Jacaranda Vines

by Tamara McKinley

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas; Action & Adventure Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; 20th Century Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

If you love Lesley Pearse, you're sure to fall for Tamara McKinley. Jacaranda Vines was once the greatest vineyard in Australia, but the death of its owner, Jock Witney, leaves the business in shambles. As the Witney family fight over the future of the winery, Jock's young granddaughter Sophie makes a voyage of historical discovery through the Australian outback, hoping to learn more about her family's past. Set between the 1830s and the modern day, Jacaranda Vines is an exploration of ancestral ties, bitter rivalries and the importance of sharing family history.

Release date: June 13, 2013

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 362

Sample

‘Goodbye, Sophie. Take care of yourself out there.’ Crispin’s plummy, public-school tones were almost drowned by the announcer calling passengers for the Qantas flight to Melbourne.

Sophie leaned into his familiar embrace and felt a pang of remorse that things should have gone so wrong for them. Marriage was supposed to be for life, not a fleeting three years. Yet they had both quickly realised their mistake, and when things deteriorated to the point of no return, it had been Sophie who’d had the guts to face the truth and call a halt. In the end, it had been a relief to them both.

She drew away from her ex-husband and looked into his face. That disarming smile and those sexy grey eyes no longer had the power to make her senses flip, but she couldn’t deny how attractive he was or how much she would miss him. ‘Friends?’ she said softly.

His fair hair flopped in his eyes as he nodded. ‘Always. I’m sorry things didn’t work out, Sophie, but at least we called it off before we grew to hate one another.’

She could feel the tears threatening and hastily turned away. ‘It was nobody’s fault, Cris,’ she mumbled. ‘Mistakes happen.’ She lit a cigarette, the last she would have for the next twelve hours until the plane touched down in Dubai. It would be a real test of her will-power, and although her arm was already covered in nicotine patches, she wasn’t at all sure how she would cope. ‘Like booking on a non-smoking airline,’ she joked wryly.

‘About time you gave up, Sophie. You can go for weeks without a ciggie so why not today?’

She dragged the smoke deep into her lungs, her gaze trawling the bustling passengers who filled the concourse. ‘I’m stressed out. This helps,’ she said shortly. Smoking had been one of the things about her that had irritated him, but not nearly as much as his penchant for other women had irritated her.

Crispin dug his hands into his tweed jacket pockets. Tall and straight, he was every inch the ex-Army officer. ‘You shouldn’t let your family get to you like this. I know your grandfather was a bastard, but he’s gone now – he can’t rule your life any more.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Can’t he? It was his money that saw me through law school, his influence that got me the partnership at Barrington’s. He might be dead but we’re all still running around after him because of that damn’ will of his and the mess he’s left behind.’ She stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing metal bin. ‘Besides, you’re a fine one to talk. You wouldn’t have gone to Sandhurst if it hadn’t been for family tradition. Wouldn’t have taken over that mouldy old pile of rubble in the country your mother laughingly calls the family seat. You’d have been much happier tinkering with cars.’ She sighed. They were picking over old quarrels. ‘Don’t let’s row, Cris. Time’s too short.’

He drew her back into his arms and kissed her forehead. ‘Take care, old thing, and I hope you find what you’ve been looking for. He’s out there somewhere, you know.’

Sophie stilled. ‘One mistake is enough, Cris. From now on I’m going to concentrate on my career. Men are no longer an option.’

He drew away from her, but maintained his hold on her arms as he looked deep into her eyes. ‘You might think you’re tough but you weren’t meant to be on your own. Find Jay. Talk to him. See if you can’t patch things up. You’re still in love with him, you know.’

Sophie stared back at him. ‘Jay’s in the past,’ she said through a constricted throat. ‘I wouldn’t have married you if he hadn’t been.’

Crispin smiled sadly and then gave her a swift hug. ‘Take care, darling, and write when you can.’

Sophie picked up her hand luggage and, after blowing him a kiss, went through passport control. Her pulse was racing, with both excitement and trepidation. It had been ten years since she’d left Australia. Twelve since she’d seen Jay – her first love – and although their parting had been a brutal wrench, she knew Cris had always suspected there was a part of her that still loved her first boyfriend.

The departure lounge was brightly lit, the duty-free shops busy, but she turned her gaze to the windows and peered out through the January rain. You’re thirty years old, she told herself sternly. A corporate lawyer with one of the most prestigious firms in London – albeit with no illusions about why they nearly snatched your arm off once you’d qualified.

With an upward tilt of her chin she stared out of the window. She had kept her place on her own merits. The promise of Jacaranda’s business had merely been a stepping stone. It was tough out there, especially for a woman – and she’d proved she was as good as, if not better than, some of her male colleagues.

The gate number was called and she gathered up her things and began the long trek to the plane. I am a woman with a bright future, she silently determined. I won’t look back. I’ll never look back.

Yet as she settled into her seat and waited for take-off, she watched the rain streak the windows and her thoughts turned to how it used to be all those years ago when she and Jay were young and still at college in Brisbane. Where are you now, Jay? she thought wistfully. Do you still think of me sometimes?

*

Cordelia Witney had disconnected the call, but her hand remained on the receiver as she mulled over the conversation she’d just had with her brother Edward, and the consequences it might have for the future of Jacaranda Vines.

‘Problems?’ Jane had always been able to tell when something was worrying her, but that was hardly a surprise considering how long they had known one another.

‘You’d think that at ninety my opinions would be treated with respect,’ she said bitterly. ‘But Edward seems determined to thwart me.’

Jane sipped her sherry, then placed the glass on the table beside her. ‘You should have taken my advice and sold your share of the company, Cordy. Then you wouldn’t be bothered by it all now.’ The rather bossy tone was one she used when she considered others were in the wrong, and although this particular argument had been replayed many times over in the past twenty years, she still seemed determined to bring it up at every opportunity.

Cordelia refused to rise to the bait. With her glasses firmly perched on the end of her nose, she leaned back into the soft leather chair and stared out of the window. The company building might not be as tall as the Rialto, but the glass walls of Jacaranda Towers’ penthouse gave her a 360° view of Melbourne, and now she had her new glasses, she could fully appreciate it again.

The city stretched out to the horizon in every direction, and on a clear day like today she could see beyond Westgate Bridge to the west, the Dandenong Ranges to the east, and the expanse of Port Phillip to the south. It was a far cry from the family’s humble beginnings, but it had become impossible to remain at the château, and after a while she’d grown used to it. Even learned to love it.

‘Did you hear what I said, Cordelia?’ insisted Jane.

‘There’s no need to shout. I’m not deaf,’ she retorted.

Cordelia turned from the window and eyed the immaculately groomed woman who’d shared her apartment for the past two decades. Jane was almost seventy-five but on a good day, in the right light, looked years younger. She used her wealth to keep old age at bay, and with a harsh regime of exercise and diet, retained the kind of figure women envied and men admired. No wonder my husband fell in love with her, thought Cordelia without malice.

Our relationship is a strange one, she admitted to herself. For who would have thought the two of us could ever grow to like one another after all we’ve been through? We are so different, Jane and I. She is the champagne whereas I’m the vin ordinaire. And yet there is always one bond that ties us.

‘It’s all very well for you to pontificate on the rights and wrongs of my decision, Jane,’ she said firmly. ‘You never understood the importance of those holdings or bothered to learn the history behind them.’

Jane shrugged elegant shoulders and smoothed the lapels of her designer jacket. ‘You’ve always preferred living in the past, Cordelia,’ she said dismissively. ‘I really can’t see why you remain so stubborn. Why not relinquish your hold on the company now Jock’s finally gone? Let them sell the damn’ corporation and leave the others to fight over the bones for a change. You’re a wealthy woman, Cordy. The future lies with your children and the next generation. Let them decide what’s best.’

‘I might be old but I’m not senile,’ she snapped. ‘Just because Jock’s dead doesn’t mean I’m incapable of making my own decisions.’

Jane took a gold powder compact out of her bag and checked her appearance with a critical eye. She ran her fingertips over her surgically tightened chin and neck, smoothed one severely plucked eyebrow and snapped the compact shut. ‘So what’s the crisis this time?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Cordelia said firmly.

Bright blue contact lenses made Jane’s gaze cold. ‘It’s always secrets with you, isn’t it?’ she murmured. ‘Aren’t you ever going to trust me?’

Cordelia sighed. ‘You know that’s not the case, Jane, so don’t let’s argue about it.’ She noticed how her friend’s gaze shifted with impatience, how her mouth had set into a thin line, and knew she must try to mollify her before things got out of hand. ‘This latest crisis is company business, and although I trust you implicitly, I cannot discuss it outside the boardroom.’

Jane stood up and smoothed her linen skirt over slim hips. ‘Have it your own way,’ she snapped. ‘I’m going shopping.’

Cordelia turned back to the window. Shopping was Jane’s answer to everything. The decisive rap of her Cuban heels across the parquet floor spoke volumes in the ensuing silence. The slam of the outer door was the exclamation mark to the end of their disagreement.

Cordelia sighed and closed her eyes. These past few weeks had been trying enough without Jane going crook on her, and she was getting too old and weary to have her life disrupted. Perhaps her friend was right after all and she should hand things over to the others?

‘Like hell she is,’ Cordelia muttered aloud.

History seemed to be repeating itself, she thought sadly, for this wasn’t the first crisis to hit the vineyard. Her thoughts turned to her late, unlamented husband. Death might have taken Jock’s body but his malevolent influence could still be felt, and as she thought of his once handsome, strong face, she remembered how different it had been when they were young and in love and the future had held such promise.

*

She could remember that summer morning as if it were yesterday. Could still feel the heat, hear the annoying buzz of the flies and the trill of the skylarks. It had felt good to be alive on such a day. The war years had taken the men to fight in the alien fields of Gallipoli. The women had been left to do battle with the powerful, wayward elements of South Australia, the enemies of leaf mould, parasites, drought and flood. Yet the wars had been won on both fronts, and despite the terrible toll they had taken, Cordelia’s father and brother would return to a flourishing vineyard, for the vines the women of Jacaranda had tended over those long years were thriving on the terraces of the Barossa valley.

She was standing on the brow of a hill overlooking the patchwork landscape that rolled far into the distance. The harvest would begin tomorrow, and although she was impatient to get started, today she was taking a much-needed rest before the chaos of the next few weeks. A heat haze shimmered on the horizon as the sun beat down on the ripening grapes. The grass at her feet was bleached almost white, and the lonely cries of the rooks in the nearby trees were a dark reminder of how quickly the delicate harvest could shrivel and die if it wasn’t picked at just the right moment.

Cordelia was hatless as usual, her long dark hair free from restraint, her feet bare. The white cotton dress was stained with the cinnamon red of the earth, and much to her mother’s disgust, her arms and face were tanned. She raised her hands to the sky, lifting her face to the sun, eyes closed as she breathed in the scent of ripening grapes and hot earth. This was her reward for all those hours of labour in the terraces. This was her land, her inheritance, and nothing and nobody would take it from her.

‘Persephone the bare-foot goddess of fertility,’ drawled a male voice.

She whirled to face the speaker, the warmth in her face having little to do with the sun. ‘You should learn not to sneak up on people like that,’ she reproved.

‘You should learn to wear a hat,’ he said mildly. ‘Didn’t your mother warn you about the dangers of sunburn?’ Blue eyes gleamed with humour as he looked down at her.

Cordelia glared at him, but she was more embarrassed than angry, aware how ridiculous she must appear. ‘It’s too hot to wear a hat,’ she declared stoutly. ‘Besides, what business is it of yours?’

‘None. But it would be a shame to spoil such beauty.’ His smile etched creases around his eyes and mouth, and as he took off his bush hat and scratched his head, she couldn’t help noticing how thick and curly his brown hair was.

She snatched up the discarded shoes and the hated hat. He had no right to be so impertinent just because he was handsome. ‘You’re trespassing,’ she snapped. ‘This is Jacaranda land.’

He replaced his hat, tugging the brim low over his eyes, but his booted feet remained firmly planted in the silvery grass. He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his moleskins and stared out over the patchwork fields to the clapboard homestead that glimmered white behind the delicate purple blossom of the jacaranda trees. ‘I know that,’ he said softly. ‘Just thought I’d take a look at my neighbour.’

The blue eyes were directed back on her, and Cordelia experienced a strange kind of fluttering in the pit of her stomach. ‘Neighbour?’ she stuttered.

He nodded and stuck out his hand. ‘Joseph Witney,’ he said. ‘But me mates call me Jock.’

Cordelia’s small hand was enveloped in his large, rough paw. So this was the new owner of Bundoran. The man who’d returned from Gallipoli earlier than most, with a shattered knee, and had been the subject of local gossip for weeks.

She looked past the checked shirt and up into his face, determined he wouldn’t see how his touch and his nearness were affecting her. ‘You don’t sound Scottish,’ she countered.

He released her hand and laughed. ‘Me dad’s family came out from Glasgow and I reckon the name just stuck.’ With his head cocked to one side, he let his gaze wander over her. ‘You must be Cordelia,’ he said finally.

She twisted the ribbons of her hat around her fingers. It wasn’t just the heat making her feel uncomfortable. ‘How do you know that?’

He leaned towards her so their faces were on the same level. ‘Everyone’s heard of the beautiful Cordelia,’ he murmured. ‘But the gossip doesn’t do you justice.’

She lifted her chin and returned his stare, determined to appear dignified and unflustered. Was his flattery genuine or was he just teasing? ‘You seem very certain of yourself, Mr Witney.’

He smiled that devastating smile again as he straightened. ‘Oh, I am, Miss Cordelia. In fact, I’m so certain I’ll wager we’ll be married before the new season’s planting.’

*

Cordelia’s smile was grim as her thoughts returned to the present. Jock always got what he’d wanted. Their wedding had been held in the tiny church in Pearson’s Creek one week after the end of that harvest and it had taken only five years for her to regret her haste.

She was reminded of the time by the delicate chimes of the ormolu clock Jock had brought back from one of his trips to the Loire Valley. Almost an hour had passed as she’d been day-dreaming, but with her memories had come an idea. She wondered if at last she had found a solution to the problem of Jacaranda Vines.

‘It’s a gamble,’ she murmured. ‘And if I lose …’ She couldn’t bear to voice her fears. For to acknowledge them might somehow invite them to come true.

A whispered riposte seemed to come from deep within her. ‘But you’ve gambled before and won, so why not give it a try?’

Cordelia smiled. She knew in that moment of reflection she still retained the fighting spirit which had kept her sane over years of torment. Jock could not be allowed to reach from the grave and destroy everything she held dear. Tomorrow, once her grand-daughter Sophie was back in the fold, Cordelia would fire the first salvo in her fight to save Jacaranda Vines.

*

Excitement had built in Sophie as the jumbo jet droned over the vast red wastelands of the Northern Territory. She remained fixed at the window, drinking in the sight of her homeland, longing to see something familiar for her years in Australia had been mostly spent in cities. The outback was a daunting wilderness recognisable only from books and photographs. Yet how beautiful it was as the rising dawn set it on fire and the shadow of the plane chased across the sparse gum forests and glinting billabongs. What a pity she would have no time to explore her country – to discover the hidden mysteries of its vast and ancient sprawl – for her days would be spent in the boardroom of Jacaranda Vines, her nights spent poring over contracts and reams of figures.

As the plane travelled further south and the landscape became less harsh, her thoughts turned to her mother. It was unlikely she would come to the airport to meet her, but stranger things had happened and perhaps she’d changed.

Sophie’s mouth twisted wryly. There was as much chance of that as finding a snowball in hell. After the divorce from Cris, Mary Gordon couldn’t wait to point out that Sophie had failed yet again in the romance stakes. It had been done with consummate subtlety behind a fixed, false smile on one of her rare visits to London, but then such cruelty was nothing new and even though it had hurt, Sophie had managed to brush it off with the thought that her mother hadn’t done too well either. Not with three divorces behind her and a string of lovers.

Mary Gordon, the petite, slim socialite, had made it plain from day one that she was horrified by her tall, wild-haired daughter, and had done her best to make young Sophie feel even more awkward and clumsy by pointing out their differences. The subtle nuances of speech as she discussed Sophie’s shortcomings with her gaggle of friends, the direct hints that maybe a diet might help in those awful puppy-fat, pre-teen years, had all had the effect of water dripping on stone, and although Sophie was now confident in her work, her personal life and self-esteem were a shambles.

Why can’t I just not care what she thinks? Sophie wondered as the plane landed and taxied to the terminal building. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to know what happens in my life. Obvious that no matter how hard I try there will never be anything between us.

Impatient with her thoughts, she gathered her things and prepared to step onto Australian soil for the first time in a decade. She shouldn’t let her mother spoil the occasion, she told herself silently. Don’t expect anything, and when nothing turns up you won’t be disappointed.

Two hours later she was pushing through the doors of a new high-rise complex overlooking Melbourne’s Royal Botanic gardens and the tannin-stained water of the Yarra Yarra. As she stepped into the air-conditioned glass elevator that ran up the outside of the building she shook her long black hair free from its pins and leaned against the cool wall. No one had been there to meet her but at least Gran had sent the limousine to pick her up and bring her here to the company apartment block.

It had been one hell of a long flight despite the stop-overs and she was looking forward to putting her feet up with a glass of wine and a cigarette before she snatched a few hours’ sleep. The rest of the day would be spent checking the mound of paperwork she’d brought with her. She didn’t want any hitches at the board meeting tomorrow.

As the lift rose swiftly to the fifteenth floor, she gazed out over the lush green of the Botanic Gardens to the riverside city. The essence of it hadn’t changed at all, and even the new additions to the skyline seemed to blend with and enhance its beauty. The clock tower of Flinders Street Station gleamed mellow ochre in the early sun, and the glass tower blocks around it stood like sculpted blue and pink stalagmites amongst the sturdy terracotta stone of the earlier buildings. The spires of the two cathedrals were delicate fingers pointing to the lightening sky from the surrounding forest of modern Melbourne, and the graceful white bridge linking the two sides of the city was already busy with commuters. The long, slender tourist boats were tied up to the jetties, gulls circled for scraps above the esplanade of cosmopolitan restaurants and bars on the South Bank, and black swans glided gracefully in and out of the dwindling shadows cast by the willows. It was a summer morning in a city that rarely slept.

Sophie couldn’t hear the rattle and clang of the trams from up here, or the sounds of a city preparing for another busy day, just the bland piped music from the speakers in the elevator ceiling and the soft hum of the air-conditioning. She hitched the weighty briefcase to a more comfortable position against her chest and, despite knowing how much work she still had to do, felt the stress of the long journey wane. She had finally come home.

Cordelia had been awake since dawn, despite the late night before having dinner with Sophie. There had been a great deal to catch up on even though their letters and telephone calls had been frequent over the years, and it was only exhaustion that had sent her back to her own apartment and bed. Yet she had lain there sleepless, her thoughts and plans for the future refusing to let her rest as the clock ticked away the hours. Now she was running late.

She watched the numbers flash past as the lift descended. There was an almost imperceptible jolt as it came to a halt. She took a deep breath, eyed her reflection in the mirror-bright stainless steel walls, and gripped her walking sticks. ‘Curtain up,’ she muttered as the doors slowly opened.

‘Where have you been, Mother? We’ve been ringing the penthouse for the last half an hour, and I was getting worried.’

Cordelia stepped out of the lift and eyed the sharp-faced, skinny woman before her. She had decided long ago that she didn’t like her youngest daughter very much, and what she saw this morning only compounded that. Mary was dressed in expensive clothes that would have looked better on a woman half her forty-nine years. Her make-up was thick, her jewellery genuine but over-done, her nails too long and too red, her heels too high. ‘Nice to know you were concerned, Mary,’ she said drily.

Mary’s nails raked the assortment of gold chains around her neck, her blue eyes hard with anger. ‘Sarcasm at this hour of the morning? You have been sharpening your claws.’

Cordelia shrugged off the cold, rather clammy hand at her elbow. ‘I’ll make my own way, thank you.’

With an impatient sigh her daughter strode away down the corridor to the boardroom. Cordelia gave a grim smile as she noticed how the too-slender hips swayed beneath the tight black skirt in the effort to maintain her balance on those high heels. Poor Mary, she thought. I might not like her, but I do feel sorry for her. With three marriages behind her and too much time and money on her hands, she was fast becoming a cliché. The latest in her long line of lovers was reported to be at least twenty years too young for her and she was in danger of making a complete fool of herself yet again.

The boardroom was sparsely furnished but bright with cream paint and vases of fresh flowers. Portraits of the founders of Jacaranda Vines were grouped together on one wall, and vast picture windows ran the length of another. In the centre of the room stood a table carved from Huon pine that had been brought especially by sea from Tasmania and which gleamed with the lustre of many years’ polish. Ten chairs had been placed around it and only one was unoccupied.

‘At last, Cordelia. We’ve been waiting for almost an hour.’

She glanced from her brother Edward up to Jock’s portrait and could have sworn he glowered at her. She turned away before he could shake her resolve, kissed her other two daughters, hugged Sophie and took her place at the table. ‘Age has its compensations, Edward,’ she said to her younger brother. ‘My time is precious so I do with it as I see fit.’

He cleared his throat and eyed her with reluctant affection. ‘As you say, Cordelia, time is of the essence and we need to get on.’ He sat back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. His eyes hadn’t faded in eighty years; in fact they were a startling blue beneath the shock of white hair, and the face of a handsome young man could still be seen in the high cheekbones, firm chin and sensuous mouth. Cordelia was sharply reminded of their eldest brother, long since buried in the family plot. He’d been so young when he’d returned from Gallipoli, but the strength of youth had been no defence against the injuries he’d received there and within a few short months he’d passed away.

Edward cleared his throat, bringing Cordelia’s thoughts back to the present.

‘As Chairman of Jacaranda Vines, I have called this extraordinary board meeting to try and find a consensus over our future as a corporation.’

Cordelia hooked her walking sticks over the arm of her chair and settled back to study her family as Edward droned on. There would be fireworks, there always were, but it would be interesting to see how they all stood on this most important subject. She shivered as though Jock had come into the room to watch the outcome of a lifetime of manipulation, then firmly dismissed the thought. His influence might still be felt but he no longer had the same hold. Jacaranda’s future was back in their hands now.

She and her brother Edward had five children between them – although to call these particular offspring ‘children’ was laughable, she supposed. They were all middle-aged now. Cordelia sighed. They were getting old, too old for the responsibilities Jock’s death had placed on their shoulders, and not all of the grandchildren were cut out to take the vineyard into the next millennium. In fact, she acknowledged, the family corporation had become more of a means to an end for some of them than a living dynasty to be carried on through the generations, and she was almost glad she wouldn’t be around to see what the future held for them all.

As Cordelia and Edward had the same proportional share in the company they had come to an agreement as to who would be Chief Executive after Jock’s death. Cordelia had stepped aside, trusting Edward’s judgment, knowing her brother would be the more acceptable face in the world of high finance. Perhaps, if she’d been younger, she would have taken responsibility, but she was content to use her influence from the sidelines. There was only so much women’s liberation she could take. Personally, she thought it had all gone too far.

Yet, as she regarded Edward down the length of the table, she realised neither of them would be around much longer, and although her brother had relinquished the day to day running of Jacaranda to his son Charles, the question of a successor would have to be broached sooner rather than later. To use an analogy, she thought as she surveyed the more aged of the family members, the vines were slowly dying, and if they couldn’t find the right cure, then the French might as well take over.

She felt the familiar rush of impatience at her own meandering thoughts. The fight hadn’t even begun, and here she was, throwing in the towel. She eyed her brother’s family who were lined up to his left.

There was Charles, his eldest son, fat and pompous and much given to pontificating on any subject regardless of whether he actually knew anything about it or not. He’d been a precocious child, and greedy too. Still was if his figure was anything to go by, she thought acidly. And yet, behind that irritating façade was a keen mind that was encyclopaedic when it came to the wine business, and Jock had exploited that knowledge to the full by putting him directly in the firing line if things went wrong.

Cordelia’s gaze drifted to his brother Philip who was younger by five years, limp-wristed and becoming more so as it became socially acceptable to be gay. The two men had never been close, not even as boys, and although she couldn’t understand why Philip should be the way he was, she knew how much it had cost him to declare his sexual preferences, and admired him for his courage. For his father, Edward, had all but disowned him, Charles was sneering to say the least, and Jock had unashamedly used blackmail to keep Philip tied to the company.

Her own three daughters were together for once. Mary was as close to the head of the table as she could get without actually sitting in the Chief Executive’s seat. It wasn’t her way to be sidelined halfway down a table, even if she was the youngest.

Then came Kate, dear, acerbic K