Power of a Woman. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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she stepped inside, a strange feeling swept over her. It was a premonition really…and it made her catch her breath. The feeling was similar to the one she had experienced that afternoon, but this time it was much stronger, more forceful.
She threw it off. And then Stevie Jardine laughed at herself again, as she had earlier, and shook her head. She, who had never believed in portents or omens and was totally unsuperstitious, was actually having presentiments of trouble. Ridiculous. She laughed again.
Some months later Stevie was to remember these strange feelings, and wonder.
EVERYONE SAID SHE WAS SPECIAL.
Chloe herself, when she was old enough to understand such things, did not agree, although she did know she was different. She was different because she was illegitimate.
She bore the name Jardine because that was her mother’s name, but she had long understood that she was not actually of the Jardine family.
Her mother had never hidden her illegitimacy from her, and when she was eight years old she had carefully explained the details of her birth to her. It was for this reason that Chloe had always accepted the facts in the most natural way. So did her three brothers. Even Old Bruce, as she and Miles called him, seemed to tolerate her, and obviously he did not object to her using his name. Nor did he seem to mind that she called him Grandfather; as far as they both were concerned he was exactly that, and he had always treated her the same way he did his biological grandsons.
When she was a small girl she hadn’t wanted to be different or special. This only confused her, made her feel self-conscious. She just wanted to be like everyone else—ordinary.
Once, when she was about ten years old, she had asked Miles why people said she was special. He had looked at her closely with his piercing blue eyes, and smiled his warm, gentle smile. “Because you’re such a happy little sprite, Pumpkin, all airiness and golden light. You remind everyone of the summer and sunshine…even in winter, and you’re brimming with laughter, full of gaiety. That’s the first reason—your effervescent personality. Secondly, you’re a very pretty girl, who’s beautiful inside as well as out. And finally, you’re…well, you’re an old soul, Pumpkin.”
She had frowned at him, instantly picked up on this last thing. “What does that mean, Miles? What’s an old soul?”
“Someone who’s been here before, who seems to have a knowledge beyond her years, who is wise…”
“Oh.” She had pondered this for a second or two and then asked, “Is that good?”
Miles had burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he had rumpled her hair affectionately. “Yes, I think so, and be glad you’re all the things you are, little sister. There are too few of you in this ugly world we live in.”
Miles was her favorite brother. He had always been easier to be around than his twin, Gideon, and their elder brother, Nigel. Miles was never too busy for her, even though he was nine years older than she.
Despite the fact that Miles had explained why she was special, to the best of his ability anyway, she never thought of herself in that way. She was merely different, that was all, and then only because of the circumstances of her birth. There was nothing more to it than that.
Chloe had never felt embarrassed or awkward about her illegitimacy, nor had she given much thought to it when she was growing up, other than occasionally to wonder about her father. On her birth certificate his name was given as John Lane. She wasn’t even sure if this was his real name, since her mother was so secretive about him.
Recently, thoughts of her father had insinuated themselves into her mind, and she had been besieged by questions, things she wanted to ask her mother but didn’t dare.
Whenever she had broached the subject of her paternity in the last couple of years, her mother had simply repeated what she had always said: John Lane, her father, had been killed in a car crash.
Because her mother had always looked extremely upset, even on the verge of tears, when they had these discussions, Chloe never did probe further. Of late, she had needed to know more about her father, wanted her mother to describe him to her, tell her other things about him, give her an inkling of his personality and character. And so, on the drive up to Connecticut, she had wondered if she could question her mother at some point during the Thanksgiving weekend.
Now Chloe stood in front of the mirror on the dressing table in her bedroom, staring at herself but not really focusing. Instead, she was thinking of her mother, whom she had always adored. Chloe was absolutely certain there was no one quite like Stevie Jardine. Her mother was a true original, loving, generous spirited, and kind. She usually gave everyone the benefit of the doubt and tried always to see the best in people. Even in Old Bruce, who was such an ogre.
Her mother had brought her up well, given her all the right standards; Old Bruce had once told her that. Her mother and she were very close, pals really, and so many of her classmates at Brearley envied her. “Your mother’s so cool,” her best friend, Justine Seawell, was always telling her, and Justine was correct. Stevie was more like an older sister in so many ways, and yet she was a tough disciplinarian. Chloe had to abide by the rules at all times.
Chloe suddenly knew she wouldn’t be able to summon up the nerve to talk to her mother during the family weekend; it would upset her if she brought up John Lane, dead more than eighteen years. It occurred to her that she could talk to her grandfather, Derek Rayner. She was close to him, and he had always treated her as an adult, even when she was a small child. Derek could enlighten her, if anyone could.
With this decision made she felt more cheerful, and the acute worry she had been feeling miraculously abated. Leaning forward, Chloe picked up a silver hairbrush and smoothed it over her shoulder-length dark hair, then adjusted the cowl neckline of her burgundy cable-knit tunic.
Stepping away from the mirror, she was able to get a better view of herself, a full-length view. She decided she liked the way she looked in the tunic with its matching leggings; she was five feet seven inches tall, and the outfit made her appear taller and more willowy than she already was. This pleased her. After spraying on a light floral scent, she put on a pair of gold-coin earrings, left her bedroom, and ran downstairs.
When she had arrived at the house half an hour earlier, her mother had been making a beeline for the kitchen, and so Chloe headed in that direction.
She found Stevie sitting at the big oak refectory table talking to Cappi Mondrell, their housekeeper and cook. Both women stopped chatting and glanced across at her as she came in.
“Hi, Chloe!” Cappi exclaimed, smiling broadly, obviously glad to see her.
“Hello, Cap!” Chloe responded, and rushed over, gave the housekeeper an affectionate hug. Cappi had been with them for eight years, and was like a member of the family; Chloe was devoted to her, and it was very clear the older woman loved the eighteen-year-old.
Wrinkling her nose, Chloe said, “Do I smell my favorite dish cooking?”
“You do indeed. Chicken in the pot for my favorite girl.”
“You spoil me, Cappi.”
“I know, but it gives me such pleasure,” the housekeeper shot back, laughter echoing in her voice.
“You look lovely in that outfit,” Stevie said with a glowing smile. She couldn’t help thinking that her daughter was beginning to look so very grown-up all of a sudden. And she really was a beautiful girl with her shining dark eyes, luxuriant hair, and creamy skin.
“Thanks, Mom. You don’t look bad yourself. Positively blooming, as I said when I first got here.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“When are the others arriving?” Chloe asked.