by Margaret Way
“Oh . . . oh . . . please don’t!” Carol cried out a desperate entreaty. She rose shakily to her feet. “I don’t want any police here, Brendon. My parents would be terribly shocked. It’s nearly Christmas.”
“Besides, there’s no crime.” Unbelievably, Simon dismissed Carol’s sad state. “I threw out my hand and inadvertently caught Carol’s cheek.”
Brendon turned on him with a tightening of his muscles. He was totally disgusted with Simon Mansfield. He got a grip on the lapels of Simon’s expensive jacket and then slammed him so hard up against the wall, the adjacent framed print fell down. “Were you going to hit Charlotte, too?” he asked grimly, looking like a man just waiting for the chance to lash out.
Simon found himself covered in sweat. “Of course not,” he spluttered. “I didn’t touch you, did I, Charlotte?”
Brendon didn’t remove his hands, or slacken his hold. “You need to back off, Mansfield. Back right off.”
“Okay, okay!” Simon knew he couldn’t possibly pick a fight with Brendon Macmillan. His strength was far superior. As it was, Macmillan was just about lifting him off his feet.
“Apologize to Carol,” Brendon urged. “Tell her you will never bother her again. Mean it.”
Simon swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Carol,” he muttered, his insides burning with humiliation. “It was an accident. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I’ll clear out now. I won’t be coming back.”
Carol, who had crumpled under the cowardly attack, abruptly took charge. She was sickened and trembling. “See that you don’t, or I’ll take action against you, Simon. It will make the papers.”
“Think of the exposure, Simon,” Macmillan said in a mocking tone. “A strike against you. Some people will be delighted with that. You’re not exactly popular around town.” He released Simon abruptly, watching him slump at his feet.
“You’ve been warned, Simon. Let this be an end to it.” Charlotte spoke quietly, but the message rang out, loud and clear.
“I’ll see you to the door, shall I?” Brendon gave Simon a shove in the back.
Simon went quietly. Hatred was swelling in his chest and running down his arms. Hitting a woman had come as much as a shock to him as it had to Carol. His behaviour was getting out of control. He knew what he had to do. He had to keep his head down.
Charlotte spotted the bottle of Glenfiddich on the counter. In the galley kitchen, she found a glass, pouring a small measure of the whiskey into it and topping it up with a little water.
“I think you can do with a drop of this, Carol. No need to sip it. Get it down. It won’t hurt you. We’ll stay with you until you feel better.”
Carol took a large swallow of the whiskey, coughed a little, and felt the liquid run like fire into her stomach. “I bought it for Simon, you know,” she said, halfway between laughing and crying.
“He won’t be bothering you again, Carol,” Brendon said. “Where are you spending Christmas?”
“With my parents,” Carol said. “I always spend Christmas with my parents. Christmas is for family, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Charlotte’s answer was on the poignant side. She was thinking of the strangeness and the dysfunction of her own family, her parents taken so abruptly and violently away from her. She thought in that moment she had no one but Brendon, Brendon Macmillan, her defender. With no one else could she feel such a sense of oneness.
* * *
Brendon paid a visit to his parents’ grand harbour side house the following balmy evening. He hadn’t seen or spoken to his mother for almost a week. His father’s cold case and his own affairs had kept him pretty well glued to his desk. He knew he would be expected for Christmas dinner, but he saw now he had to be with Charlotte, even if it meant hurting his mother.
The Christmas tree in the entrance hall looked wonderfully festive, decked out in multicoloured baubles. Brightly wrapped presents were piled at the tree’s base. His mother hurried down the steps to greet him. She was wearing a blue dress, her favourite colour. She looked beautiful with a radiant smile on her face. The smile made such a difference.
“Darling, how lovely to see you!” she cried, her slender arms outstretched.
Brendon moved forward, producing his own smile. He bent his head to kiss his mother on both cheeks. As always, she was wearing a sweet, light perfume. “Lovely to see you, Mother.” His mother had always preferred “Mother” to “Mum,” though he often slipped up. This wasn’t one of those days. His mother had a real gift for formality. “I thought I should call in. Dad has been keeping me busy.”
“He’s so proud of you, Brendon,” his mother said. Her indulgent smile wrapped him in high favour. “We both are. I don’t have to tell you how Sir Hugo dotes on you. We’ll be having a few extras on Christmas Day. A couple of overseas guests. Not that I mind. I meant to tell you that you’re very welcome to bring a special girlfriend along, if she’s not spending the day with family. I know Lisa’s family is still in London.”
For a minute Brendon was at a loss for words. “They’re not due back until the end of January,” he said, finally. “Lisa is a special friend, Mother, but she’s not my girlfriend. Not anymore. Lisa and I wouldn’t work.”
“But, darling, I thought she was everything you wanted?” His mother stroked his arm.
“You’re going to have to stop trying to marry me off.” Brendon tried to turn it into a joke.
“Brendon. Darling, I want to be able to hold my first grandchild in my arms. I want to kiss its sweet little face. A boy first, I hope, and then a daughter. Come into the living room. Would you like a cold drink? I won’t offer alcohol, as you’re driving. We Macmillans have to be doubly careful not to besmirch our reputation.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Brendon took the bit between his teeth. He said without preamble, “I know you’ll be disappointed, but I need to tell you that I have other plans for Christmas dinner.”
His mother swung back, staring at him as though his decision was about as hurtful as one could get. Indeed, her expression was so angry at the idea of his defection, for an instant Brendon didn’t know who this lissome, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman could be. “What are you saying?” she asked, implying he was being dreadfully disloyal and disrespectful.
Brendon had to marvel at how he had cut his mother’s apron strings so early. He waited until his mother was seated, straight-backed, no slumping. “I think you know how fond I am of Charlotte,” he said, taking an armchair on the opposite side of the large, circular French-lacquer cocktail table. On it sat a large crystal vase filled with beautiful, scented red roses, a few art books, and a pair of Meissen crested cockatoos, enamelled in pinks and yellows perched on blue and green tree stumps. They had been a gift to his mother from his father a few years back.
“Oh, Charlotte!” Olivia Macmillan’s entire face had tightened. She threw up a dismissive hand. “You surely aren’t going to tell me you want to spend Christmas Day with her?”
“I do. Charlotte is on her own. She has an appalling family who has never shown the slightest interest in her. In many ways, she’s the poor little rich girl.”
“I believe she has scores of friends,” Olivia scoffed. “Can’t she join any one of them for Christmas dinner? Better yet, I’ve heard on the grapevine that she is providing Christmas dinner for a number of her little charities. She could surely join them?”
Brendon realized he had to come to the point. “Why do you hate Charlotte?” he asked. “You’ve always hated her, even when she was a little girl.”
“Hate her! What nonsense. I rarely think of her,” Olivia imparted.
“Not true. I’ve always sensed, even as a boy, you disliked Charlotte. You never tried to take her under your wing, a simple kindness. That was as unfathomable to me then as now.”
Olivia coloured a little. “Been talking to your father, have you?”
“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?” Brendon countered. “Dad and I are close. We talk, or at least we try to, e
very single day.”
“You must tell me sometime what about,” Olivia said with some sarcasm. “Your Charlotte is her daughter.” A dark shadow fell over her face as she said it.
Now they were getting to the crux of the matter, Brendon thought. “When she was younger, she was all Mansfield,” he pointed out.
“The colouring was only camouflage. She’s Alyssa,” Olivia muttered through clenched teeth.
“She’s not Alyssa,” Brendon said quietly, but firmly. “She’s Charlotte, her own person. She’s beautiful. She’s outstandingly clever. She’s compassionate and caring, a little bit of a firebrand, I admit. To my mind she’s a truly exceptional woman.”
“I would shove Charlotte Mansfield completely out of your mind, Brendon,” his mother advised, her eyes fixed on him. “She’s trouble.”
“You can say that when you don’t even know her?” Brendon asked, keeping to a level tone.
“I know she has the same kind of power as her mother. She turns men’s heads,” Olivia spoke in near despair.
“Isn’t that likely to happen with beautiful women? I’m sure you’ve turned heads yourself, Mother.”
Olivia inclined her glossy dark head. Not strictly beautiful, Olivia Macmillan was a striking-looking woman, if on the severe side.
“Only I know how to control myself. I know how to behave, how to live an honourable life. You can say I’m a role model for my generation. I didn’t sleep around. I didn’t steal other women’s men.”
“And you are saying Alyssa did?”
“That was the general opinion,” Olivia said with a little moue of disgust.
“Your opinion, Mother. Only there’s no truth behind it.”
“I can’t speak of her infidelity!” Olivia exploded. “I’ve pledged to forget it. Forgive.”
Brendon’s answer was quiet, even compassionate. “It’s all very well to say that, Mother, but you’re not by nature a forgiving person. In any case, there is nothing to forgive. Despite the years Dad has denied the charge, you can’t leave it alone. You can’t exorcise Alyssa from your mind. You can’t even begin to acknowledge you might have been wrong.”
“Well, men always stick together, don’t they?” Olivia exclaimed bitterly. “After what you’ve had to say, Brendon, I’d like you to go.”
“Certainly, Mother.” Brendon stood up. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll have a house full of people. Charlotte has no one.”
Olivia gave a cry of near-anguish. “She wants to take you from me. I think I’ve always known she would. Just like Alyssa took Julian. Julian showed how much he loved me by betraying me. You are set to do the same. That girl could have any number of men. I’ve seen the way they look at her. The way you look at her. She wants you, my son. She doesn’t care a jot about me. It’s all happened before.”
Brendon felt his mother’s pain, however abnormal, but he also felt compelled to say, “I think you should talk to a professional about this, Mum. You’ve allowed your jealousy of Alyssa to turn into an obsession. Charlotte doesn’t even know my plans for Christmas Day. She’ll be expecting me to be here with you and Dad and Granddad.”
“Don’t you understand anything at all?” Olivia cried, her dark eyes deepening to almost black. “She wants you to spite me.”
Brendon felt a great upsurge of pity. “It’s all in your head, Mum. I hate to see you so terribly upset. I feel sorry for you. I see now you could have been the one to set off all the rumours about Alyssa and Dad. Jealousy is a form of madness.” An idea erupted out of nowhere. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“What on earth do you mean?”
Brendon met his mother’s burning gaze head-on. “I think Dad has long suspected the truth, but never confronted you knowing what pressure that would put you under.”
Olivia’s face showed inner turmoil. Her voice sank to a whisper. “What if I did?” she admitted. “It was my only defence. I adored Julian. He was my whole life. I thought he loved me like I loved him, only one evening I saw him and Alyssa talking quietly out on the terrace together. They were facing one another. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could make out the look on my husband’s face. I wasn’t misled. Julian has never looked at me like that, not before or since. That woman stole my happiness. Mark my words, her daughter will betray you.”
Brendon was totally unconvinced. “You don’t know Charlotte at all. You don’t know anything about her. It’s easier to blame Dad than blame yourself.” On edge, he continued, “Charlotte’s parents are dead. Their car veered off the mountain and crashed into the valley below. Maybe they were arguing; they were arguing earlier. Maybe it got out of hand. But what were they arguing about? You don’t see the role you played in that, Mum? You don’t see that your truths were no more than sick imaginings. The Mansfields died too young. Charlotte lost her parents. She was orphaned.”
“The situation was not created by me,” Olivia spoke fiercely in her own defence. “I was the injured party. I have never regretted what I did, Brendon. Of course they argued. Christopher was such a fool. He worshipped her.”
Brendon gave a deep, heartfelt groan. “I can’t bear to dwell on this, the worst of it. You’re my mother. I love you, but my feelings for you will never be the same.”
Olivia’s answer came in a haggard tone. “I’m only trying to protect you, Brendon. It’s my duty.”
“Then I relieve you of it.” Brendon broke off with a jerk of the head, as unnoticed by him and his mother, his father had entered the living room, tall, handsome, a most memorable-looking man with a tense expression on his face.
“Relieve your mother of what, Bren?” Julian asked. He knew from long experience that when his wife shifted into a certain gear, there was no changing it.
“Nothing that matters, Dad.” Brendon didn’t want to involve his father in his upset.
“I think it matters very much,” Julian Macmillan said, his eyes moving to his wife, sitting rigid on the sofa. “What’s going on, Olivia?” he asked, his expression grim.
Olivia’s laugh had not an ounce of humour in it. “Brendon was telling me he won’t be joining us for Christmas Day, my dear. He intends to spend it with Charlotte Mansfield, of all people.”
“And?” Julian advanced into the room.
“What do you mean, and?” Olivia retorted, her face suddenly overlaid with uncertainty.
“Our son can surely spend Christmas Day with whomever he pleases,” Julian said.
“Oh, Julian!” Olivia cried, pressing her hand against her breast. “If he loved us he would be with us.”
“Poor Liv!” Julian said quietly, seeing his wife’s pallor. “You demand absolute allegiance, don’t you? We have the best son in the world.”
“Who will be corrupted by that Mansfield girl,” Olivia cried out, near hysterically, unusual behaviour for such a self-contained woman.
“That will do, Olivia.” Julian Macmillan abruptly showed an iron hand. “You’ve wasted more than half your lifetime on your jealousy of Alyssa Mansfield, and now her daughter. You’ve poisoned our marriage. I won’t have it. Not any longer. You won’t put Brendon through hoops. You have to make changes.”
“Please, Dad,” Brendon intervened, acutely conscious of his mother’s stricken face.
“You go, Bren,” Julian said. It was an order. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Your mother and I need to have a long talk. I’ve been wrong to delay it. All I’ve done is feed the flames. I absolutely refuse to countenance any attack on Charlotte. I owe that to her parents.”
Olivia raised her head quickly. “You’ve never persuaded me, Julian,” she accused. “You loved Alyssa Mansfield. There’s no getting away from that.”
“So you set out on your dangerous course,” Julian said, “indifferent to possible consequences. I will say this for the last time. Every rumour you somehow managed to put out there was a lie, a meanspirited desire to strike at a woman entirely innocent.”
“A woman you can’t bear to
talk about.” Olivia had the thrust of the last word.
Chapter 8
Brendon let himself out of the house with one of Karl Marx’s doom-laden quotes running through his head. The tradition of the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the minds of the living. That seemed to apply to the two families, Mansfield and Macmillan. His mind was spinning from all the upset and the chilling things he had learned, but increasingly his mind was spinning towards Charlotte. Charlotte was his centre of gravity amid the maelstrom. Inside his car, he put a call through to her, praying she would answer. She answered almost at once.
“What are you doing this evening?” he asked. He knew he didn’t sound his usual self, but he couldn’t help it.
“Remind me,” she prompted.
He released a taut breath. “I need to unwind, Charlie. What say we walk around the city enjoying the lights? We can catch a meal somewhere.”
“So what’s happened now?” she asked, gently.
“You really are too intuitive.” Her intuitions were part of what drew them so closely together.
“There’s something you want to tell me. I hear it in your voice. Is it about your mother? She’s dying to have me over for Christmas Day? Let the festive season roll, that sort of thing?”
“I’m not going anyway,” Brendon said, rubbing a hand across his face.
“Gotcha,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve had a great time too. I rang Uncle Conrad this afternoon to tell him I want him and Aunt Patricia to vacate Clouds by the end of January. I intend to use the house as my getaway.”
“And of course he said he understood perfectly,” Brendon said sarcastically. “He had his eye on another house anyway?”
“He could have said that, but most of what he yelled down the phone was incomprehensible. I did gather he wasn’t very pleased.”
