Barbara Taylor Bradford

Power of a Woman

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

POWER OF A WOMAN. Copyright © 1997 by Barbara Taylor Bradford. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © MAY 2009 ISBN: 9780007330850

Version: 2017-10-25

The right of Barbara Taylor Bradford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

As always, for Bob,

who makes my world go round,

with all my love

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Thanksgiving

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part Two

Christmas

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part Three

Easter

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Other Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About the Publisher

PART ONE
Thanksgiving
1

A FINE MIST FLOATED LIKE PALE WATER OVER THE meadows, drifting, eddying, blurring the trees, turning them into illusory shapes that loomed against the somber sky.

Beyond these meadows, the distant Litchfield hills were purplish in the dimming light, their bases obscured by the rising mist so that only their peaks were visible now.

And all about this wintry landscape lay an unremitting silence, as if the world had stopped; everything was washed in a vast unconsciousness. The stillness was all-pervasive; nothing moved or stirred.

In the summertime these low meadows were verdant and lush with billowing grass, and every kind of wildflower grew among the grasses. But on this cold Wednesday afternoon in November they appeared bleak and uninviting.

Stevie Jardine normally did not mind this kind of misty weather, for inevitably it brought the past back to her, and happily so, reminding her as it did of the Yorkshire moors and the lovely old farmhouse she owned. Yet now the vaporous air was chilling her through and through; it seemed to permeate her bones.

Unexpectedly, she experienced a rush of apprehension, and this startled her. Pulling her woolen cape closer to her body, she hurried faster, trying to shake off the strange feeling of foreboding that had just enveloped her. Involuntarily, Stevie shivered. Somebody walked over my grave, she thought, and she shivered again. She looked up.

The sky was remote and cold, turning color, curdling to a peculiar faded green. A bitter sky, eerie; she increased her pace, running, eager now to get home. She no longer liked it outside, regretted her decision to take a long walk. The fog had closed in, but earlier the weather had been beautiful, almost an Indian summer’s afternoon, until the dankness had scuttled the day.

Her feet knew well the path across the fields, and her step was sure, did not falter as it suddenly dipped, curved down into the dell. The fog was dense on this lower ground. Shivering once more, she drew herself farther into her cape.

Soon the narrow path was rising upward as the landscape changed, became hilly; the mist was evaporating up there, where the land was higher. When she reached the crest of the hill the air grew colder, but it was much clearer.

From this vantage point Stevie could make out her house nestling cozily in the valley below, and she felt a surge of relief. Smoke curled up from its chimneys, lights glimmered brightly in the windows. It was a welcoming sight, warm and inviting in the dusk.

She was glad she was home.

The house was two hundred years old, built in 1796, and stood in a long, green valley under the shadow of Connecticut’s Litchfield hills. It had been something of an eyesore when she had first seen it five years before, an unsightly hodgepodge of additions that had been built onto it over the decades. After some skillful remodeling and restoration, its former graciousness and charm were recaptured.

Stevie moved rapidly across the wet lawn and up the steps onto the covered porch, entering the house through the side door, which led directly into the cloakroom.

Once she had hung up her damp cape she went into the great hall. This was vast, with a wide staircase at one end and a dark wood floor so highly polished it gleamed like glass. A beamed ceiling, heavy oak doors, and mullioned windows bespoke the age of the house.

Stevie always thought of the great hall as the core of the house, since all the other rooms flowed around it. From the moment she moved in, the hall had been used as a family living room, where everyone congregated. Several pink-silk-shaded lamps had been turned on, and they glowed rosily, adding to the inviting atmosphere. It was a comfortable, welcoming room, with an old, faded Savonnerie rug in front of the fireplace, antique Jacobean tables and chests made of dark carved wood. Big sofas, covered in a fir-green tapestry, were grouped with several chairs around the fire.

Stevie’s face instantly brightened as she crossed the hall. It was cheerful, safe, reassuring. A log fire roared in the big stone hearth and the air was redolent with the spicy scent of pine, a hint of wood smoke and ripe apples. From the kitchen there floated the fragrant aroma of bread baking.

Coming to a standstill at the fireplace, Stevie stood with her hands outstretched to the flames, warming them. Unexpectedly, laughter bubbled in her throat and she began to laugh out loud. At herself. How foolish she had been a short while ago when she was crossing the meadows. There was no reason for her to feel apprehensive. Her sense of foreboding had been irrational. She laughed again, chastising herself for her uneasiness earlier.

After a few seconds she turned away from the fireplace and crossed to the staircase, heading upstairs. She loved every corner of this lovely old house, in particular the small study that opened off her bedroom. As she pushed open the door and walked in, she could not help admiring the room. It was beautifully proportioned, with a cathedral ceiling, tall windows at one end, and a grand fireplace flanked on either side by soaring bookshelves.

Stevie had had the study decoratively painted by an artist, who had layered innumerable coats of amber-colored paint on the walls, then given them a glazed finish. This Venetian stucco treatment created a soft golden sheen, as if sunshine had been perpetually trapped within the confines of the room.

Lovely paintings, selectively chosen over the years, family photographs in silver frames, a variety of treasured mementos, and well-loved books were the things that made this room hers, and very special to her.

The fire was laid and she went and knelt in front of it. Striking a match, she brought the flame to the paper and within seconds a roaring fire was blazing up the chimney.

Rising, she walked across the floor and seated herself at the oval-shaped Georgian desk in the window area. Papers from her briefcase were neatly stacked on it, but after a quick, cursory glance at these she turned away from them, sat back in the chair. Her mind was suddenly far, far away.

She found herself gazing at various objects on her desk, an absentminded expression etched on her delicate face…the Art Nouveau lamp she had picked up for next to nothing in the flea market in Paris, a Georgian silver inkwell her mother had given her years before, a plethora of photographs of those she loved, her grandmother’s Meissen cream jug in the Red Dragon pattern filled with small pencils, and a copy of an ancient Hindu saying displayed in a mother-of-pearl frame.

Staring intently at this, she read it again, perhaps for the thousandth time in her life: “He who buys a diamond purchases a bit of eternity.”

This old saying had been written out by Ralph in handwriting so beautiful it was like calligraphy, and he had given it to her not long after they were married. As he would so often tell her, the saying summed up what he felt about diamonds. They were his business, he loved them; and it was from him that she had learned so much about them herself.

Stevie’s light gray-green eyes strayed to the photograph of Ralph and her, taken on their wedding day in November 1966. Thirty years ago to this very day. Ever since early this morning, Ralph had been in and out of her thoughts, and once again she fell down into herself, for a moment contemplating him and their early years together.

He had been such a good man, the best person she had ever known, so very loving, adoring even, and devoted to her from the first moment they met. And certainly he had taken a strong stand against his parents when they had fiercely objected, and vociferously so, to the idea of their marrying.

Bruce and Alfreda Jardine had disapproved of her right from the start, because, they said, she was far too young. And also an American, not to mention a girl with no background or fortune, although her nationality and the word money had never crossed their lips.

Stevie had always somehow known deep within herself, had actually understood without ever being told, that had she been born an heiress with a great fortune to bring to the marriage, her age and her nationality would have been of little or no importance to the Jardines.

To her, Ralph’s parents were as transparent as glass. They were snobs who had long harbored grand ideas for their son, formulated grand plans for him, at least where matrimony was concerned. But Ralph was not having any of that. Always his own man, he had been unshakable in his determination to make her his wife. He had openly defied them, and in so doing had ruined their elaborate schemes, thwarted their ambitions for him.

From a very long distance she heard a faint echo reverberating in her head. It was Bruce Jardine’s aristocratic English voice raised harshly in a shout of rage, as he uttered the most ugly words she had ever heard, words she had never forgotten.

“For God’s sake, man, you’re twenty-seven! Surely by now you know enough about sex to take care of matters properly! Why didn’t you have your way with her without getting her pregnant? You’d better make arrangements for her to get rid of it. Talk to Harry Axworth. He’s a bit of a bounder, I’m the first to acknowledge, certainly not someone I would normally wish you to associate with. However, because of his nefarious indiscretions, he’s the best chap for this purpose. He’ll be able to point you in the right direction. He’s bound to know a doctor down on his luck who’ll no doubt do the job for fifty pounds.”

She had been waiting for Ralph in the grandiose front entrance hall, sitting on the edge of a chair, a nervous wreck, her hands trembling, her heart in her mouth as Bruce Jardine’s voice had echoed through the closed mahogany door.

Ralph had chosen not to dignify his father’s words with a response. He had walked out of the library and straight into her arms. After holding her close for a moment, calming her, he had then led her out into the street and away from the Jardine mansion in Wilton Crescent. His face had been white with fury, and he had not said a word to her until they were safely inside his bachelor flat in Mayfair. Once there, he had told her how much he loved her, and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

They were married two weeks later in the register office in Marylebone. She had been sixteen years old, younger than Ralph by eleven years, and four months pregnant by then.

The elder Jardines, always contentious, had shown their disdain and anger by boycotting the marriage of their only son. So had Alicia, Ralph’s sister.

But her mother had been present, her beautiful mother, Blair Connors, once the most famous model in the world, a supermodel before the term had even been invented.

Accompanying her mother that morning had been her new husband, Derek Rayner, the great English stage actor who everyone said was the heir apparent to Larry Olivier’s crown.

After the wedding ceremony, Derek had taken them all to lunch at The Ivy, London’s famous theatrical restaurant, which the elite of stage, film, and cafe society favored. And then they had gone to Paris for their honeymoon.

Ostracized by Ralph’s parents, Stevie and Ralph had lived for each other, and the world had been well lost to them.

A wistful sigh escaped her. For a long time now she had recognized that the weekends and holidays she had spent on the Yorkshire moors had been the most happy of times for her, perhaps the happiest in her entire life. It saddened her that they could never be recaptured, that this particular kind of happiness would never be hers again.

So young, she thought, I was so young then. But already the mother of three: Nigel, born when I was just seventeen, and the twins, Gideon and Miles, when I was nineteen.

A smile animated her face as images of her children leapt into her mind unbidden. Three towheaded little boys, each with eyes as blue as speedwells. Grown men now. And she was still young herself, only forty-six, but a grandmother for the past two years, thanks to Nigel.

Stevie laughed inwardly. How often she was mistaken for her sons’ sister, much to Nigel’s chagrin. He did not like it; the twins, on the other hand, gleefully encouraged this deception whenever they could. They were incorrigible, loved to pass her off as their sibling to those who were unsuspecting of the truth, and they were usually successful at their mischievous little game.

Gideon and Miles were proud of her youthful looks, slender figure, energy, and vitality. Nigel felt just the opposite. It seemed to her that everything about her was an irritant to him. A small frown furrowed her smooth brow as Nigel’s presence nudged itself into her mind. Swiftly, she pushed aside the flicker of dismay that flew to the surface.

She loved her eldest son, but she had always known he had a lot of his grandfather in him. And Bruce Jardine had never been one of her favorites, although as the years had passed, he had behaved decently toward her. Most especially after Alfreda’s death. But as long as her mother-in-law had been alive, that awful contention had persisted, at least as far as Alfreda was concerned.

A small sigh escaped her and she turned her head, looked toward the fire, her mind sliding back in time as she remembered Alfreda and Bruce as they were then….

Four years after she and Ralph had been married, his sister, Alicia, had died of leukemia. The elder Jardines had been forced to reconsider the situation and effect a compromise, in order to come to terms with them. Ralph and she were the parents of their only grandchildren, their heirs, three boys who one day would follow in their grandfather’s and father’s footsteps, running Jardine and Company of London, the Crown Jewellers.

Eventually she and Ralph had succumbed to his parents’ conciliatory overtures, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and certainly with a great deal of trepidation. They had accepted the proffered olive branch. As it turned out, they were forever fighting off interference from the senior Jardines, who tried, without success, to take over the rearing of the boys.

Their great escape had been the trips to Yorkshire to stay at Aysgarth End, the farmhouse on the moors above the Dales, where they had fled with the children whenever they had been able to get away. Large, rambling, in constant need of repairs, it was, nevertheless, their blessed haven, a little bit of heaven on earth, the place they really called home.

They liked their apartment in Kensington; it was spacious and comfortable, ideal for rearing a growing young family. For some reason Aysgarth End meant so much more to them emotionally. Stevie had never really been able to fathom what it was exactly that made the farm so special, except that it was full of love and laughter. And a special kind of joy.

She still believed, as she had all those years ago, that this joy sprang from Ralph’s natural goodness, his genuine spirituality. He was truly a pure man, the only one she had ever known, filled with kindness and compassion, and he had had such an understanding heart.

That absolute joy in each other and their children had flourished at Aysgarth End until the day Ralph had died. He had been only thirty-four. Too young, by far.

She had become a widow at twenty-three.

And it was then that her troubles had begun.

Of course it was her parents-in-law who were the troublemakers. Endeavoring to brush her aside, ignoring her terrible grief and the enormous sense of loss she was experiencing, they had tried to wrest the children away from her. Foolishly so. They did not have a leg to stand on. She was the perfect mother, exemplary, without blemish, and untouched by any kind of scandal or wrongdoing.

Ralph’s best friend, James Allerton, had also been his solicitor, and with Ralph’s death he had become Stevie’s legal representative. It was to James that she had turned when her in-laws had started to make their moves.

At a meeting with the Jardines, James had almost, but not quite, laughed in their faces, and had told them to go to hell, in more polite terms, of course. Not only was the law of the land on her side, there was the matter of Ralph’s will. In it he had made his feelings for her abundantly clear. He had reiterated his love and admiration of her, not to mention his confidence in her ability to rear their sons. He had left her everything he owned, and in so doing had ensured her financial security. He had also made her entirely independent of his parents.

The trusts he had inherited from his grandparents he had passed on to his three sons; he had named his wife as the administrator of the trusts and executrix of his will.

As James so succinctly pointed out to the Jardines, Stevie was holding all the cards and she had a winning hand. They slunk away, defeated; for once they had been outmaneuvered.

It was her resentment of the Jardines, and her anger at them, that had served her so well in 1973. Especially the anger. She had turned it around, made it work to her advantage; it had also fueled her determination to keep her sons close at all times.

Although she did not know it at that moment, the anger had kindled her ambition as well, and eventually it would spur her on to do things she had never dreamed possible. At the back of her mind a plan was developing, a plan that would make her indispensable to Bruce Jardine, and ensure her control of her children until they were old enough to fend for themselves. That year, beset as she was with problems and crushed by grief, the plan did not come to flower. But the seed had been sown.

Stevie was a pragmatist at heart. She never forgot that one day her sons would inherit the family business, and that they must be properly educated and prepared for this. Founded in 1787 by one Alistair Jardine, a Scottish silversmith who had made his way to London and opened a shop there, Jardine’s had always been run by a Jardine.

And so in 1974, as she began to recover from Ralph’s death and regain her equilibrium, she had contacted his parents. Her main purpose was to affect a rapprochement, which she eventually was able to do with the help of James Allerton; but it was an uneasy truce at best. Alfreda seemed determined to upset her, or cause trouble, and whenever her mother-in-law could make her life difficult, she did.

Nonetheless, Stevie realized that her sons must come to know their grandparents, most especially their grandfather, who was the key to their future. It would be Bruce who would train them, lead them through the labyrinths of the family business, so that when he retired they could take over.

Jardine’s had been the Crown Jewellers since Queen Victoria’s day. It was important that her sons understood their inheritance, the great jewelry company that would be theirs one day, and the family dynasty into which they had been born.

The ringing of the telephone made her start, and, as she reached for it, Stevie was pulled back into the present.

“Hello?”

“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Jardine, please.”

“This is she.”

“Hello, Stevie, it’s Matt Wilson.”

Taken by surprise, she exclaimed, “Hello, Matt! And where are you calling from?” She glanced at her watch; it was five-thirty. “Not Paris, surely? It’s very late at night there.”

He laughed, and said, “No, I’m in Los Angeles. With Monsieur. We arrived yesterday to see a client. He would like to speak with you. I’ll put him on.”

“Thank you, Matt.”

A moment later André Birron was at the other end of the wire. “Stephanie, my Stephanie, comment vas-tu?”

“I’m wonderful, André,” Stevie said, smiling with pleasure on hearing his voice. At seventy-five, André Birron was considered to be one of the greatest jewelers, perhaps even the greatest jeweler, in the world. Known as the grand seigneur of the jewelry business, he had been her lifelong friend. He had always been there for her whenever she had needed him.

“It is a pleasure to hear your voice, Stephanie,” he went on, “and it will be an even greater pleasure to see you. I am coming to New York in about ten days. For the Sotheby’s auction. You plan to be there, I am certain of that.”

“I do. And I hope you’ll have time for dinner, André. Or lunch.”

“Whichever, or both, ma chérie.” There was a small pause before the Frenchman asked, “You are going to bid on the White Empress, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you would. You have always wanted to own it.” He chuckled. “You have dreamed about it, Stephanie.”

“Salivated, actually,” she responded, laughing with him. “And how well you know me, André. But listen, who wouldn’t want to own it? I consider the White Empress to be one of the most beautiful diamonds in the world.”

“You are correct; however, I shall not bid on it, Stephanie. Out of deference to you, really. If I bid, I would only escalate the price exorbitantly, and there will be enough people doing that. And, of course, I do not have the love for this diamond that you do, although I can admire its beauty. Yes, it is a diamond you and only you should own.”

“Thank you for letting me know you’re not going to participate. I expect the bidding to go sky high. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I do. The stone has not been on the market since the fifties, and so obviously there is a great deal of interest in it. That is the reason I telephoned you, Stephanie, ma petite, to inform you we shall not be bidding against each other, competing. But it will be my great honor to escort you to the auction, if you will permit me to do so.”

“I’d love it, André, thank you.”

“And after the auction we shall dine together, and it will be a grand celebration.”

She laughed a soft, light laugh. “We’ll be celebrating only if I get the White Empress, my dear old friend.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that you will, Stephanie.”

2

ALTHOUGH SHE KNEW EVERYTHING THERE WAS TO know about her favorite diamond, Stevie could not resist taking the Sotheby’s catalogue out of her briefcase after she had said good-bye to André Birron and hung up.

Flipping open the catalogue, she quickly found the page where the White Empress was featured, and gazed for a moment or two at the photograph of the gem. The picture was excellent, but even so it did not do justice to the magnificent stone.

The White Empress. Stevie repeated the name to herself. It certainly deserved to be called that. It was so named because it was graded D-flawless and was therefore perfect. And as such it was colorless—pure white, brilliantly, blindingly white—hence the first portion of its name. Because it was extremely rare and very beautiful, and also categorized as a grand stone, the title of Empress had been chosen to complete its name.

Automatically, Stevie’s eyes shifted to the left-hand page of the catalogue, and she scanned the text. Yet again she was reminded that the White Empress had started out as a 427-carat diamond of exceptionally fine color, and that it had been found in 1954 at the Premier Mines in South Africa.

This piece of rough was subsequently sold in 1956 to Harry Winston, the renowned American jeweler, as part of an eight-million-four-hundred-thousand-dollar parcel.

The largest stone Winston cut from this piece was a 128.25-carat D-flawless pear-shaped diamond, and it was this stone that retained the original name of White Empress. Harry Winston had the stone set as a pendant on an exquisite diamond necklace, designed specially, and then he had sold it that same year to a European industrialist.

Now, after forty years in the hands of one family, it was finally back on the market. Sotheby’s would put it on the auction block at their auction rooms on York Avenue in New York at the beginning of December.

Stevie’s eyes lingered on the photograph for a short while longer before she finally closed the catalogue and returned it to her briefcase. Her thoughts settled on André. Though he was not bidding on the stone, there were many others who would be bidding, and automatically the price would be driven up, as it usually was at these big auctions for important items.

It could skyrocket, she thought, sitting back in the chair, frowning. No, it would skyrocket. There was no doubt in her mind about that; she made the decision to stay in the bidding no matter what, since she was determined to acquire the stone whatever it cost.

Seven-figure numbers jumped around in her head. Six million dollars, seven million dollars…no, too low. Eight million, she speculated, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Still too low, she decided. Suddenly she was convinced the stone would be sold in the eight-figure category. Ten million, she said under her breath. Could it go as high as that?

At this moment Stevie knew that if she had to, she would pay that amount for the stone. She craved it, not for herself, of course, but for Jardine’s in New York, which she had founded.

Once she owned the stone, she would hold on to it for a year or two, displaying it at exhibitions, making it the centerpiece of the store’s permanent collection. She had no intention of cleaving it—cutting it—into several stones, or disposing of it immediately. It was quite obvious to her that the White Empress was a great investment, and in a variety of ways, not the least of which was the publicity the diamond would engender for Jardine’s.

Certainly it would never decrease in value; it could only increase, in fact; and she knew she would have no problem selling it whenever she wished to do so. There were many rich men and women in the world who coveted the grand stones, some of whom were already her clients, and there would always be buyers for this most spectacular of diamonds. After all, in the business it was now considered to be a historic stone.

Owning the White Empress would be the crowning glory of Jardine’s. This thought pleased her. She had started the American company eight years earlier, and although she had done so with Bruce Jardine’s consent, his accord had been grudgingly given. Even today he barely acknowledged its existence.

The store on Fifth Avenue was an enormous success and had been from the very first day it opened. And so Stevie always felt justified in pushing for it, vindicated, in a sense, because the annual earnings were enormous, the profits burgeoning on a yearly basis.

When she had told her father-in-law that she wanted to take Jardine’s, the Crown Jewellers of London, to New York’s Fifth Avenue, he had blanched, gaping at her in astonishment. Naturally, he had balked at the idea. Right from the beginning he had predicted nothing but failure. She had had to use a great deal of charm and persuasiveness to get him finally to agree.

Stevie had realized immediately that he fought the idea of her moving to New York because he wanted to keep her by his side at the London store. Later, he had admitted that this was indeed the case. Put simply, he could no longer do without her. As he grew older, he was becoming more and more dependent on her at work.

When he had stopped ranting at her and calmed down, Stevie had pointed out that he had a grandson who was almost twenty-two, and very capable of taking her place at his side. A young man who couldn’t wait to step into her shoes, in point of fact.

“Under your supervision, Nigel will do a fine job,” she had reassured her father-in-law. Bruce knew as well as she that this was the truth, but he would not admit it, and once more he scotched the idea of opening a store in New York. Stevie had bided her time, worked on him in a gentle but persistent manner, and never lost a chance to point out to him how profitable the American branch could be.

“But I’ll miss you, Stephanie,” Bruce had murmured one afternoon, weeks after she had first presented her plans for Jardine’s of New York. Those few muttered words had told her that however reluctant he was to do it, he was, nonetheless, going to give her his support. This he did, although he never ceased to remind her that it was against his better judgment.

That had happened in 1987; one year later, in 1988, the Fifth Avenue store had opened its doors. And for the first time in more than twenty years she had found herself living in the city where she had been born. She had moved to London at the age of fourteen, after her mother had married Derek Rayner. Even though she had visited New York, it was a foreign city to her. Within the short space of a few weeks, Manhattan was under her skin, and she felt comfortable, at home.

Stevie rose and walked over to the hearth, where she threw another log onto the fire, and then sat in a chair, leaned back, and closed her eyes. It seemed to her that her mind was full of the past today, perhaps because it was November the twenty-seventh. A very special date in her memory. Her wedding day. If Ralph Jardine had lived, this would have been their thirtieth anniversary.

She had never remarried. Some of her friends thought this was odd, but she didn’t, no, not at all. It was really very simple. She had never met anyone she cared about enough to marry. No, that was not strictly true, she corrected herself. After Ralph’s death she had loved another man once, for a brief time, long ago. Marriage had never come into play, at least not from his standpoint, but it had from hers. She knew she would have married him in a flash if he had asked her. He never had. It wasn’t meant to be, she told herself, as she had done over and over again for years. Some things just weren’t meant to happen; and, anyway, you couldn’t have everything in life.

But we believe we can when we’re young, she suddenly thought. When we’re young we’re so certain of our invincibility, our immortality. We’re full of ourselves, blown up with ourselves, our power, our strength. We’re just so sure of it all, so sure we can mold life to our will, make it bend whichever way we want. But we can’t, that’s not the way it is. Life gets at us all in one way or another. It mangles us, brings us down, causes us so much pain. It’s the great leveler, the ultimate equalizer.

Still, my life’s not been so bad, she reminded herself, looking at the positives, as she always did. Her children had turned out relatively well; at least, none of them was drug addicted or soaked in alcohol. And she had built herself a career out of nothing. After all, she had not been gifted with some sort of creative talent to use as a springboard into success. All she had was a practical nature, a steady, levelheaded temperament, and a good head for figures and business, as it had turned out.

She had once said this to André. “But you also know the diamonds, chérie. Ralph taught you almost everything he knew about the stones,” the French jeweler had exclaimed, looking at her in surprise. Vaguely, she heard André’s voice coming to her from a long distance, from the past. “You have a good idea, Stephanie. Go to Bruce. You will see; he will listen to you. The argument you have is a strong one. Valid. Indeed, it is a necessity.”

Her thoughts leapt backward in time, back to the year 1976, and in her mind’s eye she could see Bruce Jardine as he had been then. Tall, dark, good-looking in a saturnine way. But as stubborn and rigid as always. An unbending man.

How well she remembered his scornful expression, his mirthless laugh when she had told him she wanted to work. And at Jardine’s, at that.

Before he could answer her, she added in a quiet voice that she wanted him to train her to run the company.

He had stared at her speechlessly, disbelievingly, all those years ago, and then he had asked her if she had taken leave of her senses.

Twenty years ago. Yet sometimes it seemed like only yesterday. She had been a young widow of twenty-six that summer; it was exactly three years after Ralph’s bungled operation for an appendicitis. Her rage about this shocking tragedy had dissipated with the passing of time, and yet, when she least expected it, she would feel a spurt of anger and dismay about her husband’s unnecessary death.

As it turned out, Ralph had not had appendicitis at all, but a perforated peptic ulcer. The surgeon had not recognized the trouble on the operating table. He had performed the appendectomy, but had not made a second incision to reach and repair the perforation. Peritonitis had advanced to cause the sepsis that had killed Ralph. Everyone knew it was a death that should never have happened.

With his son Ralph gone so unexpectedly, Bruce was now the only Jardine in the family business. His older brother, Malcolm, had retired several years earlier because of ill health, and Bruce was suddenly carrying the burden of Jardine’s entirely alone.

And then, without any warning, he was struck down with a heart attack in February 1976; when he finally recovered, he was debilitated, and panicked.

Stevie had instantly recognized the latter, and had understood the reason for his nervousness. Young though she was at the time, she had a great deal of insight into people, knew what made them tick, what motivated them to do the things they did. In a sudden flash, and with genuine clarity of vision, she realized what she must do, what the solution to Bruce’s problem was.

She was the solution.

And so she had taken André’s advice and gone to see her father-in-law on a warm Thursday afternoon in July, arriving at his office in the Bond Street store unannounced. He had been startled and put out by her unprecedented visit, but being a gentleman of the old school, and courteous, he had invited her into his inner sanctum.

“Teach me the business, train me,” she had said earnestly. “I’m the only Jardine you have right now. Nigel and the twins are still little boys. What will happen to the company if you have another heart attack? Or get sick? Or die?”

Startled by the bluntness of her words, he had looked affronted. And he had stared at her askance, for a moment at a loss for words in the face of her breathtaking directness.

Swiftly she had gone on to explain. “Look, nobody wants to think of his own mortality, or think about dying, I know that. But you have to, you must. Ralph always said you were the most intelligent man he knew. He told me you were extremely clever, a genius really, and clearheaded. So think clearly now. Think unemotionally. You need someone you can trust, a person who could run the company if ever you were incapacitated. And it must be someone who has your grandsons’ interests at heart. Since I’m their mother, that’s me. Obviously. You need me. Anyway, face up to it, I’m the only Jardine available.”

Bruce Jardine had seen the rightness of her words. She was the only adult Jardine he could turn to, and therefore she was the only solution to his very real dilemma. Also, her sincerity, eagerness, and enthusiasm had convinced him that she really did want to work for him and learn the business. And so he had taken her on as his junior assistant, hoping she would not disappoint him.

“You’ve got to love this business if you’re going to be a success at it,” he would tell her repeatedly during the first years she worked at Jardine’s, and Stevie quickly discovered she did love it, every facet of it.

She loved the diamonds particularly, and the other gems and the creative side of the jewelry business. Yet it was the intricacies of the financial and corporate side that fascinated her. Within the first six months of working at Jardine’s, she displayed a talent for figures plus business acumen as well. Bruce had been pleasantly surprised.

It was only natural that she became indispensable to her father-in-law. Bruce Jardine, once her deadly enemy, eventually came around to making his peace with her. He recognized her considerable attributes, her talent, her genuine ability, and her willingness to work hard for long hours. As the months passed, he came to respect her. And he depended on her more and more.

One day, after she had been at Jardine’s for five years, the animosity and contentiousness she had come to expect simply ceased to exist.

Alfreda never became one of her admirers. On the other hand, Bruce’s wife had apparently realized the validity of her husband’s moves; she well understood that Stevie was the one person they could trust as the mother of their grandchildren, their heirs. And so she had kept a civil tongue in her head and stayed out of her daughter-in-law’s way. Alfreda had died in 1982, almost fifteen years ago, but right up to the day of her death she had disliked Stevie, had never shown her any affection or made even the smallest friendly gesture.

Rising, walking back to the desk, Stevie bent forward, picked up her wedding photograph, and peered at it intently for a moment or two. How young she and Ralph had looked. But then, they had been young, she most especially. I was just a little girl, only sixteen, she thought. A child. Why, I was younger than Chloe is now.

Oh, Ralph, who would have believed it? Believed that your father would take me into the business? Or that one day I would be head of Jardine’s on both sides of the Atlantic? She could not help thinking that life, the great leveler, was also so very unpredictable. I couldn’t have accomplished all that I have without friends, good friends, and most especially André Birron. She knew that André had taught her as much as Bruce ever had about the jewelry business. He had been her mentor in certain ways, and a genuine friend, almost like a father.

André had always given her the best advice, the soundest. When she was twenty-seven, she fell in love again, after four years of widowhood. She discovered she was pregnant a year later, and it was to André she had turned. She had flown to Paris to see him, to confide in him, although, being wary by nature, she had done so only to a degree. She had merely alluded to the identity of her lover, the father of her unborn child. Even before she had finished her sentence, André had held up his hand as if in warning.

“Do not tell me who he is. I do not want to know. Remember this, my Stephanie. Confide a secret to one person and it is a secret no longer,” the sage old Frenchman had cautioned.

And so she had kept her own counsel always, for this was her natural inclination. No one had ever known who her lover had been, or even tried to guess the man’s real identity. Not even Chloe knew who her father was.

Chloe. Stevie’s expression changed, became softer as she thought of her eighteen-year-old daughter. Now she was a D-flawless diamond. Quite perfect.

Stevie suddenly broke into a chuckle. Well, not really. Her daughter was only almost perfect, thank goodness. No one wanted a paragon of virtue. They were no fun, and usually too good to be true.

Chloe would be arriving later that afternoon, hopefully in time for dinner, and they would enjoy a cozy evening together. Tomorrow her mother and stepfather would be driving up from Manhattan to spend Thanksgiving Day with them, and the rest of the holiday weekend. She was looking forward to it, just as she knew Chloe was.

Derek Rayner had been knighted by the queen some years before, and he and her mother were now Sir Derek and Lady Rayner. As had been predicted long ago, he was now the greatest classical actor on the English stage, and at sixty-eight a living legend. He had been good to her mother and to her and her children.

Derek and her mother were childless, and so he played the role of father and grandfather to the hilt. But his love for them all was very genuine, and he adored Chloe.

Her son Miles was driving to Connecticut with the Rayners. He was her favorite son, if the truth be known, although she always tried to hide this fact from the others. She loathed playing favorites amongst her children.

Miles was a talented artist and a brilliant set designer. Currently he was living in New York, where he was designing the stage sets for a Broadway play. Unlike his brother Nigel and his twin, Gideon, he had never shown any desire to go into Jardine’s, although with his artist’s eye he had always appreciated the beauty of the jewels and the other objects of art Jardine’s made.

Despite his lack of interest in working in the family business, his grandfather had insisted he become a director since he was a major shareholder in the company. He had done so immediately. Jardine’s was his inheritance, and it had always been an important part of his life; his mother had seen to that.

It was Gideon who was the true jeweler in the family; Stevie had recognized that when he was a child. He was a talented, indeed gifted, lapidary, and he had inherited his father’s love of stones, most especially diamonds. Like Ralph, he was an expert when it came to cutting stones, and as one of the chief lapidaries at Jardine’s, he was involved in the creation of the exquisite jewels that the Crown Jewellers had been renowned for over the centuries.

Nigel, ever the businessman, and the spitting image of Bruce in so many different ways, ran the business end of the company, under her direction.

But Nigel wanted it all for himself.

Stevie was well aware of this these days. There were even moments when she thought her eldest son was plotting her departure from the company, planning her fall from grace.

Now she expelled a long sigh as she strolled back to the fireplace. She stood leaning against the mantelpiece, her thoughts focused on Nigel.

She had no real evidence to go on; it was just plain old gut instinct that told her that her son was against her. For a long time now she had seen Nigel for what he was…very much the way Bruce had been when he was a younger man—cold, calculating, controlling, and very ambitious.

There was nothing wrong with ambition as long as it was focused in the right direction. She was the first to admit this. But it was somewhat ridiculous of her son to be ambitious at her expense. After all, the business would be his one day. He would share it with his brothers equally, of course, but he would be running it as the eldest of the three and the undoubted business brain.

She wished she could shake off the worrying suspicion that Nigel wanted her to trip up in order for him to justify taking over from her in London. And indeed, New York as well.

“Fat chance of that,” she muttered. Bruce would never permit it. Her father-in-law was eighty-two now, and semiretired after some terrible attacks of gout, which had plagued him for years. But he was as alert as ever, not a bit senile, and very spry when he was free of his crippling ailment. She was very well aware that he cared about her, even though he did not show it very often.

Furthermore, and perhaps more to the point, he trusted her implicitly when it came to running the company. She had earned that trust, had proved to him time and again that she not only knew what she was doing but that she was brilliant at it. No, Bruce would not tolerate Nigel’s machinations, what he would term “youthful insubordination.” And he would be on her side.

Rousing herself from her thoughts about her eldest son, Stevie hurried out of the study and headed along the second-floor landing. Of medium height and slim, Stephanie Jardine was an attractive woman, with a head of dark curls, light gray-green eyes, and a well-articulated face. High cheekbones and a slender nose gave her a look of distinction; she was elegant in an understated way, dressed in a loden-green wool pants suit and sweater that brought out the green lights in her eyes.

Stevie took the stairs at a rapid pace, realizing that she had wasted a great deal of time dwelling on the past and Ralph, living through her memories both good and bad. She had guests arriving the next day, and even though they were family, everything had to be well prepared for them nonetheless. Her mother, in particular, had very high standards and was accustomed to a great deal of luxury as the wife of a famous star of stage and screen.

As she reached the great hall, the grandfather clock standing in the corner began to strike. It was exactly six o’clock. Chloe was due to arrive in an hour, and a smile touched Stevie’s eyes at this thought. She could not wait to see her daughter.

Somewhere nearby a door was banging, and she felt a rush of cold air blowing down the great hall. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the sun room, and she went through the archway that led to this area of the house.

The solarium, as it was usually called, was long with many windows; two sets of French doors led out to the covered porch that stretched the length of the back facade of the house. One of the doors had sprung open and it was swinging back and forth on its hinges, banging against a wooden chair.

She went to close it, then paused at the door and peered out. It was a dark night, with a black sky empty of stars. A corridor of bright lamplight streamed out from the solarium, illuminating the porch and its stone balustrade beyond. It diminished the darkness.

Stevie went outside, as she often did at this hour, loving the tranquility, the silence of the countryside. It was so pleasing to her after the din of New York, and especially so at nighttime.

Her eyes scanned the sky and the landscape surrounding her. She noticed then that the mist of earlier had settled in the well of the garden. It was heavier now, and it hugged the grass, swirled in thick patches, obscuring the stone benches, the fountain, and the flagged rose garden. How eerie everything looked tonight, she thought. Stevie swung around and made a swift retreat back to the house.

As she stepped inside, a strange feeling swept over her. It was a premonition really…and it made her catch her breath. The feeling was similar to the one she had experienced that afternoon, but this time it was much stronger, more forceful.

She threw it off. And then Stevie Jardine laughed at herself again, as she had earlier, and shook her head. She, who had never believed in portents or omens and was totally unsuperstitious, was actually having presentiments of trouble. Ridiculous. She laughed again.

Some months later Stevie was to remember these strange feelings, and wonder.

3

EVERYONE SAID SHE WAS SPECIAL.

Chloe herself, when she was old enough to understand such things, did not agree, although she did know she was different. She was different because she was illegitimate.

She bore the name Jardine because that was her mother’s name, but she had long understood that she was not actually of the Jardine family.

Her mother had never hidden her illegitimacy from her, and when she was eight years old she had carefully explained the details of her birth to her. It was for this reason that Chloe had always accepted the facts in the most natural way. So did her three brothers. Even Old Bruce, as she and Miles called him, seemed to tolerate her, and obviously he did not object to her using his name. Nor did he seem to mind that she called him Grandfather; as far as they both were concerned he was exactly that, and he had always treated her the same way he did his biological grandsons.

When she was a small girl she hadn’t wanted to be different or special. This only confused her, made her feel self-conscious. She just wanted to be like everyone else—ordinary.

Once, when she was about ten years old, she had asked Miles why people said she was special. He had looked at her closely with his piercing blue eyes, and smiled his warm, gentle smile. “Because you’re such a happy little sprite, Pumpkin, all airiness and golden light. You remind everyone of the summer and sunshine…even in winter, and you’re brimming with laughter, full of gaiety. That’s the first reason—your effervescent personality. Secondly, you’re a very pretty girl, who’s beautiful inside as well as out. And finally, you’re…well, you’re an old soul, Pumpkin.”

She had frowned at him, instantly picked up on this last thing. “What does that mean, Miles? What’s an old soul?”

“Someone who’s been here before, who seems to have a knowledge beyond her years, who is wise…”

“Oh.” She had pondered this for a second or two and then asked, “Is that good?”

Miles had burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he had rumpled her hair affectionately. “Yes, I think so, and be glad you’re all the things you are, little sister. There are too few of you in this ugly world we live in.”

Miles was her favorite brother. He had always been easier to be around than his twin, Gideon, and their elder brother, Nigel. Miles was never too busy for her, even though he was nine years older than she.

Despite the fact that Miles had explained why she was special, to the best of his ability anyway, she never thought of herself in that way. She was merely different, that was all, and then only because of the circumstances of her birth. There was nothing more to it than that.

Chloe had never felt embarrassed or awkward about her illegitimacy, nor had she given much thought to it when she was growing up, other than occasionally to wonder about her father. On her birth certificate his name was given as John Lane. She wasn’t even sure if this was his real name, since her mother was so secretive about him.

Recently, thoughts of her father had insinuated themselves into her mind, and she had been besieged by questions, things she wanted to ask her mother but didn’t dare.

Whenever she had broached the subject of her paternity in the last couple of years, her mother had simply repeated what she had always said: John Lane, her father, had been killed in a car crash.

Because her mother had always looked extremely upset, even on the verge of tears, when they had these discussions, Chloe never did probe further. Of late, she had needed to know more about her father, wanted her mother to describe him to her, tell her other things about him, give her an inkling of his personality and character. And so, on the drive up to Connecticut, she had wondered if she could question her mother at some point during the Thanksgiving weekend.

Now Chloe stood in front of the mirror on the dressing table in her bedroom, staring at herself but not really focusing. Instead, she was thinking of her mother, whom she had always adored. Chloe was absolutely certain there was no one quite like Stevie Jardine. Her mother was a true original, loving, generous spirited, and kind. She usually gave everyone the benefit of the doubt and tried always to see the best in people. Even in Old Bruce, who was such an ogre.

Her mother had brought her up well, given her all the right standards; Old Bruce had once told her that. Her mother and she were very close, pals really, and so many of her classmates at Brearley envied her. “Your mother’s so cool,” her best friend, Justine Seawell, was always telling her, and Justine was correct. Stevie was more like an older sister in so many ways, and yet she was a tough disciplinarian. Chloe had to abide by the rules at all times.

Chloe suddenly knew she wouldn’t be able to summon up the nerve to talk to her mother during the family weekend; it would upset her if she brought up John Lane, dead more than eighteen years. It occurred to her that she could talk to her grandfather, Derek Rayner. She was close to him, and he had always treated her as an adult, even when she was a small child. Derek could enlighten her, if anyone could.

With this decision made she felt more cheerful, and the acute worry she had been feeling miraculously abated. Leaning forward, Chloe picked up a silver hairbrush and smoothed it over her shoulder-length dark hair, then adjusted the cowl neckline of her burgundy cable-knit tunic.

Stepping away from the mirror, she was able to get a better view of herself, a full-length view. She decided she liked the way she looked in the tunic with its matching leggings; she was five feet seven inches tall, and the outfit made her appear taller and more willowy than she already was. This pleased her. After spraying on a light floral scent, she put on a pair of gold-coin earrings, left her bedroom, and ran downstairs.

When she had arrived at the house half an hour earlier, her mother had been making a beeline for the kitchen, and so Chloe headed in that direction.

She found Stevie sitting at the big oak refectory table talking to Cappi Mondrell, their housekeeper and cook. Both women stopped chatting and glanced across at her as she came in.

“Hi, Chloe!” Cappi exclaimed, smiling broadly, obviously glad to see her.

“Hello, Cap!” Chloe responded, and rushed over, gave the housekeeper an affectionate hug. Cappi had been with them for eight years, and was like a member of the family; Chloe was devoted to her, and it was very clear the older woman loved the eighteen-year-old.

Wrinkling her nose, Chloe said, “Do I smell my favorite dish cooking?”

“You do indeed. Chicken in the pot for my favorite girl.”

“You spoil me, Cappi.”

“I know, but it gives me such pleasure,” the housekeeper shot back, laughter echoing in her voice.

“You look lovely in that outfit,” Stevie said with a glowing smile. She couldn’t help thinking that her daughter was beginning to look so very grown-up all of a sudden. And she really was a beautiful girl with her shining dark eyes, luxuriant hair, and creamy skin.

“Thanks, Mom. You don’t look bad yourself. Positively blooming, as I said when I first got here.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“When are the others arriving?” Chloe asked.

“Tomorrow morning, around noon.”

“Is Miles bringing his girlfriend?”

Stevie was so startled, she sat back, surprised. “I don’t think so,” she answered. “He would have mentioned it. Anyway, I didn’t know there was a girlfriend. At least, not anyone special.” She stared at Chloe intently, and when her daughter didn’t answer, she pressed, “Well, is there?”

Chloe shrugged, leaned against the table, and said hesitantly, “Not sure, Mom.” She pursed her lips. “Maybe. He’s been seeing a lot of Allison Grainger, but he’s been really closemouthed about it.”

“Who’s Allison Grainger?” Stevie asked, a dark brow lifting quizzically.

“The costume designer who’s working on the play with him. You’ve met her, Mom. She’s got red hair and lots of freckles.”

“Oh, yes, I remember her now. She’s rather pretty.” Stevie’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Is it serious, do you think?”

“I doubt it,” Chloe responded, and began to laugh. “I guess it will be for about another week or two. And then it’ll probably be over. You know Miles and Gideon, Mom, they’re very alike when it comes to women.”

“What do you mean?”

“When they fall for a woman they get very intense for a few weeks; it’s finally the great love at long last. But it quickly peters out. And they always like to surround themselves with extra girls, just in case. And anyway, Miles says there’s safety in numbers.”

Stevie smiled; how well her daughter knew her brothers. “He’s coming alone apparently, so it may well be over already.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Chloe murmured, and then looked from her mother to Cappi. “Did I interrupt anything? You were very deeply engrossed.”

“No, we were just planning the menus, going over a few things for the weekend. And actually we were just about finished when you came into the kitchen.”

Cappi said, “I’d better set the table for—”

“Oh, don’t bother,” Stevie cut in. “Let’s eat in the little sitting room tonight. It’s much cozier. Two trays in front of the fire will do us fine, thanks, Cappi.”

Later that evening they were halfway through dessert when Chloe put down her fork, looked at her mother, and said, “There’s something I want to talk to you about, Mom.”

“Yes, darling,” Stevie said, swiftly glancing at her daughter, noting the sudden tenseness of her voice. “Tell me.”

“It’s about next year, Mom. I mean about going to college after I graduate from Brearley. And, you see…” Chloe’s voice trailed off, and she gazed at her mother, biting her lip.

“What is it, Chloe?”

“I really don’t want to go…I mean go to college.”

Stevie sat up a little straighter and stared at her daughter. “Do you mean you don’t want to go to college here in America? Or college anywhere?”

“Correct, Mom! I don’t want to go to college.”

“Not even to Oxford? You talked about that so much, and you always sounded very excited. Why, only a few months ago you said you couldn’t wait to go there.”

“I know. But I’ve changed my mind. I’d prefer to go into the jewelry business, Mom. I want to work at Jardine’s.”

Stevie was genuinely surprised by this announcement, even though she had always known her daughter liked the store in New York. She said cautiously, “I like the idea of you working with me at Jardine’s, but I still want you to attend university. You can come into the business with me when you’re twenty-one or twenty-two.”

Chloe shook her head vehemently. “Honestly, Mom, I really don’t want to go to college. What’s the point, when I want to go to work. Surely you of all people understand that. You work like a dog and enjoy every minute of it.”

“That’s true, I do. And I understand everything you’re saying, but nevertheless, I would like you to finish your education. It’s important, Chloe.”

“You didn’t go to college.”

“I wish I had.”

“What could you have learned at college? About the jewelry business, I mean. Nothing. And look how successful you’ve been. You’re a terrific businesswoman, you know all about diamonds and other precious stones. You’re…well…Gideon says you’re a legend in the business. Not going to college didn’t hurt you, or stop you from becoming what you are.”

“True. But then again, I learned a lot from Ralph in the early years of our marriage. And later I had Bruce to teach me. Working with him was like going to several universities. He was the greatest professor there was, and so was Uncle André. I learned a lot from him as well.”

“And I can learn a lot from Gideon in London. That’s where I want to go, Mom, I want to go to London and work with Gideon at the Bond Street store.”

Stevie was taken aback by this statement, and for a moment she made no response. Then she said slowly, a little hesitantly, “But why wouldn’t you want to work with me in New York? I don’t understand…” She did not finish her sentence, just sat staring at her daughter through baffled eyes.

Chloe said quickly, “Oh, Mom, I’d love to work with you in New York. Eventually. But I want to start out in London because Gideon is such a great lapidary and he could teach me so much. And besides, the London workshops are much bigger than the one in New York. I just think I’d get better training there, and Old Bruce is there. I mean, I know he’s semiretired and all that, but he does go to the store twice a week, and, well, I mean, he could teach me a lot, just like he taught you.”

“I see.”

“Are you angry, Mom?”

Stevie shook her head.

“Yes, you are, I can tell. Please don’t be cross with me, Mom. Please.”

“I’m not angry; really, I’m not, Chloe.”

“Then what?”

“Disappointed, I suppose.”

“Because I don’t want to go to college?”

“Yes, there’s that. But I’m also disappointed that you don’t want to work with me in New York. Of course, the workshops are much larger in London, that’s true. But ours is not so bad, you know. And we do have Marc Sylvester and several wonderful lapidaries at the Fifth Avenue store. They could teach you just as much as you’d learn in London.”

“But I want to learn from Gideon.”

“I know you’ve always been close to him.”

“I’m closer to Miles actually, Mom, but I love Gideon and he’s a good teacher. He’s taught me a few things about jewelry already when I’ve gone to see him at the workshops during vacations.”

“He’s certainly patient and painstaking, and a bit of a perfectionist, so I have to believe you when you say he’s a good teacher. Yes, I can see that aspect of him.” Stevie gave her daughter a long, speculative look, and then asked quietly, “Have you discussed this with Gideon already?”

Chloe shook her head. “Oh, no, Mommy, I haven’t! I wouldn’t do that, not before talking to you.” Chloe leaned forward, her young face expectant and eager. “Can I go, then?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about this. It’s a big step for you, going to live in London. Alone.”

“But Mother, I wouldn’t be alone. I’ve got two brothers and a sister-in-law there, plus Old Bruce. And my grandparents. Blair and Derek would keep an eye on me for you.”

“If I agreed, and it is an if, I’d want someone to do much more than keep an eye on you, Chloe. You’d have to live with a member of the family.”

Chloe was immediately crestfallen on hearing this, and it showed on her face. “You mean I can’t live in your flat in Eaton Square?”

“Certainly not. There’s no one there to look after you.”

“There’s Gladys.”

“Gladys comes in only a few times a week to clean. No, no, that would be out of the question, if I agreed to this plan of yours.”

“I could live with Gideon. He’d love it.”

“Nonsense. He’d hate it. A single man of twenty-seven who has legions of women friends, according to you, wouldn’t want his baby sister for a roommate. It would cramp his style no end.”

“Nigel would have me. He’s married, and Tamara likes me a lot.”

“Yes, I know she does. But once again, it wouldn’t be suitable. They’re practically newly-weds; they wouldn’t want you around.”

“Oh, Mom, they have two kids!”

Stevie bit back a smile, amused by Chloe’s logic, then she said, “Even so, a young couple like Nigel and Tamara don’t need the responsibility of looking after you. They have their hands full as it is.”

“I wouldn’t want to live at Old Bruce’s house in Wilton Crescent, if that’s what you’re thinking. That place is so gloomy, it would be like being in prison. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Mom?”

“I haven’t agreed that you can go, Chloe.”

“Grandma would let me live with her and Derek, and you know they love me…a lot,” Chloe volunteered.

“Yes, they do. But you’re putting the cart before the horse. I have to think about this matter, and at great length. I’m certainly not going to make any hasty decisions.”

“When will you decide?”

“I don’t know.”

“But, Mommy—”

“No buts, darling,” Stevie interrupted. “You’ve told me what you’d prefer to do, and now I must give it some thought. I want you to think about it as well, Chloe. Think about what you’d be missing by not going to university. Think about those three years at Oxford and all that they would mean. Not just the education you’d get, but the fun you’d have, and the people you’d meet. Friends you make at university are your friends for the rest of your life. And I must admit, Chloe, I’m a bit baffled; you were always so keen about studying at Oxford. What happened?”

“I’ve changed my mind, Mom.”

“Promise me you’ll think about this.”

“Oh, all right,” Chloe muttered, looking suddenly put out.

Stevie glanced at her quickly and said in a sharp tone of voice, “Don’t sound so grudging about it, Chloe. It doesn’t become you one little bit.”

Chloe flushed at this chastisement, mild as it was, and bit her lip. Then, pushing the tray table away, she jumped up and sat next to Stevie on the sofa.

Taking hold of her mother’s hand, she squeezed it, then reached up and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t be angry with me, Mommy.”

Observing her daughter’s worried expression and detecting the concern in her eyes, Stevie murmured softly, “I’m not angry, Chloe, but I do want to do what’s best for you, and you must try to understand that. After all, you’ve obviously been thinking about this for some time, whilst I’ve just heard about it…so please, give me a few days to get used to the idea. And let me talk to Gideon. And my mother and Derek.”

Chloe nodded and her face brightened considerably as she exclaimed, “So you’re definitely not saying no?”

“No, of course not…” A faint smile surfaced on Stevie’s face. “I’m saying…maybe.”

Stevie had learned long before that when she couldn’t sleep it was far better to get up and keep busy, especially if she had a problem on her mind. To her way of thinking, it was much easier to worry when she was upright and moving around than when she was lying down.

She and Chloe had both gone upstairs to bed at eleven. Stevie had fallen asleep at once, lulled into a deep slumber by the two glasses of red wine she had drunk at dinner.

Then she had awakened suddenly several hours later, at three in the morning. Sleep had proved elusive thereafter; at four o’clock she had slipped out of bed, taken a shower, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a sweater, and gone downstairs.

After making a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, Stevie had walked around the house, collecting her many orchid plants. These she had taken to the plant room next to the laundry; carefully, methodically, she had watered them individually in the big sink, letting the water run through each one, then slowly drain away.

Everyone knew she loved orchids, and so she frequently received them as gifts. In consequence, her collection was quite large; two or three dozen were scattered throughout this house, and there were more in her New York apartment.

Mostly they were various species of the Phalaenopsis, with white or yellow blooms, plus pale, blush-pink cymbidiums. She also collected the miniature slipper orchid with pale green or dark brown blooms, and the dark brownish-wine-colored Sharry Baby with its tiny flowers and delicious chocolate scent.

But of them all her real favorites were the white and yellow Phalaenopsis, and she did very well with them, making them last for months. The house was an ideal spot for them to grow, cool, and full of soft, muted light most of the time.

Now Stevie lifted a pot containing a yellow-blooming Phalaenopsis and carried it through into the sun room, where she returned it to its place.

Stepping back, her head to one side, she admired it for a moment, thinking how beautiful it looked, so elegant against the white walls and standing on the dark wood surface of the antique chest. This was positioned in a corner between two windows, and the orchid had the most perfect light there.

Stevie moved around the house for almost another hour, carrying the plants back to their given spots in different rooms, and then she poured herself a mug of coffee and went back to the solarium.

She stood in front of the French windows, warming her hands on the hot mug, sipping the coffee occasionally. Her eyes scanned the sky. It was cold and leaden, and she could tell already that it would be a gray day, bleak, overcast, sunless. Even the landscape had a bleak look to it, the trees bereft of leaves, the lawn covered with a sprinkling of white frost. Thanksgiving Day 1996 had not dawned very brightly.

Stevie turned away from the window. Seating herself on one of the large overstuffed sofas, she put the mug on the table in front of her and leaned back, resting her head against the soft cushion covered in a faded antique chintz.

What to do? What to do about Chloe? She was not sure. In fact, she was very uncertain, really. Her daughter had surprised and disappointed her when she had abruptly announced she did not want to go to university, most especially since she had been so gung-ho about attending Oxford. Stevie had always wanted Chloe to have a good education, to graduate with a college degree. The last thing she had expected was to hear her daughter express the desire to work at Jardine’s. There had never been any real indication on Chloe’s part that she was keen on the jewelry business, other than a passing interest in the New York store.

Admit it, she’s hurt you badly, wanting to work in London, a small voice at the back of her head whispered. And yes, that was the truth. Chloe’s words had been like a slap in the face.

Stevie knew that Chloe could learn everything in New York. There was no need for her to go to London. Jardine’s was the one store left on Fifth Avenue that had its own workshop on the second floor, and it was excellent. Marc Sylvester, her top lapidary, was brilliant, and Chloe could learn as much from him as she could from her brother Gideon, or Gilbert Drexel, the chief lapidary at the London shop.

Am I being selfish, wanting to keep her with me? Stevie asked herself. Possessive? Over-protective? If she was honest with herself, she had to admit it was a little bit of all three.

But then again, what mother didn’t want to keep her daughter by her side, and for as long as possible? And if not by her side, then at least in the same country. What Chloe wanted was not only to leave the nest, but fly away to distant shores.

Stevie let out a long sigh, thinking of her daughter. Chloe was only just eighteen, and she was so much younger in many different ways, more like fifteen, in fact. For one thing, she had led a very sheltered life, particularly when they had resided in London. She had been surrounded by family…her three brothers, and her grandparents, and had attended Lady Eden’s exclusive private school for young ladies as a day girl. The harsh everyday world had hardly penetrated her consciousness.

Even in the eight years they had lived in New York, Chloe’s life had been somewhat cloistered. She’ll never make it on her own, Stevie thought. She’ll be overwhelmed. She’s too sensitive, too delicate, and just far too young to be away from home, away from me. I’m going to say no. I must. I’m not going to let her go to England. She can go a year from now only if she is enrolled at Oxford.

It seemed to Stevie at that precise moment that a load had been lifted from her shoulders. Just making the decision was a blessed relief. The tight pain in her chest, which had been like a steel band since four o’clock that morning, was beginning to ease at last.

4

NO MATTER HOW BUSY SHE WAS, STEVIE ALWAYS found time at some point each day to write in her daily journal. And so that morning, while she waited for her mother, Derek, and Miles to arrive, she opened her current diary and wrote: Thanksgiving Day 1996: Connecticut, then sat staring at the page, lost in her thoughts.

She had kept a journal for years, most of her life, and there were volumes of them locked away in a cupboard at the other side of the upstairs study, where she now sat at the desk.

Thirty-four years had been recorded in them since her mother had presented her with her first diary when she was twelve. That had been in 1962. It seemed very far away now; so much had happened to her in the intervening years. She had lived a lifetime and then some, or so it seemed to her.

Her first diary had had its own little lock and key and it had withstood the test of time very well; she had looked at it recently and been amazed that it had weathered the years so well. The paper was a bit yellowed at the edges, the ink faded on some pages, but that was the only damage, if you could even call it that.

On the whole, a miracle of preservation, Stevie thought, and put down her pen, sat back in the chair, her thoughts turning to her mother, who had also kept a diary most of her life. They had always been close, had had a symbiotic relationship when she was a child. Her father, Jerome Anderson, had not been the right husband for Blair, nor had he been a very good father, and this had brought her and her mother even closer together.

Newspaperman, ladies’ man, bon vivant, and man-about-town, Jerry had not been cut out for family life, and that was exactly what her mother had craved. Beautiful, glamorous, international supermodel Blair Connors had wanted only to be a wife and mother. She was the success she was because of her face and figure, the way she dominated the catwalk and made love to the camera. It was certainly not because of drive or ambition. Even at the height of her career she had wanted to stay at home and cook, raise children, be a housewife, a mother, and a good wife to the right man. Domesticity was her idea of bliss.

Derek Rayner, English classical actor par excellence, handsome matinee idol and movie star, had seemed such an unlikely candidate for the role Blair had cast him in all those years ago. The wrong man, as far as Blair’s friends were concerned.

But as it happened, he had been the right man, the perfect choice, the perfect mate. Blair and Derek had been married for over thirty years and still adored each other. Their only disappointment was that they had not had any children of their own. Perhaps that was one of the reasons they were inseparable, and Derek never went anywhere without his beautiful and accomplished wife.

Stevie was relieved they were coming to spend Thanksgiving with her. On the phone yesterday her mother had sounded worn out, which was unusual for her. She had mentioned that Derek was exhausted after twelve weeks on location making a movie in Arizona, then looping at the studio in Los Angeles. The film assignment had come right on top of his long run in the Broadway revival of Becket. According to her mother, it was now essential that he get a good rest.

“No more work for a while,” Blair had said. “He’s really looking forward to the long weekend with you, Stevie, before we fly back to London next week,” her mother had added, and Stevie was determined to make it a wonderful few days. She wanted her mother and Derek to have the great luxury of peace and quiet in comfortable surroundings, with lots of good food and rest. And certainly no pressure.

She thought suddenly of Chloe. She would have to have a talk with her later, warn her not to take all of her little problems to Derek. She had a tendency to pester him at times. Stevie supposed that was understandable, in that Derek was the closest thing to a father Chloe had ever had.

Certainly Bruce Jardine had been more like a grandfather. He was much older than Derek, less active, and decidedly crotchety a good part of the time. No wonder Miles and Chloe called him Old Bruce. He was such an old man in many ways; he had not aged well at all.

Stevie was aware that Chloe loved him, despite her protestations to the contrary and desire to cast him in the role of ogre or tyrant. As for Bruce, there was no doubt in Stevie’s mind that Bruce Jardine loved the girl in return. He had shown her daughter too much favor, displayed too much kindness to her for it to be otherwise. Whilst this baffled Stevie occasionally, it nonetheless pleased her. Bruce had treated Chloe as a Jardine all of her young life, and Stevie would always be grateful to him for that.

Bruce was not an easy man to care about or even like, but she had grown quite attached to him over the years. They had worked well together in a very temperate climate for twenty years, and there had rarely been any display of temperament or outbursts of anger on his part. Most of the years had rolled by on a very even keel, it seemed to her now.

It struck Stevie that it might be a good idea to talk to Bruce about Nigel. She and Chloe were going to spend Christmas in London, and that would be the ideal time to unburden herself. Unburden myself, she thought in amazement. Do I really feel that strongly about Nigel’s attitude? She sighed, thinking that perhaps she did.

Not only did she love her eldest son, she admired him no end, and there was a lot to admire. He was a clever, indeed brilliant young man with a great deal of talent and a good head on his shoulders. But he had a flaw, and it was a flaw that was fatal. He believed he knew better than anyone else, was convinced of the rightness of his ideas and beliefs, and he never took no for an answer, would brook no argument. He was far too stubborn and opinionated for his own good. His attitude verged on arrogance. It dismayed her that he could not compromise, that he was so rigid.

He was just like his grandfather. No, he’s worse, she thought, and laughed a hollow little laugh. He was Bruce’s clone. As Bruce had been when he was a younger man. Perhaps more so.

It would be hard to speak critically to Bruce about his clone. This brought a smile to Stevie’s face. She wasn’t going to talk to Bruce about her son’s character, rather about her suspicion that he wanted to oust her from the company. If this were the case, Bruce would surely put a stop to his manipulations.

But then, she could do that herself. She could fire Nigel.

He was, after all, her employee.

He worked for her.

She was the managing director of Jardine’s of London and president of Jardine’s of New York, just as Bruce was chairman of the board. Nigel was a director of the company, as were his two brothers, and they would always be directors. That was their right, their inheritance.

But she could take Nigel’s job away from him at any time if she so wished. It was as easy as that, just like snapping her fingers together.

No, not so easy, she reminded herself. He’s my son, my firstborn; I wouldn’t want to hurt him, to humiliate him, or to destroy him. Besides, he’s good at his job. The very best.

I simply have to make him toe the line, curb his ambition for the moment. He has to bide his time until I retire.

Stevie laughed out loud. Easier said than done when she was on the other side of the Atlantic…thousands of miles away.

Her mind swung to Gideon. Now, there was a son who was not one bit ambitious, at least not when it came to possessing the company and amassing power. All he wanted was to create flawless diamonds from the rough…make beautiful things. Gideon did worry her on a personal level, and she had been worried about him for some time now. He had not looked well, had seemed distracted, fretful, and impatient when she had seen him at the London showroom in late September. She remembered how pale and gloomy he had looked. In her opinion, he hadn’t been himself since he had broken up with Margot Saunders. Had he cared for that young woman more than he’d let on? She would talk to Miles about his twin during the weekend.

Her face instantly changed, took on a warm glow, and her eyes brightened. Miles was her pride and joy; she admitted it freely…in the privacy of her thoughts.

And Miles would help to take Chloe in hand too; she could rely on him to do that. Chloe and Miles had always had an affinity for each other and he was good with his little sister. Unlike Gideon, who had considered her to be a bit of a nuisance. And now Chloe wanted to learn from her brother Gideon. Stevie shook her head. People were so very strange.

She had often thought how odd it was that although Miles and Gideon were identical twins and looked alike, when it came to their personalities and characters, they were as different as chalk and cheese.

Miles was so much lighter, more carefree, gentle, well balanced, and a genuine charmer. Conversely, his twin was introverted, stubborn—more like Nigel in that way—and a perfectionist who at times seemed ridiculously persnickety, almost old-maidish. And yet he could be generous to a fault, and he truly did have the soul of an artist. He loved anything and everything that was beautiful, be it a woman, a painting, a sculpture, a tree, a seascape, a garden, a priceless gemstone, or a piece of jewelry. And he had an extraordinary eye, refined and exquisite taste.

Picking up her pen, Stevie looked down at the page and realized she had put nothing on paper so far other than the day and where she was.

Slowly she began to write, and when she had filled two pages, she screwed on the top of her fountain pen, took the diary in her hands, leaned back in the chair, and read it.

Thanksgiving Day, 1996

Connecticut

When I think of my children and the things they do, it seems to me they are like strangers. Except for Miles. But then, he is the child of my heart, so like me in so many ways. Of course, I love them all, but he has always been special to me since he was small. I wonder, are all mothers like I am? Do they favor one child more than the others? I’m sure that it is so, but it’s hard to ask anyone that kind of…leading question. And do the children know? Do they detect it, sense it, feel it? Do they know there is one who is the real favorite of the mother?

Each of my children is different. Yet I can see traits in them that are mine. And some are Ralph’s. There are traits in them that come from Bruce. Fortunately, none of them have inherited anything of their grandmother, Alfreda, and for that I can honestly say I’m thankful. She was not a nice woman; she was cold, repressed, and bitter. She never had a kind word for me or anyone she considered to be her inferior. It is their other grandmother who shows up in them. My mother. Chloe has inherited her beauty, her willowy figure, her pleasing personality, and her desire to please; Miles has inherited her sense of humor and geniality.

I love them. I love all of my children. It’s the truth, I do. Maybe too much. And yet somewhere along the way I suppose I hurt them, damaged them without meaning to do so. But then we’re all damaged goods, aren’t we? Life damages us, people damage us, we even damage ourselves. I must have caused them pain and heartache. And hurt their feelings. We do that so often to those we love the most without even realizing it or meaning to. And perhaps I did neglect them at times when I was caught up with work and travel. But I never stopped loving them.

I think of them as my children. But, of course, they’re not children, not anymore. They’re adults. Grown-ups. People. Other people, not my children. They’re so different in so many ways. Strangers. Sometimes, anyway. Even Chloe is grown-up all of a sudden, knowing her own mind, hell-bent on getting her own way.

Soon I’m going to stop being a mother, stop thinking of myself as such. Instead I’ll be…? I’ll be…just there for them. If they need me. Is that possible? How do you stop being a mother? How do you stop worrying about them? Caring about them? Perhaps you don’t. How DO you stop being a mother? Can anyone tell me that?

Will I fare better with my grandchildren? I asked myself that question in the middle of the night, when I woke up with such suddenness. I will be a good grandmother to Natalie and Arnaud. Grandmothers are better than mothers, I’ve been told. Less possessive. My grandchildren are so precious and Nigel is lucky to have them, to have Tamara. She’s a good wife, a wonderful mother. A good young woman.

I think I’m beginning to resent the fact that Gideon teases her, calls her “the foreigner.” Her father is French, her mother Russian, and Gideon wants to make an issue about it. Why, I’ll never know. But it’s unkind. He says it’s in jest; yet I sense that’s how he really perceives her. I’d hate to think he was bigoted in some way. But I am very aware that my son Gideon thinks that anything not English is inferior. I wonder why he’s not learned otherwise yet? I did years ago.

Chloe. I can’t let her go to London. Chloe alone there at the age of eighteen! No, never. I feel it’s unwise. She’s too young. And she must go to university. She can’t just drop out.

Soon my family will be with me. Well, some of them, and that makes me happy. And each one of us has a lot to be thankful for this November of 1996. And I, in particular, am such a lucky woman. I have so much.

Stevie closed her diary, put it in the desk, and locked the drawer. As she pushed back her chair and rose, she heard the sound of the car on the gravel driveway outside.

Moving to the window, she pulled back the lace curtain and looked out. Her heart lifted when she saw Miles alighting.

He glanced up at the window, saw his mother, and waved.

She waved back, dropped the curtain, and hurried out, almost running down the stairs to the great hall.

5

MILES JARDINE COULDN’T HELP THINKING THAT AS he and his twin brother grew older, their mother appeared to be getting younger.

That morning she looked like a woman in her mid-thirties, and quite wonderful, as she came down the front steps to greet him and his grandparents. She was wearing a chalk-stripe gray-wool pants suit and a white silk shirt, and she was her usual elegant self.

It struck him that Gideon was correct when he said they were rapidly catching up with her, and that when they were forty-six she herself would still be forty-six, at least in her appearance anyway.

But then, she had been a mere nineteen-year-old when they were born, and she was blessed with youthful looks, thanks to her genes. His grandmother, who would soon be sixty-seven, didn’t look her age either, nor did she seem it. Blair was as youthful as anyone he knew, had great vitality, energy, and an enormous sense of fun.

“Hello, Ma,” Miles said as his mother drew to a standstill in front of him. “You look fabulous.” He smiled at her hugely, dropped the two bags he was carrying, and hugged her to him.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Miles darling,” she responded, smiling back. “And thanks for the compliment.” She drew away and went on down the steps. His eyes followed her as she embraced her mother and then Derek, who had been helping the driver unload the trunk of the car.

Suddenly Cappi and the two local young women who worked with her on weekends were greeting him. One of them grabbed his suitcases despite his protestations that he could manage perfectly well; she paid no attention, simply departed with the luggage.

Miles shrugged to himself and went on down the last few remaining steps, close on the heels of Cappi and her other helper.

But when he heard Chloe calling his name, he paused, swung around, and a second later his sister was hurtling into his arms.

“Hi, Pumpkin,” he exclaimed, and gave her a big bear hug.

“I’ve been waiting all morning for you, Miles; you’re late.”

He grinned at her. “I think I’m early actually, kid. We weren’t due until noon, and it was just eleven thirty as we turned into the gates. Anyway, how’re things at Romany Hall?”

“Okay,” she answered laconically. There was a slight pause, then she added softly, “But I want to—” She broke off abruptly, as if she had changed her mind.

“Come on, Pumpkin, what were you going to tell me?”

“Oh, nothing…it was nothing important, honestly.”

Miles thought otherwise, but he made no comment, as always discreet. “Come on, then, let’s help Cappi and Lola with all that stuff. When the Rayners travel, it’s like old-style royalty on the move. And God only knows what they bring with them.”

“The kitchen sink,” Chloe chortled. “That’s what Mom says anyway. She told me earlier that they’d arrive with two dozen suitcases plus the kitchen sink.”

“Not quite, but almost,” Miles agreed, laughing with his sister.

They went down to the driveway holding hands. Chloe glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “So you didn’t bring Allison.”

Miles threw her an odd look. “Now, why would I bring her?”

“Bring who?” Derek asked as he braced himself for Chloe’s enthusiastic hugs and kisses.

Stevie stared at her son, waiting to hear his response to her stepfather’s question.

Glancing at Derek, Miles said, “Nobody. Nobody important, that is.”

Well, at least that’s to the point, Stevie thought. And leaves nothing to our imagination.

“Hello, darling,” Blair murmured, accepting Chloe’s kisses, which were, to her relief, more restrained than those just bestowed on Derek. “And who is Allison?” she asked, casting her glance on them all.

“Don’t look at me; I’ve no idea, my darling,” Derek intoned in his mellifluous actor’s voice and, hoisting two of the valises, went up the steps. Stevie and Blair followed, carrying some of the smaller bags.

After Miles had thanked the driver and tipped him, he too made his way to the front door with Chloe in tow. He said in a pointed voice, “Little pigs not only have big ears, but apparently loose tongues as well.”

Chloe giggled.

“Why did you mention Allison of all people, and in front of our mother? You know she’s longing for me to get married and have kids, so she can have more grandchildren. It was wrong of you, Chloe.”

“Well, you have been seeing a lot of Allison, and I thought it was…” Her voice trailed off lamely; she looked chagrined. And she felt suddenly uncomfortable under his fixed scrutiny.

“That’s my business, kid, not yours.”

“I thought it was getting serious between you two.”

“No. And even if I did have serious intentions, that has nothing to do with you or Mother or anyone else. It’s a private matter and it’s certainly not open for discussion within the family.”

“Oh.” There was a momentary pause, and she looked at him through worried eyes. “Are you mad at me?”

“No, but let’s not discuss my personal business in front of the rest of the family. Okay?”

“Yes, Miles, and I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. Just remember what I said though. You’ve got to learn some discretion. You’re not a little kid anymore, you’re eighteen, and you must start growing up, behaving like an adult.”

Chloe nodded, her face suitably serious for once.

After coffee and hot buttered scones in front of the fire in the great hall, everybody dispersed in different directions. Stevie sent Cappi, Lola, and Chloe to help Blair and Derek unpack their voluminous luggage; Shana, the other young woman who worked with Cappi, took Miles’s bags up to his room. And his mother hurried off to the kitchen, explaining that she had to baste the turkey that was roasting in the oven.

Left alone, Miles wandered down the great hall into the dining room, and then slowly strolled through into the living room which adjoined it. He couldn’t help admiring the ambiance his mother had created in the house. It was immensely seductive, just as it was in her other homes. But he especially liked Romany Hall because it was an airy, spacious house filled with clear, crystalline light that poured in through the many windows upstairs and down, a great number of which were unencumbered by draperies.

Everything was sparkling and fresh throughout. The white paintwork was pristine; the windows shone; the wood floors gleamed, and there was not a speck of dust anywhere. No shabby corners, worn fabrics, or frayed rugs here. His mother was something of a perfectionist, and she maintained the house at the highest level. Every piece of furniture, each object and painting, was well cared for and in its proper place.

Although it was beautifully decorated, Romany Hall was not overdone and there was no unnecessary clutter or ostentation. The air was fragrant with potpourri, perfumed candles, and the unusual chocolate smell of the Sharry Baby orchids, their curvaceous stems laden with exotic dark blooms.

Miles did not linger very long in the living room, but continued on to the solarium, a room he generally gravitated to at least once every day when he was staying with his mother.

He had always been taken with its simple yet effective beauty—white walls, warm terra-cotta—tiled floor, and the eye-catching Pierre Frey fabrics patterned in reds, yellows, and blues that his mother had used on the sofas and chairs. The solarium had a French feeling to it, with its high-flung cathedral ceiling and beams, stone fireplace and the French Provençal furniture his mother had picked up at sales in the Loire Valley and the Maritime Alps.

The many windows and French doors made the solarium seem part of the outside, and the clarity of light was particularly noticeable here. Although it was a sunless day, and somewhat bleak, the cloudless sky was a soft bluish white, almost etiolated, and it was incandescent.

A good light for painting, he thought, and made up his mind to bring his easel and paintbox down there tomorrow. He was suddenly in the mood to do a few watercolors.

Orchids abounded throughout the house, but there was a greater profusion of them in the solarium. His mother had always been addicted to orchids; and, even as a child, he too had been fascinated by them, by the intricacy of the flowers, the fantastical shapes of the petals, and the truly exotic colors.

He had grown up with orchids; there had always been a plethora of them in their farmhouse on the Yorkshire moors. Once a week he had helped his mother to water them, then put them in large metal bowls to drain.

“Sissy, sissy, sissy!” From a long way off, in the far reaches of his memory, he heard Nigel’s voice echoing down through the years. His elder brother had always teased him about watering the orchids with their mother. He hadn’t really cared; he had been independent even then. But his mother had cared when Nigel’s taunting had become a tiresome pattern, and his older sibling had been suitably punished.

Their mother had made Nigel clean all the lavatories at Aysgarth End, six in all, and he had had the last laugh, although he hadn’t dared to crack a smile. If he had, there would have been retribution of some kind. Nigel had been born a tough little bugger.

And nothing’s changed, he thought coldly.

Opening the door, Miles stepped out onto the covered porch, walked over to the balustrade, and stood looking out toward the distant hills. Kent was such a beautiful part of the world, his kind of country with its rolling wooded hills and crystal lakes. It reminded him of Yorkshire and of his childhood, a good part of which was spent there.

These days it was mostly Nigel who used Aysgarth End as a weekend home when he could get away from London, and for all the national holidays when they didn’t go to France to see Tamara’s parents. Certainly it was a marvelous spot to raise a family. When he went back to England he would go up there for a few days. He had long been planning to do an oil painting of Nigel’s two children, and he wanted to paint them against a moorland background.

Now the view of the distant Litchfield hills reinforced this idea, was quite inspirational in a way. His fingers suddenly itched to hold a brush; he would start tomorrow, do a few sketches of Natalie and Arnaud from memory. It would be the beginning of the portrait. The prospect pleased him.

Miles shifted his stance slightly and glanced down into the garden below. It looked dank and foggy, and the mere sight of the sunken rose garden stripped of all its summer radiance and color made him conscious of the cold weather. He turned away and went inside.

Drifting back to the great hall, he sat for a few moments in front of the fire, staring into the flames, thinking unexpectedly about Allison Grainger.

He had been startled, not to mention miffed, when Chloe had brought her name up in front of the others. He was loath to give his family anything to speculate about, even his mother, whom he adored. Nonetheless, like all mothers, she wanted to see him settled for life.

He liked Allison, liked her a lot in fact. She was a really great human being and a lovely young woman, and they had had a lot of fun together these past few months. But he did not want to spend the rest of his life with her—for a very simple reason. He was not in love with her.

In any event, he had learned his lesson today, and learned it well. Young Chloe wasn’t to be trusted. It was patently obvious that she was a little blabbermouth, and this disturbed him. She was always poking her nose into his business, and he was going to have to put a stop to that. He loved her, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but she didn’t know how to edit herself. Wasn’t it his fault though? He had let her into his life since he had been in New York. Oh, what the hell, he thought, no harm done, and I’d better keep my own mouth shut from now on. At least around baby sister.

Later, upstairs in his bedroom, Miles glanced around with satisfaction, noting the blazing fire, the bowl of fresh fruit, the bottled water, and the collection of magazines and newest books on a long library table behind the sofa.

His mother had always paid great attention to detail, and provided great comfort in her homes, thinking of everything. The perfect reading lamp stood close to the overstuffed armchair next to the fireside; a cashmere blanket was thrown over the back of the sofa; a plump duvet skimmed across the top of the big double bed; and naturally, orchids bloomed on tables in various corners.

She cossets, he suddenly thought, that’s exactly the right word. She did the same when we were children. She’s always done it, pampered us, and everyone else. “Smothers us, more like,” he heard Nigel’s voice say. He frowned, thinking of his brother once again. Nigel had developed a very acerbic tongue of late and could be quite vituperative. “It’s as if he’s bitter,” Miles muttered under his breath, walking over to the fireplace, standing with his back to the blazing logs. He had no clue what was wrong with Nigel; Gideon deemed him the man with everything, and this was true. He had a beautiful, intelligent wife, two marvelous kids, a successful career with a guaranteed future. And one day he would be the big cheese at Jardine and Company, the Crown Jewellers of London. But seemingly this wasn’t enough. What a fool his brother was.

Miles sighed, dragged his thoughts away from Nigel, and walked into the bathroom. After washing his hands, he ran a comb through his hair and then peered at himself. He saw a reflection of his parents gazing back at him. He had his mother’s dark, wavy hair, the same finely etched face, but he had inherited his father’s long, straight nose and vivid blue eyes. And, of course, he was a replica of his identical twin.

Gideon. He had been very much on his mind of late. He couldn’t understand what was ailing him. His brother was morose, moody, and depressed. Last week, when he was in London, he had attempted to talk to Gideon; but all he had got for his trouble was a flea in his ear. And several warning glances from his brother had finally made him back off completely. But there was something wrong with Gideon. As Derek, who was always quoting Shakespeare, would say: Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

6

“THE ACTOR PLAYING THE HEAVY BECAME SUDDENLY ill, and there we were, in the middle of the picture and in a mess, looking for a replacement, and, of course, everyone was mentally casting,” Derek explained to them, his marvelous voice echoing around the great hall.

“And,” he went on, “I happened to remark to the assistant producer that who we needed was Sydney Greenstreet. I told her that he’d be great as Redner, the villain. And she asked me who his agent was so that she could be in touch and try to hire him at once.”

Derek began to laugh. It was infectious. The others laughed with him, as always enjoying his anecdotes about the movies he had worked on. “Anyway, she was appallingly dense, the poor girl, and I’m afraid none of us could resist taking the mickey out of her. Most of the time too. Very young, of course. Too young for the job, as a matter of fact. Didn’t know that old Sydney had gone to meet his maker long ago. Doubt if she’d ever heard of him. Or seen The Maltese Falcon.”

“Or Casablanca,” Chloe volunteered. “I loved him in that.”

“So did I, darling girl,” Derek agreed, beaming at her.

Chloe beamed back. “Casablanca is my all-time-favorite movie. It’s awesome.”

“My favorite, too,” Miles said, and then, glancing at Derek, he remarked, “I had a similar sort of conversation the other day with one of the young women working in Wardrobe. I said that Deborah Kerr had been the greatest Anna ever, that she’d been brilliant in the part, and the girl just gaped at me, looking totally blank.”

Derek nodded, moved forward in the chair slightly, sounding serious. “Look here, I’m all for youth and a great booster of this generation, but some of these kids in their late teens and early twenties who are working in the theater and movies today seem awfully uninformed to me. Not a bit knowledgeable about the past, even the recent past.”

“Only too true,” Miles agreed. “It’s like they’ve landed from another planet.”

“Deborah was divine in The King and I,” Blair murmured.

“And so was Yul Brynner. They don’t make stars like that anymore,” Derek said quietly.

“Well, I wouldn’t go as far as that!” Blair exclaimed a trifle heatedly. “What about you, my love?”

Derek merely inclined his head and smiled at his wife.

Stevie said, “Mother’s right, of course, but I do know what you mean. So many of the great stars I love have retired or died.”

“Very gloomy thought indeed, my dear,” Derek answered. “And I must admit, I miss quite a number of them. Larry Olivier, Jack Hawkins, Duke Wayne, Bill Holden, but most especially Rich. God, we had some splendid times together. He was such an extraordinary man, an extraordinary talent. I remember when he was in Hamlet in the fifties. I think it was 1953, when he was with the Old Vic. Claire was in it with him, played Ophelia to his Hamlet. They were fabulous together. I went up to Edinburgh to see it, to see them. Rich was bloody marvelous. Miraculous.” There was a moment’s pause, and then Derek added softly, “I always envied him his voice, you know.”

“You did!” Miles sounded surprised, and he threw Derek a curious look. “But your voice is wonderful. Everybody remarks about it, Derek.”

“Thank you, Miles, however, it’s not as great as Burton’s was. Rich had…well, probably the greatest voice that’s ever been heard on the English stage. It was a thrilling voice, and it was much more sonorous and emotional than Larry’s, in my opinion anyway. It was the Celt in him, the Welsh in him, we love words so, us Welsh do. And as they always say in our native valleys of Wales, he had a bell in every tooth. Usually they say that about a singing voice, but it can be applied to a speaking voice as well, you know. As far as Rich was concerned, that is. His voice literally rang with feeling, and I for one could listen to him for hours.”

“As we all could, and did,” Blair reminded him.

“I think I’d better check with Cappi about lunch,” Stevie exclaimed, and rose, began to walk across the great hall. “I should find out how things are progressing. And anyway, they probably need a bit of help in the kitchen.”

“I’ll come with you, darling,” Blair murmured, and followed her daughter.

Chloe called, “Do you need me, Mom?”

“No, darling, we can manage, I’m sure,” Stevie answered over her shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.

Derek strolled across to the tray of drinks on a large Jacobean chest, picked up the bottle of white wine, and swung to face Miles, showing him the bottle. “Need yours topped up?”

“No thanks, Gramps, I’m fine.”

Derek poured himself another glass of the wine and then walked back to the fireside. He sat down on the sofa next to Chloe and, glancing across at Miles, he asked, “How’re the sets coming along for The King and I?”

“Pretty good, actually. It’s a fabulous play to work on, and I can really give my imagination free rein with this one. Temple bells and Buddhas, carved elephants, exotic fabrics, lots of gold and silver. And jewels. And vivid colors. All of those things that help to recreate the palace in Siam are really very visual, and have tremendous impact from the stage. And, I have to say, the costumes are sensational, especially Anna’s…all those lovely floating crinolines.”

“As a musical, it does take a lot of beating because it is such a fabulous play to look at, quite aside from listen to.” One of Derek’s brows lifted eloquently as he now asked, “How’s Martine Mason faring? How is she as Anna?”

“She’s good, Gramps, and so is Ben Tresner as the king. He may not be Yul Brynner, and Martine’s certainly no Deborah Kerr, but I think we’ve got a winning package.”

“And therefore a hit, presumably.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears, Gramps!” Chloe exclaimed.

The two men exchanged amused looks and laughed.

Cappi appeared suddenly in the great hall and beckoned to Chloe. “Your mother wants you to come and help us, nothing too complicated. We just need another pair of hands for a few minutes.”

“I don’t care if it is complicated, you know I’m very good at complicated things,” Chloe shot back, and ran across the room, exclaiming to her brother and grandfather, “Excuse me, I won’t be long, and please don’t talk about me while I’m gone.”

Again they laughed in amusement. Derek said, “You should be so lucky.”

Once they were alone, Miles rose, took a chair closer to Derek, and began. “I want to ask you something before Ma comes back from the kitchen.”

Derek looked at him with alertness, wondering what this was all about. “Go ahead, Miles old chap. I’m all ears. What’s troubling you? And I guess you are troubled, if the look on your face is anything to go by.”

“Yes, I am troubled. I’m worried about Gideon.”

“Oh.” Derek sat up straighter, giving Miles his full attention.

“I know you saw Gideon when he came to Los Angeles on business three weeks ago, and I just wondered what you thought. I mean—” Miles paused, cleared his throat, and went on. “What I mean is…well, what did you think about Gideon? His demeanor? His behavior?”

Without even having to think about this, Derek answered immediately. “He seemed relatively normal to me. But what are you driving at?”

“I saw him last week, when I was in London for a few days, and…well…frankly, I thought he seemed a bit under the weather, not himself at all.”

“I see. However, Miles, I can honestly say I didn’t notice anything different about him. No, not quite true, actually. He was a bit vague the second night we saw him for dinner. I’d even go so far as to say he was remote, and now that I think about it more carefully, he was somewhat distracted.”

“He was depressed when I was with him, and morose,” Miles said.

“He’s always been a bit gloomy, Miles, even as a child,” Derek pointed out. “You might look alike, but your personalities are very different.”

“I know. But listen, his moroseness has been more pronounced than usual. And you didn’t notice it then?” Miles stared at his grandfather.

Derek shook his head. “No, and neither did your grandmother, or she would have mentioned it to me. As I just said, he appeared to be distracted, as if he were preoccupied about something, and he was a bit distant. Looking back now, I remember I thought his mind must be on business. But that’s all.” Derek’s eyebrows furrowed. “Tell me something, why didn’t you want your mother to hear this conversation?”

“You know how she worries. And about everything.”

“Yes, but she’s always coped, no matter what’s been flung at her. And brilliantly so, I might add.”

“That’s true. But I didn’t want to bring Gideon up today, not on Thanksgiving. You know, it’s her most favorite holiday of all. I didn’t want to spoil it for her, voicing my concern about my twin.”

Derek was chuckling. “Oh, I know it’s her favorite holiday, and none of us has escaped it. Ever. I’ve eaten more of your mother’s turkey over the years than I care to remember, and it’s not even my favorite bird. I prefer duck, pheasant, or partridge any day. But she hasn’t ever listened to me, at least not about turkeys anyway.”

Miles half smiled, and wondered whether to bring up his elder brother. After a moment’s thought he decided he would do so, since Derek had always been his confidant, and like a father to him all his life. He said slowly, “Has Ma mentioned Nigel to you?”

“No, she hasn’t, but then, Blair and I haven’t seen her in New York. We’ve been back from Los Angeles only a few days, and she seems to have been awfully busy at Jardine’s. Is there something wrong with Nigel too, in your considered opinion, Miles?”

“No, not that I know of. However, Ma’s indicated to me a few times that she thinks he’s…sort of—” Cutting himself off, Miles hesitated, and then, dropping his voice an octave, he finished in a stage whisper, “Plotting against her.”

“Ah, I see.” There was a dramatic pause. Then, holding Miles with his eyes, Derek intoned, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

“I suppose there’s truth in that. Shakespeare always got it right, didn’t he? And you should know, you’ve been in enough of his dramas.”

A thoughtful look crossed the actor’s expressive face, and he was silent for a moment or two, and then he asked quietly, “Do you believe he’s plotting, Miles?”

“I…I just don’t know.”

“I know your mother. She doesn’t imagine things, she’s far too pragmatic for that. Therefore, if she thinks he is, then he is. Although, to be truthful, I’m damned if I know the reason he would do such a thing. After all, the business will be his one day.”

“Maybe he’s in a hurry.”

“I can’t imagine the reason.”

“Neither can I, Gramps.”

Derek sighed. “Ambition. Greed. The lust for power. It’s toppled many a throne, caused murder and mayhem on a grand scale. We’ve only got to look at the Plantagenets and the Tudors to understand that.” He shook his head, and a sad, rather regretful expression settled on his handsome face. “Nigel always was something of a mystery to me, Miles, I must admit. I never really understood him when he was a child. Nor did I understand his actions when he was a teenager. But then, that’s another story altogether, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I didn’t understand all that mess either.”

Derek stared off into space for a moment, lost in memories of the past, before saying eventually, “How is Nigel’s marriage? Is that all right? No problems with Tamara?”

“None as far as I know, and she’s a smashing girl. He’s bloody lucky to have her and those two great kids.”

“Ah, but does he know it, Miles?”

Miles shrugged, lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.

Derek averted his head, looked into the fire, lost in thought again.

After a moment Miles said, “Getting back to Gideon, I’ve been wondering if he’s upset about Margot. But then, why would he be, when he broke it off with her?”

“Could he possibly have regrets?” Derek suggested, turning to face Miles, looking directly at him.

“Maybe. But it wasn’t very good between them in the end. I think she was getting on his nerves. Margot always was something of a social butterfly, and you know Gideon’s not very keen on partying. He’s too serious, too dedicated to work.” Miles exhaled heavily. “Oh, God, I don’t know…and who knows what Gideon really thinks or feels? It beats me.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

Miles threw back his head and guffawed. “Oh, come on, Gramps, of course I have! And he bit my head off the last time I did.”

“Perhaps he’s just going through one of those phases all young men go through—at some time or other,” Derek said, thinking out loud. “Trying to find himself, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But more than likely, it’s woman trouble.” A brow lifted knowingly. “That’s usually what’s ailing men when they appear troubled and despairing but without any real reason to be so afflicted.”

“I suppose you’re right, Derek.”

A split second later, Chloe appeared in the archway of the great hall. “Coo-ee, coo-ee,” she called, waving frantically, trying to gain their attention. “It’s almost three-thirty and lunch is ready! Mom would like you to come to the dining room. Now, she says.”

“Her wish is our command, my darling.” Derek put down his glass and rose.

So did Miles.

Together the two men went to join her, and the three of them slowly made their way to the dining room.

7

IT WAS A FESTIVE LUNCH.

Everyone talked a lot and laughed and exclaimed about the good things offered to them, since by now they were all extremely hungry.

Cappi and her two helpers had prepared a truly memorable Thanksgiving lunch. There were all manner of delicious and succulent things to eat with the large, plump turkey—sweet potatoes with a marshmallow topping, mashed potatoes as well as potatoes roasted in the oven, and parsnips, red cabbage, cranberries, a thick, fragrant-smelling gravy, and, of course, Stevie’s famous, mouthwatering sage-and-onion bread stuffing.

Along with the turkey, Cappi had baked a Virginia ham and roasted a batch of quail, much to Derek’s amusement. He knew that these had been made in order to tempt him; after years of complaining to Stevie about her Thanksgiving turkeys, she had apparently taken the hint. And yet hadn’t he always explained to her that English turkeys were not as good as those to be found in America, an important point, since over the years most of her Thanksgiving meals had been served in London. He had been partially teasing her; she had taken his words to heart.

“A little of everything,” he told Cappi, who was hovering around the sideboard, where the turkey, ham, and quail were arrayed on large platters, alongside all the accompanying vegetables. “And only dark meat, please, if you’re giving me turkey.”

“And what about vegetables, Sir Derek?”

“Mashed potatoes would be lovely, and stuffing and gravy, but that’s it, thanks, Cappi. Must watch the waistline, you know.”

Miles moved slowly around the table, pouring the red Bordeaux, a Château Gruaud-Larose, his favorite Saint-Julien. It had been bottled in 1989, a good year, and he commented on this to Miles, who nodded and smiled. “Chosen specially for you,” Miles told him with a conspiratorial wink.

Chloe followed on her brother’s heels, filling their water glasses; Blair passed around the basket of homemade breads and Stevie offered cranberry sauce. Then at last they were all served, and they settled down to eat.

Derek ate slowly, savoring his food, saying a word or two occasionally. Mostly he listened, and observed everyone.

He was very content to be here today, enjoying this respite from his work, enjoying being with his family. Part of his family, at any rate. He could not help wishing Gideon were here, and Nigel and Tamara with their two children, and then they would have been complete. A true family all together under one roof for once.

This was his second family; long ago there had been his daddy and his mam, his brothers, Owen and David, and sister, Gwyneth. The family of his blood, whom he had loved so much when he was growing up in Ystradyfodwg, that little parish that was the Rhondda. The Rhondda…how he loved the sound of it, loved rolling the name around on his tongue. The place of his heart…where all his hopes and dreams had been born…another of the great industrial valleys of South Wales, where coal mining was the main industry.

The pit. The dreaded pit. The giver of wealth, the taker of life.

His daddy had worked in the pit all his life, from being a young boy until the day he died. Claimed by the pit. It was an explosion in the belly of the earth that took so many of their men and ravaged the town. His daddy had died with the others when the walls of the mine had collapsed and water had flooded the shafts.

His brother Owen had not been on the same shift as their daddy that day, and so, thankfully, he had been spared. Spared to become the breadwinner for them all.

It was because of his elder brother that he had been spared. Owen, and Gwyneth too, had seen something special in him when he was a boy. Eventually they had come to calling it “the gift,” and as it turned out, it was just that, something deep within himself that he could draw on and that would eventually take him to great heights as an actor, although he had not known it then. Nor had he or they known at that time exactly what this gift was, not really. They could not define it. But, very simply, his brother and sister had discerned something in him that made him different, lifted him high above the mediocrity of the crowd.

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