on her pillow, she remembered her conversation with Jack. He’d struck her more as a big-business sort of man, yet he’d seemed genuinely enthusiastic and knowledgeable about his new project, the Palacio de Grès.

      For a while she lay there, half-asleep, too tired to undress. She listened to the still night, broken only by the lonely hoot of an owl, thinking of all she had to do in Switzerland before leaving for Buenos Aires. But her mind kept returning to the look in Jack’s eyes when she’d told him about her mother. There had been true concern there. Something had occurred in that serene moment, as they stood, side by side, before the crackling flames. Something she couldn’t explain.

      Strange, she reflected as sleep finally came, that the only true moment of peace she’d achieved since her arrival at Dunbar had been found in the company of a stranger.

      2

      The Range Rover progressed at a snail’s pace, as snowflakes pelted the windshield relentlessly

      “What a dreadful night,” Serena remarked, eyes narrowed. “I hope it clears for the funeral tomorrow, or it’ll be damn difficult for the hearse to get up to the house.”

      “I was sorry to hear about your mother,” Jack said, remembering India’s sad expression.

      “Oh, that,” she replied vaguely. “Mmm, it’s rather a nuisance really. Such a tiresome time of year to be plodding outside in this dreadful weather. What’s going to be even more of a bore is getting everything ready for the sale.”

      “What sale?”

      “Dunbar.”

      “You’re selling Dunbar?” Jack asked, surprised. When he’d commented to India that Dunbar would be an ideal setting for a hotel, her eyes had darkened, and she’d replied in such withering tones he’d felt like a jerk for allowing the thought to cross his mind.

      “Yes, I’ve pretty well decided,” Serena continued. “I’ve no desire to keep it. It’s far too big. The heating bill alone is outrageous, and quite frankly, I’d rather have the money.” She slowed as they slid on a patch of ice. “Whew! That was close,” she remarked. “Awfully slippery out here.”

      “When is your mother’s funeral?” he asked casually.

      “Tomorrow at two. The burial will be afterward at Cockpen. We’ll probably all freeze to death while the minister blabbers on. He’s such a long-winded old bore.”

      Jack tried to conceal his rising disgust. During his life, he’d crossed men and met with situations he’d rather not remember, but rarely had he come across a more self-centered, callous woman. Serena showed none of the sadness India obviously felt at her mother’s passing. Apparently all that concerned Serena was her own well-being, and how she could profit. He glanced sideways at her. The fact that he’d actually slept with this woman—brief, inebriated fling though it had been—filled him with abhorrence.

      He tried to forget Serena, and СКАЧАТЬ