Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Six months later
C ynthia sat near the fireplace, wringing her hands as she leaned into the warmth. She wore a bottle-green jumper with a roll collar. Her hair was up in a low bun. She felt all her years straining to gain any heat from the flames. Her once all-black hair was streaked with white.
Cynthia didn’t want to appear like a frail old lady, but since returning from Italy, she could not get warm. She pulled the blanket to cover her legs and waited for her nephew, Archer Turner, to enter the drawing room. He had contacted her like she knew he would. She’d also learned what he wanted, albeit it didn’t say in his correspondence.
“Hello, Aunt,” Archer said once he was a few feet away.
As a habit, she schooled her features whenever she was in Turner Hall. Twelve months, she reminded herself. Twelve months and then she could move somewhere warm.
Showtime.
“You’re late,” she answered in her clipped upper-class accent.
It was cold, harsh, like a verbal whipping. Exactly as she intended. When she turned her head to look at him, she took a sharp breath. Archer was a broader version of his father. She saw all her brother’s features in him. But it was his eyes that belonged to his mother. Cynthia couldn’t bear to look at him and carry out what she needed to do.
Self-preservation, she told herself. She was alone, and she would be alone. That she was certain about. But as long as she drew breath, she would not die in Turner Hall and not Copper Island.
Twelve months.
“I had to rescue a dog who was drowning.”
Just like his mother. She couldn’t cope with seeing a stray of any kind. If it was breathing, she would save it.
“Is that why you’re traipsing your sodden shoes through the house?”
“I didn’t think you’d appreciate bare feet on the ancient carpet.”
She gave him a critical glance from head to toe, taking in his suit. It fit him perfectly—dark blue with a matching tie and crisp white shirt.
“Shall I call down for tea?” Archer asked after a too-long stretch of silence.
Absolutely not. She needed him to say his piece and then go. Looking at him brought back too many memories. Too many things she did that scarred too many lives.
“Will you be here that long?”
Sighing heavily, Archer unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat on the sofa opposite her.
“So you know why I’m here?”
She prayed it was to have a part of the Turner Estate, or at the very least, a house to live in on the island. Whatever it was, she would give it to him. Cynthia had already called Mr Porterfield, the family solicitor, to ask permission to advance Archer some property. She’d been granted permission.
“Not a clue. Your letter said you wanted to talk to me but lacked details.”
“I want us to have a piece of our inheritance early,” Archer said.
Cynthia thanked God her instincts were right.
“Us?” she clarified.
Please say all of them are coming back, she chanted in her head. She’d bet everything on them sticking together. She couldn’t stomach it when they were growing up. Didn’t understand how they liked each other let alone spending every waking moment as a family. Now she relied on the fact.
“Me, Jason, Luke, and Daisy. If Dad were alive, he would hand it over.”
Cynthia knew he wanted Edward Hall and the cottages.
Edward Hall was a smaller version of the house they were sitting in, half a mile away. It was a mini palace that entertained minor royalty, celebrities, and the very rich who wanted an exclusive wedding. The hotel was a place to stay for the exclusive guest who could relax without having the press turn up. Five cottages, half a mile away from Edward Hall, the other side from Turner Hall, were let out long term for those who wanted to hide away from some crisis. It was her father who had turned the second house into a business. He was fed up with his friends turning up and spending weeks eating his food and drinking his whisky. Her father called the second house Edward Hall after his father.
“Well, he’s not alive. I am.”
“I can’t imagine you enjoying running an exclusive hotel and cottages at seventy-nine.”
Another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. Their father hadn’t imparted any information about how the estate was run.
“I don’t run anything. That’s what managers are for. And I’ll thank you, not to mention my age again.”
Archer smirked at her, and she was all for telling him to get out. No one smirked at her. But she needed him more than he needed her. He didn’t know that, and he was never going to know that.
“Are you telling me no?” he asked.
She remained silent, taking a longer look at him. Tiredness all over his face. He was tanned, but there was still a darkness under his eyes.
“I’ll give you my answer in the morning. You may go,” she said and then rang the tiny bell next to her.
He took one look at her and stood up. “What time should I call tomorrow?” Archer asked, buttoning his suit jacket.
“Not a minute before ten-thirty,” she answered.
Archer nodded and gazed at the painting of his grandfather, Archibald Turner, before he strode from the room. Freddie’s children thought she loved her father and their grandfather. If only they knew the truth. She could handle them hating her. So long as they got married and Archer had a child.