Potrait of Jamie

by Margaret Way

  'And he's incredibly sexy!' Leigh said from the depths of her jealous despair. 'At any rate she'll know by now that she's not another Chanel.'

  'And what is that supposed to mean?' Gerard Hunter glared at her in the fraught pause.

  'Oh, just a little plan we cooked up together,' Sue-Ellen said uneasily.

  Her father's eyes narrowed unpleasantly. 'Don't confuse Jaime with Sterling, you little fool! He's back, and he'll put paid to any of your bitchy little schemes— and what's more you'll have to pay for it. I won't!'

  'Now, now!' Georgia exclaimed, not daring to continue this line of discussion. 'Would you mind terribly if we all be quiet?'

  'My mother, are you going to pray?' asked Sue-Ellen.

  'No, that wouldn't be right.'

  'Why not?' Evelyn Hunter suddenly cleared her throat. A little afraid of Georgia and her daughter, she now felt disgusted with them. 'It's obvious we all regard prayer as something shameful. That might account for our lack of integrity.'

  'Oh, excuse us,' Sue-Ellen murmured caustically. 'There's nothing worse than a convert.' She got up and walked to the beautiful bay window, looking out. 'How gloomy death is! How chilling! It's easy to see why people like to live dangerously and die young. I couldn't bear to grow old and sick. Grandfather from the height of his powers to this—a frail and haggard old man. It's an outrage. I wonder how Jaime is going? The King is dead, long live the Queen. In the meantime we all feel ill!'

  There was nothing more said in the room.

  Trembling, and trying desperately not to cry, Jaime approached the huge four-poster bed where her grandfather lay dying. She had known him for so little time. He had ignored her for almost all of her life, so she could have been expected to feel little more than compassion, the trouble was, she loved him and had loved him on encounter. Ruthless and egocentric though he was she wanted nothing more than to have him stay with her for ever, when finally she had to admit, as she leaned over his bed, he could stand no more.

  His eyes were shut and she was terrified he might be already dead. Then his hand moved on the covers and he seemed to be training all his concentration into opening his eyes. The man who had founded a splendid and flourishing corporation looked appallingly frail, more dead than alive, curiously small and pathetic for a man who stood at more than six feet. Jaime struggled to keep back her tears, but they spilled out of her eyes and one sparkling diamond splashed on to her grandfather's hand. The handsome old face was all bone now, bloodless, the silver hair stiff around his skull. It was too much, and she had never seen death before. She was tempted to bury her face in her hands to hide from the common dread, to somehow cover a whole world of regrets, but she was committed now to witness her grandfather's death. It was absolutely the most dreadful moment of her life, and the anguish was in her face. She could not bear it if he had to endure agony.

  Quinn and the doctor stood close together at the far side of the room. Both of them had forgotten everything except the sight of the dying man and Jaime's tortured young face. Quinn, who had reason to hate, immediately forgave all the things that had been done to his father and his father before him. It didn't seem to matter now.

  Jaime looked breakable in the restrained lighting, the concentrated essence of womanly sorrow, the lamp striking purple tints in the silky masses of her hair. He had brought her here to this. She was so young, so intensely feeling, he might have spared her. Her life hadn't been easy and her relatives had done everything in their power to make her uncomfortable and unwelcome since she had arrived at Falconer. But there was nothing weak or unstable about her. She had the old man's brilliance without his ruthlessness, the old man's strength without the coldness of temperament that had kept his sons and his grandchildren going beggarly for a sign of heartfelt affection. What did it matter now anyway? Man was born to heartbreak. Quinn might want to spare her, for the sight of her was tearing into him, but he knew it was impossible. Jaime would have to suffer. There was a price to be paid for everything.

  A second or more later, with an indescribable effort, Rolf Hunter opened his eyes, striving to raise himself from the pillows. He was frowning, trying to see through the awful fog before his eyes as he stared straight in front of him. Jaime moved and he rasped out a single word, his face clearing miraculously, lighting up so that Jamie began to whimper in her throat.

  'Rowena!' he said, pushing up, and it was impossible to mistake the loving ecstasy of his tone, the pride and the utter belief that he was face to face with his daughter.

  Jaime looked down at him, taking his hand and easing him gently on to the pillows. 'I'm here, Father. Don't worry, I'm here to look after you.'

  He rested back, his head turned to her, staring at her with shining eyes. 'Rowena!' he said again, marvellously eased.

  Jaime lifted her head to find Quinn. She wasn't Jaime at all, but her mother, and she was content that this should be so, for it granted her grandfather a strange serenity. The expression in Quinn's black eyes descended on her like a benediction. She would never doubt the depths of his nature again. He cared for her in some way.

  She sank to the floor, kneeling now beside the bed, stroking her grandfather's hand. There was the faintest smile on his mouth, every line of pain on his face eased out. She relaxed her head for a moment, even hopeful of some immense recovery, so that the doctor's words hit her like a blow:

  'He's gone!'

  Jaime threw up her head and saw that this was so. All her own breath seemed to leave her. It was impossible to mistake death, the emptiness. 'Oh, God!' she dropped her head on to the bed and burst into uncontrollable weeping for her grandfather's parting soul.

  'Jaime, Jaime, don't. I can't bear it!' Quinn moved forward quickly and lifted her bodily away from the bed, feeling the throbbing pain in her, while Robby Burnett, his face puckered, leaned over and closed his friend's eyes. 'Go to them, Quinn. Tell them, I can't.'

  'In a minute.' Quinn looked down at Jaime. He was cradling her like a child, unable to see her face buried so infinitely touchingly against him. Her teeth were chattering and she was shaking vehemently, when outside it was a blissful summer's night.

  'I'll give her something,' Robby muttered over his shoulder. 'Poor old man. Poor, poor old man. Goodbye, my old friend. If any one of them says the wrong thing to me I shall strike them, and I've never hit anyone in my life.'

  Quinn hesitated for a moment, then he lifted Jaime in his arms and carried her towards the door. 'I'll take Jaime to her room, then I'll go down. I don't want her exposed to them. They'll be cruel even in their pain.'

  'Margo will look after her,' Robby said quietly. 'Take her there. I can make the arrangements here.'

  'Thank you, Robby.'

  'Listen, Quinn!'

  'Yes?'

  'You're a good man.'

  'I've been ... lots of things!'

  They looked at one another in silence across the great bed. 'I know the old stories. I say what I mean. You're a good man. Be kind to that child—hardly bearable the way the old fellow thought she was Rowena.'

  'Yes, Rowena, offering pardon!' Quinn said sombrely. 'The only one who ever held a place in his heart. He never did see Jaime as she really is, only an extension of his daughter. Still, it gave him peace at the end. Or peace of a sort.'

  Quinn glanced at the bed again, his dark face set, then he moved out through the door with his slight burden. The quivering slender body moved him profoundly. He couldn't leave her here to the tender mercies of the Hunters. With her grandfather gone, Jaime had no other friend in the house. He would take her to Rosemount. His grandmother would know how to console her grief. Never callous, he began to feel the great silence of the house. Death communicated its own message. The heirs of Sir Rolf Hunter would be no less stricken than Jaime; all of them the old man had starved of love, hardened in every possible way, so it would be necessary now to show a little of Jaime's compassion. For all of them it was the end of an era. Rolf Hunter had been an unforgettable man.

  Th
e week that followed her grandfather's funeral would always have a place in Jaime's memory. His death had stunned all of them, but immediately the will was read they all began to recover, determined to make a fight of it. It had been expected that Jaime would be richly rewarded beyond her deserts, now it seemed Sir Rolf had made an unforgivable welter of it. To the amazement of everyone, he had left her Falconer and the entire contents of the house, including the magnificent art collection. Add to that a massive bundle of shares in Hunter Sterling Exploration and Hunter Sterling Land Corporation, and it was the final crack on the head.

  Even at Rosemount Jaime was made aware of the family's impotent rage. It was hell, and there were necessary meetings and coldly abusive phone calls. She was torn in all directions, because she didn't want Falconer nor a fortune. As Sir Rolf Hunter's heiress, her name and photographs had found themselves into all the papers, giving of all things the Just Jaime label an enormous if temporary boost. Di, with a single phone call, had assured her of this. Jaime Gilmore might have been a nothing, but the late Sir Rolf Hunter's granddaughter was quite a different matter. The boutiques that had scorned her now could spare her all the time in the world, but she promised them nothing.

  Her father had not attended the funeral. He hadn't even expressed regret when Jaime rang him that first evening at Rosemount. All he had promised was to defer his pending marriage until Jaime was free and able to, travel up to Queensland. The tears running down her paper-white cheeks, Jaime didn't have it in her heart to upbraid him. It would have been hypocrisy for her father to have said he was sorry, but it seemed proper to stick with the nice old-fashioned idea of murmuring a few sympathetic words to the living. Derrick Gilmore had always loathed and detested his father-in-law: Jaime had loved him. Their views could scarcely be compatible. At that time Jaime had not been aware of her stunning inheritance, so she had given her father no news that interested him, so that finally when she hung up she wondered why she had rung at all.

  'He wasn't in the least sorry,' she had murmured to Mrs Sterling, and Margo Sterling had touched her head gently with a wry: 'I daresay!'

  The days passed, of course, but Jaime was never to forget them. Quinn, however, was Quinn, always going forward, never back. She couldn't have done without him, for he soon put an end to all the harsh words that were offered to her by her relations. She could never have borne them unflinchingly without Quinn, for he seemed to find her a quick way out of all her difficulties. He had now taken on the role of conscientious and supremely capable big brother who went right out of his way to dispose of all her problems, as though she were a precious and incompetent semi-invalid, which for that week she was.

  When she began to recover she approached him about Falconer. He spent most of his evenings at Rosemount, which delighted his grandmother, but Jaime had never seen him alone. It was a deliberate manoeuvre and she had forewarned Mrs Sterling so that that lady retired early, allowing Jaime to corner Quinn's entire attention. The night was a blaze of stars, the breeze coming in off the water, so they sat in the semi-dark of the verandah to escape the heat, Jaime on the cushioned lounger, Quinn a few feet from her, maddeningly relaxed.

  'Quinn,' she said purposefully.

  'Hmm?'

  'There's something I want to talk to you about.'

  'Oh, my God!' he said.

  'You told me to tell you if there was anything bothering me.'

  'It's plain there is now. Go ahead, my lady!'

  'About Falconer ...'

  'Lordy!' he interjected, his teeth a flash of white in his dark face.

  'Are you going to listen to me or not?'

  'Baby, I'm so tired,' he sighed.

  'Are you? It doesn't seem possible, you're such a miracle of energy.'

  'It just happens I am.'

  'Then come and sit beside me.'

  'No, thanks, Jaime. You said you want to talk.'

  'I don't want Falconer!' she said bluntly. 'It's too big, it's too beautiful, it's too valuable. It could only hold unhappy memories for me.'

  'How sad. Tell me, what do you intend to do with it?'

  'Practically anything but live in it.'

  'May I make a merciful suggestion?' he enquired.

  'Please do.'

  'Sell it to your Uncle Gerard for a fair price. It's always been his home, you know.'

  'Are you trying to say that Grandfather was unfair?' she asked.

  'Not trying to say, darling girl. With time and forgetfulness I might change my tune. Obnoxious as Gerard undoubtedly is I feel sorry for him.'

  'So do I. In fact, I don't know why I didn't think of it myself.'

  'These haven't been great days for you. Tell me, what do you weigh now?'

  'You'll still be able to carry me,' she told him.

  'Much more important, I might be able to make love to you. You look like a little girl, all curled up there. Shall I approach your nice uncle?'

  'Would you?'

  'I have to work with him. It isn't easy. There's no way of knowing how he will react initially. But I'm sure it will eventually be arranged.'

  'That's the house,' she said.

  'And there's more?' Quinn asked wryly.

  'Uncle Gerard is a very rich man. I can't feel too sorry for him. The art collection, the Australian art collection, I have definite ideas about. It's a complete history of our art from the colonial days to the outstanding artists of our day. I don't feel entitled to hoard it up like a miser with his gold. It's part of the national heritage. I would like everyone to see it. What did you say?'

  'Nothing!' he said blandly. 'I'm just numb. Keep going, Jaime, I'll just sit here and admire you.'

  'I think I'd like it to go on permanent loan to the national art galleries.'

  'That's splendid. I think you'd better keep the Renoirs and the Picassos.'

  'I'm serious, Quinn,' she rebuked.

  'So am I. You're the only benevolent Hunter I've met. A strange child in a strange land. What about the fantastic assemblage of antiques?' *

  'I thought I'd let each member of the family select a favourite piece. I want the Oriental vases and the portrait of my mother. What's left can go up for public auction, and the proceeds can go to medical research foundations. My mother died in childbirth. It was touch and go for me, I believe. I'd like some of the money to be set aside for that kind of thing.'

  Quinn sat up. 'I said I was tired, but you seem to have brought about an incredible renascence. Is it possible you want to finish up with nothing?'

  'I have all those shares,' she pointed out.

  'So you do.' He rocked back precariously and put his arms behind his head. 'God knows what the old man would have thought of this.'

  'He wouldn't have approved?'

  'He was never known to give anything away that couldn't go down as a tax deduction. You're undoubtedly the finest, purest Hunter I've known.'

  'I wanted to talk to you about it,' she confided.

  'Is that why Grandmamma went to bed?'

  'We talk practically all the time. No secrets.'

  'Yes, you're no longer the child of Rowena. You're Jaime, and Jaime wouldn't let anyone suffer.'

  'Don't entangle me in all the sad, old stories,' she said. 'Are you sure you know who I am?'

  'Jaime, the witch,' he responded.

  'Within limits. I can't even get you to sit beside me.'

  'No, you can't!' he said crisply. 'I've seen all your fearful little violet-eyed glances, the ideas they've put into your head. Black-hearted Sterling carrying off the heiress. The powerfully cruel eagle with the pathetic little lamb.'

  'You have been mentioned, yes,' she said truthfully, trying not to remember exactly what was said. 'There's no need to even go on with the engagement.'

  'Particularly when you're going to give everything away!'

  He sounded so vastly ironical that Jaime swept off the lounger shaking with the urge to hit him. 'Oh no, you don't!' he said, catching her around the waist. 'You're my business partner anyway
, and you're going to make me rich!'

  'You are rich. That's the only thing that confuses me, but some men are power-mad.' She was facing him, speaking softly but intensely, his fingers hard about her waist.

  'No news, Jaime. I'm power-mad at the minute!' In seconds he pulled her down on to his knees, making it seem the most natural, the most dangerous thing in the world. 'You're absolutely determined about all this?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'But you decline to go on with the engagement that never had a chance to get off the ground?'

  'I have certain information that you're just using me!'

  'There is that possibility,' he said suavely.

  'Thank you, Quinn, for admitting it.'

  'I'm not admitting anything. I'm trying to agree with you. It's what you want, isn't it?'

  'Would you please let me go?'

  'Definitely not. I was a fool not to have thought of it before, but you seemed so fragile.'

  'Is it true?' she insisted.

  'What?' He stared into her flower face. 'Oh, I see ... Am I using you. What a dreadful way to put it! For one thing, Jaime, I can't resist you, but I wouldn't be telling the truth if I said I was unmindful of the advantages. My maternal grandmother was French. Doesn't that mean something to you? Marriages of convenience and all that, sensible, long-lasting arrangements. That appeals to me. Besides, you're going to be famous.'

  'Depend on it.'

  'Oh, I am. I never back long shots. I like that dress. It shimmers in this light. Yes, you're going to be the designer to end all designers. They're my pearls, aren't they?'

  'Yes, they are!' She shivered as his hand touched her bare skin.

  'They're the new length, or so they told me,' he observed idly, 'and they look good with a deep V. You're so beautiful, Jaime, you were bound to complicate things.'