by Margaret Way
“Please come this way,” Mrs. Saunders said, keeping her hard composure. “I dare say something can be arranged.”
“I’d be so grateful.”
Isabelle risked a look at Bruno. Pulled a little face. There was a devil inside Bruno. But a good devil, if there was such a thing.
* * *
Mrs. Saunders paused outside a heavy mahogany door halfway down a wide, thickly carpeted corridor lined with more paintings and antique chairs set at intervals. She opened the door and then stood back, like a soldier at attention, waiting for them to enter.
Bruno was the first to speak. “To put it into words, this is a room fit for an Asian princess.”
“Is it ever!” Fascinated, Isabelle moved farther into the large room, studying the chinoiserie furnishings. A white marble mantelpiece, the pilasters of winged female figures, above it an enormous painting of two white herons standing in jade-coloured water beneath some tall green plant with exquisite white flowers. On the walls was an antique wallpaper featuring peonies, with colourful little birds in green branches. A lovely red-lacquered desk and chair at the end wall. But what dominated the space was an extraordinary Chinese four-poster bed. It stood on carved legs, with fretwork on three sides, the canopy intricately carved. It was fully made up, with a beautiful embroidered green silk coverlet.
“Beautiful as it is, I could sleep badly in that,” Isabelle murmured, thinking she would dream of the young woman who had lived here, slept in that extraordinary bed and then felt forced to leave.
“I assure you it is most comfortable,” said Mrs. Saunders in a stiff voice.
“Perhaps this was Helena’s room?” Bruno looked down at the woman to ask.
The charge in the atmosphere turned up. For a moment, it looked as though the housekeeper didn’t intend to answer, then she said, unsmilingly, “It was.”
Isabelle glanced over at Bruno. One question at a time.
“It’s the most beautiful bedroom in the house,” Mrs. Saunders said, her voice implying they would have little knowledge of such splendid things. “It has an en suite—Mr. Konrad had it put in for her, although it took quite a slice out of the adjoining bedroom. Whatever Miss Helena wanted, she got.”
That sounded so sour, it prompted Isabelle to find a question of her own. “If she were so indulged, why did she leave?”
The housekeeper swept her a cold look. “It is not for me to say, miss.”
“Didn’t you want to know?”
Mrs. Saunders pursed her lips. “I’m not family. I’m the housekeeper. I know my place. If you want to come with me, Mr. McKendrick, you can choose another bedroom, although you will have to use the bathroom at the end of the corridor.”
“No problem,” said Bruno obligingly. “Care to come along, Bella?” He held out his hand.
Such was his natural magnetism, Isabelle went to him, making a grab for his warm, strong hand. In all her years, she couldn’t recall ever once making such a grab for the hand of the man she had called Father. “Certainly,” she answered now. “I like to be helpful.”
“May I ask where the family sleep?” Bruno asked, when they were once more in the corridor.
The housekeeper appeared disconcerted by the question. “Mr. Hartmann has the West Wing,” she replied stiffly. “Mr. Stefan and Mr. Kurt occupy the East Wing. My rooms are on the ground floor. Staircases connect the wings to the main house. You’ll be joining Mr. Hartmann in the drawing room downstairs. You won’t have any difficulty finding it. The drawing room is to the right as you go down the staircase. The dining room is to the left.”
* * *
Bruno made his choice of a large room on the opposite side of the corridor. The Turkish Room. Isabelle wondered why this room hadn’t been made available for Bruno in the first place. It suited his exotic air. Mrs. Saunders had been in the process of directing them farther away from Helena’s bedroom. It was Bruno who had made his own choice, asking to see the bedrooms closer to Isabelle’s.
The Turkish Room won hands down.
“I’ll need to send one of the girls up to air this room and make the bed.” Mrs. Saunders’s expression, if not her actual words, conveyed this was an imposition. “Believe me, this room can get very dusty with all those hangings, the Kurdish rugs and all those cushions lying about. I have been told not to shift anything. Merely dust and vacuum. This is exactly as it was left.”
By whom? What family member?
Evidently Mrs. Saunders didn’t like the exotic furnishings or the rich clutter. There were books everywhere. On the floor, on the desk, piled up on a collection of inlaid brass bound travelling boxes. Cushions covered in beautiful Turkish fabrics were scattered all over the place. The room had been painted a shade of dark red, the colour picked up in the rugs with their beautiful central medallions and glowing dark sapphire or ruby fields. The mahogany bed was huge, made for a big man.
Who? was the burning question.
Mrs. Saunders supplied the answer. “The old gentleman, Mr. Konrad’s second son, Christian, brought it all back from a trip to Istanbul. This was his room.” She could barely keep a quiver of distaste from her voice. “Towels will be put in the bathroom at the end of the hall for your use, Mr. McKendrick.”
“Perhaps your house girl can do what she has to do when we’re at dinner,” Bruno suggested.
Mrs. Saunders’s mouth puckered, as if she’d sucked on a lemon. “As you wish. Your luggage is being sent up. It will be here shortly.”
“Many thanks, Mrs. Saunders,” Isabelle said, cool and calm. “Perhaps you are able to tell me, do you think I resemble Helena? You’ve been studying me closely.”
For the first time the woman showed a degree of torment. “The answer, miss,” she said, a fine tremor rippling beneath her smooth, unlined skin, “is in your mirror. You will see her image there.”
“Did you love her?” Isabelle asked very gently.
The tremor under the woman’s excellent skin intensified. “Love is hardly an appropriate word, miss,” she retorted. “Miss Helena Hartmann hardly knew I existed.”
“I see,” Isabelle said gently. What else was there to say?
“I’ll be off, then. I have much to attend to.”
“We wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your duties, Mrs. Saunders,” said Bruno with the merest suggestion of an ironic bow.
“You’re a devil, aren’t you?” Isabelle accused him when Mrs. Saunders had left. Bruno had gone to the door, checking on her progress down the staircase.
“I’m one of the good guys, Bella.” He came back into the room. “In order to be a step ahead, one has to know the enemy.”
“Mrs. Saunders is the enemy? Tell me quickly.”
Bruno’s strikingly handsome face grew serious. “You do realize she’s going to protect ‘the Master’ with her life?”
“What?” Isabelle nearly laughed but reined it in. In truth, the Hartmann mansion itself was freaking her out without throwing in the inmates.
“I’m asking you to pay attention now.”
“I am paying attention, thank you,” she said tartly. “What I’m asking you, Bruno McKendrick, is how in the world did you figure that out? I’m assuming ‘the Master’ is Erik.”
All at once Bruno laughed.
She couldn’t help it. She laughed too, rattled or not.
“Mr. Hartmann of course. If you took that woman out of her dreary gear, slapped a bit of makeup on her, she’d be a striking-looking woman.”
“She is now,” Isabelle said.
“But a shadow of what she could be.”
“Agreed. I can’t comment on her sexuality, but I see you’ve cast her as the sex interest, if not the love interest?”
“Erik Hartmann doesn’t strike me as the loving type,” Bruno said. “Controlled as Mrs. Saunders appears, she’s passionate about something. Clearly she hated Helena.”
Isabelle felt her once-settled world had been blasted away. “Hated?”
“You bet! She wouldn’t hav
e mourned Helena’s departure.”
“What do you intend to do, write a book?” Isabelle asked facetiously.
“There’s a story here, Bella. Stories. These people live so close to one another, they must hear the others breathe. This is real isolation. There are no weekly, monthly dinner parties for friends, no weekend outings, no trips to department stores and the supermarket. No cinema. No theatre. No opera. No ballet. Only interaction with one another.”
“Hang on,” Isabelle protested, “I need to get a handle on this. Are you implying incest is rampant in the Outback?”
“Incest is fairly rampant everywhere, but I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying lives can become too entwined. I don’t imagine the Master and his heir make pals of the station staff and invite them up for dinner. Kurt thinks he’s an aristocrat, so much nonsense has been fed him. Okay, the family is rich, but they’re living like they’re in another age.”
“Even another country. This is the twenty-first century. Maybe that’s why the women took off: male domination.”
“We’ll know more after we’ve had the honour of meeting the Master. The house girls would be aboriginal or part-aboriginal girls, women; wives or daughters of station employees. Aboriginal men have been the mainstay of the cattle industry in the Outback. They’re wonderful bushmen, horsemen, trackers. In a way, this is a closed community. Living in such isolation makes for dependence on one another. The extreme isolation of our continent made for legendary mateship. The reliance on one another to survive began from the first day of settlement.”
“I understand that. Kurt does give off an arrogant air. You don’t. Not when you’re with me anyway.” She couldn’t resist the little jibe.
“Arrogant? Why would I be?”
“Well, a man who looks like you and is as successful as you could easily be.”
“So what do I look like?” He suddenly caught her arm, turning her towards him and pinning her eyes.
For seconds, she went into free-fall. Seconds more before she recovered enough to manage lightly, “I’ll leave that to your girlfriends to tell you. I guess the Hartmanns and the likes of Mrs. Saunders are given over to keeping up appearances. Mrs. Saunders was born a century too late.”
“What’s the betting she worships the ground Mr. Hartmann walks upon?” Bruno asked, releasing her.
“I don’t have money to bet.”
“All right, a titian curl from your head?” He reached out and tweaked one, wrapping it around his finger.
She knew it wasn’t possible, but she felt her heart flip over. “You can’t be serious?”
“I really am. A symbol of trust. It’s not as though you can’t spare one.”
“You really should confess you enjoy teasing me.”
“To be fair, I haven’t missed your little jabs, either.” There was a mocking expression on his face, but his tone was almost tender.
“Okay, we’re even,” she said shakily.
“And the lock of hair?”
“I have no idea why you want it, but it’s a done deal.”
“Great! I’ll have to buy one of those Victorian lockets.”
Such was his blazing masculinity, he could even get away with it. “You’re not planning on wearing it around your neck?”
“I’ll keep mine in my breast pocket.”
So he wasn’t exempt from trying to seduce her, even if it were only with his voice and eyes. “Don’t practise your charms on me, Bruno McKendrick,” she warned.
He placed one hand over his heart. “Bella, I had no idea you find me charming.”
“Well, you do have enough going for you, which doesn’t mean, however, I fancy you. We’re colleagues. Colleagues hunting down a possible crime.”
“As if I could forget.”
“We can’t afford to.” She looked around at all the exotic appointments. “Gosh, this is some place. Some people would even call it a madhouse. This beautiful Kurdish prayer rug I’m obliged to stand on would look wonderful hanging on a wall.” She stared across at Bruno, who was examining a piece of militaria, a scary-looking war ax. “There’s a ghost in this room,” she said. “Don’t you feel it?”
Bruno put the war ax down. He too was experiencing the odd sensation. “There are ghosts all over this house.”
“There you go again. We’re in the homestead family mansion, Bruno, not the family cemetery.”
“Which must be somewhere on the station.” Bruno picked up a weighty leather-bound tome. He flicked through it, then put it down again on the travelling box. “I’ll make a good search of this room. I could very well find something interesting. Something that will tell us what we need to know, or at least point us in the right direction.”
Isabelle gave him a long, measured look. “I could help you, even if we choke on the dust. People who’ve lost their lives violently leave something behind, don’t you think? There was Erik’s wife, Myra, the adulteress, if that’s to be believed, and Christian, who managed to get himself shot.”
“Out of stupidity, inexperience or perhaps because he broke the rules?” Bruno pondered. “How do we know if Christian wasn’t having an affair with his ravishing sister-in-law?”
“Once removed?” Isabelle reminded him. “Erik and Christian were half brothers. I’m sure the much-maligned Myra had good in her. Perhaps whoever took that photograph of her was her lover? It had that look about it, seductiveness shimmering out of her. She looked very sexy. Women can get into a lot of trouble being sexy.”
“You’re telling me!” Bruno exclaimed, giving an expressive shrug of one shoulder. “They get us guys into a lot of trouble as well.”
“Wasn’t some girl running around town telling everyone you and she were on the brink of announcing your engagement?”
“And I didn’t give her an inch of encouragement.” Bruno suddenly held a finger to his lips. “Someone coming.”
“Gosh, you’ve got good ears.” She had heard nothing. Why would she? She’d been too busy following Bruno’s every word.
“A lot of practise,” he explained.
“Practise! Oh come on, you don’t—” She broke off when she realized he was having her on.
A moment more and they saw a tall, whipcord-thin figure in khaki working gear put Bruno’s luggage down and then pop Isabelle’s two pieces inside her room. “Time for us to step out.”
Bruno had his suitcase in hand when the houseman reappeared.
If he had been a woman, Isabelle was certain he would have screamed. As it was, he said on a hoarse gasp, “Gawd, you startled me!”
Not only did he look astonished, he looked fearful, as if he were seeing a ghost.
“Sorry,” Bruno apologized. “We were taking a look at my consigned bedroom.”
“No one goes in there,” the man said, looking furtively past Bruno’s tall figure.
“It’s the room I’ve picked,” Bruno said. “Is it supposed to be haunted?”
“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised.” The man swallowed hard.
Bruno held out his hand. “I’m Bruno McKendrick and this is Isabelle Martin. Thank you for bringing up our luggage.”
“No trouble, mate.” The man took a deep, shaky breath and then shook Bruno’s hand. “Liam O’Connor. I’m the handyman.” He shifted his disturbed glance from Bruno to Isabelle. “S’truth, young lady, I just can’t believe my eyes. It’s like Miss Helena has come back.”
Nailed it in one, Bruno thought.
“You knew her?” Isabelle asked the man, before he could get away.
“Well, not exactly knew her. She always said hello to all of us, but of course she wasn’t one of us. She was family. I was a young apprentice stockman in them days, but I remember her. She was beautiful like you, miss. All them red curls, the white skin and green eyes. She was tallish and very slim like you too. No one ever recovered after she ran off.”
“Hard to credit she would,” Bruno said.
“Mind you—” Liam inclined his head, obviously about to say m
ore, when he appeared to come to his senses.
“Mind you?” Isabelle prompted.
“Pays to keep one’s mouth shut around here, miss,” Liam said. “Anyways, pleased to meet yah both,” he mumbled. He then turned on his high-heeled boots and moved off as though a hand would reach out to prevent him.
“We get affirmation all the time,” Bruno said. “Miss Helena has come back. I have to speak to that guy.” He rubbed a hand over his chiselled chin.
“Could be a bad move.”
“I can and I will,” said Bruno. “Mind you, what? That’s the question. Someone in the family was a monster?”
Isabelle’s green eyes went wide. “Wouldn’t your dad have sussed that out?”
“My dad was never able to speak to anyone on the station outside the family. Very convenient, these musters. They go on for weeks at a time.”
“You heard what he said. Am I a Hartmann? Am I?”
Bruno met her eyes. “There’s a possibility, I suppose, you could be Helena’s child.”
“Which has to mean Hilary is well and truly in the frame for snatching me. Or Helena handed me over. Helena’s child, but by whom?”
“At this point, we don’t know,” said Bruno. “Look, why don’t we take a look around your room?”
Isabelle turned away. “Good idea!”
The time for truth was at hand. Both of them were determined to find out as much as they could about the family and the family secrets. Both were convinced Isabelle was part of the family. Had she been born out of wedlock? Had Helena’s mother, Myra, been pregnant with her lover’s child, not her husband’s? There was much to discover. Much to understand.
Chapter Five
Five minutes before they were due to join Erik Hartmann and his great-nephew and heir, Bruno knocked on Isabelle’s door. She opened it almost immediately, the two of them face-to-face, each intent on the other, both covering up reactions that were finding their way to the surface.