by Margaret Way
Her great-grandfather had stayed to the death. His eldest son, Matthias, the heir, had elected to stay with his father, resisting all pleas to make his escape. It was her grandmother, Katalin, who, as a little girl, had been the one to escape with the help of a loyal family servant. Her greatgrandfather and her great-uncle had been taken prisoners and never seen or heard of again. It was a tragic story repeated all over war-torn Europe and Russia.
But the Madonna believed to be lost for ever was in her possession. Proof of her identity. It gave her power, but offered no immunity against Laszlo. Rather the reverse. Possession put her in danger. After the Berlin Wall came down the estate had been returned to the Andrassy-Von Neumann family, albeit in ruins. Laszlo claimed to be the rightful heir and gained possession of the estate, when she was the rightful heir. Only she would never make her claim. Never be in a position to make it. Laszlo would get rid of her before he allowed her to take anything he considered belonged to him. She would be just another young woman to go missing never to be seen again. Laszlo was a powerful man with all the money and a team of lawyers. She had neither. She had long since learned Might was Right. Not the other way around. Laszlo had been pumping a great deal of money into the country of his birth, buying influence and friends in high places. Many of the valuable stolen paintings and artifacts had been returned to him, but the thing Laszlo most wanted was the Andrassy Madonna.
And she had it. The one thing her grandmother had been able to spirit out of a war-torn Hungary.
She shook herself out of her dark, disturbing memories. For a short but intense period of her life, she had found herself in enemy territory, struggling to get by with no one close to trust. The risks had been compounded by her sex. A good-looking young girl on her own was considered fair game. Here in this country of such peace and freedom she was getting herself together. She regretted some of the things she had said to David Wainwright, especially the bit about his family being parvenus. One of her tempestuous moments. She’d thought she had learned to override them, but contact with David only made her painfully aware the wide range of emotions of her preadolescent years, when she had such wonderful parental care, were reforming.
For the occasion she had mixed two pieces she liked and felt confident in: a lovely apricot silk shirt with the sleeves pushed up, tucked into a great pair of cream silk-cotton trousers. She had settled on a wide deep pink and cream leather belt to sling around her waist. The belt pulled the outfit together. Several long dangly necklaces, pretty but inexpensive, around her neck, a striking silk scarf patterned in apricot, pink and chocolate, to tie back her long hair at the nape. She had a good cream leather shoulder bag to go with the outfit. The latest in high-heeled sandals. She knew Paula Rowlands would be there. If the Valentino David’s girlfriend had worn at the gala was anything to go on she knew how to dress. She wondered how serious the relationship might be. It wasn’t intense or she would have noticed. But money married money. Everyone knew that. Passion waned. Money handled wisely just grew and grew.
Lady Palmerston’s residence was situated in the most elite location in the entire country, nestling as it did between beautiful blue bays with breathtaking views of the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. Marcus had told her on the drive over David had a penthouse apartment less than five minutes away. Maybe he often walked over to visit his great aunt. She realized if one had to enquire how much properties like these were worth, one didn’t have and would never have the money to afford them. Now she had an extremely wealthy man as a good friend. She knew she could make something come of it. A lot of women regarded marrying a rich man as a goal in life. Could she? She and Marcus were moving inexorably into another stage of their relationship. Falling in love with his nephew was unthinkable.
Yet her grandmother had been born in a palace. No fantasy, the truth. Sonya had never dared visit the magnificent Andrassy-Von Neumann estate but she had been shown many old books and seen the photographs of it taken before the Second World War broke out in Europe. She had studied them over and over, awestruck. Her grandmother had been born in a fairy-tale palace? The palace looked like something out of a dream. But the dream had been destroyed. She knew the estate had been taken over by the advancing Russian army in 1945. The stately palace had been left a wreck and its great tracts of valley with its lake, trees and wonderful gardens and glorious statuary left in ruin and rubble. All of the statues of gods and goddesses, water nymphs and the like had been used for target practice. Many act of senseless revenge, the glass in all the windows smashed. Inside the great house the grand collections of family crystal, glass and handmade porcelains. The valuable paintings had been declared sacrosanct. They had been carefully wrapped up and taken away.
War.
Was there ever going to be an end to it? She thought, Never. Life took some momentous turns. There were countless stories of reversals of fortune down through the ages. The Czar and his family who had lived in splendour had died in horrifying circumstances. The last Emperor of China had lived out his life as a market gardener. Her beautiful dispossessed grandmother had died relatively early, with a broken heart that had never mended. Her mother, taught both Hungarian and German at her mother’s knee, had sailed through her days like a swan on a lake, with perfect composure, but it was a composure that masked her deep, deep grief.
She had told Marcus none of this. Marcus didn’t even know her real name. As she had told David, Marcus didn’t pry. She knew he was waiting for her to confide in him, but she had built such walls of defence. Talking about her past would be accompanied by an inrush of pain. No one need know her traumas. All these long years no one outside her grandmother, her parents, now herself had laid eyes on the Madonna. She had not been allowed to see the Madonna herself until her sixteenth birthday. That had been two short weeks before her parents had been so cruelly killed.
Always remember Laszlo is out there to do you harm.
Memories of her mother’s green eyes looking into hers, her mother’s patrician hand stroking her long blonde hair. Good blood was in the genes.
The man past his first youth who wanted her had given her the news of their death, trying to take her into his arms, but she had resisted wildly, even so young recognising the erotic undercurrent in the family relationship. It was a terrifying thing to be left so powerless. She had waited and planned. Then she had disappeared. From that moment on always on the run. It was the equivalent of being turned out on the streets.
The buffet tables set up in the air-conditioned indoors were draped in spotless white linen, and laden with delectable food. In passing Sonya saw whole seared salmons, ocean trout, stacks of oysters, prawns galore, sea scallops, lobsters and delicious little “bugs”. There was also carved grain-fed lamb for those who liked a mix; warm salads, cold salads, potato salads, all the accompaniments. It could feed a Third World country.
The guest list was for a party of twenty. Four large glass-topped rectangular tables shaded by royal blue, white-fringed umbrellas were in place for al fresco dining. One could choose indoors or out, though the informal living room with its white marble floor and largely white furnishings was open to the broad terrace with its white canopy by way of a series of foldaway glass doors that brought the spectacular view in.
They were greeted warmly by Rowena, who led them out onto a sun-drenched terrace where the guests who had already arrived were assembled enjoying a glass of whatever they fancied, served by two handsome young man in jaunty uniforms that featured very dashing waist-length fitted jackets. Sonya recognised the logo of the excellent catering company Rowena had employed. She herself had provided the wealth of prize blooms, including some exquisite lotus blossoms, along with a generous amount of assorted leaves for Lady Palmerston to arrange herself. Lady Palmerston was as passionate about flowers as she was.
Smiles on all sides. Warm hellos. Nice to meet you. Some of the older ladies she knew. They were now her clients, thanks to their hostess. Mercifully Paula Rowlands’s antagonism wasn’t o
n display. Not yet anyway. Though Paula soon turned back to resume her conversation with her own kind of people.
Sonya watched as David Wainwright hugged his uncle. They were very close. There was no one to hug her like that any more. No family who had been out to look after her, just exploit her. When the moment came, David Wainwright all but shocked her by bending his handsome dark head to lightly brush her cheek. A couple of seconds only, yet she felt the thrill of it right down to her toes. When she looked up, his brilliant glance was hooded. It was obvious he wanted only happiness for his uncle, and just as obvious he didn’t see her as any sort of a solution.
Marcus had been drawn away for a moment by two of his old chums, Dominic and Elizabeth Penry-Evans, one a Supreme Court judge, the wife an eminent barrister. David turned to her, his tone friendly, but laced with challenge. “How nice to see you here, Sonya.”
“Very pleased to be here, David.” She gave him a cool little smile. No need for him to know she was trying to slow her quickened breath. “This has to be one of the most glorious views on earth,” she said, looking across the turquoise swimming pool to the sparkling blue harbour with its view of the famous Coat Hanger, the Sydney Harbour Bridge, and the world famous Opera House with its glittering white sails. “I believe you live only a short distance away?”
He was wrestling with an overpowering urge to pull at the silk scarf that tied back her beautiful hair. He wanted to see it loose and blowing, cascading around her face and over her shoulders. It was wonderful hair. “No doubt you will see my apartment some time,” he said, adopting a careless tone.
“No urgency.” She remained looking out over the spectacular view.
“I don’t actually know where you live,” he said. “But we can’t forget you’re something of a mystery woman.”
She turned back, lifting her chin.
It was an amazingly imperious gesture, he thought. A simple lift of the chin? Who was this woman? One thing was certain: she had gone to great lengths to hide her background.
“Of course you do,” she said. “It’s a wonder I haven’t stumbled over one of your spies.”
He gave her a twisted smile. “Maybe spying is a very harsh word. Just a little checking.”
“So you know I don’t live in your part of town.” The air around them seemed to be vibrating like the beating wings of a hummingbird.
“Well, maybe down a notch,” he said lightly.
“How kind.”
“You do admit to a chip on your shoulder, Sonya?” He knew he should move away from her. Only he couldn’t. He really couldn’t. He saw it as a blow to his self-control.
“I admit to a chip on both shoulders,” she responded with mocking sweetness. “But it has nothing to do with not having a lot of money, or not moving in your illustrious circles, David.”
How good his name on her lips sounded. No one else said it the same way. He got Holt from his mother. She was a Holt and never let anyone forget it. “Surely there’s a strong possibility that’s all going to change?”
“You’ll be the first to know, David,” she said scathingly.
“Marcus is already in love with you. But it’s not you, Sonya, I’m worried about. You’re obviously a young woman who knows how to look after herself.”
Her emerald eyes flashed like jewels in the sunlight. “Is that so strange? Women have had to fight long and hard for independence, recognition. And the fight isn’t over.”
“And you’ve had to fight very hard to be strong?” It could explain so much about her.
“What woman doesn’t?” she said scornfully, clearly on the defensive.
“Why so hostile, Sonya?” he asked. “Has some man really hurt you?” He found he badly wanted to know. She had presented her lovely profile so he couldn’t look into her eyes. He had to face the fact he had an ever-growing need to discover all there was to know about this young woman.
For Marcus, or for yourself?
He felt shamed by the thought. For God’s sake, she was here with Marcus.
“I have met threatening, difficult and a few terrifying men,” she said, almost tonelessly. “Does that answer your question? I dare say there would be many women who could say the same. Battered, abused women who never saw it coming. I feel truly secure with Marcus.”
His brows knotted in a frown. “And the feeling of security needs to be locked into your relationships?”
“Exactly.” She stood motionless, her head turned away from him.
“So in a different situation where you could fall madly in love you would regard yourself as being under threat?”
She was startled by how he had hit on a problematic area. Her lack of trust in men. “Falling in love is a kind of madness, surely?” she parried. “Who can say being madly in love is essential to a good marriage? There are other very worthwhile things. So why don’t you let Marcus worry about himself, David? He’s a grown man. Or is it the money? Are you his heir?”
“Careful, Sonya,” he warned.
“Touched a raw nerve, have I?” She turned back to him then, her beautiful eyes frankly mocking.
“If you’re looking for raw nerves, you haven’t found it,” he said curtly. He was in fact the main beneficiary of Marcus’s will.
“But then you’re a man who doesn’t get frazzled easily,” she said. “But it’s not nonsense entirely. It’s often said, no one can have too much money.”
“It’s also said money can’t guarantee happiness.” He cut her off tersely.
“Maybe not, but it can guarantee wonderful houses to live in, superb views.” She waved an elegant hand. “The best cars, yachts.” Wonderful yachts with billowing sails were out on the sparkling blue water. “I’m told you’re a fine yachtsman. Then there are clothes, jewels. You name it. Everything pretty well comes down to money.”
“And you want it?”
“What I want is a pleasant day,” she retorted, ultra cool.
“Of course you do,” he said suavely. “I apologise. You must be pleased your fame with flowers has spread far and wide. Liz over there with Marcus has been into your shop. Two of Rowena’s friends now present. Rowena, of course. She told me you provided all the very beautiful flowers for today?”
It was too much not to look at him. She felt compelled. He was wearing a dark blue and white striped casual shirt of best quality cotton, beautifully cut white linen trousers, navy loafers on his feet. His polished skin was tanned to bronze, against which his fine teeth showed very white. He could have posed for a Ralph Lauren shoot, she thought wryly. “I’ve worked hard to secure the best sources,” she said, with a touch of pride.
“I expect Paula will be next to pay you a visit.” It was a taunt really. Unworthy of him.
“Please God, no!” she said with a charming little gesture of her hands.
“Hello? Does this mean you don’t like her?”
“Do you?” She shot him a glance as cool and clear as crystal.
His expression turned sardonic. “I’ve adored her since childhood.”
“Then clearly I’ve overestimated you.”
He couldn’t help it. He laughed aloud.
It was such an engaging laugh it caused the guests to look in their direction to smile. David Wainwright was a great favourite.
“That’s very naughty of you, Sonya. And you the Ice Princess.”
“I never said I was a nice person,” she countered, not lightly, but with a hint of warning.
“Maybe I bring out the worst in you?” he asked. Her skin in the bright sunlight was as flawless as a baby’s. One could become enslaved by a woman like this. He would do well to heed the warning.
“Well, you do give it your best shot.” She paused, her tone changing. “Your girlfriend is on the way over.”
He didn’t turn his head. “I don’t remember saying Paula was my girlfriend.”
“I don’t remember saying Marcus was my man friend,” she returned sharply.
Paula Rowlands was not so much strolling
as striding up to them. No doubt she was fuelled by the feline need to protect her territory, Sonya thought. “Here she comes. Hostility writ large upon her face. It must have been triggered by your laughing. It sounded too much like you were enjoying yourself.”
He let his eyes run over her. “Actually, Sonya, I was.”
Throughout the leisurely meal Rowena asked them to shift to different tables so everyone got an opportunity to speak to all the other guests. Sonya found herself having a delightful time. She had come prepared for undercover distrust; instead she might have been among friends. Of course she wasn’t obviously paired with Marcus. On the contrary she was treated as a free spirit. That was exactly what she wanted. Every time she sat at table with David Wainwright every nerve in her body flared into life. It was as if she were made of highly flammable tissue paper and his nearness set her alight.
A very pretty, chic young woman called Camilla Carstairs was especially friendly. They arranged to meet up for coffee midweek. Camilla promised to come into the shop. “I’ve heard so much about it, Sonya. The flowers today are amazingly beautiful.” Sonya found herself warming to such friendliness. She found out later, Camilla was the only daughter of “Mack” Carstairs, the trucking king.
After lunch the older couples retired to the house, while the younger guests remained outside or took strolls around the landscaped garden, an oasis of beauty and peace. A few ventured down to the turquoise swimming pool at the harbour’s edge. Though Sonya had been seated at times with Paula Rowlands, Paula had had very little to say to her. Now Paula intended to change all that. She detached herself from a small group that did not include David Wainwright. He appeared to have gone inside. Meanwhile Paula made a beeline for Sonya, calling out her name.