Master of the Game by Sidney Sheldon
Epigraph
“And hence one master-passion in the breast, Like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up the rest.”
—Alexander Pope,
Essay on Man, Epistle II
Master of the Game by Sidney Sheldon
Epigraph
“And hence one master-passion in the breast, Like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up the rest.”
—Alexander Pope,
Essay on Man, Epistle II
“Diamonds resist blows to such an extent that an iron hammer may be split in two and even the anvil itself may be displaced. This invincible force, which defies Nature’s two most violent forces, iron and fire, can be broken by ram’s blood. But it must be steeped in blood that is fresh and warm and, even so, many blows are needed.”
—Pliny the Elder
Table of Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
PROLOGUE Kate 1982
BOOK ONE Jamie 1883-1906
PROLOGUE
Kate 1982
The large ballroom was crowded with familiar ghosts come to help celebrate her birthday. Kate Blackwell watched them mingle with the flesh-and-blood people, and in her mind, the scene was a dreamlike fantasy as the visitors from another time and place glided around the dance floor with the unsuspecting guests in black tie and long, shimmering evening gowns. There were one hundred people at the party at Cedar Hill House, in Dark Harbor, Maine. Not counting the ghosts, Kate Blackwell thought wryly.
She was a slim, petite woman, with a regal bearing that made her appear taller than she was. She had a face that one remembered. A proud bone structure, dawn-gray eyes and a stubborn chin, a blending of her Scottish and Dutch ancestors. She had fine, white hair that once had been a luxuriant black cascade, and against the graceful folds of her ivory velvet dress, her skin had the soft translucence old age sometimes brings.
I don’t feel ninety, Kate Blackwell thought. Where have all the years gone? She watched the dancing ghosts. They know. They were there. They were a part of those years, a part of my life. She saw Banda, his proud black face beaming. And there was her David, dear David, looking tall and young and handsome, the way he looked when she first fell in love with him, and he was smiling at her, and she thought, Soon, my darling, soon. And she wished David could have lived to know his great-grandson.
Kate’s eyes searched the large room until she saw him. He was standing near the orchestra, watching the musicians. He was a strikingly handsome boy, almost eight years old, fair-haired, dressed in a black velvet jacket and tartan trousers. Robert was a replica of his great-great-grandfather, Jamie McGregor, the man in the painting above the marble fireplace. As though sensing her eyes on him, Robert turned, and Kate beckoned him to her with a wave of her fingers, the perfect twenty-carat diamond her father had scooped up on a sandy beach almost a hundred years ago scintillating in the radiance of the crystal chandelier. Kate watched with pleasure as Robert threaded his way through the dancers.
I am the past, Kate thought. He is the future. My great-grandson will take over Kruger-Brent Limited one day. He reached her side, and she made room for him on the seat beside her.
“Are you having a nice birthday, Gran?”
“Yes. Thank you, Robert.”
“That’s a super orchestra. The conductor’s really bad.”
Kate looked at him in momentary confusion, then her brow cleared. “Ah. I presume that means he’s good.”
Robert grinned at her. “Right. You sure don’t seem ninety.”
Kate Blackwell laughed. “Just between the two of us, I don’t feel it.”
He slipped his hand in hers, and they sat there in a contented silence, the eighty-two-year difference between them giving them a comfortable affinity. Kate turned to watch her granddaughter dancing. She and her husband were without doubt the handsomest couple on the floor.
Robert’s mother saw her son and grandmother seated together and she thought, What an incredible woman. She’s ageless. No one would ever guess all she has lived through.
The music stopped, and the conductor said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to present young Master Robert.”
Robert squeezed his great-grandmother’s hand, stood up and walked over to the piano. He sat down, his face serious and intent, and then his fingers began to race across the keyboard. He played Scriabin, and it was like the rippling of moonlight on water.