by Margaret Way
“We’ve got a captive audience here,” Erik Hartmann pointed out almost languidly, as if immune to family outbursts.
Stefan looked across at Isabelle. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, young lady. I had to speak my mind.”
“I’m glad you did,” Isabelle replied.
“Not that it makes a great deal of difference if both the photos are of Helena or they aren’t,” Bruno said in a sombre voice.
“So what are you sweating on?” Kurt asked him angrily.
“Be quiet, Kurt,” Stefan snapped, turning his head to reprimand his son. “This young lady only seeks to find out if there’s a family connection. Isn’t that right, Isabelle?”
Quietly, Isabelle replied, “I have spoken at length with my parents—the people I have always believed to be my parents—but could I have been adopted?”
“That being so, there would be adoption papers,” Erik Hartmann said, as if that settled the matter, as it would. “Obviously there aren’t.”
“I don’t look anything like either of my parents,” Isabelle couldn’t refrain from commenting.
“I’m certain that’s not a unique state of affairs.” Erik studied Isabelle at length. “Are there no redheads on either side of the family?”
“My mother has a cousin in Scotland with red hair,” Isabelle admitted.
Erik Hartmann spread his hands. “There you are, then. Look at young Kurt. He takes after his mother’s side of the family, blond, blue eyes.”
“There’s nothing for it but we settle this thing.” Stefan Hartmann, brow furrowed, took a stand. “I don’t know a lot about DNA testing, but it’s accepted by the courts. I’d be happy to give you a sample of whatever is needed.”
A bitter look flared in Erik Hartmann’s eyes. “I absolutely forbid you to do such a thing,” he said in a low, angry voice.
“Could you tell us why, sir?” Bruno asked, his tone courteous. “We’re sorry if you’ve been made to feel offence, but you did allow us to come here.”
“A big bloody mistake, I’d say!” Kurt leapt in again. It was obvious he couldn’t control his own anger. He was 100 percent behind his great-uncle.
His father curled his lip in disdain. “What’s it got to do with you, Kurt? I’m beginning to think all you really care about is keeping in with Uncle Erik.”
Kurt stopped, unsure. “These people are after something, Dad.”
“Your inheritance?” Stefan scoffed.
Erik Hartmann interrupted. “How do you know I haven’t learned to my sorrow that my daughter is dead?”
Kurt blinked in astonishment, but his father jumped to his feet with all the energy in his tall, strongly muscled body. “You store up information like a miser, Erik. You’ve learned—you’ve learned—the hell you have! You’re a liar!” He rejected his uncle’s claim out of hand.
“Have you, sir?” Bruno was very conscious of what all this was doing to Bella.
Erik Hartmann didn’t answer directly. “Helena destroyed this family,” he said, pulling at his silk cravat. “She was given everything she could possibly want and she ran off.”
“I’d like to know where.” Isabelle’s green eyes sparkled with challenge. Helena didn’t destroy the family. The family destroyed her. She didn’t have a shred of proof, but that was what she believed.
“My dear, you don’t have a role in this,” Erik said, sounding very kind. “You may have dreams you’re a Hartmann, but I know you’re not. I grant you a remarkable resemblance, but we’ve all seen doubles.”
“Why won’t you allow testing?” Stefan demanded of his uncle. Clearly, they weren’t close, rather at loggerheads.
“Because, my dear nephew, it’s an affront to our family, of which I am head. Your grandfather would totally agree with me.”
Isabelle gave their host a long look, trying to judge the sincerity of his words. “Surely Konrad Hartmann, were he with us now, would change his mind?” she asked.
Stefan was frowning, leaning his hand on the back of a sofa. “Of course he would. Anything to establish what could have happened to Helena.”
“My father is not with us now. I make the decisions now. Isabelle here is very beautiful, but she could have dyed her hair. You notice her eyebrows are naturally dark. She could be wearing contact lenses. She could even have had plastic surgery.”
“None of which is true,” said Bruno flatly. “If you, Stefan Hartmann, are willing to undergo DNA testing, it should be all we need to prove a familial connection.”
“For the love of God!” Erik burst out, showing the first sign of agitation. “I won’t have this. I am head of this family. Not you, Stefan. You have a stake in Eaglehawk. That’s all.”
Isabelle stood up. “I am truly sorry if our coming here has upset you all. We were invited. What I don’t understand is why?” She directed her gaze at Erik Hartmann, lounging back in his chair.
“Because of the McKendrick connection, my dear girl,” he said, settling back into his confident, rich voice. “My father, Konrad, thought Mr. McKendrick a fine man who did his very best. The invitation was intended as a courtesy.”
“My father was a fine man.” Bruno entered into the discussion. “We have reason to believe Helena may have fled to the U.K.” He expected that to badly shake them, even the Master of Eaglehawk.
“She did,” Erik Hartmann said with enormous calm.
Kurt sat staring at his great-uncle as if he didn’t know what to say, but his father placed himself squarely in front of Erik, drawing a furious whistling breath through his teeth. “I would never have imagined even you would keep that piece of information from us,” he cried in undisguised shock. “What right did you have not to tell us?” He threw a heated glance at his son. “Wouldn’t you want to know, Kurt?”
“Yes, Dad, yes,” Kurt answered immediately, touching his forehead with his fingers, as though he had a terrible headache. “When did you find out, Uncle Erik?” he pleaded, looking immensely bothered.
“Would you believe only recently?” Erik Hartmann replied calmly. “At the same time, I learned Helena had died.”
Stefan brought his fist down so hard on the serving table everything jumped. “That isn’t good enough!”
In the middle of it all, Mrs. Saunders appeared, no doubt waiting in the wings as instructed. “Excuse me, sir,” she addressed the Master, “dinner is ready.”
“Dinner?” Stefan bellowed. He was swaying back and forth on his booted feet. “Who wants bloody dinner at a time like this?”
“I do, Stefan,” Erik said mildly, “and I’m sure our guests do as well. They’ve come a long way. The least we can do is feed them.”
“What did that bloody woman tell you before?” Stefan asked, watching his uncle closely.
“That bloody woman has devoted her entire adult life to serving this family,” Erik shot back with ice in his voice and possibly his veins. “I’m shocked you should attack her, and in front of our guests. Now, why don’t we put further discussion aside and go in to dinner?”
Stefan shook his head. “Not for me, thanks. Tell our splendid housekeeper to send my dinner over.”
“I think I’ll go with Dad,” said Kurt, of a sudden finding his bond with his father the stronger.
“Whatever, my boy!” Erik Hartmann smiled benignly, presenting his arm to Isabelle. “Shall we go in? I must confess I’m hungry.”
Isabelle’s appetite had fled. She had no option but to accept her host’s arm when she had already formed an instinctive dislike and distrust of the man. She was deeply disturbed by what she had heard and the tensions within the family. If they had existed in Helena’s youth, small wonder she had run away to find some peace and harmony.
Stefan levelled his dark eyes on Bruno. “I’ll see you both in the morning. McKendrick, we have things to discuss. Forgive all the anger. It happens when painful memories resurface.”
“In the morning, then, sir.” Bruno extended his hand.
Stefan took it. “I like the look of
you, McKendrick,” he said. “I trust you. I trust you to look out for that beautiful girl. She’s the living spit of Helena, even if she’s far more spirited. It can’t be coincidence.”
“No,” said Bruno.
Isabelle was blood.
* * *
Dinner was pure theatre. Erik Hartmann presided, the most gracious, most practised of hosts. Mrs. Saunders moved back and forth, her helper a pretty young part-aboriginal girl, who smiled shyly. The table had been laid to perfection with plates and dishes from a beautiful porcelain dinner service, “been in the family ever since I can remember, Royal Crown Derby’s Old Imari.” There were two silver candelabra, silver flatware, crystal glasses. No flowers, but an ornate German silver centrepiece. A large cut-glass and ormolu chandelier hung over their heads. The three courses were up to restaurant standard, beautifully presented.
Isabelle couldn’t wait to get away. Bruno, clever, highly educated, well travelled, had no difficulty matching Erik Hartmann’s cultured conversation, but Isabelle sensed Bruno too was keen to escape. Bruno didn’t bring Isabelle’s musical abilities into the conversation, waiting, Isabelle sensed, for their host to pursue the subject, but he never said a word. She might have been a doll sitting at the table. Both she and Bruno were certain Kurt, who had defected to his father, would have relayed every word they had exchanged on arrival.
No background music had floated in the air all evening, but the grand piano, a Bechstein, the one Helena was seated at in the portrait, was prominent in the drawing room. Erik Hartmann was like some character out of a Gothic novel, playing the role of betrayed husband, betrayed father. The crimes were against him. The crimes could well have been the other way around. Isabelle felt sure of it now.
* * *
“Thank God that’s over!” Isabelle whispered as they made their way up the divided staircase to the gallery. “Relief, that’s what I feel.”
“Whatever is the man playing at?” Bruno’s voice was as soft and potentially dangerous as the purring of a big cat.
Isabelle drifted closer to his side. This was one heck of a scary place. “I have no idea. Did Helena know something about her father that caused her to run? Did your father come to find out something about Erik Hartmann that got him run over?”
“That would take him right down to Hell.” The purr had turned into a growl. “Everything turns around the same thing. Why did Helena run? She was only twelve when her mother was killed. What would a child know?”
“Maybe she knew nothing then, but she could have found out something years later.”
“Then why didn’t she go to the grandfather?” Bruno asked as they moved down the corridor.
“Maybe her grandfather wouldn’t have listened to a word against his son and heir. Old school thing.”
“I can buy that,” Bruno said. “It’s like we’ve stumbled into a foreign country. Konrad would have trusted his son against the suspicions of a nerve-ridden girl, even if she were his granddaughter.”
“That’s men for you.” Isabelle exhaled a puff of disgust. “I think Konrad Hartmann would have been the classic definition of a well-born European patriarch. They brought their homeland with them. I bet they all speak German. They certainly did a lot of travelling around Europe with their buying trips, even as far as Turkey. With the family occupying both wings, we have the central core to ourselves,” she pointed out, a little tremor in her voice. “This is one spooky house. The height of Goth, don’t you think? I’m glad you’re with me, Bruno. Sometimes it’s handy to have a big, strong man around. Though the trusty Mrs. Saunders has rooms downstairs.”
“When she is where she’s supposed to be,” Bruno said very dryly. “I take it I’m the big, strong man?”
“You are. I depend on you, Bruno. You got me into this after all. At least Kurt went off with his dad.”
“That’s a good thing,” Bruno agreed.
They were outside her door. “Come in for a while,” Isabelle entreated, a strung-up expression on her face. “I feel way too unsettled to go to sleep. I could have nightmares.”
“I suppose I could sleep right outside your door like that guy slept outside Queen Victoria’s door,” Bruno suggested with a smile.
“John Brown, her Highland ghillie,” Isabelle said. “‘The best, the truest heart that ever lived,’ Victoria said when he died. Apparently, she had a huge appetite for sex, a bit at odds with all the ‘life of purity’ she tried to force on her sons. Prince Albert, described in his day as ‘effeminate, ’ was finally driven to putting a foolproof lock on his door to escape her advances.”
Bruno had to laugh. “Is this true?”
“Absolutely. She was the one on the rampage, not Albert. That great love affair was very much a fiction. She used to knock on his door, screaming at him in German to open up. According to records and her own letters reviling her sons, she was a manic personality who was unbelievably cruel and controlling with her children. They must have done a little jig when she died. She even put John Brown’s bully of a brother in charge of one of the princes. He gave the child hell. The courtiers on the side of the prince reported it, but the queen ignored them. Isn’t that just awful? Not mom of the year. I’ve always been interested in history, even historical trivia. Absolutely sickening, the facts as opposed to what’s dished up for public consumption.”
“That occurs at all levels of power,” said Bruno. “I may not sleep outside your door, but you can be sure I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Gee, thanks. You’re not only the sort of guy women ogle, Bruno, you’re the sort of guy who comes to a damsel’s rescue.”
“I’d like to think so at least.” He opened her door and then stood back for her to enter the extravaganza that was the Chinese Room. “Stefan has agreed to see us in the morning.”
“That’s good news. Do you suppose Helena was happy in this bedroom?” she asked as she moved to the centre of the room, looking tantalizingly young and beautiful in her amethyst dress. “Do you suppose she had an idyllic childhood?”
“Hardly. Losing one’s mother must come a close second to the terrible trauma of losing a child.”
“You lost your mother,” she said gently. She didn’t think Bruno had even now come to terms with it.
“You mean she took off without saying good-bye.” Bruno swallowed down a harsh response. “She’s doing well. The guy comes from some old, illustrious family. God knows where she got to meet him.”
“Waiting at the lights, crossing the road?” Isabelle suggested. She’d had her fair share of desirous glances at such places. “Men dream of meeting a beautiful woman with the power to attract all their senses, don’t they? Your mother would have given off a powerful magnetism.” She didn’t say, like you. “You’ve no desire to look her up?”
“No, Isabella,” he said with great firmness.
“So both our mothers took off,” she said sadly.
“If we’re correct, they did.”
“I refuse to believe Helena was happy here,” she said. “This room is far too overpowering to be restful. It’s like a niche in the Oriental section of a museum.”
“It is,” Bruno agreed.
“Why ever did Konrad Hartmann have his granddaughter’s bedroom decorated like this?” Isabelle asked in wonderment.
“If it was he who did the decorating,” Bruno pointed out. “It could have been done in his father’s time, although we know from the dour Mrs. Saunders that Konrad had the en suite put in.”
“Taking space off the adjoining bedroom, don’t forget. Clearly Mrs. S. was jealous of Helena. She could even have conspired against her.”
“The Turkish Room is downright dowdy by comparison.” Bruno’s dark eyes were making a clean sweep of the large room, searching out details. “Everything the same as you left it?” he asked.
“Well, no one has shifted the bed,” she said.
“I’m not joking.”
“Aren’t you?” She gathered herself, staring across at him.
“And just when were you going to tell me?”
“Ah, well, yes. I’m telling you now. You must be aware we’re being watched like hawks.”
“Well it is Eaglehawk Station.” Isabelle let out a nervous laugh. “I know, don’t tell me. She was checking on our photographs?”
“Bella, if I went into business, I’d want you as my off-sider.”
She shook her glowing head. “I think you mean partner. Do you think she found them?”
“I’m certain she didn’t,” Bruno said with satisfaction. “I’d picked a book at random and hid them in it. She didn’t have a lot of time.”
“So the Master managed to tip her off?” Isabelle sat herself down on the ornate bed, waving Bruno into a deep armchair. “Those two are cohorts,” she said, her emerald eyes fixed on him.
“I thought that was a military unit in ancient Rome?” Bruno said, fascinated by the sight she made as she sat on the extraordinary Chinese bed with its green embroidered silk coverlet. His eyes were flooded by colour: Bella’s radiant hair, her jewelled eyes, the pearlescent skin. Her amethyst dress was a perfect colour foil for the silk quilt. Such was the link that had grown up between them, he felt as though he had known Isabella since she was a little girl. Her beauty and her engaging personality never paled but gained strength, yet their first encounter had taken place such a very short time before. Time didn’t seem to have meaning. One either caught the fast train or took the slow one. He had never believed himself capable of being so enchanted. But he knew what impulses were in him; the elemental fire had to be banked and contained. He was determined on maintaining the correct moral boundaries.
“I actually meant cahoots, not cohorts,” Isabelle was saying.
“Co-conspirators.”
“Do you suppose Stefan is as belligerent all the time? I’d hate to be around him if he had a gun in his hand. Must be hard to live with, uncle and nephew at each other’s throats. That could be one of the reasons Kurt reaches out to his great-uncle. His father must show his disappointment Kurt isn’t made in his mould.”