Winter's End (17 page)

A series of fretful
knocks rapped at the door. She was hesitant to open it. She was too agitated to
face anyone right now. But the knocks grew louder and more persistent.

Anger overpowering
her annoyance, she marched to the front door and flung it open. It was Chris Cameron
staring at her, his face flaming with rage.

“I want to talk to
you,” he bellowed.

“Well, I’m in no mood,”
she snapped back and pushed the door to shut it. But he put a foot into it and forced
it open.

He walked by her
roughly and into the house. “I believe you used a few choice words to describe
me to my grandmother.”

“Oh, she told you did
she?” Emma smirked.

“More like riled. She
was throwing a terrible fit of anger. And thanks to you, I’ve had to call the
doctor in because she almost suffered an oncoming heart-attack.”

Emma froze, her legs
trembled under her. “How is she? Is she alright?” she said, her voice shaking
with the fear of losing Ethel. She rushed to the door but Chris blocked it
before she could get to it.

“Where do you think
you’re going?” he growled.

“Get out of the way,”
Emma threatened. “I need to see her.”

“No you won’t. You’ve
done enough for one day.”

“I’ve done?! You’re
the one with the attitude! Why can’t you be civil for once!”

“With you?” he said,
mincing the words slowly. “You deliberately conned my grandmother into this
scheme. You knew the word about town that she wanted me settled. It's all over
Skye. Don’t you deny it. I saw the company you kept at the dance. And now you
pretend that you don’t want to get married, playing the virtuous bride so that
she can grovel at your feet!”

“That’s not true!”

“Well, you can deny
it all you want, but the fact is she’s got her eyes and heart set on you. And
no matter how much I try, she will not hear another word of it. I love my
grandmother. She’s all I got. And if that means that I have to marry you to
keep her well and happy, then so be it! Just to let you know, I don’t know what
she sees in you. All you are is just a conniving tramp who married her first
husband for the same reasons. Money! And now that he’s dead leaving behind a
scandalous past of debts, bribery, affairs and god knows what, it leaves you no
chance to another rich husband. Come on, admit it, Emma, no respecting man
amongst the London social elites will dare touch you after the way he was
allegedly murdered for his underground business dealings. So you decided to opt
for the next best thing. Move to Skye and try your luck at convincing an old
woman to make you a bride for her celebrity grandson!”

“How dare you!” she
screamed with rage. She rose her hand to strike him in the face but he caught
it by the wrist.

He clasped it tightly,
pulling her roughly to him. “Why such a fuss, Emma? Isn’t it what you wanted?
You deliberately bought a property no one wanted only because it was next to
the
Kinnairds
. The very reason that caused previous
owners to sell out is what attracted you to it most.”

“I hate you,” she
snapped angrily. “I…I don’t love you. I will never…”

“Oh right,” he spat
out. “You love your brother-in-law. You’ve had an affair with him long before
you married his brother. What baffles me is why choose the corrupt, deceased
brother over the established rich one?”

“Let me go,” she
screamed.

“I wish I could,” he
smirked. “But you see my grandmother won’t have it any other way.” He lurched
back from her. “I will take you to this Richard Winston and you will for once
and all decide if it is he you want to be with. If he will not have you, I will
marry you. But be warned. If my grandmother dies from any of this, I will make
it my personal vendetta to destroy you.”

Her colour drained
from her face. Trembling, she grasped onto the banister of her staircase to
steady her warbling legs.

He continued sternly,
“Once the children arrive from school, I will have Theodore pick them up. You
will then prepare yourself to leave for London. I will come and get you at five
o’clock this evening. And you had better be ready when you do.”

The last was a threat
and she knew he meant every word of it.

Three hours later
after Chris had picked her up from her house, she was standing in her hotel
room in Central London. He had made certain this time she got her own room. She
presumed he didn’t want to be sharing one with, what he termed her as, “tramp”.
She shivered in anger.

But she was worried
for Ethel as well. She had grown extremely fond of the old woman and no matter
how much she tried to convince herself that the
ludicrosity
of the idea of a marriage to Chris Cameron was Ethel’s own problem, she could
not help feeling worried for her.

Chris, meanwhile,
hadn’t spoken much during their entire trip, either in the car or the
helicopter they caught at
Ashaig
airport.

She waited thirty
minutes in her hotel room, pacing it anxiously before calling for a taxi to
pick her up at the front entrance of the hotel. Five minutes later, she darted
out of her room, eyeing Chris’ room as she did. She jumped into the taxi, spitting
out Richard’s address at the same time.

The taxi swerved
through the busy streets of London. Streets that were at one time very
familiar, now strangely felt foreign.

Dark clouds hovered
in the night sky. A flash of lightning followed by a roaring thunder sparked
occasionally.

At the Winston
mansion, she spoke into the gate camera, hoping she would be heard above the
clamorous clouds hovering in the dark sky.

“Sophia, it’s me,
Emma Winston,” she notified the housekeeper.

“Of course, Mrs.
Winston,” she heard the housekeeper reply. The gate slid open.

The taxi dropped her
off at the entrance of the large house.

A pudgy, short blonde
woman with a bright smile greeted her at the doorway. “Mrs. Winston, how are
you? How are the children?”

“I am well, Sophia,
The children are good too. How have you been?” Emma said, smiling, even though
she didn’t feel like it.

“Oh, terribly lonely,
Madam. Now it’s just Mr. Richard in this great big house. At least before, he
used to bring little Miss Hannah and Master Jai around,” she sighed sadly. “We
miss the children so much, Mrs. Winston.”

Emma nodded her head,
rubbing the woman’s elbow in sympathetic agreement. “The house does seem
lonelier.”

Her eyes roamed the
vast, decorative walls slowly. “Is Richard home, Sophia?” Emma asked.

“No. But he will soon.
Would you like me to prepare a room for you?” she asked.

“No, that’s fine.
I’ll be staying at a hotel. If Richard does come, would you tell him I’m
waiting for him in the library. I’ll stay until ten. If he doesn’t arrive by
then, I will probably see him at his office tomorrow.”

“Yes, Madam. Would you
like a drink while you wait?”

“No, that’s alright.
I’d rather not be disturbed,” she said as she walked slowly to the large family
library. She opened one of the double doors that shut the privacy of the room
from the world beyond it. It was just as she first saw it.

The walls teemed with
books. The high engraved concave ceilings caught her attention. Small Persian
carpets were spread sporadically through the room. A large golden globe stood
at one end of a wall. On the opposite was a recreation of the Venus de Milo.
Although smaller than the original sculpture in The Louvre, this Aphrodite
exuberated just as much enigma.

Robert clasped her
palm, leading her to the centre of the library where his family was seated on
lavish Victorian style chairs.

“Robert,” said his
mother, her face beaming with joy. She was the first to rise and greet him.
“I’m so glad you’ve come.” She kissed him on his cheeks and then looked adoringly
at his face. “How have you been, my dear?”

“I’m fine, Mother,”
he said, smiling back. He turned to Emma. “And this is Emma,” he introduced.

“Hello, Emma,” his
mother said, kissing her gently on her cheek. “I’m Gloria. It’s so good to meet
you.”

His sisters rose from
their chairs and introduced themselves as Sarah and Julia Winston.

“And you know,
Richard, my brother,” said Robert.

Richard was standing
near the fireplace, a small glass of whiskey in his hand, watching them grimly.
He swirled the drink in his hand, before gulping it down. “We’ve met,” he said.
He moved away to pour himself another drink.

Emma felt her stomach
churn. She gripped onto the straps of her purse tightly in the hope of
disguising her dismay at Richard’s blunt dismissal of her.

After a brief
friendly interrogation by the women, she calmed slightly. Seated now beside
Julia, she listened to their stories as they rattled on about Robert’s cheeky
childhood antics.

“Hello,” said a man,
interrupting their tales. “I’m Henry Winston. Robert’s father.”

“Hello,” said Emma, rising
immediately to greet him. Richard’s father, she thought he should have said.
There was very little that Richard had not inherited from him.

“So you’re an English
teacher,” he said. “How did you meet Robert?”

“He was doing an
elective on poetry while we were at university,” she smiled.

“Hmmm…,” he nodded.
“It’s a good subject. In fact, Plato once said “poetry is nearer to vital truth
than history”. I hope Robert harnessed the maximum benefits of its use in both
refinement of character and architecture. Would you mind getting me a drink,
Robert?” he said. He turned back to Emma once Robert had left. “You know,
architecture is also poetry personified. The same human emotions are used to
design beautiful, meaningful structures. It is no wonder that people continue
to be mystified by the Eiffel Tower and the Chrysler Building. Why else do they
continue to flock to ancient relics like the Taj
Mahal
,
the pyramids of Egypt or the Angkor
Wat
temple in
Cambodia? Because buildings communicate to us, that’s why. Through simile,
paradox and rhythm. Every time you stand before it, you try to make sense of
yourself in relation to the world it was created for. You feel masterpieces
come alive, filled with poignancy, lament and a narrative you won’t find
anywhere else. Like the Machu Picchu of Peru. And yet every time you visit it,
it has a new story to tell you. You stand in the same old place, but you continue
to discover new things, new directions.”

Robert returned with
a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Thank you, Robert,”
said his father and then said to Emma. “So tell me Emma, what poem does call to
you?”

“I’m inclined to John
Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn,” she replied.

“Very good, very
good,” nodding his head in thought. “A genuine classic.” He began reciting it
from memory.

“Thou unravished
bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of
Silence and Slow-Time,

Sylvan historian
canst thou thus express,

A flowery tale more
sweetly than our rhyme

Come on, lass,” he
said. “Give me a few notes of your own.”

Emma bit her lips and
then started slowly.

“Fair youth, beneath
the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever
can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never,
never canst thou kiss”

Henry beamed and
finished off the recitation with her.

“Though winning near
the goal-yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade,
though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou
love, and she be fair!”

Henry let out a loud,
throaty laugh. “Oh, you are a true gem, lass. But what stumps me is why you’re
with Robert and not Richard? Because frankly speaking, Robert, unlike Richard
there, does not quite understand nor appreciate the relation between
architecture and poetry or art.”

“You misunderstand me
father, like always,” said Robert, his lips pursed tightly. “The prevalence of
art and poetry was indulged in one era. But in this modern day and age with the
rise in economy and population, one cannot afford to do so any longer. It
becomes a fight for functionality and survival.”

“
Aaah
,
right,” said Henry Winston, nodding. “And that is why he decided to opt for the
more cut-throat entrepreneurial endeavours of Cunningham & Price rather
than the old ethos of the family business.”

“Cunningham &
Price isn’t any less ethical than Winston Designs, father,” he replied,
austerely.