‘She shouldn’t be gossiping to the staff.’ Kathryn would never admit it to her mother but she loves Aggie. She’s like the mother Kathryn wished she’d had. She looked after her when nobody else would, kept her fed and warm, was a shoulder to cry on, even more so after Viola. But, still, she can’t have her gossiping. Who knows what she could reveal about their family?
‘I don’t like to be reminded of Viola.’ Elspeth’s voice sounds frail in the gloaming. ‘Can you talk to Una for me? Tell her that? I don’t want to have to fend off her questions all the time. It’s utterly exhausting.’
Kathryn inwardly sighs. This is what you get, she wants to scream, if you invite people into your home. If you employ silly young girls as your companions. ‘Why don’t you get someone else to run the gallery? I could stay and help you instead.’
Elspeth stops walking and turns to Kathryn. ‘The gallery will be yours one day. Don’t you want to run it?’ Her face is a white halo in the light.
‘It’s not that. It’s just … I don’t know. Maybe you should get rid of Una. Get someone to pop in a few times a day instead. Like a nurse.’
‘What is it about them that you dislike so much? First Matilde, then Jemima, and now Una. I need more than a carer, you know that. I get lonely. They’re harmless, Kathryn. They aren’t a threat to you.’
Aren’t they? Like Kathryn wasn’t a threat to Viola? Her mother is lying. Should she tell her? But then she’d have to confess that she’d read her will. That she knew what her mother had done.
She’ll never forget the shock she’d had when she first stumbled upon her mother’s will. She’d been looking for the buildings-insurance papers for the gallery after the boiler broke last July. Her mother had gone out somewhere with Matilde, and Kathryn had let herself into The Cuckoo’s Nest and found the key to Elspeth’s study – her mother always hid it in the same place, behind The Great Escape in the library. She’d found the will in the desk drawer, already signed and updated. She’d read it, of course. How could she not? And there it was in black and white. Half her mother’s money went to her, but the other half went to Matilde. A girl her mother had known for five minutes. In that moment she’d thought her mother must be losing her marbles. Why would she do that? Why not leave the remainder of her estate to Harry and Jacob? Everything, the shops, the foundation, the house – oh, God, the house – it would all be divided between her and Matilde.
Matilde, the manipulative little cow, had hoodwinked her stupid, gullible mother.
Elspeth starts walking again, pulling on Kathryn’s arm so she has no choice but to do the same. ‘Do you miss her? Viola?’ Kathryn asks, her voice thick. She feels like a little girl again. Small, vulnerable and in dire need of love and reassurance.
‘You know I don’t like to talk about her. She hurt me.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll never forgive her.’
‘I know that too.’
How unyielding and conditional her love is, Kathryn thinks. She’d forgive her own two sons anything.
Elspeth sighs, her breath fogging in front of her. ‘But yes … yes, I miss her.’
Kathryn pats her mother’s hand, wishing she’d never asked the question.
Kathryn is surprised to see the lights on in the sitting-room window when they arrive back at The Cuckoo’s Nest. She was expecting Una to be out with the man she pretends isn’t her boyfriend.
‘I think you should be careful about ordering too many of Fleur’s paintings,’ Elspeth is saying, while Kathryn shrugs off her coat. ‘They’re an acquired taste.’
‘I think they’ll sell.’
‘Let’s hope so, because we need to see the gallery making a profit. Sales have certainly dipped in recent months.’
Elspeth hangs up her coat and Kathryn follows her into the sitting room. They both halt in surprise to see Una sitting on the velvet chesterfield sofa with a man. He’s handsome, Nordic-looking and, for a sudden, heart-stopping moment, she wonders if he’s related to Matilde.
Una stands up when she sees them. She looks awkward and keeps playing with the ends of her long hair. ‘Hi. This is Peter.’ She indicates the man on the sofa, who also gets to his feet. He’s very tall, towering over Kathryn’s five-foot-ten-inch frame. ‘This is Jemima’s brother.’
Jemima’s brother. Of course. Now Kathryn can see the resemblance. The same platinum hair and ice-blue eyes. She’d always thought Jemima’s hair was dyed that colour.