The Debutante. Kathleen Tessaro
but it adhered itself to his imagination with unreasonable tenacity. He felt his jealousy twist into life, creating visions, scenes – Derek’s permanently tanned, manicured hand reaching to unzip Cate’s dress, his fingers travelling across her skin, his tongue darting, serpent-like, moistening his lips…
Jack reached into the soapy dishwater. ‘Damn!’
The tip of a carving knife jabbed his palm.
He rubbed it angrily under the tap. It wasn’t cut, just smarting.
He should be more careful – there was nearly always a blade beneath the water.
Jack stacked the last plate, folded the tea towel and hung it across the Aga.
Suddenly the weight of the day hit him; his resources not just depleted but gone.
He knew nothing, he reminded himself, yawning. Constantine could’ve been like a father figure to her for all he knew.
Then he spotted the wine bottle. Should he drain it down the sink?
He was thinking too much, as usual. Do nothing, leave it. Pushing the cork in, he turned out the lights.
Moving slowly through the hallways, he checked the doors, locking up. He imagined Cate upstairs, maybe sleeping already, and him below, going through the end-of-evening rituals. And for the second time that day he felt a pleasing swell of masculinity.
It was a beautiful house. Elegant, substantial; refined. A house that knew what it was and what it was doing. Once there’d been a whole Empire like that.
Jack tried to recall if he’d ever felt that way in his own life; that bright, hard sureness about who he was and where he was going. It existed. There was a time when he was first married that he felt in charge of his destiny; young, smart, capable of great things. He had only to conceive of a desire and he could achieve it. It was a wonderful, glorious feeling.
And then Fate intervened. This vast, self-determining power turned on him, without warning, and suddenly the godlike ability to steer his own course in life, free of any lasting obstacles or opposition, evaporated. Worst of all, he no longer possessed an inner compass. He was off, like a man suffering from vertigo. Instead he hesitated, floundered, fell. The tide that had pushed him so firmly towards achievement ebbed and he was compelled, by increments, to accept a life dictated instead by his limitations.
The accident had taken away so much; things that couldn’t be retrieved; pieces of himself that he hadn’t even realised existed until they were gone.
Most of all he missed that grandiose, cocky version of himself, striding boldly into the future. The truth was, he had liked himself for a while, and enjoyed his effect upon life. Now he preferred not to think of himself at all.
He and this old house had something in common: both were frozen in a time they thought would last forever; clinging to the memory of a past that was already faded, already gone.
Turning out the hall light, he climbed the stairs, groping through the darkness to his room.
The Bristol HotelParis
12 August 1926
My dear Irene,
I am sorry, my darling, to have given you such a fright. You must believe me when I say I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble. Anne and I simply wanted a little holiday and to meet with Pinky for a day or two and Madame Galliot took it all the wrong way, as usual. Of course there is no way she would’ve allowed us to go had she’d known, so we simply HAD to come up with a lie–only a little one. We told her we were visiting relatives of Anne’s for the weekend and then, really quite cleverly, composed the nicest little note in shaky old-lady handwriting asking for us to come which Pinky had posted from Monte Carlo the week before. It could only have been Eleanor who told her it wasn’t true. And then of course it all went horribly wrong. I am sorry, as I understand now that the papers picked it up–‘Peers’ Daughters Go Missing in Monte Carlo’. And before we knew it there was a full-scale search on! All the while we were completely oblivious, wandering around Villefranche with Pinky, eating ice cream.
What devastates is the thought that I’ve caused you harm, my love. Muv has already written a very stern letter, saying my actions have compromised your engagement prospects–can that really be true? Please know that I am silly, and stupid and selfish, but that I would never willingly hurt you–not for all the money in the world! I am too, too crushed! And now Madame Galliot refuses to have either Anne or me and Muv has drafted the Consort’s son, Nick Warburton, to bring me home like some defective goods. So now I’m waiting in the Bristol Hotel for him to arrive, under the beady eye of the concierge. I don’t even know what he looks like so shan’t recognise him and have cried so much my face is swollen and none of the waiters will serve me.
Please forgive me, darling! Please send me one small line to say you are still my sister and are still speaking to me! Surely your lovely Baronet will not abandon you just because you have an idiot in the family.
Oh dear. Some dreadful fat man has just walked in looking cross. That’s probably him. I think I shall cry again.
Yours, in floods,
The Prodigal D
Mrs Williams was not the gentle, grey-haired local woman Cate imagined. Coming downstairs in the morning to put the coffee on, she encountered a buxom bleach-blonde in her sixties, wearing jeans and a form-fitting pink T-shirt with the slogan ‘Big Spender’ spelled out in rhinestones. The radio was on, Madonna pounded out her latest dance tune. She was chatting, laughing away on her mobile while simultaneously chopping up vegetables.
Spotting Cate, she waved. ‘Oh, sorry! Gotta go. Call you later, OK?’
Whoever it was took no notice, rambling on without a break. Mrs Williams rolled her eyes and Cate smiled sympathetically. She gestured to Cate, pointing to the coffeemaker on the counter where a fresh pot had just brewed.
‘Look, Mum, I gotta go!’
Cate took a mug down from a shelf and poured a cup.
‘I’m going to speak to you later, OK? And never mind what he says. You just wait for me before you even think about the guttering, do you understand?’ She finally managed to hang up. ‘Sorry about that! My mother,’ she explained, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘I’m Jo, by the way.’
‘Cate.’
Jo pumped Cate’s hand with a firm handshake.
‘The woman’s in her eighties,’ she continued, scraping the chopped vegetables into a saucepan, ‘and she still thinks she can go cleaning her own gutters! Insane! I’m telling you, she gets up before I do, goes to bed later than
I do and gets out more than I do. What am I doing wrong? Are you a vegetarian?’
‘No,’ Cate laughed, leaning against the kitchen worktop.
‘Thank Christ for that! There would’ve been bugger all to eat last night if you had been.’ Jo opened the fridge and took out a chicken wrapped in foil. ‘Thought I’d do you cold roast chicken for lunch and a chicken hotpot for dinner. I know, chicken, chicken, chicken! A bit dull but I’m trying to clean out the freezer and everything. When you lot pack up that’s the end of it. End of an era.’
Cate watched as she drizzled some oil into the saucepan and popped it on top of the Aga.
‘How long have you been working here?’ she asked.
‘I grew up on the estate. My mother was the housekeeper all her life. To be honest, I was dying to get away from here when I was younger. Used to run a bed and breakfast with my second husband over on Majorca. Crazy, really. Just swapped one beach for another. But when that marriage split up, I came back to keep an eye on Mum. And I just fell into looking after Irene as well. She was a good woman. But she used to be very funny about having new people