Chapter 44
Cynthia hurried along the sandbanks as best she could in the shifting grains. It felt like the worst analogy to her life. Her timing had to be perfect to tell her father she wanted to marry Jonathan Cranford. Today was that day. She left Jonathan where they were sunbathing like she always did when they met secretly. He would head back in half an hour to his rented rooms above the Boyle’s Butchers.
Jonathan wanted to wait to get married, but she didn’t. Instead, Cynthia wanted to be married before he started his new job at the school and her new job at the port offices.
The secrecy of their relationship added to the thrill of their growing love. She’d met him when he got lost and wandered onto the private Turner land the previous summer. She chewed him out for not looking at the signs stating private property, and he yelled back, telling her the story of how he lost his glasses on the rocks. After a couple of barbed comments back and forth, they stared at each other, panting from their arguing. He took one step forward, and then so did Cynthia. Two more steps and he had her in an embrace, kissing the life out of her.
No one had ever kissed her like that in her life, and she didn’t let him go for twenty minutes. It had been the same intensity ever since.
Running full pelt across the lawns, she slipped through the side door into the kitchens, skirting around Cook and then up the back stairs to the main foyer. Poking her head around the door, she looked at her grandfather’s open study doorway and listened to see if he was in there.
“He’s out with Bailey.”
Cynthia jumped out of her skin as a squeak escaped her lips. She stepped out from behind the door and saw her brother, Freddie, leaning against the stone wall at the foot of the stairs.
“You scared the shit out of me, Squidge,” she said and placed her hand flat on her chest.
“That’s a sign of a guilty conscience. Out with Jonathan, were we?” His laugh was good-natured, but still irritated her. He was twelve years younger than her, and she felt their age gap most when he teased her.
“That’s none of your business. How’s Imelda?” She came back with the retort.
Freddie gave her a wide grin, showing all his perfectly straight teeth. “She is the sweetest woman to walk this earth. I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”
That wasn’t what she was aiming for with her comment. It was supposed to shut him up. Cynthia was attempting to be smarter than her brother, and it was an effort not to lower herself to squabbling. Their sparing mainly was friendly but sometimes not.
“Told Dad about her yet?” Cynthia asked, coming out of the stairwell and onto the marble floor to face Freddie. Leaning against the stone wall at the bottom of the stairs, he had an air of coolness about him. He wore chocolate brown flared trousers that were so tight fitting from the high waist to his knees it surprised her their mother didn’t ask him to change into something more appropriate. Freddie wore a skin-tight, long-sleeved bright yellow top. He was all about fashion. His girlfriend, Imelda, was too. Freddie had been going out with Imelda for a year, the same time, she had been seeing Jonathan secretly. Except Freddie knew. Cynthia had told him, but as a pre-emptive strike as Imelda was Pete and Betty Boyle’s daughter and lived in the same house as Jonathan.
Cynthia loved dressing in floaty dresses with her long, loose hair. Jonathan especially liked the loose dresses to let his hands wander.
“No. Have you told Father about Jonathan?”
“I’m telling him today, as a matter of fact.” Cynthia could hear her hoity-toity voice, but he was grating on her nerves. She could never school her annoyance.
“Good timing,” he said, pointing at her. But, then, his face dropped all humour.
“Why is that?”
She did not like the sound of that.
“They have summoned us. We have to be in the study at six. Cook told me we have a guest for dinner, and Father and Grandfather want to introduce us. That’s why I’m waiting here for you.”
“I wonder who it is?”
“Probably a new investment Grandfather wants to get involved with. It’s not enough that he has the wedding business and Edward Hall filled with guests weekly. He leases every business property on Copper Island and owns every square inch of land. Grandfather probably wants more. Next, he’ll want the sky. How can one man be so greedy?” Freddie said with so much disgust it was a wonder why Freddie didn’t run away and denounce his lineage.
“What do you care? You’re hardly here now. You’ve finished school. You could go anywhere.”
“Just waiting for my results, and I’m planning my escape. This place is like a museum, no place to live a life. Father and Grandfather will live for decades, so I don’t need to care about Turner Hall, Edward Hall or Copper Island. By the time you inherit, you’ll have kids of your own. You’ll run the place when they die as firstborn, and I’ll be free to do whatever the hell I like.”
Cynthia whipped her face to the side like someone had slapped her. Freddie was painting the perfect picture of no responsibility and, at the same time, landing everything on her shoulders. She was the eldest, so the inherited land would go to her, but she didn’t think she would run Turner Hall alone. Something shifted inside her, making her more determined to tell her father about her plans to marry Jonathan and move out.
“I’m not staying at Turner Hall. I’m moving out,” she said.
It wasn’t to Freddie. She was putting it out into the universe.
“I don’t care, Sis. Live your life. You only get one. Please don’t get bogged down in the traditions forced on us. It’s no way to live.”
It replaced her joy of an afternoon with Jonathan, with a melancholy and a sense of dread. She looked up the flight of stairs like it was the pathway to her doom, not her suite of rooms.
“What time does Father want to see us?”
“Six, he said don’t be late, and to be dressed for dinner,” Freddie said and pushed off the wall, then ran up the stairs two at a time.
Cynthia watched as he ran out of her eye line, feeling like she wanted to run in the opposite direction. Their father was in his fifties, and their grandfather was in his nineties but behaved much younger. The men in her family lived long, healthy lives, and, at times, she thought her grandfather would outlive them all.
Checking the delicate gold watch on her wrist, she startled into action to get ready for dinner. Cynthia was thirty years old but still did as she was told. She wasn’t her own woman until she left her father’s clutches. Then Cynthia would belong to her husband, who would have to give written permission for her to buy anything.
Cynthia didn’t need a house because she lived in a mansion and would soon live in a cute terraced house. She didn’t need a car. Everywhere was walkable on the island. Cynthia hoped in the years to come, she would be freer and the laws would change. Not that she needed them to, but she would like the choice to buy a car if she felt she wanted to.
Within an hour, Cynthia was bathed, dressed and ready to enter the study, yet she lingered in her suite’s living room. Nothing in the set of rooms was younger than fifty years. The settees were from a bygone era, and so were the carpets, curtains, tables and lamps. Freddie’s speech about freedom to do whatever he wanted weighing heavy on her mind while she took a bath. Never did she feel more trapped than she did in the last hour.
Cynthia was madly in love with Jonathan, and he returned her feelings. They had a future mapped out, with kids coming soon after they married. At thirty, she didn’t want to waste any time. Jonathan’s job as a teacher would have a decent salary to see them through while she raised their children. Cynthia intended to work at the port offices for a year to save money. She wanted to know what it was like to earn a living and have money to spend as she wished.
Living at Turner Hall, she didn’t have any money. While Cynthia didn’t need any money because she lived at the house, she craved financial independence. The kitchens prepared three meals a day. Her mother organised shopping trips for clothes twice a year, so she had a summer and winter wardrobe. She was warm and fed. What more could she need? Freddie made her want more. The vast rooms and high ceilings were closing in, and whether it was her impending announcement or knowing Freddie would leave soon, she felt like she was suffocating.
Clawing at the neck of her orange and white floral dress, she popped the button at the nape and let the front of the garment fall to her waist. It fastened at the neck and was backless. She stared at her reflection, her bare breasts heaving up and down as she gulped in air. Cynthia cupped her left breast, lifting it to admire the purple mark Jonathan had left earlier when they got lost in their lovemaking. She stroked her thumb over the brand like she never wanted it to disappear. A feeling of dread came over her. When the bruise had gone, so would Jonathan.
A rap on the door startled her, and she quickly brought the front of her dress up and attached the clasp.
“Yes?” Cynthia called out, looking in the full-length mirror to make sure she was decent.
The door opened, and her mother walked in. She wore a full-length, deep purple dress with long sleeves and frills at every edge.
“Come along, dear. We don’t want to be late. My father won’t be happy if we embarrass him with tardiness.”
“Coming, mother,” Cynthia said and gave the mirror a side glance, practising her smile.
They descended the stairs side by side, and the nearer Cynthia approached the bottom step, the louder the men’s laughter became.
“Sounds like they’ve already started on the whiskey,” her mother said, looping her arm through Cynthia’s crooked elbow.
“What’s this about this evening? I wanted to talk to you and Father about my plans.”
“Well, that’s perfect. Your father wants to talk about your future, too. So it’s all falling into place nicely.”
The click of their heels on the marble floor sounded throughout the foyer. Bailey stood at the door to the study, ready to announce them. No one entered her grandfather’s study unannounced. She did it once as a child and got the hiding of her life.
“Good evening Bailey,” Cynthia’s mother said. “How’s your son?”
“He’s running us ragged, Mrs Turner. Having a toddler around the house is keeping us on our toes.”
“Don’t forget to bring him over to the house, get him used to Turner Hall, so when he takes over from you, it will be second nature,” her mother said, patting his arm.
It had been a long tradition that the generations in the servant’s families took over when the older generation retired. Many Baileys served the Turner family, and Cynthia’s mother encouraged the next generation to get familiar with the estate as early as possible.
“I will, ma’am,” Bailey answered with a nod.
He pushed open the door and led the way for Cynthia and her mother to enter her grandfather’s sanctuary.
Edward Turner, her stout, red-faced grandfather, stood with his arm over the mantlepiece, a cigar butt between his forefinger and his middle finger. His other arm bent at the elbow, holding a tumbler with no doubt brandy. Archibald Turner, her father, stood on the other side of the fireplace, one hand in his pocket and the other hand holding a tumbler with a giant ice cube and brown liquid. Cynthia knew it was whisky, his favourite tipple. Their guest, a man nearer her father’s age, stood to her father’s right, away from her grandfather, rocking back on his heels. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth, with his hand cupped around the end while keeping a match with his other hand. As soon as Cynthia entered the room, she glanced at the three men and then at Freddie without a cigar or drink.
Cynthia looked at Freddie lounging on the leather settee like he was getting used to the study one day being his, but she knew different. Freddie never wanted to call this room his.
“Ah, there are my two favourite girls,” Cynthia’s Father said, striding over in his navy velvet smoking jacket and black dress trousers. His shiny shoes glinted in the light of the fire.
When her father approached her mother to kiss her cheek, Cynthia noticed the older man she didn’t recognise nodding to her and talking to her grandfather. Cynthia’s grandfather still held a striking pose at ninety-two with his cane and straight back. He favoured the fireplace for warmth even in late August heat.
Her attention was immediately focused when her father stepped in front of her, taking up all her peripheral vision.
“Cynthia, you look lovely this evening,” her father said, kissing her cheek. “Come and meet Sullivan.”
Ingrained manners kicked in, and Cynthia moved across the carpet. She could feel her brother’s eyes on her as she stretched out her hand to shake Sullivan’s sweaty palm.
“Nice to meet you, Sullivan. Have you known my father long?” Cynthia didn’t know if Sullivan was his first name or his surname. Not that it mattered. He would be another of a long line of businessmen that would sit at their dinner table, never to be seen again.
“Oh, we go way back,” Sullivan said with a hearty laugh.
The glint in his eyes gave her pause. Sullivan was taking too much interest in her features, her body. He gave the vibe that she never wanted to be alone with him. Sullivan towered above her as he turned up his predatory gaze. He was old enough to be her father. So why was he looking at her like he would consume her? Cynthia considered faking a headache to get out of dinner, but that would only anger her parents and grandfather. Tonight, she needed them onside.
Pasting on a smile, she engaged with Sullivan, ever the dutiful daughter. Once he was gone, then she would tell her family of her plans with Jonathan Cranford.
The evening went quickly, with much laughter and banter between her father and Sullivan. Her brother was sitting opposite Cynthia at the dining table and didn’t crack a smile all evening. At one point, she gave him a look and asked what was wrong with him. He shook his head and drank his water.
When Sullivan joined her father and grandfather for cigars in the study, Freddie excused himself and disappeared from the dining room before Cynthia could quiz him. Her mother sighed contentedly and draped her cloth napkin on the table.
“Well, that went well,” her mother said.
“What went well? I didn’t have time to share my news.”
“We can’t talk about family business in front of guests. We needed to give a good impression to Sullivan. I’ll be talking to Freddie in the morning. I don’t know what put a sour expression on his face.”
“He’s seventeen. What do you expect?”
“He will be eighteen next month. Your father has high expectations of Freddie. Tonight’s behaviour will not be tolerated twice. At least you behaved yourself.”
Cynthia always behaved herself and did everything that was asked of her. So why would her mother think she would act up?
“I’m going to head up to my room,” Cynthia said.
“Good. It would be best if you had a good night’s sleep. We can talk about your future in the morning.”
“Goodnight, mother,” Cynthia said, kissing her mother’s cheek.
Cynthia hurried from the dining room and moved across the foyer’s marble floor. She could hear the deep rumble of laughter coming from the study. It made her want to cry, and she didn’t know why. Without Jonathan at her side, she felt lost and alone. Cynthia slipped off her shoes and ran up the main staircase two at a time as fast as her lungs would let her. Tears threatened to spill over her cheeks, but she swallowed them until she was inside her room.
A terrible sense of foreboding washed over her, like she was too late for something. Living a secluded life, she always felt like she was late to everything, but this feeling was chilling her to her bones.