by Margaret Way
“Wh-a-t?” Patricia Mansfield spoke so loudly she let out all the air in her lungs. She waved a scornful hand. “Put her in her place, Conrad, why don’t you?” she managed hoarsely.
Conrad Mansfield gave an odd smile. “I very much doubt I can. Charlotte might be a mere slip of a girl, but she’s tough. It’s in the blood.”
“Balls!” Patricia shouted crudely. It was clear her husband wasn’t about to back her, so she turned on her heel, making for the stairs. “I won’t be seeing you again this evening, so I’ll say good night.” Her furious eyes ranged over Charlotte and Brendon, tall and formidable beside her.
“Good night, Aunt Patricia. With all due respect, I suggest you reevaluate your position here,” Charlotte said. “You resent it, I know, but Clouds does belong to me. I have the authority to say who lives or does not live here.”
Patricia’s hand on the banister revealed her white knuckles. “You’re like your mother, Charlotte. You’re missing a heart.”
From chill to burn. “The person missing a heart, Aunt Patricia, is you.”
“Perhaps we could go into the study, sir?” Brendon suggested.
Conrad Mansfield gave the much younger man a bitter smile. “I read you as a young man destined to get to the very top, Brendon. My father, who never felt pride in me, actually admired you even as a boy. He used to call you the Macmillan panther.”
“I have heard that. I don’t know why.”
“I think you do. I daresay you’ve been under massive pressure all your life to make your family proud. Many a young man would have gone under, gotten into drugs, the playboy lifestyle, whatever. You had a lot of guts to call on. Just like Charlotte here. I’m absolutely certain your family, including you, are working to take my niece over. Possibly even lure her into marriage.”
Charlotte cut in. “Marriage is a long way off, Uncle Conrad. I’ve only just turned twenty-one. I’ll be called on to step into my grandfather’s shoes or hand over the reins to someone far better qualified. I don’t intend to be taken over at any price, but we’re avoiding this issue of your new book. I appreciate that Cries of the Heart is a hard act to follow, but you must have something to show after all this time?”
His frown deepening, Conrad Mansfield stared down his straight nose at his niece. “You’re a writer . . . of sorts,” he said condescendingly. “Your father used to let me read your letters. He was so proud of you and the fact that you were so clever, a little girl full of such vitality and energy, with a marvellous appreciation of language.” Conrad turned to make his way to the study. “Come along then,” he invited. “It’s by no means finished. A project like this takes time. Years if it has to.”
“Your publisher hasn’t asked for a definite date?” Brendon asked.
“Maybe there never will be one,” Conrad Mansfield muttered, almost beneath his breath.
“You’re saying this book may never be finished?” Brendon followed up the muffled comment.
“Plenty of books are never finished,” Mansfield said.
Outside the study door, he produced a key from his pocket. “I usually lock the study when I’m away.”
Charlotte shot Brendon a sidelong glance. “I know there’s a spare somewhere.”
Her uncle paused to stare at her. “There was one. I’ve never found it.”
“Is there the need for such secrecy?” Charlotte asked.
“I have my reasons,” he replied. “Now, I’ll allow you to hold the manuscript in your hand, Charlotte. You told me you didn’t want to read it before publication, so we’ll hold to that, agreed?”
“Have you a working title?” Charlotte asked. “I believe Cries of the Heart was a phrase you borrowed from my father?”
Conrad Mansfield, who had been moving towards the wall of bookcases, swung back so abruptly his long white ponytail flipped around his throat like a rope. For a split second, he appeared acutely disturbed. There were deep grooves between his eyes. “My dear girl, wherever did you get that idea?” He wagged an admonishing finger.
“Directly from my father,” Charlotte promptly replied. “My mother had left for Sydney, I remember. My parents had had an argument. I overheard it. When my father realized, he hugged me close. I remember exactly what he said to me: ‘Cries of the heart, my darling. Cries of the heart.’ ”
Conrad Mansfield stared back at Charlotte as though he could scarcely credit what she was saying. “You seem very certain of this?”
“I remember that moment very clearly. A lot I can’t remember at all. Some things are coming back. Resurfacing, I could say. I was badly traumatized after the death of my parents.”
“Of course you were, my dear. We all were. The Mercedes scattered all over the valley floor. They had to have been arguing violently. That was the only explanation. It was a time of madness for us all. My father turned into a coldhearted monster. My poor mother—Christopher and I knew perfectly well she had always been unhappy with my father—just gave up, took a leave of absence on life. Christopher was her favourite. Christopher was everyone’s favourite. I was smart enough, good-looking enough, yet the best I could be was Chris’s shadow.”
“But you wrote a masterpiece,” Brendon reminded him, watching Conrad Mansfield closely.
“I beg your pardon?” Conrad asked blankly, like he had lost all track of the conversation.
“A masterpiece. Cries of the Heart?” Brendon prompted.
“Yes, yes, of course.” The blank expression lifted. “I didn’t have any other choice if I was to impress my father. I should tell you, Charlotte, the words ‘cries of the heart’ were original to me. Chris would have heard me say it. Such words were appropriate to what was going on at the time.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle, but I don’t think that’s true,” Charlotte flatly contradicted him.
“My dear child, I assure you it is.” Conrad Mansfield appeared flabbergasted by her response. “Your father didn’t write Cries of the Heart. I did.”
“I didn’t claim my father wrote your book,” Charlotte said. “I only said he gave you the title. Please may I see the manuscript now?”
“As a special concession, Charlotte, you may.”
“It’s a wonder you didn’t put it in the safe,” Charlotte said, catching Brendon’s silver warning look a second too late.
Conrad Mansfield gave an uncontrollable groan. “You remember the safe?” His voice contained anger and a good dash of anxiety.
“Of course I do.” Charlotte was sufficiently alert not to mention she knew the safe’s combination.
“Too hard to remember the combination?” her uncle asked, his lips curled. Of course she couldn’t. She had been a child, though he didn’t doubt his brother might have told her.
Charlotte shrugged. “I was too young.”
“Of course, though I wouldn’t have been surprised if my father or Christopher showed you. You were only a child, but a very inquisitive child, as I recall. The safe is where, do you remember?”
Her uncle was eyeing her in a way that Charlotte found truly disturbing. She knew she was being tested. “Behind the Brett Whiteley, over there.” She gestured at the iconic painting of Sydney Harbour.
“Aren’t you a clever girl!” he said, with a cold smile on his face.
“I’m supposed to be, remember? In the blood?”
Brendon once again thought it wise to intervene. He could sense a kind of desperation about Conrad Mansfield. He also sensed violence flexing in the man. “If you could let us see the manuscript, sir, we can go on our way. It’s been a long day.”
“My niece may hold it, not you, Brendon. You’re not family. At least not yet.”
Brendon’s silver-grey eyes flashed. “I don’t recommend you keep up that insinuation, sir. Nor do I recommend you start any gossip rolling.”
Conrad Mansfield’s malicious expression was wiped clean. “My lips are sealed, dear boy.”
Brendon forced himself not to say, “I’m not your dear boy.” He and Charlotte watche
d as Conrad Mansfield walked to the section of the bookcase nearest the partners’ desk. He pulled out a few weighty leather-bound, gold-tooled tomes, placed them on the desk, and then withdrew a substantial pile of papers that had been placed inside a manila folder.
“You’ve done a generous amount of work then?” Charlotte said, putting out her hands to take the hefty document.
“It’s a long story,” her uncle said. “I don’t blame you for wanting to see it. I’m oversensitive about it, afraid it won’t rate when compared with the first book. That does happen. Patricia, of course, is adamant I finish it.”
Charlotte looked down at the thick folder. There had to be nearly a ream of paper there. “I would love to read it,” she said.
At that, Conrad Mansfield moved to take the manuscript off her. “And so you shall—when it’s finished.”
“I do hope you will allow me to read the first page at least,” Charlotte said, not about to hand the file over. Did he really think she would?
“Why are you so hard to convince?” her uncle asked, endeavouring to stare her down.
“What concerns you, sir?” Brendon asked. “Charlotte has only asked to see the first page. I would think you’d be only too pleased to let her read the rest. Charlotte, as you are aware, is a very gifted young woman. Feedback must be important to you?”
“All right then, go ahead!” Conrad cried. There were ragged edges to his whole persona.
“Thank you.” Charlotte put the heavy folder down on the desktop, shifting her grandfather’s antique silver inkstand to accommodate it. Something about this thick pile of papers spoke to her. She wanted to open the file. Found she couldn’t. Her tapering fingers hovered several inches above it.
“Open it, Charlie,” Brendon told her briskly, noting her hesitation.
“Leave the girl alone,” Conrad Mansfield barked, turning on Brendon.
It seemed such an easy thing to do, yet Charlotte was continuing to hesitate. “Do you need help, Charlie?” Brendon asked, ignoring Conrad, who appeared to him to be on the verge of panic.
“Of course not. I was merely being reverential,” Charlotte said, tongue-in-cheek.
There was no title page. No inscription. A trained speed reader, Charlotte took little time to read through and better yet, absorb the front page. She could hardly believe what she read. She couldn’t even associate it with the author of Cries of the Heart. Opening lines, let alone the first page, had to draw in the reader. That was a given. Even for a first draft this wasn’t good. In fact, it was embarrassingly bad. It appeared to be the start of a thriller? That much was apparent. Yet how could a man with such a gift write this? The text had been heavily annotated, underlined, asterisked, like an amateur’s first attempt.
She shut the file quietly, wondering what in heaven’s name she had learned. “Thank you, Uncle Conrad,” she said, her level tone masking her shock. Was it possible her uncle had only one great book in him? Even so, he couldn’t have written this, surely?
“Not bad, eh?” her uncle asked, looking immensely relieved.
“Difficult to tell without reading further,” Brendon said, wondering why Charlotte hadn’t seized her opportunity to at least riffle through the pages.
“You’ll just have to wait for that.” Conrad smirked behind his heavy moustache. Every trace of panic had gone out of his face.
* * *
They were in the car on their way back to Sydney before Charlotte found she could speak about what she had read. Her uncle had seen them off, back to his urbane self. “I’m sure you understand your aunt is upset about Simon,” he said, patting Charlotte’s shoulder like they were coconspirators. “I really should have been more of a hands-on parent, just as Patricia said. But then, I did have my book to get out.”
“In a remarkably short time,” Brendon slid in.
“It came easily, I admit. For far too long I’ve feared it was a stand-alone.”
Charlotte couldn’t find it within herself to make a comment. “We’ll be in touch, Uncle Conrad,” she said, giving little impression she was full of anger, regret, even pity.
“Drive safely now,” he said, to all appearances the concerned loving uncle. He waited as Brendon shut the passenger door on Charlotte before walking around to the driver’s side.
Conrad remained in place, waving them off. Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to wave back. Instead she swallowed down an icy drip of alarm. She might not be able to remember, but intuitively she knew what her uncle was capable of. What both her uncle and aunt were capable of, for that matter, outwardly smiling, yet inwardly full of jealousy and years of banked-up resentments. One could conclude that would have happened early with her mother and father confirmed as Sir Reginald’s “chosen ones.” A barrier would always have been there. It didn’t surprise her that her uncle had cast around frantically for some way to impress his father. That could have led him into willful and deliberate plagiarism.
“Well, what did you think?” Brendon broke the silence. They were clear of the estate and underway down the mountain. “Obviously even the opening page is going to need a lot of work?” he said, with a lick of black humour.
“Let’s say it was a massive anticlimax.” Charlotte sighed. “I feel sick even thinking about it.”
“Not as bad as that, surely?” Brendon shot her a swift glance.
“A high school kid could do better,” Charlotte told him, bleakly. “It’s a thriller of some sort. Maybe even a detective story. It seems like it’s going to be a total departure from Cries of the Heart, and it’s certainly not going to turn the crime genre on its ear. God knows what the rest is all about, when the first page was so amateurish. I’d say Uncle Conrad is floundering badly.”
“Even so, there appeared to be an entire manuscript there,” Brendon pointed out. “You really should have demanded to read the lot, Charlie.”
“Of course I should have,” she said, her expression full of self-chastisement, “but believe it or not, I didn’t want to embarrass him. If Aunt Patricia has read the manuscript, she must know whether it’s good or not. She’s no fool. The opening page needs to go into the trash. No true writer wrote it.”
Brendon frowned. “So it’s a puzzlement, unless your uncle didn’t write Cries of the Heart at all.” He was gradually coming to believe he had hit on the truth. “Your uncle found a manuscript tucked away in the study, read it, realized it was very good, and then decided to publish it as his own. Your father was dead. Your mother was dead. Your grandparents obviously knew nothing about a book that their son Christopher had written. Conrad thought he could get away with it.”
“If you’re right, he has,” Charlotte confirmed, badly shaken. “What am I supposed to do,” she asked, in near-despair, “have my uncle sued?”
“I don’t suggest house detention.” Brendon’s answer was dry. “I can only repeat, you need to get them out of Clouds short of an eviction order. Hard to believe it, but they don’t appreciate anything you’ve done for them, Charlie. Your uncle believes he has a perfect right to stay on. He is most likely hiding behind a massive lie.”
“Only, proof isn’t a single page. He could have been struggling with a genre that’s new to him?”
“Charlie, babe, I don’t accept that,” Brendon groaned. “You don’t love your uncle, and why would you? The thought that he could publish your father’s book as his own leaves you stricken but loathe to expose him? I say he doesn’t deserve your compassion. Obviously one can’t learn to become a fine writer. One needs the gift. Conrad doesn’t have it. Christopher did.”
“I agree,” Charlotte said quietly. “Only think of what he might do if I uncover him? His triumph exposed as a sham? He would want to punish me. He’d most likely want to kill me. Get someone else to do it, of course. I don’t know what happened in the past, but something about Uncle Conrad makes me nervy, when I can’t think of a single thing he ever did that would make me feel that way. We both know he pretty well ignored me.”
Brendon extended a hand, giving her own hand a brief comforting pat. “You’ve always been very brave, Charlotte. It seems highly likely your uncle is a perfect fraud. He published a book that wasn’t his own. Okay, we don’t have proof. We’re going on a gut instinct, our knowledge of the man, and your poor opinion of the opening page of the new opus, or so he says. Why don’t you give them until into January to move out? That’s a generous amount of time. Your uncle would have no difficulty finding another sanctuary in the Blue Mountains, as I’ve said before.”
Charlotte looked through the darkened window up into the star-spangled, purplish-black night. They were almost at the site of her parents’ fatal crash. It gave her the shudders. “It’s all so bizarre, isn’t it? But I suppose it’s about time.” Agitation was taking hold of her. “I won’t expose him. I can’t. I can’t expose the family. I’ll just have to wait until my uncle dies. We both believe my father wrote Cries of the Heart. It was his personal triumph. It’s my duty as his daughter to see that he is acknowledged the author—it’s just not the right time.”
“I should think you would want to vindicate your father,” Brendon rasped. “Though I do see it would be difficult to take any other course of action right now. The scandal would rock both our families, members of Chambers who had been close friends with your father and know your uncle, the general public, the publishing house, and the critics. Of course, we’re assuming your uncle’s guilt, but his behaviour has tipped the balance—” Brendon broke off the conversation to take stock of what the car a short distance behind them was doing. The vehicle was moving too fast to safely negotiate the bends, he thought.
“What is it?” Charlotte was instantly alerted.
“Probably nothing.” Brendon’s eyes were blazing with concentration.
“For God’s sake, what are they doing?” Charlotte cried, turning her head to look through the rear window. The car’s headlights were dazzlingly bright. “They must be mad!” she said in alarm. “Even a total idiot wouldn’t drive so recklessly, and on high beam. That’s a danger to us.”
“Seems more like they want a bloody race,” Brendon gritted, moving his car farther to the right in case the lunatic behind them wanted to pass.