Jacaranda Vines Read online

  Jacaranda Vines

  Tamara McKinley

  New York • London

  © 2001 by Tamara McKinley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

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  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to Permissions c/o Quercus Publishing Inc., 31 West 57th Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10019, or to [email protected].

  e-ISBN 978-1-62365-568-6

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  Tamara McKinley is the author of more than eleven novels. She was born in Tasmania, but now lives in Sussex and Cornwall and writes full time. Her novels are both contemporary and historical, following the lives of Australian pioneers and those who came after them.

  Also by Tamara McKinley

  Matilda’s Last Waltz

  Windflowers

  Summer Lightning

  Undercurrents

  Dreamscapes

  Ocean Child

  This book is dedicated to Thelma Ivory and Marion Edwards who are no longer with us, and missed. And to Alan Horsham and Dan Newton, who are still fighting with more courage than I would ever have.

  Acknowledgements

  With grateful thanks to Kevin Lewis for his tour of the Barossa Valley. The knowledge of this wonderful place’s history is astounding and I couldn’t have hoped to have learned so much if it hadn’t been for him. I would also like to thank Robert Crouch for his help in researching the Romany history of their language and customs, and for his endless encouragement.

  No book is ever published without the advice and enthusiasm of an editor, and I regard myself fortunate to have Gillian Green at Piatkus. Her keen eye and helpful advice is always appreciated. Last, but never least I want to acknowledge the work done by my agent, Teresa Chris. Her friendship and profound belief in my work is amazing, and I’ll always be grateful.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Two

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Also Available

  Extract from The Australian

  Melbourne, January, 1990

  As the estranged wife of a secretive and notoriously difficult tycoon who dominated South Australia’s wine industry, Cordelia Witney has learned to live with public humiliation, but even she is embarrassed by the very public row that has erupted following her husband Joseph’s death last month at the age of 91.

  While Joseph Witney was alive his family lived under the shadow of his violent temper and despotic management style that turned a once ailing Jacaranda Vines into one of the wealthiest corporations in Australia, with world sales of $A 12.5 billion a year. Now that he’s dead, some company insiders believe Jacaranda will implode and his heirs will take the company public or split up the conglomerate and sell the businesses individually.

  ‘There were a lot of people who wanted him dead,’ says a former insider. ‘Now he’s finally gone, they’ll get their revenge by killing the company instead.’

  Others say his widow Cordelia, Co-president of Jacaranda, has taken up the cudgel and will fight her family to the death rather than allow them to split up the company or introduce more open management.

  Now the King of the Vineyards is dead, many wonder what will become of his kingdom. Two years ago the French wine producer Lazare was defeated in its bid to buy Jacaranda Vines, but with the internal power struggle currently being waged between Cordelia, her brother Edward, and their respective children and grandchildren, we may yet see the biggest wine sale in history.

  Part One

  1

  ‘Goodbye, Sophie. Take care of yourself out there.’ Crispin’s plummy, public-school tones were almost drowned by the announcer calling passengers for the Qantas flight to Melbourne.

  Sophie leaned into his familiar embrace and felt a pang of remorse that things should have gone so wrong for them. Marriage was supposed to be for life, not a fleeting three years. Yet they had both quickly realised their mistake, and when things deteriorated to the point of no return, it had been Sophie who’d had the guts to face the truth and call a halt. In the end, it had been a relief to them both.

  She drew away from her ex-husband and looked into his face. That disarming smile and those sexy grey eyes no longer had the power to make her senses flip, but she couldn’t deny how attractive he was or how much she would miss him. ‘Friends?’ she said softly.

  His fair hair flopped in his eyes as he nodded. ‘Always. I’m sorry things didn’t work out, Sophie, but at least we called it off before we grew to hate one another.’

  She could feel the tears threatening and hastily turned away. ‘It was nobody’s fault, Cris,’ she mumbled. ‘Mistakes happen.’ She lit a cigarette, the last she would have for the next twelve hours until the plane touched down in Dubai. It would be a real test of her will-power, and although her arm was already covered in nicotine patches, she wasn’t at all sure how she would cope. ‘Like booking on a non-smoking airline,’ she joked wryly.

  ‘About time you gave up, Sophie. You can go for weeks without a ciggie so why not today?’

  She dragged the smoke deep into her lungs, her gaze trawling the bustling passengers who filled the concourse. ‘I’m stressed out. This helps,’ she said shortly. Smoking had been one of the things about her that had irritated him, but not nearly as much as his penchant for other women had irritated her.

  Crispin dug his hands into his tweed jacket pockets. Tall and straight, he was every inch the ex-Army officer. ‘You shouldn’t let your family get to you like this. I know your grandfather was a bastard, but he’s gone now – he can’t rule your life any more.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Can’t he? It was his money that saw me through law school, his influence that got me the partnership at Barrington’s. He might be dead but we’re all still running around after him because of that damn’ will of his and the mess he’s left behind.’ She stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing metal bin. ‘Besides, you’re a fine one to talk. You wouldn’t have gone to Sandhurst if it hadn’t been for family tradition. Wouldn’t have taken over that mouldy old pile of rubble in the country your mother laughingly calls the family seat. You’d have been
much happier tinkering with cars.’ She sighed. They were picking over old quarrels. ‘Don’t let’s row, Cris. Time’s too short.’

  He drew her back into his arms and kissed her forehead. ‘Take care, old thing, and I hope you find what you’ve been looking for. He’s out there somewhere, you know.’

  Sophie stilled. ‘One mistake is enough, Cris. From now on I’m going to concentrate on my career. Men are no longer an option.’

  He drew away from her, but maintained his hold on her arms as he looked deep into her eyes. ‘You might think you’re tough but you weren’t meant to be on your own. Find Jay. Talk to him. See if you can’t patch things up. You’re still in love with him, you know.’

  Sophie stared back at him. ‘Jay’s in the past,’ she said through a constricted throat. ‘I wouldn’t have married you if he hadn’t been.’

  Crispin smiled sadly and then gave her a swift hug. ‘Take care, darling, and write when you can.’

  Sophie picked up her hand luggage and, after blowing him a kiss, went through passport control. Her pulse was racing, with both excitement and trepidation. It had been ten years since she’d left Australia. Twelve since she’d seen Jay – her first love – and although their parting had been a brutal wrench, she knew Cris had always suspected there was a part of her that still loved her first boyfriend.

  The departure lounge was brightly lit, the duty-free shops busy, but she turned her gaze to the windows and peered out through the January rain. You’re thirty years old, she told herself sternly. A corporate lawyer with one of the most prestigious firms in London – albeit with no illusions about why they nearly snatched your arm off once you’d qualified.

  With an upward tilt of her chin she stared out of the window. She had kept her place on her own merits. The promise of Jacaranda’s business had merely been a stepping stone. It was tough out there, especially for a woman – and she’d proved she was as good as, if not better than, some of her male colleagues.

  The gate number was called and she gathered up her things and began the long trek to the plane. I am a woman with a bright future, she silently determined. I won’t look back. I’ll never look back.

  Yet as she settled into her seat and waited for take-off, she watched the rain streak the windows and her thoughts turned to how it used to be all those years ago when she and Jay were young and still at college in Brisbane. Where are you now, Jay? she thought wistfully. Do you still think of me sometimes?

  *

  Cordelia Witney had disconnected the call, but her hand remained on the receiver as she mulled over the conversation she’d just had with her brother Edward, and the consequences it might have for the future of Jacaranda Vines.

  ‘Problems?’ Jane had always been able to tell when something was worrying her, but that was hardly a surprise considering how long they had known one another.

  ‘You’d think that at ninety my opinions would be treated with respect,’ she said bitterly. ‘But Edward seems determined to thwart me.’

  Jane sipped her sherry, then placed the glass on the table beside her. ‘You should have taken my advice and sold your share of the company, Cordy. Then you wouldn’t be bothered by it all now.’ The rather bossy tone was one she used when she considered others were in the wrong, and although this particular argument had been replayed many times over in the past twenty years, she still seemed determined to bring it up at every opportunity.

  Cordelia refused to rise to the bait. With her glasses firmly perched on the end of her nose, she leaned back into the soft leather chair and stared out of the window. The company building might not be as tall as the Rialto, but the glass walls of Jacaranda Towers’ penthouse gave her a 360° view of Melbourne, and now she had her new glasses, she could fully appreciate it again.

  The city stretched out to the horizon in every direction, and on a clear day like today she could see beyond Westgate Bridge to the west, the Dandenong Ranges to the east, and the expanse of Port Phillip to the south. It was a far cry from the family’s humble beginnings, but it had become impossible to remain at the château, and after a while she’d grown used to it. Even learned to love it.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Cordelia?’ insisted Jane.

  ‘There’s no need to shout. I’m not deaf,’ she retorted.

  Cordelia turned from the window and eyed the immaculately groomed woman who’d shared her apartment for the past two decades. Jane was almost seventy-five but on a good day, in the right light, looked years younger. She used her wealth to keep old age at bay, and with a harsh regime of exercise and diet, retained the kind of figure women envied and men admired. No wonder my husband fell in love with her, thought Cordelia without malice.

  Our relationship is a strange one, she admitted to herself. For who would have thought the two of us could ever grow to like one another after all we’ve been through? We are so different, Jane and I. She is the champagne whereas I’m the vin ordinaire. And yet there is always one bond that ties us.

  ‘It’s all very well for you to pontificate on the rights and wrongs of my decision, Jane,’ she said firmly. ‘You never understood the importance of those holdings or bothered to learn the history behind them.’

  Jane shrugged elegant shoulders and smoothed the lapels of her designer jacket. ‘You’ve always preferred living in the past, Cordelia,’ she said dismissively. ‘I really can’t see why you remain so stubborn. Why not relinquish your hold on the company now Jock’s finally gone? Let them sell the damn’ corporation and leave the others to fight over the bones for a change. You’re a wealthy woman, Cordy. The future lies with your children and the next generation. Let them decide what’s best.’

  ‘I might be old but I’m not senile,’ she snapped. ‘Just because Jock’s dead doesn’t mean I’m incapable of making my own decisions.’

  Jane took a gold powder compact out of her bag and checked her appearance with a critical eye. She ran her fingertips over her surgically tightened chin and neck, smoothed one severely plucked eyebrow and snapped the compact shut. ‘So what’s the crisis this time?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Cordelia said firmly.

  Bright blue contact lenses made Jane’s gaze cold. ‘It’s always secrets with you, isn’t it?’ she murmured. ‘Aren’t you ever going to trust me?’

  Cordelia sighed. ‘You know that’s not the case, Jane, so don’t let’s argue about it.’ She noticed how her friend’s gaze shifted with impatience, how her mouth had set into a thin line, and knew she must try to mollify her before things got out of hand. ‘This latest crisis is company business, and although I trust you implicitly, I cannot discuss it outside the boardroom.’

  Jane stood up and smoothed her linen skirt over slim hips. ‘Have it your own way,’ she snapped. ‘I’m going shopping.’

  Cordelia turned back to the window. Shopping was Jane’s answer to everything. The decisive rap of her Cuban heels across the parquet floor spoke volumes in the ensuing silence. The slam of the outer door was the exclamation mark to the end of their disagreement.

  Cordelia sighed and closed her eyes. These past few weeks had been trying enough without Jane going crook on her, and she was getting too old and weary to have her life disrupted. Perhaps her friend was right after all and she should hand things over to the others?

  ‘Like hell she is,’ Cordelia muttered aloud.

  History seemed to be repeating itself, she thought sadly, for this wasn’t the first crisis to hit the vineyard. Her thoughts turned to her late, unlamented husband. Death might have taken Jock’s body but his malevolent influence could still be felt, and as she thought of his once handsome, strong face, she remembered how different it had been when they were young and in love and the future had held such promise.

  *

  She could remember that summer morning as if it were yesterday. Could still feel the heat, hear the annoying buzz of the flies and the trill of the skylarks. It had felt good to be alive on such a day. The war years had taken the men to fight in
the alien fields of Gallipoli. The women had been left to do battle with the powerful, wayward elements of South Australia, the enemies of leaf mould, parasites, drought and flood. Yet the wars had been won on both fronts, and despite the terrible toll they had taken, Cordelia’s father and brother would return to a flourishing vineyard, for the vines the women of Jacaranda had tended over those long years were thriving on the terraces of the Barossa valley.

  She was standing on the brow of a hill overlooking the patchwork landscape that rolled far into the distance. The harvest would begin tomorrow, and although she was impatient to get started, today she was taking a much-needed rest before the chaos of the next few weeks. A heat haze shimmered on the horizon as the sun beat down on the ripening grapes. The grass at her feet was bleached almost white, and the lonely cries of the rooks in the nearby trees were a dark reminder of how quickly the delicate harvest could shrivel and die if it wasn’t picked at just the right moment.

  Cordelia was hatless as usual, her long dark hair free from restraint, her feet bare. The white cotton dress was stained with the cinnamon red of the earth, and much to her mother’s disgust, her arms and face were tanned. She raised her hands to the sky, lifting her face to the sun, eyes closed as she breathed in the scent of ripening grapes and hot earth. This was her reward for all those hours of labour in the terraces. This was her land, her inheritance, and nothing and nobody would take it from her.

  ‘Persephone the bare-foot goddess of fertility,’ drawled a male voice.

  She whirled to face the speaker, the warmth in her face having little to do with the sun. ‘You should learn not to sneak up on people like that,’ she reproved.

  ‘You should learn to wear a hat,’ he said mildly. ‘Didn’t your mother warn you about the dangers of sunburn?’ Blue eyes gleamed with humour as he looked down at her.

  Cordelia glared at him, but she was more embarrassed than angry, aware how ridiculous she must appear. ‘It’s too hot to wear a hat,’ she declared stoutly. ‘Besides, what business is it of yours?’