by Margaret Way
He looked back at her in silence. “No, I haven’t,” he said finally, his grey eyes darkening.
“It’s an extraordinary resemblance, wouldn’t you say?”
“Certainly. But people do have doubles, my dear.” He picked up his coffee, drank it in one gulp.
“I’m her mirror image. She’s even a musician, a pianist.”
Now his cheeks flushed. “What are you expecting of me, Isabelle?” he asked with unfamiliar testiness. “I’ve commented on the likeness. There’s no more I can say.”
“And you deny knowing anyone of the Hartmann name?”
He reacted sternly. “What on earth are you talking about, Isabelle? Why are you questioning me in this way? I do deny knowing any Hartmanns. Your mother wouldn’t brook such questions. It could be seen as insulting.”
“I wouldn’t dream of insulting either of you, Father. Perhaps you’re overreacting a little. The Hartmanns could well be kin you don’t know about.”
Dr. Martin sat up very straight. “I know my family tree, thank you, Isabelle. Your mother’s family tree is far more illustrious than mine. Hartmann is a German name. No Germans in the family, only English and Scots.”
“I know that, Father, but you can see how very intriguing this is?”
“Who gave you this photograph?” he asked, as though denouncing whoever it was.
“Someone I met for the first time a few nights ago.”
“And how did this person come to have it, let alone produce it for your viewing? Man, woman? Are you sure you haven’t met before?”
“It was a man, Father. A Bruno McKendrick, a respected name in the city. His father was a private investigator. He was hired by the Hartmann patriarch to find his missing granddaughter. This was some twenty years ago. He never did find her. She vanished.”
“Australian family?”
“Yes.”
He sat back, staring at her. “That settles it. Twenty years ago, my dear, your mother and I were a young married couple living in our homeland, England, where you were later born.”
“Go on.”
He showed a rare anger. “What do you mean, go on? There’s nothing more to say. No story to tell. The likeness to the young woman in the photograph is no more than coincidence. I’m very surprised this man showed it to you. It’s a long time ago.”
“And you’d be unhappy if I did a little investigating myself?” For a moment, Isabelle thought he was going to stand up and leave the table.
“My dear girl, I see no need whatever. For that matter, why would you want to?”
She put her thoughts into words. “She speaks to me, Father. I can see the unhappiness in her eyes. They’re my eyes.” She gave a little off-key laugh. “Maybe it’s a case of reincarnation?”
“I think we can rule that out,” he said sternly, as though she had lost her mind. “You always were far too imaginative. I hope you don’t intend showing that photograph to your mother. You’ll get short shrift there.”
“Why exactly?” Isabelle asked, not understanding anything at all. “We all know my mother is a formidable woman, but what possible objection could she have to my showing her a photograph of someone who looks like me? Everyone likes a mystery.”
“Your mother doesn’t. Neither do I. Neither of us have the time to go chasing after mysteries. I can offer you no encouragement, Isabelle. I have no idea who that young woman could be.”
“Except she’s the image of me, Father. You were taken in.”
The rare flush in his cheeks deepened. “I’d be obliged if you’d stop, my dear. We’ve had a pleasant evening. Please don’t spoil it. If you’ve finished your coffee, we should go. Come along now. The concierge will call you a taxi.”
Isabelle shook her head. “Not necessary, Father. I’ll find one on the street.” It came to her with a sense of shock that it seemed as though her father had aged ten years right in front of her eyes.
* * *
She kept telling herself not to rush into anything. She had upset her father. God knows what would have happened had Hilary been present at dinner. Would her father tell Hilary all about the incident when he arrived back home? She might be due to get a stern, admonishing phone call. She was on her own now. Whoever Helena Hartmann had been, her parents didn’t want to know.
Two days went by. She had taken on a few students at the Conservatorium. Fledglings who would grow. Two with very real promise. Both male. The rest of the time she spent practising with the quartet.
“You play really well, Isabelle,” James Kellerman announced, in his smooth, patronising fashion, waving his bow at her. “You’ve fitted in far better than I hoped.” Immediately Emma, the viola player, went into a sulk. She worshipped James. The second violin, Simon, turned shyly admiring eyes on her. He seemed to have developed a crush on her. She smiled, taking little notice of James’s condescension. She was quite confident she played better than really well. She was a very good cellist. She had studied with the best of the best. Professor Otto Morgenstern would have thrown her out the door if she hadn’t met his extremely high standards.
“What say we run through the Schubert today?” said James.
She was happy. She loved Schubert.
When they broke late in the afternoon, James suggested they meet up for drinks and conversation later that night, his blue gaze intent on hers, waiting for her to look delighted and agree.
She had been prepared for something like this. “No can do, James.” She smiled at him cheerfully. “I’m seeing my father. He’s in town.” In fact, her father had flown back to Adelaide that morning.
Always on her mind was the worrying feeling she should get in touch with Bruno McKendrick, who already had profoundly altered her life. He had given her both his unlisted home number and his mobile number.
She waited until 8 p.m. before she rang his home number. If he were out on the town, as he very likely was, with the very attractive Penelope, who clearly had Madame Lubrinski’s approval, she would leave a message. Simple. She would tell him the matter was closed. Her father did not want her to pursue it.
To her surprise, he answered the phone. His voice was so immediate, so deep and sexy, it caused a spontaneous ripple in her blood. She could hear other voices raised in laughter, a woman’s voice in particular, in the background.
“It’s Isabelle Martin,” she announced herself quickly. “You’re busy? I can call back another time.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at home.” The voices had receded, so he must have moved off. “I need to tell you my father doesn’t know any Hartmanns. My parents lived in London at the time Helena disappeared.”
No comment on that. “What was his spontaneous reaction to the photograph, Bella?” he asked, cutting to the chase.
“He thought it was me.”
“Of course he did. Anyone would. Did he appear rattled in any way?”
“This is my father you’re talking about,” she protested.
“You sound like you’re hurting.”
Yet again he surprised her. He had picked up on her distress. “Arrah, not a bit,” she lied. “Listen, I won’t keep you from your friends. I had to call.” She was about to hang up.
He must have sensed it because he called urgently, “Bella? Bella, don’t hang up.”
She did. He could go back to his guests. He probably had someone over every night. Unbelievably, she was shaking all over.
* * *
Two hours later, she was in bed, rereading a leather-bound book of poems by one of her favourites, Emily Dickinson. Emily, she reckoned, must have been a pretty dark horse. Softly, she recited aloud:
Wild nights—Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile—the Winds—
To a Heart in port—
Done with the Compass—Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden—Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor—tonight—<
br />
In thee!
Reading the poem had quickened her pulse. Who was Emily’s mystery man?
The phone by her bed suddenly rang, startling her out of her little reverie. She knew before she picked up it would be him.
“Hello, Bruno McKendrick,” she said.
“Hello yourself, Bella Martin. How did you know it was me?”
“I don’t get late-night calls.”
“It’s only ten-fifteen.”
“Late for me.”
He laughed. “Come on. It was nearly one a.m. when I dropped you off the other night.”
“That was a special occasion. I’m not a party animal.”
“You’ll have to try a little harder. We have the same initials, by the way.”
“No, we don’t,” she corrected. “I’m I. M. I for Isabelle. M for Martin.”
“You’re Bella to me.”
“Your guests have gone?” she asked. No sounds from the background.
“My friend Jake and his wife, Sara. I managed to make quite a bit of money for them on the stock market.”
“They must love you.”
“They do. When you meet them, you’ll see for yourself.”
“I’m going to meet them?”
“There is no way, Bella, you’re going out of my life.”
“Could that be related to the fact that I’m the image of Helena Hartmann?”
“Actually, I’d miss the piano playing,” he said smoothly.
“Did you tell them about me? About your father’s old case; the resemblance, I mean.”
“Absolutely not. That’s our little secret.”
She was pleased. “Maybe you can make a bundle for me? I’m renting.”
“Really? Your parents must be well off, both specialist doctors. Haven’t they helped out?”
She tut-tutted. “They’ve been very good, Bruno. I won a scholarship to the Royal College, but naturally there were many expenses. They bought me a very fine cello before I left. My professor didn’t like it much. He traded it in for me and found me one very much better. He knew the lady who owned my current cello, actually a real Lady, and a philanthropist. I’ve been very lucky.”
“There are and always have been patrons of the arts,” Bruno said. “You are obviously a very deserving case. Marta Lubrinski’s husband, Ivor, was a great help to me, opening doors in the business world.”
“While Madame Lubrinski wheels out potential wives.”
“Don’t let’s go there,” he groaned. “I’m leading the good life as a bachelor.”
“Can I be serious now?” she asked, her tone changing.
“That’s why I rang you back. I had the idea you were worried sick.”
Gosh, he was intuitive. “Why should that be?”
“Maybe it’s your destiny—our destiny—to find out what happened to Helena Hartmann. Your father gave you no encouragement, I take it?”
She couldn’t help it; she gave a deep sigh. “I have never seen his disapproval so pronounced. He warned me against speaking to Hilary—my mother—about it.”
He sounded surprised. “You call your mother Hilary? May I ask why?”
“Obviously because she thought by the time I was seventeen, it was time. I still call my father, Father.”
“Can’t that be softened to Dad?”
“No. What was your father’s first name?”
“Ross. Ross McKendrick.”
“I like that. And your mother?”
“I’ll be darned if I remember. Chiara,” he said, after a moment, with a pure Roman accent.
“I suppose you speak fluent Italian?”
“I do. I’m proud of my heritage.”
“Chiara.” She had perfect pitch, so his mother’s name and the exact inflection he gave to it, rolled easily off her tongue. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”
“How do you know she was beautiful?”
She heard the grate in his voice. “You have to look like someone, Bruno. Someone Italian. You must see your mother every time you look in the mirror.”
He did. “It must spook you, not bearing any resemblance to your mother and father,” he countered. None of his friends ever mentioned his mother. Isabelle Martin was the first to bring her into the conversation.
“There’s the cousin in Scotland.”
“I understood she looked like a racehorse. Do you feel you could approach Hilary? I’ll come with you.”
“To Adelaide?” Her voice soared in surprise.
“There are daily flights in and out,” he pointed out dryly.
“You would come with me to meet my mother?”
“Bella, you can’t be serious. I meet scary people every day of my life. I’ve caught all your negative worries about your parents. Your mother in particular. You can bet your life your father has spoken to her about your meeting.”
“I am who I am,” she said.
“Tell me who you are?”
Some note in his voice turned her heart over. “You’ll have to wait until I get my head around it. Say good night, Bruno. I have a full day tomorrow.”
He answered not with the good night she expected, but a mellifluous stream of Italian.
That threw her. She knew all the musical terms in Italian. She could toss off the Italian words and phrases everyone knew, but of the words that rolled off his tongue so smoothly, she had no idea. Probably she would never know, but she could listen to his voice all day and all night.
* * *
Saturday morning and she planned to do a little shopping: groceries, fresh fruit and veggies. She had just finished dressing in blue culottes with a white camisole, colourful violet, blue and green-printed sneakers on her feet, when she heard her intercom buzzer. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She sprinted to the wall fixture adjacent to the kitchen, pressed the button and stared at the video image. For a moment, her mind blanked; then she whispered to herself, “My God!”
It was her mother. In Sydney. This visit meant trouble and no escape. There had never been long, leisurely conversations with Hilary. If it was any consolation, her father didn’t have that pleasure either. What else could she do but let her in?
“Open up, Isabelle. I know you’re there,” Hilary ordered, sharp as a knife.
Had she really expected, “It’s me, darling”? She almost asked what proof her mother had. Had she been camped out on the street? She unlocked the security door before snatching up her mobile to leave a message for Bruno McKendrick. She didn’t think about it. She just did it.
My mother’s at the door. She’s on the war path.
Not that he could do anything. Probably he had planned his day sailing the Harbour. She had heard he was an experienced yachtsman.
Heart beating fast, well aware she was going to be given a hard time, she went to her door, opening it to her mother, who regarded her with cold, narrowed eyes.
“Surprised to see me, Isabelle?”
She nearly said, “Naw!” offered instead, “Greetings to you too, Mother. Please come in.”
Hilary didn’t so much walk as stalk past her, her dark eyes sweeping around the combined living/kitchen space, searching for something that would meet with her disapproval. It was only a small flat, but Isabelle was naturally house proud. She had a flair for design. She always had fresh flowers in the flat, at the moment perfumed yellow roses in a copper bowl on the coffee table, white daisies on the kitchen bench beside a colourful ceramic dish holding lemons and limes. Lemons in the kitchen was a must for her.
“Not a happy face, then?” she dared to quip in the face of icy disapproval. She might have been a badly behaved schoolgirl in need of taming. “You flew in obviously. Can I get you something—tea, coffee?”
Hilary didn’t bother to answer. She threw her expensive Bally leather holdall onto a sofa. “To put it bluntly, this is outrageous, Isabelle.”
Isabelle stood her ground, controlling her strong impulse to run for the hills. “You need to explain, Mother.” She fully expec
ted Hilary to remind her she wished to be called by her first name. “What is outrageous?”
“Your reckless disregard for the feelings of others. I tell you, my girl, you upset your father terribly.”
That was true enough. “Do please sit down,” Isabelle invited, thinking Hilary would never change. “You’ve flown in especially to tell me that? Or are you on your way to someplace else?”
“You can show me that photograph you showed him,” Hilary said with severity.
In the old days she would have hopped to. Now an adult Isabelle said, “In good time. Shocking Father definitely wasn’t my intention.”
“Of course it was!” Hilary declared in a controlled rage. “And this person who gave it to you. What’s his agenda? What is he playing at? Or rather, why is he playing you? Obviously, he’s out to make trouble.”
“What possible trouble could he make? Where are you going with this?”
No explanation was forthcoming. “Do what you’re told, Isabelle. Go get the photograph. It’s quite possible it’s been doctored. What’s behind it I intend to find out.”
“If it weren’t you, Mother, I’d say you were acting a little crazy.”
“Don’t attempt to insult me, Isabelle,” Hilary said coldly. “Bring me the photo.”
“I will, but first, I’m going to make coffee.” Isabelle moved behind the kitchen counter. “Who am I really?” she shocked herself by asking, staring across the space at the tall, slim, elegantly dressed brunette who was the highly respected Dr. Hilary Martin.
“You stop that!” Hilary looked like she was about to throw something. Maybe the copper bowl of roses. “You know damned well who you are. You’re my daughter, even if you are a susceptible little fool.”
“Susceptible to what?” Isabelle popped a coffee pod into her machine. “I’d like to hear.”
“This is a hoax of some kind,” Hilary said, as though she had weighed up the situation and come to that conclusion.
Isabelle felt her heart skip a beat. Hoax? “To what purpose?” she asked, suddenly wondering if she could possibly be a victim. Bruno McKendrick was an extremely convincing man. “Please sit down. Surely we can discuss this calmly? The this is no more than a photograph of a girl who could be my double.”