by Margaret Way
Maurice Chancellor, however, showed dismay. He threw up his beautifully manicured hands—obviously no hard physical labour there, beyond opening out the ironed newspaper. “My dear, Carol looks absolutely beautiful. She’s petite, like my mother.”
“Let’s hope she doesn’t take after her,” Dallas sniffed. Dallas had made a point of getting in the last word for many years now.
The housekeeper had returned to collect cups, saucers and plates and was wheeling the trolley away just as Troy turned up. There were no apologies for being late, rather a sneering laugh. “Home is where the family gathers,” he announced, making a beeline for Carol. He was wearing a very expensive business suit, a blinding white shirt with a natty stripped tie. He wasn’t as tall as his father, nor as handsome. His eyes had the granite-grey sheen of his mother’s. He leaned over Carol, virtually trapping her, bending his smooth brown head to kiss her on the cheek.
“You’re here, Caro, that’s all I care about. You look ravishing, as usual. Hi there, Damon.” He threw a challenging glance at Damon, as though they were both contenders for Carol’s hand. “I see a huge career boost happening for you.”
“It’s long since underway.” Damon hadn’t liked that kiss. He felt so strongly about it, his response were something of a shock. It definitely wasn’t a familial kiss. “Now we’re all here, I’d like to start reading the will,” he said, knowing the contents would cause a sensation. He thought if it was up to her closest relatives Carol might have a very short life span. That cried out for protection. He was in place, if not her knight in shining armour, her guardian angel in his own way.
“We’re certainly not stopping you.” Troy spoke facetiously, looking mightily pleased with himself. He had taken a chair to the other side of Carol, slinging a hand over its arm. Again, not a cousinly gesture. What was he thinking? They were first cousins; their fathers were brothers. Or did he think the rules had changed entirely? He could have been a young man making marriage plans.
“So the old guy finally thought of you,” Troy murmured to Carol, leaning in very close.
“Why don’t you shut up, Troy?” she responded.
Not the most affectionate of answers, Damon thought, well pleased. He moved into lawyer mode, allowing gravitas to enter his voice. “I would ask you all to remain quiet so you can pay attention. When you’re ready, I’ll proceed.”
“Let’s reap the whirlwind!” Troy cried. “There’s a lot at stake. Oh, yeah!” he exclaimed flippantly, giving a long, relaxed yawn. His mother and father, however, were looking extremely tense. His mother was thinking long and hard about whether she’d be in a good position to leave his father, no doubt, Troy thought. Theirs was not a marriage made in heaven. Come to think of it, how many were? Troy couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. His dad would get the lion’s share; that didn’t bother him. He would get enough for the time being. It would all come to him in the end. He had no special problem with Carol getting a share. She was a gorgeous little thing and as sexy as hell! As far as he knew, it was perfectly legal to get hitched to one’s first cousin, especially with different mothers.
* * *
What followed was either farce or high tragedy. Carol, the one the family had turned their back on, the principal beneficiary? My God, what a turn up!
“You’ve got the whole damned kit and caboodle.” Troy, like his mother and father, showed his stupefaction.
“This is horrible, horrible!” Dallas jumped to her feet, looking like a minor volcano about to erupt. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I? Selwyn left the bulk of his personal fortune to Carol? Why, she knows nothing of the world. Nothing!” She struck the library table with her clenched fist. “Don’t sit there like a trout with your mouth open, Maurice. Say something. We have to fight this. Selwyn clearly wasn’t of sound mind.”
“My father was of sound mind from start to finish,” Maurice said with some bitterness. He was making a real effort to bite down on his shock. He’d had a lifetime of being bypassed. He had never received his due. At least the old man had left him with a sizeable fortune. It was no surprise Dallas wasn’t on the list. He’d knock her off his list if only he could. But she knew where the bodies were buried. He and his brother, Adam, had had poor judgement when it came to women. His son, Troy, who gave himself such airs and graces, thoroughly deserved a good set-down. Not that Troy was going short, either.
Troy didn’t agree. “This is outrageous, a bloody knock-out blow.” For once Troy sided with his mother. “Carol not only takes precedence over you, Dad, she takes precedence over me.” Obviously the more serious blow. “He always was a ruthless old bastard. You know what this is all about? It’s spite. He let us all believe we would inherit in the usual way. I am your heir, Dad. He never did like Mother dear. Don’t you remember he never would drink any of your herbal concoctions, Mother? Wasn’t My Cousin Rachel one of your favourite books? No, the old man didn’t trust Mother any more than he trusted that psycho bitch, Roxanne.”
Carol, who had been sitting stunned by the magnitude of her inheritance and the attendant responsibilities, spoke up. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t target my mother, Troy,” she said sharply.
“Do you want to know the truth?” Troy all but yelled.
“Perhaps you could sit down, Troy. You, too, Mrs Chancellor,” Damon intervened in the sort of voice one obeyed. “Over these last years Selwyn Chancellor became more and more concerned about how his granddaughter had been treated. We don’t have to touch on the furore after Carol’s father’s tragic death. Mr Chancellor had wanted custody of Carol, but our best advice was the court wouldn’t take her from her mother.”
“News to me!” Maurice Chancellor pronounced. “We all know what part my sister-in-law played in my brother’s death.”
Damon saw Carol flinch. “I would remind you, Mr Chancellor, the coroner brought in a verdict of accidental drowning.”
“You mean she was never found out!” Dallas cried, pathologically jealous of her former sister-in-law.
“There are laws against slander,” Damon reminded them quietly. “Roxanne Chancellor’s story was accepted. There are always accidents on boats.”
There was a chilling malice from Dallas. “My husband is right. Roxanne was never to be trusted.” Bucket loads of aggression were in her tone.
Troy flopped down in his chair, looking poleaxed. It wasn’t as though he would have to cut back on his living expenses; it was the sheer unfairness of it all. The loss of face. He suspected his father would adapt to his new situation given time. All his father could aspire to was writing a book. He had wanted to for years—a work of fiction, a potential block-buster, no less. A bit late in the day! The only catch was his father loved Beaumont with a passion. He would bitterly resent being thrown out of the family home, a home he had confidently expected to be his. Carol’s position could be seen as hazardous.
All Selwyn Chancellor’s pet charities got a huge slice, as expected, so too medical research, the arts, the State Art Gallery, the museum, endowments to the state university, legacies to this one and that one, loyal henchmen. The old devil had even left a hefty sum to the Dairy Farmers’ Association, for God’s sake.
“Save the cows!” Troy cried. “I bet they’ll be delighted.”
“When are we expected to move out?” Dallas asked with barely banked molten rage. When his mother made a point, she wanted people really to feel it. It was a mystery to Troy his parents hadn’t split up. His father was still a very handsome man, whereas his mother had taken some kind of savage pleasure in letting herself go.
Carol took a moment to answer. “There’s absolutely no hurry. I intend to keep a low profile, or as low as I can get. I intend to complete my law degree, which will be at the end of next year. The house is big enough for all of us, should I decide to spend time here—which, I must tell you, I will—long weekends, vacations, that sort of thing. And, before you ask, you have the use of the Point Piper house until I sell it.”
Dalla
s reared back as though she’d been walloped. “Sell?” The sheer audacity of the girl! Had she no respect? Her solid body shook as if hit by successive earthquake tremors.
Troy in his turn muttered a violent oath.
“That’s the idea,” Carol continued calmly. “It will take time for me, with the help of Mr Hunter and others, to study my grandfather’s wishes. As we saw from his will, my grandfather remained a great philanthropist to the end.”
“Ah, yes, the great man in public. Something very different in private,” Maurice Chancellor lamented.
“I saw far too little of him to judge,” Carol replied. “I consider I have a responsibility passed on to me, public or otherwise, to do good in this world.”
“Good?” Troy had become as pugnacious as his mother. “Why don’t you open the house to the starving homeless?” he suggested wildly. “Or turn it into a holy place and give it to the Church. What about a holiday home for the Dalai Lama? What the hell are you on about, Carol? Do you have the faintest idea what that modest little pile is worth?”
“It so happens she does, Troy,” Damon broke in, in a voice that halted any further inquiry. “Carol is not here to answer questions.”
Troy backed off, still glaring his defiance.
“This is a nightmare!” Dallas exclaimed, desperately wishing for Carol to disappear to parts unknown. “What on earth am I going to tell my friends?”
“What friends, Mother?” Troy asked quite viciously.
“Blessings on you, too, dear.” Dallas shot him a fierce broadside.
“Mind how you speak to your mother, Troy,” Maurice Chancellor intervened half-heartedly. He was sick to death of the two of them, wife and son. They gave him no respect, no affection.
Damon began to push Selwyn Chancellor’s last will and testament with its copy into his briefcase, allowing a couple of loose sheets of paper to fall onto the magnificent carpet. “Litigation is out of the question,” he said quietly as he bent to retrieve them. “My client is Selwyn Chancellor’s daughter by his elder son, his heir. It’s fitting, given the past, that reparation be made.”
“And what circumstances would that be?” Dallas demanded, howling her shock and rage, as good as any theatrical performance.
Damon fixed his brilliant dark eyes on her. “I would think you would know, Mrs Chancellor. As a family, you did not support her. It will take time for Carol to see her way clearly. She will get every support from me and others appointed by her grandfather. My client has told me in advance she is prepared to be reasonable in all matters. I would suggest the family present a united front to avoid a media circus. We all know there will be a blaze of publicity when it’s known Carol is her grandfather’s principal beneficiary.”
Damon moved. With his height, he was towering over Dallas who stood looking up at him, her cheeks jiggling with wrath. “We don’t need any lectures from you, young man.”
“Correction—Ms Chancellor’s solicitor and financial adviser,” he said blandly. “Bradfield Douglass will want to keep the family’s business. The fortune remains in the family, only there has been a redistribution.”
“Revenge!” Dallas shook a raised fist. She was in a highly emotional state. “That’s what it’s all about.” She let her long-suffering resentment rip. “There’s still a possibility we can fight this...this...warped will.”
“Frankly, Mrs Chancellor,” Damon said, “You don’t stand a chance. Many thanks for afternoon tea. Time for us to be getting back to town. If you have any further questions in the days ahead, I’ll be happy to answer them. Interment is on Friday afternoon at 2:00 p.m. A few close friends and colleagues of Mr Chancellor will attend. They’ve been advised—all are coming. A memorial service will be held in St Mary’s Cathedral in Sydney Wednesday of next week, as you know. A caterer has been appointed to take charge of the small reception after the interment. They’ll arrive before midday from Sydney. At this sad time, my client wanted to take that small burden off the family.”
Dallas’s steely eyes flashed. “Don’t you just love her? She’s all heart.” Her voice was so harsh she might have had a scouring pad stuck in her throat.
“You would be wise to be grateful, Mrs Chancellor,” Damon said in clipped professional tones.
“I’ll see you out,” Maurice Chancellor announced, waving an arm in the general direction of the front door. Obviously he intended continuing on in the role of legitimate master of Beaumont.
“Thank you, Uncle Maurice,” Carol said.
CHAPTER THREE
THE INTERMENT WAS a harrowing experience. Everyone was glad when it was over, but mercifully a brilliant sun shone down on them. There was a point when Carol thought she just might cave in on herself. Scenes from the past began to invade her mind: the happy times with her grandfather; picking him flowers before he left for the city; the occasional but delightful walks she had enjoyed with her gentle little grandmother who had not been cut out for the life she had married into.
Damon had given her a photograph of herself as a schoolgirl. It had been taken outside the front gates of her school. Who else but her grandfather would have taken it, or caused it to be taken? It was the photograph Damon had retrieved after it had fallen out of a book that first day at Beaumont. He had guessed correctly she would want to have it. Perhaps there were lots of other photographs. She knew she would go in search of them; such mementoes were very important to her now.
Know that I loved you, Poppy. Know that I loved you, Nona. Know that I love you, Daddy.
The memories were tumbling freely. She felt a tremendous weight of regret. But she was in a different time now, a different space. There was only today.
Her grandfather had been much taken by the fact Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the great American President, had been buried in his mother’s rose garden at Springwood, the Roosevelt family estate. That set a precedent for Selwyn. He and his Elaine lay side by side, finding a closeness that had eluded them in life. Her mother, who had a hide any rhinoceros might covet, actually turned up with her husband, Jeff, who did the driving. Roxanne delighted in throwing the cat among the pigeons.
Jeff looking very sleek and prosperous gave Carol a wry smile and a too-intimate hug, near crushing her body to him. One had to wonder what secret feelings were lurking beneath Jeff’s affable exterior.
“Let go, Jeff,” she said briefly, wanting to kick him.
“Sweetheart, I’m just so pleased to see you. You never call. You never ring.”
“Gosh, I wonder why?”
Her mother spoke like a woman forever doomed to be misunderstood. “Your father was my husband, Carol.” A perfectly good reason for her presence, apparently. Roxanne was looking marvellous, but wearing a sweet, spicy perfume that was making Carol feel a bit sick.
“Husband number one,” Carol said.
Roxanne countered. “How long do I have to suffer your flip remarks? I have a right to be here, Carol. I’m your mother.”
Her tone riled, but Carol kept control. Too many people were watching. Marcus Bradfield’s wife, for one. Valerie Bradfield had her head cocked at the best angle to overhear. Carol knew for a fact Valerie detested her mother. “So, will it be okay if I call you Mum, then?”
Roxanne wasn’t about to accept that. “You don’t deserve me.” Her voice throbbed with lack of gratitude. “You don’t deserve any of this!” Roxanne made a sweeping gesture with her arm.
“Watch it, Mum,” Carol warned. “You might knock another Chinese vase off its stand. From here on in, all breakages must be paid for.”
Roxanne was in no mood for humour. “To think you can joke on a day like this!”
“Make a fuss, Mum, and I’ll have someone see you and Jeff out,” Carol returned quietly.
“You learn fast, don’t you?” Roxanne spoke with great bitterness. “You’re going to be just like...”
“Get a handle on it, Mum. Damon Hunter is coming this way.”
Roxanne stared halfway across the drawing room. No t
rouble spotting the tall, very handsome young man dressed in an impeccable dark suit. There was a man who captured attention. In photographs he looked very dashing. In the flesh he looked like a Renaissance prince with his glossy sable hair, bronze skin and brilliant coal-black eyes. “He’s not going to be able to do everything for you, Carol. You’ll need someone. You’ll need me. Just remember that.”
“Don’t forget to remind me to remember that,” Carol said drolly.
“There you go again with your wisecracks.”
“I don’t want to go near chucking you out, Mum. I hope you noted the big hug Jeff gave me. One of the reasons I moved out.”
“God forgive you,” Roxanne said, a pious look on her face. “Jeff has been a splendid stepfather to you.”
“Get the blinkers off for once in your life, Mum.”
As Damon approached, Roxanne’s outraged face settled into an alluring smile. Roxanne was man bait. A brunette with a magnolia skin and ice-blue eyes, she looked wonderful in black.
“Introduce me,” she managed, out of the side of her mouth. “I have a hundred questions to ask him.”
“Just be sure you have nothing to hide.”
“All families have something to hide, Carol,” Roxanne answered with a brief laugh.
“Indeed they do. Especially the Chancellors. Don’t expect Damon to answer any of your questions. You might have to make do with the introduction.”
* * *
When it was time to leave her uncle drew her into his arms. It wasn’t a close hug like Jeff’s, but outwardly the action of a fond uncle. Carol experienced the same odd feeling of trepidation. Had her uncle frightened her when she was a child? If he had, she retained no memory of it. He wouldn’t have dared in any case. She had been her grandfather’s little princess.
“Call me when you want to take a run out to Beaumont,” he said as though nothing had changed. “I can’t come to grips with the fact my father left the estate to you, Carol. But I don’t want you to think I blame you in any way. It was my father’s idea of revenge.”
