He glanced at the book wryly. It was a long time since he’d needed anything to keep his mind from straying to a woman. Don’t get involved, Jack. It’ll only mean trouble, a little voice inside him warned. But his gut told him otherwise, and Jack always followed his gut.
3
The visceral attachment to Dunbar that India was experiencing had caught her wholly by surprise. Considering she’d never lived or spent any long periods of time here, she was unable to fathom why everything felt so strangely familiar. She hadn’t been back much since her childhood, yet she felt at home, as though part of her being had remained fettered here all these many years. It was like a colorful tapestry and she a silken thread, woven into the intricate pattern that reached deep into Dunbar’s soul.
She wandered through the picture gallery and gazed up at the portrait of Lady Helen, her great-grandmother. Something in the soft hazel eyes spoke of wisdom and understanding, as though Lady Helen were telling her not to worry, to go on her way in peace. India found herself smiling back.
Moving silently in the early-morning hush, she went from room to room, etching each detail to memory. This was a special moment, possibly one of the last she would ever spend here.
The thought of the estate being sold made her cringe. Walking through the house with Jack yesterday had brought home just how much Dunbar really meant to her, and she wondered for the umpteenth time what its final destiny would be. Even if Serena inherited, would she be prepared to keep up the property, to put in the time and work it would take? She considered her half sister for a moment and sighed. Probably not. If the past was anything to go by, Serena would sell and be out of there before she could say Jack Robinson.
She reached her mother’s bedroom, gently twisting the handle of the large oak door. The tranquillity within the lavender-scented room remained intact, as though Lady Elspeth were merely out for a while. The bottle of Yardley’s scent she’d perfumed her handkerchiefs with stood on the skirted dressing table. Beside it stood the Charles of the Ritz face creams, next to the crystal container of cotton wool.
India trailed her fingers nostalgically over the chintz counterpane, stopping to gaze around the room, reliving for a heartfelt moment the ever-present images of her mother. Then she looked through the frosty panes at the fresh snow covering the lawn. The white blanket shimmered under the silver rays of winter sunshine, playing a silent game of hide-and-seek with the ponderous clouds traveling south toward the hills beyond. It was a peaceful sight and she stood for a while gazing at the Dunbar oak, standing regal and alone.
William, the first Dunbar to settle here, had planted the tree in 1280. Suddenly she remembered her mother repeating his pledge, which had been handed down from generation to generation: While the oak tree stands, a Dunbar will always walk this land.
India drew her eyes away sadly. If the property were sold, William’s vow would be broken. The scene reminded her of the Constables and other paintings hanging on the drawing-room walls. One in particular came to mind, and she wondered how many of them would have to be sold to cover the taxes and death duties she knew would be crippling.
As she was about to leave, India caught sight of the small writing desk Lady Elspeth had used for her private correspondence. An uncapped fountain pen lay on a sheet of half-written writing paper. She crossed the room and picked up what appeared to be an unfinished letter, realizing with a start that it was addressed to her.
My dearest India,
I am sending this off to you today, for I am most distressed. I am suffering from a dreadful dilemma and need to speak to you urgently. Please come to Dunbar as quickly as you can. I’d call, but I’m afraid I will be overheard. You need to be aware—
The letter was cut short, as though Lady Elspeth had been interrupted. India frowned, glancing at the date. The letter had been written on the day of her mother’s death. What could possibly have been troubling Lady Elspeth so deeply? What was this fear of being overheard? India took the note and, folding it carefully, slipped it into her jacket pocket, frowning. She couldn’t allow herself to think about this now. Later, after the funeral, she’d try to piece things together.
The house was still quiet as she descended the main staircase and headed to the breakfast room, trying to shake off the troubling sensation the note had left.
Reaching the door, she took a deep breath and straightened the skirt of her black Chanel suit, hoping Serena was still in bed, and that she might have the place to herself before the onslaught later that morning.
But no such luck awaited her. Serena lounged at the table, one leg flung carelessly over the arm of the next chair. She looked up as India entered.
“Good morning.” She waved languidly to a chair at the table and lit a cigarette. “Have some breakfast, God knows we’ll need it. Kathleen was in here a few minutes ago bumbling on about Ian and that lawyer Ramsey being here at ten. You know, I don’t know how Mummy stood Kathleen around her the whole time. She can be such a bore. The way she goes on, you’d think she owned the place,” she added resentfully.
India murmured good morning, then sat down, listening to Serena with half an ear. She wasn’t hungry, but the last thing she needed was her tummy rumbling throughout the reading of the will.
She opted for toast and went to the sideboard, placing two pieces of bread in the toaster. Serena seemed preoccupied, but over the years India had become used to her sudden changes of mood. One minute Serena could be effusive, the next sarcastic. Now she seemed far away.
India watched the toast pop up, thinking how odd it was to have the same parent, yet feel so distant. It made her suddenly sad, especially now that only they remained.
“Toast,” Serena exclaimed suddenly, making India jump. “Not a bad idea. Pop in a piece for me, will you?” She stubbed out the last of her cigarette in an empty glass of orange juice, and reached down her leg. “I tripped on that wretched carpet in the hall. It’s all ragged at the edge. Almost broke my leg. In fact, I think I’ve twisted my ankle.” She grimaced and rubbed her shin gingerly. “Funny finding Jack Buchanan here,” she continued as though the subject were one and the same. “Do you know he hardly even thanked me when I dropped him off at Dalkirk? I thought it was damn nice of me to go out on such a filthy night. Some people are thoroughly bad-mannered—but I suppose they’ve never been taught otherwise. By the way, what did you think of him?” She glanced at India. “He’s Peter Kinnaird’s partner, you know. Stinking rich, of course. I’m surprised someone hasn’t nabbed him yet.”
“Perhaps he’s involved,” India remarked, returning to the table and handing Serena the silver toast rack.
“Not him! He’s very much the ladies’ man. That I can assure you,” she said with a sly smirk. “Not your style though, I shouldn’t think. He’s more the let’s get straight to it type, which I’m sure you’d disapprove of.”
“It’s nothing to me what or who he is,” India replied indifferently.
“Just don’t get your fingers burned, darling. I saw the way he was eyeing you. He’s tough as nails, you know, but between you and me, he’s a damn good fuck.”
India set her teacup back in the saucer with a snap. “Serena, I don’t care if he’s God’s gift to women. All that concerns me right now is Mummy’s funeral and what’s happening later on this morning. I think you might show a little more respect.”
“Oh, la-di-da. Excuse me for offending your sensibilities.” Serena cast her a sarcastic look. “Anyway, what matters now is getting the will business dealt with,” she exclaimed in a very different tone.
“Do you have any idea how things stand?”
“No.