The Brande Legacy

by Alicia Hope

  Climbing the stairs onto the red double-decker bus, which was three quarters full with happy, chattering tourists, Claire-Rose was pleased to see Jeff behind the wheel.

  He recognised her straight away, and threw her a cheeky grin. ‘Stell here, eh? Thought you might’ve bin evicted from the country after the night you and your Aussie mates destroyed the pub.’

  She smiled and gave a snort. ‘Destroyed the pub? That’s an exaggeration! And Aussies don’t scare that easy. You should know that, Jeff, er, Jiff.’

  He chuckled and turned to switch on his microphone. ‘OK folks, the bad news is that an Aussie has eluded Security and is joining us on board.’ There were mock groans from among the passengers and Jeff threw Claire-Rose a broad wink. ‘Just kedding! We welcome everyone, even Aussies, on our tours. Now, the good news is it’s time to take your seats ’cos we’re about to hit the road. First stop, the lookout, then on to Gilston House, followed by a stroll in the botanical gardens. Then we head to the brewery to end the tour with a splash, feguratively speaking of course!’

  The bus rumbled into life and set off with a not-unhappy groan. When they arrived at the lookout, Claire-Rose went over to lean on the railing. The boisterous wind whipped her hair around her face as her eyes sought the castle. After contemplating it for a while, admiring the sunlight glinting off its silver-grey stonework, she turned her gaze toward Witchcliffe Bay and glimpsed the basalt columns and the tip of Ponaho Whatu.

  An image of Byron, sitting beside her on the rug, topping up her champagne flute and smiling his wide smile, came immediately to mind. Her heart rolled over. Where would we be now, she wondered sadly, if not for....

  ‘OK, folks, time to hid to Gilston House.’

  When the bus trundled up the hill and parked in front of the stately home, Claire-Rose took in Gilston’s grandeur, marvelling at how well preserved the property appeared as though it were locked in a time warp. She could imagine Gilston in days past, with the city’s well-to-do – including the Loriennes, perhaps? – strolling the extensive grounds in their suits, top hats, Victorian gowns and pretty parasols.

  Realising she was the only one left sitting on the bus, she hurriedly got to her feet and went to join the group now gathered around an animated ‘Gilston Guide’. The smartly dressed young woman, whose name tag read ‘Adele’, spoke clearly and with a freshness not always evident in the jaded commentaries of long-serving tour guides.

  ‘Gilston House is the result of one progressive man’s dream. Jonathon Gilston’s home provides a glimpse of the inner city lifestyle of a privileged New Zealander in the early 1900s.’ Making her way up the stone driveway, she called cheerfully, ‘Please follow me, guys.’ While she walked, she pointed toward the buildings. ‘The house and outbuildings were designed by a prestigious London architect. The home is centrally heated, has an internal phone system, and a service lift linking all four storeys. Its thirty-plus rooms and large grounds were maintained by a bevy of servants, and made the perfect setting for entertaining VIPs, colleagues and friends.’

  Spinning on her heel to walk backward while addressing the group, she went on brightly, ‘Few homes, even today, have a balcony that can accommodate a minstrel’s gallery. Gilston also boasts a roof-opening device to vent cigar smoke from above the billiards table. And if you look up when we enter the great hall, you’ll see a small “Juliet” window. This gave adults in the sitting room upstairs a vantage point to check on the young people in the hall below, in the name of preserving decorum.’ She grinned. ‘Kinda like a version of “Big Brother”, only they didn’t want any hanky-panky going on.’

  There were quiet chuckles among the group as, walking forward again, Adele continued with her commentary. ‘The property remains in its original condition because the Gilstons had no surviving children. When he died a widower, Jonathon donated the house to the city, complete with a grand piano which visitors are invited to play....’

  The group followed her through the impressive front door, and inside. After they’d toured a few rooms, Claire-Rose was left trailing behind the others. She was finding so much history to absorb. While stargazing at the Juliet window, she ran into the stout tourist who’d come to a halt in front of her.

  ‘Oops, sorry.’

  But the man ignored her, intent on listening to Adele, so Claire-Rose squeezed past him and entered the drawing room.

  The main feature in the bright, airy room was the grand piano, which stood centrally in pride of place. Claire-Rose left Adele and the others admiring one of the paintings adorning the walls, a Darcy Doyle with its signature Jacaranda in full bloom, and strolled over to run her fingers lightly across the gleaming black piano. Glancing at the hand-written sheet on the piano’s decorative music wrack, she read the title, We Call to Thee, and ran her eyes over the simple score and the lyrics in the first verse.

  We call to thee who bears the gift,

  Please, save us from sad eternities.

  Listen now and listen swift,

  To sorry tales and mysteries....

  ‘Do you play?’

  Claire-Rose spun around. Adele stood close behind her, and the eyes of all in the group were focused on her.

  ‘A b-bit,’ she stammered, cursing her honesty.

  Adele urged, ‘Well then, give it a go,’ and smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Oh ... I don’t know ... I’m awfully rusty. It’s been a long time ... and I don’t know the song.’

  ‘Go on!’ everyone chorused, crowding around the piano.

  ‘It’ll be better than having little Alex here pounding out Chopsticks,’ the stout man called, eyeing the over-excited youngster tugging impatiently at his shirttails.

  ‘Surely we have a real pianist in our midst?’ Claire-Rose eyed the group invitingly. When the only answer was a bunch of waiting, eager expressions, she reluctantly sat on the stool and opened the piano’s lid.

  The keys shone beguilingly at her. As soon as her fingers touched them, a calm confidence descended upon her, and she launched into the piece with unexpected enthusiasm. The piano was in perfect tune and released the beautiful, haunting melody with a rare sweetness. Around her, everyone, even the hyperactive youngster, Alex, fell silent as though entranced by the simple but evocative melody. When she finished they all clapped, and there were calls of, ‘Brilliant rendition,’ and, ‘What’s that piece called? It’s lovely!’

  Claire-Rose lifted her hands from the keyboard, sat back and stared at the sheet music before her.

  We call to thee.

  ‘Now here, ladies and jints, we have an auditory oddity, if you’ll pardon the parlance.’ Jeff grinned at the tourists descending from the bus to gather around him in the aromatic ‘perfumed piazza’ of the botanical gardens. Rose, jasmine, and orange blossom fragrances filled the air.

  He pointed at two large disks, like satellite dishes, positioned at opposing ends of the piazza. ‘See those deshes? They’re like tin can phones without the streng, otherwise known as “whesper deshes”. Whesper in one, and the person standing near the other one, right down there, will hear you.’

  Claire-Rose strolled down the path, admiring the well-tended garden beds edging it. They were filled with highly scented lavender, boronia, and roses, the blooms gleaming with sunlit droplets of water. Distracted, she gave a start when a male voice emerged close by her ear.

  ‘I’m whespering at a desh, through a desh,’ it rasped.

  Realising her stroll had taken her close to the furthest whisper dish, she whipped around and saw Jeff standing near the opposing dish, grinning broadly her way. When she threw him a wave, he bowed dramatically.

  ‘I can take you all the way to the castle if you like? You’re my last passinger.’

  ‘Thanks Jeff. Hey, would you mind making a brief stop on the way? After all that beer, I feel like pizza for dinner.’ The visit to the brewery had included a generous tasting of its wares.

  ‘No worries. You’re not eating in the castle tonight?’

  �
�No.’ Claire-Rose turned to gaze out the window. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Hey, I heard a whesper on the grapevine, that someone’s interested in buying the castle.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her tone reflected her disinterest. She felt weary, and muddled-headed from the beer, and wasn’t in the mood for chit chat.

  But Jeff carried on cheerfully. ‘Yeah, a freend of mine is a real estate assessor. He told me some big Aussie company’s bin making enquiries. You wouldn’t know anything ‘bout that, would ‘ya?’

  ‘Well ...,’ she kept her tone vague, ‘I do know the castle was advertised for sale in Australia.’

  ‘Yeah, ’pparently Emma’s bin puttin’ the word out for a while now, but thes’ll be the first time she’s had a serious nebble on the line. She’ll be hoping it’s good enough to tempt her mum and brother to accept it.’ Glancing in the rear view mirror, he took in Claire-Rose’s silent nod and then returned his gaze to the road. ‘Don’t know if she’ll be able to convence them, though. But the word ’round town has them in dire financial defficulties, so maybe they won’t have much choice.’

  And what will the ‘word around town’ say about me, Claire-Rose wondered, staring unseeingly out the window, when all the details come to light? Will I be described as ‘the manipulative Aussie girl who almost killed a previous beau, and then used the castle’s “blue-eyed boy” to pursue a mercenary agenda’?

  Wincing, she dropped her chin to her chest, telling herself to stop being a drama queen.

  But what if people I care about, like the Capaldis, are made to doubt my integrity? What if they come to believe I have no scruples? That would be simply awful ... but it wouldn’t be the worst thing. No, the absolute worst thing is, Byron already sees me as a callous user.

  And that’s what hurts the most.

  That thought had her frowning and chewing her lower lip.

  But why am I so upset about what was supposed to be a mere holiday flirtation?

  A fat tear spilled over and traced a wide path down her cheek. She swiped it away with an impatient hand, as Jeff brought the bus to a stop outside what he described as ‘the best pizza joint in town.’

  After collecting her pizza she took her seat on the bus again, and returned to gazing out the window as they made their way along the peninsula road. Looking in the rear view mirror, Jeff saw her rest her forehead against the window and close her eyes. He got the message and left her in peace for the remainder of the journey.

  The Big Red Bus trundled off, leaving her standing outside the lodge holding her pizza. She began walking toward her unit, but changed tack and went into the empty common area, where she sat at a table.

  At least this way my room won’t smell like pizza for the next decade.

  When she opened the box, a delicious smell rose from the ‘don’t-hold-back, throw-everything-at-it’ supreme pizza she’d ordered. But she didn’t take a piece straight away. She stared at the generous scattering of mushrooms, olives, salami and cheese like she was reading a map. And she was wishing it was a map, one showing the way back to what had been developing between herself and Byron. It had been like a dewy, fragile blossom unfolding on a tender young branch in a spring garden.

  Had been….

  Immersed in her dismal thoughts, she was unaware of a pair of dark eyes watching her from the gloom of the kitchen doorway.

  Byron had just turned out the lights in the lodge’s kitchen after finishing preparations for the following morning’s breakfast, when he heard a bus drive off and someone come into the common room. Now he stood in the shadows, leaning on the door jam, arms crossed over his chest, silently contemplating the source of his inner turmoil sitting staring at her pizza.

  Resentment, longing, disappointment and passion swirled inside him, making him feel annoyingly, frustratingly, unsettled. And cross with himself. Why was he feeling this way about a mere fling? And how he could feel anything at all for a woman who’d blatantly used him to pursue her real intent, of buying out from under them the castle he and his family had sacrificed so much for? The castle that had driven his father to do what no man should do – abandon his wife and children.

  He scowled. Emma’s push for them to sell up had gained momentum, thanks no doubt to a well-placed quiet word in her ear. Even Kathryn was beginning to weigh in to the argument, making him feel under attack from all quarters.

  But another part of his mind registered the logic of Emma’s argument. She’d been determined to get them to face up to and address their untenable financial situation, but he’d been just as obstinate in refusing to acknowledge their plight. He hung his head. Why did he felt so compelled to resist what Emma, and now Kathryn, believed to be their chance to escape being swamped by a looming tide of debt? Surely it made good sense to cut their losses and sell a business their dwindling resources could no longer sustain?

  His frown deepened and he ran an aggravated hand through his hair. He would be needed in the castle’s dining room soon. Pushing himself upright, he gazed at the deflated-looking Claire-Rose for a few more seconds, before retreating into the dark kitchen. Treading quietly, he left by the delivery door, closing it carefully behind him. The last thing he could cope with was a face-to-face encounter with her. He simply couldn’t trust himself to do the right thing – whatever that was – by either of them.

  * * *

  ‘I’m here sooner than expected, but I wanted to surprise my daughter. She indicated you would have a room available?’

  On hearing the pleasant but commanding voice, Emma looked up to see a striking older woman standing at the reception counter. Tall and well built, she was dressed casually but smartly in a brightly-coloured pant suit. Her pale hair was carefully styled, and her tasteful jewellery glistened with obvious sophistication. The hand resting on the counter had long, elegant fingers with nails buffed to a clear shine. A breath of French parfum wafted Emma’s way, and she noted the astuteness, and unusual colour, of the almond-shaped eyes regarding her amiably from the other side of the desk.

  With an eager smile she gushed, ‘Yes, Mrs Brande, and welcome to Lorienne Castle.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Walls Have Ears

  ‘Hello? Is that Hacks for Hire?’ Claire-Rose listened for a few seconds. ‘Great. Hey, I’m gonna have to reschedule the booking I made for today. Can I change it to tomorrow please?’ She listened again before signing off. ‘Super, thanks. See you in the morning.’ Shutting her mobile phone with a snap, she stared at it. ‘Well that’s done. It’s lucky you caught me before I left, otherwise I’d have been out all day.’

  ‘Sorry to mess up your plans, my darling, but it sounds like you’ve been able to reschedule.’ Connie’s voice drifted out of the bedroom where she was busy unpacking and hanging clothes in the wardrobe. She emerged to stand in the doorway. ‘You are glad to see me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Mum!’ Claire-Rose hurried over to give her a warm hug. ‘I just wasn’t expecting you to turn up so soon.’

  Connie beamed and held her daughter at arms length. ‘After receiving promising reports from my real estate agent and financier, I decided what the heck and got Celia to book me onto the next plane.’ She ran her eyes over the unit’s kitchenette. ‘And, thinking about my efficient and ever-obliging secretary, is there any chance you could make me a cuppa, love? Catching the uber-early morning flight has messed with my routine and I’m simply dying of thirst ... and starving.’

  With lips twitching at the familiarity of her mother’s declaration, Claire-Rose glanced at her watch. It was not yet eight am. The rap on her door a short while ago hadn’t woken her, but it had made her jump and her heart leap with hope.

  But why would Byron be calling on me? He’s been avoiding me as diligently as I’ve been dodging him.

  Swallowing a sigh, she went into the kitchen. ‘OK, I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Connie emerged from the bedroom and went over to the French doors. She threw the curtains aside with a flourish. ‘Oh, look at t
hat view,’ she breathed. Opening the doors, she stepped onto the balcony and rested her hands on the railing.

  The kettle boiled and Claire-Rose filled the teapot. ‘Unless the water boiling be—’ She froze mid-song and mid-pour, recalling Byron’s endearing grin when he heard her tea-making song. Her heart sank and she felt the hollow inner ache return in greater strength. Giving a peeved shake of her head, she finished filling and cosying the pot. ‘Shall we have it out there, Mum?’

  ‘Please,’ Connie called over her shoulder. ‘I don’t want to turn my back on all this.’

  Carrying the loaded tray onto the balcony, Claire-Rose set it down on the small wrought iron table. After waiting the designated three minute brewing time, she poured the tea.

  Taking a steaming cup, Connie murmured, ‘Mmm, thanks love,’ before returning her gaze to the vista. When her daughter joined her at the railing, she sighed, ‘I can see why you’ve fallen in love with this place.’

  They were both quiet for a while, sipping their tea and gazing at the sun-kissed view.

  When she spoke, Claire-Rose forced a casual note into her voice. ‘So, Mum, you’ve had favourable reports about the castle?’

  Connie turned shining eyes onto her. ‘Yes, and I’m positively wrapt, especially now I’ve seen the place. Oh, thanks my darling, for finding this treasure,’ and she pulled Claire-Rose into another hug. ‘But it’s time we ate. What are the breakfast arrangements here?’

  Claire-Rose smiled and gave a fond shake her head. ‘It’s served in the lodge’s common room. We should head over there soon so you can meet the other guests.’