Red Dirt Duchess

by Louise Reynolds

  ‘Hi, Rhonda. How are you?’ He held out a hand, and after looking at it for a moment, she took it.

  ‘I’m just fine, thank you. Well, well. Leave something behind?’

  ‘Yes. I was hoping to see Charlie.’

  Rhonda eyed him for a long moment with a calculating stare. ‘She’s not here.’

  His shoulders slumped. Maybe she’d changed her mind and had headed back to England. He remembered seeing an old movie once where the Australian hero and English heroine had crossed paths as they crossed continents to find each other.

  ‘Just joking. She’s out the back with a customer.’ He started to move but she thrust out a hand and caught him by the arm, her grip frighteningly firm. ‘But I can promise you, I’ll break both your legs if you try to leave here and she doesn’t have a ring on her finger.’

  He didn’t doubt it. He knew that these outback people were as good as family to Charlie. That they weren’t related by blood hardly mattered. There was Rhonda, who guarded her like a fierce lioness. The bush pilots. The regulars at the pub.

  It was getting hot in here. He tried to face down Rhonda’s hostile stare, but what use was breeding when confronted with a plain-spoken woman?

  ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ he ground out. ‘Now, would it be possible to have a beer, please?’

  She nodded and he followed her to the bar. ‘It’s very quiet.’

  ‘Worst time of the year. Too bloody hot for most.’ She took a frosted glass from the fridge, pulled the beer and passed it across the bar. Jon took a long draught and walked towards the door that led to the back of the hotel. He couldn’t wait to see Charlie, to hold her. To tell her he loved her.

  He stopped as he heard a familiar voice outside.

  ‘It’s a donga, mate.’

  A cultured male voice protested in return. ‘I assure you, the National Gallery will cover expenses for the best accommodation you can offer.’

  ‘You’re not listening. It’s the only accommodation we have, and some very toffy people – well, one toffy person – has stayed in that donga. And he had no complaints.’

  Jon smiled, remembering the night he’d spent here months ago. How he’d arrived in a temper and left half in love with Charlie. So much had happened since that night. Somehow, she’d made him whole.

  Her voice was coming closer and his blood began to pound.

  ‘Anyway, it’s the only place to sleep if you’re staying at Bin.’ The bar door swung open and he saw her, still turned to the person she was addressing. ‘I can’t take the bloody mural off the wall, you know, so if you want to study it, you’ll have to do it this way.’

  She turned and gave Rhonda a theatrical lift of her eyebrows. ‘Sheesh. Some people.’

  Rhonda jerked her head and Charlie’s eyes followed.

  He’d come.

  Jon stood beside the bar, a cold beer in his hand. He wore a T-shirt, khaki shorts and boots just like any of her regulars. His hair hadn’t been cut in a while. The ends curled on his neck. Given a bit of sun they’d be tipped with gold. He hadn’t shaved either, and she remembered the delicious rasp of his stubble on her body. But it was his eyes that captured her, the way he stood and looked at her with his heart on show.

  He’d done it. She was certain he’d confronted his mother. There was something in his eyes, a new, freer expression.

  Rhonda looked from Jon to Charlie. ‘Right. I think I’ll go and sort out that bloke from the National Gallery.’

  Charlie smiled at her. ‘Thanks. He’s a tough one, that’s for sure.’

  The door swung closed behind Rhonda.

  ‘Quiet in here,’ Jon began.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s the time of year. Only madmen —’

  ‘And Englishmen.’

  ‘And Englishmen are out here in February.’

  A small silence ensued. He cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘It’s not Vera, is it?’ she asked suddenly.

  He looked a little startled. ‘No, she’s fine and sends her love. She was at Hartley Hall when I left, actually.’

  She laced her fingers together, trying to stop them shaking. ‘Thank goodness. So … how’s Aristo going?’

  He took a step closer. ‘This is not about Vera or Aristo. I’m here because of us, my darling Charlie.’

  ‘Oh.’ She gazed up at him, her lips trembling.

  There was a shout from the rear of the pub and then Rhonda’s raised voice. No doubt the curator had just seen inside the donga.

  Jon jerked his head towards the back door. ‘What’s with him?’

  ‘It seems like the whole world’s discovered Cliff now. When I came back from England, I looked up his old art dealer. I told him about Bin, and the mural, and Sotheby’s. And just a little of the background.’ She hadn’t told the dealer about Vera and Shropshire and the painted wall in the chapel. That was all still too new, too personal.

  ‘He spoke to Giles Featherstone and then wheels started to turn. It seems the paintings Cliff made in Sydney have increased hugely in value.’

  Jon smiled down at her. ‘I’m pleased.’

  ‘So am I.’ Although Cliff was dead, his legacy would live on. ‘I haven’t told them about the recent stuff yet.’

  ‘Recent?’ Jon frowned.

  ‘Well, you see, there’s donga five.’ She obviously wasn’t being clear enough, because the frown deepened. ‘Donga five is full of Cliff’s paintings. All the ones he did after we came to Bin.’

  They heard an anguished cry from the doorway. ‘Cliff Hughes’ paintings are stored at fifty degrees Celsius?’

  The curator stood, sweating heavily, one hand clutched theatrically at his throat. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘‘Fraid not. That donga is stacked with them,’ Charlie replied cheerfully.

  The curator strode into the room and assumed a voice of authority. ‘We have to move them, immediately. The damage could be irreversible.’

  Charlie squared her shoulders. ‘They’ll stay there till I work out what to do about them. Cliff never saw them as valuable. He painted them and then he put them in there. End of story.’ After he’d painted each one he’d always be happier, as though he’d worked through his problems with a paintbrush the way others used alcohol or drugs. That was the true value of the canvases.

  ‘How many are there?’ the curator persisted.

  ‘Fifty? Sixty?’ Charlie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe more.’

  The curator swayed and clutched a table for support. ‘That many? Those paintings are worth a fortune.’

  Rhonda moved around the man and stood aggressively in front of him, hands thrust firmly on her hips. ‘Listen, mate, this bloke’s trying to propose to Charlie, so I suggest you bugger off and let him get on with it. If you’ve got nothing else to do you can come with me and I’ll cook you a steak.’

  They watched as the bemused curator followed Rhonda meekly to the kitchen.

  A small smile played around Jon’s lips. ‘Rhonda’s a woman who knows how to get things done. I’m starting to have a newfound appreciation for her skills.’

  ‘Are you really here to …’ Charlie’s voice trailed off. What if Rhonda was just being typically pushy? What if Jon was here for another reason?

  But then he walked straight to her. ‘I need to do this now, before someone else walks in.’ He grabbed her hands, and held them. ‘I love you, Charlie Hughes.’

  He pulled her into his arms and stood just a moment, holding her, before lowering his lips to hers. His kiss was sweet and questing, with an undertow of urgency. The sense of inevitability that had so unsettled her in Wiltshire the night of Vera’s birthday had gone. Then, the discovery of her background had cleared a path and provided Jon with an obvious solution to the problem of finding a suitable wife. That background had made her, within seconds, acceptable.

  Now, standing here, there was no inevitability. He knew this was not about bloodlines. He was waiting, unsure of her answer.

  She murmured
against his lips. ‘I love you, Jon Hardly-Hunky.’

  He laughed then, his eyes crinkling before turning serious. ‘I spoke to my mother. She knew all about my father’s secret life. And it seems she has absolutely no idea who my biological father is.’

  Incredible. Proper, upper-crust, mind-your-manners Diana had been careless enough to not take note of who had fathered one of her sons. Charlie glanced at Jon but he was laughing at her expression.

  ‘I’m fine with it. The world hasn’t crashed down around me. The family grinds on, the same as usual. One day I may talk to Jeremy about it, but it doesn’t seem so important right now.’

  He pulled her back towards him. ‘I’ve realised it’s not about where I come from. It’s where I’m going and the woman I want with me.’

  Charlie looked up into his eyes. They were clear, untroubled; this time the certainty had more to do with his own mind.

  ‘I’d be honoured if you’d become Mrs Jonathan Hartley-Huntley. Although I think we should just cut all the frills and be plain old Jon and Charlie Huntley.’

  Charlie closed her eyes as emotion flooded through her. When she opened them again he was staring at her, sliding his ring off his finger.

  ‘It’s not very romantic, but Rhonda has me on notice about jewellery.’ He placed it on her finger. ‘Charlie, beautiful, strong, sexy Charlie. Will you marry me?’

  ‘About bloody time,’ a voice boomed from the kitchen.

  EPILOGUE

  Shropshire, six months later

  The path from the house to the chapel was newly mown, the lush summer grass soft underfoot. Cow parsley bloomed in frothy white clouds where it grew against the low, dry stone walls that lined the path.

  There had been no one to give Charlie away. Vera had suggested Charlie’s uncle, but Charlie couldn’t see why she needed someone to give her away. So, against her grandmother’s protestations, she made her way alone along the path.

  She thought of Maddie. Neither of her parents had believed in a life hereafter, so she held her mother’s memory close as she walked, feeling the essence of her, rather than imagining her looking down.

  The freshly painted doors of the chapel stood open, the stone steps washed. In this place, generations of her family had married, been christened and, finally, been buried. It was still a strange idea.

  At the door, Charlie paused and took a deep breath. She wore a Clyfford family antique veil and the long gown that Vera had insisted on paying for. She spied Barker standing just inside the door and frowned. She’d wanted him in the congregation, as part of the family, not fussing over her like an employee.

  He waved an impatient hand. ‘Shh, just let me tweak it and I promise that’s it. That’s me – always the bridesmaid, never the bride.’

  Charlie suppressed a laugh and allowed him to rearrange the small train at the back of the gown, shaking off the tiny specks of cut grass that clung to the fine lace. He stood back, took her in from head to toe and smiled. Then, impulsively, he leaned forward and wrapped her in an embrace. ‘Be happy.’ And he was gone, raising a hand to the musicians as he slipped into his seat.

  The soft background music lowered in volume as the classical trio transitioned into something Jon had chosen. Music flooded the interior of the chapel, haunting and modern, in keeping with both the age of the space and the newly restored mural on the wall.

  The congregation turned, the old wooden pews creaking.

  Jon stood at the front of the chapel, in the shaft of light from the tall tracery windows. He was dressed in a morning suit, every inch the gentleman. Charlie thought of the first time she’d seen him. Angry, uptight and hiding it all behind a world-weary cynicism. That had changed in the last months.

  It was a long aisle, and the music soared as Charlie walked slowly, glancing at the mural.

  The day after they’d visited, Vera had called the Tate and engaged the services of their best art restorer. He’d arrived in January and they’d set up lights and heaters in the chapel and he and his team had worked tirelessly and painstakingly to remove the layer of white paint from the mural. Every week had revealed more of that extraordinary early work. The work that had driven her father to Australia.

  The colour was softer than the strong, saturated colours Cliff had used in Australia; more like Beech Forest at Sunset. It didn’t have the dark, tortured pain of his later work either. Vera had also tracked down the successful bidder for Beech Forest at Sunset and made him a handsome offer. She’d given it to Charlie and Jon as a wedding present, and it now hung in their flat in London. Strangely, Jon hadn’t touched it as he’d so longed to do as a child, although Charlie had caught him once or twice staring at it with an air of bemusement, as though trying to understand the hold it had once had over him.

  In the front pew on the bride’s side, Vera sat in an arresting costume of pillar-box red, her startling silver hair brushed away from her face to reveal her high cheekbones and elegantly arched brows. She looked younger than she had six months ago. She was a formidable and proud woman, but she had opened her heart to Charlie and in the process, had salved some of the pain of losing Cliff.

  Beside her, the current earl, Charlie’s Uncle Thomas, sat with his family. Charlie hoped that one day they would feel like real family. She’d give it the time it needed.

  Across the aisle Diana smiled with pleasure. Slowly, Jon had started to make his peace with her. He still didn’t know the identity of his biological father but beyond DNA-testing every likely acquaintance, they hadn’t a chance of finding out. He seemed at peace with that. Charlie hadn’t forgotten how Diana had treated her, but she felt that, in time, they might be friends.

  Jeremy sat beside Diana with Sarah on his other side, her hand resting on her rounded belly. Further tests had shown that Jeremy wasn’t impotent: he had motility problems. Poor swimmers, Jon had joked. Against all hope, treatment had, wonderfully, resulted in a pregnancy and overnight Sarah had become softer, a different person. Whether it was her sense of destiny fulfilled or the sweet mystery of carrying new life, it didn’t matter. Charlie had spent long hours with Sarah, dragging her to the kitchen and teaching her to cook. And as misshapen lamingtons and sausage rolls had been produced, a new friendship was forged. Charlie was thrilled that she was going to be an aunt.

  As she arrived at the centre of the aisle, Charlie slowed her steps, her gaze momentarily drawn away from Jon to rest again on the mural as she thought about her father. She stopped and inhaled the scent of the orchids in her bouquet, the candles and the slightly dank smell of ancient stone. Cliff was part of this place. She saw the worry in Vera’s eyes, heard the slight murmur in the congregation as she remained stationary.

  She also saw Jon nod at her, telling her to take her time. She was only getting married once.

  In her mind she reached out to Bin, to Cliff. His immense energy surrounded her, the lingering force of his presence in the chapel, as though he had stayed purposely to see Charlie married.

  Three years ago he’d told her she’d know when the time was right to find her family, and it had happened. But she hadn’t done it herself, and for what seemed like the millionth time she wondered what would have happened if one jaded aristocrat hadn’t bonked his boss and been sent to the other side of the world. It would no doubt have amused Cliff.

  Now there was Jon. The man she loved with all her heart. With her heart and her body and her mind.

  She looked down the aisle and met his eyes. He was hers, forever, and he was waiting.

  Acknowledgements

  My love and thanks to Trevor; a good listener, creative thinker and problem solver. Thank you for all the nights you cook when I’m writing and the nights you cook when I’m pretending to write. I wouldn’t enjoy this journey half as much without you beside me.

  Thanks to Emmie Dark who loved this story from the start. You are a true friend and I miss you. And to Sasha Cottman, for your support and camaraderie. SWB’s rule!

  Finally, to the team at Dest
iny, most especially my editor, Carol George. Your support and advice is appreciated.

  About the Author

  Louise Reynolds is an author of contemporary romantic fiction. Born in Sydney, she spent her childhood frolicking on beaches before moving to Melbourne at age 10. After one look at Melbourne beaches she got a library card and started to read. It was a logical step to take her love of romance novels to the next stage and tell her own stories. After some success in writing competitions she’s thrilled that her warm, heartfelt romances have found an audience.

  By day, she works in the commercial lighting industry, lighting anything from bridges to five star hotels. By night, she’s working her way through a United Nations of fictional heroes.

  After a lifetime of kissing frogs one finally turned into a prince and she lives with her partner in Melbourne’s inner north. She loves live jazz, cooking complicated meals that totally destroy the kitchen, and dining out. She has embraced Melbourne by wearing far too much black.

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