Chapter 9
Lydia
After barely a week in Beckdale, here’s what I’ve learned about my aunt:
One, there’s always something going on at her place. Even if she isn’t there herself, you’re always bumping into some friend or colleague of hers in the hallway, carrying some pile of papers or catalogs that they want Ophelia’s opinion on.
Two, my aunt never makes you feel out of place.
Since I’ve been here, she’s taken me lovingly under her wing and always made me aware that I’m welcome—even when she’s in the middle of an important phone call or a meeting with someone for one of the subsidiary companies.
I reckon I could even wake her up out of a deep sleep by jumping on her bed like a trampoline in the middle of the night, and she’d still give me a friendly smile and a high five. She’s just such a nice person.
Another thing I’ve learned about her is that she’s a fan of the Jonas Brothers.
Yeah. My forty-two-year-old auntie loves what she calls their “fizzy pop music.” Every time a Jonas Brothers song comes on, I stare at the speakers in disbelief. And then I catch sight of Ophelia, who always hums along, tapping at least one foot to the beat.
“Don’t give me that look,” she says at this second, not taking her eyes off her drawing pad. “ ‘S.O.S.’ is a classic.”
She says it with a deep conviction that makes me smile. I hastily turn back to my own sketchbook.
We’re sitting in Ophelia’s office; she’s at her desk, and I’m in one of a group of armchairs on the other side of the room. In the last few days, I’ve sat here, watching her sketch, or listening to her on the phone, and realizing to my surprise how jam-packed her working days are.
Like my parents, she works from morning to night, but unlike them, she manages to give herself a little free time too, and I admire that most of all.
If she’s had a long day in the office, she’ll spend the evening in her garden or invite her friends round for a glass of wine.
Or she’ll sit in her conservatory, drawing.
“It’s important to keep a balance in all things,” she said when I asked her how she does it. “Beckdale gives me the peace I need to restore my creative energies.”
I spent a long time thinking about her words, wondering why on earth Dad let us have so little contact with our aunt.
I remember the horrible family dinners that always ended badly, and Dad making it sound like Ophelia was a crazy, frivolous hippie who couldn’t be trusted to take major decisions.
I’m realizing, slowly but surely, that that couldn’t be further from the truth.
I look at the sketch I’ve been working on for the last hour.
My tutoring doesn’t start until next week, and Ophelia insisted that I spend my days sitting with her and drawing.
She said it would take my mind off things.
And she said: “I always used to love your designs. I want to know how your style has developed.”
I felt a bit awkward drawing with her around at first. And I had no ideas. But now it feels almost routine to sit here in this armchair, scribbling stuff on paper.
“Ruby and James are coming tomorrow,” I say after a while, risking a glance up at my aunt.
She’s wearing a full-length white skirt with a blue shirt that’s tied at the waist. Her hair is up in a high, messy bun, with strands coming loose.
Mum would never have left the house like that, let alone gone into the office, yet in this instant, Ophelia looks so like her that I catch myself studying her a beat too long.
“I’m so looking forward to meeting Ruby,” she says. If she saw me staring, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she takes a gulp from her outsize coffee mug, then pulls a face. “Oh, yuck, it’s gone cold.” She pushes the cup away.
“Want me to get you another?” I ask, but Ophelia waves the offer away before I can stand up.
“No, don’t worry. I shouldn’t be drinking coffee at this time of day anyway, if I don’t want to be awake half the night again.” She stretches and then stands up to walk over to me.
“Show me,” she says.
I push my sketch over to her. It’s a sheath dress, simple and elegant. The kind of thing my mum wore pretty much every day, so drawing it made me feel weirdly close to her.
“Oh,” I hear Ophelia say beside me, and from her voice, I know she feels the same. “That’s really lovely.”
I stare at my drawing and avoid looking at my aunt.
Since I’ve been here, she’s never forced me to open up.
She didn’t ask about Dad or mention my pregnancy, and glad as I am not to have to talk about it, her behavior confuses me.
She acts like nothing’s happened, like it’s perfectly normal to be eighteen, pregnant with twins, and now living here with her.
Maybe that’s her way of tackling problems. Or maybe she wants to give me time until I’m ready to speak to her.
“I’m not too sure what to do with the colors,” I say after a while. “Nothing feels quite right somehow.”
After a moment of silence, I feel Ophelia give me a sideways glance, and then she gently strokes my shoulder. “At times like that, your mum always used to tell me to trust my instincts.”
I look at the colored pencils lying on the table in front of me and reach for a pale gray. I twist it and turn it indecisively, thinking about Mum and asking myself what she’d have done if it had been her.
“I didn’t even know that you and Mum used to draw together,” I say, finally looking at Ophelia.
“All the time,” she replies, dropping into the armchair beside me.
“What kind of stuff? Just clothes, or other things too?”
Ophelia laughs quietly. “Mainly clothes. But your mum used to draw comics. Some of them were hysterical.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine that. Mum was always so serious, always focused on the big picture.
“Cordelia was much more lighthearted before she stepped into our father’s shoes, and she’d sometimes allow herself to have fun. To make jokes.”
I try to picture what Mum must have looked like in those days—casual clothes, messy red hair, sketchbook in her lap. To my surprise, it’s easier than I expected. A warm feeling fills my stomach, and I have to clear my throat, cough away the lump that’s formed.
“I wish I’d known her like that.”
The music that’s still blasting from the speakers feels wrong now. It doesn’t fit this serious conversation.
“There are photos from back then—of her and the comics. Your mum left all her albums here. I can find them for you if you like.”
“I’d love to see them. Thank you,” I say quietly.
Ophelia pushes my pad slowly to and fro on the desk.
“We used to make plans together, for what we wanted to do with Beaufort’s one day,” she continues after a while.
“The designs you used to come up with when you were little…” A cautious smile plays around her lips.
She glances at me. “Your mum and I used to have the same dream. A women’s collection. Taking the firm in a new direction.”
“What changed?” I ask.
“She met Mortimer. And let him and your grandfather convince her not to break with tradition. For a long time, I hoped she’d eventually change her mind and get me back on board, but…” Ophelia shrugs. “Apparently, she didn’t want that.”
For a moment, the silence spreads between us, and we both listen to the guitar chords of the song that’s playing.
Then I cough. “Do you think you’ll get the chance to make that happen?”
“Now that Cordelia…isn’t around, I don’t think so, no.” She swallows hard. “Did you know that my name wasn’t even mentioned in her will?”
I inhale sharply. “No way! No, I didn’t.”
I wasn’t there when the will was read. Dad left all that stuff to the lawyers, which was fine by me. I didn’t want to know what Mum had left me. All I wanted was for her to come back.
“She left everything to Mortimer. The company traditions mattered so much to her, so incredibly much, and yet she did that, breaking decades of family history.”
“What do you mean?” I ask with a frown.
“For generations, Beaufort’s has been handed down to the closest living relative. Like Dad did to Cordelia. Which means that she ought to have left the company either to you two, or to me.”
“I can’t believe it,” I say, confused. “Why would she do that?”
“They were an unbeatable team for over twenty years. I guess she wanted to be certain that things would keep running the way she had in mind.”
I’m about to answer when the doorbell rings loudly, making us jump. Ophelia waves a hand, presumably meaning that this conversation isn’t over, even as she gets up and heads for the door.
Less than thirty seconds later, I hear my name being called up the stairs. I prick up my ears. “Yes?”
“You’ve got a visitor!”
I stand up with a frown. I glance at my watch. It’s half past eight. Could it be Cyril? James told me they’d talked about me.
What if he’s come here? Just the thought makes me grit my teeth and clench my hand into a fist. I walk slowly down the stairs. But when I get to the bottom and see who’s standing in the doorway, my heart skips a beat.
It’s not Cyril.
It’s Graham.