looked up as India entered.
“Good morning.” She waved languidly to a chair at the table and lit a cigarette. “Have some breakfast, God knows we’ll need it. Kathleen was in here a few minutes ago bumbling on about Ian and that lawyer Ramsey being here at ten. You know, I don’t know how Mummy stood Kathleen around her the whole time. She can be such a bore. The way she goes on, you’d think she owned the place,” she added resentfully.
India murmured good morning, then sat down, listening to Serena with half an ear. She wasn’t hungry, but the last thing she needed was her tummy rumbling throughout the reading of the will.
She opted for toast and went to the sideboard, placing two pieces of bread in the toaster. Serena seemed preoccupied, but over the years India had become used to her sudden changes of mood. One minute Serena could be effusive, the next sarcastic. Now she seemed far away.
India watched the toast pop up, thinking how odd it was to have the same parent, yet feel so distant. It made her suddenly sad, especially now that only they remained.
“Toast,” Serena exclaimed suddenly, making India jump. “Not a bad idea. Pop in a piece for me, will you?” She stubbed out the last of her cigarette in an empty glass of orange juice, and reached down her leg. “I tripped on that wretched carpet in the hall. It’s all ragged at the edge. Almost broke my leg. In fact, I think I’ve twisted my ankle.” She grimaced and rubbed her shin gingerly. “Funny finding Jack Buchanan here,” she continued as though the subject were one and the same. “Do you know he hardly even thanked me when I dropped him off at Dalkirk? I thought it was damn nice of me to go out on such a filthy night. Some people are thoroughly bad-mannered—but I suppose they’ve never been taught otherwise. By the way, what did you think of him?” She glanced at India. “He’s Peter Kinnaird’s partner, you know. Stinking rich, of course. I’m surprised someone hasn’t nabbed him yet.”
“Perhaps he’s involved,” India remarked, returning to the table and handing Serena the silver toast rack.
“Not him! He’s very much the ladies’ man. That I can assure you,” she said with a sly smirk. “Not your style though, I shouldn’t think. He’s more the let’s get straight to it type, which I’m sure you’d disapprove of.”
“It’s nothing to me what or who he is,” India replied indifferently.
“Just don’t get your fingers burned, darling. I saw the way he was eyeing you. He’s tough as nails, you know, but between you and me, he’s a damn good fuck.”
India set her teacup back in the saucer with a snap. “Serena, I don’t care if he’s God’s gift to women. All that concerns me right now is Mummy’s funeral and what’s happening later on this morning. I think you might show a little more respect.”
“Oh, la-di-da. Excuse me for offending your sensibilities.” Serena cast her a sarcastic look. “Anyway, what matters now is getting the will business dealt with,” she exclaimed in a very different tone.
“Do you have any idea how things stand?”
“No. Ramsey keeps harking on. He says we mustn’t mention the difficult straits the estate’s in. As if I would. I’m the last person to want a rumpus. I’d be out on the street if it weren’t for the bank loaning me money because I stand to inherit Dunbar.” She lit another cigarette and mused. “I’m going to have enough to do here as it is without a bunch of panicked tenants and staff on my hands.” Serena flicked back a strand of her long blond hair with a disdainful sniff.
India said nothing. She knew very little about the intricacies of running an estate, but imagined they must not be easy. Serena spoke as though she already owned the place, and India wondered with a pang if she’d be a good caretaker. It would make sense if Serena inherited. After all, she was a part of this closed little social enclave, where she herself was—or at least had been made to feel—an outcast.
“The home farm has to be dealt with. As for the shoot—But I shouldn’t be boring you with things that you know nothing about. I’ll just have to get on with it, I suppose—unless I decide to sell,” she added casually.
“Sell?” India asked, dismayed despite herself. “But there have been Dunbars here for over seven hundred years, Serena. I gather things aren’t in great shape financially, but surely everything should be done to try and hold on to the property. I think that’s what Mummy would have expected.”
“I don’t know if I’m prepared to go to all the trouble and expense of keeping the place. Plus, think of the money I’d make. You don’t have to worry about that sort of thing, do you?” Serena raised a haughty eyebrow.
Up until that morning India hadn’t thought seriously about the will, her mind too consumed with the shock of her mother’s death, but her hackles rose at Serena’s blithe disregard for the estate she apparently already assumed was hers. “If you mean, can I get by with what I make? Yes, I can. It’s taken me a few years but things are running pretty smoothly at La Dolce Vita, and this last job in Brazil finally got rid of the mortgage on Chantemerle. But that has nothing to do with this. I don’t know that I want to sell Dunbar.”
Serena looked astonished. “Who says you’ll have anything to do with it? You don’t really think Mummy would expect me to share Dunbar with you?”
“I see no reason why not,” India answered levelly. “You seem to forget that I have as much of her blood as you.”
“Yes, unfortunately. Mummy was a traitor to me and to her class. She had no business marrying your father, and much less having you. She owes me Dunbar.”
India controlled her temper with an effort, finally understanding Serena’s veiled sarcastic comments over the past years. She stood up and went to the fireplace.
“It must be lovely to waltz through life so completely convinced of one’s innate superiority, Serena, but forgive me if I don’t curtsy and kiss your ring. You have no right to speak to me like that,” she said, her voice controlled.
“I’ll tell you exactly what gives me the right. I was born before you and my father was a nobleman. You are nothing but a bad mistake, one that Mummy regretted but was too proud to do anything about. I suppose you think that if you inherit Dunbar you’ll become one of us. But you won’t, you know. You’ll always be an outcast.” She gave a short, harsh laugh.
“Surely you don’t think I care what society thinks of me?” India gave an astonished laugh. “I stopped worrying about fitting in years ago. What I’m worried about is Dunbar, about the land and the people, like Mrs. Walker and old Tompson, who’ve worked here for thirty-some years and now have nowhere to go. Surely that must mean something to you, Serena?” India struggled to master her fury, swallowing the bile that rose bitterly in her throat and clenching her fists till her knuckles turned white. “And as for rights, I am as much a part of this family as you, whether you like it or not. This is the home of my ancestors, too, and there is no reason why I shouldn’t have exactly as much say when it comes to Dunbar’s future.”
“You’re either nuts, India, or you simply don’t understand these things.” Serena shook her head pityingly and reached for more coffee.
“Good morning, ladies.” The sound of a guttural male voice made India spin on her heel. Maxi, Serena’s German boyfriend, stood in the doorway, pasty and stiff with his formal bow and immaculate dress. His blond hair was cut short, with geometrical precision, and slicked back from his forehead. He’d obviously had his ear glued to the door, she realized angrily.
