by Margaret Way
She answered with a sigh of her own. “I really didn’t want to kick them out. Conrad is my uncle. He’s a distinguished novelist. I understand perfectly how Clouds suits him.”
“And it saves him having to buy a suitable retreat for himself,” Brendon pointed out. “There are other beautiful houses here in the mountains with outstanding views.”
“Clouds would be the pick of them. And there’s the garden. He would see his mother moving around in the garden, wouldn’t he? Everyone loved Grandma.”
Brendon touched her gently on her shoulder, bare except for a shoestring strap. A gesture he had made countless times, yet now it was different. “They have to go, Charlotte.” His hand didn’t linger. It burned. “You must let them go. However forgiving you are, your uncle and aunt have treated you very badly. And Simon is a disgrace.”
“He’s close to paranoid,” Charlotte said. “Anyway, I can get in here. I know where the spare key is.”
Brendon looked down at her in wry amusement. “Charlie, most probably it has been shifted. It’s been years!”
“This was Daddy’s study, you know. Uncle Conrad took it over. He wouldn’t know where the spare key is hidden. Only me.”
“And me, I hope?” His voice held more than a hint of challenge.
“You’ve earned it. Follow me.”
Brendon shook his head. “Charlotte, there simply aren’t words to match my relief at your faith in me,” he drawled.
* * *
She led him back into the entrance hall, moving past the glittering Christmas tree to the gilt-wood console table. It was surmounted by a tall, elegant gilt-wood mirror with a carved crest.
“Should I guess?” Brendon asked, his eyes ranging over both antiques.
“Go right ahead,” she invited.
“Not the mirror,” he concluded. “Too high for a little girl. The console here, maybe. God knows there are enough scrolls and swags and things. If anywhere, I’d say the central mask.” He bent closer.
“Nice one,” Charlotte said. “It is the mask, but which bit do you press?”
“What do you say you do it?” he said. “It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning.”
“So what? I’m wide awake. So are you, by the look of it. If someone else has beaten me to it, I’m seriously you-know-what.” Making a little tent with her slender fingers, Charlotte found a point on the head of the winged female grotesque. She pressed it with her forefinger. “Voilà!” A square box popped out of the ornate gilt-wood scroll at the base of the mask. “God bless my dear father for telling me,” Charlotte breathed.
“God bless him, indeed.” Brendon was impressed.
“Now, to the study. There’s a safe in there,” Charlotte said. “It used to be behind a Brett Whiteley.” She named a very famous Australian artist.
“Don’t tell me. You know the combination?”
“Yes, I do,” Charlotte breathed. “I was always good with numbers, even as a kid.”
“Not only are you beautiful, but you are also intellectually gifted, dear girl.”
The brass key Charlotte had extracted from the console’s central scroll slid into place. With a single turn it unlocked the study door. Brendon found the lights panel inside. The spacious room with its air of privilege and substance sprang to life.
“Much as it used to be,” Charlotte said, with a sad tug on her heart. She could see her father and her grandfather seated behind the twin pedestal partners’ desk. She had loved the terrestrial and celestial globes that adorned the room when she was a child. Both her father and her grandfather had been highly pleased by her interest in them. Both had enjoyed pointing out all the countries of the world and the planets. She looked towards the wall to her left. “The Whiteley is still in place. The safe is behind it.”
A kind of acceptance of everything she did settled into Brendon. “You mean to open it?”
“Just to take a peek. Legally speaking, this is my safe. All I want is to sight a nice, thick manuscript. I won’t attempt to read it.”
Brendon went behind the burr-walnut partners’ desk. It had four short and two long drawers to each side. He tried them. “I can’t think why not. The drawers are locked, as well,” he announced, unsurprised. “What the heck has he got in there?”
“Maybe nothing,” Charlotte replied with a shrug. “He’d be as anxious to hide nothing as anything. If there is a manuscript, as Aunt Patricia claimed, it will be in the safe, wouldn’t you say? He wouldn’t have taken it into town with him. They’ll be back tonight.”
“By which time Simon might be fit enough to take off,” Brendon said crisply. He stood watching, while Charlotte, the safe cracker, went to work. Twenty-one years old and she had an arsenal of talents, he thought in amusement.
The door of the safe opened, when he’d been a tiny bit afraid it wouldn’t. Immediately Charlotte’s hand shot out, delving inside. “Half a dozen jewellery boxes, lots of private papers, files,” she reported, then she said, “For crying out loud.” She turned her head to look at Brendon. “No manuscript!”
“If you were to ask my opinion, there is no manuscript,” Brendon said. “I don’t suppose it’s uncommon, but your uncle might have written himself out with Cries of the Heart. He mightn’t have had it in him to write a follow-up. Maybe he had writer’s block.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Except real writers write. Something in them compels them to do it. My father wrote. He once said he had a good novel in him. I write, not a wonderful novel like Uncle Conrad, but we committed writers need to commit ourselves to paper, our thoughts, our dreams, our full quota of unhappy times, family tragedies. Cries of the Heart seemed to me more than a little autobiographical. It was the story, a love story, of a highly dysfunctional, yet wealthy family. Actually, it was my father who coined the phrase ‘Cries of the Heart,’ not Uncle Conrad. He never did own up to pinching it. It was a splendid line, too good not to use. Did you try the bookcases?”
“If there is a manuscript, it wouldn’t be in any place on show.”
“I guess not. When Daddy was overseas, he wrote me long letters brimming with life. I loved them. I kept them. I always answered, my heart yearning for him to come home. I have to say I was my father’s daughter more than my mother’s daughter. It wasn’t intentional. It was just the way it was. If my father had lived long enough, I’m sure he would have written a novel to even surpass Cries of the Heart.”
Brendon stared at her, his voice curiously edgy. “There’s the big question, of course.”
“Come out with it.”
“Your father could have written Cries of the Heart, not your uncle,” he suggested as the notion sprang into his mind. “A manuscript could well have existed, written by your father, which your uncle found after your father’s death,” he further expounded. “Everyone knew Conrad, like Christopher, had artistic leanings.”
Charlotte experienced another moment of déjà vu. “You mean, after Uncle Conrad dried his crocodile tears, he took another long look at the manuscript he’d found and fancied himself as the author?” Whatever memory had come to mind, it slipped away. “Even I don’t think Uncle Conrad is as bad as that,” she said. “It wouldn’t just be plagiarism. It would be a crime.”
“Definitely. You could always plead with him to let you read the manuscript for his current novel. After all, you’ve allowed him to stay at Clouds for years now to plan, and then write, the next masterpiece. It must exist if Patricia has been allowed to read it.”
“I don’t believe her,” Charlotte answered. “I feel very sad in here. I remember the old life.”
Brendon saw clearly that she was distressed. “Let’s go to bed,” he said, briskly.
Charlotte laughed out loud. “You’re kidding. You can’t have your wicked way with me, Brendon Macmillan.”
“Who said I wanted to?” he instantly replied.
“Simon did. He said, if you recall, you fully intended at some time in the near future to shag me senseless?”
“I agree. Anyway, you may have your many adoring girlfriends, but you’re pretty straitlaced with me.”
“I should damned well think so,” Brendon retorted. “I’m turning the lights off, so move. What I should have said was, Let’s go upstairs.”
“You sound almost angry?” Charlotte asked, as she stepped into the corridor.
“I will be in a minute. Take off those silly shoes.”
“They’re not silly shoes!” she protested, staring down at them. “They’re Valentino.”
“I can’t guess at what these male designers are thinking, turning out shoes with heels so thin and high women could break their necks.”
Charlotte bent to remove the offending evening sandals. “Well, top models have been known to crash on the runways. Anyway, shows how good I am. We won the tango, thanks to me.”
“That’s odd. Lisa told me I stole the show.”
“She would. She’s madly in love with you, Bren. You hold her heart in your hands.”
“And I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I gave Lisa no good reason for her high hopes.”
Charlotte gave a poignant smile. “La coeur a ses raisons qui la raison ne connait point.”
He was moved by the words and her low-pitched, musical voice. “You speak French well.”
“I figure it had something to do with having a great French-born teacher. Anyway, it held up in Paris.” As she went to lead the way, Brendon shocked her with a single movement. He swept her off her feet. She might have been a bundle of feathers so high did he hold her in his arms. “What is this, a replay of Gone With the Wind?” she gasped.
He glanced down at her flushed, excited face. “Charlie, you’re in reach and yet you’re out of reach.”
“No matter what your family wants?”
He didn’t answer that provocation. He proceeded to carry her up the stairs and along the silent corridor of the west wing. He put her down gently, right outside her door. With one hand, he opened it, and then turned to leave. “Get some sleep, Charlie. It’ll be another big day tomorrow.”
She caught his sleeve, her beautiful green eyes sparkling with mischief and something that was no laughing matter. “I won’t say no to a good-night kiss. I’m twenty-one, remember?”
He swung back, his handsome face taut and unsmiling. “Don’t think you can twist me around your little finger,” he warned.
“You think I can’t?” she asked in a veiled whisper.
The sheer beauty of her caused him acute tension. “Come here, then.”
Of a sudden, emotion overwhelmed her. She had thrown down the gauntlet, and Bren had picked it up. This was the Brendon she had known all her life, yet he was shocking her thoroughly, forcing her to face a hitherto unexplored fact. She was in love with him. She would be a perfect fool if she couldn’t now see that. She was literally shaking with need of him. It was Brendon whom she wanted. She always had. She knew what his family wanted. Did Brendon want that, too? Would she ever fight free of their powerful influence? She made a little sound, almost a mew of pain, at her own vulnerability.
Brendon stifled it with his mouth. He pulled her slight, girlish body tight against his tall frame, aware he had cut off her little sob. Without qualm, without another single coherent thought, he grasped a handful of her curling golden mane, tilting her head back so he could better claim her mouth. It was utter, utter rapture. One of those times when a man was frantic to tear off his clothes to know the nakedness of the woman he so hotly desired.
Only this was Charlotte shaking under his hands.
He wrenched back his head, afraid he couldn’t control the highly combustible situation. “Charlie,” he said, raggedly, “the surest way for us to derail our lives is for this to go any further.”
For answer, Charlotte buried her face against his shirtfront, taking deep, deep breaths. “I understand, Bren. I provoked you,” she said at length.
“Everything is okay. Truly.” He kissed the top of her head. “What we are going to do is give you space. You’re going to need it. From now on in, you’ll have a tremendous amount of clout as Sir Reginald’s heir. Clever as you are, there will be so much to learn. You know that. So many people you have to get onside. Not just family, people inside the firm. You’ve started out in brilliant fashion, but there are greatly experienced QCs in Chambers, not the least of them my father. There are going to be those who resent you, even those ready to oppose you. Many things have to be settled, not only in your life, but mine. You’re going to find any number of men who will want to marry you. They won’t just be after your money, Charlotte, believe me. They’ll be after you. You without a penny to your name would be a lifetime prize.”
“I can handle them,” Charlotte said, staunchly, when there was no real way of knowing whether she could. It was Bren she feared she couldn’t handle. She intended to keep that to herself as a means of self-protection, self-autonomy. Besides, as usual, Bren was right. There were countless huge hurdles facing her. Problems that had to be solved. She took a determined little step away from him, knowing she had to go to earth with her deepest emotions. At least for some time. “See you in the morning,” she said in a near-normal voice. “I loved my birthday party, Bren.”
“Just wait until you open all the presents,” he said, grateful the tumult inside him was gradually winding down.
* * *
Charlotte hardly had a moment to herself for the entire day. She had appeared at breakfast, which was sparsely attended, then again at lunch, when all her guests turned up. Afterwards everyone had assembled in the entrance hall while all her presents were opened. Brendon and Lisa helped out. She hadn’t wanted her guests to spend money on her—indeed, she had asked them not to—but no birthday party guest ever takes notice of that. The presents were beautiful, expensive. Silver, boxes, vases, bowls, crystal glassware, ornaments, adornments, small gems of flower paintings that she loved. Brendon’s gift was an exquisite nineteenth-century Blanc de Chine Guanyin. The goddess stood on a gleaming wood base, her long hair scrolling across her shoulders much in the manner Charlotte often wore her hair, as Brendon later pointed out. It was a gift Charlotte knew she would treasure to her dying day.
* * *
It was now late afternoon, and Charlotte and Brendon were waiting none too patiently for her uncle and aunt to return from Sydney. The fact that their son had not been invited to Charlotte’s party had clearly bothered them. That their son might well bother Charlotte had apparently not been a cause of concern. The present Simon had left beneath the Christmas tree was a papier-mâché desk stand inlaid with mother of pearl. She had seen it somewhere before, many years ago, possibly in her grandfather’s study. She prided herself on her good memory.
Charlotte’s uncle and aunt finally arrived home towards dusk. Charlotte and Brendon did not go out to greet them. They waited in front of the glittering Christmas tree for the hazardous moment when the Mansfields would join them.
Conrad Mansfield came through the front door, dragging a small suitcase. He was the first one to speak, his handsome face showing his displeasure, his brows beetled. “You really needn’t have waited,” he said.
“It seems to me, Uncle, I can pick my times. I expect you’ve heard from Simon?”
Before her uncle could answer, Patricia Mansfield moved into the entrance hall. She too appeared displeased. She set down a small case before pushing in front of her husband, every inch the indignant, possessive mother. “Simon claims he was manhandled?” she fired back.
To everyone’s surprise, her husband rounded on her, with a face of thunder. “Forget all that, Patricia,” he exclaimed. “I expect Simon got what he deserved. You ruined our boy. He’ll never become a man with you around.”
Patricia Mansfield looked her fury at having private family matters aired. “You might add, ‘for want of a proper father,’ ” she struck back, clearly out for reve
nge.
Charlotte judged it time to intervene. “If you need to have a frank talk, may I ask that you do it in private?” she suggested. “We really stayed on because I have a question to ask, Uncle Conrad. I never talk about rights—my rights—but I’ve allowed you to stay at Clouds for some years now in order to write your next book.”
“So?”
Something in the coldness of his expression sent a chill through her. She was beginning to feel her own uncle was a danger to her. “So, you’ve hardly shown your appreciation.”
“You have no interest in Clouds,” he said, as though she was being ridiculous.
“Then you have no real knowledge of me, Uncle. You’ve never shown any interest in me. You never made me, your niece, your brother’s only child, feel cared for, certainly not loved. Obviously you don’t understand me at all. I love Clouds. Grandpa recognized that, that’s why he left it to me.”
“You mean, he left you the lot!” Patricia Mansfield burst out, as though wishing Charlotte could finally get the unfairness of it straight.
“Why don’t you leave us, Aunt Patricia?” Charlotte said, sick to death of all the talk of money and being robbed. “It’s my uncle I wish to speak to.”
“About what?” Conrad condescended to ask. The collar of his casual blue-and-white-checkered shirt was open, revealing surprisingly part of a tattoo.
That surprised Charlotte. A tattoo? She looked to Brendon, who gave her a nod to continue. She wanted Brendon there as her best friend and as a superbly fit young man. Her uncle and aunt were trying to intimidate her, at the very least. “About your new book,” she said. “Aunt Patricia told me she had read the manuscript. I’m not asking to read it—you may not be ready for that—but I do want to see the finished pages.”
“Whatever for?” demanded Patricia, as though Charlotte was proposing to bend rules that were written in stone.
“Because I can’t wait to sight it,” Charlotte replied. “To retain the privilege of staying on here, I need to be certain there is a book.”
