The Brande Legacy

by Alicia Hope

  I’d found Elizabeth’s music room!

  I rubbed away more dust and found a brick slightly raised in one corner. With my pocket-knife I worked the brick loose and lifted it, exposing a cavity. Trying not to think of creepy crawlies waiting to bite, sting, or amputate my fingers, I felt around in the hole. I touched a furry object and recoiled, but when no frantic scurrying or other disturbing sounds followed, I reached in again and grabbed the offending item, hoping it wasn’t a petrified rat carcass, or worse.

  It wasn’t, thankfully. It was a small velvet bag embroidered with the initials EBB, and tied with an aged silk drawstring. When I undid it, the drawstring promptly disintegrated under my fingers. Inside the dusty velvet folds was a small, gold-leafed book. I opened it carefully and found the pages full of neat handwriting, with a date noted against each entry.

  Elizabeth’s journal, what I hoped was her ‘hidden proof’.

  I pocketed the diary, grabbed Topaz and left, locking up behind myself after making sure I’d left things the way I’d found them. I wasted no time scarpering to my room. Safely back there, I made myself a cup of tea and sat in the armchair by the fire, with Topaz purring on the rug at my feet.

  I settled in to read Elizabeth’s words, and have reproduced some pertinent entries below.

  The storm keeps on twisting as they spread evil lies,

  And nobody listens to my plaintive cries.

  Thrust into the wreckage of a silent reverie,

  Where can I find comfort now love is lost to me?

  Is today the blackest day of my life, or is that terrible curse yet to come upon me? I have received news of such devastating import, I can barely write of it. Word has reached us of a vile tale propagated to discredit me and my beloved Edward and his family, and all while Edward is not here to defend my honour.

  It is said, and I almost fail in the writing of it, that, for the purposes of financial gain, I have had ‘dalliances’ with Edward’s own brother, William, and that a child has ensued. Such villainous lies! I cannot think that someone should wish to bring us all into such terrible disrepute.

  Oh diary, how am I to declare my innocence when my situation appears to give credence to this wicked story? Of course it is my beloved husband’s child whose presence becomes more obvious each day. I eagerly await Edward’s return to impart this glad news to him before any others, but my joyful expectation has been tarnished by this slanderous tale. My condition, and my secrecy about it, will be seen as proving the lie, of this I am certain.

  My heart swells with a pain unbearable at the thought this vile falsehood might find its way to my beloved Edward’s ears. He is so far away from me in Paris, so out of reach of the truth. I must find the fortitude to write to him the facts, for I cannot endure the thought of his thinking ill of me for even the merest moment....

  It was so sad reading Elizabeth’s account of those terrible days, Mum. Her handwriting grew more wretched as she described the spiteful embellishment of the accusations by those jealous of Edward’s success and high standing in the community.

  I found a newspaper clipping tucked into the back of her diary. It was badly smudged in places, but still legible. According to its account, Edward cut short his stay in Paris, so he obviously heard the slanderous allegations against his wife. Before Elizabeth’s letter could reach him, he boarded the next vessel leaving for New Zealand, which happened to be a New Zealand-owned barque, the Polly Brown, carrying Edward’s own timber.

  While negotiating the Pacific’s stormy waters, the ship was wrecked, and Edward J Lorienne Esq. died without knowing the truth about the woman he loved. The date of his death is noted in the diary, in a spider-web thin and shaky hand, followed only by two brief, barely legible entries. Elizabeth writes first of her heartbreak ‘manifesting as pain unbearable’, and describes the family’s efforts to have her seen to by a doctor. Her last entry has a ring of finality about it. She simply professes her undying love for her husband, who she ‘shall miss for eternity.…’

  So, what do you make of all this, Mum? According to Elizabeth, she and William had never been alone together on the few occasions they had met, so the ‘scandal’ was simply malicious, fabricated lies. I’m sure if Edward had made it home he would’ve sorted it out lickity split. Instead he died in a shipwreck, never knowing his wife was innocent, and carrying his first child.

  Tragic story, hey?

  Luv,

  CR xxx

  Claire-Rose was on the verge of also telling her mother about Jill’s and Selena’s night-time terrors, but thought better of it.

  I don’t want to worry Mum unnecessarily. After all, these ‘encounters’ are simply the result of bad dreams and overactive imaginations, fired up from hearing too many ghost stories.

  All the same, her stomach tightened at the memory of Jill’s pale, terrified face, and she resolutely turned her thoughts to considering Selena’s incident.

  I’ve noticed how the curtain billows inward when I’m in the shower. I bet that’s what happened to Selena too. Only she’s become so spook-sensitive, she imagined it to be a ‘ghostly attack’. Sheesh!

  Giving herself a mental shake, Claire-Rose pressed ‘send’ on the message to her mother. As she turned off her computer, she realised the other thing she hadn’t mentioned was her dinner plans for the evening....

  Chapter Twelve

  Father and Son

  Claire-Rose heard what sounded like a motorbike coming to a stop outside the Lodge. She tripped lightly down the stairs and looked out. Sure enough, someone of Byron’s height and build, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, was pulling up on a big, black sport bike.

  Sexy.

  She couldn’t see his face beneath the dark visor of his full-faced helmet, until he lifted it and looked her way. On seeing her, his lips parted in a slow, wide grin, and her stomach fluttered in reply. She swallowed and walked over to where he remained sitting on the bike, forearms resting casually on the handlebars, watching her approach. While admiring the smooth grace of her movements he ran his eyes over her shapely body, taking in the fitted jeans and silky blouse that didn’t scream ‘woman’, but certainly shouted it.

  ‘Hey,’ she said a little breathlessly when she drew near, ‘nice bike.’

  ‘Thanks. And nice...,’ his eyes flicked over her again, ‘you.’

  She felt her heart skip at his warm smile and the blatant compliment gleaming in his eyes.

  He handed her a helmet and a stylish, but undeniably pre-loved, leather jacket. ‘You’re ready, great. Here, hop on.’

  Pulling on the jacket, she breathed in its masculine, leathery scent. She was glad he’d brought it along for her, the fine fabric and scooped neckline of her close-fitting crimson blouse wouldn’t provide much protection against the wind. The jacket was too big for her, but she didn’t care. Rolling up the sleeves she said, ‘So, you’re a bike, not a car, man?’

  ‘I have a car too, a clapped-out old Mazda, but I use the bike whenever I can. Hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. I do some riding myself.’ Claire-Rose was pleased she’d chosen to wear jeans and boots that night. Shaking her loose hair down her back, she pulled on the helmet. As she took her seat behind him, she noticed a chiller bag on the bike’s carrier, no doubt containing the promised bottle of bubbly.

  ‘Have you got a bike?’

  ‘No, something much more challenging,’ she sniffed. ‘A horse.’

  He chuckled. ‘Oh, right. Well, I prefer a motorised steed myself. Now hold on,’ he instructed, and she obediently wrapped her arms around him. He felt firm and strong, and smelt good; fresh, and spicy. He called over his shoulder, ‘OK, we ready?’

  At her nod, he flipped his visor closed and started the motor, which settled into a low rumble. When he growled, ‘Tighter,’ she snuggled closer into his broad back. When he put the bike into gear it leapt into motion like a panther released from its cage. At the exhilarating surge of power, Claire-Rose gave a low, throaty laugh and
tightened her grip further.

  Topaz stood in the doorway, watching them until they drove away, and then, with a twitch of his tail, he slipped into the dimness.

  It was a clear evening. The darkening blue of the sky was blotted only by the cloud lingering over Lorienne Castle. Claire-Rose sat on the rug Byron had thrown on the ground beside the bike, sipping her bubbly and studying the cloud, finding shapes in its brooding presence. Byron reclined beside her, completely at ease. They sat in companionable silence, admiring the view, until he straightened and took the bottle of bubbly from the chiller bag.

  ‘Top-up?’

  ‘Please.’ She held out her champagne flute.

  ‘So, what do you think of the bay?’ he enquired pleasantly, filling her glass and then returning the empty wine bottle to the bag.

  ‘It’s gorgeous.’ She gave an appreciative sigh and leaned on her elbows. ‘I love this peninsula. The way the greener than green hills, dotted with white sheep, roll downward to white-tipped blue water caressing the sand....’

  He gazed at her, admiring the dreamy quality of her topaz eyes, which appeared golden in the dusky light. Then he too leaned on his elbows. ‘It might be caressing the beach now, but you should see the ocean in its usual blustery state. Conquest Beach is rarely this calm.’

  ‘Conquest Beach?’

  ‘Down there,’ and he pointed at a strip of white sand bordering the bay. ‘The longest beach on the peninsula.’ He paused to squint at the shore. ‘See those little dots moving across the sand? They’re probably yellow-eyed penguins, returning home from a fishing expedition.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I visited a colony of them the other day. Cute.’ She took a drink and wondered aloud, ‘What sort of conquest was the beach named after?’

  ‘Actually, it was for a ship that was wrecked here in the late eighteen hundreds, the SS Conquest.’ Taking a mouthful of wine, he turned his darkly-lashed brown eyes onto her. ‘And while we’re on the subject of history, do you know where the bay’s name, Witchcliffe, came from?’

  She was sipping her bubbly but turned bright, attentive eyes onto him and shook her head.

  ‘From another wreck, of the Charles Witchcliffe. It ran aground here, with the leader of the first settlers on board.’

  Thinking of the Polly Brown, Claire-Rose murmured, ‘Shipwrecks certainly featured a lot in New Zealand’s past, hey?’ Without waiting for a response she went on. ‘Say, speaking of criminals....’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘What’s the deal with Fred Chalmers?’

  ‘The “Oyster”?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Byron pursed his lips. ‘Well, sticky-fingered Freddy stole a priceless necklace, right from a woman’s throat apparently, before stowing away in the castle which was deserted at the time.’

  ‘And the necklace was never recovered?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you think he might’ve stashed it somewhere in the castle?’

  Byron grinned. ‘Well ... the thought had crossed my mind.’

  She sat up. ‘So, have you looked for it?’

  He laughed. ‘Of course. Byron Mystery McAlister, remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she giggled, leaning back again, ‘and did you find anything?’

  ‘Nothing of any real value, although it’s surprising what the castle was hiding in its many nooks and crannies.’ He took in Claire-Rose’s reclining form and added with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘But I had fun looking.’

  She kept her gaze fixed on the panorama before them, and drained her glass. Sitting up, she declared crisply, ‘Well that’s the wine gone. Now I’m ready for some food.’

  With a lop-sided grin, Byron got to his feet. ‘Your chariot awaits, madam.’

  He packed their gear with efficient speed and they took their seats on the bike again.

  ‘Before we head into town I’ll take you to the point, so we can pay our respects to Ponaho Whatu.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ponaho Whatu, it’s Maori for small stone, but I think of Ponaho as the runt of the litter. She’s the smallest in a group of basalt columns right on the point, overlooking the beach. According to legend, she and her big brothers are the bay’s guardians. I always pay her a visit whenever I come up here.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘OK, hang on.’

  The Ducati’s motor roared to life again as Claire-Rose once more wrapped her arms around Byron. He skilfully guided the big bike onto the narrow road running along the peninsula’s spine, and when they got to a good look-out point, he pulled over but kept the motor running. Putting both feet on the ground to steady the bike, he pointed to the columns and then rested his hand casually on Claire-Rose’s jeans-clad thigh, nestled beside his own.

  This sent a thrill through her, one she hadn’t felt for a long time, not since....

  Kris.

  After he and Claire-Rose had been seeing each other for a while, both Kris’s mother and Connie Brande had begun dropping hints, prompting Claire-Rose to picture her future as Mrs De Voss. She saw a rosy beginning gradually disintegrating into domestic tedium, the very thing she loathed. Images came to her all too readily of just another dull couple going through their predictable lives, in predictable steps, like so many predictable others. She’d seen friends her age rush into marriage and observed that most were ‘regretting it at leisure’.

  But, to her dismay, Kris caught the bug and started talking about the big ‘M’s – marriage and mortgages. To be followed by Misery, she’d told herself cynically. Frightened by how fast things were moving, she’d allowed her dedication to her job to eat away at their time together, and ultimately, at their relationship. She’d told herself at the time it was for the best. But when Kris walked out of her life, hurting badly, only then did she realise what she had done.

  Too late....

  It was dark by the time they reached the city centre. Byron slowed the bike, searching for a parking space.

  ‘There’s one!’ Claire-Rose pointed to a spot being vacated by a red Vespa. The young woman on the motor scooter gave Byron a cheery wave as she accelerated onto the road, her short skirt revealing an eye-catching length of shapely leg.

  Byron reversed into the parking bay and Claire-Rose dismounted. She took off the jacket and helmet, shaking out her hair as she did so, while he secured the bike.

  ‘So, where are we going for dinner?’

  He nodded over his shoulder, saying, ‘The Prima Donna—’ just as a woman’s voice called loudly, ‘Eh, Byron!’

  He tensed before glancing around, replying sheepishly, ‘Hey, Ma.’

  Claire-Rose turned from studying the up-market Prima Donna’s brightly lit storefront, and saw a round, motherly woman in a floury checked apron standing on the footpath, hands on hips, staring at Byron.

  ‘You bad-a boy,’ the woman scolded in a heavy Italian accent, waving a chubby finger at him and coming over to cup his face in both her hands. ‘You no come see us for a while.’

  He gave a smiling frown. ‘It’s not that long since I saw you last. And I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Ah!’ Ada threw dismissive hands in the air as her probing gaze fell on Claire-Rose. ‘So, who is your pretty amica? You introduce us, si?’

  Shaking his head fondly at Ada, Byron turned toward Claire-Rose. ‘Claire-Rose, this is Ada Capaldi. Ma, this is Claire-Rose Brande.’

  Ada beamed. ‘Nice-a to meet you, cara.’

  ‘And you.’ Claire-Rose smiled warmly back, and was rewarded with enthusiastic kisses on both cheeks. ‘Ma’ smelled like a comforting mix of garlic, warm pastry, and Sunlight soap.

  Byron indicated a place a few doors up the well-lit street from the Prima Donna. ‘Ada and Gino own Gino’s Café.’

  Claire-Rose looked where he was pointing. She saw a small shopfront, its window boxes overflowing with lush geraniums blooming in bright shades of scarlet, some streaked with white. On a wrought iron table under a red and white striped awning, a couple sat enjoying a platter of deli
cious-looking food and red wine from a wicker-covered bottle. In the café’s bay window, a cosy table for two, dressed in a red-checked tablecloth over white linen, sat empty. A tea light glowed cheerfully from a crimson glass holder at its centre.

  ‘So, you eat-a with us tonight, eh?’ Ada declared to Byron, as though it were a fact.

  ‘No, we ... um....’

  Seeing Ada’s face crumple, Claire-Rose spoke up. ‘I feel like Italian tonight, Byron. Why don’t we eat at Gino’s?’

  He regarded her levelly. ‘But I booked us a table at Prima Donna for seven.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And it’s almost that now.’

  They ran their eyes over that swanky establishment, before Claire-Rose turned to him again. ‘Does the Prima Donna do a good Pasta Carbonara? I’ve got a craving for it.’

  ‘Ah!’ Ada exclaimed, ‘Carbonara, she’s-a my Gino’s speciality!’

  ‘Well....’ Byron appeared uncertain.

  ‘C’mon, you’re outnumbered here,’ Claire-Rose grinned. ‘Just ring “Chez Swank” and cancel.’

  ‘Yes!’ Ada clapped her hands and smiled triumphantly. She slipped between Byron and Claire-Rose and, taking one each of their hands in her own, led them toward the café. ‘You come-a with me. We give-a you the best carbonara you ever tasted!’ Ushering them into the café, she indicated the cosy spot in the bay window. Before heading to the counter to pick up two menus, she pressed Claire-Rose’s hand into Byron’s.

  He gripped it firmly without hesitation, and Claire-Rose felt the same jolt at his touch she’d experienced before. It sent a rosy glow through her which radiated into her face. His eyes were warm when he gazed into hers, and she grinned shyly as he led her to the table, only releasing her hand to pull out a chair for her.