The Legacy (31 page)

Christina said quietly, ‘I know you're not. Thanks for explaining, and it makes sense; I understand how you felt and I'm sorry too. Let's forget about it, shall we? And anyway, I've been thinking … or I've just thought of it, listening to what you said …' She hesitated. ‘James, is there anything personal of your father's you'd like? A memento of him? I'd really like you to choose something.'

He shook his head. ‘Coals of fire, Christa? No, I know you don't mean it like that; you're very sweet to offer. I lost the cuff-links he gave me when I was twenty-one in that mugging; I'd like another pair of his, you choose them for me. I would like that very much. Thanks.' He looked at her and there was the sly appeal of the child still inside the grown man. ‘If I'm forgiven, can I have another cup of tea?'

She poured it for him. ‘I'm glad you're here, James. I mean that.' He was off guard. She'd done well; she was surprised by her own calculation, and glad that it was tinged with genuine pity. The offer was spontaneous, and that helped her go on with the deception she was planning.

They had dinner in the dining-room; Christina had wanted somewhere casual and intimate where she and Richard would eat, but he had vetoed the idea. The lay-out of the house didn't lend itself to modern living; he had added, ‘unfortunately,' but she didn't believe he meant it. And Mrs Manning, who cooked for them when they weren't entertaining, wouldn't welcome Christina in her kitchen, so they either took their meals in the study, on a tray by the fire, or sat side by side in the panelled dining-room by candlelight.

‘How I remember this room,' James remarked. ‘Sunday lunches when we had to come down, looking tidy, as Father put it, and Alan always managed to have his shirt-tails hanging out or to be wearing his old jeans with holes in them. It was a nightmare and I used to dread it. You know they sat at opposite ends of the table? Not like when he married you. He must have hated Mummy, mustn't he? I tried to understand that because there were times when I hated her too: when she'd been at the booze or scored, that awful glassy look in her eyes and that silly smile. I could have hit her, Christa, isn't that a terrible admission?'

‘No,' she answered. ‘I don't think it is. I can't think of anything worse for a boy than growing up in a situation like that. It's amazing how well you've come through it. If only you could put it out of your mind, try not to think about it.'

He looked at her. ‘That's why I went to the States; I thought I'd escape, get away from Father and Alan and all the feuding. It didn't work, of course, because you carry your baggage with you, but it helped. It's a pity I never got to know you, Christa, when I was living here, but Father didn't encourage it. He was jealous, I realize that now; he didn't want anyone taking your attention off him. And there was Belinda. God, talk about jealous … I was so jealous of her! How is she? I meant to ask.'

‘She's at St Mary's and she's very happy. Children are much more resilient than we think. She'll always miss Richard, but she's coping well. I don't know how she'll take it when the case comes to court. There'll be so much publicity; I dread to think what the press will make of it all, and I'm really worried about the effect on her.'

Now, Christina decided. Now is the time to try. He's relaxed, nostalgic, the wine's gone to his head; you just might touch a genuine chord. ‘James, I want to tell you something. I've been thinking about it a lot; I've even discussed it with my lawyers. Alan's main case is that Belinda's illegitimate, and he could be right.' She saw him stare at her. He put his wineglass down.

‘You're serious?' She sounded very calm.

‘Yes, I had an affair; it broke up only the day before I met your father. We slept together and I found I was pregnant. I did tell him, I want you to know that, but he wouldn't listen to me; he was certain Belinda was his. But, if she's not …' she let a pause develop. ‘If she's not his daughter, then I would give RussMore to Alan.'

‘My God,' he said and then repeated it, ‘My God, do you mean that? Does Alan know?' She shook her head. ‘No, James, there's only one way to find out. I've taken advice and it's quite simple—DNA. A blood test from you and one from her; if she's Richard's, it'll match with yours. James,' she leaned towards him, her eyes full of pleading. ‘James, will you do it? It would save all the dreadful muck-raking and bitterness … If Alan's right, then he gets the house and the land and we'll make a home for ourselves somewhere else.'

He took up his glass again. For a moment he held it close to the soft candlelight and the claret glowed a deep red. ‘And if he's not, then his case collapses and you win? It's a gamble, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' she admitted, ‘it is, but it's worth taking. Will you help me?'

He put down the glass again; he hadn't touched the wine. She couldn't read his face.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I'll have to think about it. Sleep on it.'

He smiled at her; there was a secret look in his eyes, a look that filled her with despair. He had retreated out of reach. ‘It would be a big responsibility,' he added. ‘A bit like tossing a coin,' he said coolly. ‘I never thought you were the type to toss coins with so much at stake. Perhaps you think the odds are pretty good?'

The change was startling. Christina recoiled from what seemed like hostility, in fact she was experiencing her stepson in an unaccustomed role; he was in control. His help was needed; he had power over her and she had given it to him.

‘Is that why you asked me down here?'

‘Yes, I don't deny that. I thought you were the only person who could put a stop to this whole nightmare before it gets out of control.'

‘Maybe I am,' he agreed. ‘How flattering; for the first time in my life I feel really important.' He laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. ‘I'll think about it, Christa. We can talk it over tomorrow, I don't want to rush into anything. Never make decisions after a good dinner and vintage claret. I can't remember who said that; maybe I've just thought of it myself, but it's good advice. Would you mind if I didn't have coffee? It keeps me awake.'

‘I don't want coffee either,' she said. She had tossed the coin, and she knew without waiting for his decision the next day that she had lost the call.

‘That lawyer, the Swede,' he said suddenly, ‘he's a nasty piece of work. He threatened to beat the hell out of me, did you know that? Not very ethical, I felt; a violent type. I'm sure he would have done it too. I'd be careful if I were you, employing a man like that; he was almost more scary than the mugger. Can I still have a pair of Father's cuff-links? You won't go back on that if I don't give you a blood sample?'

She said sharply, ‘Don't talk to me like that, James.'

‘Only teasing,' he responded, ‘I was really upset about losing mine. Three pairs in all; the others were very unusual, Tiffany's design, given to me by a good friend. One set with little rubies, and one with sapphires. They were lovers' knots, not that we are any more, but we keep in touch. He had great taste, my friend. Do you want to watch the late TV news? I wouldn't mind an early night if that's all right with you?'

‘You go on upstairs,' Christina answered. ‘I've a few things to do. Breakfast is at nine.'

‘It always was,' he remarked, ‘even in the school holidays; we were never allowed a late lie-in.' He bent and almost brushed her cheek; the gesture made her think of Judas. ‘Good night, Christa, and don't look so worried. I told you, I'll think about it. After a good night's sleep, who knows?'

She shut the library door behind him. She felt drained, and there was an ominous tightness across her forehead that warned of a tension headache to come.
I'll think about it. After a good night's sleep, who knows?
That was teasing, too, he had made his decision; he had said it to keep her in suspense. It was no more than a petty cruelty he enjoyed inflicting, and yet she knew he didn't hate her. His personality was so distorted he was incapable of normal judgement. If the plan had worked and he'd agreed to give the blood sample, she'd have known whether she could defeat Alan, or have to settle into a long and ruinous legal battle, and she'd have known, for her own sake, whether Belinda was Richard's child. He'd refused, and the morning wouldn't bring a change of mind. Now the headache had begun, hammering behind her eyes.

It didn't matter, she insisted. Whatever the cost—and she'd mortgage everything Richard had left her—she wasn't going to give in to the son who'd violated his father's body. And then, unable to help herself, the disappointment and frustration overcame her and she started to cry. She was crying when the telephone rang and it was Rolf.

The flight to Geneva took about an hour and a half. Rolf didn't read and he refused coffee or snacks. He thought about Christina, about the conversation of the night before, hearing her weep in despair, and about making love to her. He recognized that emotions, long suppressed, had burst the barriers imposed. He had rejected love, along with friendship and intimacy of any kind; he had become a self-elected outcast. But no more; he wanted her so much he longed to absorb her, like a second self. He wanted to keep her, like some extraordinary treasure, forbidden to anyone else. Possessiveness so fierce it amazed him vied with the urge to protect her, to make her happy by lavishing anything on her she wanted, without stint or regard for himself. Sexual passion he accepted, but this was more, this was love, for the first time in his life. That was why he was on his way to Geneva, to see his contact, the woman with a heart as empty as his had become full. She hadn't been pleased at the prospect, and had tried to put him off, but he hadn't listened. He was coming and he expected her to be there; he was giving the orders now. Outside, the freezing blue skies disappeared in a thick grey mist as the plane began its descent.

He took a cab to the plush Hotel Beau Rivage, paid the driver and went inside. She had a suite; whatever else she sacrificed, she didn't stint on her own luxuries. ‘I like the best,' she'd said to him once. ‘I pay for it, why shouldn't I have what I like?' He'd shrugged in acceptance. She owed him no explanations; he owed her none either, but she'd ask for them now. She came to meet him, immaculate in a mink-trimmed designer suit, her hair burnished like silk and drawn back into an elaborate knot. She always used the same scent, heavy and musky. Too often it had clung to his skin when they'd been together.

She brushed his cheek in a token kiss. ‘What can I order for you? Coffee? Or a drink …? I'm going to have brandy and soda, I've got sick of champagne.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that. It was your favourite.'

‘Tastes change,' she smiled at him. ‘Favourites start to bore after a while. Sit down, Rolf. Why have you come here? We've no reason to meet any more. I told you.'

‘I know you did,' he answered. ‘But
I
have a reason, even if you haven't.'

‘So you said.' She sat, crossing those long legs, her fashionably short skirt riding up to her thighs. The brandy and soda was placed beside her, and she thanked the waiter with a brief nod. ‘I have a nasty feeling that I'm not going to like your reason.'

Rolf betrayed nothing. ‘And why should you think that? Why shouldn't it be our usual business?'

She sipped the brandy. ‘Because I know there isn't any business, not for us, anyway. You'd better tell me, I'm going out and I haven't time to play games, not this sort of game.' She looked at him. Such hard eyes, he thought, not a gleam of feeling in them; he'd only seen them change when they glazed with lust. What are we made of, he thought suddenly; what's made her like she is and me like I am, or was.

‘You're right, Irma. Last time we met you said I'd have a street named after me. I don't want a street, I want a favour instead.'

She had stayed silent, hardly moving, except to reach out at intervals and sip the brandy. At the end Rolf said quietly, ‘They owe me, and I want this badly.'

She got up, uncoiling herself with feline grace. She looked at him. ‘You fool,' she said, ‘you've asked the impossible; you'll never be trusted again. Rolf, I'm not going to argue with you, I know you won't listen, but don't ask for this. Remember, we're not part of them; they use us, but that's all, and they don't name streets after people like us, but you knew that anyway.'

‘Will you ask them? If they say no, I'll deal with it myself.'

She spoke sharply, ‘They'll never let you … they won't risk it.'

‘That's what I thought,' he answered. ‘It's not such a big thing; it's been done many times before. I gave them back their past, remind them.'

She turned away from him, walked to the window, stared down at the view across Lake Geneva and then swung back to face him. ‘You gave yourself something too: peace of mind. You wiped the slate clean, and I'm trying to do the same, only it's such a big slate … I haven't come to terms with who I am and what I am; maybe you have.'

He said, ‘You shouldn't go on thinking like that. You've given your life to wiping out the past, in a way we all have. They must appreciate it.'

She smiled at him, but it was a bitter grimace. ‘Would you? You think some art treasures are enough? Or some names and addresses? Are you suggesting they should be
grateful
?'

He wouldn't be drawn. ‘Ask the question, that's all, just ask.'

‘All right.' She stood before him and shook her smooth golden head. ‘You really are a fool. If I persuade them, there'll be a price to pay, you realize that? It won't be cheap.' He got up. ‘I realize. When will you let me know the answer?'

‘It'll take some days, depending on who I contact and who they go to with the proposition. Where will you be?'