His Australian Heiress (21 page)
Read His Australian Heiress Online
Authors: Margaret Way
Julian tried to step back in time. “Why have you never told me any of this, Olivia? I would have known how to handle your mother.”
“I was too ashamed,” Olivia said with stark truth. “You know I've never had a close female friend to talk to. Other women recognize the dark in me. I know they've found my company increasingly off-putting.”
“That could all change, Olivia,” Julian said, pity in his heart. “It's odd you allowed your mother to convince you that you were a person of little value. It's simply not true. I always complimented you on your skills and talents. Your good looks have never been in question, either. You're a very stylish woman.”
Olivia's eyes were great dark pools. “Would you give me another chance, Julian?” she begged. “I swear you won't regret it. I'll make friends with Charlotte. God knows she's an admirable young woman. I will start making amends with her tomorrow, as I beg her to forgive me. You can trust me, Julian. Truly you can. I will never repeat my mistakes of the past. I've learned a bitter lesson. I've made you unhappy. If you want a divorce, I'll give it to you. You deserve some happiness.”
“I don't want a divorce, Olivia,” Julian said, realizing, despite everything, it was true. “All I want is for things to change, to become easier. I want
you
to be happy. Your mother is dead and gone now. She can't hurt you anymore.”
you
to be happy. Your mother is dead and gone now. She can't hurt you anymore.”
“Would you hold my hand?” Olivia begged in a mere thread of a voice.
“Come here to me,” her husband said.
Life was a gamble, but sometimes it was worth the risk.
Epilogue
I
nside the church, with its soaring archways and domed ceiling, the atmosphere, alight with the wonderful entrance music, was thrumming with anticipation. This was after all the wedding of the year; the union of two of the country's most illustrious families, the Macmillans and the Mansfields. The interior of the beautiful church was more spacious than most, was packed out with guests resplendent in their wedding finery. From the delighted faces and the soft, happy buzz of conversation they were thrilled to be here on this most auspicious occasion.
nside the church, with its soaring archways and domed ceiling, the atmosphere, alight with the wonderful entrance music, was thrumming with anticipation. This was after all the wedding of the year; the union of two of the country's most illustrious families, the Macmillans and the Mansfields. The interior of the beautiful church was more spacious than most, was packed out with guests resplendent in their wedding finery. From the delighted faces and the soft, happy buzz of conversation they were thrilled to be here on this most auspicious occasion.
At the front of the church facing the flower-bedecked altar, Dr. Aidan Armstrong, Brendon's best man, whispered to his friend. “Your bride looks glorious, Bren. Take a quick look!”
Brendon was fairly wild to do so. He eased back, turning his dark head. His first thought? The image of Charlotte on their wedding day would be forever indelibly stamped on his mind. She was moving,
floating
down the red carpeted aisle on the arm of his grandfather, Sir Hugo Macmillan. His grandfather was beaming with pride. He was impeccably dressedâthe dress code was formalâand still looking handsome and vigorous being blessed with good health.
floating
down the red carpeted aisle on the arm of his grandfather, Sir Hugo Macmillan. His grandfather was beaming with pride. He was impeccably dressedâthe dress code was formalâand still looking handsome and vigorous being blessed with good health.
They were passing pew after pew, sumptuously decorated by his mother with broad white satin and taffeta ribbons and sprigs of exquisite white Thai orchids embellished with tiny delicate green ferns. His mother had taken over the decoration of the church along with her bevy of helpers with Charlotte's full approval. Olivia Macmillan was an elegant and artistic woman. She was looking exceptionally chic on the day in a designer two piece outfit, top and long skirt in her favourite shade of sapphire blue. Sapphires flashed at her ears and throat. It was a great joy and relief to Brendon his mother had from the very start of the New Year accepted Charlotte with open arms, as his fiancée and as his future wife. He had been praying for a miracle. That miracle had happened. The once warring families were now reconciled, perfectly at peace.
His bride was drawing closer and closer, a creature of ethereal beauty, grace, and light. The sumptuous ivory silk of her strapless gown gleamed. From time to time the silk was shot through with colour as she passed by the magnificent stained glass windows. The tiny waist of her wedding gown was cinched tight. Flashes of light bounced off the gown's exquisite crystal beading and embroidery. Because of her petite stature, Charlotte was wearing a short, shimmering veil. It was held in place by her grandmother Lady Julia Mansfield's treasured bandeau that had come through Lady Julia's own family. The bandeau had a charming, not overwhelming medieval look to it that suited Charlotte beautifully. It was set with diamonds, pearls, and oval shaped emeralds. In her hands Charlotte carried a posy of the most perfect white roses from Clouds' home garden.
Behind her came her four smiling bridesmaids. Each was wearing a long strapless silk gown in the colour of the bride's favourite roses; exquisite pink, lovely lilac, creamy yellow and the very special moonlit blue of Blue Moon roses. All four bridesmaids wore their long gleaming hair sliding down their backs. They had been growing their hair for months for this great occasion. All four wore around their necks circlets of high quality semi-precious stones chosen to enhance the colour of their gowns. These had been presented to the bridesmaids by the groom as mementoes of this very special day.
The sight of his bride and the thrilling swell of the organ played by a master were making Brendon feel highly susceptible to overwhelming emotion. He knew many of the guests' eyes would be glazed over with tears. He understood that perfectly, just as he understood his role was to be the proud, smiling, confident groom ready to welcome his beautiful bride. Glorious sensations shot through him as Charlotte reached his side. There was a little smile on her lovely mouth, faintly teasing, but radiant, full of emotion. Her emerald eyes outdid the splendour of the precious emeralds in the bandeau that fixed her short white veil to her head. Her chief bridesmaid stepped up to take her bouquet. His grandfather stood back as Brendon took his bride's hand. It was trembling slightly so he increased a strong loving pressure, letting her know he would always be the protective force in her life.
As they turned together, Bishop Quentin Ainsworth, long known to both bride and groom, began the traditional ceremony. The Bishop was utterly confident these two fine young people would hold steadfast to their vows. Behind the young couple the church fell into an awed silence. Most of the guests thought they would never again in their lifetimes attend such a beautiful, harmonious wedding where bride and groom were so manifestly in love.
Please turn the page for an exciting peek at
Poinciana Road
by
Margaret Way!
Available in November 2016 at
your favourite bookstores and e-tailers.
Poinciana Road
by
Margaret Way!
Available in November 2016 at
your favourite bookstores and e-tailers.
Chapter 1
M
allory knew the route to Forrester Base Hospital as well as she knew the lines on the palms of her hands. She had never had the dubious pleasure of having her palm read, but she had often wondered whether palmistry was no more than superstition, or if there was something to it. Her life line showed a catastrophic break, and one had actually occurred. If she read beyond the break, she was set to receive a card from the Queen when she turned one hundred. As it was, she was twenty-eight. There was plenty of time to get her life in order and find some happiness. Currently her life was largely devoted to work. She allowed herself precious little free time. It was a deliberate strategy. Keep on the move. Don't sit pondering over what was lodged in the soul.
allory knew the route to Forrester Base Hospital as well as she knew the lines on the palms of her hands. She had never had the dubious pleasure of having her palm read, but she had often wondered whether palmistry was no more than superstition, or if there was something to it. Her life line showed a catastrophic break, and one had actually occurred. If she read beyond the break, she was set to receive a card from the Queen when she turned one hundred. As it was, she was twenty-eight. There was plenty of time to get her life in order and find some happiness. Currently her life was largely devoted to work. She allowed herself precious little free time. It was a deliberate strategy. Keep on the move. Don't sit pondering over what was lodged in the soul.
The driver of the little Mazda ahead was starting to annoy her. He was showing excessive respect for the speed limit, flashing his brake lights at every bend in the road. She figured it was time to pass, and was surprised when the driver gave her a loud honk for no discernible reason. She held up her hand, waved. A nice little gesture of camaraderie and goodwill.
She was almost there, thank the Lord. The farther she had travelled from the state capital, Brisbane, the more the drag on her emotions. That pesky old drag would never go away. It was a side effect of the baggage she carted around and couldn't unload. It wasn't that she didn't visualize a brave new world. It was just that so far it hadn't happened. Life was neither kind nor reasonable. She knew that better than most. She also knew one had to fight the good fight even when the chances of getting knocked down on a regular basis were high.
It had been six years and more since she had been back to her hometown. She wouldn't be returning now, she acknowledged with a stab of guilt, except for the unexpected heart attack of her uncle Robert. Her uncle, a cultured, courtly man, had reared her from age seven. No one else had been offering. Certainly not her absentee father, or her maternal grandparents, who spent their days cruising the world on the
Queen Mary 2.
True, they did call in to see her whenever they set foot on dry land, bearing loads of expensive gifts. But sadly they were unable to introduce a child into their busy lives. She was the main beneficiary of their will. They had assured her of that; a little something by way of compensation. She was, after all, their only grandchild. It was just at seven, she hadn't fit into their lifestyle. Decades later she still didn't.
Queen Mary 2.
True, they did call in to see her whenever they set foot on dry land, bearing loads of expensive gifts. But sadly they were unable to introduce a child into their busy lives. She was the main beneficiary of their will. They had assured her of that; a little something by way of compensation. She was, after all, their only grandchild. It was just at seven, she hadn't fit into their lifestyle. Decades later she still didn't.
Was it any wonder she loved her uncle Robert? He was her superhero. Handsome, charming, well off. A bachelor by choice. Her dead mother, Claudia, had captured his heart long ago when they were young and deeply in love. Her mother had gone to her grave with her uncle's heart still pocketed away. It was an extraordinary thing and in many ways a calamity, because Uncle Robert had never considered snatching his life back. He was a lost cause in the marriage stakes. As was she, for that matter.
To fund what appeared on the surface to be a glamorous lifestyle, Robert James had quit law to become a very popular author of novels of crime and intrigue. The drawing card for his legions of fans was his comedic detective, Peter Zero, never as famous as the legendary Hercule Poirot, but much loved by the readership.
Pulp fiction
, her father, Nigel James, Professor of English and Cultural Studies at Melbourne University, called it. Her father had always stomped on his older brother's talent. “Fodder for the ignorant masses to be read on the train.” Her father never minced words, the crueller the better. To put a name to it, her father was an all-out bastard.
, her father, Nigel James, Professor of English and Cultural Studies at Melbourne University, called it. Her father had always stomped on his older brother's talent. “Fodder for the ignorant masses to be read on the train.” Her father never minced words, the crueller the better. To put a name to it, her father was an all-out bastard.
It was Uncle Robert who had spelled love and a safe haven to her. He had taken her to live with him at Moonglade, his tropical hideaway in far North Queensland. In the infamous “blackbirding” days, when South Sea islanders had been kidnapped to work the Queensland cane fields, Moonglade had been a thriving sugar plantation. The house had been built by one Captain George Rankin, who had at least fed his workers bananas, mangoes, and the like and paid them a token sum to work in a sizzling hot sun like the slaves they were.
Uncle Robert had not bought the property as a working plantation. Moonglade was his secure retreat from the world. He could not have chosen a more idyllic spot, with two listed World Heritage areas on his doorstep: the magnificent Daintree Rainforest, the oldest living rainforest on the planet, and the glorious Great Barrier Reef, the world's largest reef system.
His heart attack had come right out of the blue. Her uncle had always kept himself fit. He went for long walks along the white sandy beach, the sound of seagulls in his ears. He swam daily in a brilliantly blue sea, smooth as glass. To no avail. The truth was, no one knew what might happen next. The only certainty in life was death. Life was a circus; fate the ringmaster. Her uncle's illness demanded her presence. It was her turn to demonstrate her love.
Up ahead was another challenge. A procession of undertakers? A line of vehicles was crawling along as though they had all day to get to their destination. Where the heck
was
that? There were no shops or supermarkets nearby, only the unending rich red ochre fields lying fallow in vivid contrast with the striking green of the eternal cane. Planted in sugarcane, the North was an area of vibrant colour and great natural beauty. It occurred to her the procession might be heading to the cemetery via the South Pole.
was
that? There were no shops or supermarkets nearby, only the unending rich red ochre fields lying fallow in vivid contrast with the striking green of the eternal cane. Planted in sugarcane, the North was an area of vibrant colour and great natural beauty. It occurred to her the procession might be heading to the cemetery via the South Pole.
Some five minutes later she arrived at the entrance to the hospital grounds. There was nothing to worry about, she kept telling herself. She had been assured of that by none other than Blaine Forrester, who had rung her with the news. She had known Blaine since her childhood. Her uncle thought the world of him. Fair to say Blaine was the son he never had. She
knew
she came first with her uncle, but his affection for Blaine, five years her senior, had always ruffled her feathers. She was
more
than Blaine, she had frequently reminded herself. He was the only son of good friends and neighbours. She was
blood.
knew
she came first with her uncle, but his affection for Blaine, five years her senior, had always ruffled her feathers. She was
more
than Blaine, she had frequently reminded herself. He was the only son of good friends and neighbours. She was
blood.
Blaine's assurances, his review of the whole situation, hadn't prevented her from feeling anxious. In the end Uncle Robert was all the family she had. Without him she would be alone.
Entirely alone.
The main gates were open, the entry made splendid by a pair of poincianas in sumptuous scarlet bloom. The branches of the great shade trees had been dragged down into their perfect umbrella shape by the sheer weight of the annual blossoming. For as far back as she could remember, the whole town of Forrester had waited for the summer flowering, as another town might wait for an annual folk festival. The royal poinciana, a native of Madagascar, had to be the most glorious ornamental tree grown in all subtropical and tropical parts of the world.
“Pure magic!” she said aloud.
It was her spontaneous response to the breathtaking display. Nothing could beat nature for visual therapy. As she watched, the breeze gusted clouds of spent blossom to the ground, forming a deep crimson carpet.
She parked, as waves of uncomplicated delight rolled over her. She loved this place. North of Capricorn was another world, an artist's dream. There had always been an artist's colony here. Some of the country's finest artists had lived and painted here, turning out their glorious land- and seascapes, scenes of island life. Uncle Robert had a fine body of their work at the house, including a beautiful painting of the district's famous Poinciana Road that led directly to Moonglade Estate. From childhood, poincianas had great significance for her. Psychic balm to a child's wounded heart and spirit, she supposed.
Vivid memories clung to this part of the world. The Good. The Bad. The Ugly. Memories were like ghosts that appeared in the night and didn't disappear at sunrise as they should. She knew the distance between memory and what really happened could be vast. Lesser memories were susceptible to reconstruction over the years. It was the
worst
memories one remembered best. The worst became deeply embedded.
worst
memories one remembered best. The worst became deeply embedded.
Her
memories were perfectly clear. They set her on edge the rare times she allowed them to flare up. Over the years she had developed many strategies to maintain her equilibrium. Self-control was her striking success. It was a marvellous disguise. One she wore well.
memories were perfectly clear. They set her on edge the rare times she allowed them to flare up. Over the years she had developed many strategies to maintain her equilibrium. Self-control was her striking success. It was a marvellous disguise. One she wore well.
A light, inoffensive beep of a car horn this time brought her out of her reverie. She glanced in the rear-vision mirror, lifting an apologetic hand to the woman driver in the car behind her. She moved off to the parking bays on either side of the main entrance. Her eyes as a matter of course took in the variety of tropical shrubs, frangipani, spectacular Hawaiian hibiscus, and the heavenly perfumed oleanders that had been planted the entire length of the perimeter and in front of the bays. Like the poincianas, their hectic blooming was unaffected by the powerful heat. Indeed the heat only served to produce more ravishing displays. The mingled scents permeated the heated air like incense, catching at the nose and throat.
Tropical blooming had hung over her childhood; hung over her heart. High summer: hibiscus, heartbreak. She kept all that buried. A glance at the dash told her it was two o'clock. She had made good time. Her choice of clothing, her usual classic gear, would have been just right in the city. Not here. For the tropics she should have been wearing simple clothes, loose, light cotton. She was plainly overdressed. No matter. Her dress sense, her acknowledged stylishness, was a form of protection. To her mind it was like drawing a velvet glove over shattered glass.
Auxiliary buildings lay to either side of the main structure. There was a large designated area for ambulances only. She pulled into the doctors' parking lot. She shouldn't have parked there, but she excused herself on the grounds there were several other vacant spots. The car that had been behind her had parked in the visitors' zone. The occupant was already out of her vehicle, heading towards the front doors at a run.
“Better get my skates on,” the woman called, with a friendly wave to Mallory as she passed. Obviously she was late, and by the look of it expected to be hauled over the coals.
There were good patients. And terrible patients. Mallory had seen both. Swiftly she checked her face in the rearview mirror. Gold filigrees of hair were stuck to her cheeks. Deftly she brushed them back. She had good, thick hair that was carefully controlled. No casual ponytail but an updated knot as primly elegant as an Edwardian chignon. She didn't bother to lock the doors, but made her way directly into the modern two-storied building.
The interior was brightly lit, with a smell like fresh laundry and none of the depressing clinical smells and the long, echoing hallways of the vast, impersonal city hospitals. The walls of the long corridor were off-white and hung with paintings she guessed were by local artists. A couple of patients in dressing gowns were wandering down the corridor to her left, chatting away brightly, as if they were off to attend an in-hospital concert. To her right a young male doctor, white coat flying, clipboard in hand, zipped into a room as though he didn't have a second to lose.
There was a pretty, part-aboriginal young nurse stationed at reception. At one end of the counter was a large Oriental vase filled with beautiful white, pink-speckled Asian lilies. Mallory dipped her head to catch their sweet, spicy scent.
“I'm here to see a patient, Robert James,” she said, smiling as she looked up.
“Certainly, Dr. James.” Bright, cheerful, accommodating.
She was known. How?
An older woman with a brisk, no-nonsense air of authority, hurried towards reception. She too appeared pleased to see Mallory. Palm extended, she pointed off along the corridor. “Doctor Moorehouse is with Mr. James. You should be able to see him shortly, Dr. James. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Swiftly Mallory took note of the name tag. “A cup of tea would go down very nicely, Sister Arnold.”
“I'll arrange it,” said Sister. Their patient had a photograph of this young woman beside his bed. He invited everyone to take a look.
My beautiful niece, Mallory. Dr. Mallory James!
My beautiful niece, Mallory. Dr. Mallory James!
Several minutes later, before she'd even sat down, Mallory saw one splendid-looking man stride up to reception. Six feet and over. Thoroughbred build. Early thirties. Thick head of crow-black hair. Clearly not one of the bit players in life.
Blaine!
The mere sight of him put her on high alert. Though it made perfect sense for him to be there, she felt her emotions start to bob up and down like a cork in a water barrel. For all her strategies, she had never mastered the knack of keeping focused with Blaine around. He knew her too well. That was the problem. He knew the number of times she had made a complete fool of herself. He knew all about her disastrous engagement. Her abysmal choice of a life partner. He had always judged her and found her wanting. Okay, they were friends, having known one another forever, but there were many downsides to their difficult, often stormy relationship. She might as well admit it. It was mostly her fault. So many times over the years she had been as difficult as she could be. It was a form of retaliation caused by a deep-seated grudge.
Blaine knew all about the years she had been under the care of Dr. Sarah Matthews, child psychologist and a leader in her field. The highly emotional, unstable years. He knew all about her dangerous habit of sleepwalking. Blaine knew far too much. Anyone would resent it. He wasn't a doctor, yet he knew her entire case history. For all that, Blaine was a man of considerable charisma. What was charisma anyway, she had often asked herself. Was one born with it or was it acquired over time? Did charismatic people provoke a sensual experience in everyone they met? She thought if they were like Blaine the answer had to be yes. One of Blaine's most attractive qualities was his blazing energy. It inspired confidence. Here was a man who could and did get things done.
Other books
Murder at the FBI by Margaret Truman
The Dalai Lama's Cat by Michie, David
Inishbream by Theresa Kishkan
Multiverse: Exploring the Worlds of Poul Anderson by Greg Bear, Gardner Dozois
England's Assassin by Samantha Saxon
(1995) The Oath by Frank Peretti
Voices In The Evening by Natalia Ginzburg
Wife in Public by Emma Darcy
November by David Mamet
Filosofía del cuidar by Irene Comins Mingol