Say You Will (9 page)

Ear pressed to the door, she waited for an answer. When there was no reply, she opened the door. “Mum? It’s Rosalind.”

Still no answer, so she peeked in and froze.

The room was an utter mess. The bed looked like there’d been a struggle, the bedclothes draping on the floor. The clothes she’d worn to the memorial lay discarded on the floor in the corner.

Rosalind picked up the silk blouse. She looked at the label—designer, handmade. She frowned. Her mother never treated her clothes callously like that. Clothes and books were the two things her mother valued most in the world.

Taking the blouse, she walked to the closet to hang it up. She flipped the light on, almost afraid of what she’d find.

But the closet was as orderly as it had ever been. Rows of shoes arranged like soldiers in neat rows, blouses, skirts, and dresses all arranged by color. The drawers were all uniformly closed, but she knew they housed frilly underthings and soft sweaters. At the far end, all the ball gowns hung, looking untouched and lonely.

This closet used to be her magical place. Her mother would emerge from it looking like a princess. When Rosalind was a child, she figured it was a fairy portal, and she’d walk in, wanting to be a princess too.

But one day as she’d watched her mum get ready, she’d understood the real magic was in the dresses, and that
she
had that magic herself. Her mother had told her she could make women look like princesses, too.

Jacqueline used to say her clothes were her dearest friends. A dress that fit perfectly never let you down, and it always cheered you up.

She went to the back of the closet and fished in one of the drawers until she found the photo of her mum in her wedding dress. Rosalind traced the dreamy smile on Jacqueline’s face. She’d never witnessed that smile in real life.

Taking the photo with her for inspiration, she sat on the floor in front of the ball gowns and wondered how she could make Sara feel that way.

The door to the closet swung open, and her mother blinked down at her in surprise. “Darling.”

“Sorry.” She started to stand up.

Her mother waved her back down. “Stay. You just startled me. You’ve always loved sitting there and thinking.”

“You remember?”

“Of course I remember.” Her mother took her earrings off and placed them on a tray, looking at her like she was delusional. “You were forever underfoot here. Of all your sisters, you were the only one who inherited my love for fashion. I shudder at the way Titania dresses.”

She smiled wistfully. “How does she dress?”

Jacqueline paused, blinking at her. “You don’t know Titania at all, do you?”

“She was barely a teenager when I left for Los Angeles. Imogen, too, though she’s easier to follow since her acting career’s taken off.”

A flash of remorse passed over her mother’s face. Then she kicked off her shoes and sat next to her.

Rosalind blinked in shock. The Countess of Amberlin
never
sat on the floor.

“The media makes Imogen out to be a fun-loving diva, but she’s always taken her career seriously,” her mother said, shifting until she was settled. “Do you remember how she used to put on plays in the evenings as a child?”

She shook her head. “I had no idea.”

“She always knew she wanted to be an actress, and she worked hard to achieve it. All you girls are hard workers. Even Portia,” her mother said, as though she could hear Rosalind’s mental snort.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Mother pursed her lips. “Titania was always diligent, too, but she never did anything conventional. Her photos are brilliant, quite honestly.”

She didn’t know, and that made her sorry.

“It’s quite a different view from down here, isn’t it?” Her mum craned her neck, looking around. Then her gaze fell on the wedding picture and she froze.

Guilt speared Rosalind. She picked up the framed photo. “I’m sorry. I was just—”

“Don’t be sorry. May I?” She held her hand out.

Rosalind handed it over, watching carefully.

Her mother’s expression softened with sadness. “I haven’t looked at this in a long time. I looked hopeful.”

“Yes.”

“A young woman on the verge of happily ever after.” The words held a tinge of bitterness. “I thought the sun rose and set on Reginald Summerhill. Little did I know one day he’d have a fatal accident with his mistress.”

She gaped wide-eyed at her mother, not sure what to say.

“
Honour and Family
, indeed.” Her mother set the picture aside and focused on her. “Your father was a selfish git.”

“Okay,” she drawled, not sure how to reply.

“As selfish as he was, he cared for all of us in his own way. I believe that with what’s left of my heart.” Her lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “He had a unique way of being disappointed in us all and yet caring at the same time, didn’t he?”

“You felt that way, too?”

“We all felt that way.” She sighed, the anger visibly draining from her. “I owe you girls an apology.”

Confused, Rosalind shook her head. “What for?”

“For not giving you what you needed.” Her mum glanced at the ball gowns, her eyes sad. “I was such a hopeless romantic, and it didn’t serve me well in my early life. You know I named all you girls after heroines in Shakespearean comedies because I wanted you to have the same happy endings they had?”

“Of course.” Rosalind smiled. “Although I used to wish I had a plain name like Anne.”

Her mother smiled, too. “I almost named Imogen ‘Mary,’ because I felt so disillusioned when I was pregnant with her.”

“But somehow you still believed.”

“A fool, aren’t I? I believed so much that I still tried to please Reginald, even though I knew nothing would have, and in doing what he expected I lost something more precious than I realized. Like I said, I was a fool.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She shook her head. “What did you lose?”

“You girls.” Her mother tapped the sketchpad. “Are you working on a new design?”

She wanted to ask what her mother meant by “you girls,” but she was thrown off by the interest in her work. “Yes. For a woman I met here, actually.”

“May I see?” Before she could reply, her mother took the sketchpad and began flipping through it.

Normally, Rosalind didn’t care about other people’s opinions—she knew she was a fantastic designer. But nerves niggled at her belly as her mother looked over the book with her critical eye.

“Beautiful,” her mother declared. Then she tapped one page. “Particularly this one.”

She looked at the sketch. It was the dress she’d designed for herself, for one day. “You think so?”

“It looks like you, a combination of vintage and modern. Straightforward but layered.” Her mother turned the page. “This is beautiful, as well.”

“That was the dress I designed for Bijou’s sister. You remember my friend Bijou Taylor.”

“Of course. Her family is hard to forget.” Her mother handed back the sketches. “You’re very talented, Rosalind.”

Pleasure flushed her cheeks. “I learned fashion from you.”

The sad look crept into her mother’s eyes again, but she just smiled, patted her hand, and worked herself to her feet. “I believe I’ll have tea now. Stay in here as long as you need.”

She watched her mother walk away, her posture so very correct.

But at the closet door, she turned around and looked Rosalind in the eye. “I’m very proud of all of you. Perhaps I haven’t been as warm a mother as some, but I’ve always been ever so proud of my daughters.”

She stepped out and quietly closed the door behind her.

Rosalind sat on the floor, gaping, a lump of emotion in her throat. Then she lowered her head and began to draw hope in the lines of Sara’s dress.

Chapter Twelve

The door to Summer’s flat opened right as Nick was about to ring the buzzer.

A smile lit her face. “This is a nice surprise,” she said as she kissed his cheeks, “but I’m on my way out.”

He shook his head. “I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait? I have an appointment to get a mani-pedi.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

“Suit yourself.” She hiked the luggage she called a purse higher onto her shoulder and wrapped a scarf around her neck.

“Isn’t that Rosalind’s scarf?”

Summer put a hand over it, as if she were afraid he was going to rip it away. “She gave it to me.”

He shook his head, falling into step beside her. “What game are you playing here? It’s psychopathic.”

“Are you still seeing her?”

“Yes.”

“Has she said anything to you about the will?”

“Summer.” He raked a hand through his hair. “This has to stop.”

“You don’t like her?” His sister peered up at him closely. The moment of understanding dawned on her face. “You like her too much.”

“And I despise lying to her.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “I think she might be it.”

“It?”

“The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.” He glanced at Summer. “I have feelings for her.”

Her brow furrowed.

He smiled drily. “Tone down your enthusiasm, please.”

She shook her head. “It’s just I knew you were attracted to her, but I thought it was just lust.”

“Oh, it is.”

“Please.” She covered her ears, then her eyes. “Now I can’t get the image of you two being intimate out of my head.”

“Watch out.” He took her arm and steered her out of the way of an old woman.

“See what you’ve done?” She stopped suddenly in a doorway. “At least I’m here.”

He looked through the window at the row of salon chairs and the women having their hands and feet buffed and polished.

“I’ll talk to you later, Nick,” Summer said as she walked in.

“I’m not done,” he called after her. Were men allowed in the girly sanctum? He was about to find out.

He walked in after her and the place went silent. He smiled charmingly at all the women and joined Summer by a wall of nail polish. “I wasn’t finished talking to you,” he said softly.

“Can I help you?” a woman half his size asked.

Summer smiled at her. “Tran, I have an appointment for a manicure and pedicure.”

The lady pointed at the first station. “Chair one.”

“Thank you.” His stepsister sashayed to her seat, kicked off her sandals, and sat down. Two women descended on her, taking charge of her hands and feet.

He followed her. “This isn’t going to scare me off, you know.”

“Unfortunately, I know,” she murmured as she flipped through a fashion magazine. “You can’t just stand here looming over me.”

“Fine.” He gestured to the empty chair next to Summer’s. “I’ll have one, too.”

The little woman frowned at him. “Pedicure?”

“Yes, sure.” He sat in the chair and pried his shoes off, stuffing his socks in them before rolling up his pants.

“This is a turn of events I never saw coming.” Summer grinned at him. “Have you ever had a pedicure before?”

“Of course not.”

Her grin widened. “You know I love you.”

A different small woman came and filled the basin at his feet with water. He said hello to her as she pushed his feet in, before returning his attention to Summer. “I need to be the one to tell Rosalind the truth.”

“You can’t tell her the truth,” she said. “If you do, then she’s not going to want to see you again, and you need to help me find out about the will.”

“No, if I
wait
to tell her the truth, she’ll never want to see me again. If I tell her now, before—”

“Before you two shag.” She nodded knowingly. “I guess it must happen.”

Nick winced. “Tabitha should have washed your mouth out with soap more often.”

She looked at him, her smile wistful. “Mum didn’t like it when I cursed, did she?”

He squeezed her arm.

“But about you and Rosalind shagging.”

“Summer.”

“You should just do it. Maybe she’ll tell you more. Pillow talk and all that.”

He gaped at her. “Who are you? The sister I used to have was a sweet girl.”

She leaned in, her eyes wide and earnest. “I just want to have a piece of my father to keep.”

He thought she was assuming a lot to think he left her and Tabitha anything.

“I can see your pessimism, you know.” She nodded at the woman who set a small tray of water by her hands and dipped her fingers in.

“I—”

The woman lifted his foot and began tickling it.

He tried to maintain his manly dignity, but the way she scrubbed the bottom of his foot made him squirm uncomfortably. The woman knew it, too—she shot him a devilish grin.

“It’s a conspiracy.” He shook his head, and then gritted his teeth as she attacked his other foot. He relaxed when she finished, and frowned at his sister. “You could have warned me about that.”

“What fun would that have been?”

“Color?” the small woman at his feet barked.

Summer held out something to her. “Use this.”

Not sure what transpired, he stuck to his course. “I’m going to tell Rosalind, Summer.”

“No.” Summer grabbed his arm, dripping warm, foamy water on his coat. She ignored the protest from the woman who was doing her manicure, focusing on him. “Since you feel so bad, don’t lie to her, but just don’t tell her about me yet. I’ll tell her myself when I see her next.”

“When will that be?” he asked suspiciously.

“In a couple days. We’re having tea. Again.” She said it like she was bewildered.

He knew he was. “You’ve had tea together?”

She shrugged. “It was nothing.”

But he suspected that wasn’t true. He touched her hand, which was soaking again. “The sooner you’re honest with her, the better off you’ll be, too.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

She nodded thoughtfully, but she didn’t look convinced.

The woman at his feet patted his leg. “All done.”

He looked down. “I have pink toes.”

Summer snickered and the woman who gave him the treatment looked entirely too jolly for his tastes.

His sister patted his arm. “Look at it like you’re exploring your feminine side.”

Chapter Thirteen