Jacaranda Vines Read online

  ‘None. But it would be a shame to spoil such beauty.’ His smile etched creases around his eyes and mouth, and as he took off his bush hat and scratched his head, she couldn’t help noticing how thick and curly his brown hair was.

  She snatched up the discarded shoes and the hated hat. He had no right to be so impertinent just because he was handsome. ‘You’re trespassing,’ she snapped. ‘This is Jacaranda land.’

  He replaced his hat, tugging the brim low over his eyes, but his booted feet remained firmly planted in the silvery grass. He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his moleskins and stared out over the patchwork fields to the clapboard homestead that glimmered white behind the delicate purple blossom of the jacaranda trees. ‘I know that,’ he said softly. ‘Just thought I’d take a look at my neighbour.’

  The blue eyes were directed back on her, and Cordelia experienced a strange kind of fluttering in the pit of her stomach. ‘Neighbour?’ she stuttered.

  He nodded and stuck out his hand. ‘Joseph Witney,’ he said. ‘But me mates call me Jock.’

  Cordelia’s small hand was enveloped in his large, rough paw. So this was the new owner of Bundoran. The man who’d returned from Gallipoli earlier than most, with a shattered knee, and had been the subject of local gossip for weeks.

  She looked past the checked shirt and up into his face, determined he wouldn’t see how his touch and his nearness were affecting her. ‘You don’t sound Scottish,’ she countered.

  He released her hand and laughed. ‘Me dad’s family came out from Glasgow and I reckon the name just stuck.’ With his head cocked to one side, he let his gaze wander over her. ‘You must be Cordelia,’ he said finally.

  She twisted the ribbons of her hat around her fingers. It wasn’t just the heat making her feel uncomfortable. ‘How do you know that?’

  He leaned towards her so their faces were on the same level. ‘Everyone’s heard of the beautiful Cordelia,’ he murmured. ‘But the gossip doesn’t do you justice.’

  She lifted her chin and returned his stare, determined to appear dignified and unflustered. Was his flattery genuine or was he just teasing? ‘You seem very certain of yourself, Mr Witney.’

  He smiled that devastating smile again as he straightened. ‘Oh, I am, Miss Cordelia. In fact, I’m so certain I’ll wager we’ll be married before the new season’s planting.’

  *

  Cordelia’s smile was grim as her thoughts returned to the present. Jock always got what he’d wanted. Their wedding had been held in the tiny church in Pearson’s Creek one week after the end of that harvest and it had taken only five years for her to regret her haste.

  She was reminded of the time by the delicate chimes of the ormolu clock Jock had brought back from one of his trips to the Loire Valley. Almost an hour had passed as she’d been day-dreaming, but with her memories had come an idea. She wondered if at last she had found a solution to the problem of Jacaranda Vines.

  ‘It’s a gamble,’ she murmured. ‘And if I lose …’ She couldn’t bear to voice her fears. For to acknowledge them might somehow invite them to come true.

  A whispered riposte seemed to come from deep within her. ‘But you’ve gambled before and won, so why not give it a try?’

  Cordelia smiled. She knew in that moment of reflection she still retained the fighting spirit which had kept her sane over years of torment. Jock could not be allowed to reach from the grave and destroy everything she held dear. Tomorrow, once her grand-daughter Sophie was back in the fold, Cordelia would fire the first salvo in her fight to save Jacaranda Vines.

  *

  Excitement had built in Sophie as the jumbo jet droned over the vast red wastelands of the Northern Territory. She remained fixed at the window, drinking in the sight of her homeland, longing to see something familiar for her years in Australia had been mostly spent in cities. The outback was a daunting wilderness recognisable only from books and photographs. Yet how beautiful it was as the rising dawn set it on fire and the shadow of the plane chased across the sparse gum forests and glinting billabongs. What a pity she would have no time to explore her country – to discover the hidden mysteries of its vast and ancient sprawl – for her days would be spent in the boardroom of Jacaranda Vines, her nights spent poring over contracts and reams of figures.

  As the plane travelled further south and the landscape became less harsh, her thoughts turned to her mother. It was unlikely she would come to the airport to meet her, but stranger things had happened and perhaps she’d changed.

  Sophie’s mouth twisted wryly. There was as much chance of that as finding a snowball in hell. After the divorce from Cris, Mary Gordon couldn’t wait to point out that Sophie had failed yet again in the romance stakes. It had been done with consummate subtlety behind a fixed, false smile on one of her rare visits to London, but then such cruelty was nothing new and even though it had hurt, Sophie had managed to brush it off with the thought that her mother hadn’t done too well either. Not with three divorces behind her and a string of lovers.

  Mary Gordon, the petite, slim socialite, had made it plain from day one that she was horrified by her tall, wild-haired daughter, and had done her best to make young Sophie feel even more awkward and clumsy by pointing out their differences. The subtle nuances of speech as she discussed Sophie’s shortcomings with her gaggle of friends, the direct hints that maybe a diet might help in those awful puppy-fat, pre-teen years, had all had the effect of water dripping on stone, and although Sophie was now confident in her work, her personal life and self-esteem were a shambles.

  Why can’t I just not care what she thinks? Sophie wondered as the plane landed and taxied to the terminal building. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to know what happens in my life. Obvious that no matter how hard I try there will never be anything between us.

  Impatient with her thoughts, she gathered her things and prepared to step onto Australian soil for the first time in a decade. She shouldn’t let her mother spoil the occasion, she told herself silently. Don’t expect anything, and when nothing turns up you won’t be disappointed.

  Two hours later she was pushing through the doors of a new high-rise complex overlooking Melbourne’s Royal Botanic gardens and the tannin-stained water of the Yarra Yarra. As she stepped into the air-conditioned glass elevator that ran up the outside of the building she shook her long black hair free from its pins and leaned against the cool wall. No one had been there to meet her but at least Gran had sent the limousine to pick her up and bring her here to the company apartment block.

  It had been one hell of a long flight despite the stop-overs and she was looking forward to putting her feet up with a glass of wine and a cigarette before she snatched a few hours’ sleep. The rest of the day would be spent checking the mound of paperwork she’d brought with her. She didn’t want any hitches at the board meeting tomorrow.

  As the lift rose swiftly to the fifteenth floor, she gazed out over the lush green of the Botanic Gardens to the riverside city. The essence of it hadn’t changed at all, and even the new additions to the skyline seemed to blend with and enhance its beauty. The clock tower of Flinders Street Station gleamed mellow ochre in the early sun, and the glass tower blocks around it stood like sculpted blue and pink stalagmites amongst the sturdy terracotta stone of the earlier buildings. The spires of the two cathedrals were delicate fingers pointing to the lightening sky from the surrounding forest of modern Melbourne, and the graceful white bridge linking the two sides of the city was already busy with commuters. The long, slender tourist boats were tied up to the jetties, gulls circled for scraps above the esplanade of cosmopolitan restaurants and bars on the South Bank, and black swans glided gracefully in and out of the dwindling shadows cast by the willows. It was a summer morning in a city that rarely slept.

  Sophie couldn’t hear the rattle and clang of the trams from up here, or the sounds of a city preparing for another busy day, just the bland piped music from the speakers in the elevator ceiling and the soft hum of the ai
r-conditioning. She hitched the weighty briefcase to a more comfortable position against her chest and, despite knowing how much work she still had to do, felt the stress of the long journey wane. She had finally come home.

  2

  Cordelia had been awake since dawn, despite the late night before having dinner with Sophie. There had been a great deal to catch up on even though their letters and telephone calls had been frequent over the years, and it was only exhaustion that had sent her back to her own apartment and bed. Yet she had lain there sleepless, her thoughts and plans for the future refusing to let her rest as the clock ticked away the hours. Now she was running late.

  She watched the numbers flash past as the lift descended. There was an almost imperceptible jolt as it came to a halt. She took a deep breath, eyed her reflection in the mirror-bright stainless steel walls, and gripped her walking sticks. ‘Curtain up,’ she muttered as the doors slowly opened.

  ‘Where have you been, Mother? We’ve been ringing the penthouse for the last half an hour, and I was getting worried.’

  Cordelia stepped out of the lift and eyed the sharp-faced, skinny woman before her. She had decided long ago that she didn’t like her youngest daughter very much, and what she saw this morning only compounded that. Mary was dressed in expensive clothes that would have looked better on a woman half her forty-nine years. Her make-up was thick, her jewellery genuine but over-done, her nails too long and too red, her heels too high. ‘Nice to know you were concerned, Mary,’ she said drily.

  Mary’s nails raked the assortment of gold chains around her neck, her blue eyes hard with anger. ‘Sarcasm at this hour of the morning? You have been sharpening your claws.’

  Cordelia shrugged off the cold, rather clammy hand at her elbow. ‘I’ll make my own way, thank you.’

  With an impatient sigh her daughter strode away down the corridor to the boardroom. Cordelia gave a grim smile as she noticed how the too-slender hips swayed beneath the tight black skirt in the effort to maintain her balance on those high heels. Poor Mary, she thought. I might not like her, but I do feel sorry for her. With three marriages behind her and too much time and money on her hands, she was fast becoming a cliché. The latest in her long line of lovers was reported to be at least twenty years too young for her and she was in danger of making a complete fool of herself yet again.

  The boardroom was sparsely furnished but bright with cream paint and vases of fresh flowers. Portraits of the founders of Jacaranda Vines were grouped together on one wall, and vast picture windows ran the length of another. In the centre of the room stood a table carved from Huon pine that had been brought especially by sea from Tasmania and which gleamed with the lustre of many years’ polish. Ten chairs had been placed around it and only one was unoccupied.

  ‘At last, Cordelia. We’ve been waiting for almost an hour.’

  She glanced from her brother Edward up to Jock’s portrait and could have sworn he glowered at her. She turned away before he could shake her resolve, kissed her other two daughters, hugged Sophie and took her place at the table. ‘Age has its compensations, Edward,’ she said to her younger brother. ‘My time is precious so I do with it as I see fit.’

  He cleared his throat and eyed her with reluctant affection. ‘As you say, Cordelia, time is of the essence and we need to get on.’ He sat back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. His eyes hadn’t faded in eighty years; in fact they were a startling blue beneath the shock of white hair, and the face of a handsome young man could still be seen in the high cheekbones, firm chin and sensuous mouth. Cordelia was sharply reminded of their eldest brother, long since buried in the family plot. He’d been so young when he’d returned from Gallipoli, but the strength of youth had been no defence against the injuries he’d received there and within a few short months he’d passed away.

  Edward cleared his throat, bringing Cordelia’s thoughts back to the present.

  ‘As Chairman of Jacaranda Vines, I have called this extraordinary board meeting to try and find a consensus over our future as a corporation.’

  Cordelia hooked her walking sticks over the arm of her chair and settled back to study her family as Edward droned on. There would be fireworks, there always were, but it would be interesting to see how they all stood on this most important subject. She shivered as though Jock had come into the room to watch the outcome of a lifetime of manipulation, then firmly dismissed the thought. His influence might still be felt but he no longer had the same hold. Jacaranda’s future was back in their hands now.

  She and her brother Edward had five children between them – although to call these particular offspring ‘children’ was laughable, she supposed. They were all middle-aged now. Cordelia sighed. They were getting old, too old for the responsibilities Jock’s death had placed on their shoulders, and not all of the grandchildren were cut out to take the vineyard into the next millennium. In fact, she acknowledged, the family corporation had become more of a means to an end for some of them than a living dynasty to be carried on through the generations, and she was almost glad she wouldn’t be around to see what the future held for them all.

  As Cordelia and Edward had the same proportional share in the company they had come to an agreement as to who would be Chief Executive after Jock’s death. Cordelia had stepped aside, trusting Edward’s judgment, knowing her brother would be the more acceptable face in the world of high finance. Perhaps, if she’d been younger, she would have taken responsibility, but she was content to use her influence from the sidelines. There was only so much women’s liberation she could take. Personally, she thought it had all gone too far.

  Yet, as she regarded Edward down the length of the table, she realised neither of them would be around much longer, and although her brother had relinquished the day to day running of Jacaranda to his son Charles, the question of a successor would have to be broached sooner rather than later. To use an analogy, she thought as she surveyed the more aged of the family members, the vines were slowly dying, and if they couldn’t find the right cure, then the French might as well take over.

  She felt the familiar rush of impatience at her own meandering thoughts. The fight hadn’t even begun, and here she was, throwing in the towel. She eyed her brother’s family who were lined up to his left.

  There was Charles, his eldest son, fat and pompous and much given to pontificating on any subject regardless of whether he actually knew anything about it or not. He’d been a precocious child, and greedy too. Still was if his figure was anything to go by, she thought acidly. And yet, behind that irritating façade was a keen mind that was encyclopaedic when it came to the wine business, and Jock had exploited that knowledge to the full by putting him directly in the firing line if things went wrong.

  Cordelia’s gaze drifted to his brother Philip who was younger by five years, limp-wristed and becoming more so as it became socially acceptable to be gay. The two men had never been close, not even as boys, and although she couldn’t understand why Philip should be the way he was, she knew how much it had cost him to declare his sexual preferences, and admired him for his courage. For his father, Edward, had all but disowned him, Charles was sneering to say the least, and Jock had unashamedly used blackmail to keep Philip tied to the company.

  Her own three daughters were together for once. Mary was as close to the head of the table as she could get without actually sitting in the Chief Executive’s seat. It wasn’t her way to be sidelined halfway down a table, even if she was the youngest.

  Then came Kate, dear, acerbic Kate who called a spade a shovel and didn’t give a damn what people thought of her. She might not have inherited her sister Daisy’s looks but she’d more than made up for that with her quick mind and sharp intelligence. Two of her husbands had died, making her very rich indeed, and the third had run off with her best friend taking a sizeable chunk of Kate’s fortune with him. But the greatest loss of all had been her son Harry, killed in a football accident while still in his teens.
/>   Cordelia knew her eldest daughter had suffered terribly over this, yet despite the set-back, Kate had managed to keep herself together and had forged a career as a fundraiser and was now on the board of several prestigious charities. Jock had gone to his grave unable to cow her and for that Cordelia admired her.

  Daisy was the beauty of the family or had been. Middle age was cruel, Cordelia thought sadly. It makes fools of us all, but for Daisy it must have been even harder to lose the looks and confidence she’d once accepted as her birthright. No wonder she appeared bewildered most of the time now.

  Last but not least came the grandchildren. There, looking tired and dark around the eyes, was Mary’s daughter Sophie, Cordelia’s favourite and only grandchild now, and Charles’ twins, James and Michael, still inseparable, still unmarried.

  Cordelia sighed as her gaze swept over the faces. Not much to show after six generations in this wonderful country. But maybe it would be enough.

  ‘The future of Jacaranda Vines is sitting around this table, Edward. I don’t see what there is to discuss,’ she said, cutting through the murmur of a dozen voices.

  ‘The future’s not always as cut and dried as that, Cordy,’ he said, his deep rumbling voice reminding her so much of their father. ‘The French have come back with a spectacular offer.’

  ‘Jacaranda is an Australian winery,’ she snapped. ‘The French should stick to their own. Even Jock disliked the idea of them in charge.’

  ‘Dad hated anyone else being in charge. At least let’s hear what Uncle Edward has to say, Mother.’ Mary’s voice was high with impatience, her blue eyes cold.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what Edward has to say, Mary,’ Cordelia replied firmly. ‘He won’t change my mind.’ She looked around the table and saw she had some support, but there was dissent as well. Jock had done a lot of damage over the years. It would be difficult to make them change their minds and fire them with enthusiasm. ‘But if you all want to waste the morning, so be it.’