Chapter 2
“Why do you wish to punish us for our wealth?”
A fine question. Difficult to explain. “I’m not referring to the money. It’s the attitude.”
The air splintered. Rich swore the sound of ice cracking filled the room as he visualised falling into frigid water, a sheet of crystals solidifying, defying attempts to hammer free. Fists—clenched beneath the table against his thighs—stung as he pummelled a freezing blockade. Lungs laboured as though he were drowning.
“You’re so bloody ungrateful.”
The sheer depth of her tone caused a weight to form in his chest. Could she be right? Yes and no. Why reside in what one of the local agents described as a Grade II hilltop mansion of ambassadorial proportions with commanding views when they gained no pleasure from living here?
What would his mother say if she knew an estate agent had viewed the place? The man left with strict instructions to contact no one but Rich. Better yet, to await his call, though the telephone conversation might not happen for several months, if at all. Rich wanted to make many changes now he wasin charge, but doubted ditching the house was one to which mother would agree. Not yet, anyway. Not thathe expected her to agree with any of his proposals.
He shifted, backside polishing the burgundy velvet material of the gilt chair. The dining suite looked awful, much as the rest of the Gardener mansion. Similar to the people within its walls.
“I’m finished.” The reference might be to breakfast, this particular discussion, or their relationship. Ruby set down her cup and pushed back her chair. “As you made Rosamund prepare such a God-awful concoction, I insist you consume it. The hens didn’t lay those eggs for them to go in the bin.”
She stopped by his side. “I realise what you think of me but I never approve of waste though we can afford to throw food.”
A sudden comical image arose of him and his mother pelting grub at each other over the dinner table. No way could he prevent his lips curling.
“I’m glad you find me amusing although how you can smile…” She paused, left hand fluttering—a wounded butterfly. “It’s only been…” She broke off again, but Rich didn’t need her to complete thesentence. His mother intended to say, It’s only been a couple of weeks.
“I’m well aware. I’m sorry Dad died. I hurt, too. Especially as I didn’t make it back in time.” There were things he would never now say to his father. Could be for the best. Maybe not. No way ever to be certain, but the greatest injury remained open: never having the chance to say goodbye. “Doesn’t mean I should, or always can control my emotions. Wonderful and terrible things take us by surprise. Shouldn’t mean we never smile again.”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” The quiet retort disturbed him. Better a shout. This response, the suppressed fury, at least revealed a clearer and more honest sign of her true feelings. His mother had shed nothing more than a single tear at the funeral. One drop dabbed away as though her eye ducts shamed her. “Don’t tell me how long to grieve.”
“That’s not…I didn’t mean…” The protest slithered away and expired. How could she think he laughed at her grief or disapproved? What he feared was his mother’s inclination to mourn in silence, to wear black for a year, or five, or ten, bottling up her emotions. The nine-bedroom house lacked the lustre of life when his father lived. Now…the weight of the estate condemned those who remained to premature burial. Rich wanted his mother to live. His saying so would only upset her, so he opted for silence.
* * * *
Unable to bare the oppressive atmosphere any longer and unsure whether he could stomach the French toast, Rich slipped out into the garden. Breakfast lay hidden, wrapped in several layers of tissue-napkins in a pocket.
Goodness knew where to throw the damn thing, but the mess was impossible to carry around on account of the risk of grease seeping into his trousers. Out of view of the house, he pulled the moist bundle free, and marched along, transporting his unwanted meal to he knew not where. Rich cut out back, across the patio, and the lawn, and ducked under the trees.
Shit, but the air soon lost any trace of warmth in the shade. The wind threatened to cut the back of his throat open and leached the heat out of him. Stupid not to fetch an overcoat, but the desperation to ditch the scraps, and to escape the stifling confines of the house, put weather last on his agenda. He should turn back but the time required to seize a jacket would no doubt be enough for the smuggled-out food to stain his clothes.