She’s a beige person, thought Catherine, remembering Father Umberto and his habit of colour coding. Just as she thought it, she saw Jennifer’s knuckles whiten as she tightened her grip on the toasting fork.
‘And this is Evelyn,’ said Robert, breaking into her confused thoughts.
She watched as he placed his hands on the shoulders of his second daughter. Her hair was dark and hung in thick skeins, falling forward and hiding her face. Her arms were resting on the mantelpiece. Her head was nestled within her arms as she leaned forward and watched her sister toasting bread.
Unlike her sister, who was sturdy and a little unfeminine, Evelyn was taller, sleeker of form, but just as distant, if not more so, than her sister. She gave no acknowledgement that she had heard but continued to regard her sister slide the bread from the fork and place it on top of another piece. Both were set on a willow-patterned plate within the grate. A butter dish and a honey pot sat there too.
‘My girls, this is Catherine, my new wife. Your stepmother.’
‘A wicked stepmother,’ said Jennifer without turning round, her voice low and without warmth.
Evelyn said nothing, her face still buried in her arms.
‘They’ll get used to you,’ Robert said breezily, taking her arm and turning her away. ‘And you’ll get used to them.’
It sounded like an order. Catherine wasn’t at all sure that she would and felt a stirring of unease. Neither of his daughters was much younger than she was and although she wasn’t exactly afraid of them, she wasn’t comfortable. She knew instinctively that they’d never regard her as an adult when there were so few years between them.
She wished he’d told her he had children.
Robert let go of her arms, his head swivelling so he could look all around the room.
‘Where’s Charlie?’
Evelyn shrugged. Jennifer stabbed at yet another hunk of bread. ‘Around somewhere.’
Her voice sounded hollow, bereft of emotion or interest.
Going on first impressions alone, Catherine disliked both girls intensely. If this rude welcome was anything to go by, they were spoilt and loved too much.
A loud wail suddenly sounded, gaining in intensity until it almost became a hysterical scream. The sound came from a cupboard set against the same wall as the collection of toys.
‘Girls!’ Robert said the word in a reproachful fashion but looked highly amused. Taking long, quick strides, he went to the cupboard, turned the key and threw open the door. Still wailing, a small boy crouched among toy bricks and a set of junior croquet mallets. He held out his arms.
The contents of the cupboard clattered outwards on to the floor as Robert swept the boy up into his arms.
‘There, there, my fine young fellow,’ he said.
The boy wound his arms around his father’s neck and buried his head in his shoulder.
Catherine was immediately aware of the close bond between the two. She was also aware that the key to the cupboard had been turned. The poor boy was still trembling from his ordeal at the hands of his sisters.
She caught the two girls exchange a cruel smirk and made comment before thinking.
‘You two should be ashamed of yourselves, treating your little brother like that. Surely as older sisters you should be taking care of him.’
The smirks turned stony. Jennifer glared, uncaring that her latest hunk of bread was turning black and smoking.
Evelyn, the younger girl, was almost screaming. ‘We are not his sisters! He is not our brother! His mother was a whore. Our father wasn’t married to her,’ she shouted. ‘He didn’t love her like he did our mother, did you, Daddy? And you don’t love him like you do us.’
‘Now, now, my beautiful girls…’
Catherine felt sickened by Robert’s smile. His eyes, and apparently his love, were all for ‘his’ girls. Poor Charlie didn’t seem to stand a chance.
Jennifer seemed to have contracted the hysterical mood of her sister. ‘And you’re not our mother either!’ she shouted, running up to shout into Catherine’s face, then running backwards away from her. ‘And any brat of yours won’t be our brother or sister. So there!’
‘Jennifer. My darling, beautiful Jennifer,’ wheedled Robert as the room filled with smoke.
Catherine raced to the fireplace and knocked the toasting fork from Jennifer’s hand. The fork clattered against the brass fender and the blackened bread fell off the end and into the fire where it was swiftly consumed by flames. From there she ran to the window and threw it open.
Once all that was done, she turned to face this new family of hers. Each of them was regarding her with differing expressions. Even the pale-faced, sandy-haired Charlie was eyeing her with undisguised curiosity. His arms were still firmly wrapped around his father’s neck.
The two girls were glowering, as though they had the right to burn the whole house down if they wished. Their expressions were bad enough, yet it was Robert’s that worried her more. It wasn’t anger and neither was it gratefulness. It was more as though he’d reached a realization about her that he hadn’t been prepared for.
The moment passed. He snapped out of it quickly, concentrating his energy and attention on the young boy in his arms, tickling him and swinging him around at head height.
As she watched the goings-on, Catherine felt more and more like an outsider in this run-down, tired old house and her first inclination was to head for the door and run as far away from here as possible. But she couldn’t do that. She was alone in a city she did not know and surrounded by people she did not like. Even now she could feel Jennifer’s and Evelyn’s eyes stabbing her in the back. She resolved not to look at them but to escape somewhere else. This house was to be her world. Getting to know it seemed the right and proper thing to do. She told Robert this.
‘As I’m to be mistress of this house, then I should get to know the staff and the areas they work in,’ she said as brightly as she could, though she was hardly feeling bright.
‘You won’t have much to organize,’ said Robert. ‘I won’t be having dinner here tonight. I’ll be at my club.’ He grabbed her arm before she could get away and leaned close, whispering so no one else could hear. ‘And then we’ll make our own baby when I get back.’
‘I doubt that,’ she said, fixing him with a hard glare. ‘Only a man, a real man, can make a baby with me.’
Her new, forthright attitude shook him. He winced and she knew immediately that tonight, at least, she would not be disturbed.
Later that night, she sat in a chair in her dressing room, a place that in a few short days had become something of a retreat from the crumbling house and the dysfunctional family.
Unseeing, she stared out of the window as dusk curtained the garden and an evening mist obliterated the near distance. Twilight fell into darkness, and still she stared.
Anyone discovering her there would think she was a picture of desolation, resigning herself to the way things were in this family and this house. But solitude had never found her feeling sorry for herself. Nothing, no situation was beyond redemption.
Plans for revenge and building a new life came thick and fast. She took courage from the fact that she’d inherited a substantial portion of Walter Shellard’s quick-wittedness. She’d also inherited his strength, and she trusted that would always save her – even from herself.
Following her mother’s death, she had not wallowed in grief. Neither had she retreated into herself on arrival at Aunt Lopa’s quinta. And in the days following her great-aunt’s death, she had proved she could manage by herself. By the same token, all her ills had been engineered by her father, and this marriage was the latest of his evil doings. Although she did not dwell on her misfortune or fall into despair, the anger she felt was always there, simmering beneath the surface.
Where will I start? she asked herself. For whom or what does he harbour great affection? The answer came easily. No person, but most definitely a place. Castile Villanova. Yes! That was what she woul
d set out to take from him. Someday and somehow she would take the Castile Villanova.
It was a tall order, a far-fetched promise, but she owed it to herself and also to her mother.
Thirty-Three
Walter Shellard was in his office, a masculine room of dark woods, dark colours and a total lack of feminine frippery. The windows were bordered by solid elm shutters; the oak floorboards were varnished and the walls panelled. Walter regarded rich woods and a dark palette as an aid to plain thinking. Anything decorative smacked of an emotional response, and in business emotion of any kind was a luxury.
He glanced at the face of the black marble clock sitting on the mantelpiece. He had a board meeting shortly. Robert Arthur Freeman had upset his schedule.
‘What did you wish to see me about?’
His daughter’s husband had helped himself to a chair. Robert made a great show of crossing one leg over the other and brushed a speck of something from the soft grey material. ‘I apologize.’
Walter gave no sign that the apology was accepted. ‘We do have a board meeting. You could have saved it till then.’ Robert held his chin in a superior manner as he began voiding his hands of a pair of soft kid gloves.
Walter watched impassively. The smile that spread across Robert’s face reminded him of hair oil, slick and best used sparingly.
‘I doubt whether you would want family, indeed personal, matters aired at a business meeting,’ said Robert, lowering his voice.
Walter maintained an implacable expression. He regarded Robert as a wastrel. No ordinary man would want him as a son-in-law – even on a clandestine basis. Only a few knew Catherine was his daughter. He wouldn’t broadcast the news. He regretted that Ellen had found out before he could make good with the truth – the truth as he saw it. Her brittle attitude irritated, but did not trouble him unduly. Neither did his brother’s loss of temper. ‘How could you have married her off to that monster?’
His answer had been considered and delivered with cool, calm efficiency. ‘Nothing personal. It was business. Purely business.’
He’d wanted that vineyard, the one that lay between the two he’d bought at a very good price. His plan was already paying off. It was early days, but the profit ratio had already increased thanks to the decrease in journey times and the general amalgamation of resources.
‘Go on,’ said Walter, resigned to hearing that this man sitting before him, a man he detested, wanted more money.
‘Well,’ said Robert, shifting in his chair and looking slightly abashed. ‘I don’t know quite how to put this rather delicate matter…’
He looked sidelong, as though waiting for Walter to urge him on.
Walter recognized the signs, but had no intention of doing so. Instead he sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers and waited.
‘The fact is,’ Robert went on once he’d worked out that he wasn’t going to receive any encouragement. ‘I was led to believe that Catherine was an innocent young girl. But…’ His eyes fluttered and although his cheeks turned a little pink, Walter decided the change did not reflect the man’s true feelings. Embarrassed he was not. A conniving scoundrel he most certainly was.
‘So you’re looking for compensation,’ said Walter. His expression remained implacable. His eyes stayed fixed on Robert’s limpid looks. He saw a flash of relief in the other man’s eyes. He espied weakness and a certain deviant feminism about Robert’s facial features and air of careless gentility. In past times he might have been a poet; he had that look about him. Of course he would have needed the private income to support him. Not that money would have lasted him long. Robert knew best how to spend money. He was useless at making it.
He saw the relief on Robert’s face and knew he’d hit the nail on the head.
‘I think two thousand would be a satisfactory sum,’ said Robert, his face glistening, his mouth almost salivating at the prospect of more money – money unearned.
Walter remained sitting in his big leather chair behind his equally large mahogany desk giving no hint whatsoever of his thoughts. Both desk and chair were set on raised dais not readily visible to visitors. No matter the size and status of those sitting in the chairs on the other side, Walter always looked down on them; as he did now. Especially now.
Silence hung in the air. Walter enjoyed making people wait, imagining what thoughts were going through their heads. Robert would be wondering whether he’d asked for too much, whether the ensuing silence meant he had overstepped the mark. He remained silent for quite a while, waiting for the moment when Robert started to squirm.
He congratulated himself on his superior judgement as Robert shifted in his seat, recrossing his legs and brushing at yet another imagined speck on the exquisitely tailored trousers.
‘Ummm… perhaps I’ve been too hasty,’ he began.
Walter took immediate advantage. ‘What will you do if I refuse to compensate you for something that I myself regard as not being of any specific value?’
Robert’s mouth dropped open. His initial surprise gave way to a frown. ‘I’m not quite sure what you mean…’ His voice trailed away.
Walter almost smiled to himself, but refrained from such a luxury. He preferred to remain unreadable. That way he maintained the advantage.
‘What will you do if I refuse to pay you?’
It pleased him to see Robert’s further discomfiture, the sudden agitation evidenced by the beads of sweat breaking out on his brow.
‘I think… I think that would be very remiss of you,’ said Robert, rushing his words.
Walter got up from his chair, turned his back and stood looking out of the window. His office was in an old building towards the end of King Street opposite the old almshouses which dated from Tudor times. If he looked one way he could see the façade of the Theatre Royal, home to Bristol Old Vic. In the other direction were an old black and white inn and a view of the river, ships and barges. The scene was no more than a pictorial backdrop to the scene going on inside his office. He could almost taste Robert’s apprehension. What should he say? Would he back down or would he issue some threat meant to put him, Walter Shellard, in his place. A threat would at least be challenging, but was Robert brave enough to do that? And what form would a threat take?
‘I shall inform your wife,’ Robert said suddenly.
Walter paused, then turned slowly. His expression was unaltered, his steely eyes fixed and unblinking. His enjoyment of the situation was slightly irked by this pronouncement. As if such a threat held water. It almost made him smile.
‘Do so,’ he said abruptly.
He saw the consternation in Robert’s eyes. My God, this man was an open book. No wonder the fortune left to him by his father was diminishing by the day. The man was a pushover.
Robert gathered up what resolve he had left. ‘But your wife…’
‘I provide my wife and children with a very comfortable lifestyle. Without me, she’d have nothing. No money. No status. No children.’
He glanced again at the clock, giving the distinct impression that he’d lost patience and that Robert Arthur Freeman was out of time. Four minutes to eleven. ‘Shall we make our way to the boardroom?’
Robert was speechless, as dejected as a squashed insect trodden underfoot. Which was what he was – on both counts.
Walter wanted to laugh out loud at Robert Arthur Freeman’s face. The man had a long face and a large jaw that looked longer now and very pale. Whatever confidence the man had come in with, was lying flat and battered on the floor.
‘Look,’ said Robert, getting suddenly to his feet, a restraining hand reaching for Walter’s arm. ‘I have some rather large debts. I’m desperately in need of funds…’
Walter couldn’t help the contempt that crept into his eyes, not that Robert was likely to notice. He didn’t ask for details of the debts. He already knew what they were; women, drink and gambling.
‘We all have weaknesses,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Robert, his e
yes downcast as he nodded vehemently. ‘Just a temporary problem,’ he said with a nervous laugh.
‘I’ll transfer the funds into your account.’
At his sudden reversal of fortune, Robert’s face brightened and the apprehension left his eyes. ‘That’s wonderful, Walter.’
‘In return Shellard Enterprises will take another ten per cent of your interest in the St Monica Vineyard.’
Robert’s mouth dropped open. This hadn’t been part of the plan.
Later, once the board meeting was over, Seth Armitage came to his office. Ten years older than Walter, he had white hair and eyebrows and a slightly amused look in his eyes. They’d been business partners for many years and had known each other for many more. He’d been co-opted on to the board as an advisor following his retirement. It was something but not enough. He’d lived for Shellard Enterprises. He wasn’t happy about being sidelined.
Seth chose a chair and let out a sigh of satisfaction as he sat down in it before turning his attention to Walter.
‘Sometimes you frighten me, Walter Shellard.’
One side of Walter’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. His eyes were unchanged. They never changed, always steel-grey, always observant, searching for the other man’s, or woman’s, weakness.
‘Whisky?’
Seth nodded. ‘Why not?’
‘I take it you’re referring to Arthur Freeman.’ He deferred from mentioning the man’s first name. It hinted at intimacy. Walter felt no intimacy towards Robert Arthur Freeman, only disdain. He handed Seth his drink and sipped at his own.
‘The man spends money like water,’ said Seth.
‘To the advantage of Shellard Enterprises,’ said Walter, raising his glass in a toast.
Seth reciprocated. ‘He’s arrogant and stupid, not at all like his father. You wouldn’t have pulled the wool over his eyes.’
Walter was already paying only minimum attention to what Seth was saying. He had no time for nostalgia. It was the moment that counted, and in turn the future. There was nothing that could be done about the past.
‘By the time I’ve finished with him, Shellard Enterprises will own his whole business outright.’
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