Some things never changed. She traded a peck on the cheek for the coffee cup and sat at the high counter in the middle of the kitchen.
“You’re up early.” Fran studied her closely. “You didn’t sleep.”
She smiled fondly. “You’re acting like I’m a teenager again.”
“You girls will always be my little lambs.” The older woman shrugged. “Old habits die hard. You’re the children I never had.”
Without Fran, who knows what would have happened to them all. “Do you regret it? Staying here instead of starting a family of your own?”
“Not a day,” she said with an emphatic shake of her head. “You’re my family.”
“But except for Portia, we’re all gone.”
“There’s your mum now, isn’t there?” Fran patted her hand fondly. “It’s good that you’re here for her. You always were the closest one to her.”
She wrinkled her nose. Everyone kept saying that. “That’s not saying much.”
“She missed you most, as happy as she is for your success.” Fran pointed a finger at her, her expression fierce; the same way it had been when they were kids and had done something bad. “Don’t get that look on your face, miss. It’s true, even if she doesn’t show it. Everyone makes mistakes, even Lady Jacs. She’s still your mum.”
Fran was more of a mother than anyone, but Rosalind knew better than to point that out.
“Maybe this is the moment you’ve been waiting for,” Fran said with a knowing nod. “Maybe it’s the right time to forge a relationship.”
“Maybe,” she said, sliding off the stool. But unlikely. Her mother had always had a tall stone wall around her, and Rosalind had fallen off it too many times trying to scale it.
She walked down the long corridor toward her father’s study and stuck her tongue out at the centuries-old portraits of her ancestors. Stuffy, unyielding looking people.
Like her father. She hovered in the doorway of the study. It took her a moment to realize she was waiting for permission to be allowed in. Old habits. She shook her head and walked in.
She looked around, feeling the ghost of Reginald Summerhill in the room. The musty smell of the cigars he used to smoke lingered, shadowed by the faint spiciness of his cologne.
Everything looked the same as it ever did. Bookshelves filled with untouched volumes, a massive desk like a sentinel in the middle of the room, and paintings by famous artists that had hung in the house for a couple centuries.
They’d always had stuff around them. But it was the real things in life that were important, like friends and love and purpose.
Still, Rosalind was grateful for the antiques cluttering the house. The furnishings would go a long way to ensuring that her mother would be able to live comfortably the rest of her life. Jacqueline Summerhill was used to keeping up the appearance of being well-off without the liquid cash to back it up.
Secretly, they’d been on their last legs forever. Their father fancied himself a businessman, but the only thing he’d been really good at was losing money. He’d never wanted to relinquish his hold on the estate either, not even after Beatrice proved how gifted she was at making money.
Their father had never hidden that he thought only a son was worthy to take on the Summerhill estate.
And now look at it. Rosalind touched the chipped paint on the wall. The title had gone to a distant cousin, and the house was crumbling around them. Who knew what state the old country manor was in.
Shaking her head, Rosalind looked around. Where should she start searching? She lifted a book from a bookshelf and flipped through it.
“What are you doing in here?”
The sharp voice startled Rosalind. She dropped the book in her hand as she whirled around, barely missing her foot.
Portia stood in the doorway, hands on her hips and suspicion in her eyes. She was dressed more casually this morning, in slacks and a silk shirt—all black, of course.
Great. Rosalind picked up the book slowly, trying to buy time to figure out what to say.
“You know we aren’t allowed in Father’s study,” Portia said.
“Then what are you doing in here?”
Her sister pointed at her. “Don’t try to manipulate me. Beatrice does that enough for everyone.”
Rosalind stood. “Beatrice has the family’s interests in mind. If she seems bossy, it’s because—”
“She actually is.” Portia smiled coolly. “But that’s all right, isn’t it?”
Based on her tone, it really wasn’t.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Portia said again, not making a move to enter the room. “Father keeps a lot of priceless artifacts in the study that he wants to safeguard.”