by Margaret Way
“Perfect!” he said. “No wonder Paradise is traditionally described as a garden,” he remarked, possessed by a strange sort of restlessness, even when he was at peace. Clouds’ gardens had been started in the early days of her marriage by Lady Julia. They were her lasting legacy.
“There’s always been a language of flowers,” Charlotte said, as entranced by all the beauty around them as Brendon was. “Ancient Greece and Rome had their language, right through the Middle Ages to the so-called age of chivalry. The Victorians made a big deal of flower language. Passionate communications without a word being spoken. You should try it some time, Bren.”
He gave her an indulgent smile. “That’s a reach, though I have been known to send my female friends flowers.”
“Lovely Lisa?” Charlotte teased.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“As I said, I like Lisa. I’m inviting her to the party, okay?”
“If you must.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to let you see the list.”
“That is noble of you,” he said dryly.
“Anyone else? Anyone you particularly care for I don’t know about?”
He looked down at her with mocking eyes. “There is another woman. Not the one you think.”
She came to a complete standstill. “Who? This is serious, Bren.” She put great emphasis on the word serious.
“Our mystery woman.” His silver-grey eyes glinted back at her.
“Do you love her?” Charlotte asked. “I’m not going to move until you tell me.”
Now he got to smile. “I’m joking, Charlie. Love is madness.”
Apparently satisfied with his answer, she sauntered on her way. “I agree. At least I think I do. All my girlfriends have steady boyfriends.”
There was no trace of calculated coquetry in her voice. Charlie said it like it was. “You’re surely not going to tell me you couldn’t have any guy you want?”
“I’d have to be swept away, Bren,” she confided with a certain measure of wonder at her own exacting and fastidious nature. “It hasn’t happened yet, that’s for sure. Maybe I’m a cold person? Alright, not cold, maybe cool at the core. Maybe it’s because I wouldn’t care for a man trying to rule me, let alone my ruling him. That’s not on. Have you ever experienced the great tugs of the heart, Bren?”
It was a serious question. He had to pretend to consider. “A twinge or two. I’ve been happily attracted. Will that do?”
Charlotte let out a sigh. “It wouldn’t do me.”
“No need to tell me, Charlie,” he said, very dryly. “It would be all or nothing for you.”
“And you,” she shot back. “We’re alike.”
They were coming into the full sunlight and the long, flowering rose gardens that spread their heady perfume over the entire estate. The rose gardens were flanked by beds glowing with a host of other lovely sensuous, summer-flowering plants.
“Grandma chose many of the old-fashioned roses you see for their beautiful perfume,” Charlotte told him, as they walked slowly down the aisles. “Rosa Damascina grows on Omar Khayyam’s grave, did you know?”
“I did not know that, Charlie,” he said. “Roses do it for me.” He stooped to savour the fragrance of the apricot Just Joey.
“They’re your favourite flower?” Charlotte asked.
“Of course. They’re glorious.”
She smiled on him. “Who doesn’t love a rose, especially the David Austin roses?”
“And your favourite?” He realized he wanted to know all there was to know about Charlotte. For some reason he thought she might name the exquisite camellia.
She surprised him as usual. “I love all flowers, Bren. I couldn’t live without them. My grandmother created and tended this wonderful garden all her married life. It’s a garden to dream in. Monet said his garden was his masterpiece. ‘I must have flowers. Always and always flowers,’ he said, but if you really want to know my favourite flower, it’s the arum lily.”
“Really? You mean, all those white lilies growing around the pond?”
Charlotte nodded. “I love white flowers in particular. The arum lily with its pure white, hood-shaped flowers has an architectural appeal for me. It was Yves Saint Laurent’s favourite flower. I’ve loved them since I was a child. Grandma loved them, too, but like you, the roses were her favourites. There’s a pink rose named after her. Lady Julia. That’s it.” She pointed to a beautiful tea rose of a delicate true pink. “Why don’t we go and sit in the summer house?” she suggested.
“Why not? I don’t fancy going back inside,” Brendon answered in a brooding voice. “Your relatives are a weird lot.”
“Yours are pretty mucked up, as well,” she returned, tartly.
“Thank God for you and me,” he said sardonically, taking her arm. “So what’s the betting Simon is made to apologize so he can get invited to the party? Whatever he says, he couldn’t bear to be left out. He’s such a snob.”
“What’s he got to be snobbish about? I hate pretentious people and I’ve met a few. I’ve the idea our Simon didn’t make it in the Big Apple.”
“He won’t tell it that way,” Brendon said in an educated guess.
The summer house was a romantic small structure at the bottom of the garden. It was the ideal place for quiet contemplation. Surrounded by mature shrubs, in this case the gorgeously scented, drooping white and purple wisteria, it offered repose. The bell-shaped roof and finial over the retreat had mellowed over time to a soft blue-grey. White fluted posts held up the structure, with five of its arched bays enclosed by white lattice that invited one in.
Together they walked into the cool, perfumed interior, Charlotte with her lovely light girlish movements, Brendon so much taller and stronger not far behind her. A slated white bench encircled the area with a box nearby that contained an array of plump cushions.
“I used to come here often,” Charlotte remarked, waiting for Brendon to cover the hard slats with a few cushions. “I must have been the world’s loneliest kid.” To her consternation, her voice wavered a little, so she broke off. She prided herself on being made of sterner stuff.
“You always mattered to me, Charlie,” Brendon said. Nothing else on earth mattered more to a child than a loving mother and father, he thought. Even one surviving parent. Charlotte had not been so lucky. Her cousin, Simon, had been doted on by his mother. He knew how much his own parents loved him, how proud they were of him. Charlie’s happiest school vacations would have been spent with one or other of her school friends, all vetted carefully by her grandfather. It would have been so much different if his own mother had taken Charlie under her wing. Inexplicably she had not. Maybe she saw too much of the beautiful Alyssa in Charlie? God knows what the true story had been. He feared it would never be told.
“What are you thinking about?” Charlotte asked, reading his sombre expression.
“Looking back,” he said.
“On the things I’ve missed?”
“Charlie,” he said supportively, “there are going to be great things for you in the future.”
She smiled an enigmatic little smile, taking a seat and settling her short skirt, which exposed her knees and slender legs. “Lovely old you! As long as I count, Bren. As long as I can do some good. I’ve got too much money. It’s more a great burden than a reward. I know how Sir Hugo has everyone who comes in contact with me checked out.”
“For your own safety,” Bren said quietly, joining her on the bench. For years past his grandfather had had a series of “minders” in place. They were so good at going unnoticed, Charlotte would have had no idea she was being watched over.
“It’s not safe to be an heiress,” she said, thinking of past tragedies she had read about.
“You’re a lot safer than some innocent young woman snatched off the street,” he pointed out. “You’re a lot safer in this country than anywhere else.”
“There’s that.” She nodded her agreement. “Don’t mind me, Bren. Wit
h an approaching milestone birthday, I’m feeling a bit emotional.”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” he said, his illusions about families staying together, long destroyed.
“Yes.” She took the camellia he had given her out of her hair and began twirling it around in her fingers. “I sometimes think I might not ever get what I want.”
“Do you know what you want, Charlie?” he asked.
“Life. Ordinary, love-filled life. Love is the flower of life. It’s a vision. It’s a . . .” She broke off, as involuntary tears sprang into her beautiful emerald-green eyes.
“Charlie!” His heart smote him. He had never seen Charlie cry. Not at the funerals of her parents. Not at the very public funeral of Sir Reginald. Those tears had been dammed up, but surely the dam had to be full to bursting point? On impulse he leaned sideways, intending to kiss her smooth cheek, only simultaneously she turned her blond head.
What happened next came as a shock to both of them. The chaste kiss Brendon had intended landed directly on her full-lipped, parted mouth. The thrill of impact was enormous. It strained every bit of Brendon’s willpower not to deepen this kiss that was already perilously on the brink of becoming intense. Her lips seemed to part even more. That excited and moved him unbearably. This wasn’t the gentle understanding kiss of a long, close friendship. This wasn’t a “cousinly” kiss. His heart was beating violently. He had the wildest impulse to pull her across his knees, make love to her—to her, little Charlie—in the dazzling afternoon light. It was proving extraordinarily difficult to let her go.
Both tripped each other up to speak. “There’s nothing like a kiss, is there?” Charlotte quavered, visibly unnerved.
“Well, you would turn your head,” he said, shaken right out of his normal composure. “I don’t think you need ever worry about being a cold person.”
“I’m never cold with you, Bren,” Charlotte said. “You were my one ray of sunshine for yonks. As a matter of fact”—she was getting her breath back—“as an unintended little peck, it was pretty good.” Trying hard not to show her wildly unruly emotions, Charlotte sat upright, locking her hands together. “You might not guess this, but that was my very first kiss. A good thing I’ll be able to remember it with pleasure.”
“Your first kiss?” It wasn’t like Charlie to tell a lie. “Charlie, I cannot believe you’ve never been kissed.” In his view she was a natural. He had never received such pleasure from a single kiss.
“Believe what you like,” she said, tilting back her golden head. “I’m a very old-fashioned girl. Besides, I have a need to always be safe. My generation of friends wants everything at once. A lot of the girls I know believe they have to accede to whatever their boyfriends want, and we all know what that is. I’m different, Bren. There’s plenty of time for me to get into sex if I want it. First I have to be sure. That kiss was real, wasn’t it, Bren?”
He should have said, “You know it was.” Instead he backed off. “Kisses can be dangerous, Charlotte.”
A faint shiver ran through her. “You mean, we’re living with the memory of the sins of our family? Dangerous kisses lead to dangerous sex?” she asked. “The dangerous things that were done in the past?”
“We have to forget that, Charlotte,” he warned. “We’ve passed the test of friendship. Of bonding. We look out for one another.”
“Well, you look out for me,” Charlotte said and stood up. “Why don’t we go back to the house? Is dinner in the village still on?”
A deep seriousness had fallen on him. “Are you going to make me pay for kissing you, even if it was mostly your fault?” he asked.
She only smiled enigmatically. “I’m not going to allow anything to mess with what we have, Bren. I can’t lose my dearest friend.”
“Then dinner is still on,” he said.
“And an end to kissing.” She could say that, when she could still feel the warmth of Bren’s sculpted mouth on her own. The sensations that had shot through her lingered, the near-painful leap of her heart, the sharp little prickles that ran through her body, deepening the further down they went. There wasn’t going to be a simple solution. In a few unplanned moments they had crossed over a line from which there might be no coming back.
Chapter 4
The jacarandas had been slow to bloom that year. By mid-November, though, the entire city was awash with the city’s purple “Christmas” trees. They were out in all their glory in the suburbs, the front yards, backyards, parks, streets, schools. A magnificent specimen flourished at the city’s famous Circular Quay, the hub of Sydney Harbour, with wonderful views of the Harbour Bridge and a lovely walkway to the Opera House.
As happened in Queensland, the blossoming of the jacarandas signalled the posting of high school and University results. Charlotte received a huge buzz when she was awarded her bachelor of laws with honours. As a further bonus for all her hard work, she had emerged top of her class, something that had put at least two of her male colleagues’ noses out of joint. Word of her high standing had gone out to the top law firms around the country. It was thought by no means certain that Charlotte Mansfield, granddaughter of the late Sir Reginald Mansfield, would enter the law chambers he had founded with Sir Hugo Macmillan, both men having been knighted for their services to the law not long before the honours system had been scrapped by the then labour prime minister. There were those who knew there had been many tensions between the two families. Plenty of gossip, rumour, speculation. Further, Sir Hugo’s grandson, Brendon Macmillan, was making a name for himself as a formidable young barrister and future candidate for Queen’s Counsel. There could be further clashes in store for the Mansfields and the Macmillans as Ms. Mansfield was well known to be equally as ambitious.
The end-of-year celebrations had started. Parties were held. Charlotte attended quite a few of them with a bodyguard, still unbeknownst to her, close by. Everything was in place for her twenty-first. Her dress had been delivered, a real sparkler, iridescent green covered by multicoloured sequins and beads. With it she planned to wear her grandmother Julia’s multicoloured necklace of precious and semi-precious stones. The pièce de résistance would be appended to it, an enhancer featuring a large diamond daisy. The daisy would fall neatly into the vee of her cleavage. More than ever before, she wanted to look glamorous on her night of nights. She knew her girlfriends, all of whom Brendon knew, would be going all out to draw attention. Well, they had better move over. She was the belle of the ball. Nothing was going to spoil her big night.
* * *
A magnificent Christmas tree stood in the entrance hall of Clouds, decorated with all manner of glittering baubles. An exquisite little antique white porcelain angel with golden wings, holding her golden harp, topped the tree less than a foot below the high ceiling. It was Brendon who had offered to help Charlotte decorate the tree she had ordered: the quintessential Christmas tree, a European silver fir.
Artificial as it had to be, it captured perfectly in colour and texture the real thing. Charlotte left Brendon temporarily to it while she had a word with Aunt Patricia in the living room.
Aunt Patricia had not been pleased at Charlotte and Brendon’s turning up on that Saturday, though she had done her best to hide it. It seemed from henceforth their every meeting would be a challenge, Charlotte thought.
“That tree is much too big, Charlotte,” Patricia Mansfield gave her unsolicited opinion as though astonished at Charlotte’s choice. She waved Charlotte into an armchair. “Worse, it will drop its needles all over the floor of the entrance hall, making such a mess! Especially for the party.”
Charlotte tried her best to answer politely. This was the season of goodwill, after all. “It’s artificial, Aunt Patricia, though I can see why you thought it wasn’t. It captures perfectly the colour and texture of the real thing. I don’t like to speak bluntly, but you leave me little option except to point out that this house is mine. As a courtesy, I have let you know when I’m coming, but I don’t expect to be treated like a
n unwelcome guest when I arrive.”
Patricia Mansfield wasn’t accustomed to having salvos fired at her. “My dear girl, that’s simply not true,” she exclaimed, adopting a wounded expression. “I wonder how you can suggest it. Surely as your uncle and I live here, I’m entitled to my concerns. I really did think the tree was real.”
“Then I got my money’s worth,” Charlotte said. “I know you and Uncle Conrad love living here at Clouds. Who would blame you? But it’s not the only house in the world, Aunt Patricia. There are beautiful houses and apartments overlooking the harbour. So they carry a big price tag! Uncle Conrad is well able to afford a mansion.” Even two. One for each of them.
Patricia Mansfield’s arched brows shot even higher. “You may well point that out,” she said, wondering which way was best to handle this imperious young woman who was looking more and more like her late, too-often-remembered mother. “But where else would your uncle get the peace and quiet to write his book?”
“You’ve read some of the unfinished manuscript?” Charlotte seized the opportunity to ask.
Patricia flushed and pinched in her lips. “Of course I have.”
“Lucky you! What’s the working title? Cries of the Heart was a great title.”
Patricia Mansfield gave Charlotte a withering look. “Your uncle has a splendid mind.”
“My father had a splendid mind, too,” Charlotte said, aware that little chinks of light were opening up in her head again. “How I wish he and my mother were here with me today,” she breathed. “You didn’t like my mother, did you, Aunt Patricia?”
Patricia Mansfield stared across at Charlotte, her expression frozen. “How could you accuse me of that, Charlotte?” she said, clearing her throat with a slight choke. “I was devastated by Alyssa’s death. I suppose your mother never told you it was she who disliked me, when I so wished everything could have been different. She didn’t want your uncle or me getting too fond of you, either.”
“When I thought you did it on purpose!” Charlotte said. “The thing is, I don’t believe you, Aunt Patricia. For some reason I’ve been experiencing a lot of flashbacks these days. Or perhaps they’ve been there all along, but I chose to be blind. I can hear my mother speaking. I swear I remember my father using the exact words ‘cries of the heart,’ which Uncle Conrad obviously picked up and used. My father was passionately in love with my mother.”
