His Australian Heiress (11 page)

“It seems to me, Uncle, I can pick my times. I expect you've heard from Simon?”

Before her uncle could answer, Patricia Mansfield moved into the entrance hall. She too appeared displeased. She set down a small case before pushing in front of her husband, every inch the indignant, possessive mother. “Simon claims he was manhandled?” she fired back.

To everyone's surprise, her husband rounded on her, with a face of thunder. “Forget all that, Patricia,” he exclaimed. “I expect Simon got what he deserved. You ruined our boy. He'll never become a man with you around.”

Patricia Mansfield looked her fury at having private family matters aired. “You might add, ‘for want of a proper father,' ” she struck back, clearly out for revenge.

Charlotte judged it time to intervene. “If you need to have a frank talk, may I ask that you do it in private?” she suggested. “We really stayed on because I have a question to ask, Uncle Conrad. I never talk about rights—
my
rights—but I've allowed you to stay at Clouds for some years now in order to write your next book.”

“So?”

Something in the coldness of his expression sent a chill through her. She was beginning to feel her own uncle was a danger to her. “So, you've hardly shown your appreciation.”

“
You
have no interest in Clouds,” he said, as though she was being ridiculous.

“Then you have no real knowledge of me, Uncle. You've never shown any interest in me. You never made me, your niece, your brother's only child, feel cared for, certainly not loved. Obviously you don't understand me at all. I love Clouds. Grandpa recognized that, that's why he left it to me.”

“You mean, he left you the
lot
!” Patricia Mansfield burst out, as though wishing Charlotte could finally get the unfairness of it straight.

“Why don't you leave us, Aunt Patricia?” Charlotte said, sick to death of all the talk of money and being robbed. “It's my uncle I wish to speak to.”

“About what?” Conrad condescended to ask. The collar of his casual blue-and-white-checkered shirt was open, revealing surprisingly part of a tattoo.

That surprised Charlotte. A tattoo? She looked to Brendon, who gave her a nod to continue. She wanted Brendon there as her best friend and as a superbly fit young man. Her uncle and aunt were trying to intimidate her, at the very least. “About your new book,” she said. “Aunt Patricia told me she had read the manuscript. I'm not asking to read it—you may not be ready for that—but I do want to see the finished pages.”

“Whatever for?” demanded Patricia, as though Charlotte was proposing to bend rules that were written in stone.

“Because I can't wait to sight it,” Charlotte replied. “To retain the privilege of staying on here, I need to be certain there
is
a book.”

“
Wh-a-t?
” Patricia Mansfield spoke so loudly she let out all the air in her lungs. She waved a scornful hand. “Put her in her place, Conrad, why don't you?” she managed hoarsely.

Conrad Mansfield gave an odd smile. “I very much doubt I can. Charlotte might be a mere slip of a girl, but she's tough. It's in the blood.”

“Balls!” Patricia shouted crudely. It was clear her husband wasn't about to back her, so she turned on her heel, making for the stairs. “I won't be seeing you again this evening, so I'll say good night.” Her furious eyes ranged over Charlotte and Brendon, tall and formidable beside her.

“Good night, Aunt Patricia. With all due respect, I suggest you reevaluate your position here,” Charlotte said. “You resent it, I know, but Clouds does belong to
me
. I have the authority to say who lives or does not live here.”

Patricia's hand on the banister revealed her white knuckles. “You're like your mother, Charlotte. You're missing a heart.”

From chill to burn. “The person missing a heart, Aunt Patricia, is
you
.”

“Perhaps we could go into the study, sir?” Brendon suggested.

Conrad Mansfield gave the much younger man a bitter smile. “I read you as a young man destined to get to the very top, Brendon. My father, who never felt pride in me, actually admired you even as a boy. He used to call you the Macmillan panther.”

“I have heard that. I don't know why.”

“I think you do. I daresay you've been under massive pressure all your life to make your family proud. Many a young man would have gone under, gotten into drugs, the playboy lifestyle, whatever. You had a lot of guts to call on. Just like Charlotte here. I'm absolutely certain your family, including you, are working to take my niece over. Possibly even lure her into marriage.”

Charlotte cut in. “Marriage is a long way off, Uncle Conrad. I've only just turned twenty-one. I'll be called on to step into my grandfather's shoes or hand over the reins to someone far better qualified. I don't intend to be taken over at any price, but we're avoiding this issue of your new book. I appreciate that
Cries of the Heart
is a hard act to follow, but you must have something to show after all this time?”

His frown deepening, Conrad Mansfield stared down his straight nose at his niece. “You're a writer . . . of sorts,” he said condescendingly. “Your father used to let me read your letters. He was so proud of you and the fact that you were so clever, a little girl full of such vitality and energy, with a marvellous appreciation of language.” Conrad turned to make his way to the study. “Come along then,” he invited. “It's by no means finished. A project like this takes time. Years if it has to.”

“Your publisher hasn't asked for a definite date?” Brendon asked.

“Maybe there never will be one,” Conrad Mansfield muttered, almost beneath his breath.

“You're saying this book may never be finished?” Brendon followed up the muffled comment.

“Plenty of books are never finished,” Mansfield said.

Outside the study door, he produced a key from his pocket. “I usually lock the study when I'm away.”

Charlotte shot Brendon a sidelong glance. “I know there's a spare somewhere.”

Her uncle paused to stare at her. “There
was
one. I've never found it.”

“Is there the need for such secrecy?” Charlotte asked.

“I have my reasons,” he replied. “Now, I'll allow you to hold the manuscript in your hand, Charlotte. You told me you didn't want to read it before publication, so we'll hold to that, agreed?”

“Have you a working title?” Charlotte asked. “I believe
Cries of the Heart
was a phrase you borrowed from my father?”

Conrad Mansfield, who had been moving towards the wall of bookcases, swung back so abruptly his long white ponytail flipped around his throat like a rope. For a split second, he appeared acutely disturbed. There were deep grooves between his eyes. “My dear girl, wherever did you get that idea?” He wagged an admonishing finger.

“Directly from my father,” Charlotte promptly replied. “My mother had left for Sydney, I remember. My parents had had an argument. I overheard it. When my father realized, he hugged me close. I remember exactly what he said to me: ‘
Cries of the heart, my darling. Cries of the heart
.' ”

Conrad Mansfield stared back at Charlotte as though he could scarcely credit what she was saying. “You seem very certain of this?”

“I remember that moment very clearly. A lot I can't remember at all. Some things are coming back. Resurfacing, I could say. I was badly traumatized after the death of my parents.”

“Of course you were, my dear. We all were. The Mercedes scattered all over the valley floor. They had to have been arguing violently. That was the only explanation. It was a time of madness for us all. My father turned into a coldhearted monster. My poor mother—Christopher and I knew perfectly well she had always been unhappy with my father—just gave up, took a leave of absence on life. Christopher was her favourite. Christopher was everyone's favourite. I was smart enough, good-looking enough, yet the best I could be was Chris's shadow.”

“But you wrote a masterpiece,” Brendon reminded him, watching Conrad Mansfield closely.

“I beg your pardon?” Conrad asked blankly, like he had lost all track of the conversation.

“A masterpiece.
Cries of the Heart
?” Brendon prompted.

“Yes, yes, of course.” The blank expression lifted. “I didn't have any other choice if I was to impress my father. I should tell you, Charlotte, the words ‘
cries of the heart
' were original to me. Chris would have heard me say it. Such words were appropriate to what was going on at the time.”

“I'm sorry, Uncle, but I don't think that's true,” Charlotte flatly contradicted him.

“My dear child, I assure you it
is
.” Conrad Mansfield appeared flabbergasted by her response. “Your father didn't write
Cries of the Heart.
I did.”

“
I
didn't claim my father wrote
your book
,” Charlotte said. “I only said he gave you the title. Please may I see the manuscript now?”

“As a special concession, Charlotte, you may.”

“It's a wonder you didn't put it in the safe,” Charlotte said, catching Brendon's silver warning look a second too late.

Conrad Mansfield gave an uncontrollable groan. “You remember the safe?” His voice contained anger and a good dash of anxiety.

“Of course I do.” Charlotte was sufficiently alert not to mention she knew the safe's combination.

“Too hard to remember the combination?” her uncle asked, his lips curled. Of course she couldn't. She had been a child, though he didn't doubt his brother might have told her.

Charlotte shrugged. “I was too young.”

“Of course, though I wouldn't have been surprised if my father or Christopher showed you. You were only a child, but a very inquisitive child, as I recall. The safe is where, do you remember?”

Her uncle was eyeing her in a way that Charlotte found truly disturbing. She knew she was being tested. “Behind the Brett Whiteley, over there.” She gestured at the iconic painting of Sydney Harbour.

“Aren't you a clever girl!” he said, with a cold smile on his face.

“I'm supposed to be, remember? In the blood?”

Brendon once again thought it wise to intervene. He could sense a kind of desperation about Conrad Mansfield. He also sensed violence flexing in the man. “If you could let us see the manuscript, sir, we can go on our way. It's been a long day.”

“My niece may hold it, not you, Brendon. You're not family. At least not
yet
.”

Brendon's silver-grey eyes flashed. “I don't recommend you keep up that insinuation, sir. Nor do I recommend you start any gossip rolling.”

Conrad Mansfield's malicious expression was wiped clean. “My lips are sealed, dear boy.”

Brendon forced himself not to say, “
I'm not your dear boy
.” He and Charlotte watched as Conrad Mansfield walked to the section of the bookcase nearest the partners' desk. He pulled out a few weighty leather-bound, gold-tooled tomes, placed them on the desk, and then withdrew a substantial pile of papers that had been placed inside a manila folder.

“You've done a generous amount of work then?” Charlotte said, putting out her hands to take the hefty document.

“It's a long story,” her uncle said. “I don't blame you for wanting to see it. I'm oversensitive about it, afraid it won't rate when compared with the first book. That does happen. Patricia, of course, is adamant I finish it.”

Charlotte looked down at the thick folder. There had to be nearly a ream of paper there. “I would love to read it,” she said.

At that, Conrad Mansfield moved to take the manuscript off her. “And so you shall—when it's finished.”

“I do hope you will allow me to read the first page at least,” Charlotte said, not about to hand the file over. Did he really think she would?

“Why are you so hard to convince?” her uncle asked, endeavouring to stare her down.

“What concerns you, sir?” Brendon asked. “Charlotte has only asked to see the first page. I would think you'd be only too pleased to let her read the rest. Charlotte, as you are aware, is a very gifted young woman. Feedback must be important to you?”

“All right then, go ahead!” Conrad cried. There were ragged edges to his whole persona.

“Thank you.” Charlotte put the heavy folder down on the desktop, shifting her grandfather's antique silver inkstand to accommodate it. Something about this thick pile of papers spoke to her. She wanted to open the file. Found she couldn't. Her tapering fingers hovered several inches above it.

“Open it, Charlie,” Brendon told her briskly, noting her hesitation.

“Leave the girl alone,” Conrad Mansfield barked, turning on Brendon.

It seemed such an easy thing to do, yet Charlotte was continuing to hesitate. “Do you need help, Charlie?” Brendon asked, ignoring Conrad, who appeared to him to be on the verge of panic.

“Of course not. I was merely being reverential,” Charlotte said, tongue-in-cheek.

There was no title page. No inscription. A trained speed reader, Charlotte took little time to read through and better yet, absorb the front page. She could hardly believe what she read. She couldn't even associate it with the author of
Cries of the Heart.
Opening lines, let alone the first page, had to draw in the reader. That was a given. Even for a first draft this wasn't good. In fact, it was embarrassingly bad. It appeared to be the start of a thriller? That much was apparent. Yet how could a man with such a gift write this? The text had been heavily annotated, underlined, asterisked, like an amateur's first attempt.