Power of a Woman Read online

  One day, after she had been at Jardine’s for five years, the animosity and contentiousness she had come to expect simply ceased to exist.

  Alfreda never became one of her admirers. On the other hand, Bruce’s wife had apparently realized the validity of her husband’s moves; she well understood that Stevie was the one person they could trust as the mother of their grandchildren, their heirs. And so she had kept a civil tongue in her head and stayed out of her daughter-in-law’s way. Alfreda had died in 1982, almost fifteen years ago, but right up to the day of her death she had disliked Stevie, had never shown her any affection or made even the smallest friendly gesture.

  Rising, walking back to the desk, Stevie bent forward, picked up her wedding photograph, and peered at it intently for a moment or two. How young she and Ralph had looked. But then, they had been young, she most especially. I was just a little girl, only sixteen, she thought. A child. Why, I was younger than Chloe is now.

  Oh, Ralph, who would have believed it? Believed that your father would take me into the business? Or that one day I would be head of Jardine’s on both sides of the Atlantic? She could not help thinking that life, the great leveler, was also so very unpredictable. I couldn’t have accomplished all that I have without friends, good friends, and most especially André Birron. She knew that André had taught her as much as Bruce ever had about the jewelry business. He had been her mentor in certain ways, and a genuine friend, almost like a father.

  André had always given her the best advice, the soundest. When she was twenty-seven, she fell in love again, after four years of widowhood. She discovered she was pregnant a year later, and it was to André she had turned. She had flown to Paris to see him, to confide in him, although, being wary by nature, she had done so only to a degree. She had merely alluded to the identity of her lover, the father of her unborn child. Even before she had finished her sentence, André had held up his hand as if in warning.

  “Do not tell me who he is. I do not want to know. Remember this, my Stephanie. Confide a secret to one person and it is a secret no longer,” the sage old Frenchman had cautioned.

  And so she had kept her own counsel always, for this was her natural inclination. No one had ever known who her lover had been, or even tried to guess the man’s real identity. Not even Chloe knew who her father was.

  Chloe. Stevie’s expression changed, became softer as she thought of her eighteen-year-old daughter. Now she was a D-flawless diamond. Quite perfect.

  Stevie suddenly broke into a chuckle. Well, not really. Her daughter was only almost perfect, thank goodness. No one wanted a paragon of virtue. They were no fun, and usually too good to be true.

  Chloe would be arriving later that afternoon, hopefully in time for dinner, and they would enjoy a cozy evening together. Tomorrow her mother and stepfather would be driving up from Manhattan to spend Thanksgiving Day with them, and the rest of the holiday weekend. She was looking forward to it, just as she knew Chloe was.

  Derek Rayner had been knighted by the queen some years before, and he and her mother were now Sir Derek and Lady Rayner. As had been predicted long ago, he was now the greatest classical actor on the English stage, and at sixty-eight a living legend. He had been good to her mother and to her and her children.

  Derek and her mother were childless, and so he played the role of father and grandfather to the hilt. But his love for them all was very genuine, and he adored Chloe.

  Her son Miles was driving to Connecticut with the Rayners. He was her favorite son, if the truth be known, although she always tried to hide this fact from the others. She loathed playing favorites amongst her children.

  Miles was a talented artist and a brilliant set designer. Currently he was living in New York, where he was designing the stage sets for a Broadway play. Unlike his brother Nigel and his twin, Gideon, he had never shown any desire to go into Jardine’s, although with his artist’s eye he had always appreciated the beauty of the jewels and the other objects of art Jardine’s made.

  Despite his lack of interest in working in the family business, his grandfather had insisted he become a director since he was a major shareholder in the company. He had done so immediately. Jardine’s was his inheritance, and it had always been an important part of his life; his mother had seen to that.

  It was Gideon who was the true jeweler in the family; Stevie had recognized that when he was a child. He was a talented, indeed gifted, lapidary, and he had inherited his father’s love of stones, most especially diamonds. Like Ralph, he was an expert when it came to cutting stones, and as one of the chief lapidaries at Jardine’s, he was involved in the creation of the exquisite jewels that the Crown Jewellers had been renowned for over the centuries.

  Nigel, ever the businessman, and the spitting image of Bruce in so many different ways, ran the business end of the company, under her direction.

  But Nigel wanted it all for himself.

  Stevie was well aware of this these days. There were even moments when she thought her eldest son was plotting her departure from the company, planning her fall from grace.

  Now she expelled a long sigh as she strolled back to the fireplace. She stood leaning against the mantelpiece, her thoughts focused on Nigel.

  She had no real evidence to go on; it was just plain old gut instinct that told her that her son was against her. For a long time now she had seen Nigel for what he was…very much the way Bruce had been when he was a younger man—cold, calculating, controlling, and very ambitious.

  There was nothing wrong with ambition as long as it was focused in the right direction. She was the first to admit this. But it was somewhat ridiculous of her son to be ambitious at her expense. After all, the business would be his one day. He would share it with his brothers equally, of course, but he would be running it as the eldest of the three and the undoubted business brain.

  She wished she could shake off the worrying suspicion that Nigel wanted her to trip up in order for him to justify taking over from her in London. And indeed, New York as well.

  “Fat chance of that,” she muttered. Bruce would never permit it. Her father-in-law was eighty-two now, and semiretired after some terrible attacks of gout, which had plagued him for years. But he was as alert as ever, not a bit senile, and very spry when he was free of his crippling ailment. She was very well aware that he cared about her, even though he did not show it very often.

  Furthermore, and perhaps more to the point, he trusted her implicitly when it came to running the company. She had earned that trust, had proved to him time and again that she not only knew what she was doing but that she was brilliant at it. No, Bruce would not tolerate Nigel’s machinations, what he would term “youthful insubordination.” And he would be on her side.

  Rousing herself from her thoughts about her eldest son, Stevie hurried out of the study and headed along the second-floor landing. Of medium height and slim, Stephanie Jardine was an attractive woman, with a head of dark curls, light gray-green eyes, and a well-articulated face. High cheekbones and a slender nose gave her a look of distinction; she was elegant in an understated way, dressed in a loden-green wool pants suit and sweater that brought out the green lights in her eyes.

  Stevie took the stairs at a rapid pace, realizing that she had wasted a great deal of time dwelling on the past and Ralph, living through her memories both good and bad. She had guests arriving the next day, and even though they were family, everything had to be well prepared for them nonetheless. Her mother, in particular, had very high standards and was accustomed to a great deal of luxury as the wife of a famous star of stage and screen.

  As she reached the great hall, the grandfather clock standing in the corner began to strike. It was exactly six o’clock. Chloe was due to arrive in an hour, and a smile touched Stevie’s eyes at this thought. She could not wait to see her daughter.

  Somewhere nearby a door was banging, and she felt a rush of cold air blowing down the great hall. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the sun roo
m, and she went through the archway that led to this area of the house.

  The solarium, as it was usually called, was long with many windows; two sets of French doors led out to the covered porch that stretched the length of the back facade of the house. One of the doors had sprung open and it was swinging back and forth on its hinges, banging against a wooden chair.

  She went to close it, then paused at the door and peered out. It was a dark night, with a black sky empty of stars. A corridor of bright lamplight streamed out from the solarium, illuminating the porch and its stone balustrade beyond. It diminished the darkness.

  Stevie went outside, as she often did at this hour, loving the tranquility, the silence of the countryside. It was so pleasing to her after the din of New York, and especially so at nighttime.

  Her eyes scanned the sky and the landscape surrounding her. She noticed then that the mist of earlier had settled in the well of the garden. It was heavier now, and it hugged the grass, swirled in thick patches, obscuring the stone benches, the fountain, and the flagged rose garden. How eerie everything looked tonight, she thought. Stevie swung around and made a swift retreat back to the house.

  As 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.

  3

  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, a
nd 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.

  “Tomorrow morning, around noon.”

  “Is Miles bringing his girlfriend?”

  Stevie was so startled, she sat back, surprised. “I don’t think so,” she answered. “He would have mentioned it. Anyway, I didn’t know there was a girlfriend. At least, not anyone special.” She stared at Chloe intently, and when her daughter didn’t answer, she pressed, “Well, is there?”

  Chloe shrugged, leaned against the table, and said hesitantly, “Not sure, Mom.” She pursed her lips. “Maybe. He’s been seeing a lot of Allison Grainger, but he’s been really closemouthed about it.”

  “Who’s Allison Grainger?” Stevie asked, a dark brow lifting quizzically.

  “The costume designer who’s working on the play with him. You’ve met her, Mom. She’s got red hair and lots of freckles.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember her now. She’s rather pretty.” Stevie’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Is it serious, do you think?”

  “I doubt it,” Chloe responded, and began to laugh. “I guess it will be for about another week or two. And then it’ll probably be over. You know Miles and Gideon, Mom, they’re very alike when it comes to women.”