Wealthy Australian, Secret Son

The garden party was well underway by the time they finished their stroll along the curving driveway. Riverbend had never looked more beautiful, Charlotte thought, pierced by the same sense of loss she knew her father was experiencing—though one would never have known it from his confident Lord of the Manor bearing. Her father was a handsome man, but alas not a lot of people in the Valley liked him. The mansion, since they had moved, had undergone very necessary repairs. These days it was superbly maintained, and staffed by a housekeeper, her husband—a sort of major-domo—and several ground staff to bring the once-famous gardens back to their best. A good-looking young woman came out from Sydney from time to time, to check on what was being done. Charlotte had met her once, purely by accident …

The young woman had left her Mercedes parked off the broad gravelled driveway so she could take a good look at the Lodge, screened from view by a grove of mature trees. Charlotte had been deadheading the roses when her uninvited visitor—brunette, dark-eyed, in a glamorous black power suit worn with a very stylish snow-white ruffled blouse—had near tumbled into view on her very high heels.

“Oh, good afternoon! Hope I didn’t startle you?” she’d called, the voice loud and very precise.

Well, sort of, Charlotte thought. “You did rather,” she answered mildly. The woman’s greeting had been pleasant enough. The tone wasn’t. It was seriously imperative. Charlotte might as well have been a slack employee who needed checking up on. “May I help you?” She was aware she was being treated to a comprehensive appraisal. A head-to-toe affair.

The young woman staggered a few steps further across the thick green grass, thoroughly aerating it. She had to give up as the stiletto heels of her expensive shoes sank with every step. “I don’t think so. I’m Diane Rodgers, by the way.”

“Well, hello, Diane Rodgers,” Charlotte said with a smile.

Ms Rodgers responded to that with a crisp look. “I’ve been appointed by the new owner to oversee progress at Riverbend. I just thought I’d take a look at the Lodge while I was at it.”

“May I ask if you’re an estate agent?” Charlotte knew perfectly well she wasn’t, but she was reacting to the tone.

“Of course I’m not!” Ms Rodgers looked affronted. An estate agent, indeed!

“Just checking. The Lodge is private property, Ms Rodgers. But I’m sure you know that.”

“Surely you have no objection to my taking a look?” The question was undisguisedly sarcastic. “I’m not making an inspection, after all.”

“Which would be entirely inappropriate,” Charlotte countered.

“Excuse me?” Ms Rodgers’s arching black brows rose high.

“No offence, Ms Rodgers, but this is private property.” The woman already knew that and didn’t care. Had she tried a friendly approach, things might have gone differently.

As it was, Diane Rodgers was clearly on a power trip.

She gave an incredulous laugh, accompanied by a toss of her glossy head. “No need to get on your high horse. Though I expect it’s understandable. You couldn’t bear to part with the place. Isn’t that right? You’re the daughter of the previous owner.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Why would you assume that?” Charlotte resumed deadheading the exquisite deep crimson Ecstasy roses.

“I’ve heard about you, Mrs Prescott.” The emphasis was heavy, the smile knowing—as if Charlotte’s secret was out. She had spent time in an institution. Possibly mental. “You’re every bit as beautiful as I’ve been told.”

“Beauty isn’t the be all and end all. There are more important things. But may I ask who told you that?” There was a glint in Charlotte’s crystal-clear green eyes.

“Sorry, that would be telling. You know yourself how people love to talk. But being rich and beautiful can’t prevent tragedy from occurring, can it? I hear you lost a brother when you were both children. Then a husband only a while back. Must have been frightful experiences? Both?”

Charlotte felt her stomach lurch. Who had this remarkably insensitive young woman spoken to? Someone she’d met in the village? Nicole, Martyn’s younger sister? Nicole had always resented her. If Ms Rodgers’s informant had been Nicole she would have learned a lot—most of it laced with vitriol.

A moment passed. “I’m sure you heard about that too, Ms Rodgers,” Charlotte said quietly. “Now, you must excuse me. I have things to do. Preparations for dinner, for one.”

“Just your father and your son, I’m told?”

It was more or less a taunt, and it bewildered Charlotte. Why the aggression? The expression on Ms Rodgers’s face was hardly compassionate. Charlotte felt a wave of anger flow over her. “I must go in, Ms Rodgers.” She folded her secateurs, then placed them in the white wicker basket at her feet. “Do please remember in future the Lodge is off-limits.”

Diane Rodgers had intended to sound coolly amused, but she couldn’t for the life of her disguise her resentment—which happened to be extreme. Who was this Charlotte Prescott to be so hoity-toity? She had well and truly fallen off her pedestal. At least that was the word. “Suit yourself!” she clipped, making too swift an about turn. She staggered, and had to throw a balancing arm aloft, making for the safety of solid ground.

Everyone appeared to be dressed to the nines for the Open Day. Filmy pastel dresses and pretty wide-brimmed hats were all the rage. Women had learned to take shelter from the blazing Australian sun. Sunscreen. Hats. Charlotte recalled how her mother had always looked after her skin, making sure her daughter did the same. Early days. These days her mother didn’t talk to her often. Her mother didn’t talk to anyone from the old days. Certainly not her ex-husband. Her parents had divorced two years after the Tragedy. Her mother had remarried a few years after that, and lived in some splendour in Melbourne’s elite Toorak. If she had ever hoped her mother would find solace in her beautiful grandson, Christopher, she had been doomed to bitter disappointment. There had only been one boy in her mother’s life: her pride and joy, her son Matthew.

“Mummy, can I please go off with Peter?” Christopher jolted her out of her sad thoughts. Peter Stafford was Christopher’s best friend from day one at pre-school. He stood at Christopher’s shoulder with a big grin planted on his engaging little face.

“I don’t see why not.” Charlotte smiled back. “Hello there, Peter. You’re looking very smart.” She touched a hand to his checked-cotton clad shoulder.

“Am I?” Peter blushed with pleasure, looking down at his new clothes. Christopher had told him in advance he was wearing long trousers, so Peter had insisted his mother buy him a pair. His first. He felt very grown-up.

Christopher hit him mildly in the ribs. “You know Mummy’s only being nice.”

“I mean it, Peter.” Charlotte glanced over Peter’s head. “Mum and Dad are here?”

Peter nodded. “Angie too.” Angie was his older sister. “We had to wait ages for Angie to change her dress. I liked the first dress better. Then she had to fix her hair again. She was making Mum really angry.”

“Well, I’m sure everyone has settled down,” Charlotte offered soothingly. She knew Angela Stafford—as difficult a child as Peter was trouble-free. “We’re all here to enjoy ourselves, and it’s a beautiful day.” Charlotte placed a loving hand on top of her son’s head. “Check in with me from time to time, sweetheart?”

“Of course.” He smiled up at her, searching her face in a near-adult way. “If you prefer, Pete and I can stay with you.”

“Don’t be silly!” she scoffed. “Off you go.” Christopher—her little man!

The boys had begun to move away when Peter turned back. “I’m very sorry Riverbend is going out of the family, Mrs Prescott,” he said, his brown eyes sweetly sympathetic. “Sorry for you and Mr Marsdon. Riverbend would have come to Chris.”

Charlotte almost burst into tears. “Well, you know what they say, Peter,” she managed lightly. “All good things must come to an end. But thank you. You’re a good boy. A credit to your family.”

“If he is, so am I!” Christopher crowed, impatiently brushing his thick floppy golden hair off his forehead. It was a gesture Charlotte knew well.

She turned her head away. She had to keep her spirits up. Her father was deeply involved in a conversation with the rotund, flush-faced Mayor. The Mayor appeared to be paying careful attention. The Marsdon name still carried a lot of clout. She walked on, waving a hand to those in the crowd who had stuck by her and her father.

Her parents’ separation, and subsequent divorce, had split the Valley. Her beautiful, very dignified mother had chaired most of the Valley’s charity functions, opening up the grounds of Riverbend for events much like today’s. She had been well respected. Her father had never approached that high level of Valley approval, though he was supremely unaware of it such was his unshakeable self-confidence.

The Tragedy had torn her mother to pieces. Her father, grief-stricken, had managed to survive.

What exactly had happened to her? She had grown up knowing her mother loved her, but that Matthew, her older brother, the firstborn, was the apple of their mother’s eye—her favourite. Her mother was the sort of woman who doted on a son. Charlotte hadn’t minded at all. She had adored her brother too. Matthew had been a miraculously happy boy. A child of light. And he’d always had Rohan for his best friend. Rohan had been the young son of a single mother in the Valley—Mary Rose Costello.

Mary Rose, orphaned at an early age, had been “raised right” by her maternal grandmother, a strict woman of modest means, who had sent her very pretty granddaughter to the district’s excellent convent school. Mary Rose Costello, with the Celt’s white skin and red hair, had been regarded by the whole community as a “good girl”. One who didn’t “play around”. Yet Mary Rose Costello, too young to be wise, had blotted her copybook by falling pregnant. Horror of horrors out of wedlock or even an engagement. The odd thing was, in that closely knit Valley, no one had been able to come up with the identity of Rohan’s father. Lord knew they had all speculated, long and hard.

Mary Rose had never confided in anyone—including her bitterly shocked and disappointed grandmother. Mary Rose had never spoken the name of her child’s father, but everyone was in agreement that he must have been a stunningly handsome man. And clever. Rohan Costello, born on the wrong side of the blanket, was far and away the handsomest, cleverest boy in the Valley. When Mary Rose’s grandmother had died, she’d had the heart to leave her granddaughter and her little son the cottage. Mary Rose had then worked as a domestic in both the Marsdon and Prescott residences. She’d also done dressmaking. She had, in fact, been a very fine dressmaker, with natural skills. It was Charlotte’s mother who had encouraged Mary Rose to take in orders, spreading the word to her friends across the Valley. So the Costellos had survived, given her mother’s continuing patronage.

Up until the Tragedy.

People were milling about on the lush open lawn that stretched a goodly distance to all points of the compass, or taking shelter from the sun beneath the magnolia trees, heavy with plate-sized waxy cream flowers. Children were playing hide and seek amid the hedges; others romped on the grass. The naughty ones were running under the spray from the playing fountain until some adult stopped them before they got soaked. Everyone looked delighted to have been invited. A huge white marquee had been erected, serving delicious little crustless sandwiches, an amazing variety of beautifully decorated cupcakes, and lashings of strawberries and cream. White wine, a selection of fruit juices and the ubiquitous colas and soft drinks were also provided. No one would be allowed to get sozzled on alcohol that afternoon.

Charlotte had a few pleasant words with dozens of people as she threaded her way through the crowd. Her smile was starting to feel like a glaze on her face. It wasn’t easy, appearing relaxed and composed, given the melancholy depths of her feelings, but she’d had plenty of practice. Years of containing her grief had taught control, if nothing else. Years of going down to breakfast with the Prescotts, a smile glued to her face, after another fierce encounter with Martyn. At such times he had hit her. Lashed out. Nowhere it would show. That would have caused an uproar. Though spoilt rotten by his mother and sister, his father would swiftly have taken him to account. Domestic violence was totally unacceptable. A man never hit a woman. It was unthinkable. Cowardly.

Only Martyn, who had turned out to be a bully, had desperately wanted what she could never give him. Her undivided love. He had even been jealous of Christopher. Had he ever dared lift a hand to her son she would have left him. But as it was, pride had held her in place. It wasn’t as though she could have rung home and said, I’m up to the neck with this marriage. I want out. I’m coming home.

Her mother had been endeavouring to make a new life for herself elsewhere. Her father at that stage would have told her to “pull her socks up” and make her marriage work. It was only after Martyn had been killed and the scandalous circumstances were on public record that her father had welcomed her back—lonely, and totally unused to running a house. That was women’s work. He’d detested the cleaning ladies who came in from time to time. His daughter would take over and cook him some decent meals. Such was his Lord of the Manor mentality. Besides, he loved his little grandson. “Chip off the old block!” he used to say, when Christopher unquestionably wasn’t.

He took it for granted that Charlotte would stay, when she knew she could not. But when would the right time arrive? Christopher was now seven. No longer a small child.