by Margaret Way
“Charlie?” Brendon swiftly crossed the space that divided them, going down on his knees. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“I expect you’ve been drinking,” Patricia Mansfield said by way of explanation, though she too had a startled expression in her eyes. “Buck up, Charlotte. Can I get you anything?”
Charlotte lifted her head. “Once the villain, always the villain, isn’t that right, Uncle Conrad?” Her green eyes were locked on her uncle.
“Make sense, girl,” he answered sharply, his features drawn so tight she could almost see the skeleton skull beneath.
“Everything has come together,” she said, tapping her forehead. “That day in the study years ago. It wasn’t all that long after the accident. Do you remember? I do now. You were pouring over a thick pile of papers you’d found in my father’s study. You were racing through the pages, devouring them as you were being devoured. You were so intent on what you were reading—what you couldn’t believe you were reading—that you didn’t see me at first. Remember?”
“I have no recollection of that whatever,” was Conrad Mansfield’s curt reply.
“Allow me to help you out. I went into the study for some comfort. My father loved my company. I wanted his, even though he had been taken from me. You shouted at me to get out. You had never shouted at me before. Your face had turned into a terrible mask. It was bewildering, frightening. I didn’t know who you were. I believed you meant to harm me.”
Patricia Mansfield was squirming in her armchair. “I’ve never heard such fanciful nonsense in all my life.” She was staring at Charlotte as though she had taken leave of her senses. “Your uncle would never hurt you, Charlotte. It would never even cross his mind. You were a traumatized child. I suspect you’re describing a nightmare you had, that’s all. I’ve had living nightmares myself.”
“You want proof?” Charlotte asked quietly. “You haven’t read the new manuscript as you claimed, Aunt Patricia. I think you were trying to reassure yourself as much as I was. There may be a new manuscript, but the opening page is drivel.”
Conrad Mansfield’s skin flushed with hot blood. “You think so?”
“I know so. Maybe it’s the best you can do,” Charlotte said. “You’re not a real writer, Uncle Conrad. My father was the writer. He never said anything to anyone about it, but he had finished a novel he called Cries of the Heart. He had put it aside for the time being while he dealt with other problems, not the least of them the lies that were being spread about Brendon’s father and my mother, but at some point he would have looked for a publisher. Only he was killed. You had no idea about the book, did you, Uncle Conrad? When you found it tucked away in the study, you knew you had uncovered a masterpiece. It was good enough to get short-listed for the Booker, which indeed it was. You were always looking for something to gain Grandfather’s attention. I do understand how upsetting it must have been for you, living in your older brother’s shadow. You thought about it and thought about it and concluded you were safe. I was always a risk, but you waited long enough to realize I had buried my memory of that day. That’s what grief and fear can do.”
Patricia Mansfield went to stand up, her legs so weak she had to fall down again. “I don’t believe a word of this,” she said, her whole body visibly shaking.
“It’s like smashing a mirror only to find a devil on the other side,” Brendon suggested. “You haven’t read the new manuscript, have you?”
Patricia owned up. “Maybe I haven’t, but I deplore Charlotte’s accusation that her uncle, my husband, Simon’s father, stole some work supposedly written by Christopher, just to crown himself with glory?”
“He played a very dangerous game,” Brendon put forth his ominous opinion.
Patricia stared at him with glassy eyes. “I know my husband, Brendon. He is not a common thief. What would Simon say? He would be enormously upset by this accusation. He worships his father.”
Charlotte was moved to contradict. “The only person Simon worships is himself. A mother should always protect her child, but a mother also has a duty to raise her child right. You weren’t doing Simon any favours giving in to him at every turn. You turned him into a tyrant.”
Patricia pulled a shocked face. “You’re going too far, Charlotte.”
“Do shut up, woman!” Conrad snarled, turning away from his wife to address Charlotte. “I’ve got a problem then?”
“You didn’t write Cries of the Heart, did you?” Charlotte asked with sad disdain.
Her uncle’s eyes bore into hers as though he could read her mind. He gave a terrible smile that was more a grimace of pain and humiliation. “You can see now why there has been no follow-up. I didn’t write that book. Christopher did, though God knows how he found the time. I discovered it. I read it. I realized how very good it was. I bided my time, and then, when I deemed myself safe, I sent it on to my publishing house. They loved it. The rest is history. I can see what’s left to me, Charlotte. You let it be known your father wrote Cries of the Heart, leaving me with no option but to end my life. The public humiliation, the uproar, the disgust of my publishers, it would be too much to endure. You may have noticed I’m far from a happy man. There are plenty of places for me to simply slip on the grassy verge and go over the cliff when out walking.”
Charlotte left that threat aside for the moment. Her uncle was pretty good at emotional blackmail. She looked to her aunt, a woman seemingly turned to stone. “I want the truth now, Aunt Patricia. Lie and this could end more badly than it will already. Did you spread the vile rumours about my mother and Julian Macmillan?”
Patricia Mansfield looked as though she was about to be sick. She shook her head, one hand to her throat. “If I had done that, Charlotte, I would never have had a moment’s peace. I admit I was very jealous of your mother. She was everything I’m not. But I wasn’t the only one jealous of her, mind you. Brendon’s mother, Olivia, the Ice Queen, positively hated her. I swear to you, I was as shocked by the rumours as everyone else. I confess I thought, well, that there’s no smoke without fire. Not my finest hour. I never saw one instance when either Alyssa or Julian behaved improperly or even suspiciously. What am I anyway, a traitor? I might have been jealous of Alyssa, but Christopher was always charming to me. He treated me with respect.”
“Perhaps it was your sainted mother, Brendon?” Conrad suggested unpleasantly. “I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility. We all know Olivia has an obsessive nature.”
For a moment Brendon felt despair. He responded carefully, “Did you come forward with your suspicions?”
“Good heavens no!” Conrad glowered. “As far as I was concerned, the two of them could live in hell for a while, but I never wished tragedy upon them. So, what’s the verdict, Charlotte? You’re going to throw me to the wolves, thinking I’ll do the decent thing and throw myself off the mountain?”
Charlotte brushed a gleaming lock of hair from her face. There were so many things wrong with her uncle. “Save the emotional blackmail,” she said. “I don’t believe you could end your own life, anyway. You don’t have the guts. Destroying people is not my thing, and consequently I could never publicly humiliate you for one reason only. You’re family, such as it is. It would impact severely on Simon’s career, if he’s ever going to take one up. It would ruin Aunt Patricia’s social life. I’m sure a forensics team would find my father’s fingerprints on your masterpiece. I require the original manuscript. It’s mine.”
Conrad Mansfield’s chest appeared to cave in. “And even if you’re true to your word, what about Macmillan here? He’d point the finger at me at a moment’s notice.”
“So I would,” Brendon freely admitted, “if you weren’t Charlotte’s uncle. It’s her decision. I back her. Bad publicity has its impact even on the innocent. You might spare a thought for what your wife may do, sir? She looks stunned by what she’s hearing.”
Conrad shrugged, not even bothering to look at his wife. “No need to worry about Patricia. She puts Simon first
in everything. You’d think he was a wonderful, idealistic young man likely to make prime minister, instead of a would-be waster and a woman beater who’s not coming up to her high hopes. If my dear wife attempts to destroy me, she’ll be destroying our son as well. That will never happen.”
“What do you say to that, Mrs. Mansfield?” Brendon asked, trying to remain courteous. It was obvious Patricia had never doubted her husband had produced Cries of the Heart. He felt pity. Patricia Mansfield, always so self-righteous, looked perilously close to collapse.
She did sit dumbly for a moment, and then she delivered her intentions. “I will not put my son in danger. Simon is the love of my life. I don’t understand why, but I don’t wish to push my husband beyond his limits. He could well end his own life. I’m being serious here, Charlotte?” Patricia shot Charlotte a desperate glance. “Conrad has a very poor view of himself. He grew up that way. He will never change. I loved him when I married him. I can’t say I love him now, but he is still my husband, the father of my son. The Mansfields as a family have to stick together.”
Charlotte couldn’t allow that to pass. “What a difference it would have made had you acted on that ideal nine years ago, Aunt Patricia. You kept me out in the cold.”
“I had to,” Patricia confessed, looking ashamed. “It was Conrad who didn’t want you around. Now I know why. I expect he was terrified you’d remember.”
“The deaths of my mother and father left me traumatized. I needed to forget that day in the study to survive. Only recently little lights have been going on and off in my brain. I’ve always wondered why I felt fear of you, Uncle. Now we know.”
“I would never have hurt you, Charlotte. I would die first.” Conrad threw her a look that was more arrogant than pleading. “You must believe that.”
“Sorry, Uncle, I don’t,” Charlotte said. “You would have had me stopped one way or another. I’m sure of it.”
“No, Charlotte, no!” Patricia protested, but not in her usual emphatic fashion.
“I hope you realize the mercy Charlotte is showing?” Brendon’s tone was condemning.
“Conrad doesn’t deserve it, but Simon does,” Patricia cried, a loyal mother if nothing else. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Charlotte. God knows what Sir Reginald would have done. Conrad would be swinging from a tree somewhere, I suspect.”
“I don’t know about that, but my uncle would have known soon enough. So we’re all agreed?” Charlotte asked.
“We are.” Husband and wife spoke as one. Obviously they had concluded that was the only way to go.
“First things first,” Brendon broke in. “Charlotte wants her father’s manuscript back ASAP. It will be safely locked away.”
“I’ll hand it to her myself,” Conrad Mansfield promised, his green eyes gone lifeless.
“Finally, Charlotte wants you to vacate Clouds by the end of January. That should be sufficient time. Please do not attempt to take anything that doesn’t belong to you.”
Charlotte relented. “If you want a special piece, Aunt Patricia, you have only to ask me,” she said. Bitterness and resentment only served to corrode the soul. She didn’t want that. “I’ll be installing caretakers, but I’ll be using the house frequently for various purposes. I mean to reopen the rose gardens to the public, to make them accessible just as Grandma did. You might consider a stint in the south of France, Uncle Conrad, to regain your composure. You could even decide to settle there. It’s entirely up to you.”
* * *
“Time for those two to face up to reality,” Charlotte said as she closed the door on her uncle and aunt after watching them move off heavily to the lift.
Brendon found his heart was thrashing about in his chest. He had no time for the Mansfields. He was thinking more about his own family. It had been his hope that Charlotte would never find out about his mother and the part she had played in the disastrous rift between Alyssa and Christopher. His mother had set aside all conscience to bring Alyssa down like some beautiful bird on the wing. Only Charlotte would drive through to the truth. She wouldn’t stop until she did. He had to break it to her first, but there was no way of breaking it to her gently.
Charlotte was staring at him as though she knew what was going through his mind. “I’ve never heard your mother described as the ‘Ice Queen’ before, have you?”
“First time I’ve heard it,” he said. At least that was true. Conrad Mansfield, despicable man that he was, had managed to hit the nail on the head.
“Two mysteries were solved here tonight,” Charlotte said. “My father wrote Cries of the Heart. Isn’t that wonderful? It will come out one day. I’m determined on that. Second, Aunt Patricia wasn’t the one to spread the rumours. I believed her, did you?”
“I did,” Brendon said grimly.
“I never considered your mother, who has always lived such an exemplary life.” Suddenly Charlotte felt such intense fear she had difficulty speaking another word.
All that stood between them was the electric air. Brendon had to defend his mother no matter what she had done. “Why fix on my mother?” he asked. “There are other interpretations.”
Charlotte moved to where Brendon was standing, staring up into his face. Her emerald eyes were blazing. “Because everything has come to a head, Bren,” she said. “Your parents and mine, my uncle and aunt, they are all of a generation. They knew one another well. I don’t like the label ‘Ice Queen’ any more than you do, but I’m worried by the way you look. I feel the pain in you. I see the haunted expression. Something you learned this evening has greatly upset you. It’s not just your mother wanting me out of your life. That’s always been her attitude, but you’ve never taken any notice before. You’ve always been far more loyal to me than her.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Charlotte,” Brendon said, beginning to turn away. “I should be going.”
In an instant she was in front of him, quick as a gazelle. She blocked the door, launching the accusation at him like a missile. “It was your mother, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it, Bren?”
There was no right answer. None.
When he didn’t speak, she hit him hard in the chest. It might have been a stab from a sword.
“Did that holier-than-thou, gold-plated woman explain to you she was out of her mind with jealousy? Was that it?”
He didn’t evade the truth. He stood stoically, accepting what was to come. “Yes, it was.”
“Bren!” White to the lips, not really knowing what she was doing, Charlotte lifted an aching, trembling arm, her fingers outspread. Her whole body was struggling to control the primitive urges that were taking her over. Her whole existence had been clouded by lies. Brendon, her hero, had shattered her feelings.
He caught her hand by the wrist, holding it aloft. “Do all you Mansfields lash out?” he asked in a cutting voice. He caught her to him, lifting her off her feet. She weighed nothing, but he wanted every bit of her. “I love you, Charlotte,” he said. “Of all the women in the world, I love you, but I want to be on my way.”
“Coward!” Her green eyes were fierce upon him.
He let her drop to her feet, like a kitten. “What did you say?”
A powerful energy was coming off of him, a male domination her body recognized. “I called you a coward,” she repeated.
Passion was coming down on Brendon in hammering waves. It was like being caught in a tide that didn’t know how or where to stop. There were rules in life. A son always defended his mother. On the other hand, the links to Charlotte were so strong he might have been fused to her through all time. He pulled her into him, his fingers spearing through her thick, springy waves and curls as he held up her face to him. His love for her was unrivalled, as was the pleasure she gave him. She appeared to be having her struggles, too. Her full, tender mouth was parted on a cry of wry melancholy. “Aaah, Bren! It’s all too terrible.”
“I know.” Instinctively he gathered her closer, one hand caressing her body. “I acknowledg
e the terrible wrong.”
“Wrong? She isn’t just the Ice Queen, she’s the Enemy Queen.”
“Please stop, Charlotte,” he begged.
“Then stop me. Make your move.”
He didn’t hesitate. His mouth came down over hers, covering it with the mastery that shut off all further words, and flushed Charlotte’s entire body in heat. It was a kiss that grew deeper and deeper, a kiss charged with hunger. Brendon told himself it was always going to end this way. They were fated to be lovers. Neither of them was content with the relationship that had lasted through childhood into the present with all its temptations. “I love you, Charlotte,” he said, shoving aside their problems as though they didn’t exist.
She was silent within the circle of his arms. One of the straps of her yellow camisole had fallen off her slender shoulder. He pushed the other one off. Too late to stop him. It only took another movement of his hand for the silk top to fall to her waist. She was wearing a pretty little scrap of a bra. He released that too, his hands closing with a kind of ecstasy over her warm, naked breasts. The rose-pink of her nipples were peaking against his palms. She was aroused, for all her terrible upset.
All that existed was desire. It overrode every other consideration. Still she didn’t speak. She didn’t try to wriggle out of his grasp. What was driving him was driving her, a leaping flame intent on bringing about their surrender.
Charlotte lifted her arms, locked them tightly around his neck. “You love me? Show me,” she whispered fiercely. “Show me how much you love me. That’s the first and last time I’ll ask you.”
“Is it really?” A fire blazed in him. “A woman born to give orders.”
“Are you up to that?” she challenged.
He locked her seamlessly to him. “This is no game we’re playing, Charlotte.”
“I’m not into games, Bren.”
“What if you fall pregnant? I’m not so far gone I can’t consider that.”
“You wouldn’t want our child?” she taunted him.
