Stolen Kiss (The Turners of Copper Island #2)

32. Cynthia

Chapter 32

Cynthia

Forty years ago

C ynthia Turner sat at the small round wrought-iron table sipping a cup of tea in a dainty teacup. Something drew her eyes to the far side of the gardens. She could see movement and wondered who was walking up the pathway from the beach. Only family and staff used that path. But before she fully emerged, Cynthia knew who it was. A gap in the trees displayed Jennifer’s slim calves and her feet in sensible black lace-up leather shoes.

To everyone else, Jennifer was her handmaid, but between them, they were friends. The best kind. If Jennifer was hiking up that path, it only meant one thing.

Uncrossing her legs, Cynthia gently placed her cup back on the saucer, admiring the roses on the side of the cup. Then, curling her fingers underneath and pressing her thumb on the teaspoon, she stood. The floor space on the corner of the veranda was three feet square. It had a small table and a single chair. Black railings kept her safe from falling. It was the only positive of being held captive at Turner Hall. No one else could get out there. The only door was through her rooms. They were locked whenever Cynthia wasn’t in her rooms.

Cynthia took over her wing when her mother died a few years ago. She could see the entire grounds from that small corner of Turner Hall. The chair had its back to the wall, and if she stayed perfectly still, no one could see her in the shadows, even on a summer’s day like it was that day. The small patio area never saw direct sunlight.

It matched her permanent state of distress when she was at Turner Hall. Dark and dank.

Jennifer knew better than to wave, but Cynthia could see the imperceptible nod Jennifer gave. The nod thrilled Cynthia’s body like she’d been hit by a defibrillator.

Cynthia hurried along the corridor from her rooms and rounded the corner to the main staircase.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Her father, Archibald Turner, stood at the mouth of the opposite wing to hers. He had his hands in his tweed trousers, the edges of the matching jacket shoved behind his wrists. It was mid-June, but her father wore a thin cardigan over his olive green shirt and dark green tie. He dressed well and always took pride in his appearance. She knew that would never change until his dying breath.

“Down to the quayside to get some fresh air,” Cynthia replied, lying through her teeth.

“I know when you’re lying, girl, but at least I know it’s not to meet a man. I have my spies everywhere, and there is no word of you paying anyone any attention.”

Girl .

She was forty years old, and he still referred to her in his condescending tone as a girl. She smiled inwardly that he didn’t have enough spies. Cynthia might not be meeting a man in town, but she would meet her man in Italy for a couple of weeks. Her father was so busy watching her, he wasn’t watching Jennifer. To him, she was service staff and inconsequential.

Jennifer was Cynthia’s cover.

It was an elaborate plan concocted over many glasses of gin ten years ago when her lover, Jonathan Cranford, was banished from the island. Her mother had died years ago, leaving her alone with the men in the house. Jennifer was her only female friend and the only person she trusted outside of Jonathan. Unfortunately, the Turner men didn’t look at the help, even in 1983.

Edward Turner, her grandfather, had just celebrated his one-hundred-and-third birthday. Not that the man knew what day of the week it was. Her father, in his mid-sixties, was lording over the family and the island. It remained a mystery why he hadn’t been given a peerage. He’d clip her around the calf with his cane whenever she broached the subject. Her father had learned that from her grandfather.

Jennifer had no intention of ever marrying. She’d said she was devoted to service and would stay with Cynthia until her last breath. They were of similar age, height, hair colour, and stature.

Her father was convinced after Cynthia had refused to marry his chosen husband, she would run away. So he stripped her of her inheritance, thinking that would make her undesirable. She knew her father would act on his threats should she meet Jonathan. Cynthia would never understand why he had a fixation on that particular man.

With no obligations to the Turner estate, Cynthia decided she would travel abroad as much as possible. Freddie left to work on the rigs and returned during his downtime to see Imelda. That was the compromise Freddie had made with their father. Freddie would work on the rig of Archibald Turner’s choosing in exchange for being allowed to court Imelda. Freddie was as cash poor as Cynthia and wanted to marry Imelda and have children. Much the same for Cynthia, except she wasn’t allowed to choose her spouse.

Thankfully, her father was so removed from the real world he didn’t know when the boarding schools broke up for the holidays.

Cynthia was two weeks away from spending the summer with Jonathan.

With her father holding her captive with his silence, Cynthia waited where she stood, even at forty, waiting to be dismissed.

“We have plenty of land for you to walk on to get fresh air. Can’t imagine you’ll get much fresh air at the quayside.”

“Technically, it’s all our land,” Cynthia said.

“Can’t say I agree with the term, our , seeing as you’ve been disinherited,” he replied.

He never let her forget it, ever.

“It’s still my home. I understand I won’t inherit when you pass on, but at least I can enjoy it.”

Archibald turned and walked away without a goodbye. That was her dismissal, and she didn’t care how rude he was. She was used to it. Bolting down the stairs in her deck shoes, flared skirt, and t-shirt, she took off from Turner Hall and ran down the gravel drive towards the town. She didn’t stop running until she reached the wall of the quayside. She collapsed to the floor with her back to the stone wall. Cynthia looked down the walkway to see if anyone had meandered her way, but there was no one. Seagulls squawked above her, and the horn of a tug sounded. She could hear a small prop plane coming into land at the airfield in the far distance. But no voices.

Cynthia twisted at the waist where she sat, pulled out the loose brick from the quayside wall, and peered into the dark cavity. There was a gap that dropped six inches. Reaching inside, Cynthia clasped the paper and smiled.

“Well done, Jennifer,” Cynthia whispered.

She tugged out the envelope and brushed off stray pieces of moss. Relief made her shoulders sag with relief as she looked at Jonathan’s handwriting. It was addressed to Jennifer, but she knew it was for her, and so did Jennifer.

Any staff member who lived in the accommodation quarters for the service staff had their post delivered, along with the rest of Turner Hall’s post. Jennifer’s task was to walk into town early and collect the postbag. Her responsibility was for Edward Hall, too. She would use the private Turner gravel path down into the main town area, as it was a shorter route. On the way back, she stuffed Jonathan’s letter in the gap behind the loose stone that took her moments, and she would be on her way. As Cynthia’s personal maid, it was easy for her to let Cynthia know it was there.

And that was what happened that morning.

The next part was the hardest. Where to read the letter without getting discovered. Her father had spies everywhere. To be fair, Cynthia assumed everyone but Jennifer was an informant to Archibald Turner. Their livelihood depended on compliance.

Cynthia walked through the town, chatting with a few people as she moved through the streets. On the other side of the island, it opened up to fields and then the airstrip. There was nothing fancy about Turner Airport. There was a small building that processed people in and out, one small runway, and a landing pad for large helicopters. Off to the far side, there were warehouses. All of them belonged to the Turners and stored freight for Edward and Turner Hall. Some of the larger freight boxes had old furniture and elegant pieces from the 1800s and late 1700s that the current Turner men didn’t like.

She had a spare key and let herself in at the back of the end warehouse. Looking at the storage boxes, she could see no changes since the last time. Climbing up on the smaller boxes until she reached the top, Cynthia settled on the blanket she’d left there, switched on the gas lamp, and tore open Jonathan’s letter.