by Margaret Way
“You fool!” Hilary shot her a look full of scorn. “The name is Hartmann, right?”
“Yes. Helena Hartmann.”
Hilary looked like a woman with her feet planted firmly on the high moral ground. “I’ve been able to make some enquiries about a Hartmann family. Very wealthy people. They own cattle stations in two states. A daughter left home of her own accord twenty years ago.”
“Never found.” Isabelle poured Hilary’s coffee. No sugar. She placed it on a small tray and then took it over to where Hilary was seated, setting it down on the coffee table. “Where did you get this information from, and so quickly?”
“I have friends in all sorts of places, Isabelle,” Hilary pronounced loftily. “Friends with information about many people.”
Isabelle nodded. “So you’ve got contacts everywhere, including God.”
“Don’t, I mean, don’t use that tone with me,” Hilary cried, her level of ferocity stunning Isabelle. “You owe everything to your father and me.”
“Of course I do. But is that so extraordinary? All my friends, my fellow students, had good, loving parents. Many of them had made big sacrifices to get their gifted sons and daughters into college. You and Father are very successful doctors. Am I supposed to go down on my hands and knees and thank you for providing for me, your only child?”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Hilary gritted, picking up a spoon and swirling it around her coffee cup. “You’ve always been thankless, as a child and as a young woman.”
Isabelle tried to find answers to all this vehemence. What was behind it all? The photographs of Helena Hartmann had clearly spooked both Hilary and her father. “That’s simply not true, Mother. No way did I not express my gratitude. I was over the moon when Father bought my piano, then my cellos. I worked very hard for you. I won prizes. Gained lots of attention, got to play the Elgar with a symphony orchestra, yet you never came to see me. Not once in over four years.”
Hilary’s good-looking face was scrunched. “You know perfectly well we couldn’t get away.”
“I know that’s not true,” Isabelle said quietly.
“What?” Hilary’s head shot up.
“The Suttons looked me up when they were in London. They told me you and Father had just returned from a trip to Dubai. You loved it. But you don’t love me, do you, Mother?” Isabelle said, sad and serious at the same time.
Hilary slipped into top gear. “Don’t be absurd! You’re my daughter, my only child.”
“Yet you don’t love me. You’ve never been cruel or unkind, but you’ve been as distant as the far side of the moon. I’ve tried and tried and tried. God knows I’ve tried to get close to you. You’ve never kissed me, hugged me, even as a toddler. We’ve never been pals.”
“Pals!” Hilary reared back in astonishment. Any child of hers would need to be a supreme optimist to expect to be pals with Hilary. “I have no obligation to be pals with my own daughter. I’m not that idiotic woman, Betty, your school friend Cressy’s mother. You were looked after very well, Isabelle. You wanted for nothing. You were handed a future.”
“Not a musical future. All very well to become an accomplished musician, but my real future was to marry well. Settle down and have children. Definitely not with red hair. I bear no resemblance to you or to Father whatever.”
“My cousin, Fiona, has red hair,” Hilary said, as though that settled everything.
“Do you have a very plain cousin called Fiona, or did you rustle up that photograph from somewhere?”
Hilary gave a grim smile. “It’s not my fault you’re so mixed up and full of resentments. You’ve been lied to, Isabelle.”
Isabelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. I do not accept my friend—”
“Your friend!” Hilary nearly leapt up from the armchair. “A man you’ve just met. A man who produces a photograph like a rabbit out of a hat. You’ve been conned, my dear. Brainwashed, if you like. This is some sort of game. One you should have avoided like the plague, only you have no self-confidence, no self-esteem, no experience of life.”
“That really should be the case, but it isn’t. The way you are, Mother, made me strong. Maybe I was strong all the time. I hung in there, didn’t I, until Father bought me my piano. I was that naughty, naughty little girl, remember? Difficult. That off-putting red hair. You’ve always hated my hair.”
“All right, I don’t like red hair,” Hilary declared, almost savagely for her. “It reminds me of Fiona, ghastly girl, but your father wanted a child. One child was all I could handle. I had the promise of a brilliant career, but I allowed myself to fall pregnant.”
“Only neither of you wanted a child like me. Can you blame me if I wonder?”
“I do blame you, Isabelle,” Hilary said with crushing condemnation. “This man read you right. You’re gullible, firing off in all directions. I understand it hasn’t been easy for you having both parents in the medical profession. I admit we were both disappointed, even dismayed you chose music as a career instead of following in our footsteps. I know you’re gifted, but unless you’re a du Pré or the like, it comes down to teaching, getting into one of the symphony orchestras—unlikely where the members never seem to die—join a quartet or keep your music as a hobby, playing for your own enjoyment.”
That analysis pierced Isabelle to her soul. A hobby? “Certainly not yours or Father’s enjoyment,” she said. “Anyone else would call you a couple of Philistines, because that’s what you are. Father is my father?” She allowed a thread of disbelief into her voice.
“Shame. Shame on you, Isabelle,” Hilary retorted, picking up her coffee and draining it. “If you’ve been persuaded you could be a Hartmann, let me destroy your hopes . . . You’re not. I’ll never tell your father what you just said. It would break his heart.”
Isabelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. After I showed Father the photograph, he changed. He showed anger when he’s such a quiet man. There was no need for anger, surely? Anyone would think I had raked up some awful scandal. He—” She broke off at the sound of the intercom buzzer.
Hilary barked the order. “Leave it. Whoever it is they can go away.”
“I’ll see who it is first.” She already knew. Without speaking, she pressed the button to open the security door. Bruno McKendrick’s handsome head came into view.
Hilary looked up expectantly, a frown furrowing her brows. “Well?”
“Just a friend. He’ll come up.”
Hilary looked pushed beyond endurance. “I told you to send whoever it was away.”
“I thought you might want to meet him,” Isabelle countered. “It’s Bruno McKendrick, the man who showed me the photograph. His father was the late Ross McKendrick, a respected private investigator hired by the Hartmann family.”
“A private investigator?” Hilary made it sound like Ross McKendrick had been a known associate of criminals.
A tap came on the door. Next, the sound of the lock being tested, then Bruno was inside the door.
“Hi! The door was open, Bella.” He knew without being told she had left it that way.
“Come in.” She gave him a quick telling smile, standing aside. Bruno’s whole aura was one of magnetism and disciplined energy. Here was a man impossible to ignore. A man equal to the likes of her formidable mother.
Bruno fixed his dark gaze on the seated woman who was looking back at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Dr. Martin?” He gave her a semblance of his charming smile.
Hilary didn’t respond. She remained staring up at him as if she had never met such an extraordinary person in her entire life.
“What about a coffee, Bruno?” Isabelle asked in an effort to ease the situation.
“Grazie!” For a tall man of impressive physique, he moved with considerable lightness of foot. “May I?” he asked of Hilary, taking the armchair opposite in the absence of her consent.
“You’re the young man who has been filling my daughter’s head with nonsense.” F
inally, Hilary spoke, wasting no time launching into accusation.
“Not nonsense at all, Doctor,” Bruno replied mildly. “I’m assuming Bella has shown you the photographs?”
“Bella? Bella?” Hilary pulled a stern face. “Her name is Isabelle.”
“Most people shorten first names,” Bruno pointed out pleasantly.
Isabelle quickly made coffee and brought a cup out to him. “I haven’t shown my mother the photographs. Not yet.”
“Might be an idea if you go and get them,” he said, taking the coffee cup and saucer from her.
“Have you no sense of shame?” Hilary cried, as Isabelle moved off.
“Shame has no part of this, Dr. Martin,” Bruno said.
“You’re exploiting my daughter.”
“Just maybe you are,” he returned.
A flush spread across Hilary’s smooth cheeks. “I beg your pardon!”
“It’s not wise to insult me, Doctor.”
“It’s my duty to protect my daughter,” Hilary fired back. “She’s young and very impressionable.”
“She’s young, certainly, but I wouldn’t call her all that impressionable. Isabelle is highly intelligent, with a fine eye for detail. She’s also a high achiever. I’ve heard her play both the cello and the piano beautifully. You must be very proud of her.”
The expression in Hilary’s eyes darkened. “We pride ourselves on being excellent parents, thank you. I would love to know what you think you’ll get out of this, Mr. McKendrick? What is my daughter to you? She’s an attractive young woman.”
“Far beyond attractive,” Bruno said smoothly. “She’s very beautiful. Your daughter honours me with her friendship, Doctor. Does that answer your question? She didn’t inherit her looks or her colouring from you.”
Was there sarcasm in his smile? “You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?” Hilary asked, her gaze glued to him as though hypnotized.
“No more foreign than you, madam,” he returned suavely. “None of us is original to this country. Our aboriginals, on the other hand, have lived in Australia for some fifty thousand years. I was born in Sydney of an Italian mother and a Scots father. Your question implies you could be something of a racist.”
Hilary shuddered all over, as if she had received an electric shock. “I beg your pardon.”
“Then I pardon you,” Bruno said.
Isabelle hurried back into the living room, holding the two photographs. She was acutely aware of the high tension in the room. Hilary was holding her side as if she’d been wounded.
“I don’t want to see those,” she cried in a harsh voice as Isabelle approached her.
“Why, Mother? Are you afraid?” Isabelle spoke gently, suddenly feeling very sorry for Hilary. “Please look at them. This isn’t just your life. It’s my life.”
“I don’t doubt there’s some kind of resemblance,” Hilary said, making no move to take the photographs in hand.
“Please look, Dr. Martin.” Bruno stood up, taking the photographs out of Isabelle’s nerveless hand and putting them into Hilary’s. He stepped back, took Isabelle by the hand, moving her to the sofa where he joined her.
Hilary’s eyes whipped over the photographs. “Are you trying to tell me you see one or other of them as your twin, Isabelle?” She gave another harsh laugh. “They’re different women,” she pointed out scornfully. “One is older than the other.”
“I know that,” Isabelle said quietly. “I believe they are mother and daughter.”
“Possibly. Possibly.” Hilary’s words dripped contempt. “I have never seen either of these women in my life. It’s a superficial resemblance at best.”
“There’s a great deal more than that, Dr. Martin,” Bruno took up from Isabelle, who although she spoke with composure, was shaking. “You’re a clever woman. You’re a surgeon used to studying bodies, heads and faces. My father—”
“Ah, yes, your father!” Hilary burst out, as if Bruno should feel shame. “He’s dead.”
“As is the very beautiful Myra Hartmann, Helena Hartmann’s mother. I’m convinced Isabelle is directly linked to the Hartmann family. My father, had he lived to meet Bella, would have been convinced too. The resemblance isn’t superficial, as you well know. Isabelle is the mirror image of Helena. There’s a connection. We thought you would tell us about it.”
“Us? Us?” Hilary sounded as if she would like to see both of them hanged.
“There’s history there, Doctor. Isn’t it time Bella knew?”
“You have some nerve, Mr. McKendrick!”
He regarded her ironically. “I’ve never lacked it. You must appreciate yours and your husband’s reactions have been extreme. There would have to be reasons. There was no intention to upset and offend you. The intention is to discover the truth. Hopefully with your help. If not, easy enough to check these days through DNA analysis.”
Hilary’s skin burned as though a fire had been lit inside her. “How dare you? You’re nothing but an opportunist. You come into our lives and turn our daughter against us with your insinuations and lies. What’s in it for you? I ask. Are you going to attempt to pass her off as a Hartmann? I understand they’re very wealthy people. This Helena must have a share of their wealth?”
“You know who she was, Dr. Martin,” Bruno said with remarkable conviction.
“None of which is any of your business,” Hilary said, bounding up out of her armchair. “Not one jot of this is true.” She transferred her flashing dark eyes to Isabelle. “How very disloyal you are. You’ve betrayed me and your father.”
Isabelle too stood up, confronting the woman she had called her mother all her life. “I’m sorry for all of this, Hilary, but it was meant to happen. Destiny, if you like. My heart tells me you have a secret you don’t want to reveal. I have doubts now I’m your biological daughter. I’ve never felt like your daughter. There’s no way of knowing without DNA samples.”
“You’ll get nothing from me,” Hilary said, looking incredulous.
“It’s on your coffee cup, Dr. Martin, as you of all people would know.”
“Now that’s a crying shame!” Hilary turned back and swept her coffee cup and saucer into her bag, regardless of what liquid might have been left in the cup. “It’s high time to say good-bye.” She looked at Bruno with condemnation in her eyes. “I despise your intervention in our affairs. My idiot daughter has clearly fallen under your spell. You’ve probably had her in your bed.”
“Bella is my friend, Dr. Martin. Nothing more. I seek to protect her, as she doesn’t appear to have you on her side.”
Isabelle stood, shocked and mortified.
“Don’t come near me, you traitor,” Hilary warned in a voice thick with disgust. “After all we’ve done for you. Your father will be devastated.”
“He will be if faced with the truth,” Isabelle said with absolute certainty. “I saw his reaction, remember? Nothing remains a secret forever.”
Hilary stomped to the front door, head and shoulders thrown back. On line with Isabelle, she suddenly lifted a hand and struck Isabelle across the face. “You’ve always been the viper in the nest.”
“And there we have the key to everything.” Isabelle made no attempt to put a hand to her flaming cheek.
“Leave, Dr. Martin, if you don’t mind,” Bruno said, as though ready and willing to lend assistance. “Isabella may have pity for you. I don’t. You’re a woman who can successfully lead double lives.”
Hilary, at the door, whirled back on him. “Meaning?” Spots of red stood out on her cheekbones.
“I see you understand perfectly. Double lives.”
Hilary flushed deeper under his mocking gaze. “You’re just like your lowlife father, wanting to dig in the dirt. You’ve made an enemy today, McKendrick.”
“I’ve made worse,” Bruno said calmly. “Can I give you a lift to wherever you want to go?”
“Are you mad?” Hilary’s handsome face contorted with fury. “You’re like a character out of some bad mov
ie, seducing my daughter and filling her head with nonsense.” Hilary shifted her gaze to Isabelle. “You’ll apologize on your hands and knees before your father and I ever forgive you for your unforgiveable disloyalty, Isabelle.”
“I will.” Isabelle physically recoiled from the look of enmity in Hilary’s eyes. “When and if a possible connection to the Hartmann family is ruled out.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, Bella,” said Bruno after Hilary had gone. “You’ve committed high treason.”
“Oh my God!” Isabelle flopped down on the sofa, badly shaken. She covered her face with her hands. “That was as close as it came to a fistfight. Hilary has never laid a finger on me; then she lashes out as if she’d needed to for years. I hope I haven’t trusted you too far, Bruno?” The fire in her cheeks was subsiding. She lifted her head. “What were you getting at, accusing Hilary of living double lives?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t saying anything at all.” Bruno shrugged it off.
“Do you think I’m satisfied with that? There was a decided whiff of threat to it.”
“I was overdoing it, I have to admit. Now, I’ll have another coffee. That one went cold.” He made a move, going behind the counter. “I hope Dr. Hilary didn’t make off with part of a set?”
“Did she ever! Wedgwood, Cornucopia. Now I’m down to three.”
“You ought to send her the bill.” Bruno looked around him. “Why don’t you use freshly ground Italian coffee instead of these pods?” he asked.
“Stop complaining.” She got up from the sofa, taking the barstool facing him. “The pods are okay. Don’t change the subject either. What did you mean, double life?”
He turned his broad back on her. “I just wanted to shake her up.”
“You did and no mistake. Your little thrust hit home. Are you going to tell me?”
He turned to look at her, a cup of coffee in hand. “Have you cream?”
“In the fridge. I only take a little.”
He opened the fridge door, bent to look at the contents. “You’re a neat little hausfrau, aren’t you?” He withdrew a carton of cream.
