Читать книгу Claiming His Child - Margaret Way - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

“YOU’RE very quiet, darling. Is everything all right?” Suzannah glanced away from the road to check on her small daughter riding in the passenger seat. Usually Charley chattered endlessly on their trips to school. This was their private time together free from the constraints of Marcus Sheffield’s uncertain tempers and pinched moods. The reversals in their lifestyle had changed him greatly, his unhappiness exacerbated by the effects of his stroke. They were living now in one of the “cottages” Marcus Sheffield, still owned, a comfortable small residence set on a quiet cul-de-sac near the river. Most people would have been very pleased to own it—it had an exceptionally beautiful garden—but Marcus Sheffield was making himself truly ill with misery. Sheffields had owned Bellemont Farm since the early days of the colony. The quality of wool from Bellemont sheep had been famous. Bellemont horses, too. The yield from their wines had been small but of great quality. Above all the property and the homestead were magnificent. Bellemont had a lot of history attached to it and Marcus Sheffield, had enjoyed tremendous standing. And then to have lost it all?

“Grandpa is very cranky,” Charley said and heaved a great sigh. Grandpa had thundered at her to eat up all of her breakfast. “It’s really funny living at the cottage. It’s such a little house. I can run from one end to the other in a minute.”

“But pretty, darling.” Suzannah threw her a comforting smile. We’ll get used to it. We have one another.”

“I’d like us to be alone,” Charley said in a little voice, looking down at the hands in her lap.

“But, darling, who would look after Grandpa?”

“I’m sorry,” muttered Charley.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re such a good girl. I know Grandpa has been speaking sharply lately but he’s very upset.”

“So are you but your voice is always lovely. Grandpa is just plain rude.”

“I’ll talk to him about it, sweetheart. It’s just that he yearns to be back at Bellemont.”

“So do L It’s the bestest place in all the world,” Charley answered quite passionately. “I’m going to miss it when all the jacarandas are out.”

“We can take walks along the river,” Suzannah told her consolingly. “The road is lined with jacarandas.”

“It’s not the same,” Charley maintained sadly. “When is this person who bought Bellemont going to move in? Is he going to live there? Does he have children? I’ll bet they want a pony, but they can’t have mine.”

“No one is going to have your pony, Charley,” Suzannah reassured her. “Lady is being well looked after. You can get to ride her at the weekend. As for the owners, I know nothing about them. The farm was bought in a company name. I’m going to take a run out there after I drop you off at school.”

“What for? Won’t it be terribly sad?” Charley turned huge blue-green eyes on her mother, loving the way she looked, the scent of her, the way her shining dark hair curved in under her chin. Her mother was beautiful. Everyone said so.

“It will be sad, darling.” Suzannah could hardly deny it. “But we have to be brave.”

“Okay.” Charley leaned over and touched her mother’s hand, sharing their love. “Do you miss Daddy?” she asked.

It caught Suzannah unawares. “Of course I do, darling,” she said on a wave of love and protectiveness. It was unlikely Charley had been spared all the rumours at school. Small children could be cruel.

“He didn’t like me very much.” Charley pulled vigorously at her plait, her eyes darkening to jade.

“Darling, he loved you.” Suzannah bit at her lip.

“Did he really?” The question sounded more philosophical than vital to Charley’s interest. “He never wanted to take me anywhere. He never listened to me play the piano. He never rode with us.”

“Daddy wasn’t a horse person like we are.” Suzannah quickly mustered an excuse for Martin’s behaviour. “Besides, he had lots of things to attend to for Grandpa. Grandpa kept him very busy.”

Charley consulted her mother’s face again. “Grandpa said Daddy made a lot of terrible mistakes. He said some of them made us lose our home.”

“He didn’t say this to you, Charley, surely?” Suzannah’s fine arched brows drew together.

“He said it to Mr. Henderson when he came to call.”

“And where were you, young lady?” Suzannah asked quietly. Henderson & Associates was her father’s law firm.

“Behind a chair,” Charlie admitted. “I wanted to move but Grandpa walked into the room with Mr. Henderson. He was talking very loudly. I knew he was angry. I sort of froze.”

“And you were there all the time?” Suzannah gasped.

“Until they went into the library. Grandpa said a lot of things about Daddy.”

Of course Martin had made terrible mistakes. “That’s because he had no idea you were there,” Suzannah answered.

“He was really angry about all the...talk.” Charley threw her mother an uneasy glance.

“People always talk, Charley,” Suzannah said. “We must honour your father’s memory and move on. Daddy did his best in a difficult situation.”

“That’s because he loved you, Mummy,” Charley answered her.

The wattles were out all over the rolling hillsides. Golden masses of puffball blossoms, so typically Australian, the wattle was the country’s floral emblem, wreaths of it entwined around the coat of arms. It was a glorious day, the scent of the profuse blossoming carried in heady wafts on the breeze. All the flowering prunus, the peaches, plums and cherries were out, too. “Roses by other names,” Suzannah thought, her eyes delighted by the sight of a whole line of them decorating a whitefenced property line. Another few weeks and her beloved jacarandas would burst into bloom, hazing the hillsides in indescribable shades of mauve-blue. In Australia the flowering of the great trees means exam time for all students, most crucial to school leavers vying for a place at university. She had passed her leaving exams with flying colours, Nick with a perfect score. Both of them had attended Sydney University, Nick boarding with a couple who took in the occasional student, while she lived in at one of the university women’s colleges. Both of them went home at weekends and holidays. The halcyon days when they revelled in the freedom of each other’s company. She finished her Arts course first and returned home to the father who had missed her dreadfully. Nick continued on with his studies, a brilliant student of whom great things were predicted.

It was when Nick was in Sydney she and Martin had grown closer. She had known Martin all her life. He was almost like a cousin. She was much liked by his family whose dream was the two of them should marry. They went to dances. They went to parties. They went to country club dinners. Suzannah never asked, but Martin always took her. He had other dates, of course, which pleased her. Martin had only been her friend. He had been madly in love with her. She could see that now. But then he had kept the depth of his feelings under wraps, never going beyond a quick kiss goodnight, content it seemed to be her escort. The trouble always started when Nick came home, so stunning, such an achiever, the girls all raved about him. She might have been fiercely jealous with all her friends pursuing him, only the bond between them grew deeper and deeper, dominating their existence.

They never had sex though sex was on everyone’s mind. Courting. Pairing off. Nick continued to take care of her. It was as simple as that. Didn’t they know in their hearts one day they would get married? But first Nick had to gain his Masters degree after which he would be offered the world. Such were their dreams. Dreams that would be cruelly shattered. Her father’s dream had been vastly different. Nicholas Konrads had no part in it. Nick, her honourable knight.

It was a long tree-lined driveway up to the house with beautiful views of the vineyards on the hill and the deep tranquil creek that wound its way through the entire estate. What would the new owners do with all this? Continue the same operations? Reopen the stables, the winery? Everything had become so terribly run down. Heavens alone knew why her father had placed Martin in charge. Martin had had no real head for business. He had been nervous conducting transactions. He hadn’t particularly liked horses though he drank more than his fair share of the wine. But Martin had been one of them. One of the old families of the district. Her father, astute man that he was, had gone along with that. To his cost.

The homestead rose up in front of her. Handsomely sited on a hilltop, it was a wonderful old colonial of mellow rose-hued brick with white columns soaring to the open upper balcony, its broad terrace wrapped around with white wrought-iron lace. There were other buildings ranged all around it and to the rear, but the homestead was set like a jewel in an oasis of jacaranda trees, screening all other buildings from sight. Nearing the house, the driveway went into a loop surrounding a spectacular white marble fountain her great-grandfather had had shipped back from Italy. In her childhood it used to play all the time. Now it was quiet and forlorn in the warm sun, free of the beautiful pink waterlilies that once had festooned the large bowl.

Suzannah stopped the car at the foot of the short flight of stone steps, surprised to see the front door with its splendid side lights and fan lights open. Perhaps the agent was there? Though there was no sign of her car. Had she parked it at the rear? Suzannah still retained her set of keys, making the commitment that the house would be in perfect running order for when the new owners would arrive. Hastily she climbed the steps, putting her hand to the door chimes, calling out the agent’s name.

“Kathleen, is that you?”

Absolute silence, though now that she looked a set of keys was in the lock. At least it wasn’t a burglar, though burglaries in the district were unheard of. “Kathleen?” She advanced into the entrance hall, staring first up the central staircase then walking into the drawing room. What was Kathleen doing if indeed it was she? Checking on the house? She didn’t have to worry. Suzannah made her weekly visit even though it pained her deeply to keep coming back.

The huge L-shaped drawing room, dominated by two carved white marble fireplaces surmounted by identical Georgian giltwood mirrors, was empty. A good deal of the original furnishings had been sold with the house—the heavy antique furniture, the dining-room suite and sideboards, everything in the white-and-gold ballroom, most of the paintings, the oriental screens and rugs. the bronzes. The cottage couldn’t possibly accommodate a quarter of it, let alone the grandeur. Perplexed, she found herself walking to one of the Georgian mirrors, staring at the reflection of a heart-shaped face within a frame of dark hair. It wasn’t a happy face. Even her eyes looked sad.

“Suzannah?” A voice said behind her, making her heart lunge in extreme shock. She put a quaking hand to her breast, then spun sharply, pulling back her shoulders as though confronting a powerful danger.

“God, Nick!” Her magnolia skin lost all colour. “How can you possibly be here?” At first it wouldn’t sink in, then she caught her breath as reasons absorbed her.

Nick had talked of vengeance as a soldier might swear allegiance. “I’ll be back, Mr. Sheffield,” he had promised as Frank Harris bundled him into the police car. “I’ll be back and it will be a bad day for you.”

Suzannah felt a chill like an icy hand to her forehead. “Of course! You bought it, didn’t you? You’re the new owner?” She was convinced she was right.

“My cup runneth over.” He spoke sardonically though pain slashed his heart. Where was her wonderful incandescence? All gone. Yet she was never more lovely, her wonderful hair loose, body thin enough to be breakable, mauve shadows beneath her haunted long-lashed eyes.

“Why didn’t we know?” she agonised.

“I didn’t want you to know,” he said, hard mockery flooding in. “That should be obvious.”

“I mean why didn’t we guess?” Something like anger leapt in her violet eyes. “I’ve always known in my heart you’d get back at Father.”

“And you. Don’t forget you, Suzannah. You’re the one who told me how much you loved me. You’re the one who was going to be my girl forever.”

“Except fate got in the way.” She wrapped her arms around herself, warding off the condemnation that flowed from him.

“You can call it fate if you like,” he said, black eyes brilliantly ironic. “I’d call it treachery, betrayal and blackmail.”

“You’ll never forget.” It made her feel desolate. Terribly alone.

“Did you think I would?”

“My father is a sick man, Nick.”

He shook his dark head. “I didn’t cause his stroke, Suzannah. I didn’t bring his world crashing down on his head. If I didn’t buy Bellemont somebody else would.”

“Why would you want it at all?” she flared. “Your life is elsewhere. Your company, your career. You must be married?” That woman in his car. She’d felt seared by her stare.

“I haven’t had the slightest urge to get married,” he told her curtly. “Unlike you. To answer your question. This is a magnificent property. I’m in need of a country retreat. Somewhere to relax. Bring my friends and overseas guests.”

“A retreat?” That checked her. “You’re not going to return it to a working farm?”

“As a matter of fact I am. If that’s all right with you and your father,” he said, freezing her out.

“You’re so bitter.”

“I most certainly am, but don’t worry about it.” He moved nearer, making her feel she was being backed into a corner. “How are you settling into your new home? I took a run past it last night. The Saunders used to be tenants, didn’t they?”

“So you didn’t arrive this morning.” Her brain seemed to be wrapped in cotton wool.

“No, Suzannah,” he explained patiently. “I drove up from Sydney yesterday. Stayed the night.” In her bedroom where he had made love to her that one time. Trapped her into surrender with his overwhelming passion.

“But where did you sleep?” she asked. The furniture from the guest bedrooms had been sold. They had taken theirs with them.

“What does it matter?” In fact, he had brought a sleeping bag. Dossed down on the floor. “I might ask the questions. What are you doing here, anyway? On my property.” This wasn’t the way it was meant to be but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Making sure it remains in the same condition as it was sold to you.” She flushed.

“You have no obligation to do that.”

“Can’t you stop, Nick?” she begged, knowing nothing would heal the wounds.

“Stop what?”

“Being so hateful.”

That made him smile. A flash of white teeth, no humour at all. “That’s good coming from you. The fact remains, Suzannah, and nothing can change it, you accused me of being a thief.”

“I didn’t.” She had trusted her father who had never lied to her. What she had felt for Nick was an overwhelming pity.

“Your very silence condemned me.”

There was no cure for injustice. “I bitterly regret it, Nick.” Tears came to her eyes. Tears from a deep place inside her. “Can’t you forgive me?”

He turned his handsome head abruptly. “You want the bad news? No. My mother died, did you know that?”

“We heard.” It had come as a tremendous blow. “I wanted to write to you but I thought you would only hate me.”

“I’m afraid you were right,” he answered, very soberly. “She died of a broken heart.”

Suzannah moved away from the fireplace, sought the French doors and opened one to admit the breeze. “I cared about her, Nick. So much.”

“She cared about you.”

“She would never tell me where you went.”

“You should know the answer to that. She thought quite rightly you had done me enough harm. Anyway, it must have been a fleeting idea of yours. The next thing we know you married poor Martin. He must have swept you off your feet.”

She had the sensation the room was swirling around her. “It made my father happy.”

“And you were born to make your father happy. What about you, Suzy? It seems terrible to talk about it at a time like this but it’s no secret your marriage wasn’t a great success.”

She moved slowly to one of the big custom-made sofas and sat down before she fell. “I have my daughter. I adore her.”

His expression tautened. His black eyes studied her. “She could have been our child.” A long pause. “What’s her name?”

Colour flamed into her white face and she dropped her gaze. “Charlotte. We call her Charley.”

For a moment he was at a loss to answer her, then he rasped. “Charlotte? How dare you use my mother’s name.”

Her own anger flowed hot and swift. “This is me, Nick, remember. Me. Suzannah. Your mother told me once I was the daughter she had always wanted. Through your mother I became an accomplished pianist, more valuably, a better person. I had a perfect right to call my child after a women so influential in my life.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I do,” she cried in sharp defence.

“Your father must have loved the sound of that. So must Martin.”

“Neither of them knew,” she said, suddenly quiet. “Your mother was Mrs Konrads. Her Christian name didn’t come into it. Your father called her Lotte. Father and Martin didn’t see the connection.”

“Come on,” he jeered. He came behind her, his hands slipping onto her shoulders, holding her fast.

“They just didn’t,” she protested, as many emotions enveloped her. “Charlotte is a beautiful name.”

He withdrew his hands instantly before he lost himself in sensation. “You must be a lot happier with Charley.”

“It’s just a nickname,” she said in a confused voice. “She’s only six. Adorable.”

“Does she look like you?” he asked harshly, feeling tremendous anger for all he had lost.

Suzannah nodded. “Almost my minor image so they tell me.”

“So you fell pregnant the night you were married?” He looked down at her as she sat folded into the sofa, the vulnerable slope of her shoulders, the delicate curve of her breasts clearly outlined against her thin pale pink sweater.

She enunciated her words very carefully. “I’m not going to discuss my married life with you, Nick.”

“When everyone knows it was unhappy. I couldn’t believe it when I was told Cindy Carlin was with Martin at the time.”

Martin starved for love and laughter. “I feel very badly about that, Nick. You can’t know.”

“I think I do.” He forced himself to look away from her. “What I can’t figure is why? Martin was crazy about you.”

“Not for long.” She shook her head vehemently.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“The best way to say it is we didn’t have a lot in common.”

He shrugged his shoulders, their width apparent under the black polo knit. “I could have told you that a long time ago. Why did you marry him, Suzannah?” A question he had asked himself at least a million times.

What was she supposed to tell him? “God knows,” she said, focusing on her hands. “On the rebound. Never a word from you. Your mother choosing to clam up on me.”

“That happens with mothers. She was thinking of me. Me with my anger and humiliation. Before God I swore to get even. Your father would have had me in jail. Did you realise that? In jail for something I didn’t do. It’s called fabricating evidence. And Frank Harris went along with it.”