Читать книгу The Lost Dreams - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 10

Brad studied the preliminary agenda for next month’s board meeting and added a few margin notes, increasing the time allotted to discuss international expansion. Harcourts may have begun as a porcelain empire almost a century ago, but over the decades, particularly since Brad had been CEO, the business had expanded to include all aspects of upscale home décor. International growth was essential and needed special attention. World markets were growing fast and he planned to be there on the crest of the wave.

Capping his pen, he tossed it on the desk, loosened the silk tie that was suffocating him and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. The last quarter’s profits had surpassed everyone’s expectations. The company was leaner and more productive than any in the industry, and the innovative publicity campaigns Sylvia had engineered for the new designer dinnerware lines had taken the public by storm; sales had doubled in several markets and Harcourts was on a roll.

And now he was obliged to carve two weeks out of the hectic and tense period before the annual directors’ meeting to go to Scotland. It wasn’t going to be easy, Brad realized, drumming his foot while studying the schedule his secretary had laid on the desk this morning. He wondered briefly if there was any way of avoiding it, knowing very well he could not put off the trip to Strathaird. Based on the teleconference with the solicitors in Edinburgh, it was clear his presence was required to settle the labyrinthine legal issues related to the estate, and he owed it to Aunt Penn and Charlotte to deal with matters as quickly and cleanly as he could. He thought of what he’d discussed with Sylvia the previous evening. It was true that he wanted to go. And of course the idea of seeing the family again, spending time in a place he’d always enjoyed, had its attractions. It was just such a damn inconvenient moment.

He leaned back and swiveled the ample leather office chair, picturing the rugged fortress, battered by centuries of wind and rain, relentless waves and enemy onslaught. Lately it seemed to be beckoning him.

Learning he was a part of Strathaird’s heritage had come as a shock. Discovering he had become its owner was sobering. But he’d accepted the inevitable, and now there was nothing to do but assume his duties as laird and invest what little time his busy life permitted to try and do the job right. Although he knew the place well, had climbed its rocks and walked its shores and moors since early childhood, he’d never considered himself more than a guest in his grandparents’ home.

He glanced once more at the schedule, wondered if perhaps two weeks would be too little and whether it could be stretched into three. His gut told him he’d need the time. Penelope expected it of him, Charlotte probably expected it of him as well, and apparently the tenants did, too. That, he sighed, had been made abundantly clear, both in his meetings and by his aunt. Not directly, he realized, smiling at how subtle the British could be. Nothing was ever said head-on, just implied.

He rose and moved across the large office to the window and stared at the Manhattan skyline. But instead of Rockefeller Center and the Empire State Building, a riot of titian hair and violet eyes flashed before him. He pulled himself up with a jolt and glanced guiltily at his watch, remembering he was due to meet Sylvia in an hour at Julio Larraz’s private art showing. Focusing on the subject of art he thought of the several Larraz paintings and two bronze sculptures he’d already acquired. He’d missed the exhibition in Monte Carlo and was damned if he’d wait for another auction at Christie’s or Sotheby’s to acquire another piece. Turning on his heel, he pressed a button on the chrome phone panel and punched.

“Yes, sir?” Ramon answered promptly.

“I’ll be down in ten,” he said, glancing again at his watch.

“Very good, sir.”

A perfunctory knock was followed by the door opening. Marcia, his secretary, entered with her usual brisk step. “I’ve made a couple of changes to the schedule,” he remarked, handing it to her while answering his cell phone. He sent her an apologetic smile while she stood patiently, with the air of one used to waiting. She gasped as she glanced at the changes.

“Right,” Brad spoke into the phone. “Start buying as soon as the market opens, but not so much stock that anyone’ll notice. Yeah…I learned today they’ve got a merger going.” There was a pause as he listened. “Sure thing. Good night.”

“You’re not serious, Brad. Three weeks?” Marcia squeaked, her slim, blue-suited form tensing. “You simply can’t stay away that long. For one thing, you have the Australian trip coming up, and the meetings in London, not to mention Chicago and Seattle. And the board meeting—”

“I don’t have a choice.” He picked up his briefcase, slipped in a couple of memos, then closed it. “We’ll manage somehow, Marcia. I’m counting on you, as always. Sylvia’s going to be around for at least the first week I’m gone.” He did not notice the disapproving sniff. “Better make reservations for Friday.”

She groaned. “Why couldn’t they just let Charlotte and Penelope MacLeod have the darn estate? If I were them, I’d slap a lawsuit on the judge for sexual discrimination,” she added, following him hurriedly out the door, into the vast, well-lit hallway where secretaries and junior executives still circulated, despite the late hour.

Downstairs the car awaited him at the curb. As he climbed in, Brad took conscious stock of the fast-paced Manhattan hub where he’d lived all his life, and wondered suddenly what it would be like to function for three weeks at the slow, lazy pace of Skye, with its grazing sheep, one-lane roads and fishing boats bobbing on a choppy gray sea.

Leaning back, he did something rare: he let his mind wander. Usually he answered e-mail or made calls, gaining time in traffic. But tonight, Scotland was uppermost in his mind. As the car crossed Houston Street and continued into SoHo, he stared at the bustling crowd on the sidewalk, remembering long summer days spent catching tadpoles with Charlotte and Colin, hours fishing together from the rocks below the castle, picnics prepared by Aunt Penn and Granny Flora, carried to the moors at sundown and set among the heather, while Dex, his grandfather, spun yarns around the campfire, and all of them laughed at the outrageous tall tales Charlotte wove with such imagination and skill. He smiled. That was something he and Charlie must do with Genny and the twins, he reflected, the thought instantly appealing.

Traffic stopped, a horn honked angrily and Ramon lowered the window to follow the loud argument going on between irate drivers over a delivery van parked smack in their lane.

“Eet’s crazy, Mr. Brad,” Ramon remarked, shaking his gray head disapprovingly. “Worse than Puerto Rico,” he complained.

Brad murmured sympathetically, used to the city’s eccentric ways and Ramon’s disapproval, his mind far away in a remote part of the globe about as alien to Manhattan as you could get. Then, all at once, he realized that Sylvia was absent from his fantasy and experienced a moment’s shame. Probably because they’d never been to Strathaird together, he justified. That would all change once she arrived. They’d make new memories together. Still, the more he thought about it, the more surprised he was at how appealing the trip to Scotland seemed. He couldn’t help the pleasure he experienced at the thought of spending some time alone with Charlotte, catching up, roaming the estate and becoming familiar with the people and their lives. Anyway, Syl needed to stay put while he dealt with business over there, he reasoned. Of course, she’d be a wonderful help in Scotland, too—of that he had little doubt. His future wife was supportive, enthusiastic and he could not ask for a better companion. But he was relieved, nevertheless, not to be descending upon Strathaird loaded with Vuitton luggage, which might set the wrong tone with the locals, who were low-key at the best of times.

The car drew up in front of the gallery and Brad shook off the mood. Entering the building, he was immediately engulfed by laughing chitchat, the clink of fine crystal, hot deals disguised by small talk and the feel of female eyes following him closely as he surveyed the large, streamlined space. He waved to Larraz and his lovely wife, Pilar, then caught sight of Sylvia, simple and chic in a strict black dress, hair falling blond and sleek to her shoulders, her only jewelry a pair of diamond studs and his Grandmother Ward’s imposing diamond engagement ring.

Picking up a glass of scotch from a roving waiter’s silver tray, he made his way among the guests to where she stood chatting animatedly to a large man in a black blazer and T-shirt. One of the L.A crowd, he figured, dropping a fleeting kiss on Sylvia’s cheek before joining in the conversation. He wondered suddenly how Sylvia would react to his idea of spending three weeks in Scotland instead of two. He nursed his scotch, replying automatically to a woman in bloodred silk he vaguely remembered was a Broadway actress, and decided that the extra time on the island would do the twins good. He made a mental note to call Diego de la Fuente, the twins’ maternal grandfather, in Montevideo, and convince him to join them in Skye, as Aunt Penn had suggested.

Then he observed Sylvia. She was in her element tonight, networking, enjoying the party, letting no opportunities for furthering business slip through her fingers. He wouldn’t be surprised if, by the time they got back to her place, some hot new deal was cooking. The image of her sitting quietly, sipping white wine at sunset on the lawn at Strathaird, seemed painfully incompatible.

Banishing the niggling doubt, he hailed a friend and chatted for a couple of minutes. In the end, she’d be as comfortable at Strathaird as she was here. He felt certain of it.

Satisfied that everything would work out, he put all thoughts of Scotland aside and set about acquiring the painting he’d decided on.

Leaning out the window of her old Land Rover, Charlotte breathed long and deep, smiled at the pale sunbeams piercing the traveling clouds, and sighed as a strong westerly breeze carrying subtle scents of brine and heather mussed her hair. Overhead, gulls squawked and beyond the fields of grazing sheep divided by low stone walls, a soft purple haze draped the moors. Strathaird might change, she reflected with a rush of pleasure, but this would always be hers.

She headed down the bumpy single-track road, slowing when a tractor trundling in the opposite direction obliged her to veer onto the grass before coming to a grinding halt.

The driver respectfully raised a hand to his faded tweed cap. “A good day to ye, Miss Charlotte. Am nae’ sure this fine weather will last, though.” Old Fergus Mackay sniffed doubtfully. Eyes narrowing, he pointed to the drifting clouds hovering overhead. “There’ll be rain later on,” he remarked with the satisfied assurance of one who knew his weather.

Charlotte looked up and nodded in solemn agreement. He was right. When wild gusts moved inland, they brought heavy warm rain in their wake. She smiled, chatted for a few minutes and sighed inwardly. It was sweet how the locals still called her Miss Charlotte, even though she’d been married for years.

“I hear the new lordship’s arriving shortly.” The statement was followed by a dour sniff.

“Yes. He’s meant to be here early next week,” Charlotte responded enthusiastically.

“Aye. And about time too. It’ll nae do fer him to stay away from the land too long.”

“Brad’ll be here. Don’t worry. He’s a good sort,” Charlotte encouraged, cringing at the note of disapproval she heard in the old man’s voice. Speculation in the village and among the tenants was rife.

“Aye. I remember him as a wee laddie.” Fergus Mackay straightened his cap and smiled sadly, his eyes surprisingly blue and bright under thick bushy white brows. “’Tis a pity yer ain’ brother Colin passed on, Miss Charlotte. A fine laird he woulda’ made. We’re all agreed on that.”

“He would. But it wasn’t to be. Brad wasn’t brought up here and hasn’t had the advantage of knowing you all the way Colin did, but I’m sure he intends to do his best. And the more help he gets from all of us, the easier things will be and a better job he’ll do. For all of us,” she added pointedly, hoping that by paving the way with old Mackay, an elder in the church who held strong influence over his peers, she’d ease Brad’s transition.

They conversed for several minutes, then the tractor continued its lumbering course up the hill and Charlotte drove on down toward the sea and the village. She glanced up to her right at the castle, rising rugged and alone.

A shard of sunlight washed the weathered stones of the east turret, illuminating the faerie emblem of the MacLeod flag, fluttering proudly in the brisk breeze. Before she could stop them, another rush of tiresome tears made her jerk her head away. Stop it, she commanded herself, biting her lip. It was ridiculous to get sentimental and silly about Strathaird. The castle was moving on, as it always had and always would. It was nothing new or different from what had occurred in the past. Merely the last male MacLeod, the heir to Strathaird, was coming home, as was right and proper. But how long would he stay? she wondered, swerving into the village, past the snug harbor packed with colorful fishing boats and into the main street, thinking still of all the inevitable adjustments that were bound to take place. If Brad were to do the job properly and stake his claim as laird, he’d have to introduce his own ideas and innovations.

And what about Mummy, without whose quiet yet efficient hand everything would have run amuck? What would happen once Brad and Sylvia were installed and they didn’t need her any longer? she wondered, heart aching.

Charlotte drove between the narrow row of whitewashed houses. With an effort, she sent Mrs. Bane, the newsagent, a bright smile and a wave, thinking worriedly about her mother’s situation. Penelope MacLeod was an integral and fundamental piece in the smooth running of the estate. She knew everything. The tenants, their worries and needs, how to handle the drove of MacLeods who appeared every year from all over the world, anxious to trace their ancestry and who always received a warm personal welcome from Lady MacLeod herself, however inconvenient, before she sent them on their way to Dunvegan, the seat of the MacLeod clan.

As for what she herself did around the estate, Charlotte thought that was less important. Still, perhaps she valued her involvement more than she liked to admit, she realized uneasily. How would it feel, now that Sylvia, and not she, would be doing those same things?

She parked in front of the Morissons’ quaint house on the edge of the village and waved to Genny and Lucy, waiting for her, heads together, on the front steps. Genny was wearing baggy pants and a T-shirt, her colorful backpack slung over her right shoulder. The friendship with Lucy had helped her become part of the group, Charlotte realized, watching as the two girls hugged before Genny came down the path toward her and circled the vehicle. As always, Charlotte had to stop herself from jumping out and helping her climb in, knowing she must allow her daughter to be independent.

“Have a lovely time?” she asked as Genny settled beside her. Gosh, how she’d grown this last year. And with her trendy clothes, really looked like a teenager. Like every mother, she smiled with pride and listened, amused, to Genny’s description of the sleepover at Lucy’s.

“You’re not too tired?” she inquired as they drove down the village street headed for school.

“No. It was cool, Mum.” Genny turned and smiled. “Can I tell you a secret, Mummy?”

“Of course.”

“You sure?” Genny cocked her red head warily.

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Charlotte urged, suppressing a smile.

“Lucy’s decided she wants to be a famous actor like Daddy.”

“Really? Well, that’s a change,” Charlotte countered. “Three weeks ago she wanted to be a vet.”

“I know, but she’s changed her mind. She’s going to cut her hair. Mummy, can I have a belly piercing?”

“What?” Charlotte nearly swerved into an oncoming vehicle.

“Why not, Mum? Everybody has a piercing. You have a tattoo,” she added reproachfully. “If you were my age I’ll bet you’d have rings all over you.”

“Perhaps. But I probably would have regretted it by now,” Charlotte argued, remembering the follies of her youth and feeling hypocritical all at once. “Piercing’s so…I don’t know. It gives me the creeps. Why don’t you wait until the twins arrive and see what they think?”

“I don’t need male approval to be myself,” Genny replied grandly as they drew up in front of her school. Dropping a peck on her mother’s cheek, she alighted slowly and Charlotte sighed. Last year it had been, “Todd thinks,” and “Rick says.”

She did a U-turn and drove back the few hundred yards into the main street of the village, parked askew opposite the gallery and got out, slamming the car door a tad harder than she’d intended. Frowning absently, she walked toward the gallery.

“Ah, Charlotte.” The strident voice of Marjory Pearson hailed from across the street, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pearson.” There was no escape, she realized, heart sinking. Mrs. P. stood firmly entrenched on the opposite side of the street in front of the gallery, hands gripping the handlebar of her prewar bike. She was sensibly attired in her usual outfit of corduroy knickerbockers, the tweed jacket she wore rain or shine, topped by a green felt hat with a long feather acquired on one of her yearly visits to the Tyrol.

“Off to your gallery, I see,” Mrs. P. remarked over the bicycle’s reedy basket, plump with groceries. “I was just looking in your window,” she added, shaking her head in amazement. “I’m surprised anyone would spend such ridiculous amounts of money on frivolity. It goes against the grain,” she added, glancing disapprovingly toward the gallery window and sniffing. “Just shows one what the world’s coming to.” She peered closely at Charlotte. “I had my doubts about this venture of yours,” she continued grudgingly, “but I suppose you’re quite right to encourage the tourists to spend, my dear, quite right indeed. I myself thought trinkets would have been more suitable, but the Colonel was saying just the other day that he believes you have talent.”

This last was said with the satisfied air of one bestowing high praise. She sent Charlotte a condescending look of approval. “I must say, Charlotte, you’ve come a long way,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “I never would have thought after the way you behaved in your youth that you’d end up being an example of female behavior to the community. As the Colonel repeats again and again, we must not judge.” She leaned over, her wrinkled face too close for comfort. “I’m very glad to see you staunch, my dear. I was saying to the Colonel only the other day that many a young woman on this island could take a leaf out of your book.” She drew back, sniffed and pursed her lips. “When I think of some of the goings-on…” She ended with a meaningful glance.

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably, searching desperately for an excuse to get away.

“Your loyalty to your infirm spouse can only be applauded,” Marjory Pearson continued relentlessly. “How is he, by the way?” she asked, her beady eyes glinting with unabashed curiosity.

“Pretty much the same, I’m afraid,” Charlotte murmured, glancing hopefully at the gallery door.

“I’m sorry.” Marjory’s disappointment at the lack of gossip showed. Then she brightened once more. “I hear the new Lord MacLeod will be with us shortly. Will he be making a prolonged stay? I needn’t tell you how much speculation is going on,” she added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I have no idea what Brad’s plans are.”

“Quite a job he has ahead of him,” Mrs. P. remarked, shaking her head wisely, avid to be the first to acquire any possible tidbits to pass on down the bush telegraph. “I hear he has a fiancée? One wonders what sort of female she is. Americans can be so very different, if you know what I mean.”

“Sylvia’s delightful.” Charlotte waxed enthusiastically. “Terribly efficient, and just the right person to be the new Lady MacLeod.”

“I see.” Mrs. P.’s shoulders drooped. “We must hope so, indeed. We wouldn’t want any changes in the village, now, would we?”

Charlotte murmured a vague assent, smiled brightly and frowned at her watch. “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Pearson, but I’m expecting rather an important client in ten minutes. I simply have to run. Send the Colonel my best.”

“Goodness, of course. So selfish of me to be holding you back. Did that large Frenchwoman with the bun buy the necklace in the window? I saw her pass several times while I was at the butcher’s the other day. She seemed quite enamored. I told the Colonel I thought it was a go. Quite amazing that you’re able to command such elevated prices, Charlotte. Are you sure you shouldn’t consider—”

“Must run, Mrs. Pearson,” Charlotte interrupted blithely. “All’s well on the home front.”

“Ah. Good. Then I shall report back to the Colonel. He’ll be pleased.” Mrs. P. braced herself, balanced the creaking bike and readied for action, while Charlotte made good her escape.

She dashed inside the gallery, located in one of the crooked whitewashed houses bordering the main street, nestled between the bakery and the Celtic Café, run by her friend Rory MacLean. Leaning against the door, Charlotte let out a frustrated huff. “That woman,” she remarked to Moira Stuart, her lifelong friend who was now a goldsmith and manager of the gallery, “is simply awful.” Shaking her head, she stepped into the light, monochromatic space, dotted with glass showcases, halogen lights and burlap settings showing off her exclusive jewelry designs, then stopped short, surprised to see Armand de la Vallière, attired in tweed knickerbockers and a cap, examining her latest creation under a magnifying glass. She coughed, smothering the giggles that the sight of his costume always caused her. He looked like a fashion ad for a shooting weekend.

“Hello, Armand.”

“Ah, ma chère Charlotte.” Armand laid the delicately crafted platinum choker back in the showcase and hastened forward, raising her fingers to his lips. “Simply magnificent, chère cousine. You have surpassed yourself.”

“You like it?” Charlotte kissed him on both cheeks, unable to squelch the twinge of pride at Armand’s words. “Any sign of the Americans?” she asked Moira.

“Not yet.” Her friend’s eyes, shaded behind thick lenses, showed amusement. An Indian skirt and blouse and heavy leather sandals gave her the air of a tired hippie.

Charlotte turned back to Armand, grinning. “I’m glad you like the choker. I worked a long time on it. I think the jade works, don’t you?”

“Exquisite. Quite unique.”

“I have some other designs to show you. The ones I was telling you about the other day,” she said breathlessly, flinging her basket on a chair behind the desk that served as a counter.

“I would be delighted to view them. You have un talent exceptionel, Charlotte.”

“Do you really think so?” Charlotte asked earnestly, clear violet eyes sparkling with pleasure at his words. “Or are you just being terribly polite?”

“Now, now, young lady. You are fishing for compliments.” He wagged a finger at her. “If I were merely polite, I would murmur a few banalities. But non, Charlotte. It is time you faced your own ability and gave it wing.”

“It’s really just a hobby,” she mumbled, fiddling behind the desk, where she felt protected. “I didn’t even mean to take it this far. The gallery and the workshop, I mean.” She waved a hand vaguely. “It just sort of happened.”

“And so will the rest. It is inevitable, ma chère. There is no use hiding your light under a bushel. You are who and what you are. An artist of incredible flair. Your ability—I should say genius, rather—is indiscutable.”

“Oh, rubbish,” Charlotte scoffed, embarrassed, digging her hands deep into the pockets of her worn jeans and flushing, flattered despite herself. He was, after all, a Parisian designer, a man of taste, a connoisseur who knew the world of fashion and jewelry back to front. And since his arrival on the island two weeks earlier, he’d seemed genuinely enchanted with her work.

“I can assure you that I will not be alone in my opinion. Once your work is known to the world, you’ll soon see that I am right.” Armand nodded wisely, smoothed his fingers gently over her arm, and smiled. “I found it intriguing when our Oncle Eugène mentioned that you had taken up designing with apparent success. I now predict a brilliant and well-deserved future ahead for you, chère Charlotte. In fact, I would be honored if you would consider showing your jewelry with my fall collection in Paris.”

“Gosh, I don’t know.” Charlotte slumped, gaze shifting as she remembered all the troubles in her life. “I don’t really want a brilliant future, Armand. I just want to survive the present.” Success and the spotlight didn’t seem important compared to getting Genny walking properly again, or finding out what would happen to John’s condition.

“Give yourself a chance,” Armand murmured gently.

She shook herself, aware that she’d drifted off again into one of her daydreams, and plastered on a bright smile. “How about a quick coffee before my morning appointment?”

“Why not? To be in your company is always un plaisir.” Armand bowed gallantly and she laughed. He reminded her of a courtly Pink Panther. The walk, the talk, the tailored tweeds—even a walking stick and mole-skin waistcoat, she noticed. He should have looked ludicrous, yet somehow Armand managed to carry it off.

She took his arm affectionately and turned to Moira. “Hold the fort for a little, will you, Mo? I’ll be back in under an hour. And make sure you sell something to those Yanks,” she added, grinning. “I’ve got all the new supplies to pay for, not to mention the leaking pipe in the loo.”

“Peter’s coming to deal with it later.” Moira looked up from the accounts and smiled.

“Thank God for that. Come on, Armand. I’ll treat you to one of those sticky green cakes at Rory’s.”

“Mon Dieu, no, I beg you.” He shuddered.

“All right, just coffee then.”

“Merci. But I shall stick to tea. A much safer bet. The coffee—if that is what it really is—” he rolled his eyes “—is undrinkable, ma chère.”

“Oh, all right, be like that,” Charlotte teased, yanking the wraithlike figure by the arm and out onto the street. “If you’re not careful, I’ll tell Rory what you said.”

Armand’s lips curved and he caught her eye. “A truly gorgeous young man,” he murmured wistfully.

“And married, so hands off.”

“Charlotte! As though I would mix with the common herd!”

“Ha!” She threw back her head and let out a rich laugh. “If Rory so much as gave you the time of day, you’d be up and running, and well you know it,” she teased in a loud whisper as they entered the smoky haze of the Celtic Café. She spotted Rory, tall and muscled behind the counter, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Charlotte waved and sent him a critical glance. His bright blue eyes were indeed a riveting sight, but being a pal, she’d never thought much about them.

“Hello, Charlie.” Rory came out from behind his post and gave her a whacking kiss on both cheeks that left Armand sighing. “So, did you finally finish the move? I can help you on Saturday if you’ve odd jobs needing done.”

“Thanks. I’ve got most of it sorted out.”

“How was Glasgow?” He quirked a heavy eyebrow at her.

“The same.” She answered shortly, making for the table. Rory sighed, shrugged and wiped the table off with a damp cloth as Armand sat down. She caught Rory’s piercing gaze and swallowed. He was an old friend, one who knew her well, knew all the ups and downs in her life over the past few years. But, like Moira and her mother, he was unable to understand why she stuck staunchly by John even after the abominable way he’d treated her. None of them understood, she reasoned, seating herself. How could they possibly realize that her troubles were of her own making, that she was to blame?

“You know where to find me if you need me,” Rory murmured with a resigned shrug. “Cup of tea?”

“Two, please.” She smiled gratefully, glad he’d dropped the subject. “By the way, Brad’ll be here in a few days.”

“Great. How’s he doing?”

“Engaged to be married.”

“You already told me that,” Rory remarked dryly, sending her a penetrating look before returning behind the counter. The three had played together as kids and the friendship went back a long way.

“Not bad,” Armand remarked, lifting his glasses and peering critically at the watercolors painted by a local artist gracing the wall. “For such a backward little village, there appears to be quite a mouvement artistique in this place.”

“Mmm,” Charlotte answered, mind wandering. She still had to go up to the castle and pick up the last remaining odds and ends.

“So, Bradley is expected within the next couple of days?” Armand remarked as Sheena, the waitress, placed the tea on the table.

“Day after tomorrow, I think. Thanks.” She sent Sheena a smile.

“And you’re sure that you will survive in that cottage?” Armand’s lips pursed in distaste. “It seems very rural, ma chère. And quite abhorrent that Bradley should be expulsing you from the château.”

“Armand, you know perfectly well Brad’s not expulsing anyone,” she exclaimed, exasperated. “This is none of his doing, much less his fault. The judge decided Strathaird’s fate, not him. In fact, he begged Mummy and me to stay on,” she added more patiently.

“Then why the move?” he asked, stirring a lump of brown sugar into the strong brew.

“Because,” she said with a sigh, “like it or not, things are going to change. And I know I won’t be able to handle it.” She flexed her fingers nervously. “It wouldn’t be fair to him or me, or the others involved. It’s simply time to move on, Armand, and better to get it done before he arrives.”

“Je suppose.” Armand shrugged doubtfully and patted her arm. “You have much courage, cousine.”

“It’s not as if I’m moving into a cave! The cottage has every modern convenience, hot water, a washing machine. You make it sound as if we’re out on the street.”

“The accommodations appear needlessly common to me.” Armand sniffed.

“Well, you’ve never been inside, so you can’t tell,” Charlotte retorted. “Which reminds me, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? That is, if you can bear to eat in such modest surroundings.” She sent him a mischievous grin, then changed the subject and set about recapturing their former lighthearted mood.

When Armand returned from his visit with Charlotte, he was pleased to see that the library was quiet. The local ladies who cleaned Strathaird had finished their ritual morning vacuuming and were having coffee in the kitchen, and Penelope had left for the village. Armand took a deep breath, trying to quell the surge of anticipation. He’d already set one part of his plan in motion this morning, and here was an ideal opportunity to take the next step.

Leaving his jacket carefully folded on the sofa, he moved to the circular wooden ladder at the far side of the room. He would begin here, searching the entire collection shelf by shelf. It would require time and concentration, but he’d already waited so long and time was no longer on his side; he’d have to force himself to go slowly, be methodical. This might be his only chance. But what if he was wrong? he wondered with a sudden pang. He swallowed, throat tight, and tried not to think about it. There were other possibilities, he reminded himself quickly. If he did not find what he was looking for here among the books, then obviously his first deduction was correct. The answer would be where he’d always believed it was.

He glanced at the door, then mounted the steps carefully. He would begin with the French novels, so that if anyone questioned his actions he’d be able to justify the choice. Once they got used to seeing him fiddling in the library, nobody would think anything of it.

Half an hour later his search had yielded little. He passed a white linen handkerchief across his forehead and nervously wiped the perspiration, leaning his right hand on top of a pile of ancient volumes on a higher shelf. As he did so, his fingers met with an object on top of the books. Steadying himself carefully on the library steps, Armand pulled it carefully toward him, amazed when he beheld a small, silver-mounted pistol. He studied it, eyes narrowed. It was definitely of another age, small and elegant, designed perhaps for a woman. The butt was delicate and exquisitely inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

The muffled sound of voices emanating from the hall made him slip the pistol into his trouser pocket and hasten back down the steps, being careful not to trip. Grabbing a book, he ensconced himself once more in one of the leather armchairs before anyone entered the room.

Charlotte turned off the Land Rover’s engine and stared for several moments at the castle’s ancient austere facade, softened by her mother’s terra-cotta pots, spilling pink and white hydrangeas over the shallow stone steps, and thought over what she and Armand had talked about earlier. A sigh escaped her. Paris and the thought of her jewelry parading down the catwalk on Armand’s models was exciting, flattering and very hard not to dream about. It was a long time since she’d dreamed about anything, she realized suddenly. John’s image flashed before her, making her feel immediately guilty, but she swept it aside, determined not to allow the dark cloud to descend upon her. And for the first time in years, she dared to peek into the future.

Biting her finger abstractedly, she stared at the castle walls without really seeing them. Was Armand right? Could her designs really open up a new avenue in her life? Lately it had seemed so bleak. She sat for a minute behind the wheel, pondering, caught between past, present and future. Following the soft orange glimmer caused by the setting sun bouncing off the glistening stained-glass windows like sparks off a live wire, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to dare. Then she jumped out of the vehicle, pulled out the planters her mother had asked her to pick up at Haldane’s Nursery in the village, and carried them up the steps, torn between the budding urge to take the plunge and the overwhelming guilt that just thinking of doing so caused her.

“Ah, there you are, darling,” Penelope said, looking up and smiling as Charlotte entered the hall.

“Hello, Mum. Here’s everything you asked for. I told them to put it on the bill,” she said, thankful for the distraction.

“Thanks.” Penelope frowned doubtfully. “Do you think we should do that, now that Brad…” Her voice trailed off as she gazed down at the plants.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mum! The plants are for Strathaird. Of course you must put them on the estate account,” Charlotte replied, annoyed.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But what if Sylvia doesn’t like them? Perhaps I should have waited and let her choose them herself. She sent me an e-mail this morning.”

“I don’t give a damn what she likes,” Charlotte mumbled crossly. “I’ll set these in the pantry.” They walked down the steps together and along the corridor to the pantry. Charlotte dropped the plants on the counter then moved to the sink and turned on the single tap to wash away the dirt from her hands. “What did she want, anyway?”

“Something to do with Brad and computer programs. She seems terribly efficient.”

“Well, bully for her.” Charlotte gave the tap a sharp twist and dried her hands on an old kitchen towel. “She’ll jolly well have to adapt, Mum, if she’s going to do a half-decent job here. If she thinks she can waft in and turn Strathaird into her fancy Park Avenue digs, she’s got another think coming.”

“Don’t be horrid, Charlie, it’s not like you.” Penelope looked at her, surprised. “By the way, I had a call from Ambassador de la Fuente. He and the twins are arriving straight from Uruguay via somewhere I can’t remember, on—” she leaned over and picked up the agenda that was never far out of reach and slipped on her glasses “—the fifteenth. I suppose they’ll arrive here by helicopter.” She glanced up, shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t think I can cope with picking anyone up just now. Oh, and Brad phoned to say he’s arriving on his own because Sylvia has some job or other she has to finish. She’ll be following in due course.”

“Good. The longer she stays away the better,” Charlotte muttered, swinging a leg from her perch on the windowsill.

“Charlie, do stop being petty and childish. There’s nothing wrong with the poor girl. In fact, the one time I met her she seemed perfectly charming. You know very well that it’s our duty to make her feel at home and help her take over. Daddy would have expected no less of us.”

“Oh no, Mummy, not today, please.” Charlotte cast her eyes heavenwards. Jumping down from the ledge, she dragged a chair forward and straddled it. “I’m finished up at the cottage, by the way. Oh, and Armand was over at the gallery,” she added casually.

“I know. He seems genuinely taken with your work.” Penelope sent her daughter an encouraging smile, saw clouds hovering and sighed. Charlotte was like a barometer, up and down, that temperamental artistic nature so difficult to fathom.

“Armand wants to exhibit my stuff with his autumn collection,” she burst in a rush.

“In Paris? That’s awfully flattering.” Penelope laid down the flowers she was holding with a surprised smile.

Charlotte fidgeted. “Do you think it’s a good idea, Mum? I mean it’s not as if I have that many pieces ready and it would take time to make the others, and what with Genny and John and one thing and another I…” Her voice trailed off.

“Now, don’t start making excuses,” Penelope exclaimed, exasperated. “It’s a wonderful opportunity and you must avail yourself of it. You’ve more than enough time and I’m sure Moira will pitch in to make whatever you need.”

“I suppose so.” Charlotte gave a listless shrug, then grinned despite herself. “It would be incredible if my jewelry actually took on, wouldn’t it?”

“Darling, of course it would. And I don’t see why it shouldn’t. Look at all you’ve already sold. People love it. You have such wonderful taste and talent.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re my mother.”

“Rubbish,” Penelope dismissed. “I say a lot of things because I’m your mother, but I wouldn’t lead you to spend your time and effort on something I didn’t think was worthwhile.”

“I suppose not.”

“Charlotte, look at yourself,” Penelope exclaimed, moving into the center of the room and wiping her hands on her jeans. “You’re thirty-four years old. You’ve spent the better part of your adult life in the clutches of a man whose treated you worse than the dirt under his feet—”

“This has nothing to do with John,” Charlotte rejoined defensively.

“It has everything to do with him. With all he’s stopped you from becoming, thanks to his threats and his selfish, egocentric behavior,” she answered, unable to disguise her bitterness. “I don’t say it’s all his fault,” she countered, clasping her hands. “Perhaps you should have divorced him long before this. But frankly, I don’t think you stood a chance.”

“That’s ridiculous, Mummy,” Charlotte cried, rising so quickly she overturned the chair. “John needs me. And even if he doesn’t, I can’t just walk out on him in the state he’s in. It wouldn’t be humane.”

“Was the way he treated you when he was conscious humane?” Penelope asked bitterly. “Was slapping you around when he didn’t get exactly what he wanted, or flaunting his mistresses in the papers, humane? I want you to wake up and take charge of your own life, Charlotte. I find it incredible that despite all he’s done to you, all you’ve gone through over the years, you’re still determined to go on catering to him. Is that really what you want, or is it just easier than facing reality?”

“Stop it,” Charlotte cried, flushing indignantly. The truth of her mother’s words stung. “What has this got to do with Armand and the jewelry and Paris? I merely asked if you thought it was a good idea and look where it’s got me.” She threw up her hands. “I can’t say anything but you throw my marriage in my face.” Tears burned and she clenched her fists, determined not to give way.

Penelope sighed and dropped her hands to her sides. “I’m sorry, darling. You’re right. It’s not my affair and I shouldn’t be telling you how to lead your life. I just pray that you won’t be obliged to see your child’s life being shredded to bits by some unscrupulous—” She stopped herself, let out a sigh and mustered a smile. “Forget it, darling. Coming back to Armand and the jewelry, I really think you should go ahead.”

Charlotte nodded, and bent down to pick up the chair. “By the way, Armand thinks the cottage is the pits,” she said in an attempt at humor.

“Armand is hardly a reference,” Penelope remarked, laughing, moving the plants to the floor, relieved Charlotte hadn’t flounced out in anger. “As far as he’s concerned, anything short of the 16ième arrondissement is the slums. God only knows what he sees in Skye to keep him here for so long. I would have thought he’d be bored stiff by now, yet according to Mrs. McKinnon, he was ensconced in the library this morning, sifting through the French book collection. He asked if it was all right to stay until Oncle Eugène arrives,” she added in a hollow voice. “Of course, I had to say yes, but you can imagine how thrilled I am!” She sighed guiltily and exchanged a long-suffering look with her daughter. “The Cardinal will be here at the beginning of August. I’m quite surprised he’s decided to make the trip at his age and after all these years. That means another three whole weeks of Armand,” she added gloomily. “I must admit that my heart sank at the thought of entertaining him all that time.”

“Stop worrying, Mum, Armand’s all right. I’ll take him off your hands.”

“Good.” Penelope gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I know I’m being perfectly horrid, but there are times…”

“You’re not. I think you’re wonderful, the way you put up with us all. Especially me,” she said ruefully, taking her mother’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be off now. As for Armand,” she added airily, pausing at the door with a mischievous grin, “he’s probably just soaking up atmosphere for a Scottish-inspired clothing collection.” She giggled and rolled her eyes. “Just imagine, Mummy, Mrs. P. could well be next autumn’s fashion icon.”

“Good Lord, what a ghastly thought!” Penelope gasped in feigned horror. “Off with you, before you come up with any other dreadful notions. You’ll be late picking up Genny unless you dash. And, darling—” she became suddenly serious once more as her gaze met Charlotte’s “—I really would give Armand’s proposal some serious thought, if I were you. It’s not every day a chance like this crosses one’s path. And you’re very good at what you do.”

Charlotte hesitated then smiled. “Okay, Mummy, I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They hugged and Charlotte went on her way. Though troubled by her mother’s outburst, she also welcomed her encouragement. It’d been so long since she’d thought of anything more ambitious than simply surviving each day. But the truth was she’d been longing for something to give her focus, something to help her shake the feeling that she was standing in quicksand, unable to make a move for fear she’d sink deeper.

Perhaps Mummy was right, she reflected as she climbed back into the Land Rover. Maybe she should seriously consider Armand’s offer after all.