‘Did you hide the body?’ she whispered, searching his face for a trace of movement, the slightest sign. ‘I’ve always wanted to believe what you said about the boy leaving the island. But I never did.’
Grace had always clung to the idea that Robert had moved the body, hidden it, covered the whole thing up. She had never bought the story of the missing boy and the stolen boat. That boat boy had been dead. Her father was a powerful man – why wouldn’t he make it all go away if he could? So for all these years she had directed her anger towards him, hiding her own shame at leaving the body by focusing on her father’s corruption and arrogance. But sitting here, next to his frail body, she finally realised why he had done it: because he had been protecting his son. Miles had killed that boy and Robert had helped him. And Grace couldn’t honestly say she wouldn’t have done the same thing had it been Joseph or Olivia.
‘Come back to us, Daddy,’ she said through the tears. ‘I understand now. I don’t want you to be the bogeyman any more.’
She heard movement behind her and turned. Connie Ashford was standing there with two cups of coffee. Grace swallowed; how long had she been there? What had she heard? She quickly rubbed her face, embarrassed at her tears.
‘Don’t, darling,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t be ashamed of loving your father.’
She put the coffee down and sat next to Grace, holding her hand. ‘God knows, there are times when he didn’t deserve it. I’ll admit there are times when I hated him. Sasha is not the first by any means, even if she thinks she is.’
‘Mum, I . . .’
Connie put a finger to her lips. ‘You’re a grown woman, Grace, and I’m so proud of how you’ve made a life for yourself. I don’t know what we did to make you need to leave, but things are different now – you’re different. I know it’s a selfish thing to ask, but I want you to come home.’
Grace had been thinking about it, weighing up the options, knowing it would be good for the kids, maybe even good for her. But still she hesitated.
‘I . . . I’m not sure, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’
Connie looked into her eyes. ‘If we waited until we were ready for everything, we would never leave the nest. Nothing’s perfect in this life, Grace,’ she said, looking at her husband’s prone figure. ‘But you have to take a chance and hope you’re doing the right thing.’
Grace nodded, knowing she was right.
‘Come back to us, Grace,’ said her mother, holding her hand tight. ‘We need you.’
45
Robert Ashford’s funeral was held in the church in Sweeton village, just a couple of miles from the family estate. Mourners were ferried in by helicopter or blacked-out limousines and the pews were filled with celebrities, captains of industry, even members of the Cabinet. A military-trained security company had to be employed to keep the press and rubberneckers from invading the area. At the request of the family, the service was kept short and solemn.
Connie quietly wept on Grace’s shoulder in the church, but dried her eyes and held her head aloft as they walked out into the quiet graveyard. She was dignifed and elegant as she accepted the hushed words of condolence at the wake in the red drawing room of Ashford Park. Grace was impressed by how well she held herself together, considering the bottom had fallen out of her world. Grief was hard enough to deal with on its own – Grace knew that well enough – but her mother had an extra burden to shoulder: the pain and humiliation of the way in which Robert had died.
‘Can I get you anything, Mum?’ she asked, as the last of the mourners left. Connie looked tired and drawn, her eyes ringed with dark circles no make-up could hide.
‘No thank you, darling,’ her mother said, patting her hand. ‘Everyone has been so kind. The trouble is everyone thinks they should talk to me, but no one knows what to say.’
Grace smiled. ‘Well you let me know. I’m just going to speak to Miles.’
Her brother and his wife were standing by the long French windows leading to the terrace, each with a glass of white wine. Grace immediately sensed an atmosphere, as if they’d just been arguing.
‘How’s it going, sis?’ said Miles, raising his glass.
‘I’ve had better days, Miles,’ said Grace.
Miles nodded and looked away. ‘Mum seems to be bearing up pretty well, considering.’
‘At least Sasha Sinclair had the decency to stay away,’ said Chrissy. She was wearing a demure Chanel shift dress with a Hermès scarf round her neck. No one would have suspected that this woman had ever been out of the Home Counties, let alone spent years as an exotic dancer. Money and success had rubbed away her history like footprints on the beach.
‘I don’t think even Sasha would want that sort of publicity,’ said Grace. Miles looked as if he was about to say something, then took a long drink of his wine instead.
‘I see Alex Doyle sent flowers,’ said Chrissy, trying to fill the awkward silence.
‘That was kind of him,’ said Grace.
‘Mum says you’re moving back to Britain?’ said Miles abruptly.
‘Yes, for the winter anyway. I’ll see how it goes after that. How long
are you staying?’