Rogue in Porcelain (5 page)

‘Not that far, I'm afraid. I barely knew my grandfather, old Spencer. He died when I was very young.'

Rona leant forward and picked up her coffee cup. ‘What do you remember about him?'

‘That he wore a watch and chain. I was fascinated by it, particularly by the fact that when you pressed a button, it would chime. He used to let us play with it.'

‘“Us”?'

‘My brother Edward and me.'

‘Are there just the two of you?'

Finlay passed her the plate of biscuits. ‘No, we have a sister, Jacqueline.'

‘But, of course, she doesn't count,' Rona said without thinking.

‘I beg your pardon?'

She looked up quickly, meeting his puzzled eyes, and felt herself flush. ‘I'm sorry; I mean she's not connected with the business. Aren't only male family members acceptable?'

He made a rueful face. ‘It's never been put so bluntly, but yes, that
has
been the practice; underlined by the fact that although my father and uncles all had sisters, they're not shown on the standard family tree. You'll have to check the full version in the museum if you want to trace them.' He smiled. ‘All the same, don't let Jackie hear you say she doesn't count. She's quite a forceful lady, my sister.'

‘I'm sure,' Rona said placatingly. ‘You mentioned the family tree; I was going to ask about that. It might help me to see where you all slot in.'

Finlay gestured behind her. ‘Take a look for yourself.'

Rona turned, and saw on the wall a framed record of the Curzon lineage.

‘Perfect!' she exclaimed, laying down her cup and walking over to it. Finlay followed her.

‘Samuel Curzon founded the business,' he said, pointing to the name at the top of the tree. ‘He had a son, George, and an anonymous daughter.' She heard the smile in his voice. ‘As I explained, since she didn't count, she's not recorded.'

‘I'm not going to live that down, am I?'

‘The truth of the matter is that we're quite a large family, and whoever designed the tree must have reckoned there'd be more room if he kept to the direct male line.'

‘Which, I can see, divided quite early on.'

‘Yes, because George had two sons: Spencer, my grandfather whom I've just mentioned, and Frederick. In due course, Spencer and Grandma Florence produced a couple of daughters and, of course, my father, John Samuel – universally known as JS – who died a couple of years ago. There's a Samuel in every generation, by the way; my brother's boy has it as his second name.'

His finger moved to the other side of the chart. ‘Meanwhile old Frederick here, like his father, had two sons, complicating things still further, and so in turn did one of
his
sons, my Uncle Charles – or my cousin, to be quite accurate. Are you still with me?'

‘Just about.'

‘I know it's complicated.'

‘Are there any copies I could take away with me?'

‘I'm sure we could rustle one up somewhere. In fact, I think it's printed in one of the brochures. I'll ask Meg to look it out for you.'

He turned away, but Rona still lingered in front of the tree. ‘So there are five of you in your generation?'

‘That's right: Edward and myself, and our cousins: Oliver and Nick, who are Uncle Charles's sons, and Sam, who's Uncle James's. As you can see, that's as far as the chart goes, but there's another generation coming on apace. Trouble is, of us all, only Edward so far has produced an heir. I'm going to his birthday dinner on Friday.'

‘And the rest are girls. What would happen if one of them wanted to join?'

‘Thankfully, we won't have to worry about that for a while; the eldest is only nine.'

Finlay had re-seated himself, and after a minute, Rona did the same.

He eyed her appraisingly. ‘So: how else can I help you?'

‘Have you any archives I could look at? Family documents – marriage certificates, or even better, letters or diaries?'

‘We do have archives yes, but they're held in Buckford Museum. They can be seen by appointment for research purposes, but I have to warn you that they mostly consist of moulds and designs. The only personal things, apart from a few birth, marriage and death certificates, are Samuel's journals, and again, they're chiefly concerned with the growth of the factory. You'd probably do better here; there are some personal items in the museum.'

‘Thanks. Well, in the meantime, I'll just walk round and familiarize myself with the layout.'

‘You'd do better taking a factory tour.' Finlay glanced at his watch. ‘Actually, there's one on today. If you hurry, you should just be able to catch it; it starts from the Visitor Centre at eleven.'

‘That would be perfect.' She quickly gathered together her recorder and camera, neither of which she'd asked permission to use. ‘And thanks for sparing me your time, Mr Curzon. I'm very grateful.'

Finlay had also risen. ‘Ask Meg on your way out about a copy of the tree,' he said. ‘And if there's anything else we can help with, just let us know.'

‘Thank you.'

He walked her to the door and opened it. She had started back along the corridor when his voice halted her.

‘It's just occurred to me that the tour ends about twelve thirty. I could give you lunch in the directors' dining room, if you'd care to join us? It would be a chance to meet the other members of the family.'

‘That would be great. Thanks very much.'

‘Come back to this building, then, and we'll take it from there.'

Finlay went back into his office and closed the door thoughtfully. He'd surprised himself with that impulsive invitation, but he'd been unaccountably reluctant to let Rona Parish walk out of his life so soon. She was an attractive young woman, with an air of independence and self-­confidence that he found appealing. He wondered what the others would make of her – and of his inviting her to lunch. Nick, of course, would try to monopolize her, notwithstanding the wedding ring on her finger. Finlay smiled to himself. He reckoned Rona Parish would be more than capable of dealing with Nick and his advances.

He sat down at his desk and rang for his secretary.

Three

L
indsey laid some papers on Jonathan's desk. ‘Shall I be seeing you later?'

He looked up. ‘Sorry, sweetie; we've a parents' evening and I have to be a dutiful father.'

He pushed back his chair and came round the desk, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘Pity it's not one of your days for working at home.' He bent his head and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly.

She said plaintively, ‘It's been almost a week . . .'

‘Makes it all the sweeter when we do manage it.' He slid his fingers inside her blouse, feeling her quiver in response. ‘We could drive out to the Watermill for lunch,' he suggested, ‘and maybe park somewhere on the way back? Or we could do without lunch altogether, and—'

There was a token tap on the door, giving them just time to leap apart before the door opened and Jonathan's wife stood looking at them, her expectant smile fading.

‘Oh – I'm so sorry. Am I interrupting something? Stephanie said there was no one with you.'

Lindsey half-turned away, trying inconspicuously to fasten her top button and wondering in panic if Jonathan's mouth bore any incriminating lipstick.

‘Nothing important,' he was saying.

‘It's just that since I was in town, I thought perhaps we could have lunch. I'm really sorry to burst in like that – I thought you were alone.'

‘No harm done,' Jonathan assured her. ‘You've met Lindsey Parish, haven't you?'

Carol Hurst smiled. ‘Only
en passant
. But I did meet your sister at a party, and mistook her for you.'

‘That often happens,' Lindsey murmured. Damn and double damn! So much for their planned escape.
Am I interrupting something?
Carol had asked. If only she knew! ‘I won't hold you up,' she added brightly, turning to Jonathan, ‘but if you could let me have those papers back by mid-afternoon, it would be helpful.'

‘I'll read them when I get back from lunch.' He wasn't meeting her eyes, and, because she'd no option, Lindsey smiled at his wife and quickly left the room.

‘Avril!'

She turned swiftly. ‘Oh – hello, Tom.'

He eyed the carrier bags she was holding. ‘Stocking up on groceries?'

‘Yes, I – I've got the girls coming to supper tomorrow.'

‘That'll be good.' He paused. ‘Have you had lunch?'

‘No, I thought I'd—'

‘Nor have I. Shall we have it together?'

Avril stared at him, nonplussed. ‘We – can't, can we?'

‘I fail to see why not.'

‘But – wouldn't Catherine mind?'

He relieved her of the carrier bags and started walking her along the pavement. ‘Of course not. Didn't we resolve, on Christmas Day, that we'd be friends from now on?'

‘Well, yes, but—'

‘No buts. In any case, I want to hear about the alterations to the house. Have you had any applications for lodgers yet?'

‘I only started advertising this week. Lindsey said couples would be hard to find, so I've reverted to a single school teacher.'

‘Very wise. The Gallery all right for you?'

‘Of course.' They started up the wrought-iron staircase leading to the walkway where the café was situated. ‘Suppose we meet someone we know?' she asked nervously.

‘Avril,
we're not doing anything wrong
. OK?'

‘OK,' she repeated, and her spirits suddenly rose. She was going to spend the next hour or so with an attractive man whom she'd thought lost to her for ever, and even though, in all ways that counted, he was no longer her husband, she was going to enjoy the experience.

Finlay Curzon was waiting in the office block foyer, and came forward with a smile.

‘Well, what's the verdict on the tour?'

‘Very enjoyable,' Rona said, ‘though I seemed to be the oldest person on it!'

He laughed. ‘We have a lot of school visits during term time. I hope you've worked up an appetite; it's a set menu, by the way, but the food's good.'

He led her down a short corridor to a set of double oak doors and pushed one of them open, gesturing her ahead of him. The room in which she found herself was quite large and would have comfortably held more tables than the single long one that stood in the centre. She was, Rona realized, the only woman present – which, given the Curzon ethos, should not have surprised her. The men already seated rose as one and stood as Finlay introduced them. They'd plainly been forewarned of her attendance.

She nodded to each one as Finlay introduced him, trying to keep track of names and relationships. Not all of them were Curzons; several senior managers were present and were also eying her with interest. She wondered what they'd been told about her. Then – Edward, was it? – pulled out a chair for her, and they all sat down. She was, she saw, firmly entrenched in the Curzon enclave, with Finlay opposite her and Nick on her right.

‘So what gave you the idea of writing us up?' Oliver enquired from the end of the table.

‘Believe it or not, dining off your china. It led to my father saying he'd met Mr Charles Curzon recently, and that you had an anniversary coming up.'

‘Hadn't you heard about it before?' Finlay, as Sales and Marketing Director, cut in. ‘The anniversary, I mean?'

‘If I had, I'm afraid it hadn't registered.'

‘Room for improvement, Finn,' Edward said jovially. He turned to Rona. ‘You home in on anniversaries, then?'

‘Not especially; I'm doing a series on the history of family businesses, for
Chiltern Life
. It's really centred on Marsborough, but I made an exception in your case, since you're Buckfordshire-based, and so well known.'

The first course arrived – chicken pâté and Melba toast – and to Rona's relief the spotlight turned off her as they began their meal. At the other end of the table the senior managers were engaged in their own conversation, and during the brief lull in what she suspected would be a minor inquisition, she had time to sort out her first impressions of the cousins. In appearance, there was only a faint resemblance between them, no stronger in the two sets of brothers than in the group as a whole. If anything, Finlay and Sam most resembled each other, being fairer than the others, though Sam's hair was a lighter shade than Finlay's gold-brown.

‘You live in Marsborough, then?' Nick enquired.

‘That's right.'

‘Lucky you; it's one of my favourite towns, with all that Georgian elegance.'

‘Do you live here in Chilswood?'

‘No, in Nettleton – several of us do. It has the advantage of being convenient for work, without being on the doorstep. You need some distance between home and the daily grind – helps you to switch off.'

‘I wouldn't know,' Rona said. ‘I work from home. And don't,' she added as his mouth opened, ‘say it's different for a woman!'

Nick laughed. ‘Touché. So how do you wind down? By preparing elaborate dishes for your husband? I've heard that's good therapy.'

‘Not in my case. I loathe cooking and do as little as possible. My husband's the cook in our household – when he's at home, that is.'

Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘He's away a lot?'

Rona bit her lip; she'd not meant to get involved in this. ‘Three nights a week,' she said reluctantly. ‘He's an artist who gives evening classes, and it's easier if he stays at the studio on those nights.'

‘So you're a
class
widow?'

She smiled. ‘You could say that. Fortunately there's an excellent Italian restaurant close by, and several good take-aways.'

Sam leaned forward. ‘You're serious? You don't cook at all?'