Red Dirt Duchess

by Louise Reynolds

  Charlie trailed slowly after her, in awe of the space. Massive, uneven pale flagstones paved the floor. A column of elaborately carved pews marched up the centre of the nave and plaques fixed to the walls commemorated long-dead family members. She stumbled and Jon reached out and caught her, putting a reassuring arm around her. She looked down and saw a large, rectangular stone with the name Clyfford carved on it. She picked out the date, 1625, and shivered.

  ‘This is freaking me out,’ she muttered.

  ‘It’s gothic, even by our standards,’ he replied. ‘All our lot are in St Crispins in the village.’

  A funeral here would be nothing like the simple ceremony they’d had for Cliff. There hadn’t been a cemetery in a couple of hundred kilometres and so she’d applied for a permit to bury him at Bindundilly, under a large eucalypt he’d often painted. It now shaded the grave.

  At the far end of the nave, a stark altar sat below three tiers of high-set windows soaring towards the roof. Soft light pierced the delicate tracery pattern and fell into the dimness in dramatic shafts. Overwhelmed, Charlie grasped Jon’s hand.

  Vera had stopped, waiting. She looked so frail in the massive space, and this cold couldn’t be good for her. Concerned, Charlie hurried to her side.

  ‘Here, this is what I wanted you to see.’ Vera turned Charlie towards a vast, white-painted wall.

  Charlie tried to make sense of what she was looking at. It was just a wall, an uninteresting white wall. Disappointed, she turned to find Vera looking at her.

  ‘Search harder, child.’

  She allowed her gaze to roam over it, trying to gauge what was so important about it. Eventually she left Vera’s side, and paced the length of the wall.

  And finally she saw it. Whoever had painted the wall had been careless, as though speed had been more important than quality. At the far end, in a dark corner, a riot of wild colour bloomed. The characteristic brushstrokes were all the sign she needed.

  Charlie glanced back at Vera. The old woman stood, her halo of silvery hair caught in the beam of light, a very aged angel. Tears glittered in her old eyes.

  ‘I did this.’ Vera waved her hand in a wide gesture encompassing the entire wall.

  When Charlie frowned she continued. ‘Hugh had been disappearing every day for hours on end. It didn’t concern me greatly. In the country there are any number of things that can keep a young man out of doors all day, and I was glad he was taking an interest in the estate at last.’

  ‘But I came down here one day – we aren’t at all religious, so it was some time since I’d been – and here he was. The pews had been shifted into the middle and great canvas cloths laid over the floor.

  ‘And then I saw the painting.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I can still see it now. It was crude and savage, full of violence.’ She opened her eyes and looked sadly at Charlie. ‘Or so I thought.’

  Charlie could understand why Vera might have thought that. She’d seen her father work, when he was overtaken by a frenzy and transferred all that passion to a canvas. The end result was exhilarating but it could also be frightening.

  ‘He had talent, at least that’s what they all told me later. But I couldn’t see it then. He had responsibilities. He couldn’t be an artist, and I wouldn’t have him being a laughing stock.’

  Cliff, a laughing stock? Later today she’d sit down with Vera and tell her about Cliff’s success in Sydney, about the exhibitions and acclaim of the art world.

  ‘Anyway, we had a terrible row and he stormed off. I went back to the house and ordered two workmen to go down and paint over the chapel wall immediately. But before they did, I saw him come down here again. He was only here for a few minutes and then he came out, his box of equipment under his arm.’

  She looked at Charlie then. ‘I thought that would be the end of it. That he’d settle down. I heard him come back into the house but I was so angry that I didn’t call out to him.’

  Charlie looked at the wall again. Under that frigid, arctic white was one of Cliff’s paintings. It was as though he, as well as his work, had been wiped out. Her heart hardened.

  ‘I wish I had. I never saw him again,’ Vera whispered, to the chapel as much as to them. She was lost in the painful memory of that long-ago day.

  ‘But didn’t you try to find him?’ Jon asked.

  Vera was silent a long moment. She walked to one of the pews and lowered herself onto the seat. ‘No.’

  Charlie sucked in a breath. To have a son and just let him go like that? What kind of mother did that?

  ‘You think me cold, child?’ Vera asked as if she’d read Charlie’s thoughts.

  Charlie didn’t know how to answer. An image of Cliff filled her mind. But a younger Cliff, long before the reach of her memory. He’d always had wild hair, but it wouldn’t have been threaded with wiry grey back then. His face would have been unlined and full of excitement about his future. He had been so young. Her heart reached out to him.

  When she didn’t answer, Vera said, ‘Sometimes you have to let someone go, no matter how it hurts. I was wrong about Hugh’s painting, and there’s not a day since that I haven’t regretted the words between us. But it involved us both. He wasn’t a child, my dear. He was a grown man. Young, yes, but a man. He could have chosen to come back. But he didn’t.’

  ‘And of course he wasn’t as important as the eldest son, was he?’ Jon put in.

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, Jon,’ Vera snapped. ‘You know nothing.’

  Jon turned and walked to the altar, his back turned, hands thrust into his pockets and his head bent.

  ‘In many ways I admire Hugh,’ said Vera. ‘He had the strength of his convictions and he made the life he wanted for himself instead of inheriting the family firm.’ She smiled then. ‘Yes, they’re not the only ones who call their family and all the responsibilities that come with it, “the firm”.’

  Charlie frowned at Jon’s back. ‘Thank you for explaining, Vera. But now we need to get you out of this cold.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Charlie demanded when she and Jon were finally alone. ‘That poking at Vera about Cliff not being important to her?’

  When they’d arrived at Rushton House Vera had retired to her room and Jon and Charlie had been shown into a pretty south-facing sitting room. The warmth was heavenly after the frigid atmosphere of the chapel.

  Jon didn’t answer. He hadn’t liked himself in that moment, but it had bubbled up and spewed forth before he could stop it. He’d need to apologise to Vera later and he knew she’d forgive him. But for now he had a furious woman staring at him. He threw himself into a chair by the fire, struggling to answer.

  ‘Why on earth would you say that? She was near breaking.’ Charlie persisted, blocking his view of the fireplace until he looked up and finally met her eyes. He’d never seen this side of her. Her eyes flashed with anger. And something else, perhaps a newfound loyalty to her grandmother?

  ‘Well, someone had to say it. Because you can bet if Cliff had been the eldest son, they’d have hunted high and low until they found him. It’s a simple fact. Eldest sons are more important.’

  She let out a frustrated sigh and dropped onto the ottoman in front of him. ‘I don’t understand. Right now, you seem to be the important one, not Jeremy.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s different. But if your father had been the eldest son and disappeared, no one could have succeeded to the title until they’d comprehensively proven he was dead. And in the absence of that there’d have needed to be a court case for the next in line to be declared the earl.’

  ‘You people are crazy.’ Charlie pushed her hands through her hair, shaking her head. When she looked up at him again, her eyes were bleak. ‘You treat children like chattels and all you care about is your damn bloodline.’

  She moved away from him as though he was the physical representation of everything wrong with the English upper classes. Her absence was like a vacuum, and he didn’t like what it might represent. He’d been w
orking up to a discussion about the future, about how they might work.

  ‘You’re not interested in whether a person is good, or whether they’ll make a good parent,’ she continued. ‘You’re only interested in propping up the prestige of your family. Making sure no outsiders make their way in.’

  Her eyes widened and she clamped her mouth shut, visibly horrified at her words.

  Misery washed over him. He’d told her about his birth and she’d thrown it back at him in a moment of anger. He was sure it was unintentional, but it would always be there, lurking in the back of her mind as well as his.

  ‘I meant outsiders like me,’ she amended.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. At least they know about you, about your mother. But I’m the sneaky outsider, the joker in the pack. Do you know, I’ve never heard a whisper of it, so I suspect very few people ever knew. My father’s dead. The other man involved has never said a word.’

  Charlie had her hands to her mouth, as though she would snatch back her words if she could.

  ‘So it leaves mother and me, unwittingly complicit in the fraud she insists on perpetrating on the family. She will give me no rest until I provide an heir.’

  There was a shaky, uneasy atmosphere in the room, something that whispered not now. But why not now? He stood and walked towards her. Now that he knew Charlie’s background, it was crazy that he hadn’t recognised her breeding before. There was a certain lift of the chin, a fineness of feature that had perhaps been inherited from her father. The Clyffords had always been a good looking family.

  He leaned forward and placed both his hands on the mantel, capturing her within his arms. He kissed her; a gentle, conciliatory kiss. ‘I’m sorry about what I said to Vera. I’ll apologise to her later. But I want to talk about us now.’

  Her eyes flared. ‘Us?’

  Irritation kicked in and he stepped back. ‘Yes, us. Is that such a surprise?’

  She slid away towards the windows and stood looking out over the drive. ‘Why now?’

  ‘Why not?’ He’d been planning to talk to his mother yesterday and tell her that it was Charlie or no one. After that he had been going to speak to Charlie, but last night’s events had overtaken his plans. Telling Diana had merely been a courtesy, a way of stopping her incessant pushing, but she wasn’t here now and Charlie was.

  Charlie turned back. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’

  ‘I’m thinking about the future. About where we’re heading.’ He took a deep breath as panic beat at him. ‘I don’t want you to leave.’

  For a long moment she stared at him with that riveting blue gaze.

  ‘Would this have something to do with the fact that it turns out I’m as blueblood as you are?’

  He burst into laughter. In some respects she was right. ‘In fact, we have a lot in common. Each with one known aristocrat as a parent.’

  She didn’t laugh. ‘Let me get this right. You want me to stay because all of a sudden I’m the granddaughter of an earl and it solves your little problem?’ Charlie pressed.

  ‘No,’ he answered but he had trouble making his denial as emphatic as he wanted. ‘I want you to stay because I love you.’

  ‘You love me,’ she echoed. ‘I’m presuming you’re talking about marriage somewhere down the track?’

  By God, Australians were direct. He was the one who was supposed to broach the M-word. He was about to make a joke to that effect when she walked towards him.

  ‘You know something? You really need to sort yourself out before you start trying to marry people.’

  He drew his shoulders back. ‘I am sorted out.’

  She stared at him for a long moment. ‘You think? You’re clutching a secret to your chest that’s suffocating you, and you’re unwilling to deal with it. All I know is that holding it in, going over it in your mind day after day, week after week is unhealthy.’ Perhaps you think it’s easier than dealing with the problem, but it feeds the weird relationship you have with your mother. If I wasn’t sure I was wrong, I might even think you enjoyed it.’

  His veins ran cold. She thought all this? She could see so deeply into him? He couldn’t speak. He could only stand and watch her slip away.

  He’d never talk to his mother about this. Never.

  ‘Remember what Vera said today? About letting someone go, no matter how it hurts?’ she said. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she crossed to him and kissed him gently on the cheek. He nodded, a creeping apprehension chilling him further.

  ‘I need to let you go, Jon. You need to deal with your problems with Diana before you’re in any position to move forward.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next morning Charlie stood in the most magnificent room she’d ever slept in, totally oblivious to its splendour as she watched the man she loved drive away.

  She’d laid awake all night, tears washing her cheeks as she listened to the foreign sounds of Vera’s house; the chime of the clock at the end of the hall, the creaking of old timber. She’d changed her mind then changed it back again at least a dozen times. One moment she was ready to fling the covers aside and run barefooted down the hall to his room and tell him it didn’t matter, just so she could touch him again. They could keep his secrets. But then reason would take over. What life or future did they have if he couldn’t lay claim to who he really was? She was already dealing with the fallout of learning she was not who she’d thought she was.

  Early in the morning, an estate car had pulled up in front of the house and moments later Jon had emerged, winding his scarf around his neck, his breath coming in frosty puffs. He’d hesitated a moment in the drive then turned and looked straight up at Charlie’s window. His face was pale, his eyes bleak and wintry. It had been no use moving away from the window. He’d seen her, so she merely raised her hand. Hardly a wave, it was more an acknowledgement, all she could manage in the circumstances.

  Then he’d climbed inside the car and slammed the door. It had driven away, taking him out of her life.

  There followed one of the strangest weeks of her life. Charlie met her uncle, Cliff’s brother, and his wife and their children. All of a sudden, she had a family. Where Hartley Hall had been cold and unwelcoming, there was genuine warmth here, as though Charlie had closed the circle in the family left open by Cliff’s leaving.

  The evenings were spent talking, painful at first but then, as the family talked about Cliff, and about Charlie’s life in Bindundilly, the mood had swung to pleasure. And all the while Vera sat nearby, quietly pleased. After that terrible day in the chapel she’d seemed to rally, drawing strength from Charlie’s presence.

  They’d spent long hours alone together as well. It was too cold to do much outdoors but Vera had taken her over the house, to Cliff’s childhood bedroom and the places where he used to paint. With each passing day they’d grown closer until Charlie could honestly say she loved her grandmother.

  But she had to go home. Her home. Despite the family’s kindness, this ancestral pile meant little to her, no matter how she tried. It was too full of the ghosts of people she didn’t know, of a young Cliff unknown to her. Rhonda couldn’t hold the fort forever but more than that, Charlie needed to remind herself of who she was. The person she’d been before all this began.

  Home was Bindundilly. A rattling old outback pub where everyone knew her. Where she could roll out of bed, pull on some jeans and call herself ready for the day. She’d change the barrels and clean out the lines. She’d be a barmaid. She’d just be Charlie.

  She hadn’t expected Jon to call, and he didn’t. He’d made it clear he’d never ask Diana about his birth. He would never be able to unpack that whole story, and yet he was prepared to be held hostage to his family’s plans based on a long-standing lie. That made him a pawn. With each passing day, Charlie’s heart had grown a little sorer, and she’d longed for home, sunlight and most importantly, distance to help her heal.

  So, three weeks after arriving in the UK, she kissed her grandmother, promising
her she’d return soon, grabbed her passport and suitcase and headed home.

  He’d forget about her. Eventually.

  He’d heard through his mother from Vera that Charlie had returned to Australia. They all seemed to think it was his fault, and maybe it was. But Charlie’s terms were outrageous. Other women wanted a weekend cottage in the Cotswolds or a house in the Bahamas. Charlie wanted nothing more than complete honesty and transparency. He felt emotionally stripped, as though in a few short weeks she’d peeled untold layers from him with kisses and lovemaking, care and laughter. The sardonic, cynical Jon had gone, but without Charlie, all those layers of protection would gradually grow back like a new skin. And in time it would grow tougher, harder to broach next time.

  In the weeks since Charlie had left, Jon buried himself in his work. He was behind and needed to book some more flights, find new and interesting places to visit. He’d contemplated several war zones. They suited his mood perfectly.

  At night he tossed from side to side, unable to settle without Charlie beside him. She’d be back at Bin by now, wearing those little shorts and tossing coins for the RFDS. There’d be groups of men lined up at the bar, cheering. Rugged outback types, with muscled arms and an easygoing manner, perfectly suited to her. Then Jon would wrap a pillow around his ears, trying to smother his thoughts.

  But Charlie had made her choice. He’d tried to tell her about the panic that gripped him every time he thought about confronting his mother, but it seemed she hadn’t understood. How did you talk to your mother about something like that, especially someone like Diana? Maybe she’d known all along that Jon knew he was illegitimate. That would make her heartless. But what of the other unpalatable aspect of the secret? What if Diana hadn’t known about her husband’s double life? There’d be a scene and then Jeremy would get involved, demanding to know what Jon had said to upset his mother. It would come out, the whole horrible story. And how would Jeremy react when he heard about his father?

  Jon buried his head in his hands, refusing to even contemplate the uproar. It was better to leave things how they were. He’d lived twenty-four years with the knowledge, he could live another twenty-four, thirty-four.