Her Own Rules

  “Stop calling me sugar. It’s disgusting. And he did love me.”

  “I told you, he wasn’t capable of loving. He couldn’t love anyone if his life depended on it. It wasn’t in him. Sebastian Locke was a monster.”

  “He was not! And I know he loved me, do you understand that? I know he did,” I answered heatedly, swallowing my anger, clinging to my composure.

  “If you say so,” he muttered, giving in to me, which he frequently did. Averting his head, he stared into the fire, a morose look settling on his face.

  As I sat watching him, thinking how sad it was he was so wrong about his father, thinking how little Jack had known about him, it occurred to me that he bore a strong resemblance to Sebastian tonight. Their profiles were the same; Jack had inherited his father’s strong jawline and aquiline nose, as well as his fine head of dark hair. But his eyes were a faded, watery blue, not the bright cornflower hue his father’s had been. As for their characters and personalities, they were as dissimilar as any two men could be.

  The moroseness stayed with Jack throughout supper. He ate sparingly, drank a lot, and said little.

  At one moment I reached out and touched his hand, and remarked softly, in my most conciliatory voice, “I’m sorry I shrieked at you.”

  He did not answer.

  “Honestly, I am. Don’t be like this, Jack.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mute. Unresponsive. And infuriatingly mule headed.”

  He stared at me, then he smiled.

  When Jack smiled his face lit up, and he was engaging, almost irresistible to me. That was the way it had always been. I smiled back, my affection for him once more intact. “It’s just that I can’t bear it when you’re nasty about Sebastian.”

  “We see him differently, you and I,” he mumbled, swigging more of my best red wine, the Mouton Rothschild which Sebastian had sent me last year.

  He continued, “You’ve always been . . . agog about him . . . so . . . so adoring and worshipful. Look, I don’t wear the same kind of rose-colored glasses, Viv.”

  “You adored him too, when you were little.”

  “That’s what you think. But it’s not true.”

  “Oh Jack, don’t lie to me. This is Vivienne you’re talking to . . . good old Viv, your best friend.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Jesus, don’t you ever let up? When it comes to persistence, you’re like a dog with a bone.”

  “Only when we’re discussing Sebastian Locke,” I countered.

  “Well, one thing is certain, your loyalty is commendable, sugar.”

  “Thanks. And stop calling me sugar in that awful tone of voice. You know I hate it. You do it just to get my goat.”

  He grinned, reached out and squeezed my hand. “Truce?”

  “Truce,” I agreed and as quickly as I had when we were children.

  We spoke about other matters for a short while after this. About France, Provence to be exact, and our respective homes there, houses which Sebastian had given us at different times. Although I did not dare remind him of this. It was obvious to me that he was as unrelenting about his father in death as he had been during his lifetime. Jack had never given Sebastian the benefit of the doubt, nor apparently did he intend to do so now. When it was too late, anyway.

  It was when we returned to the den to have coffee that Jack suddenly started to talk about the circumstances of Sebastian’s death once again.

  Settled in an arm chair, with his coffee and cognac on a small side table next to him, he said, “The police had me check through his things. In the library. The rest of the house. No valuables were taken. As far as I could tell.”

  “Does that mean they’ve now ruled out the possibility of an intruder?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “It’s perplexing.” I sat back in my chair, my mind turning over the few facts we had. “When I lunched with Sebastian he mentioned that Mrs. Crane was away on vacation . . .” I stopped and looked at him.

  “What are you getting at, Viv?”

  “I guess I think it’s a bit odd that Sebastian came up to the farm when there was no one there to look after him. When she was away. Even the police think that, Jack.”

  “He told me on Thursday that he had some work to finish. He gave me the impression he was looking forward to being alone up here, from his tone and his attitude.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t alone, though.”

  Jack threw me a swift look and his brows puckered. “That’s a possibility. Somebody could have been with him. Yes, of course they could.”

  “And that somebody might have ended up doing him bodily harm,” I pointed out.

  “Only too true.”

  “By the way, why did you and Luciana suddenly come to the States? Was there a special reason for this visit?”

  “We didn’t come to kill Sebastian,” he said, and gave me a smirk that was oddly ghoulish.

  “For God’s sake, I wasn’t implying any such thing. And do stop it. You know your facetious talk only infuriates me. Grow up, act your age, Jack. This is very serious . . . a serious situation.”

  “Sorry, Viv. Luciana and I came in for the annual meeting of Locke Industries,” Jack explained in a quiet, more subdued tone, sounding suddenly and effectively chastised at last. “It was supposed to be held tomorrow. Naturally, it’s been canceled.”

  “I should hope so! Anyway, I must go back to my original reaction of earlier today, when you first told me Sebastian was dead. I was certain he’d had a heart attack, or possibly a stroke. And to tell you the truth, I still believe, deep down, that that’s what happened.”

  When Jack made no response, I gave him a penetrating look, asked, “Well, don’t you?”

  He brought his hand up to his face, rubbed his mouth and his chin, suddenly reflective. “I don’t know,” he answered. “This afternoon I would have agreed with you, but now I’m vacillating. Not sure of anything.”

  “Do you honestly think he was attacked? By an intruder?” I pressed.

  “Maybe. He could have gone into the farmhouse and surprised a burglar.”

  “Before the burglar had an opportunity to steal anything? Is that what you think? After all, you said there’s nothing missing.”

  “Well, the paintings and the major art objects are in place. On the other hand, Sebastian could have had something else there worth stealing, something to tempt a thief.”

  “Such as what?” I frowned, shaking my head. “I don’t get it, Jack.”

  “Cash, Vivienne. You know Sebastian always carried a lot on him. I was often warning him about that. Or maybe there were some documents around.”

  “Documents,” I said sharply, staring at him. “But if someone stole documents that smacks of premeditation, doesn’t it? Listen, a thief breaking in at random, looking for loot, is one thing. A thief breaking in and stealing documents is a different thing altogether. It suggests prior knowledge to me.”

  Jack nodded. “You’re right there.”

  “What made you think of documents? Are there any missing? And what kind of documents did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t know why I thought of them. Except that Sebastian said he was going to the farm to work. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a liar. If he said he had to go over papers, then he was telling the truth. But there weren’t any, at least none that he’d been working on—”

  “What about all those scattered around the library?” I cut in.

  “The letters on the floor and spread over the desk were just the usual things. Correspondence, bills, personal notes from people. The way he spoke on Thursday he sounded as if he had real work to do on important documents. Come to think of it, he did actually say documents. I guess that’s why I just thought of them now.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Look, I haven’t been at Laurel Creek Farm in a coon’s age, Viv, so how would I know if there’s anything missing? Mrs. Crane’s the best person to ascertain that, but then only
as far as the art is concerned. Not even she would know if any papers have disappeared.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.” I let out a long sigh. “It looks as if we’re back to square one.”

  “Yep . . .” Jack shook his head, his puzzlement surfacing again. Then he said suddenly, in a torrent of words, “Look, Viv, I disagree with you. I don’t think he died of natural causes, as you do. I think he was killed. Most probably by an intruder. Sebastian surprised him. The intruder ran out. Sebastian chased him. They struggled. And Sebastian got himself killed. Sort of inadvertently.”

  “Or he was murdered by someone who was with him at the farm, for reasons we don’t know,” I remarked.

  Jack pondered for a moment. Then slowly, and more thoughtfully than usual, he said, “We’re speculating. We’d better stop. It’ll lead nowhere.” Pinning me with his eyes, he added, “Let’s admit it, Vivienne, we won’t know exactly how he died until the police get that autopsy report from the Chief Medical Officer in Farmington.”

  I could only nod. I agreed with him, at least as far as his last comment was concerned.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Long after Jack had left, I prowled around the house, stacking the dishwasher, clearing up, making the den and the dining room neat and tidy. At one moment I even had another stab at my story, hoping to do the final edit, but I was not very successful. I would try again tomorrow, and if my concentration still eluded me I would have to let it go out as it was. The piece had to be at the newspaper in London by Friday at the latest, and I would have to FedEx it on Wednesday, no matter what.

  The hall clock was striking midnight by the time I climbed the stairs of Ridgehill and went to my room, feeling weary and worn down.

  I, like all of my female forebears, occupied the master bedroom that stretched almost the entire length of the house. Situated at the back, rather than the front, it was a charming room with rafters, many windows, and an imposing stone fireplace. French doors on either side of the fireplace opened out onto a wide balcony suspended over the garden. This was the most marvelous spot in the world for breakfast on spring and summer mornings, especially when the lilacs were in bloom.

  Ridgehill stood at the top of Tinker Hill Road. Set amidst a copse of centuries-old maples, it looked out over Lake Waramaug. When my illustrious ancestor Henrietta Bailey had built this house she had thought things out most prudently, had chosen well when situating the master bedroom within the overall architectural plan. The views were spectacular from the many windows, were panoramic in their vistas.

  I went and stood at one of the windows, moving the curtain slightly, staring out across the tops of the trees toward the large body of water far below. The lake was as flat and as unmoving as black glass, and above it the sky was littered with tiny bright stars. There was a harvest moon tonight, silvery and perfectly spherical, riding the black clouds. It cast a sheen across the murky waters of the lake, touched the tops of the trees with brilliance.

  What a beautiful night, I thought, as I let the curtain drop and turned away After undressing, I slipped into a nightgown and climbed into the grand old four-poster. Turning out the bedside lamp, I pulled the covers up over me and settled down for the night, hoping to fall asleep quickly. It had been such an exhausting day emotionally. A day of shock. A day of sorrow.

  Moonlight filled the room. The silence was a balm. I lay there drifting with my thoughts; Sebastian was foremost in them. We had shared so much in this room. So much pleasure. So much heartbreak. I am convinced that I conceived my child in this room, his child, the child I lost in miscarriage. And, once again, I found myself wondering if Sebastian and I would have remained together if that child had been born. Perhaps.

  Cradled in his arms, I had lain in this bed, weeping on his shoulder, and he had comforted me about the loss of our baby. How could Jack believe he was a monster? Nothing was further from the truth. Sebastian had always comforted and nurtured me. And everyone else, for that matter. Jack was so terribly wrong about him; his judgment about Sebastian was flawed, just as it was flawed about most things in his personal life. He had made a mess of it and he loved to blame others, especially his father. I loved Jack like a brother, but I saw him with clear eyes.

  Sebastian had always been there for me, for as long as I could remember, since my childhood. I recall so well the afternoon he had come to me, after my mother had been found dead at the bottom of the cellar steps at his farm. I had just arrived from Manhattan; Jess, my mother’s housekeeper, had phoned him the instant I had walked through the front door and he had rushed over to Ridgehill immediately, full of concern for me.

  It had been such a warm June day, unnaturally hot for that time of year, and I had been sitting on the balcony of this room, distraught, sobbing, my heart breaking, when he had come looking for me.

  Eighteen years ago.

  I had been eighteen when my mother died. So long ago now. Half my life ago. Yet it might have been yesterday, so vividly did I recall it.

  I found myself focusing on the past yet again, and I walked back into that June afternoon of 1976.

  “Vivienne . . . darling . . . I’m here! I’m here for you,” Sebastian said, coming through the bedroom and out onto the balcony like a whirlwind.

  I lifted my head and blinked, staring at him, my eyes blinded by my tears and the bright sunlight streaming out behind him.

  He was by my side in an instant, sitting down next to me on the long bench. Worriedly he looked into my face and his own was bleak, strained. A muscle pulsed in his temple, and his startlingly blue eyes were dulled by sadness.

  Wiping away the tears on my cheeks with his fingertips, he enveloped me in his arms, held me close, soothed me as though soothing a wounded child.

  “It’s such a terrible tragedy,” he murmured against my hair. “I cared for her too, Vivienne, so I know what you’re suffering. I’m suffering myself.” As he spoke his arms tightened around me.

  I clutched him. “It’s not fair,” I sobbed. “She was so young. Only forty-two. I don’t understand how it happened. How did it happen? How did my mother fall down the basement steps, Sebastian? Do you think she got dizzy and lost her balance? And why was she going into the basement, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. No one knows. It was an accident,” he replied, then drew slightly away and looked down into my face. “You’re aware she’d come to stay with me, whilst some of the rooms at Ridgehill were being painted, but I wasn’t in Connecticut last night. I was in the city for a Locke Foundation dinner. I got up at the crack of dawn and drove out to the farm, wanting to have breakfast with her. And also hoping to go riding with her later. When I arrived, the whole place was in an uproar. Aldred had found her body earlier and had called the police. Then he’d spoken to Jess, told her to get in touch with you. By the time I got hold of her, you were already on your way to New Preston.”

  I nodded, and before I could say anything my grief overcame me once more, and fresh tears flowed. Sebastian continued to comfort me; he was so kind.

  At last, I managed to say to him, “Jess believes my mother died instantly. Do you think she did? I couldn’t bear it if I thought she’d suffered.”

  “I’m sure Jess is right. When someone tumbles down a steep flight of stairs I think it must go very fast . . . in a terrible rush. There’s no question in my mind that she did die immediately. She couldn’t have suffered, rest assured of that.”

  Conjuring up the image of my mother falling to meet her doom, I suddenly cried out in my anguish. He held me closer, calming me as best he could. “I know, I know,” he said softly against my hair.

  “You’re going to miss her, Sebastian,” I eventually muttered. “You loved her, too.”

  “Yes.”

  I buried my face against his chest and held onto him as if he were the only thing I had left in the world. In a way, he was; and he was my safe haven.

  Sebastian stroked my hair, smoothed his hand down my arm, continuing to murmur gentle words. I pressed myself even
closer, and I felt as though I were somehow drawing strength from him.

  We sat together like this on the balcony for a long time, and eventually a kind of peacefulness drifted over me and my tears finally ceased altogether. But he made no move to get up, and neither did I; and so we continued to sit on the old bench.

  At one moment I stiffened inside and held my breath, hardly daring to move. Something quite strange was happening to me. My heart was pumping rapidly; my throat had gone dry and was suddenly constricted.

  The blood rushed up into my face; I understood exactly what was happening, understood myself only too well. I wanted him to stop kissing my hair and kiss me instead. I wanted his mouth on mine. I wanted his hand stroking my breast, not my arm. I wanted him to make love to me. Without knowing it, he was arousing me sexually, and I discovered I didn’t want him to stop. When I realized how damp I was between my legs my face flamed. I was mortified.

  I did not dare to stir in his arms. I did not dare to look at him. He could read my mind; he’d always known what I was thinking ever since I was a little girl.

  And so I continued to sit there, waiting for these extraordinary feelings to subside, to go away. I was confused and embarrassed. How could I be experiencing such feelings, today of all days? My mother was lying dead in the morgue at Farmington, probably being autopsied by the Chief Medical Examiner at this very moment.

  I shuddered inside. Sebastian had been her lover for more than six years. And now I wanted him for myself. I shuddered again, hating myself for my dreadful thoughts about him, hating my body, which was so betraying me at this moment.

  Thankfully, at last, Sebastian’s arms slackened and he let go of me. Tilting my face to his, he kissed me lightly on the forehead. He attempted a smile, looked as if he were about to speak, but remained silent.

  Eventually, he said in a low, concerned voice, “I realize you must be feeling very much alone, but you do have me, Vivienne dear. And you mustn’t worry about a thing. I will look after you. I know it’s impossible for me to take your mother’s place, but I am your friend, and I’m here for you whenever you need me.”