The Lost Dreams

“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…”