Buch lesen: «The English Lord's Secret Son»
Welcome to the intensely emotional world of
Margaret Way
where rugged, brooding bachelors meet their match in the burning heart of Australia …
Praise for the author
“Margaret Way delivers … vividly written, dramatic stories.”
—RT Book Reviews
“With climactic scenes, dramatic imagery and bold characters, Margaret Way makes the Outback come alive.”
—RT Book Reviews
An extremely handsome man entered the boardroom.
Aquiline nose—perfect to look down on people—finely chiseled aristocratic features, thick jet-black hair with a natural wave, extraordinary eyes the color of blue flame: immediate impact that would linger for a long time. He stood well over six feet, and was very elegantly dressed. A tailor’s dream. So sophisticated was his appearance it held them all speechless for a while.
But none was more transfixed than Cate.
Time collapsed. How vivid was memory! How powerful was the past!
For a fleeting moment she felt her breathing had stopped. Then, as air came back into her lungs, she knew such fright she thought she had actually fainted while still remaining conscious. Her whole body was shaking, her mind sliding out of kilter.
This is it, she thought.
The heavens had shifted. She knew he had taken her in at once.
Lord Julian Ashton Carlisle, Fifth Baron Wyndham.
The father of her child.
About the Author
MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical river city of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland, Australia. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harborside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.
The
English Lord’s
Secret Son
Margaret Way
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
SEVEN-YEAR-OLD Jules slapped a fist into his palm as Cate nosed the Beemer into the parking space vacated by a runabout so compact it could fit into the owner’s pocket.
“Good one, Mum,” he whooped.
“Talk about perfect timing!” Cate Hamilton had come to rely on her parking skills. At times like this they proved invaluable.
“That was ace!”
Ace had taken over from the battered awesome. Jules always liked to keep a pace ahead.
“Noah really looks up to you, Mum.” It was a source of pride to him. Noah, his best friend, was seriously impressed by Cate’s driving. Noah’s mother, a nice lady, had the really scary knack of either side swiping vehicles or on occasions reversing into them. She should have had a number plate bearing the warning: WATCH OUT. There were always scrapes and dents on their silver Volvo. Repairs were carried out. Back to Square One. It was a pattern pretty well set. Noah said his mother didn’t know how to explain it. His father had a hard time understanding it as well.
So did Cate. She often had coffee with Noah’s mother, who was a bright, intelligent woman, right on the ball, apart from her driving habits. She switched off the ignition, eyeing the busy road. At this time of the morning there were cars everywhere, causing a worrying amount of chaos. There didn’t appear to be any order on the part of the drivers. She had even begun to question the safety of the pedestrian crossing. People appeared to be in such a desperate hurry these days. Where were they going? What was so important every nanosecond counted? Surely nothing could be more important than the safety of a child? The difficulty was, parking spots were at a premium for the junior school. Small children, even big children, didn’t leg it to school these days. They didn’t even bus it. They were driven to and fro by their parents. Different times, worrying times. Or maybe that perception was a beat up by a media who seized on anything when there was a dearth of stories.
A recent coverage featured an attempted snatching of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Even the police had been sucked in for a while until a child psychologist in their ranks pointed out thirteen-year-old girls were known to have a burgeoning need for attention. Some were more demanding and more inventive than others. That particular young lady had a future writing fiction.
Cate glanced at her son’s glowing face. The most beautiful face in the whole wide world to her. Not only beautiful, Jules was smart, really smart. Her one and only child. Pure and innocent. Her sun, moon and stars. Cate relished the moment of real joy, lifting a hand to acknowledge a departing driver, another mother, who fluttered curling, separated fingers in response.
It was a beautiful day, so bright and full of promise. A great time to be alive. Scent of trees. Scent of flowers, the heat amplifying the myriad scents to incense. Tangy taste of salt off Sydney Harbour. The Harbour, the most beautiful natural harbour in the world, made a splendid contribution to Sydney’s scenic beauty. No wonder Sydney was regularly featured as one of the world’s most beautiful and liveable cities. Few cities could boast such a glorious environment, a dazzling blue and gold world, with hundreds of bays and beaches of white sands, magical coves and waterways for its citizens to enjoy. To Sydneysiders it was a privilege to live within easy distance of the sparkling Pacific Ocean. Even the trip to school was a heart-lifting experience.
The great jacaranda trees that lined Kingsley Avenue on both sides were in full bloom. She recalled as a student it was a superstition among them that if a jacaranda blossom fell on one’s head, one would pass one’s exams. A fanciful notion and, like all fanciful notions, not one to count on. Nothing in life was as simple as that. Blossoms fell indiscriminately on heads all the time. This morning there were circular lavender carpets around the trunks, with spent blossoms fanning out across the pavement and the road.
Cate turned off the ignition. Only a short time to go now before term was over. The long Christmas vacation lay ahead.
Christmas.
Out of the blue her mind gave way to memories. She could never predict when they would invade her consciousness, frame by frame, unstoppable now, near obscuring her vision. A moment before she had been celebrating life. Now was not the time to allow dark thoughts to kick in. Yet inexorably she found herself going back in time to a place she knew from bitter experience was no place to go. Christmas across the world where it snowed instead of rained mauve blossom; where snow blanketed roofs and gardens, and frosted the trees, their skeletal branches outlined in white. For all the frigid air it was a world transformed. A fairy land.
Another time. Another place …
She had turned eighteen, an innocent at large, at the happiest, most exciting time of her young life, when the road ahead offered nothing but promise. She had thought at the time her guardian angel had to be watching over her, because it was then she fell helplessly, hopelessly, in love. The miracle of Destiny. She had revelled in the magic for long dreamlike months before all her happiness had been cruelly snatched away.
Overnight.
How was one supposed to respond to having one’s heart broken? Not just broken, trampled on with feet that came down hard. What had been required of her was to absorb the terrible loss and disappear like a puff of smoke.
A Housman poem had run continuously in her head for years.
Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away.
She had come to think of it as her theme song. She had given her heart away and given it in vain. She had learned a hard lesson—were there any better?—there were never guarantees when two people fell in love. What was love anyway between a man and a woman? A period of mesmerising madness? A period of lust, a desperation to assuage a physical hunger, without a single thought as to looking deeper for longer-lasting qualities? Just how many people were blessed with the sort of love that endured? Love for life. Was that too much to expect given the fickleness and limited attention span of human nature? Far too many suffered the sort of love that vanished as suddenly as it arrived. A case of love running out.
Or in my case, without warning, a changing course.
These days she was back to loving Christmas, indeed the whole festive season. The arrival of Jules had miraculously put her world to rights. She could see the big picture as she had never done before. From the instant he had been placed on her breast, he had become the most important person in the world to her. No love like a mother’s love. No passion as strong. His impact on her very existence was profound. She no longer focused on herself and her pain. She had a son to focus on. She knew from experience children raised by a single parent, usually the mother, needed that parent to play dual roles, mother and father. She had read publications from eminent people in the field that had arrived at the conclusion children from the nuclear middle-class family, mum and dad, with a bit of money, fared much better in life than children raised by single parents. While she respected the findings she had seen plenty of kids from affluent homes with both parents to care for them run off the rails. On the other hand, she had seen many success stories of people who had grown up in single-parent homes with very little money to spare. Wanting something better was a great driving force. So as far as she was concerned there were two sides to the issue. She was definitely on the side of the single parents and their difficult, challenging role.
She and Julian had a very special relationship in the best and brightest way. She couldn’t really say she’d had to work at it. They had loved one another on sight, neither wanting to offer the least little bit of hurt or upset to the other. It might have been a support programme between mother and son. It had worked beautifully.
Other cars were cruising the avenue, looking for a parking spot. A late-model Mercedes shamelessly double parked to take advantage of the fact she might soon be leaving. They were a few metres from the gates of one of the country’s top-ranked boys’ schools, Kingsley College. The school buildings of dressed stone were regarded by all as exceptionally fine. The grounds were meticulously maintained with great sweeps of emerald green lawn, and a meld of magnificent shade trees. Parents were proud to be able to send their sons there, even if in some cases the fees almost broke the bank.
Thankfully they had found their parking spot when she was really pressed for time. She had received a text message to the effect a meeting with a potential client had been called for first thing in the morning. No name was mentioned.
Briskly Cate bent over to kiss the top of her son’s blond head, taking enormous pleasure in the scent of him. His hair was so thick and soft it cushioned her lips. “Love you, darling,” she said from the depths of her heart. Ah, the passage of time! She had visions of Jules as the most adorable baby in the world. Jules as a toddler. It seemed only the other day since he had taken his first steps. Wonder of wonders it had been a Sunday and she was at home. She was convinced he had delayed the momentous event so she could witness it; so she could be there for him to half run, half stumble into her waiting arms. Surely it wasn’t that long since he had turned four and she had put on a big birthday party with clowns and rides on a darling little Shetland pony in the grounds? It had to be only a few months since he had lost his first baby tooth heralding the arrival of the tooth fairy? Time was so precious and Time was passing far too quickly. Her son was being shaped and developed before her eyes. He was rapidly turning into a questioning child, looking at the world from his own perspective.
“Love you too, Mum,” Jules answered. It was their daily ritual. The “Jules” had started the very first day of school when his best friend, Noah, had hit on it in preference to the mouthful Julian. Now he was Jules to everyone, his wide circle of friends, classmates, even teachers. He took over-long unfastening his seat belt. He even hesitated a moment before opening out the passenger door.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Her mother’s antennae picked up on his inaction.
For a moment he didn’t answer, as though weighing up the effect his answer might have on her. Jules was super protective. Then it all came out in a rush. “Why can’t I have a dad like everyone else?” He spoke in a half mumble, head down, when Jules never mumbled. He was a very clever, confident little boy, much loved and cared for with all the warmth that was vital for the growth of his young body and soul. Jules was no solitary child.
At his words, Cate’s heart gave a painful lunge. Deep down, no matter how much he was loved by her, his mother, it seemed Jules longed for a dad; the glory of having a dad, a male figure to identify with. Clearly she couldn’t cover both roles. Her mouth went dry.
Haven’t you always known you’d have to address this? The dark cloud over your head, the constant psychological weight.
Adept at masking her emotions, her voice broke halfway. “It’s biologically impossible not to have a dad, Jules.” A pathetic stopgap, unworthy. Jules was at the age of reason. Everything changed as a child grew to the age of reason. Jules, her baby, was pushing forward. Questions were about to be asked. Answers sought. Her fears would be revealed as secrets became unlocked. This was an area she had to confront.
Now.
“Be serious, Mum,” Jules implored. He turned back to her, pinning her with his matchless blue eyes. Everyone commented on the resemblance between them. Except for the eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like. The kids are starting to ask me all sorts of questions. They never did it before. Who my dad is? Where is he? Why isn’t he with us?”
She put it as matter-of-factly as she could. “I told you, Jules. He lives in England. He couldn’t be with us.”
God, he doesn’t even know there’s an “us”. What would he do if he did? Acknowledge paternity? Easy enough to prove. Let it all go? Not enough room in his life for an illegitimate child? Surely the term illegitimate wasn’t used any more? What would he do? Would he act, acknowledge his child? That was the potentially threatening question. Only no one was going to take her son from her. She had reared him. She had shouldered the burden of being a single mother. If it came down to it—a fight for custody—she would fight like a lioness.
Except her case could be unwinnable. No wonder she had woken up that morning feeling jittery. It was as though she was being given a warning.
“Doesn’t he love us?” Jules’ question snapped her back to attention. “Why didn’t he want to be with us? The kids think you’re super cool.” They did indeed. Jules’ mother was right up there in the attention stakes.
Julian’s young life had been woman oriented, sublimely peaceful. He lived with his mother, and his grandmother Stella, who had always looked after him, especially when Cate was at work or delayed with endless long meetings. Jules had lots of honorary “aunts”—friends and colleagues of hers. They lived in a rather grand hillside house with a view of the harbour. It was a five-minute drive down to a blue sparkling marina and a park where kids could play. The city, surrounded by beautiful beaches, offered any number of places to go for a swim. Jules was already a strong swimmer for his age. He lived the good life, stable and secure. Jules wanted for nothing.
Except a father.
“Why couldn’t you get married, Mum?” Her son’s young voice combined protectiveness for her and unmistakable hostility for the man who had fathered him. This was a new development, emotionally and socially. Jules was clearly reviewing his position in his world.
“We were going to, Jules,” Cate told him very gently. To think she had actually believed it. “We were deeply in love, starting to make plans.” Their romance had been close to sublime until they had started making plans. Plans did them in. “And then something rather momentous happened. Your father came into an important inheritance called a peerage. That meant he would never leave England.” Didn’t want to leave England. “I was desperate to come back to Australia. My family was here. His people were there. His life was there. It was as simple and disruptive as a grand inheritance. Your father’s mother had someone in mind for her only son. She was the daughter of an earl. Born to the purple, as it were.” Even now the breath rushed out of her chest.
Your paternal grandmother, with her silk knickers in a twist. Alicia, the patrician-faced hatchet woman who expected Cate to do the right thing and go home.
“Didn’t she like you?” Jules sounded incredulous. His mother was perfect in his eyes.
Cate had to acknowledge she still bore the scars of that last confrontation with Alicia, the icy determination of the woman, the breathtaking arrogance of the English upper class. “Well, she did at first,” she managed after a moment. It was true enough. Alicia had been supremely confident this young woman was going back to Australia. It was no more than a holiday flirtation, a passing fancy for a pretty girl. But there were strict limits to the friendship. The question of succession had finally been settled. “Later I was made very aware there was no question of a marriage between us.”
“None at all, my dear. How could you think otherwise? My son will marry one of us.” Alicia had been adamant. Here was a woman with a deep understanding of noblesse oblige.
She must have muttered aloud, because Jules asked with a flash to his beautiful eyes, “Who’s us?”
“Oh, I soon discovered that!” She gave a brief laugh. “People of the same background. The English aristocracy and the like. It’s still a class system no matter what they say.”
“Class system?” Jules was getting het up.
That wouldn’t do. “It’s different from here, Jules,” she said soothingly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain it to you this evening.”
“So he married someone else, the us?” Anger simmered in Jules’ clear voice. Another stage in his development.
“I expect so. I never followed through. I left him and England behind, my darling. My life is here, Jules. With you and Nan. You’re happy, aren’t you?”
Jules rallied. He wasn’t going to upset his mother any further. “Sure I’m happy, Mum,” he declared, though it was obvious to Cate he was grappling with this fresh information. He leant over to give her a kiss. “I can take care of the boys at school. What’s his name, my father’s name?”
“Ashton.” She suddenly realised she had not spoken his name aloud for years. Ashe. Julian Ashton Carlisle, Fifth Baron Wyndham.
“That’s a funny name,” Jules said. “Bit like Julian. I expect he named me. English, you see. I’m glad everyone calls me Jules. Better go, Mum. See you tonight.”
“Take care, my darling.”
“I will.” Jules gave her a quick hug. Mercifully Jules wasn’t one of those kids who were embarrassed by public displays of affection. Noah, on the other hand, had forbidden his mother to kiss him when any of the other kids were about. Jules made short work of heaving up his satchel then hopping out of the car. Noah was racing towards him both arms outstretched, one up, one down, dipping and rising mimicking a plane’s wings. He was calling out in delight, “Jules … Jules …”
Cate watched a moment longer, her heart torn. May joy fill your days. Both boys turned back to wave to her. She responded, putting a big carefree smile on her face.
This is only the start of it all, my girl. Her inner voice broke up the moment, weighing in with a warning.
At twenty-six she was well on the way to becoming a high flyer in the corporate world. She knew she appeared to others to have it all. Only one person, Stella, the person closest to her, knew the whole story. She could never have managed without Stella’s selfless support. It was Stella who had taken charge of her baby when she was at university. She needed a career. They had both agreed on that. She had a son to rear.
Stella was the guardian angel for her and her son. Stella, her adoptive mother.
It had taken well over twenty years for her to find out who her biological mother was. And that only came about because her biological mother had thought it prudent to make a deathbed confession before she met her Maker.
A sad way to clean the slate; devastating for an unacknowledged daughter to find out the truth. Sometimes she thought she would never forgive Stella for not having told her. Over the years she had met “Aunty Annabel” perhaps a half dozen times when she visited Stella, her older sister in Australia. Cate realised then, as never before, one should not keep secrets from a child. Inevitably at some stage it would all come out causing confusion and conflict and often estrangement. She’d had her own experience as an adult. She couldn’t delay all that much longer discussing her past with her child. What choice did she have? Questions would be repeated over and over if the issue wasn’t addressed. She couldn’t allow her old emotions to get in the way.
“Good morning, Cate.” It was the attractive young brunette behind the reception desk.
“Morning, Lara.”
Lara was busy appraising Cate’s smart appearance. “Mr Saunders and the others are waiting for you in the boardroom. Some bigwig is coming in.”
“Have you got a name for me?” Cate paused to enquire.
“Actually, no.” Lara sent her a look of mild surprise. “The appointment is for nine-fifteen. Love your outfit.” Lara had learned a great deal about grooming, hair, make-up, clothes accessories, simply from studying Cate Hamilton. Cate had such style. She was wonderfully approachable too. No unbearable airs of superiority, unlike Cate’s female colleague, the terrifying Murphy Stiller, who held herself aloof from everyone not on the command chain. Stiller was supremely indifferent to office perceptions of her. Cate Hamilton appeared to know instinctively office alliances were important.
“Thanks, Lara.” Cate moved off. In her own spacious office she swiftly divested herself of her classic, quilted lambskin black handbag, and then checked her appearance in the long mirror she’d had fixed inside the door of one of the tall cabinets. She always dressed with great care. It was important to look good. It was expected of her. It went with the job. She was wearing a recent buy, a designer two-piece outfit with a slim black pencil skirt and a white jacket banded in black. Her long blonde hair—the definitive Leo’s mane—she always wore pulled back into various updated arrangements for work. Looking good was mandatory. All-out glamour wasn’t on the agenda. Too distracting to the clients. Even so she’d been told she was considered pretty hot stuff.
They were all seated around the boardroom table—big as any two ping-pong tables shoved together—when she entered the room.
“Good morning, everyone,” she greeted them pleasantly, and received suave nods that hid a variety of feelings. Downright lecherous on the part of Geoff Bartz, their resident environmentalist and a very unattractive man. The hierarchy was still men, though not as inflexible as it once had been. The richest person in Australia was in fact a woman, the late mining magnate Lang Hancock’s daughter, Gina Rinehart, worth around twenty billion and counting. All of the men were Italian suited, Ferragamo shod, the one woman at the table as impeccably turned out as ever, cream silk blouse, Armani power suit. No one reached a position near the top of the tree without being exceptionally well dressed. Lord knew they were paid enough to buy the best even if they rarely strayed from imported labels. Cate trusted her own instincts, giving Australian designers a go. They were so good she stuck to them.
“Ah, Cate,” Hugh Saunders, CEO and chairman of the board of Inter-Austral Resources, oil, minerals, chemicals, properties etc. sat at the head of the table. He was credited with almost single-handedly turning a small sleeping mining company into a multibillion-dollar corporation. On Cate’s entry he exhaled an audible sigh of pleasure. A lean, handsome, very stylish man turning sixty, he had personally recruited Cate Hamilton some three years previously. He considered himself her mentor. If he were only ten years younger he privately considered he would have qualified as a whole lot more, sublimely unaware Cate had never entertained such a thought. “Come take a seat. There’s one here by me.” He gestured towards the empty seat to his right.
Territorial display if there ever was one, Murphy Stiller thought with a tightening of her lips and a knitting of her jetblack brows of one. Murphy Stiller was brilliant, abrasive, ferociously competitive. Murphy’s sole aspiration was to move into Hugh Saunders’ padded chair while it was still warm. The great pity was he was such a stayer! Before Hamilton had arrived on the scene she had been Queen of the Heap, able to command attention and a seat at the CEO’s right hand without saying a word. Then the newcomer she had mentally labelled upstart had from the outset started producing results. Corporate politics, balance sheets, marketing plans, impromptu presentations, refinancing. It could have been familiar territory. Hamilton was up for the challenge. A compulsive over-achiever, of course. Murphy knew the type. A multitasker, always up to speed. Saunders seemed mesmerised by her. Certainly he had carefully mapped out her career. But that was what men spent a lot of time thinking about, wasn’t it? Sex. Whether they were getting it. Or more often missing out. When Murphy had entered the boardroom she had naturally made for the seat on the CEO’s right—she never jockeyed, jockeying was beneath her—only to be forestalled by Saunders’ upraised hand smoothly directing her to a seat on his left, as though oblivious to her chagrin. Time to hot up her nightly prayers her young rival would get her comeuppance. Flunk something. Take a fall. Get married. Go into politics. Fall under a bus. Anything.
Murphy forced herself to stop daydreaming. It wasn’t going to happen.
All were now seated. All faces were turned to the chairman, who had glanced at his watch to check what time they had. “What we do and say here before our prospective client arrives is extremely important,” he announced with great earnestness. “This is a man used to meeting people at the highest level. I believe he even talks to the Prince of Wales on a first-name basis.”
Cate pretended to be lost in envy. She had her own understanding of the English upper classes, though the Prince was said to be a genuine egalitarian.
“He’s already acquired a small empire in different parts of the world,” the CEO was saying. “He’s now looking at our mineral wealth. Overseas the news is Australia is being driven by mining and resource. Not surprising their top entrepreneurs want in. We’re going to prove extremely helpful.” He paused as another project came to mind. “He’s also interested in acquiring a property in the Whitsundays. Virgin territory as it were, far away from the usual haunts of jetsetters and the current hot spots, the Caribbean and such. You all know the late George Harrison bought up there. Had a holiday home on our far-flung shores, then a virtual outpost. George knew what he was about. I know we can help our prospective client. Perhaps you, Cate. You’re very good at dealing with people. You might even be able to persuade Lady McCready to finally sell Isla Bella. She trusts you. Aren’t many places left in the world as pristine as Isla Bella.”
“Sure our prospective client doesn’t want to turn it into a resort?” Cate asked. “Lady McCready is totally against any such project.”
“Goodness me, no!” Saunders vehemently shook his head as though he’d had it straight from the horse’s mouth. “This is a man who shuns glitz. He wants a private sanctuary for him, his family and close friends. He will want to visit, of course, if Lady McCready is agreeable. She must be a great age now. Only the other day someone told me she had passed away.”
“Still very much alive, sir,” Cate said, watching the CEO hold up a staying hand as the mobile on the table rang. He listened for a moment, said a few words, then put the receiver down. “Ah, he’s arrived.”
It was delivered with such reverence the prospective client could equally well have been Prince Charles or even President Obama. The Clintons had made the great escape to North Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef islands, pronouncing the whole area an idyllic destination. Perhaps it was Bill Clinton or some retired American senator, who just wanted to sit around all day without anyone taking cheap shots at him as political enemies tended to do.
