Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  “She looks gorgeous,” Lucille Lewis said enviously, glancing down at her own boring black strapless number.

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. She was conscious that no one had complimented her on how she looked. Maybe the shell pink cocktail dress had been a mistake. The shop assistant had tried to tell her that the pale color washed her out, but, as usual, Morgan hadn’t listened to the well-meaning advice.

  “I think she looks weird,” she said stubbornly.

  No one said anything. They could sense her jealousy, and it made her seem weak.

  Standing next to Morgan, Lucy Briars sighed dreamily. An English student with a penchant for romance novels and an overactive imagination, she had been closely watching the burgeoning relationship between Caitlin and Elliott.

  “I wonder if they’re in love?” she said now.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Morgan replied irritably. “Elliott’s only doing this for the bet.” But secretly, even she was beginning to wonder if Elliott was still playacting his feelings for Caitlin. She’d caught him staring at the Irish girl when he thought no one else was around. There was lust in his eyes and . . . something else. Affection, that was it. Morgan knew he’d never looked at her that way in all the months they’d gone out, and she burned with jealousy. She just hoped Caitlin finally got what was coming to her tonight.

  By eleven, Elliott had to get away. He excused himself to go to the men’s room and instead slipped outside and around to the back of the science buildings. The teachers were on the warpath tonight, and it was the one place they weren’t patrolling. Consumption of alcohol was being strictly monitored this year. The school couldn’t risk a repeat of last time—when two students ended up being rushed to the hospital to have their stomachs pumped. It wasn’t the sort of publicity Greycourt wanted.

  By the time he reached the chemistry lab, quite a crowd had gathered. There were smokers, couples making out. One enterprising soul had brought alcohol along and was selling it at a huge markup. There were almost more people out here than in the tent. It was only a matter of time before someone caught on to where everyone was hiding.

  A few people acknowledged Elliott as he walked by, but most prudently ignored him. The black look on his face was enough to warn them off. He ducked behind a wall and squatted down.

  Tonight wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. He’d thought it would be easy, fun. He hadn’t expected to feel . . . well, quite so guilty. When he’d arrived at Caitlin’s door and saw her standing before him, looking so beautiful and innocent, he’d begun to question whether to go through with it, after all.

  But if he didn’t, then he would be a laughingstock. His reputation would be in ruins. And he couldn’t have that.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket. The pills were still there: GHB, an over-the-counter alternative to anabolic steroids. He’d gotten them off some bodybuilders at the local gym when he’d wanted to beef up earlier in the rugby season. They also had the handy little side effect of acting like Rohypnol.

  It was a last resort—but one that was looking increasingly necessary. Taking out the silver hip flask he’d brought with him, Elliott swigged the almost-neat vodka. It made him feel better, so he drank down some more. He’d go back inside in a minute. He just needed a little more time to gather his thoughts.

  * * *

  Caitlin was having a glorious evening. This was nothing like the dances back home, where the boys from the nearby school lurked moodily at the edges of the room while the girls stood in small, giggly circles. Here, couples were dancing together properly, attempting the waltz, quickstep, and jive, thanks to the compulsory ballroom and Latin American lessons over the past few weeks. It all felt very grown up.

  For the first time since coming to Greycourt, Caitlin felt fully accepted. Loads of the girls had come up to ask her where she’d bought her dress. They’d looked impressed when she told them she’d made it herself.

  “Is that what you want to do?” Lucille had asked, fingering the green velvet bodice. “Be a designer?”

  “I don’t know.” It was an honest reply. She’d never really thought about what she wanted to do with her life. Other people plotted and planned. She wasn’t like that. But it was nice that someone thought she might be capable of doing something so glamorous.

  A hand touched her shoulder. It was Elliott. Naturally he looked fabulous tonight, darkly handsome. Without a doubt, Elliott Falconer was born to wear black tie.

  “I was wondering where you’d gone,” she said.

  “Just needed some air,” he told her. Then he held out his hand. “Will you dance with me?”

  Caitlin smiled. This was what she’d been waiting for all night. She let him lead her onto the dance floor. It was perfect timing. The lights darkened, and the song changed to a slower number, Roxette’s “It Must Have Been Love,” made famous by that summer’s blockbuster movie, Pretty Woman. Elliott took her in his arms. She rested her head against his strong chest and closed her eyes. She felt his hand stroking her hair away from her face as he pulled her closer. Their bodies moved together. Caitlin sighed contentedly. This was everything she’d waited for.

  “Let’s sit down for a bit,” Elliott said after a while.

  Caitlin didn’t especially want to. She was happy dancing. But she let him lead her to a table in the corner. It was a dark, secluded spot, hidden behind an ornamental pillar. A moment later she realized why he’d chosen that particular place away from everyone as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a hip flask.

  He unscrewed the lid and held it out to her. “Ladies first.”

  She hesitated for a moment. She’d never really drunk before and knew it was against the rules. Only seniors were allowed alcohol tonight, and even that was on restriction: tokens had been handed out for a glass of champagne as they came in and then two more drinks over the course of the evening.

  Elliott saw her indecision. “Hey, don’t worry,” he said easily. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. All the more for me.”

  She felt foolish then. Why shouldn’t she have a tiny bit of alcohol? She always did everything by the book. Maybe it was time to be reckless. “Wait,” she said, stopping him just as he was about to take a swig. “I’ll try some after all.”

  The vodka hit the back of her throat, taking her by surprise. Instinctively, she gagged, and a little of the liquid escaped from the side of her mouth and down her chin. Laughing, she wiped it away.

  “Finish it up, if you want,” Elliott said. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  She forced herself to drink it down, wanting to show him that she could be as laid back as Morgan or Lucille. He watched, pleased, as she finished it and handed the flask back to him.

  “Good girl,” he said, tucking it back in his pocket.

  Then he held out his hand and escorted her back to the dance floor.

  Elizabeth’s crowning glory for the evening was a fireworks display at midnight. She’d hired a team of professional pyrotechnicians to mount a state-of-the-art display on the school’s playing fields. It was timed perfectly to last fourteen minutes and twenty-three seconds—the full duration of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, which was to be played over loudspeakers at the same time. The climax of the display was a complex lacework tableau in the shape of the Greycourt insignia.

  At a quarter to twelve, Elizabeth started ushering the guests outside. One hundred and fifty students and teachers crowded onto the rugby field. Heels sank into the muddy field; the girls shivered in their skimpy gowns, too vain to put on coats, and waited for a chivalrous boy to offer his jacket. Inside the school building, the younger students sneaked out of bed and crowded around the dorm windows, noses pressed against the glass so they could enjoy the display, too.

  As Caitlin followed Elliott outside, she stumbled on the steps and he turned to catch her. She mumbled a “Thank you” and wondered what was wrong with her. Her head felt muddle
d, her legs heavy. But she didn’t want to say anything because the display was just about to start.

  The countdown to midnight began.

  “Ten . . . nine . . .” the crowd chanted.

  Caitlin tried to join in, but for some reason no sound came out of her mouth.

  “Five . . . four . . .”

  Something wasn’t right, she was sure of that now. But if she could just hang on for a little while longer, then she could go in, go to bed.

  “Three . . . two . . . one!”

  The first rocket exploded, a shimmer of red and gold in the night sky. The crowd oohed and aahed their appreciation.

  Somewhere at the back, Caitlin tried to focus on the fireworks. Tiredness swept over her. She couldn’t keep her eyes open or her head up. Maybe it was the alcohol. But she didn’t think she’d drunk that much.

  Elliott was saying something to her. She could see his lips moving, but she couldn’t hear the words. Her body sagged, and he put his arm around her waist, holding her up. And then . . . then . . .

  Nothing.

  Elliott half-dragged, half-carried Caitlin through the school. By the time he got to the spiral staircase that led up to his room, he was out of breath, his dress shirt soaked with sweat. He tried the first step and buckled under her dead weight.

  Deciding to take a rest first, he propped her up against the wall. With one arm still supporting her, he started searching for his cigarettes. He was so caught up in his task that he didn’t notice the Ashford twins coming up behind him. They saw the unconscious girl in his arms and grinned at each other.

  “Where’s lover boy sneaking off to?”

  Elliott jumped guiltily, thinking he’d been caught. It took him a moment to realize it was only his roommates loitering in the shadows. In matching black tie, they were even harder than usual to tell apart. He relaxed a little, as much as he could when he was struggling to hold Caitlin up. “What the hell are you guys doing here?”

  “We got bored,” Seb said.

  Nick held up a bottle of Bollinger that he’d swiped. “So we thought we’d bring the party up here instead. We didn’t expect you to be . . . er . . . entertaining, shall we say.” The twins’ eyes shifted simultaneously to Caitlin, who was slowly sliding down the wall.

  “Oh dear,” Seb drawled. “Now she doesn’t look too good, does she, Nick?”

  Nick nodded solemnly in agreement. “No, not too good at all.”

  “She had a bit too much to drink,” Elliott started babbling. “I thought it’d be easier to bring her back here.”

  The twins raised sceptical eyebrows.

  Seb stepped forward. “Why don’t we give you a hand?”

  With the other two helping, it was easy to carry Caitlin up the stairs and through to Elliott’s room. They dumped her face down on the bed, and then Seb and Nick left him to it.

  It wasn’t as much fun as he’d thought it would be. He was used to girls being responsive, wanting it as much as he did. A limp body wasn’t quite so much of a turn-on. It didn’t help that in the living room, he could hear the pop of the champagne bottle being opened, the sound of the twins’ laughter filtering through the door. He had a feeling they were doing it deliberately.

  It was kind of a relief to finally finish. He cleaned himself up, re-arranged her clothes, and went to join the others. As he came through the door, Seb drained his champagne, stood up, and made for Elliott’s room.

  “What are you doing?” Elliott asked nervously.

  Seb stared at him. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  Elliott wanted to object, but he wasn’t really in a position to start acting morally superior. What was the harm? Surely she was too out of it to notice. He watched as Seb closed the door to his bedroom, and then turned to Nick.

  “So what else have we got to drink around here?” he asked.

  There wasn’t really anything else to do now, except get good and drunk.

  11

  _________

  When Caitlin woke the morning after the Ball she knew something wasn’t right.

  On the surface, nothing was out of place. She was in her room, in her bed, safe under her pink duvet, wearing her pajamas, her gown folded neatly over a chair. But she knew something was wrong. She felt wrong. Her limbs ached for one thing, as though she had the flu, and she thought she might throw up. She wondered if this was what a hangover felt like.

  She remembered being at the ball, dancing, chatting, and laughing . . . then everything faded. She could feel the memories at the back of her brain, waiting to be unlocked. She closed her eyes and tried to remember, but she must have drifted off instead, because the next moment she was dreaming, detached from her body, as though she was watching herself in a movie . . .

  She was in a room, a room as dark as a cave, lying on a bed of coats. At first she thought she was alone, but then the mattress sank down and she knew someone else was on the bed with her. The musky odor of aftershave told her it was a man.

  “Elliott?” she tried to ask as he moved toward her.

  But then she felt his full weight on top of her, forcing her legs apart, and she knew it couldn’t be Elliott, because he wouldn’t do something like that to her. Through her haze, she felt a tearing pain. And then he was pumping away at her, so hard that she wanted to cry out. But she couldn’t. On and on he went, until finally he stiffened and fell limp on top of her.

  After a while his breathing steadied and he climbed off. She lay quietly, thinking that at least it was all over now. But then the door opened, there was a hushed conversation, and another person took his place. And then another . . . until every part of her ached and begged for them to stop.

  This time when she woke, there were tears on her cheeks.

  Everyone knew. Caitlin didn’t know how, but they knew. Everywhere she went, people were staring. As she walked along the corridor to the shower, she could feel them watching her. They were talking about her, too. Conversation died when she entered a room and resumed when she left. People’s eyes followed her as they whispered and laughed behind their hands.

  She clutched her towel around her and hurried back to her room.

  She waited for Elliott to come and see her. When he didn’t, she wasn’t sure what to do. She had no one to talk to. George could barely meet her eyes.

  She didn’t go to dinner that night. She told Mrs. Collins that she wasn’t feeling well. In truth, she couldn’t face everyone staring at her.

  She was sitting alone in her room, staring out of the window into the darkness, when there was a knock on the door. She got up to answer it, thinking that it must be Mrs. Collins coming to check on her. But when she opened the door, she found Elizabeth standing there, fierce and unsmiling.

  Caitlin’s heart sank. So she’s heard, too.

  “We need to report what he did.” Elizabeth’s voice didn’t invite any argument. She’d heard the rumors in the senior refectory today. Caitlin with Elliott and the Ashford twins . . . Morgan had been gleefully spreading it around.

  As first, she’d assumed it was all just talk. She’d come up to Caitlin’s room to let her know what was being said, so they could set everyone straight. But as soon as she’d seen Caitlin, eyes red and skin gray, she’d realized there was much more to this. Having forced her sister to tell her side of the story, she knew at once what had really happened last night. Caitlin was just too naïve to work it out. She thought she’d gotten drunk and agreed to do something she now regretted. Elizabeth knew better. She’d heard whispers before but hadn’t believed Elliott would really stoop that low—although she wouldn’t put anything past the twins. Well, they weren’t getting away with it this time. Elizabeth was going to make sure of that.

  “We’ll go to Dr. Phillips,” she said. “I’ll come with you, back you up.”

  But Caitlin was adamant. “I don’t want to do that. I’m fine—”

  “You’re not fine!” Elizabeth exploded. “God! Haven’t you learned anything from this? If you’d liste
ned to me in the first place, then maybe—” She stopped abruptly, but it was too late. She could see from the hurt in Caitlin’s eyes that she’d already finished the sentence for her: then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

  Damn. Had she really just said that? She hadn’t meant to make Caitlin feel even worse. But comforting people simply wasn’t Elizabeth’s forte. She was only good at taking action. Plus, she felt partially responsible, too. If she hadn’t been so busy, then she might have guessed what Elliott and the others were up to and been able to stop it. She had promised to look out for Caitlin, and she’d failed. She had no idea how she was going to make this right.

  Caitlin looked up at Elizabeth. She seemed so angry. Caitlin couldn’t find it in herself to feel that way. She just felt . . . guilty. Whatever Elizabeth said, she couldn’t help believing it was her fault. She’d wanted to do it, hadn’t she? All those times she was with Elliott, she’d wondered what it would be like. Maybe he’d been able to sense that.

  Elizabeth was staring intently at her. “This isn’t your fault,” she said, as if she was reading Caitlin’s mind.

  “Maybe,” Caitlin said slowly. “But please . . . you can’t say anything.”

  “Caitlin—”

  “No.” For once, Caitlin was insistent. She wanted to forget this. Dragging the headmistress in would only make it worse. “I mean it,” she said. “You have to swear that you won’t tell.” Caitlin could see that Elizabeth wanted to argue with her. But she also knew that her sister wasn’t the type to go behind her back. If she made a promise, she wouldn’t break it.

  “Please, Elizabeth. It’s up to me. And this is what I want.”

  The older girl sighed, reluctantly giving in.

  “Fine. I won’t say anything.” Her green eyes narrowed dangerously. “But I still think they need to pay.”

  * * *

  A few days later, the gossip about Caitlin was upstaged by a greater scandal.

  Dr. Phillips, Greycourt’s headmistress, received an anonymous tip that someone in the senior class was storing large quantities of drugs in their room. The accusation couldn’t be ignored. At dawn the following day, four staff members held an impromptu search of all seniors’ rooms.