Man Of Stone. PENNY JORDAN
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lukewarm. If he genuinely loved any of them, it was Cressy. Cressy, who made him laugh, who flirted with him and teased him, Cressy, who was exactly the sort of vibrant daughter he would have wanted.
‘It wasn’t hard to get old Hobbs to do some discreet checking up,’ Cressy continued.
Sara stared at her.
‘You asked Dad’s solicitor to do that?’
‘Why not?’ Cressy demanded carelessly, ignoring Sara’s distress. ‘Oh, come on!’ Suddenly she was impatient and showing it. ‘What other options do you have, Sara? You’ve always claimed to love Tom. Are you going to deny him the one chance he has of living a reasonably comfortable life? Starving in noble poverty is all very well in theory, but in practice…’
Sara knew that Cressy was right, and yet her pride recoiled instinctively from the thought of throwing herself on the mercy of the family who had so cruelly abandoned her mother. And as for Cressy’s suggestion that she and Tom just turn up on their doorstep, so to speak…
‘Don’t you want to hear what Hobbsy found out?’
Cressy had always known how to torment her. It was almost as though she actually knew of all those lonely childhood nights when Sara had lain awake, imagining what it would be like to have a real mother, a real family. That had been before her father married Laura, of course. But, kind though Laura had been, she had never come anywhere near to filling the empty space inside her, Sara acknowledged.
It was a shock to discover that her grandparents had actually offered to have her, and even more of a shock to know that her father had kept this information from her. Why? And then, unkindly, she was reminded of how, whenever she suggested that it was time she left home to train properly for a job, her father would remind her of all the small tasks she performed which were so essential to the smooth running of the household. Tasks which no single employee could ever be asked to perform. She was allowing Cressy’s cynicism to infect her, she thought miserably. Her father had loved her, in his way, but Cressy, being Cressy, hadn’t been able to bypass an opportunity to torment her. She had always been like that. Loving and affectionate one minute, and then clawing and spitting spitefully the next. It was difficult for Sara to know what motivated her; they were such very different people.
‘My little Martha,’ her father had sometimes called her, and she shivered in the coldness of the unheated kitchen, remembering that the words had not always been delivered kindly.
The trouble was that she had always been too pedestrian, too ordinary to appeal to her larger-than-life parent.
‘Sara, you aren’t listening to me,’ Cressy complained, dragging her back from the melancholy of her thoughts. ‘I was going to tell you about your relatives. They live in Cheshire—your father met your mother when he was visiting Chester. Hobbsy didn’t know much about their property, other than that it had been in the family for over three hundred years.’ Cressy made a face. ‘God, can you imagine? No wonder your mother ran away. Your grandmother’s still alive, but your grandfather died four years ago. Hobbsy says that your aunt and uncle lived in Sydney, and that your cousin Louise married an Australian. Your uncle and your cousin were killed in a car accident over there.’
Sara sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. Her brain felt numb, assaulted by far too much information for it to take it all in at once. She had a family. Strange, when for so many years she had longed and ached to know more about her mother and her grandparents, that now that she did there was this curious emptiness inside her.
‘So that’s all you’ve got to face, Sara. One old lady.’
She took a deep breath and swallowed.
‘Cressy, I know you mean well, but I just can’t dump myself on them… her. You must see that?’ Sara appealed frantically.
The younger girl’s eyes were hard and calculating.
‘So what do you intend to do? Stay here until you’re forcibly evicted? How do you think that will affect Tom? I’m leaving for the States at the end of the month, Sara, and nothing’s going to stop me.’
Why on earth did she feel that her stepsister had delivered a threat rather than a warning? Sara wondered miserably, concealing her shock at the swiftness with which Cressy had made her arrangements.
‘I can’t think,’ she protested. ‘Cressy, I can’t just go up there. I’ll write to them first.’
She knew without looking at her that Cressy was furious with her. How could she make the younger girl understand that she still had her pride, that she just could not throw herself on her grandmother’s charity? And yet, hours later, when Cressy had stormed out in a vicious temper, telling her that she was being criminally stubborn and selfish, she found herself standing in her father’s book-lined study in front of the shelves containing all his maps and reference books.
Her hand seemed to reach automatically for what she wanted. She lifted the book down and flicked through it, stopping when she reached Chester.
She read what was written there, and tried to subdue the tiny flicker of emotion that touched her. It had been so long since she had felt anything other than weary exhaustion, that it took her minutes to recognise it as hope.
She studied a map of the county, wondering just which part of it her family inhabited. As a child, a natural reticence and over-sensitivity for the feelings of others had stopped her from questioning her father about his in-laws. She had assumed that he found talking about her mother painful, and therefore that any mention of her parents must be doubly so. And yet, apparently, he had discussed them quite freely with Cressy.
Pointless now to feel cheated, to feel that something very precious had been denied to her.
Her family had lived in the same house for three hundred years, her father’s solicitor had discovered. What sort of house? Again that curl of sensation, this time aligned to a quivering inner excitement that brought a soft flush to her too-pale face.
The strain of the last few weeks had robbed her of much-needed weight. Unlike Cressy, she was not fashion-conscious, and her clothes had started to hang loosely on her slender frame. Even her hair, which was her one real claim to beauty, with its shiny, silky texture, seemed to have become dull and lifeless.
Suppose she was to write to her grandmother and that lady proposed a visit? The excitement grew. She felt like a child again, confronted with the beginnings of an especially exciting adventure. Her eyes sparkled, her air of plain dowdiness dropping away from her as hope took the place of misery.
There was no way she could do what Cressy was suggesting and simply inflict herself upon her grandmother, but a letter, explaining what could be explained without betraying her father…
The tiny seed of hope grew, and for the first time in weeks she slept peacefully and deeply.
Cressy believed in very late nights, and mornings that did not begin until close to twelve o’clock unless she was auditioning.
Sara took her a light breakfast tray at eleven, and wondered a little enviously how on earth her stepsister managed to look so good, even with most of last night’s make-up still round her eyes and her forehead creased in a bad-tempered frown.
‘God, my head’s splitting this morning! Whoever said that you couldn’t get drunk on champagne was a liar. What’s this?’ she demanded, grimacing as she saw the tray. ‘Breakfast? Oh, for God’s sake, Sara, don’t be such a fool. Phone’s ringing,’ she added unnecessarily. ‘If it’s for me, take a number and say I’ll ring back.’
It wasn’t, and, when she had listened to the voice on the other end of the line, Sara felt that tiny seed of hope wither and die.
She walked back to Cressy’s room slowly.
‘Who was it?’ Cressy demanded carelessly.
‘Tom’s school. Apparently, he had a very bad attack of asthma yesterday. Dr Robbins was very kind about it, but he feels that Tom’s health is too precarious for him