Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Gran Rosalie, with her pretty pink complexion and snow-white hair piled high on top of her head, was sitting there so proudly, with such dignity, on the bench in front of the round table.

  She was pouring tea from her old brown china pot with the chip on the lid, which she would not throw away because she said it made the best tea. Gran was telling me stories about this lovely old house, Ridgehill, which had been in her family for generations. Built in 1799, it had been passed down from mother to daughter and had always been owned by a woman, never a man. That was the stipulation in the will of Henrietta Bailey, my great-great-great-great-grandmother. It was she who had built the house with her own money and who had been one of the most powerful matriarchs of the Baileys. My gran was a Bailey, descending directly from her; Bailey was even part of my name.

  My grandmother had the most beautiful of voices, cultured, lilting, full of musicality. She was reminding me that one day the house would be mine. Carefully, she explained about Henrietta and her will, told me how my amazing ancestor had wanted the women of the Bailey family always to be protected. So the house must pass from mother to daughter, even if there were sons. If there were no daughters then the house passed to the wife of the eldest son. I loved to hear the history of my family. I cherished Gran’s marvelous tales . . .

  My mother was here now . . . all golden-light and brightness, a shimmering kind of woman with her abundance of red-gold hair, perfect, milky skin, and startling green eyes. His emerald eyes, my father called them.

  Now he was with us too . . . the Irishman. Black Irish, Liam Delaney was, my gran told me that. Black Irish and something of a charmer, a twinkling rogue of a man, a man whom women fell for at the drop of a hat, at least so my gran said to me time and again when I was growing up.

  He was tall and dark, with rosy cheeks, sparkling brown eyes, and a brogue as rich as thick clotted cream. The Black Irishman, the twinkling rogue, had been a writer. I suppose I have inherited his penchant for words, his flair for stringing them together so that they make some sort of sense. His had been a powerful gift; I’m not so sure that mine is of quite the same magnitude. Gran always said that if it wasn’t, then it was only because I hadn’t kissed the Blarney Stone in County Cork, as my father had claimed to have done. Gran used to say it was surely the truth, for no one else she knew had such wondrous powers of persuasion as he.

  He left us, though, my father did, one day many summers ago, telling us he would be back within three months. But he never did return, and I have no idea to this day whether he is dead or alive. I was ten years old when he went off on that journalistic forage for new material, traveling into the far, far blue horizons of the world. Twenty-six years ago. Perhaps he was dead by now.

  My mother had been sad at first; she had cheered up only when his letters began to arrive at regular intervals. She read parts of them to me as they came in one by one; but only small portions, skipping the intimate bits, I suspect. I’ve been brought up to believe that my father was quite a man with the fancy words, especially when it came to wooing women.

  First he was in Australia, then he went to New Zealand, and finally he left the Antipodes and traveled to Tahiti. Fiji was another port of call as he wandered around the Pacific, God knows in search of what. Other women? More exotic women? Not long after my mother received a letter from him postmarked Tonga communications had abruptly ceased. We never heard from him again.

  When I was small I used to think that my mother was suffering from a broken heart, that she was endlessly yearning for my father. I had not known then that eighteen months after Liam Delaney had set sail for those exotic isles of Micronesia, she was already falling in love with Sebastian Locke.

  Now, leaning forward on the bench, I squinted slightly, narrowing my eyes, peering out into the sunlit garden . . .

  In my mind’s eye I saw him quite clearly, walking across the lawn toward me, just the way he had done all those years ago.

  Sebastian Locke, heading in my direction, long-limbed, slender, the embodiment of nonchalant grace, walking toward me.

  That summer’s afternoon, the first time I ever set eyes on him, I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He was far more handsome than my father, which was saying a lot indeed. Sebastian was tall and dark-haired like my father, but whereas Liam’s eyes were velvet-brown and depthful, Sebastian’s were a clear, vivid blue, the brightest of blues. Like bits of sky, I recall thinking that day, and they had a piercing quality to them. It was as if they could see right through you, as if they could see into your mind and heart. I really believed he knew exactly what I was thinking; even last Monday I had thought the same thing over lunch.

  Sebastian was wearing white gabardine pants and a pale blue shirt on that stifling July day in 1970. The shirt was made of voile, almost flimsy in weight. I’ve liked voile shirts on men ever since. The shirt was open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, and his face and arms were tan. His body was tanned as well. I could see it through the voile. He was a lithe man, very fit, athletic.

  He had leaned against the posts of the gazebo and smiled at me. His teeth were very white and even in his sun-bronzed face, his mouth sensitive, and the vivid eyes were set wide apart in that arresting face.

  Those eyes regarded me unblinkingly and with great interest for a few seconds. It was when he said, “Hello, young lady, you must be the famous Vivienne,” that I had felt myself becoming hot around my face and neck. Then he had stretched out his hand toward me. As I had taken it he had nodded slightly, as though acknowledging me yet again. He held onto my hand much longer than I expected, and as I looked up into that open, clean-cut face, my own very serious in its expression, my heart had skipped several beats.

  And of course I had fallen hopelessly in love with him. I was all of twelve years old at the time, but I felt much older on that particular day. Very grown up. After all, it was the first time a man had actually made me blush.

  Sebastian was thirty-two but looked much younger, extremely boyish and carefree. Vaguely, I somehow knew that he was the kind of man women automatically gravitate to; somehow I understood that he had charisma, sex appeal, that je ne sais quoi the French forever talk about.

  In any case I was all agog over him. I never did get him to admit it to me, but I was certain he felt something special for me that day.

  On the other hand, he might have liked me simply because I was the daughter of my mother, the beauteous Antoinette Delaney with whom he was having a grand love affair at the time.

  That afternoon, when he had sauntered up the steps of the gazebo and seated himself next to me, I had known he was going to play a huge part in my life, in my future. Don’t ask me how the young girl that I was then sensed this. She just did.

  We had talked about horses, which he knew scared me to death. He had asked me if I would like to come to Laurel Creek Farm in Cornwall to learn to ride.

  “I have a son, Jack, who’s six, and a daughter, Luciana, who’s four. They’re already astride their ponies and doing well. Say you’ll come and ride with us, Vivienne, say you’ll come and stay at the horse farm. Your mother’s a fine equestrienne, as you well know. She wants you to ride as proficiently as she does. You mustn’t be afraid of horses. I will teach you how to ride myself. You’ll be safe with me.” He was correct in that, I did feel safe with him, and he did teach me to ride well, showing much more patience and understanding than my mother. And I loved him all the more for that.

  A long time later, many years later, I realized he had been trying to make us into a family, that he had wanted my mother for himself. For always. But how could she have been his forever? She was married to Liam Delaney, and he had gone missing far across the ocean. Until she got a divorce she could never remarry. Not Sebastian. Not anyone.

  Still, Sebastian had tried to blend us into a tight-knit little circle, and in certain ways he succeeded.

  That afternoon, staring up at him, I had only been able to nod mutely as he talked about horses
, tried to reassure me about learning to ride. I was rendered speechless by this man, totally mesmerized by him.

  I was under his spell.

  And I was forever after, for that matter.

  It was Belinda who broke into my memories and my golden dreams, who scattered my beloved ghosts to the far corners of Gran Rosalie’s garden.

  “Vivienne, Vivienne!” she called as she hurried down the path, waving frantically. “It’s the New York Times. They’re on the phone.”

  I leaped to my feet on hearing this and raced toward her. We met in the middle of the lawn. “The New York Times?” I repeated, searching her face, my heart sinking.

  “Yes, they’ve gotten wind of it . . . wind of Sebastian’s death. They seem to know that the police were called in, that the circumstances are suspicious. Etcetera, etcetera. Anyway, the reporter wants to have a word with you.”

  The mere thought of tomorrow’s headlines around the world sent a chill surging through me. And of course there would be headlines. A famous man had died, a man of conscience and compassion . . . the world’s greatest philanthropist. And he might have been murdered. I shrivelled inside at the mere thought of those headlines. The press would turn his life upside down and inside out. No one, nothing, would be sacrosanct.

  “The reporter wants to talk to you, Vivienne,” Belinda said more urgently, taking hold of my arm. “He’s waiting.”

  “Oh God,” I groaned. “Why me?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Why me?” I repeated later that evening, staring up at Jack.” Why did you elect me to be the spokesperson for this family?”

  He had just arrived for supper a few minutes ago, and we were in my small den at the rear of the house, a room he preferred: It was intimate, warm, with its red brocaded walls and old Persian carpet. He hovered in front of me, his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets.

  Returning my stare, seemingly at a loss, he did not answer. Then shaking his head in a thoughtful way, he started to speak, stopped, frowned, and pursed his lips.

  “Well, Vivienne,” he said at last, “I’m not sure why.” He shook his head again. “Liar,” he said emphatically. “I’m a liar. And a coward. That’s why I sicked the Times on you. I didn’t want to talk to them myself.”

  “But you’re the head of the family now. I’m not,” I protested.

  “And you’re a journalist. A respected journalist. You know better how to deal with the dreaded press than I do.”

  “Luciana could have spoken to them. She’s Sebastian’s daughter.”

  “You’re his ex-wife,” he shot back.

  “Oh, Jack, please”

  “Okay, okay Look, she’s been out of it all day, ever since we got here. She can barely speak to me, never mind the New York Times. You know how fragile she is. The least little thing upsets her.”

  “It always has. I never even expected her for supper tonight, even though she accepted. I knew she wouldn’t come,” I retorted. When we were children growing up together, Luciana had usually been the one to hang back, to drop out, to claim tiredness, even sickness, when she didn’t wish to do something, or if she was faced with a difficult situation. But fragile she wasn’t. I knew that for a fact. She was strong. And tough. Not that Luciana ever let anyone know this. Dissembling came to her readily and with great ease; she was a facile liar, an expert spinner of tall tales. Her father once told me she was the cleverest liar he had ever known.

  “How about a drink?” Jack said, cutting into my thoughts about his half sister.

  “Of course!” I exclaimed, jumping up. “How rude of me. What would you like? Your usual scotch? Or a glass of wine?”

  “Scotch, please, Viv.”

  I went to the antique Georgian table near the door, which held a few bottles of liquor and a bucket of ice. I fixed his scotch, a vodka on the rocks for myself, and carried them back to the fireplace. Handing him his glass, I sat down.

  He muttered his thanks, took a great gulp of the amber-colored alcohol, and stood nursing it in both hands, ruminating.

  “It’s been a terrible day,” I said. “The worst day in a long time. I still can’t quite accept the fact that Sebastian’s dead. I keep expecting him to walk in any minute.”

  Jack made no comment, merely sipped his drink and rocked back and forth on his heels.

  I regarded him over the rim of my glass, thinking how unsympathetic and without emotion he was. I experienced a little spurt of anger. Jack could be so cold, cold as an iceberg. At this moment I hated him, as I had sometimes hated him as a child. His father had been found dead this morning, and in the most peculiar circumstances. Yet he was behaving as if nothing had happened. And he certainly wasn’t showing any signs of grief. It struck me as being most unnatural, even though father and son had never really been close. I had been distressed for the entire day, fighting tears, engulfed by sadness. I mourned Sebastian, and I would go on mourning him for a long time.

  Suddenly, without preamble, Jack said, “They took the body.”

  Startled by this announcement, I gaped at him. “You mean the police took the body away?”

  “Yep,” he answered laconically.

  “To Farmington? For the autopsy?”

  “You got it.”

  “I really can’t stand you when you’re like this!” I exclaimed, and I was surprised at the harshness of my voice.

  “Like what, sugar?”

  “For God’s sake, come off it, you know what I mean. So cold and hard and detached. Half of it’s pretense anyway. You can’t fool me. I’ve known you for the best part of your life and mine.”

  He shrugged indifferently, drained his glass, went and poured himself another drink. Walking back to the fireside, he continued, “That detective, Kennelly, told me we’ll get the body back tomorrow.”

  “So quickly?”

  He nodded. “Apparently the Chief Medical Examiner will do the autopsy first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll take out tissue and organs, plus blood and urine samples, and—”

  Shuddering, I shouted, “Stop it! You’re talking about Sebastian! Your father. Don’t you have any respect for him? Any respect for the dead?”

  He gave me an odd look but made no comment.

  I said, “If you have no feelings for him, so be it. But just remember this, I do. I will not permit you to speak of him in such a heartless, cold-blooded way.”

  Ignoring my remarks, Jack said, “We can have the funeral later this week.”

  “In Cornwall,” I murmured, trying to adopt a softer tone. “He once told me he wanted to be buried in Cornwall.”

  “What about a memorial service, Viv? Should we have one? If so, where? More importantly, when?” He grimaced. “As soon as possible. I have to get back to France.”

  Though he was infuriating me again, I held myself still. Exercising great control, I responded calmly, “In New York. I think that would be the best place, certainly the most appropriate.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Church of St. John the Divine,” I suggested. “What do you think?”

  “Whatever you say.” Jack flopped down in the chair near the fireplace and regarded me for the longest moment, a speculative look entering his eyes.

  “Oh, no,” I said, catching on at once. “Oh no, no, Jack! You’re not going to talk me into arranging the funeral and the memorial. That’s for you to do. You and Luciana.”

  “You’ll help, though. Won’t you?”

  I nodded. “But you’re not going to shrug off your responsibilities, as you have so many times in the past,” I warned. “I won’t allow you to do that. You are the head of the Locke family, now that Sebastian’s dead, and the sooner you understand this the better. There’s the Locke Foundation to run, for one thing, and you’ll have to pick up the torch he dropped when he died.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked quickly, sharply, his eyes instantly riveted on mine. “What torch?”

  “The charity work, Jack. You’ll have to carry on where he left
off. You’ll have to tend to the sick and the poor of the world, those who are suffering, just as he did. Thousands are depending on you.”

  “Oh, no! No way, sugar. If you think I’m going to hand out money like a drunken sailor, then you’re crazy. As crazy and as foolish as he was.”

  “This family’s got so much money it doesn’t know what to do with it!” I cried, furious with him.

  “I’m not going to follow in Sebastian’s footsteps, trailing halfway round the world and back, dispensing largesse to the great unwashed. So forget it, Viv, and don’t bring it up again.”

  “You’ll have to run the Locke Foundation,” I reminded him. “As the only son and heir that’s not only your inheritance but your responsibility.”

  “Okay, okay, so I’ll run it. Long distance. From France. But I ain’t no savior, out to cure the world of its ills. And illnesses. Just remember that. My father was a madman.”

  “Sebastian did a great deal of good, and don’t you ever forget that.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “It’s odd. It really is.”

  “What is?”

  “The way you adore him still after all these years. And after all the things he did to you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that. He treated me very well. Always.”

  “Better than the other wives I’ve got to admit. He liked you.”

  “Liked me! He loved me. Sebastian loved me from the very first day we met, when I was twelve—”

  “Dirty old man.”

  “Shut up! Furthermore, he continued to love me after we split up.”

  “He never loved anyone,” Jack announced swiftly, scathingly, giving me a pitying look. “Not me. Not my mother. Not Luciana. Not her mother. Not your mother. Not his other two wives. Not even you, sugar.”