Avril shook her head. ‘I’d rather keep busy.’
Giselle couldn’t face opening her studio today. She kept feeling Mhairi’s birdlike chest under her hands as she desperately tried to pump life into her.
She wanted to go home and cry in private.
Then Cook asked the question that had been hovering in the back of Giselle’s mind, and probably in everyone else’s. ‘She’s not got any living relatives as far as I know, so who will inherit Coorie Castle?’
And although Giselle was deeply distressed over the death of the castle’s owner, she too couldn’t help wondering. She hoped whoever it was would keep Coorie Castle and Craft Centre just the way it was – because if they didn’t, it would be her fault.
She would never forgive herself for being ten minutes late.
‘Can I have a word?’ Rocco Moore’s mother caught him just as he was about to enter the finance director’s office.
Rocco hesitated. ‘Yeah, sure. Can it wait, though? I’ve got a meeting with Claire.’ He was already late, having been caught up in a longer than expected conference call with a client.
‘It’ll only take a minute. But not here. In private.’
Uh-oh. He didn’t like the sound of that. Even though the CEO happened to be his mother, Beverly Moore wanting ‘a word in private’ was rarely a good thing. Rocco wondered who was for the chop. It wouldn’t be himself, obviously, because not even she was that ruthless, and besides, Rocco owned substantial shares in the company.
He followed her along the plush carpeted hallway and into the corner office with its views over London.
‘Close the door,’ Beverly instructed, as she took a seat behind her chrome-and-glass desk.
Rocco often wondered how she managed to avoid getting finger marks over its polished surface. As usual, there was very little on it, except for a glass paperweight, which was purely decorative since the company was largely paperless, and a computer screen so slim that it was barely wider than a credit card.
Rocco hovered, debating whether this unexpected meeting would be worth sitting down for.
His mother gazed pointedly at one of the leather chairs, so Rocco sat.
‘Nice suit,’ she began. ‘Is it new?’
‘I’ve had it a couple of months. What’s this about, Beverly? You didn’t bring me in here to discuss fashion.’ Rocco called his mother Beverly when they were at work – it seemed more professional and less sycophantic, somehow. It also put them on a more equal footing as senior executives, and not mother and son. And now he called his mother Beverly most of the time. It was easier that way.
Beverly steepled her manicured fingers, her elbows on the glass, as she leant forward. ‘Mhairi Gray is dead.’
‘Who?’
‘Your great grandfather’s sister. She’s your cousin, twice, or three times removed.’ Beverly wafted a hand in the air. ‘I can’t remember which. Anyway, she’s dead.’
He took a second to process the information. ‘I thought she was already dead?’ He hadn’t heard her name mentioned in years.
‘She was very much alive and living in Scotland – until this morning. Her solicitor has just been in touch with ours.’
Rocco nodded absently, vaguely remembering something about her, and wondered what the relevance was and why his mother had deemed it important enough to delay his meeting with Claire. They had some crucial figures to go over and it was going to take some time. He sighed, knowing that yet again he wouldn’t be leaving the office until late. Then again, he wasn’t a nine-to-five person, and neither was his mother. Nor Claire. It was expected that they’d stay until whatever needed to be done was done.
‘Mhairi owns a castle,’ Beverly was saying. ‘Or shedid.Youown it now.’
Rocco tilted his head as he studied her. Was she joking? Rocco didn’t think so. His mother wasn’t one for humour.
‘I own acastle?’ he asked slowly, certain he must have misheard.
‘That’s right. Your great-great-grandfather, Tandy Gray, bought it at a knockdown price in the late nineteenth century when the laird who owned it ran up substantial gambling debts and was obliged to sell. It was in a sorry state and Tandy didn’t have the funds to do anything with it. But Mhairi’s father did.’
‘Wasn’t he the wealthy shipping magnate?’ Rocco had heard stories from his father, but he’d assumed that’s what they had been: stories. He hadn’t actually believed any of them. And to be honest, he hadn’t much cared, being more interested in the here and now rather than ancient family history. But his father had been dead eight years, and Rocco hadn’t thought about those stories in a very long time.
‘Well remembered,’ Beverly said in answer to Rocco’s question, then she smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘It’s about money, so of course you remembered. You’re so like me in that respect.’
Rocco didn’t entirely take that as a compliment. His mother was savagely ruthless when it came to the business, but there was no doubting her aptitude.
