The heiress to the five suns

Por Natalia Moderc Wahlström

Only by knowing her past can she find herself.

The Parker Family live with their only daughter, Anya, on a prosperous farm dedicated to the breeding and export of polo horses in the province of Buenos Aires, Argentina.

When the girl is nine years old, a fire breaks out during a party in the guest house which ends the life of her father. Her mother, devastated, decides to return to her hometown, Windsor in England, with her little girl.Together they have to restart their lives and carry the burden of the sorrow that the loss of their loved one caused.

Years later, Anya, now a beautiful young woman, decides to return to the horse-ranch to reclaim her inheritance and above all to rediscover her roots. There she rebuilds and reopens their old house, discovers secrets that she had never been told and embarks on a search for a hidden treasure that her father had left her.

Returning to her former home leads her to a new world and she finds much more than her land. She understands that the past is part of our lives, that sometimes goodbyes are necessary to mark the beginning of a new stage and, especially, that true love is stronger than time and distance and forever present.

Intertwined lives, revealed secrets, and stories of love and heartbreak.

An immersive and gripping novel about how discovering the past can change the present forever. The novel has romance, history and many geographical, as well as cultural details about Windsor, England and life on a ranch in Argentina.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Letrame Grupo Editorial
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 22 ago 2023
• ISBN: 9788411812696

Vista previa del libro

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© Derechos de edición reservados.

Letrame Editorial.

www.Letrame.com

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© Natalia Moderc Wahlström.

Diseño de edición: Letrame Editorial.

Maquetación: Juan Muñoz Céspedes

Diseño de portada: Rubén García

Supervisión de corrección: Ana Castañeda

ISBN: 978-84-1181-269-6

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«Cualquier forma de reproducción, distribución, comunicación pública o transformación de esta obra solo puede ser realizada con la autorización de sus titulares, salvo excepción prevista por la ley. Diríjase a CEDRO (Centro Español de Derechos Reprográficos) si necesita fotocopiar o escanear algún fragmento de esta obra (www.conlicencia.com; 91 702 19 70 / 93 272 04 47)».

.

This novel is dedicated to my parents Nora and Adalberto,

who have always supported me in all I do and who have

encouraged me to write.

Chapter 1

Buenos Aires, September 2017

The day was breaking, and the first rays of sun illuminated the house in the distance. I found myself there, on the other side of the world, on the way to my farm, to my stud farm. Paralysed, I studied the landscape from the window of the car. So many times I had imagined that moment and now, at last, there I was. I retraced the path which sixteen years before had taken me to England together with my mother, who, after my fathers’ death, sorrowfully decided to return to her country of birth.

As I struggled to breathe, I opened the car’s window. The breeze stroked my hair, and I could feel the aroma of the eucalyptus and of the freshly cut grass. I recognised the humidity in the air, which set off a torrent of emotions, and I let my mind wander the waters of my memories. I travelled back to my happy childhood, in those fields of Buenos Aires province, to the plane and fertile lands of the Argentine pampas.

Since the accident in the year 2001, the world seemed to have stopped in those southern lands. I felt that the years hadn’t passed.

My parents’ former driver, who now worked for Martina, drove in silence. My visit had taken him by surprise. In the back seat of the car, by my side, was Martina, my mother’s old friend, who knew about my arrival. Both had collected me at the airport the day before, and they also picked me up that same morning at the town’s hotel, close to my ranch, to take me to the house. To my house.

Why hasn’t your mother come with you? asked Martina.

She has tried many times, but it’s hard. She always has a new excuse for not coming back. I think she would want to, but she fears facing the past, facing loss. I think she even feels guilty, but I don’t know why, I said.

I understand. I guess that’s why you’ve come alone. You are the only two heiresses; no one else.

I want to know what happened, I said, and I lowered my gaze.

I wanted to closely understand the story which had filled my childhood with joy and my present with doubts and uncertainties. I wanted to walk down those same streets which I had once walked, to re-encounter the people who had been part of our lives, and to discover what happened that night of the fire in the guest house, the night my father died, when I was just nine years old.

I wanted to come back.

I thought of my mother. She had decided to marry, just recently, and after such a short dating period. As far as I knew, that was her first relationship since she was left a widow so many years before. I closed my eyes; I still couldn’t believe it. Re-marry. Also, they were planning to live in the same house in Windsor which I still shared with her. I should find another place. She wasn’t kicking me out at all, but I no longer desired to be there.

Madeleine should be preparing her wedding, said Martina.

It’s going to be simple, but, either way, it’s a lifestyle change, I said.

It was a tipping point both for her and for me. Apart from a change in routine, I was also looking for a new job as a vet. I had sent my CV requesting employment to various places.

The veterinary hospital where I worked was closing down and I saw that as an opportunity to get a good job in London or, why not, open my own shop: a veterinary clinic or a stud farm, which I had always dreamt of.

But for that last option I needed money, and I knew that I, together with my mother, was the heiress of those lands.

Upon his arrival in the country, my father had bought part of the fields, including the mansion, and then, thanks to the earnings provided by the breeding and sale of polo horses, he had managed to incorporate more hectares, thus becoming the proud owner of one of the most prominent stud farms of the area.

I focused again on the smell of the grass; it still calmed me down, just as much as it did in my childhood. I was nervous to return. One always fears what’s new, the unknown, but at the same time, I felt happy about having had the courage to do it. At that moment, I had the time, the motivation, and the will.

My mother and I were not rich, but we lived well, thanks to her art business, my job and some rented properties we had managed to buy with the money brought over from Buenos Aires following the 2001 accident. Overall, we were financially stable.

However, to open the clinic, I needed much more. However, money wasn’t the only reason that moved me to come back. I wanted to rediscover my past, to meet my father again, who, in some way, had stayed there forever.

If I remodelled the ranch, and if mum approved it, we could sell all the land and set for the rest of our lives. So many arable hectares were very valuable. In addition, my father had always talked about a treasure hidden somewhere in the ranch. My mother had never believed it, but I did.

The car was moving along the fields, and I thought of my mother, Madeleine, in Windsor. As if I could see her. I remembered that the day after, the guests, her students, would arrive. I was sure that she would be drinking tea, after lunch, and thinking of her job.

After being left a widow, she had packed a few things and full of sorrow, she had returned, with me, to her native England, to her childhood home in Windsor, in the outskirts of London. That Victorian style residence had been her parents’, but following their death, and my mother being the only child of the marriage, it belonged to her. Upon our return, it was there where we lived and where my mother installed her art business.

The house was lovely, with views of the Long Walk, a park serving as one of the entrances to Windsor Castle.

After the accident, the return to Windsor wasn’t easy. Not for me and I don’t think it was for my mother either. We had left behind too many memories. Our lives.

After trying to support ourselves with some jobs and a few businesses, she decided to give art classes to tourists. They would reside in the house for a few weeks, in a separate area with a private entrance. The selection of people who would visit us was an important part of the job.

In that moment, I didn’t think about it, but as time passed, it turned out to be a very good idea. Those courses earnt her good money. Nevertheless, after covering the costs of the chef, cleaning, gardening, etc., not much was left over, but we lived well, and she did what she most liked doing and what she knew how to do: engaging with art-related activities.

She also enormously enjoyed the constant visits of people from all around the world with their diverse stories and realities. Maybe because they accompanied her in her solitude and they helped her to forget her own story, from which, as far as I understood, even if she had tried hard to do it, she had not recovered. Yet.

Every morning my mother would go for a run with Nike, our golden labrador. I had named her in honour of the Greek goddess Nike, the goddess of Victory.

I knew that in September, as she stepped out, she breathed the fresh air of the imminent autumn. Sometimes she would walk; others, she would run, but that morning exercise served her to think, to put her life in order, or, at least, that was what she said.

The courses were extremely well organised. No one could deny that they were a success, a positive and pleasant experience for her guests indeed. They consisted of theoretical classes and painting practice, which she herself overlooked, together with Alicia Barbieri, her helper from Uruguay. It had been twelve years since Alicia started to work with mum. She was a couple of years older than me and was like a sister to me. Thanks to her, we were able to maintain the Spanish language alive at home as well as some customs and culture from South America, which was important for us, for keeping alive the memory of what we had left behind.

During their stay, the visitors were not offered English lessons, but they learnt a lot of the language and the British culture just by being immersed in that environment. It helped to be in Windsor, where the British lifestyle was present in every corner.

The guests would arrive in groups of up to eight at a time, from all over the world. The public was always homogeneous, not only in terms of their economic situation, but also regarding their cultural interests. When it came to other aspects of life, the clients were completely varied: art students, individuals looking for a partner, people seeking adventure, and even those who came in recommended by their therapist. They painted; they drew. The minimum age to do the courses was eighteen years old. My mother would organise cultural events, visits to museums and art galleries, even going to the theatre in London, and she would provide ideas to use the large resources which the city had to offer as a source of inspiration.

I looked outwards. I found the view to be distantly familiar. I thought we were close. I kept thinking, remembering. I had always heard that the fire started in the kitchen of the guests’ mansion during a big party, some metres away from our house. That’s why the flames never reached the main residence.

I had our house engraved in my brain since the very day I left, since the moment I saw it for the last time. But then, as I spotted it in the distance, my heart raced. I felt that time had not passed. It was 2001 again and the years that went by since then disappeared into an abyss. I was immobile, my eyes glassy behind my shades.

I could see the windmill that pumped water from underground and the water tank to its side. Would they still be working?

The chauffeur did not say a word. Martina, as I remembered her, filled the space with her endless commentary.

The car slowed down upon arriving at the iron gate framed by two ancient stone columns, upon which the faded writing Haras Nuevos Comienzos (New Beginnings Stud Farm) could barely be read.

When I saw that, sadness welled up in me. The car kept rolling between two rows of old trees called tipas, which marked the now fainted path to the residence.

We’ve arrived, said the chauffeur.

Thanks, I said.

My heart shrank when I saw the matted garden where some statues stood silently, tarnished by time and the birds. The whole environment seemed to have been overtaken by the undergrowth wrapped in neglect and disgrace. Little of the previous splendour remained.

So little of our past was left, so different from the one in my memories.

I mentioned to Dora that you would come. She is waiting close to the main door, said Martina.

The image of my old nanny Dora, though faded by time, started to appear in my mind. Upon raising my head, I saw her. Smiling as she always had in the past.

I was paralysed, with my hands moist. Martina said goodbye until later, when she would come and get me. She left me her number in case I needed her and a mobile phone for my personal use.

I managed to move. I left the car and began to walk down the once immaculate, white-stoned path, towards the entrance door. My legs trembled. The larger the main door got, the smaller my courage became.

Luckily, Dora was there, glaring at me incredulously.

Dora, was all that came out of me.

How much you’ve grown! she said with tears in her eyes. Judging by her tone, I sensed she wanted to express something else; she even took a few steps towards me, and I thought she would hug me, but then she retraced without doing so and after a few seconds, she said:

Here, I still have the key. I’ve kept it all these years. No one came to ask for it; no one has ever entered the house. Well, almost no one. My husband and I have come regularly to let the water run, let the pipes work, to open the windows and to clean. And the gardener has also come occasionally, to groom the plants a bit.

She paused briefly, so I attempted to say something or hug her as I used to do when I was a little girl, but I was still unable to move. She continued:

What we did fully manage to fix was the windmill and the water tank. I think they work well, she said while signalling them in the distance. I didn’t know what to tell her.

We had access to the old chapel and, given it was separate from the house, we could take care of it during these years. I have the key.

I looked at it from afar, as small as I remembered it. It had been built a long time before my parents bought the farm. I just nodded in silence. Dora went up the small staircase towards the entrance with determination. I followed her and could see, in the distance, among the wild bushes, the guest house, or what remained of it after the fire.

She opened the door, and we were wrapped in a large dust cloud. We waited a few minutes for it to dissipate and then entered. Once inside, we stayed on our feet. The situation overwhelmed me. The memory of my father, the unexpected presence of Dora, and the smell of abandonment were too much to bear. But I breathed deeply, and I just thought about finding out what had happened all those years ago and about remodelling the house. Restoring our lives.

If you think it’s ok, I’ll open the windows, said Dora in a quiet voice, with fear, as if our presence would awaken old ghosts.

Sure. Thanks.

Once a few windows were open, I reacted. The dim light of the morning sun seemed to invite the external beauty to the interior hall. But when I turned my eyes inwards, I saw that the deterioration of the house was undeniable and severe. I could feel a bitter nauseating smell. Abandonment. The furniture looked like white ghosts of ancient times, hiding stories.

I spotted the kitchen, full of empty jars and dirt. Dora smiled at me. I thought she did it to calm me down. We looked at each other. I couldn’t bear the weight of the situation and I proposed going upstairs, to do something different.

As I followed Dora, I suddenly noticed that she had aged; she was different then to how I remembered her. Her skin was marked with wrinkles. She looked shorter and heavier, but somehow, she was still the same. I followed her without uttering a word, with a knot in my stomach.

I longed to see my old bedroom, but reluctantly looked at other rooms before, to buy time for the big revelatory meeting with my past, with my things.

We wandered the house in silence, among detached wooden blinds, curtains on the floor and mould on the walls. The sun was already out, and it poured into every corner, but, even so, I could only sense an oppressing darkness around me.

At last, we arrived at my old room. Dora tried to go in first, but I stopped her. I wanted to do it alone. I opened the door slowly. First, I leaned my head in; my body followed in an almost mechanical manner. As I entered, I was transported to the past. Everything was intact. Dusty, but intact. My gaze settled on a round object, shaped like a sun, which decorated the wall. I didn’t exactly remember it, but I recognised it. My mother had a similar one in Windsor and a fleeting image crossed my mind; I had seen it elsewhere.

My eyes continued to explore the room. My perfumes and brushes were still in the same place where they used to be. I opened the cupboard with my trembling hand; my small clothes were still there. I didn’t have the strength to look further, and I closed the cupboard door.

I felt that only the old calendar betrayed the passing of time and dictated, mercilessly: 24-03-2001. Twenty-fourth of March, Saturday. That was the day my father, James Parker, died in the guest house where the party was held. Was the fire arson? The eternal question.

When I turned around, I saw myself reflected in a huge mirror on the wall. It was a strange sensation. One expects a familiar image when one looks in the mirror, but that day it was not like that. The last time that I had seen myself there, I was a girl and dad was still alive. I thought I could see his faded silhouette drawn in the glass. I extended my hand out to touch it. But it was not possible: he was no longer there. I felt I needed some air. I descended the stairs and stopped by the door. I wanted to flee the house. Dora followed me without saying a word; it was unnecessary. Shaking, I called the chauffeur so he would come and collect me at the farm gates by the stone pillars. I would walk up to there.

As I left the house, I looked at Dora, who remained by my side. Despite all the years that had passed, I still felt extremely close to her; we had that strange connection that affection seems to create, those ties that time can’t destroy. She placed her hand on my shoulder and closed the door without speaking. I believed we both knew that we would return the following day.

Do you want to stay at my house? I’m alone. My two sons have gotten married, and my husband is off working on the nearby fields.

I vaguely recalled Dora’s children. They were a couple of years older than me, and I remembered her husband. I felt curious to ask her about their lives, but it wasn’t the right moment: I was tired and wanted to be alone. So, I just said:

"Thanks, Dora, but I’m staying at El Ombú Blanco, the hotel in town a few minutes from here."

But will you be there alone all the time?

No, I’ll only stay there for a few days. I intend to refurbish the house during my stay. We can drop you off at your house before going to the hotel.

I like the way you say Dora, with a slight English accent.

I was grateful for that comment; the truth was, I wasn’t sure how to address her.

Thanks for the offer. I still live nearby though, the same place that we managed to buy, like other workers from the ranch, after the fire.

It’s good that the money my mother sent from Windsor helped you all rebuild your lives.

We live, but nothing’s been the same since then, mumbled Dora, her gaze lost in the infinite green landscape.

Still there, standing by the door, I closed my eyes and breathed the fresh air. I needed some moments to think, to settle my emotions. I guessed Dora realised that I needed a couple of minutes to be alone because she distanced herself a few metres and sat down by the trunk of a fallen tree.

Questions about the accident roamed my head. Always. What had happened to all the personnel and to all the horses around the farm after we left for Windsor?

Yellow and orange flames crossed my mind; I could still remember the fire. I could hear it, feel its heat.

It happened at a party in honour of my father. That night, the guests’ residence was very nicely arranged. Everything shone. It was decorated with a mix of typical Argentine country furniture from the 1900’s, but with a major European influence. The three golden chandeliers were made of glass, and they scattered light throughout the room, exposing all its opulence.

The tables were dressed in white tablecloths. The French crockery covered in silver, which had belonged to my mother’s family for decades, had been brought over from Windsor for their wedding. I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter and I could still hear the people talking animatedly. Through the open windows, I could watch, smell the garden, see the row of cypresses that led the way to the mansion, surrounded by flowers which were planted symmetrically. I shuddered as I visualised the moment in which I saw the fire. I found out that only a few drops of oil fallen over the hot hob was enough for the small flame to be infuriated and grow to unimaginable proportions and extend with painful and irreversible consequences. It was with no warning, or, perhaps, with a gentle whisper that a ball of fire traversed the arches of the kitchen to install itself in the hall full of people. The colour of the sphere was a vivid red. It seemed to have a life and will of its own. With violence and uninvited, it began to climb the curtains; it bounced from one to another until it reached the ceiling, causing scraps of burnt fabric to fall and continue its ruthless path, devouring everything in flames. It deviated our destinies forever. It changed our lives completely. I opened my eyes, and I sat down on the stairs by the entrance. I kept remembering.

The doors to the kitchen and the large windows in the hall were open to the outside so everyone could escape. Even those who were on the floors above were able to escape, alerted by the desperate shouts of the guests. Not everyone. My father, acting as the captain of the boat, remained in the house until the last person had left. However, unlike the captain of a ship, he attempted to escape, but it was too late.

I remembered how outside, the night comforted the victims, but inside, the fire raged on its destructive path. It dragged across the carpets, carrying away the lamps, the furniture, the china, taking away our memories and an irreplaceable life, without which, the existence of the Haras Nuevos Comienzos would never be the same again.

That evening, from the garden, the last thing I saw was an army of flames, which extended through the floor above. My mother and Dora held me. We all melted into a hug, and I heard my mother cry.

A group of colourful and glowing butterflies fell from up above to the floor, disappearing on their descending path, turning off our stories with them.

I refused to keep reminiscing and I proceeded to walk down the stairs. Dora stood up and came to meet me. She took my hand and helped me dry my tears. And like that, slowly hand in hand, we headed for the entrance, where the car was waiting to pick me up.

That night I returned to the hotel, downhearted and confused. I ate very little for dinner and took refuge in my room. I thought about calling Michael, my loyal friend, to tell him about my arrival, but in England it was still early afternoon, and he would be at work. So, I called Alicia. In the background I could hear my mother’s voice:

Thanks, Alicia. What would I do without you? It’s cold! I’ve turned on the heating, but I think it doesn’t work in some of the rooms. Maybe it’s because it’s the first time I’ve turned it on since last winter. I’ll ask Jason about it when he arrives. While you finish preparing everything, I’ll go to all the rooms and see in which ones it doesn’t work.

Sorry, Anya. Tomorrow some students are arriving, so we’re checking the radiators all over the house. Madeleine will begin by the guest rooms. She’s disappeared through the kitchen, said Alicia.

I can imagine, I said. She always had the same routine: she would leave through the kitchen, which was the only room that connected our house with the students’.

I imagined her as if I could see her in front of me. Walking in a hurry, her slender figure would be moving with ease. I was sure she would start by checking the basement. She would study every detail of the room and ensure that the easels were ready as well as the sketchbooks and the paintings. Her eyes would be fixated, as usual, on the big windows; her gaze would get lost in the green of the Long Walk, as if reminding her of something: of the farm? But her thoughts would quickly come back to her list of tasks.

Hurriedly, as she tied her chestnut hair into a ponytail, she would go up to the rooms of both floors above the painting studio located in the basement, where her students would sleep. She would nervously pace, and with notes in hand, she would study her next students’ backgrounds in as much detail as possible.

Alicia had told me about the guests. There were six of them coming and they would be focusing on the painters John Constable and William Turner. A woman from Milan, who had just got divorced at only thirty-five years old, together with her Spanish friend, who accompanied her on the trip. Another guest was British: an executive who lived in London, familiar with the top art galleries, and whose wife had just died. He was interested in spending a few days in Windsor to visit some of his family. He deemed that a different way of doing it. A youngster who studied art in Paris, another twenty something from Sweden, and a middle-aged paediatrician from India.

Upon leaving the guest quarters, my mother would return via the kitchen, where the cook would be preparing some things for next day’s breakfast to welcome the newcomers. She would cordially greet her and she would go on her way.

Surely all was perfect. That was the way my mother was: structured and organised. She didn’t like taking risks. While I thought of her, I was talking on the phone with Alicia, but I could hear her voice in the distance.

The radiators work everywhere except in the living room, she said with relief.

Well, Jason can surely fix them, mentioned Alicia.

What would we do without Jason! Apart from driving the car, he fixes everything. Oh, sorry, you’re on the phone! said mum.

It’s Anya.

Send her a kiss and tell her to behave. I’ll call her in a bit.

Hey, Anya, did you hear your mother? We’re preparing everything. Tomorrow they’re arriving super early. And how are things over there?

Good. For now, I’m staying in a hotel until I can live in the farmhouse. I’ll keep you updated. Tell mum that I’m fine. She seems nervous about this trip. Maybe she thinks I’ll discover some dark secret, I giggled sarcastically.

Maybe. You never know, concluded Alicia.

After my conversation with Alicia, I felt a bit better. I laid on my bed and, wrapped in the silence of the night, I thought of the farm. I thought of my childhood again and how things were back then. Until the accident happened, I remembered being happy and carefree.

Suddenly the thought of the time in Windsor flooded my mind. I thought of our routine there. Of my mother, her life, our lives. She did everything she could to give me stability. To a certain extent, she managed to do so, but what she was never able to do was to overcome the sorrow that the accident had left us with. The memories had been well put to rest, but they were still alive under a blanket of silence.

In Windsor, she would walk around the house regularly, making sure everything was in order. The house was built around 1870 and it held a special place in her heart. She loved it there. It stood on a corner next to other houses placed in a row, all with identical terraces and all similar in style. The design of the garden was gorgeous, symmetrical, with large flower beds between the beige and white tiles, which formed simple but geometrical figures. In the entrance, behind that garden, there was a porch which delimited the main entrance to the house, marked by two columns and a small domed ceiling that mum herself had painted and decorated. Even though the gardener came once a week, she also took care of the gardens, which seemed to calm her. Particularly, upon returning as a widow, she was so heartbroken that she had dedicated herself to decorating the house with an exaggerated enthusiasm. Slowly but surely, she renovated the whole house. She replaced the heavy curtains with other modern, lighter ones. She removed all the dark wallpaper with large flowers, and she painted the walls a soft pastel shade. She also took out the carpets from the ground floor and she restored the expensive wooden floor on which they laid. And in general, she always maintained the house impeccably. She replaced furniture, curtains, and whatever was necessary. I liked the living room: wide, with views of one side of the Long Walk, which could be seen through the guillotine windows, and from the other side one could see the conservatory. There we drank tea and chatted.

The garden was my favourite spot. It had a brick floor, lots of plants and a small fountain with water which flowed constantly. I installed my veterinary hospital there after I came back from Buenos Aires. I played to be a vet when I was a small girl. Besides, on that floor of the house, one could also find the kitchen, separated only from the family room and the dining room by short furniture pieces, through which the garden could be accessed. That was the heart of our home, especially when we shared it with the guests, who had access to that area only at certain times. The kitchen had two entrances: one from the quarters of the house where the guests lived, which stayed shut most of the time, and the other one from the part of the house in which we lived. The visiting area was located in the old service quarters. It had the typical basement, which had been completely remodelled, including the windows and the small kitchen, which served as an art studio with access to the two floors above where the bedrooms were.

Alicia had told me in an email