The Diamond Hunter

by Fiona McIntosh

  He could appreciate only now that Henry Grant was outstanding simply because of his unique, eclectic, and mostly flamboyant style, which flew in the face of that of his peers. Over this last year at Woodingdene he had come to appreciate that his father had clearly never been afraid of what others thought. His bank account had swelled his ego and that ego had given him untold confidence in his aesthetics. Giving Reggie his surname had perhaps been the ultimate show of arrogance. The house and its surrounds were the physical display of Henry’s taste, passion, art and furniture collecting, and indeed his forward thinking. The only person who had known his father well enough to tell Reggie more about him was sitting opposite, and he needed to try harder with her . . . especially now.

  Reggie waited, contemplating the view through the picture windows across the verdant valley that Woodingdene claimed as its own. Its beauty never failed to both inspire and somehow terrify him. Today shafts of sunlight made it look as though the angels had punched holes in the cloud to shine their pillars of golden glory only onto this place. He tried to persuade himself that the heavenly light was Louisa trying to reach him, comfort him. But Louisa was lying 6-feet deep in African soil and she was already six months lost.

  And it wasn’t despair he was feeling; it was rage.

  He’d not looked up at Lilian’s gasp as the letter paper rustled, or at the sound of her subsequent tears. She wouldn’t want him to see her so vulnerable and he felt amazed by his new generosity towards her.

  Her tears were brief; she was so different to his mother, who would have raged for hours. She would have needed to demonstrate all her sorrow in a passionate display of hysterical emotion that would have ended with a swoon and a need for smelling salts. A headache, bed, alcohol, drunken kisses to his face amid the liquor fumes – that’s how she’d been when she’d learned of Henry’s death. It hadn’t taken long, however, for her to find a wealthy new lover who could keep her as she preferred: fully entertained and with regular gifts of perfume, chocolates, silks and private parties.

  He watched her polar opposite swallowing, forcing the emotion back like staring down a pack of wolves. He didn’t like her, but her strength and countenance could be relied upon.

  Lilian’s few heartfelt tears had left a faint but telltale trace of their passage down her powdered cheeks. He stole a glance to watch her features rearrange themselves to form a new expression of pinched but controlled despair. There would be no more tears, he suspected. He wouldn’t waste them on the dead either. So that left two hollow, angry people who suddenly found themselves on the same side and with a decision to be made.

  He helped her. ‘Lilian, I think we both need some time to digest and come to terms with the contents of that letter. I’m wondering, would you join me for supper tonight and perhaps we might talk then, after some time to gather our thoughts?’

  ‘That’s a wise suggestion, Reggie. Yes, I shall see you this evening.’

  ‘Very good. I’m deeply sorry that we are facing this heartache but . . .’ What was he trying to say? Just say it! ‘No mother should outlive her child. Losing Henry took enough from you, Lilian, and I am genuinely saddened for your loss – for our loss.’

  Again, that intense stare took his measure; he could see she really was not yet ready to trust him but she was getting closer. She nodded. ‘Keep it simple this evening for I have no appetite.’

  She left, her gait stiff from a hip problem, but she carried herself as straight as if she walked with a broomstick hidden beneath her clothes. He thought of the few lighter colours she’d begun to introduce as she emerged from her role as a grieving widow: a dove-grey blouse and even, as of today, a hint of lavender over the darker skirts. These prettier colours would now be returned to the wardrobe and she would be back in the grieving blacks of the past year.

  ‘I’ll have a fire lit in the small drawing room – perhaps we can take a simple supper there,’ he offered to her back.

  She paused at the door. ‘No servants. Dismiss them for the evening. I don’t want people around me.’

  He understood. Everyone grieved in their own way.

  3

  Lilian’s hair had been redone, swept up into a bun almost on the top of her head but still leaning towards the back, with a black lace trim; he couldn’t fault her grip on fashion. How she achieved that volume Reggie couldn’t fathom. Women’s secrets intrigued him but he couldn’t permit himself to act upon his interests.

  ‘May I offer you a sherry, Lilian?’

  ‘Thank you.’ As she took a seat on the sofa opposite the fire, he watched her carefully position the bustle that hung beneath her waist and heard the thick black silk of her overskirt rustle against the many layers of petticoats that the frame supported. He couldn’t imagine wearing all that paraphernalia and was glad his only discomfort was the stiff, high, wing-tipped collar that poked the flesh beneath his jawline. He straightened his white tie as he reached for the heavy decanter.

  Lilian was bathed in a shaft of warm light from the vast circular lampshade that hung above the sofa, which trailed filigree flowers and glimmering tassels. It made her look all the more fragile.

  ‘Have you told the staff?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he answered in a careful tone, unsure of what she would want. ‘I thought tomorrow, after we’ve had a chance to compose ourselves.’

  That seemed to satisfy her, as her shoulders relaxed. ‘I’m glad Henry is not alive to share this pain. He was not a violent man but he was a vengeful one. I think he would have done violence to James Knight over this.’

  ‘I wish I’d known my father better, but he kept himself deliberately distant from me.’

  ‘When did he learn about you?’

  He held out an upturned triangle of crystal on a short stem containing a rich Spanish sherry, sweet and luscious. She took it and their fingers touched. He felt a strange thrill at this new turn in their relationship. ‘I think he knew from the outset. I have gathered that my mother was desperately unhappy to be pregnant.’

  ‘Ruined her figure?’

  ‘Curtailed her lifestyle, too.’

  She nodded. ‘How do you cope, knowing your mother was a prostitute?’

  Reggie let out a low breath. ‘She would describe herself as an escort, a mistress. I didn’t have to suffer it much. I was sent away to boarding school and —’

  ‘On our account, no doubt.’

  ‘My father insisted. I spent much of my childhood being raised by an institution – my only joys at age fourteen were my regular visits to Woodingdene, trying to know him, loving Louisa, wishing I could impress you. He had me trained in accounting. He said I might as well earn my keep and learn some of the family business.’

  ‘Did he, indeed?’

  ‘I chose none of this. I was born into the situation and I’ve tried not to overstep – the only reason I’m here now is because my father demanded it before he died.’

  ‘I know,’ she admitted wearily.

  ‘You have nothing to fear from me, or my mother – nothing to envy her for.’

  ‘Other than that she won my husband’s interest away from his wife, his home . . . and she gave him the son I never could?’

  There it was, he thought. The pillars of her pain. This was certainly proving to be a day of surprises. ‘And yet I am here and not with her. She lost everything. Could it be viewed that you gained something?’ The audacious remark was out before he could censor himself. His high collar felt like it might choke him.

  What he didn’t expect was laughter. ‘When you put it like that, I suppose you’re right. So, I win, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m here to look after Henry’s interests. I swear to you, Lilian, my mother will not see another penny of his money. If she needs help, it will come from my own investments.’

  ‘Can I trust the word of a Grant, though?’

  ‘This one, yes.’

  She sighed, sounding exhausted. ‘All right, Reggie. Let’s try, shall we? We can both trust ea
ch other on one matter for sure.’

  ‘Our love for Louisa,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. While I wondered about it in the early days, I had to accept that you both acted as close as a pair of siblings could be. Her love for you was genuine.’

  ‘As mine for her is . . . was . . . no, still is.’

  ‘I must trust that as much as my own instincts now, because I have to say that Henry gave no indication of any fondness towards you.’

  She knew just how to hurt. ‘Yes, it was confusing during childhood. He provided for me but he wanted nothing to do with me. Sent me away. Never visited. Never responded to my letters. I think it was only because Louisa accidentally discovered my existence that my name was ever mentioned aloud.’

  ‘I remember the day. We had the most fearful row. I left for the London house but Louisa refused to join me, which felt like a double betrayal. She was intrigued because she no longer had to be the only child of the Grants. If your father had been less loud about his wealth and achievements, it might have been easier on her.’

  He let out a small chuckle. ‘The day we met she came to my school in Sussex and said it was high time I shouldered some of the burden of being a child of Henry Grant.’

  Lilian smiled. ‘She was so good to everyone, wasn’t she? Nothing like Henry or me.’

  ‘The best of you both, I suspect.’ He reached for his whisky glass on the mantelpiece. ‘Is it wrong to drink to Louisa?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Then a toast to the most beautiful daughter a woman could love, and to the sister I worshipped.’

  She lifted her glass to him and sipped, her expression hard to fathom. He wondered if she murmured half-sister to herself, then dismissed the thought.

  ‘I know she hasn’t been around us for the past year and a half but I’m feeling her loss physically,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve had Mrs Archer make up a soup but frankly I don’t think I can.’ He glanced over at the china tureen sitting atop a small candlelit burner to keep it warmed, its ladle sitting idle beneath the lid.

  Lilian shook her head. ‘I cannot either.’

  Reggie moved back to stand near the marble fireplace, which might have been considered grand in another home but at Woodingdene was positively plain.

  ‘Louisa told me you’d collected these for her,’ he said, admiring the row of exquisitely fine porcelain vases on the mantelpiece, painted in delicate blue.

  ‘We did. We found them on our grand trip to the Orient.’ She shook her head at the memory, a bare smile lifting the corners of her lips. ‘He never tired of collecting whatever captured his fascination, and while some have unkindly accused my husband of lacking taste, I would suggest he wasn’t so much vulgar as unconventional.’

  ‘I gather he lived his life that way.’

  ‘He did. And I’m sorry I was only able to give him one child to share his vision.’

  ‘Her love for you both was vast.’

  ‘Not enough to hear our best advice,’ she said.

  Reggie moved quietly to sit in one of the creaky leather armchairs.

  ‘Even you were against the marriage to James,’ she continued. ‘In this her family was united.’

  He felt a trill of pleasure at Lilian describing him as family. ‘I hated him then, and now I have good reason to hate him twice as much.’

  ‘I wish he were dead and Louisa on her way home to us.’ There was no apology in her tone.

  Reggie had to agree. ‘He will never amount to anything. I suspect he’s lost his way as an engineer now, too – others will have overtaken him. He had his head in the clouds. He is not a bad person but his recklessness was always going to be his undoing.’

  ‘Not his undoing, however!’ she snapped, spilling a drop of sherry on the silk of her dress. If she noticed, she didn’t react. ‘Ours! I don’t care if he’s grieving. I hope he never recovers from his grief. He’s left me childless; he’s left that beautiful little girl motherless and all because he’s a selfish, careless nobody with no sense of responsibility or duty to anyone but himself.’ She began to cough, losing breath, and Reggie leapt to his feet to fetch a small glass of water.

  ‘Here, Lilian, drink this. Please calm yourself.’

  She took the glass with a trembling hand, greedily drinking all of its contents. ‘Thank you,’ she choked out. ‘Forgive me. I promised myself I would not show my upset.’

  ‘No one who matters is watching.’

  She paused, considering his words. Finally, she looked up, and the orange warmth of the fire seemed to make her glow with a halo. ‘Except you do matter now, Reggie. Much as it galls me to admit this, you’re my ally – the only person I feel I can count on.’

  He had to run the words through his mind again, not quite believing he had heard her correctly. ‘That must be hard to admit.’

  ‘More than you can possibly imagine, but we are now at a terrifying juncture and I need you, Reggie.’

  He blinked. How astonishing. Was that pleading in her tone?

  ‘I realise this is all rather surprising,’ she continued, ‘but there’s something you should know. I wasn’t going to tell anyone until . . . well, it doesn’t matter. My hand has been forced.’

  He wished he’d brought his whisky from the mantelpiece and could sip it now. ‘What is it?’ He took the risk of seating himself beside her, close enough to smell her violet toilet water.

  ‘I’m dying, Reggie.’ Lilian let the words hang between them for a couple of heartbeats. ‘I’ve known for a while. I never did tell Henry – there never seemed to be the right moment. My physician has assured me it’s inoperable, nor would I wish to go through the necessary surgical procedure. I have an aggressive cancer – any invasive treatment might only hold off the inevitable for a year, perhaps two.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, finding it hard to believe how disconcerting the news was. He’d wished her dead only hours before but now felt a profound rage that she was going to oblige him just as they’d built this important bridge. ‘How long do you have?’

  ‘Who knows? A few months, perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, Lilian.’

  Unlikely though it seemed, she placed a hand on his. He glanced down, startled, trying not to show it, and stared at the pale claw. ‘Don’t pity me, Reggie. I’ve made my peace with it, and with Henry gone and now today’s news I have to admit it all feels suddenly easier to let go. There’s not much to live for.’

  ‘But . . .’ He waved his free hand pointlessly.

  ‘This?’ She chuckled. ‘Woodingdene was always Henry’s folly. I enjoyed his money, Reggie, I won’t lie, but living so far north, close to Scotland?’ Lilian gave a soft snort. ‘I’ve got the south in my soul – I was born just outside London. I do miss the city and the theatre. I enjoy restaurants and a social life, not this rural existence. But it was bearable because we were a family and because I had Henry.’

  ‘Move to London,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘If I weren’t dying, perhaps I would. But it suddenly feels like a lot of bother for a few months. I’m already feeling fatigued and it’s going to get worse, and I have good help here.’

  ‘I’m sorry’ was all he could manage to say.

  ‘I was thinking this afternoon that the news of Louisa takes away all those decisions I was facing. Suddenly there’s only one that matters now and the rest can just take their natural course.’

  ‘Can I help you with the one that matters?’

  ‘It’s why I am eating humble pie before you now – why I am prepared to hand over to you all responsibility for Woodingdene and my husband’s affairs as of tonight. It’s why I am seated here taking sherry and to all intents behaving towards you as though we were mother and son. It’s why I need you, Reggie. I need a single favour from you and then I can die.’

  This was a little dramatic for his comfort but he couldn’t escape the intensity of her gaze or how hard she was squeezing his hand.

  ‘Whatever you need,’ he offered, hoping he wou
ldn’t live to regret her dying wish.

  ‘Thank you.’ She actually smiled at him. ‘Do this for me, Reggie, and you’ll have full control of the Grant empire.’

  She knew how irresistible that sounded and every inch of his body responded to its seduction.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to sail for Africa immediately and, if you can, bring home the body of my daughter, to bury her alongside her father. If you can’t, there’s something more important. I want you to bring home Clementine.’

  His gaze narrowed. ‘Can we not send for —?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘This must be done in person. I entrust this duty and responsibility to you as head of the family.’

  Head of the family. What a ring that had to it. ‘All right,’ he replied, his thoughts ranging ahead to all that her request entailed. ‘Exhuming Louisa and bringing her home are not impossible. There will be questions and —’

  ‘You can fix it! Make arrangements now.’

  He nodded, and blew out a low breath. ‘But bringing Clementine home? That’s not at all straightforward, Lilian. I would be removing her from her father and presumably he will not consent to that.’

  She surprised him with a second smile but it was a sly one. ‘I really don’t care how you gain his permission, Reggie, or even if you do not.’ There was a sinister note in there but he had no time to focus on it. ‘Besides, you don’t know what he wishes for her. I read the letter too. James is deep in his own grief – his handwriting gives us a bleaker clue to his state of mind. Is a drunk a good role model for a child? Is a father down a diamond mine any use either? He talks about some black man looking out for Clementine. A black! “A Zulu warrior”, he writes, as though that should impress us and not terrify the living breath out of us!’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’