Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Two days later
“ D ad was loved by a lot of the islanders. We’re having his funeral at All Saints Church,” Archer said.
Cynthia shook her shoulders like she was shaking off fallen snow. A shiver raced down her spine. She didn’t want to see any of the islanders. Her future had been ruined, but what she feared the most was Freddie’s wife turning up. If the service was in the Turner Chapel, there would be no risk.
“No,” Cynthia replied.
“Let them have the service in a bigger place of worship, child. What is the issue?” her father, Archibald Turner, asked as he shuffled into the drawing room, bashing his cane into the carpet with each step.
He was immaculately dressed in a bottle green blazer, white shirt, grey slacks and a green and red striped tie. Archibald’s full head of hair was slicked back, freshly cut. Cynthia gazed at him, furious at him siding with her nephew, Archer. But then Archer was his favourite. For that reason alone, Cynthia never laid a hand on him.
Cynthia glanced at Archer, who stood by the bay window. She would happily slap his smug grin off his face. She then looked to her father, who had made it to the fireplace and lowered his elderly body into the high-back chair. His shrewd eyes were on her. She hated her father, even now when he was in his nineties. She loathed the man, even more so because he wasn’t taking her side.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
Daisy stepped forward, and Luke came to her side. She looked directly at Cynthia with a chilly stare. Cynthia showed no fear.
“I’m glad that’s settled, Aunt Cynthia,” Daisy said. “He was our father, after all, and as far as we know, you hadn’t spoken a word to your brother in a decade. So I don’t think you should have any say in how we say farewell to a father we adored.”
“I expect you’ll all be staying at Turner Hall,” Cynthia stated.
“No, we won’t. Thank you for the offer, but we will stay elsewhere,” Luke said.
“Where?” Cynthia clipped out.
“Why does it matter? You hate it when we stay here, even when we were growing up. It should please you, we’re not staying,” Jason replied.
Archibald chuckled from his seat, staring into the fire as he poked it with the iron rod in his hand. His gnarly fingers gripped it firmly, showing the whites of his knuckles.
“Stop making enemies, child. You’re going to need them soon,” Archibald warned. “I won’t live forever.”
Cynthia rejoiced at his words, but remained stoic in front of Freddie’s children.
“I’ll require a list of who is coming.”
“No, again,” Archer said.
“It will be an open house at the church. We’ll have the front pew because, let’s face it, there aren’t many of us Turners. Then the rest of the islanders can take their place.”
“Don’t I get any say in the matter? There is a protocol to follow. Generations of Turner legacy to follow. Bailey will have a fit,” Cynthia said.
“We will have a family-only burial. How is that for a compromise?”
Still, after all these years, she still looked to her father for the last nod of approval, and this was no different. He looked at her with his pale eyes for a beat too long, making her feel uncomfortable, and he nodded once. He turned his head and looked at Archer. She couldn’t see his expression, but Archer grinned, which boiled her insides from rage. How dare grandfather and grandson have a bond? Her father was a tyrant. How could anyone bring themselves to grin at the man?
“I’ll see you at the church. I trust you’ll arrange everything with Father Sheldon.”
Cynthia was on the move hoping Archer would take the point she was telling, not asking.
“I’ve already spent the morning with him. He’s agreed to the service and will come to the Turner burial plot afterwards. Mr Philpott will organise the headstone and grave site preparation. The gravestone won’t be able to be put up until the ground is settled. That will take place after Jason, Luke, Daisy, and I leave the island.”
Cynthia stopped in her tracks, turning on the spot to look at Freddie’s four children standing shoulder to shoulder, looking at her.
“You’re going back to work?”
“Yes, straight after we bury him. You’ve made it abundantly clear we are not welcome. Our mother is not welcome. Make no mistake, my father tolerated you when he was here, but even he didn’t feel welcome.”
“If you wanted a better welcome, you should’ve made more of an effort.”
“Likewise, Aunt Cynthia,” Archer replied.
He held her stare. She was looking at Freddie’s replica in every way. But he had the steeliness of his grandfather.
Cynthia took a sweep of the room, detecting she was not welcome in the drawing room, and headed for the closed door. Before she could reach for the handle, Bailey came in and held the door open for her.
She swept out and dashed up the stairs to her rooms. Once she was ensconced in her private sanctuary, she hurried to the corner window and stepped out onto her private balcony. She looked at the drained and covered swimming pool and thought of Jonathan back at the villa.
For the first time in her life, Cynthia didn’t have a plan.
She had her mobile in her hand, and it rang, startling her out of her panic. Jonathan’s name flashed up.
“Hello,” she whispered, seemingly hoarse.
“How was it?”
“They want the funeral at All Saints, then the burial at the private section on Turner land.”
“It’s all Turner land, isn’t it?”
Cynthia didn’t need to hear Jonathan’s snipes at her family. He was allowed to hate everything Turner. After all, it was her father that kicked Jonathan off the island.
“When?” Jonathan asked after the silence went on too long.
He could never handle her use of silence as a weapon. Something her father taught her. Cynthia was feeling torn about being an excellent student.
“In the next few days. The children are here.”
“They’re adults, surely?” he said.
She could hear splashing and a woman’s shriek.
“Are you going to correct everything I say?”
“I learned from the best, darling. Come back to the villa as soon as the funeral is over.”
More silence from Cynthia, but it was only because she didn’t know when she would be able to leave.
“I’ll try.”
“Cynthia, you will.”
“My father will need me.”
“I couldn’t give a fuck, Cyn. You’re seventy-fucking-three. He’s in his nineties, for Christ sake. Benny is going back to Milan in two weeks, and you know how long it will be before he makes it back to Como for more than a weekend.”
“All right,” she said.
Cynthia didn’t mean it. She knew her father wouldn’t let her out of his sight. He’d already told her the moment she entered Turner Hall after she flew back from Italy. Cynthia hadn’t told Jonathan because she knew he would be angry.
She couldn’t share her fear of having the funeral service at the main church and risk Imelda showing up. Freddie and Imelda might have been separated for more than twenty years, but they never divorced. What if she wanted to come back and pay her respects? What if she wanted it out with Cynthia?
A shiver ran down her spine at the mere thought.
“I’ll see you at the weekend.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you. Bye, Cyn.”
The phone dropped onto the round metal table with a clatter. Pulling the shawl from the back of one of the chairs, she wrapped it around her shoulders and held on tight. The cold still seeped into her bones like an unwelcome disease.
Her brother was dead, no doubt, through the stress of working on the oil rigs and then running Turner Hall. But that wasn’t her fault. He could’ve given up his work and stayed on Copper Island. Freddie could’ve devoted his time to the Turner legacy like she was prepared to do.
It was on the tip of her tongue to call Jonathan back and ask him to move to Turner Hall. It was likely she wouldn’t be able to leave for some time if she was going to take over where Freddie had left off.
On that thought, she was on the move, through her suite of rooms and along the corridor. The side tables had the lamps on, illuminating her way on an overcast, chilly day. She barely glanced at her ancestor’s portraits hanging on the walls. She needed to keep the Turner name going.
Walking down the wide staircase, she idly checked the metal stays holding the red carpet in place, making sure they were all affixed correctly. Her father hadn’t allowed her much responsibility, but taking care of Turner Hall building was one of them.
There was no one about. In the late afternoon, her father would likely be napping next to the fire in the sitting room. She hurried across the marble foyer on silent feet. The rubber soles of her flat black shoes aided her efforts.
As she approached her father’s study, where only Freddie was allowed to enter uninvited, she reached out her hand. Seconds before her fingers curled around the doorknob, she heard Bailey clear his throat.
She’d known him long enough to know it was him.
“It’s locked, Miss Turner. Mr Turner’s orders.”
Cynthia scrunched up her lips and huffed out a sigh through her nose.
“Which Mr Turner?” she inquired.
“Your father,” he replied.
“Who is going to run things?”
“I don’t know the answer to that. Should I arrange an appointment for you in the morning?”
“To see my own father?” she barked.
Bailey, wisely, didn’t answer. For two reasons. They both knew the protocol to speak with the head of the family. You were either summoned or you made an appointment. Cynthia did not want to wait to be summoned.
“Yes, Bailey. Make an appointment whenever he will see me and let Jennifer know.”
“Very good, Miss Turner.”
Cynthia still didn’t look at him and hurried off in the opposite direction of the stairs, where Bailey was standing. She didn’t want to go to the library, but it was the only functional space at the end of the corridor she was speed-walking down. The humiliation would keep her feet moving until she could close the grand ornate doors and scream her lungs out.
The following morning, Cynthia trudged down the staircase like an errant teenager. Jennifer had woken her with a breakfast tray and news that her father would see her at eleven.
With three minutes to go, Cynthia arrived on the bottom step as Bailey came from the doorway that led down to the kitchens. Cynthia had never been below stairs. Her father and grandfather had forbidden it. She wondered why she followed their rules and secretly had a relationship and a child. Was spending time with Jonathan a way to get back at her father and the Turner traditions?
Bailey cleared his throat, and the thought went out of her head.
She strode forward, hiding her fear and reached the study door as Bailey rapped the wood with his knuckle and opened the door wide. He entered first and announced her. Her stomach dropped as she heard him grunt.
It was no wonder she sought love with an ordinary man.
Cynthia plastered on a smile she didn’t feel and walked into the study.
“Good morning, Father,” she said as she approached his leather-topped desk.
She didn’t dare sit until she was invited. That might never come, and she was prepared for this and wore her comfiest shoes. He might have been able to manipulate her, but she didn’t get to her early seventies without being one step ahead of him. After fifteen minutes, he looked up.
“What is it? I’m busy sorting out Turner business. Now that your brother has snuffed it, it’s back on me.”
She didn’t like her brother, but she still blanched at her father’s coldness. His cane was in his hand, so she kept her thoughts clogged in her throat. After a moment, she cleared her throat, fiddled with the sapphire ring and drew breath.
“Before you say anything, you might come to regret it,” her father said. “You are now the future of the Turners. With no children…” he gave her a once over. “Legitimate anyway. It is your duty to ensure Frederick’s children come back to Copper Island and run it. I can only do so much, but I am limited. I need to pass on my knowledge to Archer.”
“What about me?”
The words were out before she could shove them back in her mouth.
“You? I presume you’ll continue to do my bidding around the town to keep everyone in line. I see Freddie has let people off with late rent. That won’t do. You’ll have a long list of people to visit. And issue eviction notices if need be.”
“You could hand over the business to me. I can run the Turner interests.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, laughing and coughing as he spoke.
Like his coughing wasn’t enough, he took his cigar stub from the ashtray and sucked on it.
“What would you know about running an empire?”
“I’m not as stupid as you take me for.”
“And neither am I,” he roared.
Archibald put his hands flat on the desk and lifted his ageing body from the chair, and stood.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t think I know, child? You don’t think I know about your rift with Freddie, and why? Exactly what did you do to get Imelda off the island, hmm? I bet you’re petrified she’s coming to the funeral. That’s why you want it in the chapel. If it wasn’t for the fact I’m burying my child, I’d be excited for the event. You’ll be like a long-tailed cat in a room filled with mousetraps.”
Archibald grinned, coughing as he flopped back into his chair. The seat groaned but not from her father’s weight but from age. It creaked and groaned every time he moved.
“Is there anything you want me to do aside from collecting rent?”
“No, can’t think of anything. I have managers all around the world taking care of everything else.”
“Goodbye, Father,” Cynthia said.
She meant it as the last word. Walking from his study, she silently vowed to pack her bags and fly to Como as soon as Freddie was in the ground. She knew she was loved by two people.
To hell with Copper Island.