His Australian Heiress (6 page)

Conrad Mansfield actually nodded approval. Not so Simon's mother. “How unpleasant is this?” Patricia asked explosively. “Simon has always taken family matters very seriously. I for one don't blame him for becoming so agitated.”

“Well, you wouldn't, Aunt Patricia. I think you even condoned his childhood tantrums. I don't know why you invited him here this weekend,” Charlotte said. “Simon will never change. He has an inflexible nature.”

“Sometimes life is difficult, Charlotte.” Patricia Mansfield's colour rose.

Carol, although she clung to Simon's hand, looked distressed and worried. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Mansfield. It's as Simon said. There are so many family things I don't understand. Naturally I'll be returning to Sydney with him.”

Charlotte spoke directly to the other young woman. “You're very welcome to stay, Carol, as my guest. You can drive back with us tomorrow.”

Carol, whose complexion was returning to its normal hue, spoke as though she had come to a necessary decision. “Thank you so much, Charlotte. I do appreciate your offer, but my place is with Simon.”

Her
place?
Charlotte recognized with dismay that Carol was highly vulnerable to control.

“So butt out, Charlotte,” Simon said, suddenly mollified by his girlfriend's response. He knew she was in love with him.

“Right now you're the one who's butting out,” Brendon said, taking a step towards him.

Patricia Mansfield abruptly roused herself. “This is not what I planned,” she said, clearly upset at what was really, given her son's combative nature, a predictable turn of events.

“Do let's go, Simon,” Carol urged in her gentle voice.

He fixed her with another of his quelling glances. “I
heard
,” he gritted.

“Well, good-bye, everyone,” Carol dared to say. “I'm so glad I met you all. So sorry it didn't turn out well.”

Simon began to haul her away. “Oh, do give it a rest, Caro,” he was saying to her in an oppressive voice. “No one is worth your attention.”

“I hope you heard that, Patricia,” Conrad said in a derisive tone after his son and girlfriend had left the room. Husband and wife met one another's eyes. “You didn't even teach our son rudimentary good manners.”

Patricia was at least consistent in the championing of her son. “He doesn't know what he's saying,” she replied. “You're so hard on him, Conrad.”

That accusation nearly convulsed her husband. “
Hard
on him!” he exploded. “When my own father was nothing short of a dictator? I feel sorry for that poor girl, getting mixed up with Simon. He has the worst characteristics of both of us.”

Never a truer word
, thought Charlotte. “I could do with that cup of coffee that was on offer,” she intervened, casting a glance at Brendon.

“I daresay Janet was too nervous to come in.” Patricia was having difficulty keeping to a measured tone. “I'll go see to it now. First, though, I'll say good-bye to our son, our
only
child, might I remind you, Conrad.”

“Well, whose decision was that?” he pounced. “Go to our only child, by all means,” he said smoothly, “but first have Janet wheel in the coffee.”

Patricia appeared shocked at her husband's disclosures. Indeed it was a fight to hold on to her dignity. “No good will come of this,” she warned.

“I don't know how much Carol cares for Simon . . .” Charlotte ventured.

“They're about due to become engaged,” Aunt Patricia snapped, thus settling the question.

“That's interesting,” Charlotte said. “Simon has picked just the sort of young woman he requires for a
wife
.” It all came back to control, and Simon was a controller. What sort of life would Carol have, married to such a man?

“You've never been fond of your cousin, have you, Charlotte?” Aunt Patricia said in bitter rebuke. “Isn't that perhaps the reason for your hostility?”

“What hostility?” Charlotte said. “I don't think that deserves a reply.”

Patricia Mansfield's whole body stiffened. “It doesn't please me to tell you this, Charlotte, but your mother never made us welcome.”

An arrow of light shot into Charlotte's mind.
Why do you see me as your enemy, Patricia? It's simply not true.
There were more chinks of light coming
.

Conrad Mansfield sat forward in his armchair. “That's your aunt's version of it, my dear. Not mine. I never heard one unpleasant word from your mother. She was a most beautiful woman, destined like my poor brother to die young. You're starting to look a lot like her, do you know? The colouring has been masking it. Jealousy has terrible consequences.”

A burning flush crept up Patricia's neck. It was obvious she wasn't having her best day. “What right have you to talk about jealousy?” she reproached her husband. “You had a pathological jealousy of Christopher.”

“Which I will regret for the rest of my life,” said Conrad Mansfield without hesitation. “The way our father treated us was conducive to that sort of thing. Chris was everything. I was nothing. But no excuses.” He broke off at the sound of heavy footsteps on the hall staircase. “That will be our son leaving,” he said dryly, “if you want to catch up with him, Patricia.”

Patricia Mansfield fled the huge room as though her life had suddenly become just too hard.

At her departure, Charlotte rose to her feet, a tiny load lifted from her heart. At least her uncle had his deep regrets. “I'll go organize the coffee,” she said with her natural resilience. “Aunt Patricia really should have known how Simon would react.”

* * *

Charlotte and Brendon spent the afternoon walking around the house, which they both agreed was a wonderful place to hold a party. All the floors throughout the house were of polished honey-coloured timber.

They decided on a large area where the rugs could be rolled up and stored away for the evening to allow for dancing. The buffet had to be planned. Charlotte doubted Janet, who turned out to be a very nice, competent woman, could manage it on her own. She would need help from the village. Charlotte had already decided to give her carte blanche to order in the hams, turkeys, chickens, seafood, lobsters, crayfish, oysters, and all the ingredients that would be needed for the various accompanying dishes, hot and cold.

A well-stocked bar would be set up. No one would be
driving
home. She would leave the flowers to the two highly artistic ladies in the village who owned the most beautiful florist shop one could imagine. They knew what she liked. They would be very glad for such a big job. Charlotte liked to support the local community. Smartly uniformed waiters would be needed to pour the champagne. She would have no trouble finding them.

Both she and Bren had expected Aunt Patricia to tag along, but Patricia had stayed away, thus registering her upset and disapproval. Charlotte had long since decided Aunt Patricia was the sort of woman so self-satisfied she had no idea how much she was disliked. Uncle Conrad had locked himself away in his study, claiming he had work to do.

“I'd like to get into that study,” Charlotte said. “It wasn't
War and Peace
he gave to the world. It was a highly successful novel his readership had reason to believe would be followed by a string of bestsellers.”

“Ah yes, the book!” Brendon murmured. “I was hoping to trap him into telling us the basic premise of his new work, what stage he was at, but thought better of it.”

“I don't think they're happy together,” Charlotte mused.

“Happy! Of course they're not,” Brendon said.

“So what's the problem? If they're unhappy, why don't they split up? A loveless marriage must be terrible for both parties. Maybe behind all the suavity Uncle Conrad is having a nervous breakdown? Or he's had one now that he finds inspiration has dried up.”

“In which case he could pour all that unhappiness into a novel?” Brendon suggested. “The first book was brilliant, deeply moving, a bittersweet love story. Hard to believe he has such a lyrical inner voice. He had to have been very much in love with his heroine, Laura?”

“Who bears no resemblance whatever to his wife,” Charlotte said.

Looking down at her, Brendon thought falling in love with Charlotte might well be a life-changing experience. She had changed into a very pretty short dress that showed off her lovely limbs to perfection. “You said it yourself, Patricia stays with him because of the money.”

“Better to have peace of mind and freedom, surely? I'm going to take a very long time to get married. If ever. I don't trust men.”

“There are a few good guys around,” Brendon pointed out, dryly. “You have to experience
life
, Charlie. I know you love kids.”

“There's a price on getting married and having children,” Charlotte said, her views coloured by her contact with abused women and children terrified of their menfolk.

“There's a price on everything,” Brendon reminded her gently, aware of her low opinion of men. Deep down Charlotte was the little girl who had lost both her parents in tragic circumstances. It was unbelievable the way her family had let her down. His mother had long called the Mansfields a “nest of vipers.” He had always thought it a bit harsh. Sir Reginald had loved Charlotte as much as it was possible to love anyone above his son Christopher. It was true that Conrad in many ways had had a raw deal, but he hadn't been left penniless. As for plain bloody-minded Simon with his high and mighty manner, Brendon regretted, as did Charlotte, that Simon had drawn the gentle Carol Sutton into his web.

* * *

They were strolling through the beautiful shady part of the grounds, where the autumn-flowering sasanquas were still holding their exquisite blooms in all shades of pink and red. The lower branches had been trimmed to give the effect of small trees, which Brendon thought was very effective.

The spring flowering of the countless bushes of camellia japonica was sadly over, like the azaleas, the rhododendrons, and the wonderful peonies he remembered, but the great banks of hydrangea—some blue, some pink, some mauve with sections of greenish-white—were putting on a marvellous display. He had always liked their mop-heads. The intoxicating scent of the massed gardenia shrubs wafted along with them. He reached out to pick a perfect white, waxy blossom that starred the glossy green foliage, passing it to Charlie. She bent her golden head to sniff its perfume, and then pushed the blossom into her hair.

“Perfect!” he said. “No wonder Paradise is traditionally described as a garden,” he remarked, possessed by a strange sort of restlessness, even when he was at peace. Clouds' gardens had been started in the early days of her marriage by Lady Julia. They were her lasting legacy.

“There's always been a language of flowers,” Charlotte said, as entranced by all the beauty around them as Brendon was. “Ancient Greece and Rome had their language, right through the Middle Ages to the so-called age of chivalry. The Victorians made a big deal of flower language. Passionate communications without a word being spoken. You should try it some time, Bren.”

He gave her an indulgent smile. “That's a reach, though I have been known to send my female friends flowers.”

“Lovely Lisa?” Charlotte teased.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“As I said, I like Lisa. I'm inviting her to the party, okay?”

“If you must.”

“Don't worry. I'm going to let you see the list.”

“That
is
noble of you,” he said dryly.

“Anyone else? Anyone you particularly care for I don't know about?”

He looked down at her with mocking eyes. “There is another woman. Not the one you think.”

She came to a complete standstill. “Who? This is
serious
, Bren.” She put great emphasis on the word
serious
.

“Our mystery woman.” His silver-grey eyes glinted back at her.

“Do you love her?” Charlotte asked. “I'm not going to move until you tell me.”

Now
he
got to smile. “I'm joking, Charlie. Love is madness.”

Apparently satisfied with his answer, she sauntered on her way. “I agree. At least I think I do. All my girlfriends have steady boyfriends.”

There was no trace of calculated coquetry in her voice. Charlie said it like it was. “You're surely not going to tell me you couldn't have any guy you want?”

“I'd have to be swept away, Bren,” she confided with a certain measure of wonder at her own exacting and fastidious nature. “It hasn't happened yet, that's for sure. Maybe I'm a cold person? Alright, not cold, maybe cool at the core. Maybe it's because I wouldn't care for a man trying to rule me, let alone my ruling him. That's not on. Have you ever experienced the great tugs of the heart, Bren?”

It was a serious question. He had to pretend to consider. “A twinge or two. I've been happily attracted. Will that do?”

Charlotte let out a sigh. “It wouldn't do me.”

“No need to tell me, Charlie,” he said, very dryly. “It would be all or nothing for you.”

“
And
you,” she shot back. “We're alike.”

They were coming into the full sunlight and the long, flowering rose gardens that spread their heady perfume over the entire estate. The rose gardens were flanked by beds glowing with a host of other lovely sensuous, summer-flowering plants.

“Grandma chose many of the old-fashioned roses you see for their beautiful perfume,” Charlotte told him, as they walked slowly down the aisles. “Rosa Damascina grows on Omar Khayyam's grave, did you know?”