by Margaret Way
Many would have said miserly, Bryn thought.
‘—as was his closest friend and partner Sir Theo, but he wished for things to be different in the future. He was, in fact, very proud of the way Francesca has set about making something of herself. The way she’s using her own money to fund the promotion of aboriginal art. Very proud indeed. Francesca is a compassionate young woman. Compassion is what the Foundation needs when it comes to prioritising future grants.’
Not everyone agreed. ‘Francey? But she’s only a baby. This sounds like a disaster!’ A scandalised Ruth whispered to her shellshocked sister behind her hand. ‘What will people think?’
‘Yes, what will people think?’ Carina, who had the hearing of a nocturnal bat, swung her blonde head over her shoulder to stare down her flustered great-aunts. ‘God knows what you two will get. That’s if anything is left.’
Bryn, every nerve-ending in his body sensitised to Francesca’s reactions, extended the hand that had been hanging loosely at his side. Francesca grasped it for dear life. It couldn’t have been more obvious that she was stunned by all she had heard. Perhaps most of all the fact her grandfather had been proud of her.
To confirm it, Francesca took a deep, shaky breath. Her grandfather had always acted as if she barely existed for him. Now this! This was a whole new dynamic. Couldn’t he have said just once he was proud of her? Given her a clue? She would only have needed him to say it once.
Francesca, I’m proud of you!
She could have lived on it for years.
Carina, so intent on conveying to her great-aunts the shocking injustice of it all, missed the significant linking of hands. Instead she gave a whooping hysterical laugh. ‘Gramps must have been off his rocker!’ she hooted, turning back to the solicitor. ‘Whoever made that will wasn’t the real Gramps at all. More like some pathetic old guy whose mind was starting to wander. What does he want her to do, anyway? Give it all away? I warn you right now, Francesca will do that—big-time! There’ll be no fortune left. She’s a genuine bleeding heart!’ She was alight with self-righteous rage. ‘I don’t want to hear another word of this. Gramps adored me, yet he has given Francey the whip hand over me. Forget Dad. He’s gutless. He only wants out!’
Francesca’s beautiful skin flushed with dismay. ‘Uncle Charles—Carrie—I’m not happy about any of this,’ she said, appealing to each one in turn. ‘I’m as shocked as you are.’
‘Believe that and you’ll believe anything!’ Carina was laughing full-on, with scathing cynicism.
‘But, Carrie, it’s true. I’d be happy to give it all back to you.’
She was conscious that Bryn had pressed her hand hard, no doubt telling her to shut up.
‘And we’ll be happy to take it,’ Carina snapped back. ‘You little Judas!’
Bryn’s resonant voice suddenly boomed, stopping even Carina in her tracks. ‘Carrie, that’s enough. Francey has no need to explain herself or make any apology to anyone,’ he said in a hard, disgusted tone. ‘You can see how shocked she is. She had no idea. I suggest we allow Douglas to finish the reading. You can carry on after that, if you like. The rest of us can beat a retreat.’
‘You mean you’re taking Francey’s side over mine?’ For a moment Carina looked utterly confused. ‘You really think I’m going to shut up and take this, Bryn? What the hell—?’ She broke off, finally registering the linked hands—one so darkly tanned, the other the smoothest pale gold. ‘Well, well, well,’ she snarled, now in a white-hot rage. ‘What have we got here?’
‘You’ve got me offering Francey support,’ Bryn replied without a moment’s hesitation.
This put Carina into an ecstasy of jealousy and hate. ‘Let go of the conniving little bitch’s hand.’
It was obvious Bryn wasn’t going to let that slide. His expression turned so daunting the very air in the room froze. ‘I think you’ve reached the point where you’d do best to shut up, Carrie,’ he warned, brilliant eyes aglitter.
But Carina was too far gone. ‘Can I trust you, Bryn. Can I?’ Her blue eyes raked his dynamic face. ‘You haven’t hatched a little plan or anything?’
‘You want someone to trust, Carrie, you’d better find a puppy,’ he returned with biting humour.
The battle lines had been drawn. The enemy was in plain view.
It was a total nightmare, Francesca thought. The worst possible disaster. Yet through it all Bryn continued to keep hold of her hand.
‘Going to turn our attention to Francey now, are we?’ Carina challenged him with great bitterness. ‘You’d do anything to get control of Titan. We all know that. You’d even take up with Francey and abandon me. You swore you loved me. You swore when the time was right we’d get married.’
Bryn uttered a single word. ‘Delusional.’
How easy it is to sow the seeds of doubt, Francesca thought. She thought of those long passionate kisses Bryn had given her. How could Bryn, of all people, do a thing like that when he had made a promise to Carina? It wasn’t Bryn. It didn’t fit anything she knew about him. Nevertheless, she very quietly withdrew her hand from his, before Carina took it into her head to spring at her like a jungle cat. Could it be possible Bryn was deliberately provoking Carina?
A charged atmosphere surrounded them both. Carina, mercifully, stayed in place, while Bryn rose to his impressive height, as though standing guard over the more vulnerable Francesca.
‘Am I?’ Carina cried. ‘Delusional? Why would I be? You know what we talked about.’ She transferred her burning blue gaze to her cousin. ‘Don’t let him fool you. Or has he started to already? He’s as devious as they come. The master manipulator. Gramps always said that. He warned me we always had to be on our guard around Bryn. I know he was talking to you in your room, Francesca. The maid told me.’
‘Poor thing!’ Bryn cut in derisively. ‘I bet it was more like an interrogation.’
‘Carrie, please stop,’ Charles Forsyth said with surprising authority. ‘You too, Bryn. We really don’t need all these personal matters to be aired here. Douglas needs to proceed.’
‘Of course he does!’ Carina hissed. ‘But I’ll have my say if I want. This is my home.’
‘My home,’ her father corrected her, in a voice no one had ever heard him use with her before. This was his princess. Or at least she had been, until she had started making it very plain she thought her father thoroughly deserved to be overthrown.
Oddly, Carina looked tremendously shocked. She blinked. ‘So you want me out?’ She clenched her hands in front of her breast, as though at any moment her father might have one of the servants pitch her out onto the street. She realised in a rare moment of self-evaluation that any one of them would be pleased to.
‘Don’t be absurd, Carina,’ her father answered, torn between parental loyalty and pity. ‘Of course this is your home.’
‘I should damned well think so.’ Carina returned fire; she was nothing if not resilient. ‘So what does he get out of it?’ She resumed her seat, pointing an accusing finger at Bryn, who was now sitting in an elegant slouch, his expression quite unreadable. ‘Let’s hear it. More shares in Titan? The Macallans already own twenty-three percent of the company.’ The Forsyths had the majority shareholding in the multibillion-dollar corporation; something that had happened only after Sir Francis had succeeded the late Sir Theo Macallan and became Chairman and CEO.
‘I’ll continue now to read out Sir Francis’s wishes.’ The solicitor consulted the impressive-looking legal document. ‘Ah, y-e-e-s,’ he said slowly. ‘Bryn Barrington Theodore Macallan, in recognition of his own outstanding abilities and his valuable contributions to the ever-escalating success of Titan, and in memory of my great affection and admiration for his late grandfather, my lifelong friend, Sir Theodore Macallan—’
‘Get on with it, Douglas,’ Carina barked, in a frenzy of impatience.
Douglas McFadden’s pale grey eyes narrowed, but he spoke at the same measured pace. ‘Bryn Macallan inherits a fifty percent share
in Sir Francis’s pastoral empire, its flagship being Daramba. Francesca inherits the other fifty percent on the understanding that Bryn is in sole charge of the business end of the enterprise. Evidently Sir Francis believed Francesca would be fully occupied elsewhere, whilst Bryn was the best man to handle an extra job. Charles had already indicated to his father he had little interest in the pastoral side of things. Rule number one with Sir Francis was always, Who is the best person to handle the job?’
Bryn, who after all these years among the Forsyths had thought himself impervious to shock, felt winded. It was as if he had received a violent blow to the solar plexus. He swallowed on the startled oath that was stuck somewhere in his throat. He had been way off the mark in expecting some token bequest. Maybe his grandfather’s golf clubs back. This was astounding news—or maybe Frank’s last-ditch attempt to get into heaven? He turned his head to gauge Francesca’s reaction. She was trembling with emotion, as well she might be. Her eyes were huge with distress, the pearly grey of her blouse further brightening their silver lustre. In all probability she was retreating once more into her protective shell.
Carina had well and truly brought her fierce jealousy out into the open. Damn her lies! Marriage was a word he’d never mentioned. Let alone thought about. That went for the L word as well. What he and Carina had had for a short time was sex—which had turned out to be a terrible mistake. Not that he had taken advantage of an innocent young virgin. Carina had a head start on just about everyone in that department. A free spirit, or so she called herself—even in those days. But he knew as well as anyone: throw enough mud and some was bound to stick. The undermining would continue. He had to be prepared for it. Carina, like her grandfather before her, would never let up. As for his bequest? Given a moment or two to reflect, he knew what Francis Forsyth had ripped off from the Macallans over the years would pay for this share of Forsyth Pastoral Holdings many times over.
Francis Forsyth had evidently believed in a Supreme Being after all. Maybe even in meeting up with Sir Theo and old Gulla again. Highly unlikely. Their destinations would be poles apart.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘ALL I’m saying is, give yourself time for it to sink in,’ Bryn advised. He had accompanied the stunned and visibly upset Francesca back to her apartment, where at least she thought she would be safe.
‘This is a disaster, Bryn. You know it is.’ She led the way into the living room, switching on lights as she went.
When she had left here this morning she had never dreamed what the day would bring: the massive upheavals, the responsibilities that were waiting to claim her. If she wanted them. She wasn’t at all sure she needed a lifetime of being in the front line. Strangely enough, she thought she could make a better fist of handling the Foundation than either her grandfather or her uncle. But there were other huge responsibilities. She tried to calm herself with the thought that she would have first-class people around her to advise and guide her. She could afford to hire the best minds. Douglas McFadden had given her the definite impression he thought she was up to the task. And Bryn had appeared to welcome it. No one’s opinion was more important to her than Bryn’s.
Now he spoke in a clipped voice, a decided edginess about him. ‘I know nothing of the kind, Francey. You’re very young to take on so much, but age isn’t an issue like it used to be. Youth can be a big advantage. Fresh ideas. Seniority has gone by the board. It’s a case of the best person for the job. You’re it. Whatever else Frank was, he was no fool. He wanted to keep the Forsyth fortune intact, not frittered away.’
Such a clever, complex man was Bryn. Macallan to her Forsyth; Montague to Capulet. Warring families. Since the death of Bryn’s grandfather hadn’t that been the case? Even if the war had been largely waged underground? Bryn followed her, removing his beautifully tailored black jacket, finely pin-striped, before throwing it over the back of an armchair. Then he unbuttoned the collar of his white shirt and yanked down his black tie as if it were choking him. ‘It’s one hell of a shock, I know. But think about it. Charles wants out. No problem there. I thought he was very reasonable about the whole thing. He never wanted a career in business in the first place. He was forced into it. Now he’s his own man, or near enough. There’s no immutable law of nature that says great talent has to be passed down to the next generation. Charles has no head for business. Your father, though the younger brother, was the logical heir. Sir Frank, even if he did his level best not to show it, was shattered when your father was killed. It seems he had expected them to make up. A tragedy all round.’
Her own assessment. Francesca sank dazedly into the comfort of one of the custom-made sofas covered in cream silk. She’d had a whole range of silk cushions made—gold, orange, imperial yellow, bronze and a deep turquoise—to pick up the colours in the exquisite eighteenth-century six-panel lacquered screen mounted on the wall. The screen had belonged to her parents, as did so many pieces of the furniture, paintings and objets d’art, a mix of classical European and Asian, in the apartment. They had been in storage all these years from the old house. What she had done, in effect, was wrap herself around with her own family even if they had gone and left her.
‘Yes,’ she agreed soberly, ‘a tragedy.’
‘Are you okay?’ He studied her intently. ‘You’ve lost all colour.’ In the space of a single day her willowy slenderness now bordered on the fragile. Francesca fascinated him. She had always seemed to him quite simply unique.
‘I will be when my mind clears and my blood starts flowing again.’ She rested her head back. ‘I wish my father were still here.’
How well Bryn understood that, having been cruelly robbed of his own parent. ‘Misfortune on both our houses,’ he said grimly. ‘Your father could handle what was too difficult and too big for Charles. Not good for Charles’s ego. Their mother was the only one who was kind to Charles.’ He didn’t mention Charles’s mother, or all the women Sir Francis, confirmed widower, had had in his life since the demise of his wife without elevating a single one of them to the stature of second wife. Too canny to be caught with a huge settlement if a second marriage fell through.
‘So in his way Uncle Charles has had a sad life.’ She looked up at Bryn—the man who had brought her so throbbingly alive; the man her own grandfather had made partner in his pastoral empire. Her grandfather must have seen Bryn was far and away the best person to take over the running of the giant enterprise. Certain men—men like her grandfather and Bryn—could successfully juggle any number of companies without once dropping the ball or losing sight of their objectives. Bryn would probably transform Forsyth Pastoral Holdings, which she knew in recent years had suffered sharply reduced profits and too many changes in management.
‘If we’re going to be charitable, and I suppose we might find it in our hearts to be after what today has brought, he has,’ Bryn replied wryly. ‘If you ask me, Charles wants to get back with Elizabeth.’
The same bizarre thought had occurred to Francesca. ‘Then he has his work cut out for him,’ she said. ‘Just as Grandfather bullied him, he tried to bully Aunt Elizabeth. Only Carrie was safe.’
‘Safe?’ One of Bryn’s black brows shot up. ‘Carrie was a little dictator from the day she was born.’
Another sharp comment from Bryn? ‘Well, she must have changed a lot after I arrived.’ Francesca looked back on the past. ‘I remember her as being very contained, even secretive.’
‘Oh, she’s that!’ Bryn agreed, then markedly changed the subject, impatient with more talk of Carina. ‘God, I could knock back a Scotch!’ He heaved a sigh.
‘Please, help yourself.’ She waved a listless arm. ‘I don’t seem able to get up.’
‘Why would you? You’re winded, like me. Can I get you something?’ he asked, moving towards a drinks trolley that held an array of spirits in crystal decanters; whisky, brandy, bourbon, several colourful bottles of liqueur, all at the ready for Francesca’s guests.
‘Glass of white wine,’ she said, not really
caring one way or the other. ‘There’s a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge. You’ll have to open it.’
He was back within moments, handing her a glass. She took it, savouring the fresh, fruity bouquet before allowing herself a long sip. ‘No point in saying cheers, though most people would think I had a great deal to cheer about. Little do they know!’
‘We were both born into a world of privilege, Francey,’ Bryn said, taking a good pull on the single malt and letting it slide down his throat. ‘Responsibilities and obligations go along with that. For us, anyway.’ He didn’t join her on the sofa, but took a seat in a parcel-gilt walnut antique armchair that was covered in a splendid petit-point. The bright colours stood out in high relief against his darkness—the black eyes and the black hair, the skin darkly tanned from the time he spent sailing as much as his hectic schedule would allow. It comforted her to see him sitting there, like some medieval prince. The armchair was one of a pair her parents had bought in Paris on their very last trip there.
‘Carina may not have got what she confidently expected, but she’s been left a very rich woman in her own right. Boy, wasn’t she a shocker, telling poor old Douglas off? Once or twice she even made me laugh. All those war whoops she kept giving. When she was a kid her grandfather gave her full permission to disregard her mother’s efforts to mould her. Your grandfather was very pleased she was showing some “spirit”, as he thought of it. Showed she took after him and not her father. Whatever you remember, you must realise Carina was a very spoilt little girl? Now she’s a spoilt young woman, determined on running amok. Did you notice Ruth’s husband, a distinguished medical scientist? He spent the time trying to look like he wasn’t there at all. And Regina’s very agreeable husband—I like him—was afraid to speak in case he got told to stay out of it. I don’t think any one of them smiled, even when they found out they were leaving considerably better off than when they’d arrived. None of them is going begging in the first place; in fact, there’s quite a few hundred million between them.’
