by Margot Early
“I don’t think you should run,” Marie said. “It’s not fair to Wesley. And it has to count for more than a little that Wesley has spent his entire life until now with you and barely knows Patrick.”
“And he doesn’t even know Patrick is his father. God, I hope Patrick thinks about that before he does anything crazy.”
“You’d better tell Wesley,” Marie said. “The sooner the better.”
“I can’t think about that right now. Wesley loves Ari’s memory. Oh, God, it’s all so tangled.”
“Sir Walter Scott said something about that, didn’t he?” Marie mused, but as though she were speaking more to herself than to Bronwyn. And thinking private thoughts again.
“Something about what a tangled web we weave when we set out to deceive. But that was never my plan. It just sort of happened.”
Marie spared her a sympathetic look. “What I think you should do, Bronwyn, is try to get your job back.”
“How?”
Marie frowned. “I think you should tell Mrs. Lipton that Patrick fired you. She’ll be annoyed at having to hire someone new.”
“But what shall I tell her about the reason why?”
Marie pursed her lips. “The truth would be interesting.”
“That Patrick Stafford first made a pass at me and then fired me?” Bronwyn felt a slightly evil smile spreading across her face.
“I want a word.”
Louisa Fairchild’s eyes spit venom in Patrick’s direction. 104 Clearly, his great-aunt was incensed about something. Patrick himself was focused on the computer at his desk. It had occurred to him that Wesley had probably never doubted Ari Theodoros was his father. Which made telling Louisa the facts a more complicated proposition. Patrick had started out the day with work, as usual, online. Then he’d begun researching soccer camps, thinking Wesley might enjoy a week at such a place. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“A word,” Louisa repeated, her stance making it clear that she wasn’t going to share his attention with his computer monitor.
Patrick stood and said, “I suppose it’s breakfast time.”
“I haven’t the stomach for it at the moment,” his great-aunt said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully.
Patrick realized uneasily that he was the focus of her anger. What had he done? Granted, what he’d done the previous night with Bronwyn—but that had been a private scene. Had Louisa discovered…
“Since when,” Louisa demanded, “have you felt it was your right to make sexual advances to the help and then fire them to cover up your behavior? That is sexual harassment, Patrick, and I’m astonished at you.”
To tell the truth, he was astonished at himself, but Louisa didn’t give him the chance to say so.
“I don’t care if she’s your old girlfriend. I wouldn’t care if she was your ex-wife. That is no way to treat an employee.”
“You’re—” Right. You’re right. But before he could get the second word out, she pounded on.
“She is a single mother, and you fired her without cause—except your own lack of self-control in her presence. Is that what I’m to understand?”
“I—” He fell silent.
“Yes?” Louisa said. Without waiting for an answer, she told him, “Well, you can march right out to the cottage and rehire her, Patrick Stafford. And may you never act like such an ass again, or you’ll find yourself excused from this property.” Eyes stormy, she added, “A widow trying to raise a ten-year-old boy alone, and you were going to throw her out of her home and cost her all her income.”
Patrick knew that the news that he was Wesley’s father would only incite Louisa to greater ire. The recipient of his bad behavior was the mother of his child. Quickly, he said, “I apologize.”
“You owe apologies to her,” Louisa said, without denying that she’d been owed any.
“I’ll rectify the situation immediately,” he said. “Would you find it adequate if I promoted her?”
“I think you know,” she said with a very nasty look at him, “exactly the behavior I expect of members of this family. That behavior will be adequate.”
Feeling about four feet tall and ten years old himself, Patrick said, “I’ll just…go out to the bungalow. Right now.”
“You just do that little thing.”
Bronwyn’s posture as she rocked in the paint-peeled chair on the bungalow’s porch, the picture of anxiety, served only to triple Patrick’s shame. He had stopped in the kitchen to speak with the chef, to admit that he’d done something rash with regard to Bronwyn Davies, and to ask if perhaps she was ready for a promotion from dishwasher. So now he was prepared to face her.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he reached her. He did not come up on the porch. Keeping his distance was doubly important now—no more scenes like last night. “I behaved appallingly. I’m ashamed of myself—both for taking advantage of you and for firing you without justification. I’ve had a royal telling-off from Louisa that was fully deserved. And I’ve spoken to your supervisor in the kitchen. You’ve been reinstated and promoted to prep cook and dietician, if you’re willing to accept your new role. There has also been a suggestion that a new position be created as staff fitness trainer. This is something I will bring to Louisa’s attention.”
Bronwyn stared at him. Her fearful posture didn’t seem to lessen. She said only, “Thank you.” Then, quickly, “Wesley’s at school. Patrick, he doesn’t know. And this whole time has been traumatic for him already.”
“I gathered as much.”
“Could I ask you please to keep things…quiet? I’m, not telling you to tell no one—just to be discreet, so that Wesley doesn’t learn the truth casually?”
“Just when do you plan to tell him?”
“I’m not sure.
I’m just not sure. But—not today. Please. Too much…at once.”
“I am going to be part of his life, Bronwyn.”
“I hope so,” she said.
Patrick gazed at her, unable to keep from reflecting how beautiful she was—and how much he had wanted her when they’d kissed. He could no longer pretend to himself that Bronwyn hoped to seduce him. Yet he longed to kiss her again, to feel her kiss him with the passion she’d once shown. He wanted to touch that honey-colored skin, to cup her cheek, her finely formed jaw, in his hand. He wanted to taste her tongue, to be intimate with her as they had been once.
Part of him believed that such passion must be based on true love—perfect love. Another part of him knew that history—that life itself—was rife with situations of unrequited love or simply a love that was stronger on one side than on the other. In fact, that was often the most likely scenario.
Regardless of the responsiveness he’d convinced himself she’d shown the night before, it was more likely that she felt nothing at all for him. While he…
Just garden-variety attraction, Patrick. You’re not in love with her.
Nonetheless, he’d expected a warmer response to the reinstatement of her job—no, to her promotion— than she’d given.
Well, now she’d let the cat out of the bag, and he was going to do everything he could to enjoy a full part in Wesley’s life, to be the father the boy deserved. He would get joint custody of the child—any court would allow him that.
Irritated that Bronwyn wanted to stall telling Wesley the truth, Patrick asked again, “When do you plan to tell him? It would be traumatic, don’t you think, if he learned the truth by accident?”
Her green eyes seemed to shoot sparks. “And how exactly could that happen, Patrick? As far as I know, only you and I know the truth.” She deliberately overlooked the fact that she’d confided in Marie. “I’m certainly not going to let that information out accidentally, and I trust you’ll take the same care.”
“Bronwyn, you must know that I’m going to have to talk to an attorney?”
“Why?” The cry sounded hoarse, high and weak. A cry of fear.
“To arrange custody,” Patrick told her.
“I’m not going to deny you time with him,” Bronwyn said, pale now and sounding desperate.
“We’ll still need to put something in writing. This is the way sensible people do things, Bronwyn.”
“Sensible people who don’t mind submitting innocent children to the pain of court battles.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “But you just said you’re not going to deny me time with him. Why should there be any battle at all?”
Bronwyn bit her lip and didn’t answer. Instead she rose from the rocker. “I’d better get ready to report to the kitchens.” She took a breath that was visible rather than audible. “Thank you for your—” She seemed unable to finish the sentence—or to meet his eyes.
“For being reasonable?”
She finally gave a small nod, which seemed to say that what he’d said was not precisely what she wanted to express, but the best that could be managed under the circumstances.
“I regretted firing you as soon as I did it, Bronwyn. I was a jerk.” Some impulse of honesty or of generosity made him add, “And Louisa was outraged. She’s a very decent woman.”
“Better than,” Bronwyn agreed, and turned away to go inside the bungalow. Patrick watched her long hair swing behind her and told himself that what he should really focus on was finding a good attorney.
The head chef, François, was now Bronwyn’s immediate supervisor. He was fiftyish, bald, short and a bit round, but extremely charming. He flirted mercilessly with Bronwyn and Marie, yet seemed to treat them both as young cousins, as well. He was protective and generous with advice on everything from grades of butter to fashion.
From the first, Bronwyn enjoyed her new position. Though François and she occasionally were at logger-heads on what was suitable to feed an elderly woman with a heart condition, he did seem interested in her nutritional advice.
“But tell me this,” he would argue, “why is it that the French women have less cellulite than you Australians with your diet?”
Bronwyn couldn’t help saying, “I’d be happy to pose my butt beside any Frenchwoman’s, François.”
Laughing, the chef said, “Oui, but you are the exception, you and Mademoiselle Lafayette.”
Bronwyn saw Helena’s face fall into an unhappy expression where she stood dicing celery.
Bronwyn edged over to her housemate and whispered, “And you’re next. You look great, Helena.”
“I wish the weight would come off faster.”
Helena gazed unhappily at the vegetables she was slicing. “More protein, less fat,” she muttered as though it were a mantra.
“Ah, Helena.” Unexpectedly, François appeared beside them. “But you have the body and face a Dutch master would paint. What do these skinny things know of true beauty. It is you—you who makes an old man’s heart pound.”
Bronwyn bit down a smile. Helena was thirty-two and the chef quite a bit older, but sometimes she thought she saw a special spark between the two. And Helena, had supplied the interesting information that she and François had once attended a wine tasting together and that she had visited his charming loft, above a carriage house at one of Hunter Valley’s nearby wineries.
Bronwyn tried not to worry about Patrick’s determination to involve at least one lawyer in custody issues with Wesley. She also tried to forget the event that had led to his firing her the other night.
He’d kissed her.
The kiss had taken her into stormy waters. Her own response terrified her. She’d liked it. And then he’d behaved so cruelly. Then so kindly the next day.
If she was honest with herself, she found him even more attractive than she had when they were younger. Now he was steady, mature, strong in himself. But Bronwyn didn’t want to rush into another relationship with anyone. At Fairchild Acres, she was discovering an independence she hadn’t known since before she’d married Ari.
And she liked it.
Marie joined her at the counter, where Bronwyn was noting the day’s menu in a laptop provided for kitchen record keeping—another move, Bronwyn was sure, for which she could thank Patrick. “How are you doing?” Marie said softly.
Bronwyn cast her a look. Guiltily, she remembered what she’d said to Patrick two days earlier—that he and she were the only ones who knew the truth about Wesley. She’d confided in Marie. Not that she doubted the other woman’s discretion, not for a minute. Still, she’d lied to Patrick, not wanting to reveal her conversation with Marie in the small hours of the night.
Bronwyn murmured, “Things seem okay so far.”
There was enough noise in the kitchen to muffle their conversation.
“Is there any chance the two of you might ever, you know, get back together?” Marie asked.
“I don’t want to get together with anyone.” She made herself warn, “Marie, you know how important it is that Wesley—”
Marie seemed to understand what Bronwyn left unsaid. “I wouldn’t make a slip like that, Bronwyn. I do know.”
And Bronwyn felt a reinforcement of the trust she’d placed in Marie Lafayette.
The bantering behind them in the kitchen seemed to lessen somewhat, and Bronwyn glanced around to see Louisa Fairchild standing in the kitchen doorway.
Fear coursed through her, and yet she didn’t know why she should be afraid. Was there any chance Patrick had told Louisa the whole truth?
But Louisa’s eyes were right on Bronwyn’s as she said, “I need to borrow your prep cook, François.”
Casting a nervous glance at Marie, Bronwyn started for the kitchen doorway.
Louisa said crisply, “Please come with me, Ms. Davies.”
Fearfully, Bronwyn followed the Fairchild matriarch out of the kitchen and toward the stairs that Bronwyn knew led to the wine cellar.
What is she going to do to me? she thought, fighting an inappropriate desire to laugh.
“Miss Fairchild, I want to thank you for—”
Louisa spun so fast that her agility stunned Bronwyn. “For what?” snapped Louisa Fairchild.
“For my promotion,” Bronwyn said softly. For standing up for me. But she couldn’t say that much, afraid of family loyalties, afraid of speaking aloud things of which Louisa might not want to be reminded.
“That was Patrick’s doing.” The old woman turned on the light at the head of the stairs leading down to the cellar. “He’s also brought to my attention that your university training might help qualify you as a bit of a personal trainer for my staff. I suppose for me, as well, if I wanted such a thing.” Louisa seemed to pause as though considering whether perhaps she did want or need such a thing. “He pointed out that some of the staff really don’t seem to take the care of themselves the way that they should, and also that Fairchild Acres is a modern business and ought to offer its employees the best perks. I agree with that assessment. So—” She continued down the steps, making her way slowly, grasping the handrail.
Bronwyn didn’t dare offer to assist, but remained ready to reach out and grab the woman if she should fall.
Rather than continuing down the stone passage which Bronwyn knew led to the wine cellar, having been sent down there in the past to retrieve wine for dinner, Louisa turned down another passage and groped for a light. She switched it on.
The glow fell on a hardwood floor and some dusty weight machines.
“Fool things have hardly been used,” Louisa said. “Don’t even know if they work. My former head groom wanted to set this up for the jockeys, but no one ever really used it. So, I want your guidance. I hear you’ve been teaching yoga or something of the kind in the living room of the bungalow. What would you need to set this up as a better facility?”
Bronwyn gazed about her. Fluorescent light fell on a spacious room which nonetheless had a cold, unused feeling. There were, however, a couple of high windows which must be at ground level. She wasn’t sure what to say.
Practicality took over. “How much do you want to spend?”
“I think it should be a state-of-the-art facility. The
grooms and jockeys will use it if they have professional guidance, and I’d like you to offer classes for the kitchen and housekeeping staff, as well.”
“You’d like me—” Bronwyn’s voice trailed off. Louisa was giving her a look that seemed to shout, Isn’t that what I just said? “Right then,” she said quickly. “Mirrors, for a start.”
“Would you be up to making me a list and perhaps looking into purchasing equipment we might need, as well?” Louisa said. “I’m sure Patrick would be happy to assist you in terms of answering any questions you have.”
“Certainly,” said Bronwyn uneasily.
“Rest assured, he will be making no more unwelcome advances,” Louisa told her crisply, but in a tone that discouraged Bronwyn from replying to that particular remark.
“I can do it,” Bronwyn said.
“I’m afraid François may have to make do without you in the kitchens,” Louisa added, almost as if to herself. “I think your new role will be too time-consuming, running our physical fitness facility and teaching classes. In fact, I will make your excuses for you now and leave you here to start thinking.” Louisa’s cane thudded as she turned to leave the basement room.
But Bronwyn wasn’t comfortable letting the old woman climb those stairs alone. She had a feeling that letting Louisa know, however, would earn her a tongue-lashing. She thought fast.
“I don’t want to say it….”
Louisa spun again, facing her sharply. “Yes?”
“Well, there may be a problem if a lot of employees have to use these stairs….” Bronwyn started toward them.
Louisa did not follow at once, and Bronwyn was afraid her employer scented subterfuge. So she made a deal of squinting up at the dimly lit stone steps.
At last, she heard Louisa’s cane and light step behind her.
“For instance—” Bronwyn walked up the first three steps “—places like this here.” She pointed out a dip in the natural stone.
Louisa made a thoughtful sound and started to climb the steps after her.
Bronwyn pointed out small imperfections in the steps, examined the lighting over the stairs. She was sure she’d fooled Louisa—until they both reached the top.