by Judy Nunn
She shook her head. ‘No thank you.’
‘Anne,’ he leaned forward, concerned, ‘there is one factor I believe you have not considered.’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘Where exactly would you find the funds to lead a life of independence?’
Her reply was animated. ‘Oh Charles, I would not come to you with such a request. You have been more than generous to me for more years than I can count, I could not possibly … would not ever expect you to …’
‘Then where exactly?’ The steely eyes were focused on her like a snake’s upon a rabbit.
Anne looked back at him, surprised. ‘Why, from Father of course. He has kindly offered me a generous weekly allowance.’
There was a moment’s pause before Charles sat back in his chair and began laughing with mirthless relief.
‘Why, Charles? Why do you laugh? He is more than happy to help me.’
‘Oh Anne, Anne, my dear Anne.’ He leaned forward once more and his smile was indulgent. ‘Father could not give you even a penny.’
‘But Father is very wealthy.’
‘Father has lost his mind.’
‘Well, yes, I know he wanders occasionally, but often when we talk he is lucid, and when we spoke of the cottage, he said he—’
‘Father has lost hismind, Anne.’ She stared back at him uncom-prehending. ‘Don’t you know what that means? It means he is incapable of handling his affairs and iscompletely dependent upon me for guidance. I have had his enduring power of attorney for three years now; he cannot even sign a cheque.’
Anne looked down at the tablecloth again as she fought back the sting of tears. She concentrated on the patterns in the lace, willing herself not to cry. It wasn’t just for herself she was crying, or for the loss of her dream. She cried for James Kendle.
‘We all have a dream, Anne,’ her father had said when she had told him about the cottage. ‘I had many dreams,’ his thin voice always quavered now, ‘some of which came true. The store was one. Nathaniel Streatham and I, we were such a team …’
When the conversation eventually came back to the cottage, he told her she should fight for it. ‘Confront Charles,’ he said, ‘the way I never could. Tell him I will pay the bills, tell him that.’ The voice was stronger now, quaver and all. ‘Iam rich, Anne. I will give you a weekly allowance, you will have a life of your own. You tell Charles that. You tell him.’
Anne and her father had becomefriends over the past years. Weak and wandering as he was, she had been closer to him in his illness than she had ever been before, and it hurt her deeply to think of him as having lost his mind. Though in her heart she knew her brother was right.
Charles rose from his chair and circled the table to stand beside his sister. He stroked her hair, pulled back into a tidy bun at the nape of her neck. It felt velvet to the touch. Anne had beautiful hair. ‘Ididn’t mean to be cruel, my dear.’ The kindess in his voice released tears which flowed freely down her cheeks.
He knelt beside her chair, one hand upon her knee, the other offering a handkerchief. ‘There, there, don’t cry.’ She tried to take the handkerchief from him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘let me,’ and he gently dabbed the tears from her face. ‘Anne, dear Anne.’ She sobbed afresh; she’d never known Charles to be so kind.
He gave her the handkerchief to blow her nose and, when she’d regained control, remained kneeling beside her, gently stroking her knee. ‘You see, my dear, Father needs you so, how could you think of leaving him?’ She nodded, clutching the handkerchief to her mouth, not daring to speak. ‘And I need you too, Anne. I need you too.’
She looked down at him. It was strange to see Charles, so concerned, kneeling beside her. He reached up and stroked her hair once more. ‘You won’t leave us, will you, my dear?’ She shook her head and sniffed into the handkerchief. ‘There’s a good girl. Now, I insist you have a cup of tea.’
‘Really, Charles, I know nothing of menus and decorations.’ Anne was confused. And uncomfortable. Ever since theirdiscussion at the breakfast table, Charles had been conciliatory towards her, and embarrassingly brusque to his wife. Now he was even deferring to Anne’s opinion in regard to his daughter Susan’s forthcoming nuptials.
Anne looked with someembarrassment at Susan who simply smiled and shrugged, she had long relinquished any say in her wedding arrangements. Not through any lack of spirit on her part, Susan was indeed a feisty young woman. But she hadn’t wanted a lavish affair in the first place so, if her mother wished to fret and fuss, as she obviously did, and if her father wished to spend a fortune, which he apparently saw as his right and duty, then let them. She too was a little bewildered, however, by her father’s deferral to Anne’s taste and judgement, he’d never done so before.
‘Rubbish, my dear, you have impeccable taste.’
Amy herself fumed. Charles was ignoring her again. Surely he wasn’t still angry about that cottage business. ‘I really think, Charles,’ she ventured, ‘that we can leave the reception details to Monsieur Phillipe, he is the expert after all.’
‘I am fully aware of that, Amy.’ His tone was civil enough but she could tell he was irritated. ‘However, I appreciate Anne’s contribution with regard to decoration—she has the eye of an artist.’ His attention again returned to his sister. ‘And most certainly, my dear, you must attend to the musical accompaniment, you are the only member of the family with a true musical ear.’
Several days later Amytried a more intimate approach. In their bedroom. Anne could hardly compete with her there.
She excused herself from the gathering around the piano a little earlier than usual in order to prepare herself. Besides, the sight of Charles proudly watching his sister and daughter playing a duet infuriated her. In the past, when the women had gathered at the piano after dinner, Charles had always retired to his study. Lately, he not only stayed, brandy balloon in hand, he encouraged Anne to play solo, and on the weekends when Stephen was home from College, Charles would encourage applause at the conclusion of Anne’s piece and Stephen, always eager to please his father, would obediently clap his hands and cry ‘bravo’. When a duet was performed Charles was even rude enough to wave his wife away from the piano stool and say, ‘No, no, Amy, Anne must play with Susan, she’s far more musical.’ Amy was left not knowing whether to scream with rage at Charles’ insensitivity, or burst into tears and run from the room.
Upstairs, Amy dressed herself in her most alluring satin and lace nightgown, one of the several Charles had had imported from Paris especially for her. She released her shoulder-length fairhair from its coiffure and brushed it until it shone, then she applied her favourite scent, the jasmine fragrance Charles so liked.
When he finally joined her in their bedroom, the lights were dim and she was posed alluringly at her dressing table, having decided that to pose upon the bed might be a little vulgar.
Charles immediately recognised her intentions; how could he fail to do so? The signals were hardly subtle. She might as well have been lying there naked, he thought. But then subtlety had never been Amy’s strongest suit. She was wearing one of those sample nightdresses he’d had sent from France. He always found it helpful to experiment on his family. Amy’s delight in the nightdresses had proved an excellent indicator and the line was now most popular amongst Sydney’s wealthier set.
She stood. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she purred.
‘You look lovely, my dear.’
It was what she wanted him to say, and he had to admit that for a forty-five-year-old she was impressive. She’d certainly kept her figure: her breasts were full, her waist was slim. In the subdued lighting she could well have passed for a woman ten years her junior.
He returned her embrace. She was wearing far too much of that scent he’d made the mistake of telling her he liked. He found it very cloying. However, he felt himself respond as she expertly removed his jacket without breaking the rhythm of her body which undulated invitingly against his. It had been some time since their last sexual u
nion, possibly months, Charles thought; he had been very busy.
She lifted her face as she unbuttoned his shirt, and her eyes closed gently. ‘Darling,’ she murmured. It was time for the kiss.
Her seduction techniques were predictable. Predictable now, but in the early days they had seemed bold and unbelievably exciting. When had her predictability become boring, he wondered as their mouths met. So long ago now it was difficult to remember. Not that it bothered Charles, to whom the daily thrust and parry of business had become far more of an adventure than the occasional thrust and parry of hislibido. Besides, other women were readily available, as they always were to men of wealth and power, ifhe felt the need for fresh excitement. But he rarely did.
He felt her fingertips glide over hisnipples beneath the open shirt. He took her head in his hands and ran his fingers up through the golden locks. Then he clasped a fistful of her hair the way he knew she liked it.
Fleetingly, he thought of Anne’s hair, thick brown and luscious. Released from its captivity Anne’s hairquite possibly reached right down to her waist …
With just the right mixture of care and brutality, he eased Amy’s head back and lowered his mouth to the vulnerable base of her throat. She moaned with pleasure as she always did.
Charles wondered what Anne’s throat would look like. She had a slender, elegant neck, he could tell, beneath the high-collared blouses and dresses she wore. But he had never seen her throat …
He slid the thin straps of the nightdress from Amy’s shoulders. The satin fabric caressed every curve of her body as it slowly slithered its way to the floor.
She moaned again, her pleasure palpable as he released his grip on her hair, his hand travelling down her back, over her hip, across her belly, then up. Up to cup the curve of her breast.
Anne’s breasts would be smaller, Charles couldn’t resist thinking. He didn’t know why he thought it, he simply found the fact interesting. Amy’s breasts were a little vulgar when all was said and done, just as Amy herself was a little vulgar. Anne naturally had a more refined, a more elegant body, Anne was a Kendle after all …
Amy had expected to go through her normal routine of pretence that night, but for the first time in years she enjoyed their lovemaking. Right from the very start. When he’d made a fist of her hair and pulled back her head, she hadn’t had to fight the gasp which accompanied the pain. It had been the way he used to do it, when they were first married and she’d told him she liked itlike that.
Charles had not been Amy’s first lover, but she had been his. His energy having been focused upon the family business and the pursuit of wealth, Charles had remained a virgin until hewas twenty-eight; and Amy, a sensual woman, had enjoyed teaching him the balance of tenderness and passion which aroused her. The first year or so of their marriage had been exciting for them both. But it had not been long before Charles’s obsession with the burgeoning family empire once more consumed him, and Amy found herself marooned, with no outlet for her sexuality.
She had worked hard to resurrect her husband’s passion, and for a year or so she had succeeded. But after a while even her wanton advances had failed to titillate, and ithumiliated her when he said, with the tired edge of irritation to his voice, ‘Not now, Amy, for God’s sake, not now.’
So she left him alone and waited for him to come to her, which he did, on average, about once a month. For the first ten years or so anyway. After that, months and months could go by before he felt the urge. And when he did, he performed the erotic lessons she’d taught him perfunctorily, by rote, which she hated. She wished that he would stop and just satisfy his carnal lust; there was no pleasure in their foreplay, and quite often there was pain.
Twice during their marriage Amy had taken a younger lover, which had assuaged her frustration, but she had lived in such terror of discovery or blackmail, or both, that she had quickly ended the affairs. These days, on the rare occasions when she and Charles made love Amy fantasised about her young lovers. But it was sometimes difficult when Charles got the balance wrong. When he pulled her hair too hard, or pinched her nipple too forcefully, or drew blood as he bit her lip.
The balance had been perfect tonight, she thought as she lay beside him, sated. She stretched herself like a cat then curled to lie in the crook of his shoulder. She hadn’t had to simulate her pleasure tonight. The tiny gasps which had fluttered from her throat, the thrusting motion of her loins, the clasping, grasping of her hands, the guttural moans, had all been real. She had been pretending for so long that she had forgotten the pure joy of being awakened. She lightly kissed her husband’s breast.
Charles was not aware of her lips upon his skin. He, too, had enjoyed their lovemaking; it had been more than a mere release, there had been an added dimension. His thoughts of Anne perhaps? Interesting that she should have been so much in his mind. Protectiveness of course. And the fact that he was only just now coming to know his sister, previously a shadow in his life. He must look after Anne. He owed it to her. They were kin after all; they shared the Kendle blood. He rolled over to go to sleep.
‘Charles,’ Amy whispered.
‘Mmm?’
‘About Susan’s wedding …’ She stroked his back lightly with the tips of her fingernails. ‘I do so wish you would allow meto oversee the arrangements, my darling.’ She kept stroking his back and her voice was gentle. ‘After all, she is my daughter.’
Charles tried to curb his irritation. He was tired, the last thing he wanted was conversation. ‘You’re arranging the gowns, my dear, the bridesmaids and the flower girls, surely—’
‘But Anne is in charge of everything else.’ Aslight whinge had crept into her voice, Charles loathed it when she whinged. She waited for a response but there was none. ‘Well, it’s not right, Charles, surely you must see that.’ She stopped stroking his back and leant up on one elbow. ‘It is not right that Anne should be responsible for Susan’s wedding. Anne is not her mother. I am.’
The repetition of his sister’s name further irritated Charles.
‘Concentrate upon the gowns, Amy,’ he snapped. ‘It’s where your talent lies. Now go to sleep, for God’s sake.’
He knew she was crying as she rolled away from him but he couldn’t be bothered mollifying her. The image of Anne was in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.
The day before James Kendle’s seventy-third birthday, a visitor arrived at Kendle Lodge. Old Spike Monroe let her in through the garden side gate. If she’d arrived at the front door, the butler would never have admitted her, and even at the servants’ entrance she would have been turned away by Mrs Marett, the housekeeper. But Spike was a strange fellow. Despite the fact that he was head gardener, and as such a very important member of the Kendle staff, he never saw himself as a figure of authority.
So when the Aboriginal woman called to him through the ornate iron gate, it didn’t occur to him to order her away.
‘Hey there, mister,’ she said, and he crossed to the gates.
She was not a beggar, Spike could tell that immediately. She was quite a nice-looking woman, he thought, in her mid-thirties perhaps, and her smile was pleasant, ifalittle nervous.
‘Mr James Kendle, he lives here, don’t he?’
‘Yep. He does.’ Spike was surprised that she should know of James Kendle, the old man had kept to himself for years now.
‘Can I see him? Mr Kendle?’
‘I don’t know,’ Spike shrugged. ‘He’s sick, keeps to his bed.’
‘Please,’ the woman begged, and there was an urgency in her eyes, ‘please can I see him?’
‘Not up to me,’ Spike said, ‘I’m only the gardener.’ But he felt sorry for the woman, there was a desperation about her. ‘Come in,’ he said and opened the gate. ‘Come in and we’ll ask.’
She followed him through the gardens and across the tiled verandah, standing respectfully behind him as he approached the main back doors. Spike was about to knock for Mrs Marett but, even as he raised his hand, the door open
ed and the master’s sister stood there, dressed in a bonnet and cape.
‘Oh.’ Anne was startled to open the door and find the gardener and an Aboriginal woman standing before her.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ Spike removed his cloth cap, ‘but there’s a person here wants to see Mr Kendle.’
‘My name’s Milly, missus,’ the woman stepped forward and bobbed a sort of curtsy. ‘And I’m not begging, I swear.’ Anne, too, could see the desperation in her. ‘Can I see him? Can I see Mr Kendle?’
‘I shall enquire for you,’ Anne said, ‘but you must understand, he is a very busy man.’ She hoped that Charles would be civilto the woman. ‘Wait here one moment.’
Spike had been about to correct her. ‘It’s the old Mr Kendle she wants to see,’ he’d been about to say, but Anne was gone. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ he said to the woman. The master would be none too happy that he’d let a stranger in through the side gate, and Spike didn’t want to be around to cop a reprimand.
‘Thank you,’ the woman said as he left. And she stood, nervously twisting her small cloth handbag.
‘I’m so sorry, but my brother Charles is busy,’ Anne said upon her return. It had been just as she had expected. ‘What do I want to see a black for?’ Charles had snapped. ‘She’ll only be after money, send her away.’ It was better like this, Anne supposed. At least this way the woman wasn’t being insulted to her face.
‘No.’ The woman shook her head. ‘The old master, that’s who I want to see. Mr James Kendle.’
‘I’m sorry, but he is not well, he is bedridden.’
‘Please, missus,’ the woman implored, clearly agitated, twisting the bag in her hands. ‘Please.’
‘May I ask what business you feel you have with my father?’ Anne enquired gently. She felt sorry for the woman.
Milly stared at her mutilated handbag and wondered how she could tell this neat woman in her bonnet and cape and dainty gown.
‘We are kin,’ she finally mumbled.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Anne wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly.