by Margaret Way
‘Give them my love,’ she said. ‘Tell them I’ll speak to them soon. I need to speak to Elizabeth as well. Grandfather didn’t find it in his heart to leave her even a small memento.’
‘What heart?’ Bryn asked with a brief, discordant laugh. If Francis Forsyth had thought he would win the Macallans over by leaving him a half-share in the Forsyth pastoral empire he had thought wrong. Frank Forsyth’s treachery had been like a knife in the back to his grandfather. Sir Theo had died knowing what a deadly serpent he’d had for a lifelong friend.
The days that followed gave Francesca her first real understanding of the power and far-reaching influence of great wealth. There was an endless list of concerns she had to address, and then, when she had given them her full attention, endeavour to prioritise.
She had a model to go on. The Macallan Foundation, among other things, funded medical research into childhood diseases. That was their main focus. The Macallan Foundation built research centres and hospitals, and awarded endowments and scholarships to educate doctors not only for the home front but for third world countries as well. The Macallan name was enormously respected. She wanted the same respect for the Forsyth Foundation. She wanted to be assured that the Forsyth Foundation would be doing the work it was meant to do, much in the way of the Macallan Foundation—which Bryn administered.
If she needed advice—and she desperately did—he was the best person to turn to. Lord knew he was approachable enough, for all the burden of responsibilities placed upon him. But even knowing this Francesca felt she had to spare him and bring her own perfectly good mind to bear on it all. She refused to be the figurehead her grandfather had been. She had to start building a new life for herself. Not one she had wanted, but one she realised offered her the greatest opportunity for doing good. She had to start learning from everyone who was in a position to help her. When she was ready she was going to make changes—she had all but decided already on a glaring few—but for now she needed a tremendous amount of help.
The paperwork alone was staggering. Her routine had entirely changed as her life had speeded up dramatically. She woke at five instead of seven. Leapt out of bed. She went to bed very late. Yet even with that timetable she felt energised. There was so much to be done. A big plus was that she met daily with people who were not only in a position to help her, but were going out of their way to do so, seemingly delighted to be called on. That gave her a great confidence boost. Bryn left messages for her constantly, to tell her to get in touch with this one or that. All whiz kids who could run things for her as she wanted and then report back. She had to learn early how to delegate or go under, he told her, speaking from experience and the benefit of his own heavy workload.
She needed secretaries—all kinds of secretaries. Even press secretaries to front for her. She had endured a very scary onslaught of attention from the media almost from the minute the news of her elevation within the Forsyth family had broken. She needed people around her she could trust. Really trust. Loyalty was top of her agenda. Valerie Scott, a senior foundation secretary, was working for her now.
Valerie was a very attractive, highly competent divorcee in her late forties, tall and svelte, with snapping dark eyes and improbably rich dark red hair. She dressed well, with discreet good jewellery and accessories. As a Hartford—her maiden name—she was a member of an old Establishment family that had not only fallen on bad times but gone bust. A string of dodgy investments had figured somewhere along the way, Francesca seemed to recall. After Valerie’s marriage breakup from a successful stockbroker, who had left her for a look-alike twenty years younger, Sir Francis had given Valerie a job. Her ‘office’ was an open area right outside his door, with Valerie seated behind an antique desk of very fine rosewood with more of the ormolu, lions’ masks and feet her grandfather had favoured.
It wouldn’t have surprised Francesca in the least to learn that Valerie had become more than a secretary to her grandfather. He’d had countless affairs, yet still been a man incapable of true love. Still, Francesca found her new secretary courteous and obliging, with an air of having everything fully under control. Time would tell. At the moment Valerie was proving extremely useful. She had no mind to replace her. She certainly didn’t want to put any woman out of a well-paid job—especially one who had to fend for herself. For the time being things could continue as they were. She didn’t want to become a suspicious person—it wasn’t her nature—but sadly she had entered a very suspicious world.
Bryn had taken time out to fully alert her to security threats. The offices and executive conference room were regularly swept for bugs. Telephones, cellular and cordless, were by their very nature a threat. If royalty could have their phones tapped, so could anyone. Some years back a small transmitter had been discovered to be concealed inside her Uncle Charles’s phone. She knew her grandfather from that day on had upgraded security measures, making sure all telephones and audio visual equipment were removed from conference rooms where confidential matters were discussed. Even so, more and more sophisticated devices were coming on to the market. Trusting one’s staff was extremely important. A strip search apart, who knew what anyone was hiding? Thank God it hadn’t come to that.
It would have given Francesca the greatest pleasure and satisfaction to have been able to take Carina on board. A different Carina, who herself was open to change. But Carina continued to complain bitterly to anyone who would listen about how she and her father had been robbed. Court action, however, to overturn their grandfather’s will did not eventuate. The view of the public was that the right heiress had been handed the job. The public was rarely wrong.
‘Leopards don’t change their spots,’ Bryn remarked during a late-night telephone conversation. They both had such a packed agenda it was difficult to meet. ‘You can’t seriously believe Carina would involve herself in any kind of work?’
‘It could make her feel better about herself. It could be the start of some sort of reconciliation between us.’ Francesca spoke hopefully. ‘I don’t want this feud to continue, Bryn.’
‘Dream on, Santa Francesca!’ A theatrical groan travelled down the wires. ‘Carina doesn’t share your concern for the less fortunate. She thinks by looking gorgeous she’s more than repaying her debt to society.’
Gradually Francesca was brought around to thinking she might ask Elizabeth to come on board. She still wanted people she could trust. If needs be, with her life. She no longer felt as safe as she once had. She was a sitting duck in so many ways. She had her allies, but she had to become a hard-headed realist. She had her enemies too. People who were lying low, waiting for her to fail. But Elizabeth was different. Elizabeth had raised her. Elizabeth had always been on the charity circuit, but Francesca thought she could do a great deal more if she were allowed to.
She spoke to Bryn about it, over a hastily arranged lunch date.
‘An interesting idea—maybe a bit provocative, given the estrangement in the family.’ He had taken his time to reply. ‘You know that Lady Antonia and I have done everything we possibly could to get my mother involved in our foundation, but her heart doesn’t seem to be in anything any more. Not since my father died. My mother is a one-man woman.’ His sigh was full of a deep regret. ‘But I have to say I understand it.’
‘Do you think Annette would help me?’ she stunned him by asking.
In the middle of taking a bite out of a bread roll he coughed, then quickly swallowed a mouthful of water. ‘God, Francey!’ he exclaimed, touching a lean hand to his scratched throat.
‘I’ve shocked you?’
‘You have. But shock on.’
She kept her eyes on him. ‘Annette and I get on so well together. You know we do.’
He nodded. ‘Okay, so you’re very sensitive and intuitive. Both my grandmother and my mother have a soft spot for you. And it’s you more than anyone outside myself that my mother confides in. She knows whatever she says to you you’ll be certain to keep it between yourselves. My mother doesn�
�t trust a lot of people. With good reason. But she trusts you.’
Francesca did something she had never dared to do before. His lean tanned hand was lying on the table. She reached across and closed her hand over it, interlocking their fingers. ‘That goes both ways,’ she assured him, feeling stronger for his touch. ‘I trust Annette. I’ve told her a lot of things I haven’t told anyone else.’
‘Including me?’ Did she know his senses were being heightened to a painful edge? He wanted to pick up her hand and carry it to his mouth. But he knew that would only scare her off.
‘Yes, including you.’ She blushed, rose mantling her beautiful skin. ‘But just think of this for a moment. Lady Macallan is such an exceptional woman that Annette might consider herself unable to act on her level. But with me? She’s known me since I was a baby. I’m the merest beginner.’
‘Are you really? The merest beginner? You’d have fooled me.’ Bryn’s brilliant black eyes glittered, but in his way he was already tossing this extraordinary idea around in his head. ‘You could ask her.’
‘I have your permission?’ There was a quick flare of joy in her eyes. ‘You don’t know how much I appreciate that. We both know people might question why Annette Macallan would choose to join the Forsyth Foundation in any capacity.’
‘Count on it,’ Bryn confirmed bluntly.
‘Oddly enough, I think she might enjoy it. As much love as there is between Lady Macallan and Annette, Lady Macallan is a formidable woman—a true personage. It’s in that sense your mother might feel overshadowed.’
Bryn gave her a fathomless stare. ‘She told you that?’
‘No, no, no!’ Francesca shook her head. ‘Your mother would never say such a thing. Lady Macallan is her second mother. She adores her. It’s just something I sense. Surely you’ve sensed it too?’
When he answered his tone was crisp enough to crackle. ‘God, Francey, I’m confronted by this every day of my life,’ he said. ‘I’m very proud of my grandmother. What a woman! And I think I get some of my own strengths from her. But she and I have been waiting for years now for my mother to take back her life. She was only a girl when my father married her. Just nineteen. She had me less than two years later. Dad was her lord and master. He didn’t aim to be that. It just happened. They were very much in love, right up until the end. We were all so damned happy. Too happy. One shouldn’t ever tempt the gods. After Dad was killed much of my mother died too. Her own parents—my Barrington grandparents—didn’t stand by her. Oh, they tried for a while, but gradually they became impatient with her. She was supposed to pull out of it after a certain period of mourning. She didn’t. I’m sure she’ll be saying my father’s name with her last breath.’
‘And who’s to say he won’t be waiting for her?’ Francesca spoke gently to this man she loved, wanted to be with through eternity. ‘Millions and millions of people believe in a resurrection, an afterlife.’
Bryn’s sigh was jagged. ‘Be that as it may, we have to get through what life we have now. Speak to my mother if you want. Anything that helps her helps me. But don’t be disappointed if she gently rejects the idea.’
‘That’s fine. I won’t press her. I understand her pain. I understand the way she felt nearly destroyed without your father. But she did live for you.’
A terrible frustration showed itself in Bryn’s eyes. ‘She can’t continue to live for me, Francey. She has to live for herself. God, she’s only just turned fifty. She’s a beautiful woman. Yet she has locked herself away for years. Dad would never have wanted that. He loved her so much he would only want her to be happy.’
Francesca smiled in an effort to relieve his tension. ‘Let me talk to her. In some ways I’m not in a good situation, am I? A lot of people are waiting for me to screw up. Carina is hoping one of these days I’ll simply disappear into the desert and never come back. I need help. No one knows that more than you. I want a woman—women, as it happens, as Elizabeth is another—I can trust. I’ll put it to Annette that way. I won’t be asking a great deal of her. I’ll do as you say. Take it day by day.’
Bryn gave a hollow laugh. ‘If you can get my mother out of the house I’ll worship at your feet for ever.’ Though wasn’t he already doing just that? ‘Did I tell you, you look stunningly beautiful?’
‘Yes, you did.’ Colour mounted beneath her flawless skin. ‘It’s a new outfit. I didn’t go shopping. No time. I asked Adele Bennett to pick me out a wardrobe, which she did, and then brought it all over.’
‘You couldn’t have asked for anyone better,’ Bryn said, his eyes travelling over her. She wore a sleeveless navy silk dress that showed off the elegant set of her shoulders and her slender arms. The dress was very simple in design but striking in effect, with broad strokes of colour as if she, the artist, had taken to it with a brush: violet, yellow, and a marvellous splash of electric blue that put him in mind of a kingfisher’s plumage. It looked wonderful on her. Adele Bennett he had met at various functions. She owned exclusive boutiques in several state capitals. She must have relished the job of outfitting Francesca, with her beauty, her height and her willowy figure.
‘You like what you see?’ she prompted gently, though she felt more as if she was being consumed by his brilliant black gaze.
‘Francey, I have to say yes.’ He threw up his dark head, then gave a swift glance at his watch. ‘Shame we have to part, but there it is. I have a meeting at two-thirty.’ He lifted a hand to signal the waiter, who came on the double. ‘By the way, I thought we’d take this weekend off to visit Daramba.’ He spoke as if he wouldn’t brook any argument. ‘I’ve cleared my schedule sufficiently to warrant it. I can’t and won’t wait another week. It’s absolutely essential to find time for relaxation. We’ve both been doing precious little of that. So see you keep the weekend free. Understood?’ He lifted his eyes from the plate where he had placed his platinum credit card and smiled.
Such a smile! His whole face caught light.
‘Understood,’ she said calmly, when inside she felt wildly happy. She had held the thought of them being together at Daramba all these long days. The thought had sustained her—a wonderful weekend that was waiting for her. And she had no intention of taking along a chaperon. A chaperon was all very well for the old Francesca Forsyth. But the old Francesca had been forced out of her shell. She was now the Forsyth heiress, like it or not. She no longer lived her old life. She no longer lived like a normal person. She even felt emboldened enough to throw her own cap in the ring. Maybe Bryn had been right all along. He was a free man.
It was getting on towards four on the Friday afternoon prior to their trip to Daramba when Carina of all people burst through the door, bringing with her a whoosh of perfumed air.
‘Carina!’ Francesca rose from her desk, aware that Valerie Scott was hovering in the background, wringing her hands and looking extremely agitated. Obviously she had taken fright. ‘It’s all right, Valerie,’ she said, a model of calm.
It was doubtful if anyone on the planet would be capable of stopping a Carina hell-bent on gaining entry to what after all was their late grandfather’s resplendent office. Francesca had reduced the splendour considerably by stripping it of its more florid touches and personalising the space. She had taken down two of the blue chip colonial paintings that would fetch a small fortune and replaced them with one of her best paintings, which she had held back from sale, an Outback landscape, and one of Nellie Napirri’s stunningly beautiful waterlily paintings. In a very short time they had proved to be excellent conversation starters, putting visitors at their ease.
‘Yes, go back to work,’ Carina instructed the woman in imperious tones. ‘And never try to stop me from entering this office again.’
Scarlet in the face and mottled in the throat, Valerie made a valiant effort to defend herself. ‘I wasn’t trying to stop you, Ms Forsyth. I was merely trying to let Ms Forsyth know you were here.’
‘It didn’t look like that to me,’ Carina said in her clipped, high-handed
voice. ‘You can shut the door.’
‘Of course.’ A deeply mortified Valerie was already attempting to do that very thing.
Inwardly churning—the cheek of her!—Francesca waved her cousin into a leather chair opposite. One of their grandfather’s choices, it should swallow her up. ‘Is there something you want, Carrie?’
Carina remained standing. ‘What do you think I want?’ she challenged, already falling into what could be a question-for-question session.
‘I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?’ Francesca invited, surprised her tone was so easy and natural, and giving a thought to her composed inner strength—which was growing by the day. As ever, Carina looked a million dollars. A goddess of glamour in a white linen suit cinched tightly at the waist by a wide gold metallic belt. There were strappy gold stilettos on her feet, and a very luxurious white and gold leather tote bag over her shoulder. No wonder she had tempted Bryn. Carina would make the blood run hot in an Eskimo’s veins.
Carina frowned, carelessly plonking her very expensive bag on the carpeted floor before dipping into the plush seat, showing off almost the entire length of her very good legs. No neat ankle crosses for Carina. Her wonderful hair had been cut to clear the shoulder, side parted, full of natural volume.
‘How are you, by the way?’ She looked up to fix Francesca with a piercing blue gaze growing more and more like their grandfather’s.
‘I’m fine, thank you. And you?’ What was this all about? Francesca thought. Was Carina’s bad-girl side in remission? Dared she hope? The word epiphany sprung to mind. Maybe Carina had had one on the way over.
Carina flicked a frowning, all-encompassing glance around the vast room—the wall-to-wall bookcases crammed with weighty tomes, a magnificent pair of terrestrial and celestial globes on mahogany stands, the large paintings, memorabilia, dozens of silver-framed photographs of Sir Francis with famous people, trophies and awards—then said sarcastically, ‘Made changes, I see. Like to show off you’re such a clever chick.’ Her eyes moved to the painting of the waterlily lagoon surrounded by aquatic plants. ‘I don’t like that! Too highly coloured. Aboriginal work, isn’t it?’
