Red Dirt Duchess

by Louise Reynolds

  It really didn’t matter after all.

  Jon opened the door from the library into the hall just as the sitting-room door opened. He swiftly pushed the door back, ready to snick it quietly closed, when he heard his mother’s voice. ‘Jon? Is that you?’

  It was a month since he’d last been here, for Vera’s birthday, and he hadn’t been able to postpone it any longer. He’d come down for the weekend, determined to hide or seek safety in numbers.

  He could ignore his mother but he knew she’d run him to ground anyway. He was like a weary fox after a very long chase, and he suspected Diana was closing in for the kill. His glance covered the room. He could hide behind the sofa but he hadn’t done that since he was a child. His gaze shifted. And then there were the drapes, great voluminous brocade affairs that pooled onto the floor and provided plenty of room to hide behind. But there was something too farcical about that.

  No, there was nothing for it but to own up. He pulled the door open again. ‘Here, Mother.’

  He could hear her heels tapping down the marble. Three, two, one.

  ‘Good. I need a word.’

  He pulled the door open wider and she entered. ‘You’re alone?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know who else you were expecting. Charlie is back in Australia,’ he replied drily.

  She came in and sat in the large chair by the unlit fireplace, indicating that he should sit opposite.

  ‘Oh, it’s that sort of word, is it?’ He suspected that it would be more than a word, or even several. He almost had her usual script off pat. But his mother would want to talk about the recent rewrites created by the discovery of Charlie’s background.

  ‘I’m worried, quite frankly.’

  It was his mother’s typical start: just throw out a statement and wait for him to enquire. He remained silent.

  ‘You seem to be doing nothing about the family problem. In fact, I think you’re going out of your way to avoid it.’

  She had that in one. ‘You mean Charlie?’

  Diana gritted her teeth. ‘Of course I do. She is suitable, Jon. You know that. But the minute we learned that, she was gone. You are really trying my patience.’

  Jon leaned back in his chair. ‘You know, that’s interesting. Because when we came down for Vera’s birthday, I had been going to talk to you about Charlie that afternoon. I was going to tell you that I wanted to marry her. But you were out shopping with Sarah and there wasn’t time before dinner.’

  A trapped look crossed his mother’s face and he allowed himself a wide smile.

  ‘Ah, yes. What a difference a couple of hours and a well-placed tattoo make. In the afternoon, before dinner, the answer would have been absolutely not. Later that night I could see you already planning the wedding in your mind.’

  ‘Well, it’s all for nothing, because she’s gone,’ Diana snapped.

  ‘You don’t need to remind me, Mother.’ He’d thought of nothing else for four miserable weeks.

  ‘Well, are you going after her?’ she said as though speaking to a simpleton.

  Going after Charlie would mean talking to his mother about his birth, settling that once and for all.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you will just have to look elsewhere.’ His mother seemed satisfied with that. Charlie could be dismissed so casually, another disposable almost-bride who didn’t quite make the cut.

  ‘I will take my sweet time, Mother. But you know what I think? I think this family could do with some fresh blood, a different type of person. Wealth and breeding has served us well for six hundred years, although …’ He let his gaze settle on the shabbiness of the room, despite its grand layout. ‘We seem to have a singular talent for losing everything we get.’

  ‘Don’t bring your father into it. We’re talking about you and the future.’

  His father? Twenty-four years of suffering and wondering boiled up inside him. How many times had he been close to this moment over the years, only to stop just in time? How many times had he acquiesced to that confused inner child who’d begged him to stop before he could shout out the truth of what he knew and ruin everything?

  He allowed his eyes to rest on his mother for several long moments, the knowledge tempting him. She gave him an impatient look. Inside, tiny fists hammered at him. Don’t! Don’t spoil everything!

  He eased to his feet and turned away. ‘I have to go.’

  He left her there and swung out into the hall. His feet were like lead, almost impossible to lift, and he’d forgotten where he’d been headed when he’d first started to leave the room.

  He’d done it again. He’d left the problem sitting there, unresolved. He was the small, scared child he’d been all his life.

  Not a man. Not worthy of Charlie. No wonder she had left.

  He could be the man he knew he was capable of being, or he could just accept the hand he’d been dealt, once and for all, and shut up. He could forget Charlie, forget how she’d felt in his arms, her warm smile and unaffected manner. He could knuckle down and spend all his weekends at Hartley Hall. He’d hardly have to look for a wife himself, because once his mother knew she’d beaten him into submission, the place would be crawling with candidates. All he’d have to do was turn up every weekend until he fell, exhausted, into the arms of the nearest one, begging for mercy.

  He stalked down the hallway, hands thrust in his pockets, hating himself yet again for his inability to confront the truth. And to act on it.

  He stopped in front of a life-sized portrait in a massive gilt frame and stared up at it. A gentleman dressed in head-to-toe blue silk, wearing a preposterous long powdered wig, pantaloons and all, had his hand resting on a dog. In the background, on its rise, was Hartley Hall. The man represented everything that this family was. Proud, possessive, exclusive.

  ‘Sod you,’ Jon moved a step closer and read the small gilt plague affixed to the frame. ‘Rupert, twelfth earl.’

  The hooded eyes that peered down at him didn’t move, but he fancied he saw Rupert curl a fleshy pink lip.

  ‘Bet you just did what you were told, eh? Married a nice, plump little Hanoverian, did you? Someone in tight with the new regime?’

  Rupert was playing it with a straight face.

  ‘Did she – let’s call her Augusta, shall we, because I can’t recall her name without a trek back to the library to check – did she bring squillions? Was it her money that paid for the new library?

  The door at the end of the hall opened and Barker emerged. He walked towards Jon, his face impassive. ‘Everything all right, Master Jon?’

  ‘Everything is fine, Barker.’

  Barker’s expression remained impassive. ‘Very well.’ He turned and walked back down the hall.

  Jon waited until Barker had retreated. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Rupert, but it was you who had Robert Adam design the library, wasn’t it? Only the best architect for us in those days. You see, I’m up on you chaps. It was drummed into me year after bloody year as a child.’

  He pulled a spindly Louis XVI chair covered with frayed green and silver–patterned silk away from the wall, flipped it around and sat astride, leaning his arms on the delicate, gilded wooden back. He rested his chin in an upturned palm and regarded the painting.

  ‘You’ve heard of an heir and a spare, haven’t you? Of course you have. Well, you see, I’m the spare, the reserve. And that’s a bit of joke, really, because here’s a little secret, just between you and me.’ He craned his head forward and lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘I’m not a Hartley-Huntley.’

  There. He’d said it. But if he could say it in a cold, empty hallway to the portrait of an ancestor dead for 250 years, surely he could confront his mother. Surely he could step out from behind that small frightened child and ask his mother the truth.

  And surely, he could have the courage, should she ask, to tell her how he knew.

  ‘But here’s the question I really want to ask, Rupert. Did you love her? Did you put your arms around her
at night and hold her as though you could never let go? Was she the centre of your world? Did everything just feel right when she was around? Because I’d bet my life you didn’t love her.’

  Silence.

  ‘Ah, yes, I can see by your face that I’m right.’ He shook his head. ‘You poor, bloody sod.

  ‘See, that’s where you and I are different, Rupert. I’m just not prepared to sacrifice my life in the service of this family.

  He stood and placed the chair back against the wall. He looked at the library door then back at the portrait. ‘Thanks, Rupert. It’s been good talking, even though we’re not related. You’ve been a real help.’

  His footsteps rang confidently as he retraced his steps and opened the door to the library. ‘Mother, we need to talk.’

  He didn’t beat around the bush. If he didn’t come right out and say what he knew, what he’d learned at the age of six, he might never do it. A buzzing started in his ears and his throat grew tight as his mother glanced up when he closed the door and moved into the centre of the room.

  ‘Who is my father?’ he asked. His mother gasped and at that moment a log fell in the fireplace, breaking the silence.

  Diana collected herself, a hand placed delicately at her throat, worrying at a strand of pearls. ‘I have no idea what has got into you of late.’

  ‘I know it isn’t …’ He couldn’t say Father. The word stuck in his throat. He took another step forward. ‘I know, Mother.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jon.’ She stood and moved to a vase of lilies on the long table behind the sofa. They did well in this icy house, so under-heated that they kept their petals closed as long as possible, as if unwilling to give up their scent. She picked out two stems and rethreaded them into the same place in the arrangement.

  His pulse thumped. Now that he’d decided, he needed this to be over. ‘Mother, sit down please.’

  She glanced at him then, hearing the new note in his voice. ‘Very well.’ She stepped out from her barricade behind the sofa and sat down in the chair she’d been sitting in before. Jon took a moment to gaze at her. She was beautiful in a chilly way, but she seemed to have grown smaller. When had that happened? He experienced a twinge of regret for what he was about to say.

  ‘I know that Father – your husband – is not my biological father. Can I be clearer than that?’

  She paled but didn’t reach out to comfort him, not even a hand. ‘How?’ she murmured.

  He swallowed hard. ‘I heard him tell someone. Upstairs, in the study. I was six years old.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly as if to disagree ‘It’s true. I’ve known all this time.’

  ‘Your father and I made an agreement to tell no one,’ she whispered through white lips. ‘You were our son and we loved you.’ Her eyes filled with tears, her eyelids suddenly pink.

  Jon stood his ground. ‘So I’ll ask again. Who is my father?’

  She ignored him, instead tilting her head up, suddenly alert. ‘Who was your father talking to?’

  He could lie. He could say he didn’t know. He could say it was a woman. He could say it was one of the dogs. But there were already too many lies in this family. He needed to shrug them all off now.

  ‘It was George.’

  She closed her eyes as she swayed in the chair, her head shaking slightly. For a moment Jon thought she might faint.

  ‘I heard things that day that have stayed with me all my life,’ he said. ‘It took a long time for me to make sense of them, and I’ve relived it over and over again.’

  ‘You didn’t …’ she hesitated and glanced away, unwilling to meet his eyes. ‘… See?’

  He softened his voice as he moved towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘No, I didn’t see.’

  So she’d known all along, about the double life his father had led. Like so much else in this family, avoidance had been the easiest response. A sudden thought occurred to Jon. Had she been unfaithful because of this? Surely now that she could be excused for her actions, and he’d learn the truth.

  He kept his voice gentle. ‘I still need an answer to my question. Who is my real father?’

  Her hands clutched at the fine wool of her trousers, opening and closing reflexively. Her lips were set in a tight line.

  ‘Well?’

  She gave him a limpid glance. ‘Darling, it’s all a bit difficult.’

  Silence hung between them as her meaning became clear. She didn’t know. He could be the son of any one of their family friends. He could be the son of Barker. Well, maybe not Barker.

  ‘It was the eighties …’ Her voice trailed off as her hands worked at the expensive fabric. He concentrated on them, the family rings that they’d managed to save glittering cruelly on her fingers.

  The eighties. As if that explained it all. Diana whacked out on Wham and taking ‘Let’s Get Physical’ a bit too literally while her husband was indulging his own pursuits. How many men had she slept with?

  It was unfair, he knew, and ordinarily he’d have minded his own business. But they were talking about his DNA. They were talking about the question that had haunted him his entire adult life.

  ‘So you did your duty and provided your husband with a legitimate heir, and then it was a free-for-all?’

  His mother’s face hardened. ‘It wasn’t like that. I loved my husband in the beginning and he loved me. But he had … appetites. I wasn’t enough for him. And the further he fell into debt the more he gave in to those desires.’

  She lapsed into silence as though reliving the pain of that time, then roused herself. ‘Anyway, do you think you’re the only one? Every family has a bastard or two in it, even families like ours.’ She flung a hand out to encompass the portraits on the walls of the sitting room. ‘Do you think they’re all legitimate? You could comb through the family papers and find allusions, some rumours. But you know what? Everyone plays their part. You see, it’s not what is true but what’s seen to be true. That’s what matters.’

  Her eyes bored into him, relentlessly driving her point home. Despite this, he’d be expected to carry on, marry well and make a baby. He’d be expected to keep his mouth shut.

  And now Jon knew. He’d never make anything more than an uneasy peace with his mother. He felt sorry for the marriage she’d made and the choice to stay in it, because she’d obviously been unhappy. But he could understand now why Cliff had escaped the stifling confines of this world. He’d made a new life and lived on his terms.

  Just as Charlie had. She’d had the courage to demand that Jon sort out his demons before bringing them into a relationship with her, where they would continue to stir up trouble.

  She’d had the courage to walk away, demanding that he be the best he could be.

  Jon stood and looked down at his mother and her eyes shifted, reflecting some strange emotion he couldn’t pin down. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, truly sorry. But if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jon craned his neck and peered through the front window of the Cessna. Below, the landscape was just as he remembered, parched and dusty but with a strange beauty, which he recognised for the first time. He checked his watch. They should be close to Bin now. Anticipation and anxiety, having wrestled with each other across three continents, spiked inside him. What if Charlie didn’t want him? What if he wasn’t welcome?

  What if she’d found someone else?

  Ahead, a dark blob on the horizon slowly came into focus, the sun dazzling on the tin roof.

  Bindundilly.

  If someone had told him three months ago that everything he would want in life was under that low-slung roof, baking in an endless expanse of desert, he’d have laughed.

  Jon glanced across at the pilot. ‘Don’t buzz the hotel, okay?’

  The pilot, a different man to last time, pressed a button and looked across from the controls. ‘We always buzz it, mate. That way she comes out to pick you up.’

  Jon stifled a grin. ‘Is that
right?’

  ‘Yep. Too many of your lot go AWOL out here. Bugger of a job finding you. That’s if there’s anything left,’ he added darkly. ‘Ferals can make a real mess of a corpse in no time.’

  This bloke was obviously keen to add some local colour for an overseas visitor.

  ‘I’ll take the risk.’

  The pilot shrugged. ‘Your call, mate. Anyway, you’ll like Charlie, she’s the publican. She’s a cracker.’

  A cracker. Jon smiled. He guessed she was.

  The plane coasted to a halt on the airstrip and Jon had his seat belt unbuckled before the pilot had the door unlocked. As he opened it a blast of hot wind entered.

  ‘Well, you asked for it. Can’t get hotter than February out here. But it’s your neck.’ The pilot gave a wave of his hand before Jon pulled a large backpack over his shoulders and picked up his holdall. He started across the flat expanse. If he’d thought it was hot in November, he’d had no idea what high summer was like.

  He hiked across the dust, skirted rabbit burrows and tried not to think about snakes. He’d learn about snakes. And spiders. He’d learn how to pull beer and talk to the bush men. He’d find a way into Rhonda’s good books.

  If Charlie wanted him.

  There was one lone four-wheel drive outside the pub when he reached it. It was ominously quiet as he slid off the backpack and dropped it with his holdall on the verandah. He pushed the door open. Inside, the air-conditioning burbled noisily as his eyes tracked around the empty pub.

  The hats and traps had been taken off the wall and hung over the bar and on either side of the doors. The nails had been removed and the mural was exposed in all its savage beauty. It was arresting, but it no longer had the ability to reach deep down and grab at that frightened part of him. That terrified boy had gone for ever.

  ‘Been nothing but art experts up here since she got back.’

  John swivelled round. He hadn’t heard anyone approach. Rhonda, a tea towel tucked in her apron, was standing right behind him, her eyes dark and penetrating.