But she wasn’t here to think about ornamental gardens. She was here to go downstairs and finally meet the man who, over a quarter of a century ago, had encountered her mother and brought her into existence.
Emotion knifed in her, but she controlled it. So much was welling up in her, but she dared not let it out. Yet.
Her heart was thumping as she followed the manservant downstairs. She’d dressed with extreme care, wanting to give her father no cause for disappointment or disapproval. Her smart yellow shift dress was knee-length, with cap sleeves and a round neckline, her hair was drawn back into a neat chignon, and she wore minimal make up. Her heels were low, and they clicked as she went down the sweeping marble stairs and across the imposing entrance hallway.
The manservant knocked discreetly at a pair of double doors set opposite, and Rosalie heard a voice say sharply in Greek, what she supposed was ‘Enter’ or ‘Come in.’
The manservant opened the door and Rosalie walked in. Her heart was thumping like a jackhammer with anticipation. With hope.
The man who must be her father was seated at a desk across an expanse of tapestried carpet, and the whole room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books. It was at once impressive and intimidating, Rosalie registered, with the part of her brain that was not focussed on the man watching her approach.
But her eyes were only for her father—fixed on him. She reached the desk, expecting him to stand up, come to greet her. Embrace her. Welcome her to his life.
But he did not. He simply sat back in his chair. Looking her over.
‘So,’ he announced, ‘you are here.’
His gaze was like a gimlet and then he made a sudden gesture with his hand. ‘Turn around.’
Rosalie stared, eyes widening. Suddenly it was as if there was sand in her throat. Why wasn’t he getting up and coming to her, greeting her, hugging her?
‘I said turn around.’
Her father’s voice, strongly accented, had sharpened, as though he disliked not being obeyed immediately.
A frown creased Rosalie’s brow. ‘What for?’ She heard the words come from her without her volition, in an automatic response to an order.
Something snapped in his eyes. ‘Because I tell you to!’
‘You tell me to?’ There was disbelief in her voice.
She saw his eyes snap again.
Grey-green eyes, like mine.
The thought flitted across her brain, but she had no time for it. He was speaking again.
‘If you want what I can give you, you will do what I tell you!’ Something changed in his voice—something that made it not sharp, but as if something were twisting it out of true. ‘And I can see from your expensive get-up that you do, indeed, want what I can give you. If I choose to do so!’
He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
‘Do you understand the situation now?’
Rosalie shook her head. No, she did not understand the situation. She did not understand it at all. This was her father. And yet he was speaking to her as if she were a...a servant! A lowly employee... Not as his long-lost daughter at all...
She felt something stab inside her—a pain so sharp that she felt it pierce to her core. But she also felt the force of what he’d just said. She’d rushed out to buy designer clothes the moment she knew she could.
‘I...I’m sorry...’ The words stumbled from her. ‘I...I bought nice clothes because I thought...thought you would like me to look...nice...for you. I wanted to please you—’ She could hear her voice catch as she spoke, but couldn’t prevent it. ‘I didn’t mean to waste your money!’ she finished in a rush of apology.
Her father’s expression changed. Sharpened almost to the point of glinting.
‘You won’t—be assured of that,’ he retorted. ‘And if you wish to please me do as I tell you. Turn around!’
Tautly, Rosalie did what he bade. As she came full circle he was nodding, his expression less sharp.
‘That’s better,’ he informed her. His gimlet eyes rested on her face assessingly, his hands still steepled. ‘You have my eyes—good. The rest must come from your mother. I remember very little about her.’
‘She remembered you!’ Rosalie cried out before she could stop herself. ‘She told me everything she could—’
Her father’s expression changed again. There was a cynical light in his eyes now. ‘I made sure there wasn’t much to know. And I kept it that way.’
A frown furrowed Rosalie’s brow. She could feel her emotions tightening within her, still feel that pain inside—because this wasn’t right... This wasn’t right at all. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be...
‘So...so how did you find out about me? My mother told me that she tried to get in touch when she learnt she was pregnant, by writing to the construction company, but you must have left the country already because she never heard back. Her letter must never have reached you—’
‘Of course it reached me!’
A gasp broke from Rosalie and she stared at the man across the desk from her.
An impatient look crossed his face. ‘I’ve always known of your existence.’
Rosalie stared on. Inside her, a stone seemed to be occupying her entire lung capacity.
‘You’ve always known?’ The words forced themselves past the stone that was choking her.
‘Of course!’
‘You’ve known and never got in touch?’
‘Why should I have?’
‘Why? Because I am your daughter!’
A sneer had formed on his face—Rosalie could see it. Was appalled by it. Appalled by everything that was happening...
‘What was that to me?’ he retorted. ‘Nothing! What possible interest could I have had in you, or your fool of a mother?’ His face tightened, an expression of angry displeasure forming. ‘You have been of no use to me until now. Which is why I sent for you.’
Emotion was storming in Rosalie, hard and angry and desperately painful.
‘You knew about me and did nothing? Nothing to help? Did you know how ill my mother was?’
The grey-green eyes so hideously like her own flashed again.
‘She was a fool, like I said! A clinging, feeble-minded fool! As for you—the state looked after you as a child... Your mother got child support, a flat to live in. Why would I waste my money on you?’
The harsh, cruel words about her hapless mother struck her like blows and she flinched to hear them. Protest rose in her, and she sent an arm flying out to encompass the opulence of the room she stood in, the grandeur of this mansion her father lived in.