Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (4 page)

“Forgive me, my darling. Say that you forgive me.”

Caitlin closed her eyes and swallowed back the tears. All she could think about was how her mother had been lying to her for fifteen years. It was too much for her to process. But she knew she had to.

“It’s all right, Mam,” she said finally, opening her eyes. “I understand.” She took a deep breath, turned around. “I forgive you.”

The final word died in her throat. She stared down at her mother. Katie’s lips were parted, as though she was just about to say something, but her eyes stared ahead unseeing. It was too late for forgiveness.

Caitlin sat with the body as long as she could. Finally the staff nurse persuaded her to get a cup of tea. She was on her way back to the ward when she spotted him—a tall, well-dressed man, talking to the head
nurse. He must have sensed her presence, because he looked up. For a moment his expression faltered.

“Katie?” he said.

The refined English voice left her in no doubt as to who he was.

“No. It’s Caitlin.”

“I thought—”

Caitlin nodded. She had seen enough pictures of her mother as a young girl to know that it was an easy mistake to make. He hadn’t seen her mother for sixteen years. To him, she hadn’t aged a day since then.

“She’s already gone,” she told him.

William Melville booked into the Grand, the hotel where her mother had worked, and took charge of organizing the funeral. The more Caitlin saw of him that week, the harder it was to believe that he was her father. It was harder still to understand how her mother had ever gotten entangled with him. She’d insisted that they had loved each other. So far, in the few days Caitlin had known him, William had been far more reticent about their relationship.

On the day of the funeral, he maintained a dignified distance, standing discreetly to one side during the service and burial. Caitlin half-expected him to leave right afterward, but, to her surprise, he came to the Clover Leaf for the reception. The pub was packed by the time they got there, everyone tucking into plates of sausage rolls and ham sandwiches. All the men were settling in, having a good drink at someone else’s expense. William—Caitlin couldn’t yet bring herself to call him “Father” and he hadn’t invited her to—looked stiff and uncomfortable throughout the increasingly raucous proceedings.

By five, everyone began drifting home.

Róisín came over to Caitlin. “We’re off outside. Are you coming?”

Caitlin saw a group of girls lurking by the door. They’d been let out of school for the occasion and were aching to get away from the adults. Caitlin longed to go with them, to forget everything for a little while. But she saw William standing nearby and guessed he was waiting to talk to her.

“I’ll be out in a bit,” she said reluctantly.

Róisín went to join the others. The girls had been staring unashamedly at William all afternoon. His identity was meant to be a secret, but Caitlin guessed that Róisín had told everyone. Best friend or not, she
never could keep anything to herself. William didn’t seem bothered by the interest, though. He didn’t even mention it when he took Caitlin over to one side, away from curious eavesdroppers.

“I have to get back to England now,” he informed Caitlin, “but I’ll be in touch with Nuala in a few days to arrange your flight.”

“Flight?”

“Yes,” he said briskly. “I presumed you’d want a few weeks here, to finish off the school term and say goodbye to your friends. Then you’ll come to England—to live with me and my family.”

This was the first Caitlin had heard of it. “But I don’t want to leave Valleymount.” She noticed Nuala hovering in the background. Whenever her mother had gone into the hospital, Nuala had kindly taken her in. Caitlin had assumed that now her mam was gone, she would continue to live there.

“You can’t stay here alone, Caitlin,” William told her.

“But Aunty Nuala—”

“Nuala isn’t family,” he interrupted. “I am.”

Caitlin glanced over at Nuala, who tried to give her a reassuring smile. But Caitlin could tell that the older woman was as unhappy about the arrangements as she was. Unfortunately, neither of them seemed to have any choice in the matter. If William Melville wanted her to come and live with his family, then she would have to.

Later that night, Caitlin lay awake in bed. Across the room, Róisín snored gently. It was a sound she’d gotten used to these past few weeks, when sleep had stopped being easy to come by. Watching her mother grow weaker, being in constant pain, the morphine no longer working . . . those images were hard to forget. But none of that could compare with today. Seeing her mother in the open casket, looking the same as she always had, but knowing that she
wasn’t
the same. Knowing that the body was simply an empty shell and that however much it resembled her mam, it wasn’t her.

The memory set off her tears again. Rolling over to face the wall, Caitlin covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the sobs, so she didn’t wake Róisín. Her friend had been brilliant these past weeks. She couldn’t count the number of times Róisín had sat up with her, had held her while she cried. Nuala, too.

And now she was going to have to leave them, and the village that
she had grown up in, the people that she thought of as her family, and the house that had become her home—she was going to have to leave everything that connected her to her mam. And, instead, go to live with a father she didn’t know, who hadn’t even known that she existed until two weeks ago, in a place she knew nothing about.

“Mam, why did you have to tell him about me?” she whispered into the darkness.

The thoughts brought a fresh wave of angry tears, and the guilt and confusion that came with them. Sleep was a long time in coming that night.

_________

S
OMERSET
, E
NGLAND

Elizabeth Melville smashed the ball across the court, determined to make this the winning shot. But James Evans, her tennis coach, ran forward and managed to intercept it with a smooth backhand. She returned with a volley, and their lightning-quick rally continued.

They had been playing for an hour and a half now, in the blistering mid-afternoon heat, neither of them willing to yield a point. To the casual onlooker, James had every advantage in the game. At six foot two, he was four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Elizabeth. But the girl possessed one important quality that he lacked: a burning desire to win.

Long golden hair swished and tanned limbs rippled as she drove home another strong forehand. Caught offguard at the net, James sprinted back to catch it. But he was a fraction too slow, and it bounced out of his reach.

Elizabeth let out a triumphant whoop. “Game, set, and match, I believe,” she called across the court.

James shook his head in mock despair. “What’s that—the third time this week? You’re making me feel old, Elizabeth.”

She laughed. The one-time seeded player had celebrated his fortieth birthday a month earlier, but he was still in great shape, and they both knew it.

“That’s right,” she teased. “It’s time to put you out to pasture.”

They strolled up the great stone steps that separated the tennis courts from the rest of the grounds, chatting and laughing with the ease of two people who had known each other for years. James had first
started coaching Elizabeth when she was five. She’d stopped needing his help long ago, but whenever she was home from school he dropped by, “to keep you on your toes,” he always joked.

Not that he ever minded coming out to Aldringham, the magnificent stately home Elizabeth’s great-grandfather had purchased over one hundred years ago. Located in the rolling Quantock Hills of Somerset, overlooking the Bristol Channel and the Welsh valleys beyond, it was a quintessentially English estate, complete with croquet lawns, hidden walks, and a deer park. James had been a guest in many exclusive homes, but Aldringham remained by far the most impressive.

He and Elizabeth headed up to the Georgian orangery, which stood adjacent to the main house. In the citrus-scented room, they found a jug of homemade lemonade that Mrs. Hutchins, the housekeeper, had left out for them. James flopped into the nearest chair, content to watch Elizabeth pour the drinks. She handed him a glass and sat down opposite, crossing her long, shapely legs at the knee and looking every inch the well-brought-up young lady.

At seventeen, Elizabeth was smart, poised, and fiercely competitive. Whether it was on the tennis court or in the classroom at her exclusive boarding school, she had to be the best. A statuesque blonde, she wasn’t beautiful exactly—her nose was a little too long, her chin too pointed—but she
was
attractive, in that slightly snotty, untouchable English way. There was something about her—a cool inner confidence, a sense of total self-possession unusual in someone her age. James could just imagine her in bed, snapping out orders at some hapless boy, refusing to settle for anything other than the perfect orgasm. The thought made him grin.

Elizabeth smiled back. “What nasty little thoughts are going through your head?”

He ignored her almost uncanny ability to read his mind and instead asked the question that had been bugging him all afternoon. “Actually, I was wondering when your half sister is arriving. It’s sometime today, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth’s expression didn’t waver. “That’s right,” she said neutrally.

James was disappointed, but not surprised, that she wasn’t giving anything away. Like everyone else, he had read about William Melville’s love child in the tabloids. Elizabeth must have taken the news hard—
he knew how much she looked up to her father. But so far she hadn’t let on how she felt toward the new arrival. She was one cool customer.

Before James could probe any further, a shadow fell over the table. He looked up to see William Melville standing above them. He was in his weekend smart-casual look: carefully pressed chinos, button-down shirt, and loafers. But dressing down didn’t make him seem any less imposing.

“Daddy!” Elizabeth beamed up at him, her adoration clear.

“Elizabeth,” he said, in his typical restrained manner. James noted that William didn’t bother to acknowledge him—the hired help, he thought cynically. “Caitlin will be arriving here shortly. I’ve told your mother to have Amber ready and in the drawing room by four. I expect you to be there, too.”

The smile vanished from Elizabeth’s face. “Of course,” she said, holding out her hand to study perfectly manicured nails. “But we’ve just finished a game, so I need to take a shower first.”

“Well, make it quick,” William ordered. “Caitlin is part of our family now, and I want everyone to be there to meet her.”

Elizabeth dropped her gaze. “Yes, Daddy.”

It was said almost apologetically, but James wasn’t fooled for a second. He saw the faintest flicker of emotion cross Elizabeth’s face as she watched her father head back to the house. Irritation, he decided; anger even. It was there for a second and then gone. If he hadn’t known her so well, he would have missed it.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me now, James,” she said, as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. “But let’s make sure to have that rematch next week.”

“Whenever you want,” he said, wishing he could stick around and see for himself what this new addition to the Melville household was like.

Elizabeth stood up and smoothed down her tennis skirt. “Good. Now why don’t I show you out?”

Upstairs, from her bedroom window, Isabelle Melville watched her eldest daughter follow her husband into the house. She knew why William had summoned Elizabeth in. And she also knew that she should be making her way downstairs to join them. But she needed a few more moments to compose herself.

She walked over to her dressing table and peered into the vanity mirror, trying to decide what—if any—makeup she needed. At forty-two, she was still an attractive woman. With her fair coloring and delicate build, she was lucky enough to have the kind of English-rose looks that aged well. There were a few telltale creases around her eyes and mouth, but she had stopped trying to cover them up a long time ago, deciding they added character to what would otherwise be a beautiful but somewhat bland face.

After a few seconds’ thought, she opted for the natural look—a light covering of tinted moisturizer and the barest lick of lip gloss. It went well with the cream linen suit that she had picked out for the occasion. She had felt it was appropriate, smart but not too formal—although who knew what the etiquette was for meeting your husband’s illegitimate daughter.

Fortunately for Isabelle, it wasn’t in her nature to be bitter. A lesser person might have objected to having another woman’s child come to live in her home. But she had accepted the situation without question, her main concern being for the poor young girl who had just lost her mother. She supposed it helped that over the years her relationship with William had matured into one of friendship. Not that she had fooled herself into believing that it had ever been a love match—well, not on William’s part, at least.

Isabelle had known William all her life. Her father—one of Melville’s main cotton suppliers—had been great friends with his mother Rosalind, and their families had frequently socialized. Growing up, Isabelle had always been fascinated by the enigmatic William Melville. To a girl of thirteen, the dashing twenty-one-year-old Cambridge undergraduate had been the stuff of adolescent crushes.

By the time she turned eighteen, Isabelle suspected she’d already been half in love with William. He’d had little time for her, though; she was far too frivolous for his tastes. While many of her friends had embraced the sixties’ feminist spirit—striking out for careers as doctors, lawyers, and businesswomen—Isabelle never harbored any such ambitions. Her greatest achievement in life was making her debut, at a time when that no longer meant very much. She was aware that William, who was even then a very serious young man, found her terribly silly.

That all changed the year she turned twenty-three. At the ball held to celebrate her birthday, for the first time ever William had sought her
out, dancing with her and paying attention to her in a way she couldn’t remember him doing before. That summer, he escorted her to the social events of the season—Henley and Ascot; Goodwood and Glyndebourne. At the time, Isabelle hadn’t wanted to question his change of heart. It was easier to assume that she had simply matured in his eyes; that he was finally seeing her for who she really was. But looking back now, she could see that it was Rosalind, her formidable mother-in-law, who had encouraged their courtship. Isabelle guessed that, to Rosalind, she would have seemed like the perfect choice of wife for William: a pretty, docile little thing—and, most important, sole heir to her father’s factories.