Roseland

by Judy Finnigan

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

The summers spent at Roseland, the sprawling ancestral home of her best friend, Eloise, were among the happiest of Cathy's life. Tucked away on the Cornish coastline and brimming with history, Roseland seemed to belong to another century. Cathy has barely been back since Eloise's death a decade ago. So she is shocked when Jack, the love of Eloise's life and father of her children, announces that he is getting married, and that the wedding will take place at Roseland. As Cathy and Eloise's family gather at the house for the first time in years, long buried secrets and resentments come to the surface. Nobody likes Jack's new bride, but is she really the imposter everybody claims, or are they haunted by memories of Eloise? And how can Cathy look to the future, when the past refuses to let go?

Release date: November 9, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

A blistering sun hung low over the horizon, gilding Roseland’s castle-like façade with a deceptive warmth. Built by the early forebears of the Trelawney dynasty, the Jacobean manor had imperiously dominated the surrounding acres of lush farmland for centuries, its dark leaded windows seeming to keep a commanding, somewhat supercilious watch over the valley of the River Fowey. It was magnificent; some might say intimidating. Today, though, it was dressed to impress . . . to beguile.

Trees were laced with colourful fairy lights, and the long, undulating gravel drive was edged with storm lanterns, luring visitors towards the grand entrance. The flanking porticoes were strung with yet more lights, like a jewelled necklace worn to soften the contours of an austere face. The nearby lake, silvered by spotlights, caught its glittering reflection. For even on the brink of destruction, Roseland dazzled.

It would have been easy to miss the crow, spiralling silently above one of Roseland’s many protruding chimney tops. Its ragged wings barely moved, only the tips of its dark feathers rippling on a light breeze now. It picked up as the sky darkened, clouds as grey as the granite walls of Roseland starting to swirl upwards, billowing higher.

For a moment, it seemed the wedding party was taking place, after all. Roseland’s windows sparkled with light, while raised voices drifted across the rose garden, accompanied by loud pops and the tinkle of glass, as though the bride and groom had just arrived triumphantly in the great hall. Except there was no champagne; no toasts, either to the prodigal groom, or his imposter bride.

There was only the infinitesimal fracture of brittle glass, as flames took hold in earnest and the temperature inside the manor house soared, the ancient bones of Roseland straining to breaking point. Hairline cracks quickly began to spread, until at last the stained-glass panes exploded outwards in a cloudburst of gem-like shards.

The house seemed to let out a sigh of surrender, thick smoke surging out of every blackened crevasse, leaving gaping holes like rotten cavities in a once-luminous smile. Far above it, the crow continued circling.

One week before

A vintage black cab chugged up the steep lane from the beach towards the church, gears grinding as it stopped in a lay-by tucked against the clifftop opposite the lychgate. Its sole passenger emerged equally slowly. A willowy, genteel-looking woman dressed in a flowing grey silk dress, her silver hair swept up in an elegant chignon, she seemed to belong to another age. Indeed, suffused in shimmering sunlight that turned her papery skin translucent, she appeared almost ghostlike: an ancient Trelawney apparition.

Then she moved, unexpectedly brisk and decisive, instructing the taxi driver to wait for her, before she hurried across the empty road, a bouquet of roses clutched in her arms. Another pause as she contemplated the way ahead: narrow steps leading from the pretty gateway up a stony hill to Talland Church. The woman sighed, lifted her chin and set off.

As she reached the Celtic chapel, the land flattened slightly, offering a reprieve. But Juliana Trelawney’s destination lay some thirty metres beyond, up a twisting, overgrown path bordered by ancient tombstones. No balustrade to help her had survived up here, and her frail body bent almost double as she battled against the keen salt breeze.

Finally, she reached the very top of the hill to find the elegant headstone that seemed to be waiting for her, its honey-coloured stone illumined not by sunshine, she thought fancifully, but by joy at her arrival. Sinking down onto the bench nearby, her fingers trembled as they traced the familiar inscription on its back. Her breath came slowly, her heart racing after the arduous climb. It got harder each time, but she would never forgo it.

For ten years, Juliana had made this weekly pilgrimage. She didn’t know how many more would be granted to her, and each one was precious. Placing the roses beside her, she gazed at the breathtaking view. Endless sea glinted silver and gold in the sunlight, blending seamlessly with the summer sky to create a vaulted, cathedral-like dome over the bay.

After a few moments, she stooped to kneel by the grave, removing her last bouquet from a crystal urn and replacing it with the fresh roses she’d brought – white, always, whatever the season. For her daughter’s birthdays, she brought armfuls of pink peonies, but she was always glad to revert to the purity of white. Pink seemed too jolly, as if the birthday were a celebration, when in fact there was only sadness and regret. Guilt that never eased.

As she fussed with the stems, Juliana murmured: ‘Such a gorgeous day, Eloise. The beach is absolutely crawling with children, all having a wonderful time. Do you remember when we used to take the twins down there? Of course you do. Paddling and sandcastles. The girls never wanted to go home. Five more minutes, they always begged. They loved the beach so. I wonder if Isabella did, too, when she was a little girl. I expect so, don’t you?’

Roses arranged to her satisfaction, Juliana grabbed the arm of the bench and pulled herself slowly to her feet. ‘I have to go now. But I’ll be back next week. Rest, my dear. You’re safe. Your girls are safe.’ Her throat felt choked with emotion. ‘Sleep tight, darling.’

She hesitated a moment longer, before walking away. When she reached the church, she paused, wondering if she should go inside. But no. She preferred to save her prayers for Eloise’s graveside. Besides, she disliked the sympathy of well-meaning locals, their chirpy good wishes barely masking their curiosity. Nosy parkers, she always thought.

Determined to avoid any chance encounters, Juliana gripped the handrail tighter and attempted to hurry down the remaining treacherous steps.

‘Here. Let me help you. Take my hand.’

The voice was familiar, and yet not. Warily, Juliana eyed the tall, blond-haired, middled-aged stranger waiting beneath the lychgate, one hand confidently outstretched. He was smiling, his manner informal, as though he knew her. Usually, villagers approached her with cautious deference. She trawled her memory until recognition clicked into place. ‘Oh. Jack Merchant.’

‘Hello, Juliana.’ His blue eyes crinkled at the corners; he looked pleased to see her.

‘What are you doing here?’ Frustration with herself for being slow to recognise him made her terse and irritable. She felt at a disadvantage, and she hated that.

‘I’ve come to see you, of course.’ He captured her hand, his grasp strong but gentle.

‘Not Eloise?’ Juliana tugged her hand away.

A furrow between his straight, thick brows. ‘Not today. But I guessed I might find you here. I have something for you.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his navy linen jacket, then held out a square white envelope. ‘There you go. Hand delivered, as promised.’

‘What’s that?’ Juliana eyed it suspiciously. Letters rarely signified anything good.

‘An invitation. To my wedding.’ Jack squinted, registering her confusion. ‘I brought my fiancée to see you, the other day, remember? The three of us had tea and talked about it.’

‘Talked about what?’

‘The wedding,’ Jack repeated patiently. ‘I’m getting married, Juliana. In a week’s time.’ He nodded, urging her to take the envelope. ‘At Roseland.’

Juliana gasped, seizing the envelope and crumpling it between her frail hands, before tossing it to the ground. Dignity prevented her from stamping on it, but she would have liked to. ‘No. Never. I won’t allow it.’

Brushing past the man who had been her daughter’s first, great love, and was the father of Eloise’s three daughters – therefore maintaining an irritating, unwelcome connection with Juliana’s family – she headed for the taxi waiting dutifully on the other side of the road.

Jack followed. ‘Juliana, please. Let’s talk.’ He knew she couldn’t stop him getting married at Roseland; he’d already sought and been granted permission by the National Trust, who had managed it since Juliana signed the Grade 1 listed money pit over to them after the death of her husband, Sir Charles. But while Jack didn’t need Juliana’s permission, he still hoped for her blessing.

‘Don’t you have patients to see? Cancer waits for no man. Or woman,’ Juliana said hoarsely. ‘Or have you forgotten that, along with my daughter?’

Jack bit back the response that rose to his lips. He still mourned Eloise’s death from breast cancer ten years ago, frequently wondering if, as an oncologist, he might have done more to help her, had he not been in Australia at the time – banished there by Juliana’s own husband. ‘I’ve taken a day off to play postman,’ he quipped lightly.

Juliana glared at him, deliberately stepping on the crumpled envelope as she stalked towards the taxi, allowing the driver to help her into the back. ‘Thank you, Bob.’ He nodded, returning to his own seat as she waved away his offer to shut the door. ‘Goodbye, Jack.’

‘Juliana . . .’

‘There will be no wedding at Roseland. I might not live there, but I’m still its mistress. It belongs to me, and it always will.’

Tactfully deciding not to correct her, Jack said quietly: ‘No one wants to take Roseland from you. As I believe I told you the other day. But your granddaughters—’

‘Shall inherit everything, in the fullness of time. I may be eighty-five, but I’m not dead yet.’ Juliana nodded at the driver, watching her now in his rear-view mirror. ‘We’re done here, Bob. Home, please.’ A sideways glance at Jack. ‘To Roseland.’

Bob fired the ignition. ‘Of course, Lady Trelawney.’

‘Isabella’s coming.’ It wasn’t a lie, exactly. His eldest daughter – Juliana’s first granddaughter – hadn’t yet declined the invitation. As Juliana reached for the car door, Jack flicked out a hand to rest on it. ‘Izzy will be at Roseland for the wedding,’ he said coaxingly.

Juliana hid her rush of hope beneath a haughty frown. ‘I don’t believe you. Izzy . . . Isabella hates me. She would never come here. And you should never have come back to Cornwall, either. My husband told you. Leave our daughter alone. Charles warned you what would happen otherwise. Now I am. Stay away from her.’

Jack sighed, once again recognising that Juliana was confused, her fragile mind slipping back through the decades to when Eloise and her father were both still alive – to when Sir Charles had banished fifteen-year-old Jack and his parents from the Roseland estate, after the scandal of his thirteen-year-old daughter falling pregnant.

‘But Eloise is . . .’ Jack hesitated, reluctant to remind the old lady of her grief. There were times when memory loss could be a comfort, he thought. He saw it in his patients; occasionally, he wished it upon himself.

‘My only child! And I won’t have her hurt any more.’ Lurching to grab the door handle, Juliana almost tumbled out of the taxi. ‘Go against my wishes at your peril, Jack Merchant,’ she said crossly, frustrated again by her own frailty, and striving to mask it.

Jack frowned, finally closing the door and taking a step back. Immediately, Bob set off, eyes fixed dutifully on the road, while his mind whirled with this fresh gossip about Roseland. On mental autopilot, he drove down the lane past the busy little beach; he’d chauffeured Juliana many times and knew she loved to watch the children playing there.

Bob knew all about the tragic, premature death of Juliana’s daughter; he’d also heard rumours about the adoption of her illegitimate first grandchild, four decades ago. Not that he would dare mention either event, nor relay local rumours about her two other, much younger granddaughters’ brush with death ten years ago, when the twins were just five years old. Bob had a family to support; he valued his job too much to risk crossing a Trelawney, no matter how kindly Juliana appeared, and however charitable she always was to any locals in need.

As her driver discreetly digested Jack’s news about the wedding, Juliana sat fuming about it. To calm herself, she let her eyes feast as usual on families enjoying a morning at the beach. Cornwall’s coastline was blessed with many spectacular coves and bays, some rocky, others with miles of golden sand stretching as far as the eye could see. But always there were children, reminding Juliana of everything she had lost . . . and what she needed to protect.

‘Jack Merchant getting married. At his age. Foolish man. But if he thinks he can hold his absurd wedding at my family home, where I raised my daughter, the woman he never saw fit to make a bride . . .’ She thumped the seat beside her. ‘Roseland shall welcome no other.’

It was only as the taxi finally turned into the grounds of the seventeenth-century manor house, bypassing sweeping lawns and lush botanical shrubberies to arrive at Juliana’s beloved rose garden by the lake, at which point it veered off the main drive towards the farmhouse where she now lived, that Juliana realised she hadn’t asked Jack who it was that he planned to marry.

He’d claimed the three of them had had tea together, but no such meeting had ever taken place. Or had it? Her mind had been playing tricks on her lately.

For weeks now, time had seemed to expand and contract without warning, flexing and tightening like a concertina. Whole days could pass in a flash, and then a single moment would feel like it lasted for weeks. Years. Sometimes, Juliana saw everything as clearly as the pretty scallop shells wedged into the sand beneath the crystal-clear water at Talland Bay. Other times, she’d walk into a room and forget how she came to be there, or why.

‘If I’d met her, I would surely remember her. At the very least, I would know her name.’ Juliana closed her eyes, concentrating hard. ‘The invitation!’

Reaching for the pocket of her coat, she groaned, remembering that she wasn’t wearing one. It was summer; she had on her best dress. The grey silk one, with the little covered buttons all the way up the back. Margaret had laid it out for her especially, this morning, as she always did before Juliana visited her daughter’s grave.

‘Darling Ellie. No bride could hold a candle to you.’ Juliana closed her eyes again, picturing her beautiful face. ‘Whoever this woman is, there’s only one way she’ll ever get married at Roseland. Over my dead body.’

Ten thousand miles away in Australia, Isabella sat on the veranda of her therapist’s Byron Bay home overlooking Wategos Beach, gazing at a very different sea to the one that had entranced her estranged grandmother. No rock pools or playful children with fishing nets here. Surfers dotted the ocean, and the Pacific heaved and swelled, rather like Izzy’s turbulent mood. She stared at it, then hooked her phone out of the pocket of her frayed denim shorts.

Usually, devices were banned from therapy sessions, but Sue flexed the boundaries for her most fragile and, secretly, her favourite client. She’d known Izzy for ten years, initially alongside her ex-husband when they came for couples counselling. Then, after the death of her biological mother, Eloise – and the bombshell revelations that followed – Izzy had come alone. The discovery that she’d been living a lie had left her with acute trust issues. Sue recognised her client’s heightened need to feel in control at all times. She allowed the phone.

‘Fuck.’ Izzy uncrossed her slim, tanned legs and sat forward on the edge of her chair.

‘Izzy? Are you OK? You’ve gone quite pale.’

‘Yes. No. Actually, I don’t know.’ She continued to stare at her phone. ‘It’s . . .’

‘Have you heard from Arthur?’ Sue took a stab at what Izzy might be reading so intently; she’d spent many sessions agonising over her regrets and failings as a parent.

Izzy’s mouth twisted ruefully. ‘As if.’

‘So what is it? I mean . . . Sorry,’ she apologised, feeling flustered. She was letting her boundaries slip; blurring the line between counsellor and friend. ‘Has something—’

‘He’s getting married,’ Izzy cut in, her face flushing now. ‘Next Friday, for God’s sake.’

‘Who? Arthur?’ Mentally, Sue kicked herself. She’d done it again. But Izzy was such a complex, interesting client; she was fascinated by her eventful life story. ‘You’ve mentioned before that your son has a girlfriend, but . . . Oh. Did you mean your ex?’

‘No. I meant Jack. My . . . dad.’ Izzy almost choked on the word. Having grown up being told that Jack was her big brother, not her father, calling him ‘Dad’ still felt wrong, even after ten years; even more so given that, at fifty-seven, he was only fifteen years her senior.

She scowled, fighting pain and anger that never seemed to ease: of missing a mum she hadn’t even known existed, until she died. Her grandmother Juliana had seen to that; she’d cast Izzy out as a baby, leaving Jack’s parents to raise her as their ‘daughter’ – conveniently, on the other side of the world, where Izzy couldn’t discover her family’s lies.

Sue kept her tone deliberately neutral. ‘You sound angry. Is a wedding a bad thing?’

An impatient huff. ‘I couldn’t care less about it. Jack’s had one wife already. I’m sure he’s got his reasons for walking up the aisle again. I’m just cross he imagines I’d want to be there to watch. I mean, for God’s sake, he expects me to fly halfway around the world at a week’s notice. To chuck confetti over a woman I’ve never met. Never even heard of.’

‘A week is certainly short notice.’ Sue just about managed not to wince.

‘Must be a shotgun affair. History repeating itself, right? Only, this time, Jack’s decided to bite the bullet and actually marry the woman he’s got pregnant.’

Sue allowed a few moments’ silence, letting Izzy’s hurt and anger fill it. ‘Izzy,’ she said gently at last, ‘I remember you telling me your mum was thirteen when she had you. And Jack was fifteen. Look, I’m not defending your family’s decision to conceal your adoption, but—’

‘Good.’ Izzy raised her eyebrows.

‘But,’ Sue continued carefully, ‘I imagine they felt Eloise was too young to be a mother. Likewise, Jack a father. Or a husband. They were both underage, for one thing.’

‘He didn’t have to turn his back on her, though, did he? Bugger off to Australia and act like she didn’t exist.’

‘He was ordered to leave, as I also recall you telling me. And he took you with him.’

‘His parents did, you mean.’ Izzy scowled. They’d had this conversation many times, and she knew Sue was trying to help her cut through her anger to appreciate the facts of the situation. But finding out that she was adopted, and that the couple she’d always called Mum and Dad were actually her paternal grandparents, had been the biggest trauma in her life.

It had been a triple blow: Izzy had grieved for a mother she’d never known, but it had also felt like she’d lost her adoptive parents. They’d kept the truth from her, and now they were dead, too. Juliana Trelawney had plotted the betrayal, but Izzy’s entire family had maintained it. She despised her grandmother Juliana, but she also couldn’t forgive Jack.

‘Jeez, is it any wonder I’ve been in therapy for a decade?’ She dashed away a tear. ‘My family is a joke, and this wedding will be a circus.’

‘Will you go?’ Sue asked softly.

‘The hell I will! In fact, hell will freeze over before I ever set foot in Cornwall again.’

‘Will Arthur?’ Sue knew how badly it still hurt Izzy that her then sixteen-year-old son had decided to remain permanently in the UK, following his solo visit to Cornwall after his grandmother Eloise’s death – prompted by the solicitor’s letter about his inheritance . . . the letter that had first exposed Izzy’s secret adoption.

‘I guess so. Arthur lives in London now, but he’s still very close to his grandpa. I suppose Jack’s been more like a father to him.’ Izzy paused, and Sue could see what it cost her to admit that. She glared at her phone again. ‘In fact, according to this invitation, Artie’s the best man. There’s no mention of bridesmaids, but I expect the twins . . . Rose and Violet.’

Picturing their faces, Izzy chewed a strand of her long tawny hair, as ever feeling guilty at how she’d severed all contact with the girls, now teenagers. During her own brief visit to Cornwall ten years ago, Izzy had at first been thrilled to discover that she had younger sisters. But the situation was complicated, and she’d quickly withdrawn, returning to Australia and restricting contact mainly to Christmas and birthdays.

Jack himself had only just found out that the twins were his daughters, conceived during one final chance meeting with Eloise six years before. He’d been recently divorced at the time, but Eloise was married to someone else by then. She’d kept her pregnancy a secret from Jack – as she did her cancer diagnosis, six months after the twins were born.

But Izzy had no sympathy for Jack. During that visit, she’d seen his determination to be a good dad to Rose and Violet, then five years old, and she’d backed off from them all. Now, ten years later, she wondered if she’d been jealous of the twins being able to grow up knowing Jack was their real dad. She still loved her sisters, and she adored her son, but bitterness at the hand her family had dealt her remained a brick wall between them.

Sue watched the conflicting emotions flitting across Izzy’s pretty, heart-shaped face. ‘I know it’s tough, being so far from home. Half your family on the other side of the world.’

Izzy shook her head. ‘Home is here. In Australia. Not some crumbling old stately pile in deepest, darkest England. It has been my whole life. Apart from the first three months.’ She frowned. ‘And only half my family are there, anyway.’

‘The Trelawney half.’

‘Precisely.’ She stared at her phone again. ‘This wedding invitation . . . It feels more like a summons. To Cornwall. Roseland. I mean, for God’s sake, that’s where . . .’

‘You were adopted as a baby,’ Sue finished softly for her, as Izzy’s voice dried.

‘Juliana saw to that. I was the dirty little secret she wanted rid of, wasn’t I? Now Jack expects me to go back there and play happy families. But I can’t do it, Sue. I can’t rock up at the family mansion and act like there aren’t still more damned skeletons in the Trelawney closet.’

‘Skeletons?’ A sudden breeze drifted off the water. It lifted Sue’s short brown hair, and the back of her neck prickled with a growing sense that Izzy was hiding something big. ‘And you’re really not tempted to go back there? To dig up these . . . skeletons?’

‘Oh, I’ll go. Maybe not to the wedding, but certainly to Roseland.’

‘Right. I see.’ This time, Sue couldn’t hide her surprise. She was used to her client’s volatility, but this was a huge, sudden turnaround. ‘May I ask what’s changed your mind?’

‘You may ask.’ Izzy winced, knowing she sounded childish. She genuinely wasn’t playing games; she’d had her belly-full of those with her ex-husband. Mostly, she confided freely in Sue, but there was one thing she wasn’t ready to talk about: her secret mission. Her conviction that there were more scandals festering in the Trelawney family – and her determination to uncover them.

The email that had arrived late last night had been almost as big a shock as her dad’s wedding invitation just now. After waiting weeks for a response from the ancestry-tracing website she’d registered with online, Izzy had practically forgotten about it. Now she couldn’t get it out of her head. A genetic match had been found!

She had only registered with the website, and purchased their DNA test, as a late-night impulse after a particularly strained phone call with Arthur a few weeks ago. In the decade since the truth about Izzy’s parentage had come to light, she’d felt lost, abandoned. But she also longed for connection. It had been a fleeting moment of curiosity, to know whether there were any other scandalous secrets in the Trelawney family tree.

And now, here was something. It had been a brief, sparse notification, with no further details beyond official confirmation that a ‘significantly strong’ DNA match with another applicant on their database had been determined.

As far as Izzy knew, her parents had both been only children, so this was a surprising and intriguing discovery. Being vague and anonymous – due to data protection – it didn’t give her much to go on, but whatever it was, it was a lead of sorts. Now Izzy had two birds to kill – her father’s wedding, and her own secret mission – and one stone: a return to Roseland.

‘OK. Well, we’re almost out of time today,’ Sue said, after Izzy had sat quietly for a few minutes, deeply immersed in her thoughts. She didn’t need to check her watch; the lifeguard on the beach in front of her home changed shifts at exactly the same time each day. ‘I guess, if you’re going to Cornwall, I won’t see you for a couple of weeks at least.’

‘Curiosity,’ Izzy said abruptly, deciding that she owed Sue some explanation, even if not the entire truth. ‘That’s what’s changed my mind. Curiosity to see my dad again. Meet his bride.’ And my mystery DNA match, she thought, feeling her stomach churn with a mixture of anger, nerves, fear – and something she thought she’d long since given up on: hope.

Finally, Sue allowed herself a smile. ‘Sounds like a good enough reason to me.’

‘Oh, and karma. What goes around comes around, yeah?’ Izzy tucked her phone back into her pocket, and reached for her glass of water. She ended every therapy session the same way, as though to wash away the words that always left a bad taste in her mouth.

‘You believe in fate, then? Or do we each forge our own destiny? Nature or nurture?’

‘Both.’ Izzy folded her arms, looking ready for battle now. ‘My family screwed up my start in life. They set me on a path of their choosing. Now I’m taking back the wheel. I’m setting my own cou. . .