by Margot Early
Bronwyn lifted her eyebrows and gave an agreeable nod. “Then, maybe I’ll get to do some outdoor cycling, too.”
As he adjusted the seat of the bicycle beside hers, Patrick said, evenly and cautiously, “Please try not to take offense if I ask again when you plan to tell Wesley the truth.”
Bronwyn glanced at him, her expression wary. She said, “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do it, and, to be honest, I’m terrified he’ll hate me when he learns the truth.”
“Hate you why?”
“Think about it. For lying to Ari, for lying to Wesley. He’ll probably just be terribly confused, and this has already been such a traumatic time for him.”
“Because of Ari’s murder?”
“Of course. On top of learning more than I wanted him to know about his fath— about Ari’s criminal background.”
“I spoke to my attorney today.”
Bronwyn shot a look at him. She began pedaling, and soon he was pedaling the other stationary bike beside her.
“He suggested that counseling might be helpful, so that Wesley can come to terms with these changes.”
“Wesley doesn’t need counseling,” she snapped.
Patrick lifted his eyebrows. “You just said—”
“But he doesn’t need to talk to some stranger.”
“You think you’re all he needs for his mental health, then?”
Bronwyn heard the challenge. “I listen to him. He has no mental health problems. He has just been through a bad time.”
“What are you afraid of, Bronwyn?”
She was afraid of someone trying to take Wesley from her. It was that simple. She could imagine some psychologist speaking to the courts, making it seem that she had been a bad mother to Wesley. She was afraid of the power Patrick wielded because of his wealth and her poverty.
She was terrified of the situation she’d married to avoid, the situation in which that mistake had now landed her. She said, “What are you asking for?”
“Fifty-fifty,” he said. “Half time with him, of course. Anything different would be wrong.”
“He’s a ten-year-old boy, and you think being away from me half the time will be good for him?”
Again he saw the anger and fear flashing at him from her green eyes. “It seems fair,” he said. “And I think he needs to know me, as well, as you yourself have pointed out.”
She fell silent, pedaling furiously. Standing up on the pedals, she said coldly, “Let me show you the three positions you use in spinning class. Since you’re doing this, you may as well get the best workout I can give you.”
Patrick sensed he’d made a mistake with Bronwyn by telling her about his meeting with the attorney. He might be feeling positively toward her, but her wariness had increased; she’d become more aloof.
As the weekend barbecue approached, he still had occasion to see her as she prepared the fitness facility. He came down to help supervise workmen hanging the new floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and he even came to a couple of Bronwyn’s yoga classes, where she’d treated him with remote courtesy.
By Friday afternoon, as the entire staff of Fairchild Acres welcomed the first guests to the barbecue, guests who included both candidates for the ITRF presidency, he wished he could take back any mention of the attorney. Of course, Bronwyn would have received the papers the day before. The attorney had sent Patrick his copies, and he had spent time reviewing them just that morning. Was Bronwyn right that it was unreasonable to expect Wesley to live with him half time?
“Patrick, I want a word.”
He turned from a table he had been helping to move and found Louisa scowling at him. What had he done this time?
He followed her to the house where she marched into the downstairs study.
There, she closed the door behind him, walked to her desk and lifted up a sheaf of papers. “Please tell me the meaning of this.”
He saw the letterhead on the paper and flushed. “I don’t think that correspondence is addressed to you.” Was she even reading his mail?
“I stumbled upon it when searching your desk for papers you promised to retrieve for me about Andrew Preston’s campaign.”
“Maybe,” he said coolly, “the best idea would be for you to pretend that you didn’t see it, then.”
“Bronwyn Davies’s child is your son?” Louisa demanded as though she had not heard him.
Patrick was surprised at the shot of alarm he felt. It had nothing to do with Louisa’s wrath—or his own. He spoke quietly. “Wesley himself doesn’t know, and I have promised his mother to keep the fact confidential for the time being. So it might be a good idea if you kept this information inside this room.”
“And you want fifty percent custody of the boy or time with him or whatever word you use for it?” Louisa demanded.
“It seems only reason—”
“What it is,” she told him in a rough whisper, “is appalling. You’re trying to take a child from his mother while under my roof.”
“Not trying to take—”
“Fifty percent? When he has spent one hundred percent of his life at her side? And she is his mother.” Louisa imbued the word with almost spiritual overtones. “You would take him from his mother?”
“What are—”
Unwilling to let him get in the questions he wanted to ask, she said, “Have another think, Patrick Stafford. That will not happen under my roof. You have outlived your stay if you think I’ll countenance someone removing a child from his mother’s home. Fifty percent. Do you think he’s a time-share condo?”
“I think he’s my son.”
“Then you might learn a quick lesson in decency toward his mother. Hear this, Patrick. You have money. That poor girl has none. No doubt you think you’re going to get your way with expensive attorneys, bullying her into relinquishing her parental rights, all because she chose another man over you.”
“This has nothing to do with—”
“Well, it won’t work. I can hire attorneys, too, and I will. If you try to take that boy from his mother, you won’t be fighting Bronwyn Davies’s purse—you’ll be fighting mine. And me. If you want to know your child, I suggest you figure out how to stay in his mother’s good graces. And try showing her a little respect.”
Interfering— Patrick cut off the thought. “Fine. What I want, however, is your word that you’ll mention this information to no one else.”
“And I won’t have them out in the employee cottage. They’re family.”
“Yes, but Wesley doesn’t know that. You need to slow down here, Louisa. I want Wesley up here, too, but Bronwyn doesn’t want to spring the truth on him.”
Louisa said, “Very well. Of course, I’ll say nothing. Except, perhaps, to her.” Thoughtful, she glanced toward the windows looking out on the stables. “There’s Jacko Bullock. If only I could trust that man.”
Chapter Eight
“Boss wants you,” Helena said, looking in the door of the gym.
Bronwyn had lost some of her fear of Louisa Fairchild, but not all of it. Louisa treated her so well, more than fairly, and yet strangely that only served to increase her trepidation in the woman’s presence. She supposed it was because the fair treatment increased her own sense of responsibility toward Louisa. Bronwyn expected more of herself, knowing that she had been treated generously.
She had been reviewing a DVD on repetitive motion injuries, with an aim to helping one of the grooms, who was also under a doctor’s care. Bronwyn had borrowed one of the Fairchild Acres utes earlier that day to accompany 138 the groom to an appointment with his physiotherapist. She knew that she was expected at the barbecue upstairs. Fortunately, she’d already changed into some classic ivory slacks and a silk blouse, with a choker of pearls, her wedding gift from Ari, around her throat. So much of her jewelry from him she’d pawned, but the pearls held happy memories. She felt no guilt in having those memories, and was more disturbed by the part of herself that hated him for his crimes.
She shut
down the large-screen monitor and DVD player, turned off the lights and left the room that had become the center of her world. She was so happy at Fairchild Acres now.As soon as he arrived home from school, Wesley hurried through the kitchen and downstairs to join her. Then, Bronwyn would accompany him upstairs to make his snack, look at his schoolwork and hear about his day. If she had no classes, she played soccer with him.
Or else, he rushed off to the stables to go for a ride.
With Patrick.
Louisa Fairchild was waiting in the hall at the top of the stairs.
When Bronwyn joined her, the old woman turned on her heel. “Come with me.” Walking swiftly with her cane, Louisa led the way through the house, through the elegant living room with its tasteful antiques—nothing cluttered or fussy—past photos of horses, horses, horses, and into the room which Bronwyn had learned was Louisa’s office.
As Bronwyn stepped through the door, Louisa said, “Please close that.”
Uneasy, Bronwyn did as her employer asked.
“I have learned through no fault of Patrick’s—he has honored your trust—that Wesley is Patrick’s son.”
Bronwyn’s heart fell. She’d felt powerless enough confronted by Patrick’s wealth. If Louisa Fairchild set out to help him take Wesley from her, how could she possibly fight them?
“I’ve also learned that he hopes to secure fifty percent time with Wesley.”
Bronwyn said nothing.
Louisa glared at her. “I’ve told him that I won’t countenance such a thing. No one on this property is going to gain my support in taking a child from his mother. Even,” she added when Bronwyn would have spoken, “for half the year. Patrick knows that if he chooses to fight you on this, he will also be fighting me.”
“You?” Bronwyn felt faint. She was also moved— touched—but thought she must be misunderstanding Louisa. “I don’t want to come between—”
“You’re not coming between Patrick and me,” Louisa said. “Though I’ve known them only a short time, I have a fierce loyalty to Patrick and Megan. But you, too, are family, as is Wesley. You both have a home at Fairchild Acres. Forever.”
Part of Bronwyn—a sentimental part of her that she’d thought long since dead—grew warm with feeling. 140 Her eyes started to flood, and she blinked quickly, remembering the suspicious nature that had become part of her as a teenager and had been strengthened by Ari’s perfidy. Was Louisa Fairchild trying to exert power over her? Was she being used?
Bronwyn whispered, “Why are you doing this?”
Louisa gazed at her hard, seeming to struggle with a private battle. The old woman said, “Children belong with their mothers. Patrick obviously didn’t know that I have strong feelings on this subject. Now, however, he does.”
“Thank you for your kindness and generosity,” Bronwyn said, still unable to completely dismiss her doubts. There was no such thing as a free lunch.
“I want you and Wesley here in this house.
I don’t want to be treated differently from—
But you are different, my dear. You’re family.
But Wesley doesn’t—
Yes, Patrick told me. Wesley doesn’t know the facts.
Miss Fairchild—” Bronwyn began.
“Louisa.
Louisa, I—I’m grateful, but I’m used to—I need to work. I can’t accept something for nothing.”
“Who said anything about your not working?”
Bronwyn felt herself flush. “I meant, you’ve already been more than good to me. If I can just continue as I have been—”
“You don’t wish to live in this house? Even knowing it might be better for Wesley?”
Bronwyn thought this through. Better for Wesley? Well, Patrick lived in this house, that was true.
“I don’t want the other women,” she said, “my housemates—”
“You don’t want to set yourself above them,” Louisa said thoughtfully. Something complex seemed to be unfolding behind her eyes, part memory, part something else. Finally, she said, “I suppose if I’d ever been given the choice whether or not to be set apart as a Fairchild… Yes, I might have preferred to fit in with everyone else, too.”
“I appreciate your trusting me,” Bronwyn said. “Not thinking that I’m like Ari—”
Louisa gave a snort. She gave Bronwyn a wave of her hand. “Well, we’d best be part of this barbecue.”
Bronwyn froze. “You’re not hoping—” She stopped, knowing that what she’d almost said might be considered impertinent.
“Not hoping what?
Patrick and I—it was a long time ago.
You think I’d sell you off to him? No, Bronwyn, that’s between the two of you. And, considering the things he’s done, if you think him an ass, that’s quite all right with me.”
Patrick saw Bronwyn emerge from Louisa’s office ahead of his great-aunt. He gave her a tentative smile. Bronwyn’s eyes met his for a moment, and she flushed.
Why? he wondered. Louisa must have told her that she had nothing to fear from him.
His own feelings were a tumult, and he wondered if, now that Louisa had announced her intention to fight his suit for Wesley, he could safely ignore his attorney’s advice and be less than professional with Bronwyn. He nearly shuddered as he imagined Louisa’s reaction if she could read his thoughts. All right, he could be professional but also…friendly.
He said, “Everything all right?”
Bronwyn cast another look at him. “Yes.”
She looked distrustful. Of him? Of Louisa? But how could she trust, after what had happened with Ari. She’d trusted that her husband was who and what he’d pretended to be, and look what had happened.
She paused beside him and looked up. He’d met few women with green eyes and none with such a clear green as Bronwyn’s. He thought of Wesley, who held both Patrick’s and Bronwyn’s genetic heritage. A product of their love, for they had been in love back then.
“Want to join me outside, get something to eat? And where is Wesley?”
“He and Beckham were going for a walk last I knew. Wesley’s trying to teach him to retrieve.”
Patrick nodded. Louisa had stepped out through the French doors, and now Patrick and Bronwyn were alone. “When are we going to tell him, Bronwyn?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I think I should tell him alone. I don’t know how he’ll react, and that will give him the most privacy with his feelings.”
“Perhaps this weekend?”
Bronwyn considered.
“Will you come to the races with me tomorrow?” Patrick asked.
Bronwyn’s face once again betrayed uneasiness and suspicion. She seemed terribly fragile to Patrick.
He said softly, coaxingly, “I’m asking you on a date.”
A date, Bronwyn thought. A date with her former lover, with the father of her child, with a man who had asked her to marry him yet had seemed unready for marriage.
But Patrick wasn’t that person anymore. In the past few days, she’d watched not only his interaction with Wesley, but with Louisa and all the employees. During one indoor cycling class, he’d even lightly flirted with Helena, marveling at her strength and endurance, and Bronwyn had seen Helena flush with pleasure at his encouraging compliments.
Yes, this new Patrick, this different Patrick, was someone she wanted to know better. But only if she could do so without surrendering her independence. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “there won’t be any classes.”
“It’s settled then. An Indecent Proposal is going to run. He’s my favorite.”
“And the favorite, from what I understand.”
Bronwyn found herself walking out into the warm afternoon sunlight with Patrick. She felt comforted and safe, as though she’d just put on her favorite nightgown or oldest, most comfortable pair of shoes. But outside she spotted photographers, members of the press come to report on the social occasion, and she immediately saw one camera point at her.
She swung
away in half-forgotten practice, remembering cameras outside the flat in Sydney, outside their various other houses. She was attractive and had been married to Ari Theodoros, and she had no doubt that members of the press recognized her.
A protective arm went around her shoulder, and she hissed, “Don’t. It will make it worse.” More cameras flashing.
“Mrs. Theodoros. Do you feel welcome here among the Thoroughbred set?” one journalist asked.
“This is a party,” Patrick said. “Ms. Davies is a friend of the family and an employee here. If you harass her— or anyone else—you’ll be asked to leave.”
Bronwyn spotted Jackson Bullock, and a host of bad memories came back. She’d never liked the man. Ari had been one of his supporters, and Bronwyn had been surprised that the doping scam hadn’t netted Bullock along with so many others. She had no wish to draw the man’s attention.
“This is awful,” she told Patrick. “Where’s Wesley?” She turned and started away from the patio and the food, and down toward the employee bungalows. Patrick fell into step beside her.
“When are you going to move up to the main house?” he asked.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she replied. “Wesley and I are fine where we are.”
“I wanted to ask you. Next week I need to go to Sydney, and I was hoping you and Wesley would join me. There are spare rooms in my penthouse. I’m trying to get tickets to a Socceroos game.”
This is going too fast. “That’s very nice,” Bronwyn said, “but I’m needed here. There are classes to teach, and I’m helping one of the grooms with his physical therapy.”
“Patrick!” Wesley barreled up to the two of them, Beckham at his heels. “Watch what Beckham can do.” He threw a ball. “Go get it, boy!”
Beckham chased the ball, caught it, brought it back and dropped it at Wesley’s feet. “Want to play soccer, Patrick?” Wesley asked.