The Journey Home

“As a matter of fact, I visited the house once as a little girl,” India remarked. “The owners, Señor and Señora Carvajal y Queiroz, were friends of my parents. They must be very old now if they’re even still alive. I remember being fascinated by its beauty. It’s a unique example of its kind in South America.”

“Hernan Carvajal is the present owner. He told me he was left the property by his grandparents. I guess they must have been your parent’s friends.”

“What a treat to have the opportunity of working with such a wonderful setting. Are you going to preserve the house as the common area?”

“Exactly.”

“But tell me, how has the new hotel been conceived?” She leaned forward, eyes alive with sudden interest.

“As I said, we’re building vertically behind the house.” He put down his glass and leaned forward, pushing the tea tray aside. Then he began drawing with his forefinger on the velvet surface of the ottoman. “Let’s say this is the main house, okay?” She nodded. “When you go in, you have the black-and-white marble hall—”

“Which will be your perfect reception area!” she exclaimed, finishing the sentence for him. “You know, the old salon overlooking the gardens would make a perfect setting for tea. Even a bar,” she added thoughtfully. “Something in the style of what they have at the Alvear but—”

Her sentence remained in midair as the library door flew open, followed by a draft of cold air. Jack watched in astonishment as Lady Serena Hamilton marched into the room. What on earth would she of all people be doing here? he wondered, watching as she threw her suede jacket carelessly over a chair and walked toward the fire.

“I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands. “The weather’s simply foul and that wretched man at the funeral home is utterly incompetent. Ah, tea. Just what I need.” Jack saw India stiffen. Then, glancing at Serena, who’d turned abruptly toward him, he rose reluctantly from the sofa.

“Jack!” she exclaimed, smiling archly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Hello, Serena,” he countered. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Her arrival couldn’t have been more unfortunate. As had been their one-night stand, he reflected grimly, wondering how she was going to play out the scene.

India watched, intrigued, as Jack and her half sister sized each other up, like two opponents, waiting to see who would strike first. She noticed that under the urbane surface Jack’s eyes had turned hard and unyielding. Like chips of blue ice, she realized with a shock. The relaxed individual of moments before had become a formidable adversary.

“You two know each other?” she asked, looking from one to the other, disconcerted by the underlying tension.

“In a manner of speaking.” Jack glanced at her. “I made Lady Serena’s acquaintance at a cocktail party the Kinnairds gave a while back.”

“Acquaintance?” Serena lifted a shapely eyebrow and threw him an arch smile before flopping onto the sofa next to where Jack had been seated. He remained standing and moved close to the fire. “You still haven’t told me what brought you here today.” She made a moue with her well-defined crimson lips.

“He brought me home from the glen,” India interjected, wishing at once that she hadn’t.

“The glen? What were you doing there?”

“I went for a walk,” she answered curtly, annoyed that she had to explain. She watched Serena stretch out her long legs, encased in black leather pants and boots, toward the fire. Angus stirred and turned over before the hearth.

“I took a potshot at her.” Jack smiled ruefully and glanced at India. “Since I nearly killed her, the least I could do was walk her home.” He leaned back against the mantelpiece and assessed Serena as he might a potentially dangerous situation. “Now you tell me. What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” she answered smugly.

This, India reflected, wasn’t strictly true. Serena lived—or was supposed to be living—at her flat in Edinburgh, though, according to their mother, she and her dreadful boyfriend, Maxi von Lowendorf, had been frequent visitors of late. It was strange, for Serena and her mother had never got on too well. India sighed, wishing she herself could have been here more often. Her mother had sounded troubled the last time they’d spoken on the phone, and India wished Lady Elspeth had told her more of what was preying on her mind. Now it was too late.

“Oh, now, about that tea…” Serena reached forward, then gave a tight, disappointed smile. “Oh, it’s cold and there’s no cup, of course. Never mind, I’ll just do without,” she said with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’ll get another pot,” India replied, glad of an excuse to escape. “And I’ll grab an extra cup, too.”

“Would you, darling? That’s awfully kind,” Serena murmured with a condescending smile.

India left the library and walked smartly along the corridor to the pantry. One never knew if Serena meant what she said or if she was being sarcastic. She grimaced, wishing she could like her half sister more.

In the pantry she removed a cup and saucer from the cupboard and then passed by the kitchen, drawn by the delicious smells of fresh baking that had reached into the corridor.

“Mmm,” India exclaimed. “That smells wonderful, Mrs. Walker.” Laying the cup down on the counter, she went over to the kitchen table where the housekeeper was wielding a wooden spoon in a large enamel bowl with zealous determination. “What are you making?” she asked, switching on the kettle.

“Preparing fer tomorrow,” Mrs. Walker answered with a sad shake of her gray head, her hazel eyes bright in a face creased with kindly wrinkles. “I wouldna’ want yer poor dear mother te’ feel ashamed, bless her soul.” She cast her eyes heavenward. “It’ll be quite a gathering. Lady Kathleen called earlier te’ see if we needed anything from the village before she comes back. Always thinks she has te’ be doing something, ye know. She’s awf’y upset about yer dear mother, but so are we all.” She laid the bowl down on the gnarled wooden table, and scraped the remains of the sponge cake batter off the sides of the spoon with a spatula. “Waste not, want not. That’s my motto and I’ve always lived by it.” She gave a satisfied last scour. “Well, as I was saying, Miss India, I said to Lady Kathleen, dinna’ you worry. Thirty years I’ve served the Dunbar family, first yer uncle, Sir Thomas, and the Lord knows he was no easy man, and then yer dear mother, may she rest in peace. It’d be a fine thing, I told her, if I wasna’ able te’ see te’ our ain guests.” There was an audible sniff.

“I’m sure she meant well. Kathleen’s always so thoughtful,” India said tactfully before leaning over the table and surreptitiously passing a finger around the edge of the bowl.

“Och, Miss India! Away with those fingers now!” Mrs. Walker swiped at India’s hand with a dishcloth.

“Scrumptious, Mrs. Walker, you haven’t lost your touch,” she answered mischievously, licking the tips of her fingers.

“Dearie me, when will ye ever grow up.” Mrs. Walker shook her head, smiling fondly. “I dinna’ like te’ think what yer poor mother would say.”

India grinned, picked up the cup and the steaming teapot and headed for the door. “I have to get back with Serena’s tea. We have an American guest in the library. By the way, he ate four of your scones, plus jam and clotted cream.”

“Would that be Sir Peter’s American? I’ve heard there’s one staying over at Dalkirk.”

“One and the same.”

“Aye, I thought so.” She nodded knowingly. “There’s nae too many of them about these parts. Mr. Hunter, the butcher, told me personally that Miss MacGregor had heard from Mrs. MacC.—the housekeeper from Dalkirk, ye know—that the American gentleman’s an awf’y nice-mannered young man. He brought her a special bottle of perfume all the way from America, and he never forgets te’ leave a wee something for the staff.” She gave another firm nod. “There was a lot of talk in the village when Sir Peter went into business with him, but it seems it’s all worked out fer the best.” Mrs. Walker began piling dirty dishes, and a plate slid dangerously from her arthritic grip. India stopped herself from rushing to the rescue and pretended not to notice, knowing Mrs. Walker’s pride would be sorely hurt.

She left the kitchen with a bright smile and heavy heart, dreading what the morrow might bring. She hoped desperately that the estate could afford to keep Mrs. Walker and the others on. There was old Tompson, and Mackay, the gardener. And the tenants. What would happen to them if—She pulled herself up short. There was no use worrying, she reflected, reaching the library. She heard voices just beyond the door and realized she’d completely forgotten about Jack and Serena, her mind so taken up with other things. She hesitated before entering and felt a pang of inexplicable disappointment. Somehow Jack hadn’t struck her as Serena’s type. She paused to gather her composure and heard Serena’s smug voice.

“I suppose India was terrified. She probably didn’t realize she was getting in the way. She’s not used to our way of life, poor thing.”

“The whole incident was entirely my fault,” Jack replied in his pleasant American drawl. “It was my careless behavior, not hers, that caused the incident. I should have been paying more attention.” His was a voice used to giving orders and not being thwarted, she noted, amused despite her anger at Serena’s snide comment.

She entered the library and lay the cup on the tray, surprised that he’d admitted the blame so frankly, and feeling a glimmer of satisfaction at his deft handling of Serena.

“Thanks, darling.” Serena smiled benignly. At thirty-six she looked good, the slim figure from her modeling days in London still intact, and though her clothes were too flamboyant for India’s taste, she could carry them.

India wondered suddenly just how “acquainted” they actually were. Serena’s arched eyebrow and Jack’s discomfort, though quickly disguised, had not escaped her.

And what did it matter anyway? She sat down heavily, suddenly exhausted, the emotional stress of the last few days finally catching up with her.

Serena was telling a long, drawn-out story about the Kinnairds, herself and some of her aristocratic connections. India listened with half an ear to the monotonous monologue, and tried to take a polite interest. But when she caught Jack looking surreptitiously at his watch, she realized it was time to intervene.

When Serena paused for breath, India grabbed her chance. “It’s getting quite late. Please tell me when you feel we should get going.”

“Get going? Where?” Serena demanded, her voice imperious. “Have another drink, Jack, there’s really no hurry.”

“No thanks. I’ve had quite enough.”

The most unobservant person would have picked up the dryness of his tone. But not Serena. India was embarrassed despite herself. “I’m taking Mr. Buchanan back to Dalkirk,” she said formally. “There’s no cab available.”

“You have to be joking. You? You wouldn’t know your way to the end of the drive, let alone to Dalkirk.” Serena gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Why not? I’m perfectly capable of getting in the car and following some directions. I’m sure you can tell me the easiest way to get there.”

“No, no. I can’t possibly allow it.” Serena turned to Jack. “She’s so kindhearted, poor thing, always doing things for others, but I can’t possibly let her go out on a night like this when she barely knows the way.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Serena,” India retorted, trying to mask her anger, writhing inwardly when Serena smiled patronizingly, as though she were explaining something to a very small child.

“I’ll just call the cab again. Maybe old MacFee will be home by now.” Jack stepped toward the desk.

“Good heavens, you won’t find him in at this time,” Serena interjected. “Old MacFee will be on his third round at the Hog and Hound by now. Don’t worry, Jack darling. I’ll take you. I know my way about like the back of my hand. I’m not likely to get lost.”

Jack hesitated, obviously not too pleased. Suddenly India gave up the fight, realizing it was pointless to have a quarrel, and decided to let Serena take him if she so wanted to. Not having to go out in the dark, on a road she didn’t know, and in what looked as though it might develop into a nasty snowstorm, would be a welcome relief. Her head was throbbing, her feet were killing her and all she wanted now was to get some rest. For a fleeting moment she wondered what Serena’s motive was for wanting to go. Maybe they knew each other far better than she suspected. If so, it was none of her business, and the sooner they left her in peace, the better.

Jack opened the door to allow them passage into the hall. Serena grabbed her jacket and barged through, heading straight for the porch, and down the stone steps to the heavy oak front door.

“See you later, India. I’ll lock up when I get back,” she threw over her shoulder.

Jack turned. Serena’s footsteps still echoed between them as they stood face-to-face under the high dome of the dimly lit stucco hall. There was a sudden lull, each waiting for the other to speak.

“You take care,” he said finally, taking her hand, and, to her surprise, raising it to his lips.

She blushed despite herself, thankful for the shadows. “Thanks for bringing me back.” She wanted to say, “And for being so understanding,” but instead she hastily retrieved her hand and tucked it in her pocket. “That’s Serena hooting in the car. The weather seems to be worsening by the minute. You’d better go.”

“Right.” He paused, lingering. “When are you leaving?”

“After the funeral. I have to get back home to Switzerland and work.”

“I guess that’s it then. Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross one day. Thanks for the tea and the tour of the house. I really enjoyed it. Goodbye for now, and good luck.” He seemed to hesitate, then smiled. India wasn’t sure if it was the light or her imagination, but all at once his eyes seemed alight once more with depth and understanding. As though he cared. She told herself to stop imagining things, and watched him head down the stone steps.

Halfway down he turned back, his eyes finding hers through the darkness. “And by the way, just to set the record straight, my name’s Jack, not Mr. Buchanan.”

Her mouth broke into an involuntary smile. “I’ll remember—Jack. By the way, don’t forget your gun and the dogs—and your jacket. Tell Serena to stop at the side door. It’s open.”

“Thanks, I will.”

He disappeared, leaving her to the haunting emptiness of the night and the echo of the front door closing loudly behind him. India shivered, pulled the cashmere cardigan closer about her shoulders, and wandered over the ancient Persian rug, its hues mellowed by the passage of generations of Dunbars. She stopped at the drum table standing alone in the middle of the vast hall and looked down at the vase of roses set there. Once more her heart filled with grief.

They were the flowers her mother had been arranging at the time of her death.

They remained, just as Lady Elspeth had left them. She had placed the last delicate rose in the Waterford vase, then been struck by a massive heart attack, dying as gracefully as she’d lived. India decided to take the roses and dry them. They would be a tiny part of her mother that would remain with her always.

Wandering over to the grand piano, she smoothed the surface of the instrument and sat down, gazing through the shadows at the keys. Slowly her fingers reached out to the keyboard and she began playing, the strains of Chopin enveloping her as she drifted into her mother’s favorite nocturne. India played in the dark, paying a last, solitary tribute to her mother, a woman she loved, yet who’d been somewhat removed from the realities of life.

The notes lingered, reaching up toward the high-ceilinged dome. Outside, snow fell, heavy and silent. The sitting-room lamps flickered, and shadows danced eerily on the stucco walls as India poured her feelings into the music. Love, vexation and anger mingled with a deep, abiding sense of loneliness. Finally her tears flowed unimpeded.

As nocturne came to a close, and the last resounding chords echoed, she lifted her hands from the piano and her tears flowed unimpeded. It was a precious moment she would always remember.

India rubbed her eyes thinking now of the problems ahead—debts, tax issues and God only knew what else. Lady Elspeth had always skimmed over the subject, uneager to dwell on anything disagreeable, and India had no clue how the estate had been left. It was another subject non grata. In a way it might be easier if Serena inherited the lot. As for her mother’s house in Switzerland, India had learned only the other day that it was mortgaged to the hilt. Poor Mummy. If it hadn’t been for the Marchese, her old and faithful admirer who’d helped her take charge of her affairs during these last few years, she would have ended up penniless.

But there was no point in dwelling on the negative.

India closed the lid of the Steinway, then trod wearily up the stairs, the strain of the last few days finally taking its toll.

On reaching the bedroom she flopped onto the faded counterpane of the four-poster bed, but the room was chilly, so she crawled under the covers, relieved that it would soon be all over.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made that Mummy would have left Dunbar to Serena. After all, she herself hardly knew the place. Tomorrow, by this time, the funeral and the reading of the will would be over. Then she could leave, back to Chantemerle, her house by Lake Geneva, and to sanity.

She huddled sleepily under the quilt, wishing she’d brought a hot-water bottle. Turning on her pillow, she remembered her conversation with Jack. He’d struck her more as a big-business sort of man, yet he’d seemed genuinely enthusiastic and knowledgeable about his new project, the Palacio de Grès.

For a while she lay there, half-asleep, too tired to undress. She listened to the still night, broken only by the lonely hoot of an owl, thinking of all she had to do in Switzerland before leaving for Buenos Aires. But her mind kept returning to the look in Jack’s eyes when she’d told him about her mother. There had been true concern there. Something had occurred in that serene moment, as they stood, side by side, before the crackling flames. Something she couldn’t explain.

Strange, she reflected as sleep finally came, that the only true moment of peace she’d achieved since her arrival at Dunbar had been found in the company of a stranger.

2

The Range Rover progressed at a snail’s pace, as snowflakes pelted the windshield relentlessly

“What a dreadful night,” Serena remarked, eyes narrowed. “I hope it clears for the funeral tomorrow, or it’ll be damn difficult for the hearse to get up to the house.”

“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” Jack said, remembering India’s sad expression.

“Oh, that,” she replied vaguely. “Mmm, it’s rather a nuisance really. Such a tiresome time of year to be plodding outside in this dreadful weather. What’s going to be even more of a bore is getting everything ready for the sale.”

“What sale?”

“Dunbar.”

“You’re selling Dunbar?” Jack asked, surprised. When he’d commented to India that Dunbar would be an ideal setting for a hotel, her eyes had darkened, and she’d replied in such withering tones he’d felt like a jerk for allowing the thought to cross his mind.

“Yes, I’ve pretty well decided,” Serena continued. “I’ve no desire to keep it. It’s far too big. The heating bill alone is outrageous, and quite frankly, I’d rather have the money.” She slowed as they slid on a patch of ice. “Whew! That was close,” she remarked. “Awfully slippery out here.”

“When is your mother’s funeral?” he asked casually.

“Tomorrow at two. The burial will be afterward at Cockpen. We’ll probably all freeze to death while the minister blabbers on. He’s such a long-winded old bore.”

Jack tried to conceal his rising disgust. During his life, he’d crossed men and met with situations he’d rather not remember, but rarely had he come across a more self-centered, callous woman. Serena showed none of the sadness India obviously felt at her mother’s passing. Apparently all that concerned Serena was her own well-being, and how she could profit. He glanced sideways at her. The fact that he’d actually slept with this woman—brief, inebriated fling though it had been—filled him with abhorrence.

He tried to forget Serena, and considered the idea that had been taking shape hazily ever since he’d set eyes on the property, and that her words had reignited. He couldn’t help it. He was always picturing places as hotels. His hotels. If Dunbar could be acquired, it would be the perfect addition to the small group of upscale establishments he and Peter were investing in.

“Is your sister interested in selling the property, too?” he asked, casting Serena another sidelong glance. His eyes had gotten used to the dark now, and he tried to distinguish her expression. Something didn’t fly in all this for the two sisters to have such different views on the subject.

“It’s none of her business.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Mummy’s surely left the estate to me. India couldn’t possibly have any interest in it. She’s never spent time there. She already had the property in Switzerland, of course, which is actually worth more and is probably a damn sight easier to sell. It would have been out of the question for her to live at Dunbar.”

“Really, why’s that?” he asked, surprised, remembering India’s rapt expression as she’d shown him the house. She’d seemed enchanted with it, as though it was an important part of her existence.

“You weren’t brought up here so you probably wouldn’t understand. It’s rather difficult to be accepted in these parts if you’re not born into the right milieu. Of course, a foreigner’s very different,” she added, casting him a suggestive smile, “especially a wealthy, eligible one. In America you’re far more understanding of these things, aren’t you? Too understanding if you ask me. That’s why you have all sorts of riffraff mixing with their betters.”

Jack didn’t respond, still wondering what could possibly have induced him to end up with this woman in the Kinnairds’ second guest bedroom a few months back. That’d teach him not to mix his drinks, he reflected somberly. She’d been conveniently there, sexy, in a slinky black dress that did wonders for her figure, and before he’d known it they were on the carpet, Serena pulling off his clothes. And, he had to admit, doing a pretty damn good job. Lady Serena was a pro.

India’s face flashed to mind, and he experienced a sudden burst of discomfort. Two more different women would have been hard to find. On the one hand, India, poised, natural and beautiful—with something more Jack couldn’t put his finger on, but which further acquaintance might reveal. On the other, this obtrusive female who, although she was attractive and sexy, clearly lacked her sister’s quality.

“Are you going to list the property with a broker?” he asked, his mind jumping back to the possibility of acquiring Dunbar.

“Why? Would you be interested?” she asked archly.

“I could be…if the numbers were right.”

Serena glanced at him. “Why don’t you come over one day before you leave and take a look around.”

“Okay. Sounds like a good idea. If you could have some specs on hand—you know, information about the property, plans and so on, it’d be helpful.”

“Of course, I’ll see to it. When are you leaving?”

“I’ll be away for a couple of days, but I’ll be back on Saturday.”

“Fine. I’ll give you a ring or you can call me. Do you have the number?”

“I’ll find it.”

“When did you say Peter and Di are getting back from Perthshire?” she inquired, the wheels of the Range Rover crunching the freshly fallen snow as they rolled slowly up the drive.

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Good. Give them my love and tell Di I’ll be giving her a buzz.” They stopped at the front door. “You know, we should get together for dinner one night. I make a jolly decent soufflé, and we could think up something terribly exotic for dessert,” she purred, looking him over greedily.