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Chloe said quickly, “Oh, Mom, I’d love to work with you in New York. Eventually. But I want to start out in London because Gideon is such a great lapidary and he could teach me so much. And besides, the London workshops are much bigger than the one in New York. I just think I’d get better training there, and Old Bruce is there. I mean, I know he’s semiretired and all that, but he does go to the store twice a week, and, well, I mean, he could teach me a lot, just like he taught you.”
“I see.”
“Are you angry, Mom?”
Stevie shook her head.
“Yes, you are, I can tell. Please don’t be cross with me, Mom. Please.”
“I’m not angry; really, I’m not, Chloe.”
“Then what?”
“Disappointed, I suppose.”
“Because I don’t want to go to college?”
“Yes, there’s that. But I’m also disappointed that you don’t want to work with me in New York. Of course, the workshops are much larger in London, that’s true. But ours is not so bad, you know. And we do have Marc Sylvester and several wonderful lapidaries at the Fifth Avenue store. They could teach you just as much as you’d learn in London.”
“But I want to learn from Gideon.”
“I know you’ve always been close to him.”
“I’m closer to Miles actually, Mom, but I love Gideon and he’s a good teacher. He’s taught me a few things about jewelry already when I’ve gone to see him at the workshops during vacations.”
“He’s certainly patient and painstaking, and a bit of a perfectionist, so I have to believe you when you say he’s a good teacher. Yes, I can see that aspect of him.” Stevie gave her daughter a long, speculative look, and then asked quietly, “Have you discussed this with Gideon already?”
Chloe shook her head. “Oh, no, Mommy, I haven’t! I wouldn’t do that, not before talking to you.” Chloe leaned forward, her young face expectant and eager. “Can I go, then?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about this. It’s a big step for you, going to live in London. Alone.”
“But Mother, I wouldn’t be alone. I’ve got two brothers and a sister-in-law there, plus Old Bruce. And my grandparents. Blair and Derek would keep an eye on me for you.”
“If I agreed, and it is an if, I’d want someone to do much more than keep an eye on you, Chloe. You’d have to live with a member of the family.”
Chloe was immediately crestfallen on hearing this, and it showed on her face. “You mean I can’t live in your flat in Eaton Square?”
“Certainly not. There’s no one there to look after you.”
“There’s Gladys.”
“Gladys comes in only a few times a week to clean. No, no, that would be out of the question, if I agreed to this plan of yours.”
“I could live with Gideon. He’d love it.”
“Nonsense. He’d hate it. A single man of twenty-seven who has legions of women friends, according to you, wouldn’t want his baby sister for a roommate. It would cramp his style no end.”
“Nigel would have me. He’s married, and Tamara likes me a lot.”
“Yes, I know she does. But once again, it wouldn’t be suitable. They’re practically newly-weds; they wouldn’t want you around.”
“Oh, Mom, they have two kids!”
Stevie bit back a smile, amused by Chloe’s logic, then she said, “Even so, a young couple like Nigel and Tamara don’t need the responsibility of looking after you. They have their hands full as it is.”
“I wouldn’t want to live at Old Bruce’s house in Wilton Crescent, if that’s what you’re thinking. That place is so gloomy, it would be like being in prison. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Mom?”
“I haven’t agreed that you can go, Chloe.”
“Grandma would let me live with her and Derek, and you know they love me…a lot,” Chloe volunteered.
“Yes, they do. But you’re putting the cart before the horse. I have to think about this matter, and at great length. I’m certainly not going to make any hasty decisions.”
“When will you decide?”
“I don’t know.”
“But, Mommy—”
“No buts, darling,” Stevie interrupted. “You’ve told me what you’d prefer to do, and now I must give it some thought. I want you to think about it as well, Chloe. Think about what you’d be missing by not going to university. Think about those three years at Oxford and all that they would mean. Not just the education you’d get, but the fun you’d have, and the people you’d meet. Friends you make at university are your friends for the rest of your life. And I must admit, Chloe, I’m a bit baffled; you were always so keen about studying at Oxford. What happened?”
“I’ve changed my mind, Mom.”
“Promise me you’ll think about this.”
“Oh, all right,” Chloe muttered, looking suddenly put out.
Stevie glanced at her quickly and said in a sharp tone of voice, “Don’t sound so grudging about it, Chloe. It doesn’t become you one little bit.”
Chloe flushed at this chastisement, mild as it was, and bit her lip. Then, pushing the tray table away, she jumped up and sat next to Stevie on the sofa.
Taking hold of her mother’s hand, she squeezed it, then reached up and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t be angry with me, Mommy.”
Observing her daughter’s worried expression and detecting the concern in her eyes, Stevie murmured softly, “I’m not angry, Chloe, but I do want to do what’s best for you, and you must try to understand that. After all, you’ve obviously been thinking about this for some time, whilst I’ve just heard about it…so please, give me a few days to get used to the idea. And let me talk to Gideon. And my mother and Derek.”
Chloe nodded and her face brightened considerably as she exclaimed, “So you’re definitely not saying no?”
“No, of course not…” A faint smile surfaced on Stevie’s face. “I’m saying…maybe.”
Stevie had learned long before that when she couldn’t sleep it was far better to get up and keep busy, especially if she had a problem on her mind. To her way of thinking, it was much easier to worry when she was upright and moving around than when she was lying down.
She and Chloe had both gone upstairs to bed at eleven. Stevie had fallen asleep at once, lulled into a deep slumber by the two glasses of red wine she had drunk at dinner.
Then she had awakened suddenly several hours later, at three in the morning. Sleep had proved elusive thereafter; at four o’clock she had slipped out of bed, taken a shower, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a sweater, and gone downstairs.
After making a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, Stevie had walked around the house, collecting her many orchid plants. These she had taken to the plant room next to the laundry; carefully, methodically, she had watered them individually in the big sink, letting the water run through each one, then slowly drain away.
Everyone knew she loved orchids, and so she frequently received them as gifts. In consequence, her collection was quite large; two or three dozen were scattered throughout this house, and there were more in her New York apartment.
Mostly they were various species of the Phalaenopsis, with white or yellow blooms, plus pale, blush-pink cymbidiums. She also collected the miniature slipper orchid with pale green or dark brown blooms, and the dark brownish-wine-colored Sharry Baby with its tiny flowers and delicious chocolate scent.
But of them all her real favorites were the white and yellow Phalaenopsis, and she did very well with them, making them last for months. The house was an ideal spot for them to grow, cool, and full of soft, muted light most of the time.
Now Stevie lifted a pot containing a yellow-blooming Phalaenopsis and carried it through into the sun room, where she returned it to its place.
Stepping back, her head to one side, she admired it for a moment, thinking how beautiful it looked, so elegant against the white walls and standing on the dark wood surface of the antique chest. This was positioned in a corner between two windows, and the orchid had the most perfect light there.
Stevie moved around the house for almost another hour, carrying the plants back to their given spots in different rooms, and then she poured herself a mug of coffee and went back to the solarium.
She stood in front of the French windows, warming her hands on the hot mug, sipping the coffee occasionally. Her eyes scanned the sky. It was cold and leaden, and she could tell already that it would be a gray day, bleak, overcast, sunless. Even the landscape had a bleak look to it, the trees bereft of leaves, the lawn covered with a sprinkling of white frost. Thanksgiving Day 1996 had not dawned very brightly.
Stevie turned away from the window. Seating herself on one of the large overstuffed sofas, she put the mug on the table in front of her and leaned back, resting her head against the soft cushion covered in a faded antique chintz.
What to do? What to do about Chloe? She was not sure. In fact, she was very uncertain, really. Her daughter had surprised and disappointed her when she had abruptly announced she did not want to go to university, most especially since she had been so gung-ho about attending Oxford. Stevie had always wanted Chloe to have a good education, to graduate with a college degree. The last thing she had expected was to hear her daughter express the desire to work at Jardine’s. There had never been any real indication on Chloe’s part that she was keen on the jewelry business, other than a passing interest in the New York store.
Admit it, she’s hurt you badly, wanting to work in London, a small voice at the back of her head whispered. And yes, that was the truth. Chloe’s words had been like a slap in the face.
Stevie knew that Chloe could learn everything in New York. There was no need for her to go to London. Jardine’s was the one store left on Fifth Avenue that had its own workshop on the second floor, and it was excellent. Marc Sylvester, her top lapidary, was brilliant, and Chloe could learn as much from him as she could from her brother Gideon, or Gilbert Drexel, the chief lapidary at the London shop.
Am I being selfish, wanting to keep her with me? Stevie asked herself. Possessive? Over-protective? If she was honest with herself, she had to admit it was a little bit of all three.
But then again, what mother didn’t want to keep her daughter by her side, and for as long as possible? And if not by her side, then at least in the same country. What Chloe wanted was not only to leave the nest, but fly away to distant shores.
Stevie let out a long sigh, thinking of her daughter. Chloe was only just eighteen, and she was so much younger in many different ways, more like fifteen, in fact. For one thing, she had led a very sheltered life, particularly when they had resided in London. She had been surrounded by family…her three brothers, and her grandparents, and had attended Lady Eden’s exclusive private school for young ladies as a day girl. The harsh everyday world had hardly penetrated her consciousness.
Even in the eight years they had lived in New York, Chloe’s life had been somewhat cloistered. She’ll never make it on her own, Stevie thought. She’ll be overwhelmed. She’s too sensitive, too delicate, and just far too young to be away from home, away from me. I’m going to say no. I must. I’m not going to let her go to England. She can go a year from now only if she is enrolled at Oxford.
It seemed to Stevie at that precise moment that a load had been lifted from her shoulders. Just making the decision was a blessed relief. The tight pain in her chest, which had been like a steel band since four o’clock that morning, was beginning to ease at last.
4 (#u468f38f4-96aa-557c-bf84-6ee6f19f9bd9)
NO MATTER HOW BUSY SHE WAS, STEVIE ALWAYS found time at some point each day to write in her daily journal. And so that morning, while she waited for her mother, Derek, and Miles to arrive, she opened her current diary and wrote: Thanksgiving Day 1996: Connecticut, then sat staring at the page, lost in her thoughts.
She had kept a journal for years, most of her life, and there were volumes of them locked away in a cupboard at the other side of the upstairs study, where she now sat at the desk.
Thirty-four years had been recorded in them since her mother had presented her with her first diary when she was twelve. That had been in 1962. It seemed very far away now; so much had happened to her in the intervening years. She had lived a lifetime and then some, or so it seemed to her.
Her first diary had had its own little lock and key and it had withstood the test of time very well; she had looked at it recently and been amazed that it had weathered the years so well. The paper was a bit yellowed at the edges, the ink faded on some pages, but that was the only damage, if you could even call it that.
On the whole, a miracle of preservation, Stevie thought, and put down her pen, sat back in the chair, her thoughts turning to her mother, who had also kept a diary most of her life. They had always been close, had had a symbiotic relationship when she was a child. Her father, Jerome Anderson, had not been the right husband for Blair, nor had he been a very good father, and this had brought her and her mother even closer together.
Newspaperman, ladies’ man, bon vivant, and man-about-town, Jerry had not been cut out for family life, and that was exactly what her mother had craved. Beautiful, glamorous, international supermodel Blair Connors had wanted only to be a wife and mother. She was the success she was because of her face and figure, the way she dominated the catwalk and made love to the camera. It was certainly not because of drive or ambition. Even at the height of her career she had wanted to stay at home and cook, raise children, be a housewife, a mother, and a good wife to the right man. Domesticity was her idea of bliss.
Derek Rayner, English classical actor par excellence, handsome matinee idol and movie star, had seemed such an unlikely candidate for the role Blair had cast him in all those years ago. The wrong man, as far as Blair’s friends were concerned.
But as it happened, he had been the right man, the perfect choice, the perfect mate. Blair and Derek had been married for over thirty years and still adored each other. Their only disappointment was that they had not had any children of their own. Perhaps that was one of the reasons they were inseparable, and Derek never went anywhere without his beautiful and accomplished wife.
Stevie was relieved they were coming to spend Thanksgiving with her. On the phone yesterday her mother had sounded worn out, which was unusual for her. She had mentioned that Derek was exhausted after twelve weeks on location making a movie in Arizona, then looping at the studio in Los Angeles. The film assignment had come right on top of his long run in the Broadway revival of Becket. According to her mother, it was now essential that he get a good rest.
“No more work for a while,” Blair had said. “He’s really looking forward to the long weekend with you, Stevie, before we fly back to London next week,” her mother had added, and Stevie was determined to make it a wonderful few days. She wanted her mother and Derek to have the great luxury of peace and quiet in comfortable surroundings, with lots of good food and rest. And certainly no pressure.
She thought suddenly of Chloe. She would have to have a talk with her later, warn her not to take all of her little problems to Derek. She had a tendency to pester him at times. Stevie supposed that was understandable, in that Derek was the closest thing to a father Chloe had ever had.
Certainly Bruce Jardine had been more like a grandfather. He was much older than Derek, less active, and decidedly crotchety a good part of the time. No wonder Miles and Chloe called him Old Bruce. He was such an old man in many ways; he had not aged well at all.
Stevie was aware that Chloe loved him, despite her protestations to the contrary and desire to cast him in the role of ogre or tyrant. As for Bruce, there was no doubt in Stevie’s mind that Bruce Jardine loved the girl in return. He had shown her daughter too much favor, displayed too much kindness to her for it to be otherwise. Whilst this baffled Stevie occasionally, it nonetheless pleased her. Bruce had treated Chloe as a Jardine all of her young life, and Stevie would always be grateful to him for that.
Bruce was not an easy man to care about or even like, but she had grown quite attached to him over the years. They had worked well together in a very temperate climate for twenty years, and there had rarely been any display of temperament or outbursts of anger on his part. Most of the years had rolled by on a very even keel, it seemed to her now.
It struck Stevie that it might be a good idea to talk to Bruce about Nigel. She and Chloe were going to spend Christmas in London, and that would be the ideal time to unburden herself. Unburden myself, she thought in amazement. Do I really feel that strongly about Nigel’s attitude? She sighed, thinking that perhaps she did.
Not only did she love her eldest son, she admired him no end, and there was a lot to admire. He was a clever, indeed brilliant young man with a great deal of talent and a good head on his shoulders. But he had a flaw, and it was a flaw that was fatal. He believed he knew better than anyone else, was convinced of the rightness of his ideas and beliefs, and he never took no for an answer, would brook no argument. He was far too stubborn and opinionated for his own good. His attitude verged on arrogance. It dismayed her that he could not compromise, that he was so rigid.
He was just like his grandfather. No, he’s worse, she thought, and laughed a hollow little laugh. He was Bruce’s clone. As Bruce had been when he was a younger man. Perhaps more so.
It would be hard to speak critically to Bruce about his clone. This brought a smile to Stevie’s face. She wasn’t going to talk to Bruce about her son’s character, rather about her suspicion that he wanted to oust her from the company. If this were the case, Bruce would surely put a stop to his manipulations.
But then, she could do that herself. She could fire Nigel.
He was, after all, her employee.
He worked for her.
She was the managing director of Jardine’s of London and president of Jardine’s of New York, just as Bruce was chairman of the board. Nigel was a director of the company, as were his two brothers, and they would always be directors. That was their right, their inheritance.
But she could take Nigel’s job away from him at any time if she so wished. It was as easy as that, just like snapping her fingers together.
No, not so easy, she reminded herself. He’s my son, my firstborn; I wouldn’t want to hurt him, to humiliate him, or to destroy him. Besides, he’s good at his job. The very best.
I simply have to make him toe the line, curb his ambition for the moment. He has to bide his time until I retire.
Stevie laughed out loud. Easier said than done when she was on the other side of the Atlantic…thousands of miles away.
Her mind swung to Gideon. Now, there was a son who was not one bit ambitious, at least not when it came to possessing the company and amassing power. All he wanted was to create flawless diamonds from the rough…make beautiful things. Gideon did worry her on a personal level, and she had been worried about him for some time now. He had not looked well, had seemed distracted, fretful, and impatient when she had seen him at the London showroom in late September. She remembered how pale and gloomy he had looked. In her opinion, he hadn’t been himself since he had broken up with Margot Saunders. Had he cared for that young woman more than he’d let on? She would talk to Miles about his twin during the weekend.
Her face instantly changed, took on a warm glow, and her eyes brightened. Miles was her pride and joy; she admitted it freely…in the privacy of her thoughts.
And Miles would help to take Chloe in hand too; she could rely on him to do that. Chloe and Miles had always had an affinity for each other and he was good with his little sister. Unlike Gideon, who had considered her to be a bit of a nuisance. And now Chloe wanted to learn from her brother Gideon. Stevie shook her head. People were so very strange.
She had often thought how odd it was that although Miles and Gideon were identical twins and looked alike, when it came to their personalities and characters, they were as different as chalk and cheese.
Miles was so much lighter, more carefree, gentle, well balanced, and a genuine charmer. Conversely, his twin was introverted, stubborn—more like Nigel in that way—and a perfectionist who at times seemed ridiculously persnickety, almost old-maidish. And yet he could be generous to a fault, and he truly did have the soul of an artist. He loved anything and everything that was beautiful, be it a woman, a painting, a sculpture, a tree, a seascape, a garden, a priceless gemstone, or a piece of jewelry. And he had an extraordinary eye, refined and exquisite taste.
Picking up her pen, Stevie looked down at the page and realized she had put nothing on paper so far other than the day and where she was.
Slowly she began to write, and when she had filled two pages, she screwed on the top of her fountain pen, took the diary in her hands, leaned back in the chair, and read it.
Thanksgiving Day, 1996
