Chapter 3
T
he family was assembled in the huge open-plan living room with the mountainous panorama a breathtaking backdrop. Conrad Mansfield; his wife, Patricia; their son, Simon, a good-looking young man with a thick thatch of gold hair streaked with flaxen, were in attendance. Simon was wearing his familiar supercilious expression. His girlfriend
was
a surprise. She was a complete departure from the glamorous, on-the-vapid-side socialites Simon had always favoured. She was seated in front of his standing figure in a pose reminiscent of a Victorian portrait with one of Simon's hands held firmly on her shoulder.
“My dear girl!” Uncle Conrad rose from his armchair, the genial host. Since Charlotte had last seen him, he had allowed his copious mane, a premature white, to grow long enough to form a ponytail. His beautifully trimmed darker beard and moustache only heightened the image of the literary lion, an image reinforced by his slightly eccentric but expensive clothing. Like his late father, Sir Reginald, the premature white was very flattering to his handsome, well-preserved face and his bright green eyes. He looked good. “How wonderful to see you, Charlotte,” he enthused. A man determined to play it right. “You, too, Brendon.”
It was an Academy Award performance, yet Charlotte felt as nervous as a high-strung cat. The earlier bout of panic was threatening to re-erupt. She couldn't allow that. It made her feel fragile. Her uncle might not have shown the slightest interest in her these past years, indeed her entire life, but he
was
her uncle, not a potential assassin. The thought calmed her. Her uncle hadn't been responsible for her parents' death. Her grandfather had simply made a ruthless decision in bypassing his remaining son as his heir. Obviously she had soaked up some of her grandfather's harsh attitude. Nevertheless, she wasn't going to play this monstrous game of happy families. It was sheer farce.
Brendon, at her side, had no difficulty reading Charlotte's body language. He stepped into the breach, taking Conrad Mansfield's outstretched hand. “It's a wonder you recognise me, sir,” he said.
“You haven't changed since you were a boy,” Conrad remarked in a resonant, cultured voice that filled Charlotte with poignant memories of her beloved father. The two brothers had shared a close physical resemblance. “I regret we haven't seen each other more often, Brendon. How's the family?”
“Always together,” said Brendon suavely. He had no time for Charlotte's uncle, famous author or not.
Aunt Patricia broke in, winding her heavy necklace around her hand. “You haven't met Carol. Carol Sutton.”
Both Charlotte and Brendon turned to smile in a friendly way at Simon's girlfriend. Carol Sutton looked charming. Certainly not one of Simon's glamour girls. She was well-dressed, if conservatively, for her age. Not a “looker,” but
interesting
. She wore her dark hair in a standard pageboy. Her fine dark eyes were her best feature.
What was she doing with Simon? Charlotte very nearly shook her head.
“Gosh, ain't that grand!” Simon gave a sneer. “They actually like you, Caro, when I expected something quite different.” He turned back to his mother. “You really should have left the introductions to me, Mother.”
Patricia changed colour. “Whatever do you mean, darling?”
“I'm quite capable of introducing Carol, don't you think?”
“Good heavens, darling!” Patricia's smile shrivelled up.
“I'll tell you another thing,” Simon continued on his merry way, his eyes locking on Charlotte.
Charlotte knew from long experience that Simon was preparing to go into one of his rants. He had been given to them as a child, when his bad behaviour went unaddressed. She put up a hand that nevertheless carried a clear message. “I can see where you're going, so I'll stop you there, Simon. That's if you ever wish to visit again. Do please sit down. I want to tell you all something.”
“Of course you do!” Simon threw back his blond head. Any sort of reprimand, big or small, only encouraged him. “You are, after all, our little heiress.”
“Indeed I am, and you're a guest in my house.” Charlotte's tone was startlingly reminiscent of their late grandfather.
Everyone heard it, except Simon, who was both clever and thick. “Now, isn't she priceless!” he asked of no one in particular.
His father abruptly broke out of his role of genial host. “Sit down, Simon. Or leave.” His eyes shifted to Carol Sutton, who seemed about to announce she had a splitting headache. “I'm so sorry, my dear. My son doesn't hide his feelings well.”
“We were hoping, Simon, you'd come back reborn,” Brendon said, a satirical twist to his mouth.
“I'll never be resigned to what happened to us!” Simon, who had a real gift for upsetting people, cried. “The unfairness of it all! It can never be forgotten or forgiven. How can we build a family on such foundations?”
“I agree it's hard when we're such a dysfunctional family,” Charlotte said. “Only I can't feel sorry for you, Simon. Between ourselves you didn't go short.”
“Peanuts compared to you!” Simon's dull flush reflected his anger. “Grandfather made a mistake. I was the senior grandchild. I mean, who are you?
What
are you?”
A dead silence greeted the absurdity of his questions. It was quickly broken by Brendon's searing comment. “Charlotte is your blood cousin. She is someone everyone admires. Your grandfather, as always, knew exactly what he was doing. Your father is a renowned author. He had no wish to remain in Chambers, did you, sir?”
“No, no,” Conrad replied with the dignity of a born actor. “If we're talking frankly, I was never greatly interested in the Law.”
“That's not the point, Dad!” Simon cried, bitterly disappointed in his father's perceived slackness. “Charlotte came between you and your rightful inheritance.”
“I think I have no part in this discussion,” Carol Sutton said very quietly. “If I may be excused?” She looked to Charlotte for a response.
“Please, Carol, stay,” Charlotte urged, wondering if Aunt Patricia's idea of inviting her obnoxious son was a poor joke. “Simon has said all he's going to say.”
“I want Carol here with me.” Simon, who had no understanding of any point of view other than his own, increased the pressure on Carol's shoulder. To Charlotte's mind it was the action of a born controller. Just how well did Carol Sutton know her new boyfriend? She seemed a world away from his usual type.
“Let's all sit down, shall we?” she invited. “I need to talk to you about my twenty-first birthday party.”
“I can't tell you how that has raised our spirits, dear.” Patricia was off again in the guise of affectionate aunt. “I expect you'll hold it at . . .” She began to reel off the names of four gold-standard luxury hotels in Sydney.
“I don't want to do that at all, Aunt Patricia,” Charlotte said, putting her aunt's speculations on the chopping block. “I don't want a big party. I'm having no more than forty or fifty guests. I intend to hold it here at Clouds.”
The family, drawn together as one, looked severely taken aback.
“But I thought it was all settled,” Patricia Mansfield cried, sounding bitterly disappointed in Charlotte's choice of venue. “There are so many people fond of you, Charlotte dear. We have so many friends in business and society. You have a name. You can't let people down. It wouldn't be fair of you, would it?”
Charlotte evaded the question. “Who told you it was all settled?” she asked.
Patricia looked at the ceiling as if waiting for a prompt.
“Surely Cynthia Bradford?” Conrad suggested sharply. “The Le Feuvres?”
“It really doesn't matter. They were only hoping or guessing,” Charlotte said. “I'm as free as anyone else to decide on the venue. It will be here. That's why Brendon and I are here this weekend. We want to look over the house this very afternoon. Where they will all sleep can be worked out. I've already spoken to the proprietor of Blue Horizons.”
Patricia's expression could only be described as
injured
. “Surely you could have spoken to me first, Charlotte?” According to her own lights, she had the perfect right to be consulted before any decision was made.
“I had already guessed your views, Aunt Patricia,” Charlotte replied, wondering how best to tell them she didn't want them there. She risked a glance at Brendon. His expression seemed to say,
You're stuck with them.
Simon muttered something to his girlfriend, then moved back so precipitously he almost knocked the cover off a valuable spinach-jade incense burner on the circular table behind him. It was Carol who moved swiftly to right the tripod vessel.
“Do look what you're doing, Simon,” his father said sharply. “That incense burner is quite valuable. It's Qing dynasty.”
“Then it should be locked in a glass case,” Simon retorted with a snort.
“As I recall, it
was
,” Charlotte said. “I think it should go back into the case, along with the rest of Grandfather's collection.”
“It's been perfectly safe up until now,” Conrad Mansfield said with a flash of anger.
“That's right, apologize to her.” Simon was determined to have his say. “I suppose she's going to tell us next she wants us to move out.”
“It is possible, it could be
you
,” Brendon pointed out.
Carol Sutton was looking more and more distressed. Clearly she had not known what she was in for. “I would do what you want to do, Charlotte,” she said in a gentle voice. “It's your party.”
She didn't earn a hug for that. Indeed, Simon gave her a quelling look. “Would you mind staying out of this, Caro?” he said, like a strict husband laying down the law.
“I'm sorry. I . . .” Carol's voice seemed to be lodged in her throat.
“What's the problem, Simon?” Brendon asked. “Carol is surely entitled to her opinion?”
“Carol doesn't understand the situation,” said Simon.
“It must be made clear that a convivial atmosphere is essential for Charlotte's twenty-first,” Brendon went on in his naturally authoritative way, which had been considerably strengthened by his professional life. “It's a once-in-a-lifetime celebration. You don't appear to accept that
you
are subject to custom and convention, Simon?”
“And who are
you
, exactly?” Simon burst out, unable to control the plethora of resentments that were crushing the life out of him. He had always been jealous of the brilliant Brendon Macmillan and all his accomplishments. “Charlotte's bloody minder?” he accused. “Got your eye on her, have you? I wouldn't put it past you.”
Charlotte noted the silver flash in Brendon's eyes, the way his tall, super-fit body tensed. “No, Bren. You mustn't,” she said quietly.
“Can't answer the question?” Simon continued, passionately determined to have it out. He could
never
forget how his father had been denied the family fortune. How
he
had been denied it. Had things gone to plan, he would have been his father's heir, with all the power he craved coming to him as a matter of course. Instead Charlotte, a schoolgirl, had won the first prize. They had all missed the fact that dear, little motherless, fatherless Charlotte had been the old devil's favourite.
Conrad belatedly intervened. He pushed back in his heavy armchair. “You've excelled yourself, Simon, at creating disunity. Your mother and I were hoping for better. I suggest you go upstairs and pack.”
“I'll help,” Carol said quickly, her cheeks deeply flushed.
A strange expression came over Simon's face. “Who needs
you
?” He rounded on her with a startling look that held a degree of disgust. “You're a traitor.”
Carol's expression passed from acute embarrassment to absolute distress. “Simon,
please.
You can't say that.” In their relatively short relationship, she had never seen this side of Simon. She was shocked at the change in him. Nevertheless she put out a conciliatory hand.
Simon ignored it. “Find your own way back,” he said.
“Are you serious?” Carol was wishing she had never come.
Simon's mother sat apparently deaf and dumb, her expression one of a woman trying not to fall off a crumbling cliff.
“The sooner you deal with yourself, Simon,” his father clipped off, “the better.”
“That's good coming from you, Dad,” Simon retorted with high scorn. He looked back at his father as if he despised him. “All your talk of putting up a fight was nothing more than a blind.”
“I think you're forgetting that your father
did
put up a fight,” Brendon cut in. “He hired a battery of lawyers to contest the will.”
“Sir Reginald knew what would happen,” Conrad said. “He made sure the will was airtight.”
“He did, sir,” Brendon said. “Charlotte had been hoping the family had come to terms with that.”
“
I
haven't!” Simon shouted. “I never will. I'll be out of here in under ten minutes.”
“The clock's ticking,” said Charlotte.
Simon swung back, his green eyes livid. “You're just like your scandalous mother.”
Brendon didn't hesitate. He stood up like a man on the verge of walloping the offender.
Well aware of his anger, Carol loyally ranged herself beside Simon, taking his hand. “I'll be going with Simon, of course. I'll lend him a helping hand.”