Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
C ynthia insisted her father’s funeral was in the private Turner Chapel and family only. She wouldn’t sit through the same spectacle that befitted her brother. There wasn’t a seat free at Freddie’s funeral. They’d lined the aisles and stood outside. She felt embarrassed at the outpouring of grief. Why couldn’t these people act with dignity? She’d asked Jennifer when she was changing after the service. Jennifer didn’t answer her.
“Are you sure you want to have the service as family only? That will be you and Freddie’s children. There have been a lot of messages from the islanders that have requested to come to the service. Your father was well-liked,” Bailey said.
Cynthia was in the morning room and continued to spray her lilies with her glass mister. The short pump and hiss punctuated the air as she contemplated her reply.
“I’m quite sure the only people who want to come and attend his funeral are the people he bullied to make sure he’s dead and the people he paid to do his dirty work to make sure they’re still going to get their money.”
“Indeed,” Bailey replied. “I shall make arrangements.”
Cynthia didn’t reply and vaguely heard the door click closed to the morning room. She briefly glanced around the conservatory at the plants she’d accumulated over the years. The past year, she had the gardener come in and take care of them. He’d done a fine job.
Shooting the mist at the flower petals was more therapy than anything else. It helped Cynthia think about her plan for what to do next. She knew Jonathan and Benny would never step foot on Copper Island. Cynthia had spent too many years trying to convince them. But the past twelve months had shown her living away from Copper Island was the best year of her life. The stranglehold her father had on her was lifted. By the end of the year, they could still live comfortably in the villa. Benny had made it his home, but the place was big enough they had their own floors, so they could, if they wanted, have privacy. Cynthia didn’t think Benny would ever marry, running through women like the character James Bond. Whenever she brought up the subject of marriage, he would refer to Cynthia and Jonathan’s long-lasting relationship as an example that marriage doesn’t need to take place to live a long and happy life with a partner.
Cynthia couldn’t remember the last time she brought up the subject of marriage with Jonathan. It didn’t matter anymore. Even if they married, Jonathan and Benny wouldn’t be recognised as legal Turners. So there was little point. They were happy. They were together. Slowly she was shaking off the Turner protocol, but muscle memory ran deep in her body. It was as if it all snapped into place as soon as she returned. Cynthia shrank into the daughter of a tyrant as soon as she stepped over the threshold of Turner Hall.
She had a simple mission.
Bury her father, get the will reading done, and then she would head back to Como. She would turn her back on Copper Island and run the empire from Italy. She was scared if she spent any longer on the island, she would never leave.
Four days later, she was dressed and down in the foyer early. Now that everything was hers, she wanted to get into her father’s study. It wasn’t a place of joy, and too many reminders of the evilness that had seeped into the bricks of the building. A place where she was beaten, a place where she was almost forced into a loveless marriage with a man twice her age. A place where she was forbidden to marry Jonathan.
It was also her father’s and her grandfather’s secret sanctuary, which no one was allowed to enter unless invited. She wanted to know what the fuss was about. Her fanciful ideas had her thinking there was a secret passage or at least a secret room with all the Turner secrets. She strode to the study and turned the door handle, but it wouldn’t open. Still, with her hand on the knob, she pivoted her upper body to look at the door that led below stairs. She rattled the doorknob a second time, waiting.
Less than a minute later, the door opened, and Bailey came out into the foyer.
“It’s locked, Bailey. Where is the key?” Cynthia clipped out.
Bailey stayed on the threshold of his world and her world. “I am not permitted to open the study, Miss Turner,” he replied.
“Why is that?”
“Not until the will reading. I have been instructed by the solicitors not to open that room until after Mr Turner’s will has been read.”
“I see. That event is scheduled to take place at two o’clock today. Is that still the case?”
“Yes, Miss Turner. In the drawing room. I have been asked to attend as a witness.”
“Of course you have,” she said, contrite lacing her words.
She stalked across the marble floor and walked up the wide staircase to the first floor and the gallery balcony. She looked down and wondered if she was ever happy at Turner Hall. Now that it was all hers, finally, she wanted none of it. Regret started to worm its way into her veins. If only she hadn’t scared away Imelda. Would Freddie still be alive? Would the Hall be filled with children and grandchildren by now? Where would Cynthia be if she hadn’t done her father’s bidding?
Where indeed. Regrets. They were of no help to her now. Two more stages of her mission, get the will read and then get the hell off Copper Island.
A few hours later, Cynthia was drinking tea on her small veranda, looking out across the lawns. She was now down to hours before she could leave. Her bags were packed with clothes she wanted to take back to Italy. There were a few first editions taken from the library for Jonathan. Cynthia was ready.
Jennifer was behind her on the threshold. There wasn’t enough room for the two of them out there. Jennifer had her saucer in one hand and the cup in the other, occasionally sipping. They were silent as the minutes ticked by.
“What do you think is in the will?” Jennifer asked. “Did he share any details before he died?”
“He shared nothing with me. But that was the rule. Only the next in line was allowed to know when they became next in line. No preparation, although it seemed Freddie was prepared.”
“We’re on the four o’clock flight. Is that enough time?”
“Can’t imagine telling me I need to take care of everything will take long.”
“No, I imagine it wouldn’t.”
Jennifer sounded like she was on her way to the gallows, and Cynthia empathised. But Jennifer hadn’t grasped that Cynthia no longer cared about Copper Island, its inhabitants or its future. She just needed the details and could run everything from Italy. Technology enabled her to work anywhere.
“Let’s go downstairs. It’s time,” Cynthia said, passing her cup to Jennifer.
Jennifer carried the two cups and saucers to the tray on the sideboard in the sitting room. She glanced Cynthia’s way, and Cynthia nodded while she straightened her twinset. She couldn’t wait to change her clothes as soon as she arrived at the villa.
They walked side by side down the staircase. Once they were on the marble floor, Jennifer turned right and went through the doorway that led below stairs. Bailey was at the door to the drawing room. He opened it as she approached, and she swept in without speaking with Bailey. She didn’t know whose side he was on, but now it didn’t matter. Generations of Bailey men had served the Turners. He probably was loyal only to his pay packet.
“I’ll send him in, Miss Turner,” Bailey said.
She nodded at him, then sat in the high-backed chair by the unlit fireplace. She thought back to the last time she was in there with Freddie’s children and her father. Another unpleasant conversation with her family. But then she reasoned she couldn’t remember when she had a friendly conversation with anyone on Copper Island besides that summer with Jonathan.
A few moments later, Mr Porterfield, her father’s solicitor, walked in. He looked as elderly as her father before he died, but she knew him to be her age.
“Will this take long, Mr Porterfield? I have a flight to catch.” Cynthia asked as she stretched out her hand to shake his.
“No, not long at all. The terms of the will are straightforward. I’ll summarise with you now and then leave you the contents of the will for you to read. Then if you have any questions, please telephone me during office hours, and I’ll gladly assist you.”
“Thank you, Mr Porterfield. Please sit. Do you want tea?”
“No, thank you, Miss Turner. Maggie provided nourishment when I arrived after a long journey from London.”
“Of course,” Cynthia replied.
Of course, the staff would take care of him. It was a shame Jennifer hadn’t advised her, saving her the embarrassment of offering tea.
“Shall we get down to it?” Mr Porterfield asked.
“Please do.”
“Mr Turner has bequeathed the entirety of Turner holdings, money, land, and businesses to Archer Turner, Jason Turner, Luke Turner, and Daisy Turner jointly.”
“What?” Cynthia barked.
Mr Porterfield lifted his hand, palm facing her, to wait a moment.
“He has left it in your custodianship as there is a caveat. Archer Turner cannot inherit until they are all married and Archer Turner has a child. If and when that happens, everything will be passed to them. In the interim, he has made you Cynthia Turner, custodian and Porterfield Solicitors has been instructed to oversee the estate in the event…” Mr Porterfield flipped a page on his lap. “I’m going to quote Mr Turner here.” Mr Porterfield cleared his throat as he readied the words in his mouth. “In case Miss Turner runs the businesses and properties into the ground or squanders all the money.”
“Well,” Cynthia said, but it came out in a whoosh and a shout.
Mr Porterfield waited a few moments before he carried on. Cynthia gathered her wits and placed her hands in her lap in placation.
“He has afforded you a generous salary for taking care of the Turner estate and holdings until the marriages and Archer’s child occurs.”
Cynthia’s head tilted so fractionally that Mr Porterfield didn’t seem to pick up on her renewed interest.
“As soon as the fifth event happens, either the fourth marriage or first child, we will be in contact to transfer everything to Frederick Turner’s children.”
“What happens to me after that happens?”
Mr Porterfield flipped another page and then looked up. “That wasn’t covered in the will, Miss Turner.”
“I see.”
Cynthia clipped her words and looked at the empty fireplace. Using silence as her only weapon, she waited.
It wasn’t for long.
“If you sign these papers, I will provide you with the bank account set up for your salary. There is a manager placed in every business and property globally, except for Copper Island. Mr Turner has left that up to you how to run. However, the rents due from the businesses and properties will be managed by a landlord on the mainland. The Turner Hall and Edward Hall bills will be paid promptly from the Turner estate. If there is anything not paid, then please contact us. Everything that is in place today will remain in place. The cook, the footman, the gardener and your lady’s maid will remain on staff. Any companies that were engaged while Mr Turner was alive will remain engaged. He gave an example, Mr Philpott, the grave digger and mason.”
“How convenient,” Cynthia said and sniffed. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Just one more thing. I don’t know the significance of this, but I am to inform you that you are allowed access to every room in Turner Hall except the study. That is to remain locked until Archer Turner asks for access, and Mr Bailey will hand the keys to him.”
Hearing Bailey be referred to as Mr Bailey jolted her more than the message of the study. Now that she knew she wasn’t to run the empire, she couldn’t care less about getting into the study.
She smiled.
Everything Mr Porterfield said meant she had no reason to stay on Copper Island. It was the best gift her father could have given her. Truthfully, Cynthia had no responsibilities aside from checking in with the managers. As they were worldwide, she would conduct those conversations online. Her wish to remain in Italy was now a reality. Copper Island rents would be collected. There were zero reasons to stay.
“Very well, Mr Porterfield,” Cynthia said, holding her hand out for the papers to sign.
He handed her a leather-bound folder, and she saw a stack of papers with coloured tabs sticking out.
“May I borrow your pen?” she asked.
Mr Porterfield slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket and handed her his pen. She liked the weight of it. After scrawling her signature on each of the assigned pages, she returned the folder. Mr Porterfield shuffled papers around and then handed her the folder back, retaining his copies.
“Thank you, Miss Turner. My office will be in touch. May I ask where you will be staying?”
“No, you may not. Anything that needs my attention in paper format can be sent here, and it will be forwarded to wherever I will be if I’m not here. Now that you’ve outlined I don’t have to reside on Copper Island. I am a free woman. At last.”
“Very good,” he muttered and stood at the same time as he stuffed the papers into his leather satchel.
Bailey opened the door and stood on the threshold.
“Good day,” Mr Porterfield said and strode from the room.
Cynthia waited for Bailey to follow the solicitor out, then sank into the chair, grinning. She would live out her days on Lake Como with Jonathan. They were young enough to enjoy it.
The door opened again, and Jennifer came in, shutting the door behind her.
“Are we still catching that flight?”
“Yes, we are,” Cynthia said and hurried across the worn carpet and hugged her lifelong friend. “And we’re never coming back.”
Jennifer smiled at Cynthia. “It’s about time.”