When Adam Carmichael had first met her, Serena Templeton had been a lost, tragic little figure, a princess locked up in an ivory tower from which there seemed no escape. But she was a responsibility that had virtually been left to him, so he did what he could and left the rest to fate. And fate saw to it that by the next time they met, several years later, Serena was a changed girl — no longer tragic but completely normal — and very attractive. She no longer needed a prince to rescue her — and even if she had, there was no possibility that Adam was the right prince!
PRINCESS
BY
ALISON FRASER
MILLS & BOON LIMITED
15-16 BROOK’S MEWS LONDON WIA IDR
Original hardcover edition published 1984
Australian copyright 1984
Philippine copyright 1984
© Alison Fraser 1984
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
The sun should be brighter, she thought. And it shouldn’t rain so much, should it? It was never this cold when her father was there—or this quiet, either. Maybe he would come back soon, maybe they would walk through their favourite vineyard and work up an appetite for sharing a king-sized pizza. Maybe...
But why was it so hard to remember? Why was it so cold?
Bleak, was Adam’s verdict. Real Bronte country, down to the wind threatening storm that had carried away the bare eulogy at the graveside earlier that afternoon. Climbing out of the passenger seat of an elderly Rover, he turned up his collar against it and let his eyes range dispassionately over his late aunt’s home, Simmonds Hall.
Mr Alexander, the solicitor, came to stand at his side and observe. ‘Quite an impressive house, Mr Carmichael.’
‘Really.’ It was a noncommittal sound. The house was large, certainly, over a dozen narrow casement windows running the length of the upper storey, but the local stone was badly weathered, its ivy covering grown rampant rather than picturesque.
Adam hoped he had misconstrued his required presence at the will reading. The house’s windswept isolation held no appeal and its size and neglected state stamped it a white, or perhaps more appropriately, grey elephant. With a touch of irreverence he prayed that his widowed, childless aunt had been fond of cats or juvenile delinquents or some other worthy cause that might have worked in his disfavour.
More familiar with their surroundings, the old solicitor led the way through the darkened hallway to the library, bare of furniture save for a long oak table flanked by several high-backed chairs. The air in the room was stale and oppressive, the heavy curtains closed to mark a death in the family.
‘Do you mind?’ Adam asked perfunctorily, then presumed on his position as one half of the dead woman’s surviving family to draw back the curtains. The cold grey daylight made the room stark but tolerable. He turned back to Mr Alexander. ‘Will this take long?’
The older man looked up from the papers he was sorting with a faintly surprised expression. Curbing some of the impatience in his tone, Adam went on to explain, ‘I had hoped to be back in London by early evening ‘
At this the solicitor’s surprise hardened to shock— presumably for his unseemly hurry to dispense with the rituals of death, Adam mused.
‘Why, Mr Carmichael... I had assumed that you would be staying... at least overnight,’ Mr Alexander muttered agitatedly. ‘Although I did not draw up her last will, my late client expressed a wish that you, her nephew, should take care of her... um... affairs.’
It was a repetition of what his mother had said when pressing Adam into representing her at the funeral. At the time he had considered it merely an excuse for her delegation of the duty.
‘Do you really think it necessary?’ Adam pursued with heavy reluctance to stay even one night in Yorkshire.
Mr Alexander’s eyes almost boggled behind his round gold-rimmed spectacles. In his worst imaginings of Adam Carmichael, based on a jaundiced view of bestselling writers, he had not anticipated this.
‘Of course, Mr Carmichael, it’s your decision entirely. In the circumstances, however, to settle so delicate a matter by postal communication alone, would be—well...’ the solicitor, visibly flurried, trailed off.
Unable to see anything particularly delicate about winding up his aunt’s estate, nevertheless Adam gave in with a measure of good grace. He had no desire to enter a lengthy legal correspondence.
‘I understand. Is there a telephone I could use?’ he asked. ‘I must cancel a social engagement.’
‘Certainly,’ the solicitor breathed on a note of relief, and indicating a door in the far corner of the room, added, ‘You will find the adjoining room quite private.’
It was a sitting room, the furniture cumbersome and lacking in style, the decor chillingly drab. From what Adam had seen so far, his aunt, or perhaps her first husband—that last Simmonds of Simmonds Hall—had had very austere taste.
He sat for a moment, thinking about the dead woman. He had met Andrea Templeton once briefly, and recalled atall, striking woman with titian hair and a brittle laugh. He had neither liked nor disliked her; indeed he knew precious little about her, for his mother had been more vague than usual on the subject of her half-sister. Concluding that he had been chosen to take care of her affairs by default as her only male relative, he gave up his concentration to the telephone.
Even at this relatively late hour, Julia sounded sleepy and languid when she answered, but immediately dropped all casualness when he identified himself. He cut into her enthusiastic outpourings to explain why he was ringing, listened impassively to her petulant protests at being stood up, as she termed it, and then hung up on her when her tone became strident.
Julia Montague, the latest in a long line of girl-friends, was a very attractive woman in the physical sense, but Adam had no intention of dancing to her, or any woman’s, shrill tune. At the beginning of their relationship he had made it plain that he was not in the marriage stakes, and it was now reaching the stage where his interest was rapidly cooling. He made a mental note to get some ‘it was nice knowing you’ jewellery that would satisfy her acquisitive nature, and then completely dismissed her from his mind.
When Adam returned to the library, the lawyer was no longer alone. Seated on the far side of the reading table was a schoolgirl, dressed in plain grey jersey and white blouse, her head bent forward, a rash of fair hair obscuring her face.
And as Mr Alexander rose from his chair and turned to Adam, he gained perfect but belated understanding of the other’s mystified expression. What he had taken for callousness had, quite remarkably in his eyes, been total ignorance.
‘Mr Carmichael, this is Mrs Templeton’s stepdaughter, Serena,’ he hastily performed the necessary introduction and then in a markedly slower tone, addressed the girl, ‘Mr Carmichael is your mother’s nephew, Serena.’
‘I’m glad to meet you, Serena,’ Adam responded with a neutral politeness, despite being more than a little put out by this large detail omitted by his mother in her sketchy account of her sister’s life.
Head still bowed, the girl ignored both his outstretched hand and his greeting. Adam was first stunned and then angry at the blatant rudeness, but catching the plea in the solicitor’s eyes, he bit back any retort. His attention was distracted by the entry of a large cheerful woman bearing a tray of tea and finely-cut sandwiches. This time he was acknowledged with a broad pleasant smile.
‘Will that be all, sir?’ the newcomer enquired as she place
d a cup of tea and sandwich in front of the young girl, directing another quick curious glance in Adam’s direction.
‘Perhaps you could see that everything is ready for Mr Carmichael. He will be staying overnight, Mrs Baker,’ the solicitor courteously dismissed her as he became increasingly conscious of Adam’s fixed stare on the top of a golden head that remained rigidly still and unresponsive, despite the reassuring squeeze her lifeless hand had received from the departing housekeeper.
Shuffling papers about, he waited until the door was firmly shut before clearing his throat and proceeding tonelessly, ‘I, Andrea Felicia Templeton, being of sound mind, do make this my last will and testament. To my beloved stepdaughter, Serena Jane Templeton, I leave my jade ring and necklace which, in her own simple way, she admired so much... The residue of my estate I leave to my nephew, Adam Carmichael, under the condition that he accepts legal responsibility for my stepdaughter, and in the belief that he is the most suitable person so to do.’
Alexander paused, throwing a glance between the other occupants of the room; the girl’s face was still hidden by the straggle of her hair, and he gained no assurance from the cool implacability of Adam’s. Signs of shock or displeasure would somehow have been more comforting.
His reluctance became even more heavily pronounced as he read on, ‘As a result of injuries sustained in a motor accident, my stepdaughter is... mentally retarded and I therefore have no objection to her being placed in an appropriate private institution.’ By the end Mr Alexander’s embarrassment was almost palpable. He murmured apologetically, ‘Most distressing, I’m afraid.’
The eyes of both men now rested expectantly on the girl, but she gave no indication that she had understood or even heard the blunt phrasing that applied to her. Eventually, sighing, the older man rose stiffly and summoned the housekeeper with the old-fashioned bell pull beside the fireplace.
Will you escort Serena to her room, please, Mrs Baker,’ he instructed gravely. ‘I think she’s tired.’
Gently touching the girl’s shoulder, the woman encouraged, ‘Come along, my lamb,’ and without lifting her head, the girl automatically shuffled out of the room.
Adam observed her retreating figure, formless in her ill-fitting clothes, with clinical interest, and when the door closed behind them, said with soft sardonicism, ‘The delicate matter?’
‘I must apologise, I didn’t realise that...’
‘Scarcely your fault,’ Adam reassured succinctly while mentally squaring the blame on his mother’s shoulders. ‘As you have probably gathered, my knowledge of my aunt is extremely limited. Presumably she is the child of the second husband?’
‘Yes, he died in the accident to which my late client referred. Tragic loss of a fine artist,’ Mr Alexander murmured dolefully, and at Adam’s frown of incomprehension, enlarged, ‘Graham Templeton—perhaps you have heard of him?’
‘Graham Templeton?’ repeated Adam with mild incredulity, for he had one of the man’s paintings in the study of his service flat—a portrait he had bought several years ago from a small London gallery. Seeing it in the window, he had been struck by the serenity of the woman’s face, a beauty that was not flamboyant but somehow compelling. In reply to the solicitor’s oblique glance, he remarked, ‘I have one of his paintings. A much undervalued man.’
‘Indeed yes. He preferred obscurity to recognition and did little to promote his work.’ The tone revealed more than a passing admiration. ‘I regret my acquaintanceship with Mr Templeton was so short.’
‘When was the accident?’ Adam quizzed.
‘Let me see, it happened about two years after the marriage,’ he matched Adam’s matter-of-fact tone, since the young man was certainly no grieving relative, ‘and that would have been slightly over seven years ago.’
‘So the girl has been in that condition for five years,’ Adam calculated.
‘Not exactly,’ Mr Alexander said hesitantly. ‘The girl was undoubtedly ill when her stepmother took her home from the hospital, but...’
‘But?’ Adam pressed.
‘Before the accident Serena was a bright, gifted child.’
The solicitor strove to overcome a dislike for speculation and partially succeeded, continuing, ‘In the first half year after the accident, I did not perceive any signs of mental impairment in the girl, although she was, of course, deeply affected by her loss. They were very close, even for a father and daughter.’
Adam was not sure what he was meant to make, if anything, of this sombre speech.
‘What are you implying, Mr Alexander?’
The old solicitor removed his glasses and began to wipe them. It was a distracted action, as he wavered on the verge of saying more before reverting to his usual cautious stance.
‘I did not wish to imply anything,’ he replied flatly, replacing his spectacles. ‘I was merely stating an impression.’
Adam respected his reticence and asked a more pertinent question. ‘What is the medical opinion on her condition?’
‘The local doctor suggested that the girl might be suffering the delayed effects of a severe blow she received on the skull,’ the other relayed.
‘And the specialist?’
‘Specialist?’ Alexander echoed.
‘Brain specialist,’ Adam expanded abruptly, and when it was met with a telling silence, he said in disbelief, ‘She hasn’t been examined by one?’
A shade defensively, as though he was guilty of the omission himself, the solicitor admitted, ‘Your aunt was adverse to consulting one. She appeared to believe that Serena would get better in time... of her own accord.’
‘So the girl has had no treatment?’
‘The doctor did prescribe some sleeping tablets for the girl’s recurring nightmares about the accident, and for when she became excitable during the day,’ Mr Alexander informed him, almost gratified by how hard the younger man was pushing him on the matter. He had, however, mistaken Adam Carmichael’s practical streak for compassion.
But Adam’s disgust was real enough as he disapproved, ‘Sedatives for a child?’
‘For her own safety, I believe,’ Alexander replied. ‘I understand she began to wander in the night, and although Mrs Templeton gave strict instructions to lock every door and window, she managed to get out one night and the police found her at dawn, lost and feverish, on the hills about four miles away.’
‘Running away?’ Adam sharply spoke his thoughts aloud and was himself surprised by the direction they had taken. For a moment Mr Alexander’s narrative had conjured up an image of his aunt as gaoler instead of protector.
‘From what?’
Adam shrugged, ‘From Andrea, I suppose.’
Mr Alexander looked troubled for a second by what was obviously a new idea, but his reply had a definite ring. ‘If I may say so, Mr Carmichael, that is extremely unlikely. Your aunt was devoted to the girl’s interests. According to the housekeeper, she literally waited on her hand and foot.’
‘A trifle over-protective, then?’ Adam suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ Mr Alexander allowed. ‘Serena had reputedly deteriorated since Mrs Templeton’s last illness.’
‘Does she still take medication?’ He met the solicitor’s eyes as he shook his grey head, and he was positive that the old man was thinking the same as he—the girl no longer needed any artificial depressants.
Indeed there was more than a touch of hopelessness in Mr Alexander’s tentative, ‘I wonder if you would care to venture an opinion on the girl’s mental state—as a relative outsider?’
After minimal consideration Adam replied, ‘Judging from the child’s total lack of reaction to that rather bluntly worded will, I would say she appears autistic—in as far as my layman’s opinion counts for anything.’ The slight, almost imperceptible upward movement of her head at the mention of the jade jewellery came to mind, only to be dismissed as insignificant. ‘Does your opinion differ?’
Mr Alexander removed his glasses once more and rubbed his eyes in a ge
sture of weariness, before affirming, ‘Based on her behaviour today, I am forced to agree with you.’
‘What is the girl’s mental age?’ Adam enquired, mind already running ahead to practicalities.
‘I really couldn’t say,’ the solicitor sighed, and with a return to formality, ‘Have you made any preliminary decision on how you would like to proceed? I must advise you that your legacy is dependent on your becoming, at the very least, Serena’s guardian.’
Adam forbore from mentioning that he had no need of his aunt’s worldly goods to supplement his considerable private income.
‘I imagine she can be found a place in a school for backward children.’ It sounded cool and detached.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t quite that simple, Mr Carmichael.’ Alexander moved from legal dryness to abrupt coldness. ‘Serena is now too old for that sort of establishment. She will very shortly be nineteen.’
‘Good God, I thought her fourteen at most—from the little I saw of her,’ Adam muttered disbelievingly. ‘If she’s that old, why is she dressed like that? Surely her mother could afford clothes that fitted better, to say nothing of the style!’
His gaze encompassed the antique cases, containing richly bound books, and the sparse but expensive furniture to stress his point.
‘Her stepmother wished to underline her youth and make her as plain as possible. To avoid any chance of her arousing... er... romantic interest,’ Mr Alexander explained, his tone reflecting some doubt, ‘although I believe Serena has not been outside the grounds for some years.’
It seemed ridiculous to Adam that the withdrawn hunched figure should be considered as potentially attractive. With a shrewdness that jolted the other man he commented, ‘You didn’t like my aunt very much, did you, Mr Alexander?’
The elderly solicitor seemed to waver between a frank response and one he deemed professionally correct. The latter won out as he said stiffly, ‘My connection with Mrs Templeton was of a strictly business nature.’
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