Kitabı oku: «A Convenient Gentleman», sayfa 2

‘This, ladies, is Mrs Wilks’s niece. Miss…?’

‘Miss Morgan. Caroline Morgan.’ She waited for him to introduce the other women, but when no introduction came, she sat down in the indicated chair. It looked as if she was not going to be offered a cup of tea, either, but there was a teapot and pile of cups sitting on the table. The teapot was still warm and so Caro helped herself, discarding several cups until she found one that bore no obvious marks of recent use.

The silence dragged on, but Caro was determined that it was not going to be she who broke it.

‘You’re one of the rich relations, aren’t you?’ said the Cook at last, her voice fairly dripping with sarcasm. ‘Come to bail Madam out, I hope.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Caro said politely.

The Cook’s chin came up pugnaciously, and the girl with the sooty dress gave a nervous giggle.

‘You’re one of them Australian relations Madam tells us about. The ones that kicked her out of her home in Sydney when she were first widowed and left her penniless on the streets.’

Caro frowned. ‘I don’t think that was us. I can’t imagine my mother ever doing that to anyone, let alone her own sister.’

The Cook nodded slowly. ‘Well, she did. Leastways, according to your aunt, your father did.’

‘Oh.’ Caro put her cup down carefully. ‘My father. Yes, I suppose he could have done. He’s very unfair like that.’

She tried to imagine what poor Aunt Charlotte could possibly have done to infuriate her father so. Probably very little. Really, Caro thought, she and Aunt Charlotte had a lot in common—both forced out of their home by Ben’s total lack of reason. It was extraordinary that Charlotte had found it in her heart to welcome Caro as she had!

‘So,’ said the Cook, ‘you brought any money with you?’

‘No,’ Caro said blankly. ‘Well, I’ve got twenty-five pounds…’

As her aunt’s three employees all sat back in their chairs with various sounds of disgust and dismay, Caro gained the distinct impression that she was proving a great source of disappointment.

‘I suppose,’ Oliver said heavily, ‘it would have been too much to hope for, that you might have been the answer to our prayers.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Caro said sincerely. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been the answer to anyone’s prayers.’

From behind the Cook’s forbidding exterior came an unexpected chuckle. ‘Never mind, dear. Miss Morgan, was it? Not your fault if Madam’s living beyond her means now, is it? Agnes—’ she elbowed the young girl off her chair with a degree of viciousness that Caro took to be habitual ‘—Agnes here will fetch you a fresh pot of tea. And some of those scones I made yesterday, too.’

Agnes wiped her nose on her sleeve again and scurried around the kitchen, setting out a fresh pot of tea and a plate of rather stale but nicely risen scones.

‘Got no butter, Miss Morgan,’ the Cook commented as she saw Caro look around her for a butterdish. ‘Got nothing very much of anything, come to mention it. No more tea leaves than are in the jar, no meat, no milk, no cheese…’

‘No wages,’ Oliver chipped in glumly.

‘But that’s dreadful!’ Hungry as she was, Caro forgot all about butter for her scones. ‘Is no one paying you? Not my aunt?’

Her aunt’s employees looked at each other and then moved their chairs closer to where she sat.

‘Mrs Wilks is a most attractive woman…’ Oliver began.

‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ the Cook said darkly. ‘She’s got not so much as a pinch of business sense!’

‘…but she is being poorly served by her business adviser,’ Oliver went on doggedly, ignoring the Cook’s rude snort of derision. ‘When the late Mr Wilks left this hotel to her, it was in fine shape, Miss Morgan. Dunedin’s finest hotel, it was called, and rightly so. But since he died…’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Things are not good, Miss Morgan. Not good at all. We served the last of the meals in the dining room last night, there are creditors at the door day and night, Mrs Wilks can’t and won’t see them, we haven’t had a paying guest under this roof for a week now…’

‘There’s a non-paying guest I’d like to see the back of,’ the Cook snapped. She fixed Caro with a piercing stare. ‘Did you see him up there?’

‘Who?’ Caro was by now thoroughly bewildered.

‘Mr Thwaites. Up there. With her.’ Caro shook her head and the Cook slumped back in her chair. ‘Hmmph. Well, I dare say you’ll meet him soon enough if you stay on. You are staying on, are you?’

‘If my aunt invites me to,’ Caro said earnestly. ‘If I can be of any use, that is. I can cook and clean, and I’m sure I could learn to wait, too…’ Her voice faltered as she saw the expressions of the faces of the others. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No, Miss Morgan,’ Oliver said after a moment. ‘It’s just that a lady like yourself, coming from a privileged home, could hardly be expected to lift a broom or a duster. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘Oh, we all had our tasks at home,’ she assured him. ‘Mother didn’t believe in other people doing work we were quite capable of doing ourselves. “Hard work is good for the soul, the figure and the complexion”, she always used to say, and I’m sure my aunt believes the same.’

The Cook spluttered into her tea and Oliver rose creakily to his feet.

‘Well, I’m sure Mrs Wilks will be ready to see you by now, Miss Morgan. I shall take you to her rooms, if you wish.’

‘Oh, please don’t trouble yourself! I remember the way very clearly. And thank you for the tea and scones, Mrs…’

The Cook smiled. ‘Mrs Webb, dear. Now do make sure you call in after you’ve seen your aunt, won’t you? On your way back to Australia,’ she added darkly as the door closed after Caro.

‘Ooh, I thought she were nice.’ Agnes sniffed dejectedly. ‘I hope she don’t go.’

‘She might be nice, but she came down in the last shower,’ Mrs Webb informed her. ‘Gawd help her, she’s still sopping wet! I give her a day before He tries to put one over her…’

‘You mean across her, Mrs Webb,’ interjected Oliver.

‘That, too, Mr Oliver,’ the Cook snapped. ‘Oh, it’s better by far that she leaves here with her virtue than That Man has his way with her. Just look at Madam.’

Oliver leaned forward to prod the embers in the stove. ‘You’re right, of course, Mrs Webb. It will be in her best interests to leave as soon as possible. She won’t be safe here, not with her looks and Madam and That Man…’

They all nodded in sad accord and sat staring at the dying fire, lost in their own thoughts.

Chapter Two

C aro tapped on her aunt’s door and, hearing no response, opened it slowly.

Her aunt was standing before the long mirror, smoothing her pale ringlets over her shoulders. She was dressed now, in an elegant gown of dark blue that enhanced her milky skin and slim figure. Deep ruffles of ivory lace covered any victory of gravity around her neck and décolletage, and provided a perfect frame for her heart-shaped face. There was much more than a passing resemblance to Caro’s beautiful mother, but Charlotte had an air of fragility and wistfulness that was all her own, and Caro felt a surge of protectiveness towards this glamorous relative she barely knew.

‘Come in, darling. Sit down.’ Charlotte waved a lethargic hand in the general direction of the bed. Caro carefully moved aside a few of the dresses and assorted slippers lying in disarray over the eiderdown and sat.

‘Now, you must tell me all about yourself and what wonderful stroke of fortune has delivered you to my door!’ Charlotte perched herself on her dressing-table chair and regarded her niece with tilted head and affectionate smile. ‘Do you know, you were only six months old when I last saw you? What a perfectly beautiful girl you’ve grown into! You obviously favour your father’s side of the family. My darling first husband, Edward—who was, of course, also your grandfather! Just fancy that!—had the same chin as you, you know, with that little dimple. Your fair hair, of course, you got from my side of the family… On the other hand, your father is fair, too, isn’t he? Or…I imagine he’s gone grey by now…’

‘Only a little bit,’ Caro assured her.

Charlotte turned and began fiddling with the hair-brushes on her dressing table. ‘Has he gone bald?’

‘No.’

‘Has he got fat?’

‘No.’

Caro was almost certain her aunt said ‘Damn!’ under her breath, so hastened to add that her mother and her mother’s younger sisters were all happy and in good health. Her aunt, though, didn’t seem to be listening with any great attention. She showed a little more animation when Caro went on to describe her own family, and got her niece to repeat several times the information that Caro had seven sisters and no brothers. For some reason she seemed to find it most amusing.

‘Poor Ben,’ she said, and laughed. ‘I’ll wager he’s not happy about that!’

‘He isn’t,’ Caro agreed. ‘He says he has to take great care about who we marry as a result. That’s what I’m doing here.’

‘You didn’t like his choice, hmm?’ Her aunt watched Caro’s reflection in the mirror pull a face. ‘Ben never did like being thwarted.’ She sighed prettily. ‘I’m living testament to that, my dear.’

‘My parents never spoke of you, Aunt Charlotte,’ Caro said hesitantly. ‘Was there…ah…I mean, I don’t know what happened between you…?’

Charlotte gave a light, brittle laugh and waved her hands dismissively. ‘Darling, it was all a long time ago, and all really rather silly. Your father never did forgive me for marrying his father, you see, and when Edward died on our honeymoon to England, and I had to come back to Sydney, he cut me off without a penny. If it hadn’t been for some very kind friends I would have…well, I would have starved on the streets, darling.’ She gave a little sniff as her eyes filled with bright tears, and she went on bravely, ‘But I survived and married again—to the sweetest man imaginable!—and when he died my heart was broken all over again, and so I came here and married again, and—well—I’ve done all right, haven’t I?’

Immeasurably moved by her aunt’s stoicism, Caro leapt to her feet and embraced her warmly.

‘Of course you have, Aunt Charlotte! Oh, you poor, poor thing! But why would Father have done such a thing to you? I can’t believe that he could have been so cruel!’

Charlotte dabbed at her eyes with a scrap of lace. ‘I couldn’t say. Well, I shouldn’t say this, darling, but…’ she managed a tight, courageous little smile and said in a rush ‘…oh, I rejected him in favour of his father, and I don’t believe he’s ever forgiven me! Isn’t that silly, to hold such a grudge over so many years?’

‘But Mother and Father have always been so happy,’ Caro said in bewilderment, remembering the easy affection she had always witnessed between her parents, the way her mother’s face lit up whenever her father came into a room, the way their eyes would meet over the heads of their children in amused camaraderie. Lovely as Aunt Charlotte probably used to be, Caro simply couldn’t imagine her father ever looking at any woman other than her mother. Charlotte, correctly reading the expressions on her niece’s face, leaned forward to tap her gently on the wrist.

‘It was years ago, darling, before you were born. Why, I’ve almost forgotten about it myself. Except that…well, things would have been very different if your father had been one to let bygones be bygones. But, here I am and here you are and…oh, isn’t this just lovely?’

She clasped Caro’s hands in hers and smiled warmly. She was being so kind that Caro, remembering what the hotel staff had told her about her aunt’s straitened circumstances, felt a twinge of guilt.

‘Aunt Charlotte, I haven’t any money with me,’ she said in a rush. ‘I can’t pay very much for accommodation, but I can work hard at anything that needs doing…’

‘Oh, darling!’ her aunt chided her fondly. ‘Don’t you even think about such a thing! How could I put my own niece to work? The very idea!’

‘But I know that the hotel isn’t doing very well,’ Caro said bluntly. ‘If I can help in any way at all, then that’s what I want to do.’

‘How terribly sweet of you.’ There was a slightly speculative tone in her voice as she put her head on one side and looked assessingly at Caro. ‘You are a very pretty girl, aren’t you? I’m sure we could find you something to do, if you really want to help. In fact, a friend of mine will know what’s best…’

‘Mr Thwaites?’ Caro asked, and was taken aback by the sudden snap of suspicion in her aunt’s eyes.

‘Who’s been talking to you about him? No, don’t tell me—the kitchen staff!’ At Caro’s nod she heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘Harold’s doing all he can to turn this business around. He runs the public bar and bottle shop downstairs, and if it wasn’t for the profits from that we’d be in even more of a pickle. You’d think the staff would show some appreciation for all his hard work, wouldn’t you?’

‘I think they want to be paid…’ Caro ventured.

‘Oh, the silly things! They’ll be paid, of course, as soon as the business gets back on its feet—and it will, in a few weeks! In the meantime, they’ve got a roof over their heads, and food to eat. I don’t know what they’re complaining about.’ She got fluidly to her feet. ‘Anyway, darling, I’m being a dreadful hostess, aren’t I? I’ll show you to your room—you have a choice, you know. Isn’t it fun?’

Chatting all the time, her hands fluttering like animated, delicate little birds, her aunt took Caro down to the far end of the hall, and flung a door open dramatically.

‘Here you are, darling! Now make yourself at home. We’ll be dining downstairs around six, I imagine.’

She floated off back down the hallway, leaving Caro staring into a darkened room. The drapes had been pulled, presumably against the cold, and after some groping in the dark Caro drew them back to reveal a surprisingly luxurious little bedroom. Plush rugs lay over the polished floorboards, and the large bedstead and matching washstand were of carved mahogany. Yet every surface had a layer of dust, and the sheets on the bed might have been of the finest quality cotton, but they were unmistakably damp.

The room overlooked the avenue, giving an interesting view of the traffic below. It had stopped snowing and so Caro opened the big, double-hung window as wide as possible. Finding it a positive pleasure to have something to do, she went in search of clean linen and cleaning materials and found both in a cupboard in the hallway. It took almost an hour until every surface was dusted and polished to her satisfaction; by the time she had finished, the pale winter light filtering between the lace curtains had all but gone. Closing the window against the encroaching dark, she lit a small fire in the grate and was soon able to put a warming pan filled with hot coals between the clean sheets to dry them out.

Hands on hips, she surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. The room looked cosy and welcoming now, and smelt warmly of beeswax polish, just like home. She thought of all the other rooms in the hotel, no doubt waiting to be cleaned, and found herself viewing the prospect with pleasure.

In the hallway she found her bag, sitting forlornly where someone—she suspected Oliver—had left it. It did not appear that the staff here were inclined to be in the least bit helpful. While she unpacked her single change of clothes, Caro thought about that.

The staff had told her that her aunt had no business sense and, as utterly charming as Aunt Charlotte was, Caro could see how that could be true. It would take both business acumen and hard work to keep an hotel this size running, but why the hotel should have run out of funds was a complete mystery to her. There had obviously been a fortune spent on establishing the place, with no cost spared in the furnishings or decor. In a town as thriving as Dunedin, with an all-too-evident accommodation shortage, the hotel should have been fully booked every night. So why was there no food in the kitchen and no guests in the rooms?

Caro had always taken an active interest in the bookkeeping side of her father’s businesses and Ben had been too intrigued by her persistence to really discourage her. She now possessed a sound grasp of the principles of good business, and she had never been afraid of hard work. What better way to repay Aunt Charlotte’s hospitality than by restoring her business to its full health?

The clock in the civic building down the street chimed six o’clock, but for Caro the few unbuttered scones in the hotel kitchen were far too many hours ago, and her stomach rumbled hungrily. Her aunt had said that they would be dining—presumably in the hotel dining room—but the staff had told her that there was no food left. She decided that now was as good a time as any to discover the truth of the situation.

She changed into her second dress, of serviceable green wool, and pulled a shawl around her shoulders against the chill; she had allowed the fire to burn down and the air was now so cold that she could see the mist of her breath.

The foyer of the hotel was deserted, and when she looked through into the dining room it looked as if nothing had been cleaned or moved since the morning. The great chandeliers hung unlit and palely gleaming in the crack of light showing from beneath the kitchen door, but the place was eerily quiet. A single lamp shone forlornly on the registration desk. Caro revised downwards her chances of a gracious meal in the dining room that night.

There was a muffled roar of laughter from somewhere beyond the hotel walls and she remembered the public bar that she had passed earlier in the day, the one that Aunt Charlotte had told her that Mr Thwaites ran. Well, that at least sounded like a thriving business. They would probably have a fire going there. Maybe even something to eat! It was snowing again and she stood for a captivated moment on the veranda, watching the fluffy flakes twirling delicately in the air. Light from the long windows of the bar streamed out over the ground, illuminating the white layer of snow, giving a fairytale appearance to the otherwise mundane street.

She knew she had made a mistake the moment she set foot over the doorstep. The bar was much bigger than she had thought, and filled with men. Dozens of them. One by one they stopped laughing and shouting and put their drinks down to stare at her. The heat and smell of alcohol hit her face like a blow.

However, it was too late now to back down.

She wove her way between the tables, ignoring outstretched hands that would have detained her, to the bar, where a scruffy-looking individual in shirtsleeves was wiping out glasses.

‘Sorry, lass, can’t serve you,’ he said shortly before she even reached the bar.

‘Aw, go on with you, Bill,’ someone very drunk bellowed behind her. ‘She looks like she needs a little servicin’!’

The coarse male laughter gripped Caro’s insides with terror, but not for the world would she have shown it. She rested the tips of her fingers lightly on the bar to stop their trembling.

‘I’d like to see Mr Thwaites if he’s here, please,’ she said quietly enough, but as for the anticipatory hush in the room she may as well have shouted the words.

The bartender’s eyes travelled down assessingly and up insultingly. ‘’Fraid you can’t, lass.’

‘Is he here?’ she persisted, dreading the thought of having to brave the male barrage alone on her way out.

‘Maybe.’ He lifted his lips in something between a smirk and a sneer.

‘Then I’d like to see him, please.’

‘’Ere, me darlin’.’ A red-faced little man nudged her elbow as he fumbled with his trousers. ‘Why don’t you see me instead, eh?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she began blankly, wondering what conceivable interest the little man thought she would have in his belt. A second before his trousers dropped to his knees a tall body interposed itself between them.

‘I think, madam, you should leave.’

She looked up to an unshaven, weary face of indeterminate age.

‘I’m here to see Mr Thwaites,’ she said tersely, resenting the light pressure being exerted on her upper arm. She was not used to being manhandled.

‘Then I suggest another time, madam. In the morning, perhaps.’ He turned her around to face the door, raising his elbow as he did so and accidentally jabbing the throat of a man who was about to lunge at her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said politely as his victim staggered back with a yelp. ‘Very careless of me.’

There was a grumbled chorus of disappointment as she was marched to the door, but no one impeded their progress. Within seconds she was back out on the veranda, rigid with rage and the cold.

‘I’m not going to thank you, you know!’ she snapped.

‘I wouldn’t dream of presuming that you would, madam.’

‘I only went in there to see someone,’ she went on, cross with herself that she had to somehow justify what was now apparent as recklessness.

‘I think you were about to see quite a lot for a young lady,’ he said evenly. Despite her humiliation and anger his voice intrigued her, with its clipped perfect enunciation that she had only ever heard before in the Governor-General’s residence in New South Wales. Her mother would have been most impressed.

But not if she had seen him. His clothes were old and worn, his hair was unkempt and—Caro could not help but wrinkle her nose—he smelt, mostly of drink. I should feel sorry for him, she reminded herself, but that was impossible. Someone who looked like a tramp had no right to the irritating mannerism of sounding apologetic when he plainly was not. She met his gaze squarely and then rather wished she hadn’t. There was a deadness in his brown eyes that chilled her. She found herself wondering if he was really even seeing her.

‘Well, I suppose I should thank you,’ she began indifferently, but already he had turned on his heel and returned to the bar with only the most cursory of nods. Incensed by his rudeness, she thought for a moment about following him back in and telling him what she thought, before common sense prevailed. Drawing her shawl tightly against the cold, she turned back into the hotel.

The foyer was still dimly lit, but no longer deserted. Charlotte was there, talking in rapid, hushed tones to a tall, well-dressed man in his thirties who was leaning nonchalantly against the desk, apparently listening to her with only half his attention. His pale eyes swept over Caro with the appreciation of a connoisseur as she made her entrance in a flurry of snowflakes.

‘Well, well, well. Now, you must be the niece,’ he said softly as he straightened up. ‘There’s no mistaking the resemblance.’

‘Oh, Caroline, there you are!’ Her aunt seemed flustered, her fingers working nervously at the fine silk shawl clutched around her shoulders. ‘Come and meet Harold, darling.’

‘Miss Morgan,’ he murmured, extending his hand. ‘What an unexpected pleasure. Although I’d never expect Charlotte to have a niece who wasn’t utterly lovely.’ Caro was well used to flattery, and this man was obviously a close friend of her aunt’s, but still she hesitated before offering her hand to him. When he brought it to his lips she had to make a real effort not to flinch away. She wasn’t sure why she should react to him so—perhaps it was his boldness or air of absolute confidence. He seemed to mistake her unease for shyness and he held her hand for much too long, amusement lighting the etched lines of his face. The word ‘dissolute’ flashed into Caro’s mind.

‘Where have you been?’ Charlotte said to the man beside her with just a trace of reproach in her voice. ‘I couldn’t find you in your room when that dreadful Oliver was threatening me…’

‘Come now, Charlotte,’ Harold said in tolerant amusement. ‘He merely told you he was leaving your employment.’

‘But it was the manner in which he told me! He was so rude, Harold—you’ve no idea!’ She pouted prettily.

‘You should try paying your staff, my dear—then I can guarantee they won’t be rude to you.’

‘Oh, don’t preach so. You know I hate it.’ She looked up at him appealingly. ‘Now what shall I do? There’s only the cook and that silly chit of a girl left now—and goodness knows how long they’ll stay. I’ll have to shut the hotel down soon!’

He shrugged as if Charlotte’s problems were entirely trivial. ‘Let’s talk about it over dinner, shall we?’

‘I’m sure I could find something in the kitchen,’ Caro began uncertainly, but Harold and her aunt turned to her with looks of genuine surprise.

‘We’ll eat elsewhere, tonight,’ Harold said firmly. ‘We can’t have you cooking, Miss Morgan. That would never do.’ He held out an arm to each of them. ‘Come along, ladies.’

Charlotte snuggled into his side with alacrity, but Caro held back. That they should dine out elsewhere when her aunt owned this huge hotel and could not afford to even pay the staff seemed completely nonsensical. However, Harold remained where he was, arm outstretched, his smile not faltering, and it seemed churlish to refuse him.

‘I’ll just get my coat,’ she said hurriedly and ran upstairs so that she would not have to take his arm. In her room she stood for a moment, struggling to regain her composure. Encountering Mr Thwaites so soon after the unpleasant episode in the bar had left her head whirling. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t understand the relationship between him and her aunt. She thought for a moment about excusing herself from dinner, but a low growl from her stomach reminded her that her last meal had been well over twelve hours ago. At least if she went she would be fed. She changed into her stout boots, buttoned her coat up to the neck and went downstairs.

The snow was still falling thickly when they stepped outside and a bitter wind had sprung up, making visibility past a few yards impossible and piling the snow in drifts along the side of the road. The Castledene bar was doing a roaring trade judging from the raucous sounds coming from within. Despite herself, Caro edged a little closer to Harold as they passed.

Along an almost-deserted Princes Street he led them to another hotel, nowhere as near as grand as the Castledene, but where they were welcomed into a very pleasant dining room by a neatly uniformed maid.

‘Somewhere close to the fire, please,’ said Charlotte with a shiver in her voice. It was then that Caro realised that her aunt had not put on a coat, but was still wearing only the silk shawl over her evening dress. As they took their seats at a table close to the fireplace, Charlotte removed the by-now sodden shawl and Caro’s jaw dropped. Her aunt’s pale-blue satin gown was beautifully cut and obviously very expensive, but the sleeves were almost non-existent and Caro was sure that with one deep breath her aunt would reveal far more than could ever be deemed socially decent. The waiter, on his way over to them with the menu, collided into another diner’s chair in his stunned state.

‘Aunt Charlotte,’ she whispered urgently.

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Frozen rigid, darling. I need a drink!’

Harold chuckled and summoned the red-faced waiter with a flick of his wrist. ‘Your aunt always drinks champagne with dinner. What’s your preference, Miss Morgan? Or may I call you Caroline?’

‘I don’t drink, thank you,’ Caro said a little too tersely. She was aware that he was looking at her oddly, but she was still too shocked by her aunt’s appearance to care if he thought her over-prim. Mind you, she thought twenty minutes later, anyone would appear prim next to Aunt Charlotte. The first bottle of champagne was swiftly dispatched and the second took only a little longer as Aunt Charlotte, it seemed, had mastered the art of elegant gulping. By the time the soup dishes had been cleared and plates of steaming-hot ham and potatoes set before them, the third bottle of champagne had been opened. A pang of unease went through Caro as she realised that Harold drank only a little himself, and appeared to be quite happy to encourage Aunt Charlotte’s excesses.

She sipped the glass of water she had ordered for herself and looked around the dining room with critical eyes. It was comfortable, certainly, and warm. The service had been attentive enough—overly attentive, in fact, as the waiter had missed few opportunities to ogle down the front of her aunt’s dress—and the food was adequate. But if this was one of Dunedin’s best restaurants, then the Castledene, cleaned and polished, with the chandeliers dusted and lit, would be in a class of its own. When she had pestered her father to take her on one of his business trips to Sydney—which she frequently had—he had always treated her to lunch in one of the substantial hotels of the town. It was here that she had leaned to appreciate fine dining, surroundings and service. Why shouldn’t Dunedin have the same? After all, it was said that there were fortunes made daily in this town and the Castledene had plainly been built to take advantage of those fortunes.

It was just a matter of restoring the Castledene to its earlier glory. As she watched Aunt Charlotte push her untouched plate away and reach for her glass again, Caro began to understand why the hotel had fallen on hard times in the first place.

As if reading her thoughts, Aunt Charlotte looked archly over the top of her glass.

‘Not drinking, darling?’ Her voice, soft and musical as ever, was distinctly slurred.

‘I don’t like alcohol, Aunt Charlotte,’ Caro said carefully.

‘Hmph! Like your mother, are you? Emma didn’t like drinking. Not like your father. Ben used to like a drink.’ She gave a laugh and slumped back in her seat. One pink nipple popped up out of her dress and she gave no sign of noticing as Harold considerately tucked it back into her bodice. ‘Oh, yes,’ she went on, ‘your father could put it away, all right. Oh, the things I could tell you about your father—’