Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (42 page)

I was the result of their brief union.

When I was small my mother was sent away to dry out in a clinic in New Haven. She never came back to live with us. I saw her from time to time, but it was Sebastian who brought me up.

After he divorced my alcoholic mother, he took up with Antoinette Delaney Vivienne's mother. Their love affair never became more than that, because she was married to Liam Delaney who was wandering around the South Seas.

Sebastian's relationship with Antoinette ended when she fell down our cellar steps and broke her neck. If she had lived I suppose she could have divorced Liam for desertion at some point, and married my father. I know he wanted to formalize their love affair. He told me this once. And he was certainly broken up about her death.

My father's third wife was Stephanie Jones, who had only a very short sojourn with us. She had worked with Sebastian as one of his assistants at the Locke Foundation. Jack and I both liked her. She had been an intellectual and rather quiet, but lovely looking, a cool, refined blonde who reminded me of Grace Kelly Stephanie had always been kind to Jack and me, and we were sad when she was killed in a plane crash.

Then along came the great Vivienne.

My father was married to her the longest. Five years. It seemed like an eternity to me. I know he made her pregnant and that she had a miscarriage. Sebastian told me that himself. He was heartbroken about the loss of the baby.

I suppose it was inevitable that he would marry Vivienne. He had always favored her when she was growing up, and he became her guardian after her mother died. He paid her school fees and supported her financially, and she was always with us during school vacations and special holidays.

My dislike for Vivienne was quite intense. I couldn't stand her really, and I was glad when they finally split up. I always thought my father deserved better.

His fifth and last wife was Betsy Bethune, a career woman. To me she was the most unsuitable person he could have married. She was far too busy being a famous concert pianist to be a good wife to my father and I was not in the least surprised when he divorced her. I had never understood why he had married her in the first place. It was an enigma.

I stared hard at the painting of my father, and for the longest time, studying his face intently.

Yet again I asked myself why he had killed himself. It just didn't make sense to me. He had seemed perfectly all right when I was staying with him in New York. In fact he had not been gloomy as he so often was. He was much more relaxed, even happy, that week before he took his life. I wished he hadn't done it. I missed him so much.

I had always loved my father, even though he preferred Jack to me in many ways. He had always devoted so much of his time and energy to Jack, but I suppose that was natural, since Jack was his only son and the heir apparent.

Vivienne had come between my father and me from the moment she had arrived on the scene with her unbearable mother. She stole my father from me when I was a child, but I managed to get part of him back when I was grown up.

After all, I was his real child, his biological child, with genuine Locke blood running through my veins. When I was a teenager he saw in me the second son he had always wanted. That was one of the reasons he had given me so much power in Locke Industries later on. Of course he knew I was a good businesswoman, practical and efficient like him; he knew, too, I would not let him down. He was also aware of how much I cared about the company.

Yes, my father had loved me. He had made that very clear in his will.

“I give and bequeath to my dearest and most beloved only daughter Luciana . . .” Those had been his words before the bequests to me had been listed.

My father had left me half of his personal fortune and many of his prized possessions. Most of all, I cherished the priceless art collection of Impressionist paintings, especially all of those van Goghs, which he had given to me. That gesture in itself was another expression of his love.

I sighed to myself as I took one last, lingering look at the portrait of Sebastian. Then I walked out of the boardroom, turning off the lights and closing the door behind me.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

M
y secretary Claire had placed a pile of faxes on my desk in the short time I had been visiting with my ancestors in the boardroom. They were mostly from Locke Industries in New York.

I read them all carefully, dealt with those that needed a response, and made notations on the others. After signing a batch of letters, I went into the adjoining office and gave everything to Claire.

Returning to my desk I made half a dozen calls to Locke in New York, settled various bits of business, and then looked over my appointments for the remainder of the week.

Tomorrow I had a date for lunch at Claridge's with Madge Hitchens from the Locke Foundation. She was on her way to Africa on behalf of the foundation, and she had stopped off in London for a few days to see her daughter Melanie who was attending the Royal College of Art.

Other than Madge I had no special engagements, just routine work all day, and that night Gerald would be arriving from Hong Kong.

Closing my appointment book, I put it away in my desk, then went in to say good night to Claire.

 

The London offices of Locke Industries were situated in Berkeley Square, and I paused for a moment when I came out of the building.

It was six o'clock and still light, a pleasant evening at the end of March, and I decided to walk home to Belgravia. I made for Charles Street, which would take me into Curzon, and from there I could head into Park Lane and Hyde Park Corner.

I liked walking in London, looking at the old buildings, enjoying a feeling of the past, and of history and tradition; also, it happened to be my favorite city. My father first brought me here with Jack when he was fourteen and I was twelve. Of course I fell in love with the place, the people and the culture, not to mention the manners of the British. They were so polite and civilized it was a pleasure to be around them.

It was the summer of 1979, and my father had come to London ostensibly to sell his apartment in Mayfair. But after he had put this on the market, he then turned around and bought a house in Eaton Square.

I was with him the day he viewed the house for the first time, and I'm not certain who liked it the most, Sebastian or me. Jack had absolutely no interest in it whatsoever. He was simply marking time until we left for the Château d'Cose in Aix-in-Provence, the only place he ever wanted to go. He had loved the château intensely for seven years. It was his grand passion.

In any event, the house was duly purchased, decorators were sent in, and we came back at the end of the year to spend Christmas at our new home in London. A great deal of care and money had been spent on it, and Colefax and Fowler had done a superb job, had created elegance, a warm ambiance, and great comfort. It was a real home, not a design statement, and Sebastian in particular was pleased with the finished result.

For me the trip was marred by Vivienne's presence, but I was so happy to be in London I managed to disguise my displeasure behind a fraudulent smile. This I affixed to my face permanently.

I also managed to make myself scarce that winter, rushing off to the Victoria and Albert, the British Museum, the Tower of London, Madame Tussaud's, and my favorite place of all, the Tate Gallery. I loved to wander around looking at the paintings, especially the Turners.

When we were growing up, Jack was always telling me that Sebastian was after Vivienne. He said it was a campaign, called it the Gradual Seduction of Vivienne, making this sound like the title of a play or movie. Jack insisted Sebastian was the fat cat waiting to pounce on the innocent virgin. But I didn't really agree with him; in my opinion, it was the other way around.

In fact, I had always believed that Vivienne was after my father even when she was a teenager, and when her awful mother was still alive. Her avid interest in Sebastian became more apparent than ever to me that Christmas of 1979, and she never let him out of her sight. She hung on his every word, and his arm, never gave me or Jack a moment alone with him.

At the time, I told Jack she was sleeping with Sebastian, but he pooh-poohed the idea. My brother had had a crush on Vivienne the Great for as long as I could remember, so I suppose he had not been able to support the thought that our father was where
he
wanted to be—in her arms.

I remember I wasn't too crazy about this thought myself, since she had long endeavored to drive a wedge between my father and me. As Sebastian's lover she would have a greater opportunity to do that, and knowing her she would take advantage of that situation.

I was smart enough to realize that I couldn't change the situation, if it did indeed exist. For this reason I involved myself in my own activities and let them get on with it. I advised Jack to do the same, but he persisted in hanging around the house. He called it “keeping an eye on things.” I called it spying.

I came to know London well in those days, and the London house was my favorite place to be, after the Manhattan townhouse where I had grown up with Jack and Sebastian. Luckily for me, we spent quite a lot of time in England over the next few years. My father was becoming more and more involved with his African charities, and London made a good jumping off point to that continent for him.

After he married Vivienne he seemed to lose interest in London and in the house. In fact, they stayed at Claridge's when they were on their honeymoon, and later that year he bought the old mill in Lourmarin. I was glad my father had done this, because it prompted him to give the château to Jack, and this made Jack so happy he was almost delirious.

I was twenty-three when I moved to my favorite city permanently. Sebastian gave me one of the top jobs at the London office, and I was in my true element at last, running some of the women's divisions.

Over the years Locke Industries had become a huge conglomerate. We no longer made Malcolm's plows, at least only a token number; instead we manufactured tractors and other kinds of farm machinery, as well as pickup trucks, jeeps, golf carts, and station wagons.

We had a building-materials division that produced everything from doors and windows to floors and walls. We made prefabricated houses, garages, and barns. Our bathroom division manufactured a decorator-designed line of tubs, showers, toilets, and all the accessories used in a bathroom. We even had a shower-curtain division.

This diversification had been started by my great-grandfather Colin and my grandfather Cyrus, long before this was a popular trend in business. Then my father had followed their lead when he was still running the company on a full time basis, quite some time before he became so heavily involved with his charity work.

Over the years Sebastian had bought a number of corporations which he then proceeded to mold into the women's divisions of Locke Industries. He had purchased companies that manufactured well-known brands of clothing, undergarments, hosiery, shoes, swimwear, sports attire, and leisure wear.

When my father sent me to work in London, five years ago now, one of the first things
I
did was to buy a company specializing in cosmetics and body-care products. This led to several other acquisitions, but the first one quickly became a huge money earner, and I'm very proud of this particular purchase.

For years I had believed myself to be a dyed-in-the-wool career woman, and I had never really given much thought to marriage, even though I'd had plenty of boyfriends. But I had only been in London a few months when I fell in love.

It was Thomas Kamper, a business acquaintance, who introduced me to his brother Gerald, with whom he worked in the family's merchant bank in the City.

Gerald and I hit it off immediately, and our feelings were reciprocal. His lean, dark good looks and candid blue eyes struck a chord in me, and within six months of our first meeting we were married. I was twenty-four and he was twenty-nine.

I am still not sure whether Gerald's mother, Lady Fewston, was very happy about her youngest son acquiring an American for a wife, but Sebastian was all for the union. He liked Gerald, approved of the short engagement, and as a wedding gift he gave us the house in Eaton Square. I was particularly thrilled about this, as joyful as Jack had been when he got the château.

I loved Gerald for a number of reasons, not the least of which was his attitude about women. He did not have much time for the idle and the indolent who had nothing to occupy their days, much preferred women like me who were strong, independent, and had flourishing careers. He, like my brother Jack, was attracted to brainy women who had something to say for themselves.

Deep down I know that, despite my love for Gerald, I would have hesitated about marrying him if he had objected to my job. In fact, I would have probably had only a few dates with him and let it go at that.

It was necessary for me to go to work every day, necessary to my well-being and my sense of self. I needed to be busy, to accomplish something, to make a contribution in my own small way. And, after all, Locke Industries was in my blood, a huge part of my life. It always had been, and I wanted it for myself. I hoped one day to get it.

Suddenly I realized I was almost home. I had been walking so quickly I had reached Eaton Square in record time. As I put my latchkey in the door and turned it, the grandfather clock in the hall struck six-thirty.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

“W
hen Vivienne said your father was planning to get married this year, I was completely taken aback,” Madge Hitchens said, looking at me intently across the lunch table. “I didn't know anything about it, Luciana, did you?”

I stared at her without answering. I was stupefied to hear this.

Madge said, “I can tell by the expression on your face, and your silence, that you didn't. You look as surprised as I was when she told me.”

Recovering my voice, I asked, “Who on earth was he going to marry?”

“Vivienne didn't know her name. That's why she was asking me.”

I frowned and said quickly, “Vivienne thought you would know because you traveled with Sebastian constantly, spent so much time with him.”

“Yes. But I wasn't aware of a fiancée. In fact, no one at the foundation was.”

“How come Vivienne knew?” As I asked this question I realized it was stupid of me to even pose it. Vivienne had always been a kind of confidante to him.

“Sebastian told her,” Madge replied, confirming my thought.

“But he didn't tell her the woman's name, Madge.” I shook my head. “How like Sebastian that was. However, he must have told her something else, surely?”

“He did. He told Vivienne she was a doctor. A scientist. At least, so I gathered. He also said she lived and worked in Africa.”

“What's Vivienne's interest in her now that my father's dead?”

“She's writing a profile about Sebastian and she wants to interview her.”

“I see.” I smiled faintly at Madge. “Well, at least we don't have to worry about the tone and content of the story, Madge dear. It's bound to be flattering, since Vivienne's writing it.”

“Oh I'm sure it will be.”

“Who's Vivienne writing it for? Did she tell you?”

“Yes,” Madge said, nodding. “The magazine section of the London
Sunday Times.
As I told you earlier, she was in New York for several weeks, interviewing people at Locke Industries and the foundation. From what I gather, everyone spoke beautifully about Sebastian. But then why wouldn't they? He was a very unique man, and those who worked for him and with him revered him. They still do. I think Vivienne's premise for the profile is very accurate.”

“And what is it?” I asked curiously.

“She's focusing on the idea that he was the world's last great philanthropist.”

“The Last Great Philanthropist,” I repeated. “Not a bad title, not bad at all, and you're correct; it is right on target.”

“Your father was a great man, Luciana. In the eighteen years I knew him, a day didn't go by that I didn't marvel at him. He could win men's hearts by the sheer force of his personality, and he commanded energies beyond the average. And I've never known anyone with his strength of will. He was formidable in so many ways, and such a compassionate man as well.”

“Yes, he was everything you say,” I agreed. “And I've always believed that he could have been anything he wanted, even if he hadn't been born who he was. He was so brilliant, he would have succeeded at anything he did.”

“He certainly had an extraordinary aura,” Madge remarked. “It fared him well when he was dealing with some governments in Third World countries. They were awed, bowled over by him, and ultimately he brought them around to his way of thinking. Which brings
me
to another point, Luciana.”

“Tell me, Madge.”

“Even though Jack is now running the foundation and administering the money as your father did, he won't go on any field trips. I wonder if you could influence him to come to Africa with me later this year?”

“You must be joking! He won't listen to
me
, Madge! Or anyone else, for that matter. Jack's very stubborn, surely you know that after all these years. Why he grew up at your knee, as I did.” I shook my head and finished, “He won't go to Africa. Or anywhere else, I'm afraid.”

“Don't you think we could work on him, Luciana?”

I laughed hollowly. “We could try, but I'm not sure it would do any good. He never wants to leave that vineyard of his.” I took a sip of water, and continued, “Madge, I think we ought to look at the menu and order lunch, don't you?”

“Of course.” She eyed me for a long moment and then said, “I'm glad to see you've put on a bit of weight. You've been far too thin for far too long.”

I smiled at her. “I know I suddenly got my appetite back.”

Once we had ordered, I took up the subject of Jack again, and his involvement with the foundation. “Jack doesn't mind giving away the money, Madge,” I explained. “He's not a bit tight-fisted, and he knows it goes to help people in need. However, he doesn't want to be personally involved with the charities. He doesn't know how to deal with people the way Sebastian did. Don't ask me why, he just doesn't.”

“Perhaps I could edge him into it,” Madge began and stopped short, pursing her lips. “You know, I always felt that Jack hated living in your father's shadow. Maybe that's the problem.”

“It could be,” I agreed. “He's so much like Sebastian and in so many ways, but he does his damnedest to be completely different. It's as if he doesn't want to be my father's clone.”

“I'm sure he doesn't.” Madge gave me a hard stare, and asked, “Do you think Sebastian was
really
engaged to someone?”

“It's possible.” I shrugged. “But he never told
me
.”

“Or anyone else, except Vivienne. So if it was true, why
did
he keep it a secret?”

“Perhaps he didn't,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe she worked in a remote area. You know what
he
was like, jumping around all over the map. I could never keep track of him, could you?”

“Not all the time, no, and certainly he and I were often in different parts of Africa. Indeed in different parts of the world. But it is a mystery, isn't it? By the way, I think I ought to alert you. . . Vivienne plans to come to London to see you, Luciana, to interview you for the piece.”

I merely nodded and stored this bit of information away.

At this moment the waiter arrived with our first course and I let the subject of Vivienne sink. To my astonishment I was hungry, and I even found my mouth watering as the waiter served me. I was about to eat Morecombe Bay potted shrimps for the first time in years, and I was actually salivating.

“Bon appetit,” I said to Madge, picked up a thin slice of buttered brown bread and took a bite, then I dipped into the potted shrimps with relish. I'd first eaten them in 1979, here at Claridge's, where Sebastian had often brought us for lunch and occasionally for dinner. I had sworn off them years ago, because the shrimps were potted in pure butter, but I could enjoy them with impunity today since my aim was to actually put on weight.

“I hope I get a chance to see Gerald,” Madge murmured, as she dug a fork underneath a Colchester oyster.

“He'll be back from Hong Kong tonight. Perhaps you'd like to have lunch with us in the country on Sunday.”

“That would be great, Luciana, thank you. He's such a nice man, and he was very kind to me at the memorial service in New York, very comforting.”

“That's Gerald, and I'm afraid he still feels badly that he wasn't able to come to Sebastian's funeral in Connecticut, but his father had just undergone surgery and he didn't want to leave him,” I said.

“He told me all about it, and I could well understand his feelings.”

“Would you like to bring Melanie with you?” I asked, smiling at her. “Or would it be too dull for her?”

“Of course it wouldn't. I'm sure she'd love it. Thank you.”

“She's doing well at the Royal College of Art?”

“Spectacular. And loving every minute of it,” Madge replied, and went on talking about her twenty-two-year-old daughter for the next few minutes.

As I listened to my father's former colleague and dear old friend of the family talking, I couldn't help thinking how well she looked. Madge had gone to work as Sebastian's administrative assistant when she was forty-two, when Melanie was just two years old. Eighteen years later she didn't look much different than she had then. Her hair, which came to a widow's peak on her forehead, was still as black as coal, her heart-shaped face smooth and unwrinkled. At sixty she looked much younger.

“You're staring at me, Luce,” she said, regarding me with her head on one side. “Is something wrong?”

“How rude. I'm sorry. But I was actually admiring you, Madge, thinking how wonderful you look . . . the same as you did the first day I met you, when I was all of ten.”

“Kind words will get you everywhere,” she answered with a laugh. “And I feel wonderful.”

“Sebastian always said you were very fit, the fittest person he knew. He even mentioned it the last time I was with him in New York. . . just before he died.”

Madge stared at me, and then unexpectedly blurted out, “I miss him so much, Luce.” Her fine gray eyes filled with tears, and she cleared her throat several times.

I reached out and took hold of her hand resting on the table. “I know you do. So do I.”

There was a silence, and then finally recovering herself, she gave me one of her penetrating stares and said quietly, “I dwell on his suicide a lot. I can't imagine why he did it. I've racked my brains for a reason.”

“Perhaps there isn't one, Madge,” I said, squeezing her hand. “At least not one that we could understand.”