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Her body, rounded in all the right places, was slim and toned thanks to the exercise and dance classes she attended with zealous regularity. Not cheap, but the end would justify the means.
And Nicola’s unstudied greeting of ten days ago had also been reassuring. ‘Dana, it’s wonderful to see you again. And you look amazing.’
A total exaggeration, but gratifying just the same, she thought as she started on her way downstairs.
Now that she had time to look around her, she realised it wasn’t only her bedroom that needed refurbishment. The whole house looked tired and shabby and it was all too evident that the high standards of cleanliness observed in Aunt Joss’s day had slipped badly.
Surfaces no longer glowed as they once had. There was no beguiling mixture of lavender and beeswax in the air, and in places there were even cobwebs.
It all looked—unloved, but perhaps that was what happened when the mistress of the house was no longer in residence.
Not that Serafina Latimer had enjoyed much choice in the matter. Once she’d decided to avoid Inheritance Tax by gifting Mannion to Nicola’s older brother Adam, she was allowed only casual and infrequent visits to her former home in the seven-year period it took for the gift to become legal and Adam to become Mannion’s full owner.
Aunt Joss had explained it all to Dana in some detail, brushing aside all attempts at questions or protests, before adding with chill emphasis, ‘So, once and for all, let that be an end to this nonsense.’
Yet, how could it be, when Dana knew, as surely as the sun rose in the east, that she had been passed over?
Her rightful inheritance given away like some free bar of soap?
Knew too that her aunt was wrong, and the fight was far from over.
Poor Mannion, she thought, as she reached the foot of the stairs. But when you’re mine, you won’t be passed from hand to hand again.
And this time there’ll be no one around to stop me.
There was none of the expected buzz of conversation as she approached the dining room, and she found herself hesitating briefly before entering.
For a moment, as she took in the old-fashioned chintzes that covered the deep sofas and armchairs, and saw the long brocade curtains moving gently in the faint breeze from the open French windows, she felt as if she’d stepped back in time.
Then, in the same instant, she realised that she’d totally misread the housekeeper’s message, because it was quite another Miss Latimer waiting for her behind the tea table. A much older version, her plump girth squeezed into unbecoming floral silk, her bleached hair like a metal helmet, her lips pursed.
Nicola’s Aunt Mimi, she thought with a silent groan. Oh, God, I should have known.
‘Well, Dana.’ She was motioned to a chair by a beringed hand. ‘This is a surprise.’ Mimi Latimer’s tone suggested it was more of an unpleasant shock. ‘I didn’t realise that you and Nicola were still in touch, let alone so close.’
Dana smiled, unfazed. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Latimer. No, sad to say, we probably haven’t seen so much of each other lately.’ Seven years to be precise. ‘But I’m sure you remember that we were at school together.’
‘Yes,’ Mimi Latimer said with a touch of grimness as she poured straw-coloured Earl Grey into a fragile cup and held it out to Dana. ‘I certainly hadn’t forgotten that. Or that your scholastic career came to a sudden end. A poor reward for all Serafina’s kindness to you.’
‘Perhaps we both felt she’d been quite kind enough,’ Dana returned coolly. ‘And that it was time I stood on my own feet.’ Besides, it was recognition as her granddaughter I wanted—not her charity.
‘I don’t think anyone would argue over that,’ Miss Latimer said with a sniff, proffering a plate of sandwiches smaller than a child’s finger.
That, and a Madeira cake, comprised the entire spread, Dana realised, remembering coming back for the school holidays to find the table laden not just with sandwiches but scones and cream, or buttered crumpets, depending on the season, to be followed with a rich chocolate cake and a Victoria sponge oozing strawberry jam. And Serafina presiding over these delights, gently questioning Nicola and herself on how the term had gone.
‘And your family. Are they well?’
Memories scattered under Mimi Latimer’s acidly pointed question.
‘All fine, thank you.’ At least on the rare occasions when I have news.
But the older woman had not finished. ‘And your mother? Still living in Spain?’
