Margaret Way - Wealthy Australian, Secret Son

Martyn had left her little money. They had lived with his parents at their huge High Grove estate. They had wanted for nothing, all expenses paid, but Martyn’s father—knowing his son’s proclivities—had kept his son on a fairly tight leash. His widow, so all members of the Prescott family had come to believe, was undeserving.

“Grandpa runs to a timetable of his own,” Christopher was saying, shaking his golden-blond head. She too was blonde, with green eyes. Martyn had been fair as well, with greyish-blue eyes. Christopher’s eyes were as brilliant as blue-fire diamonds. “You look lovely in that dress, Mummy,” he added, full of love and pride in his beautiful mother. “Please don’t be sad today. I just wish I was seventeen instead of seven,” he lamented. “I’m just a kid. But I’ll grow up and become a great big success. You’ll have me to look after you.”

“My knight in shining armour!” She bent to give him a big hug, then took his outstretched hand, shaking it back and forth as if beginning a march. “Onward, Christian soldiers!”

“What’s that?” He looked up at her with interest.

“It’s an English hymn,” she explained. Her father wouldn’t have included hymns in the curriculum. Her father wasn’t big on hymns. Not since the Tragedy. “It means we have to go forth and do our best. Endure. It was a favourite hymn of Sir Winston Churchill. You know who he was?”

“Of course!” Christopher scoffed. “He was the great English World War II Prime Minister. The country gave him a huge amount of money for his services to the nation, then they took most of it back in tax. Grandpa told me.”

Charlotte laughed. Very well read himself, her father had taken it upon himself to “educate” Christopher. Christopher had attended the best school in the Valley for a few years now, but her father took his grandson’s education much further, taking pride and delight it setting streams of general, historical and geographical questions for which Christopher had to find the answers. Christopher was already computer literate but her father wasn’t—something that infuriated him—and insisted he find the answers in the books in the well-stocked library. Christopher never cheated. He always came up trumps. Christopher was a very clever little boy.

Like his father.

The garden party was well underway by the time they finished their stroll along the curving driveway. Riverbend had never looked more beautiful, Charlotte thought, pierced by the same sense of loss she knew her father was experiencing—though one would never have known it from his confident Lord of the Manor bearing. Her father was a handsome man, but alas not a lot of people in the Valley liked him. The mansion, since they had moved, had undergone very necessary repairs. These days it was superbly maintained, and staffed by a housekeeper, her husband—a sort of major-domo—and several ground staff to bring the once-famous gardens back to their best. A good-looking young woman came out from Sydney from time to time, to check on what was being done. Charlotte had met her once, purely by accident …

The young woman had left her Mercedes parked off the broad gravelled driveway so she could take a good look at the Lodge, screened from view by a grove of mature trees. Charlotte had been deadheading the roses when her uninvited visitor—brunette, dark-eyed, in a glamorous black power suit worn with a very stylish snow-white ruffled blouse—had near tumbled into view on her very high heels.

“Oh, good afternoon! Hope I didn’t startle you?” she’d called, the voice loud and very precise.

Well, sort of, Charlotte thought. “You did rather,” she answered mildly. The woman’s greeting had been pleasant enough. The tone wasn’t. It was seriously imperative. Charlotte might as well have been a slack employee who needed checking up on. “May I help you?” She was aware she was being treated to a comprehensive appraisal. A head-to-toe affair.

The young woman staggered a few steps further across the thick green grass, thoroughly aerating it. She had to give up as the stiletto heels of her expensive shoes sank with every step. “I don’t think so. I’m Diane Rodgers, by the way.”

“Well, hello, Diane Rodgers,” Charlotte said with a smile.

Ms Rodgers responded to that with a crisp look. “I’ve been appointed by the new owner to oversee progress at Riverbend. I just thought I’d take a look at the Lodge while I was at it.”

“May I ask if you’re an estate agent?” Charlotte knew perfectly well she wasn’t, but she was reacting to the tone.

“Of course I’m not!” Ms Rodgers looked affronted. An estate agent, indeed!

“Just checking. The Lodge is private property, Ms Rodgers. But I’m sure you know that.”

“Surely you have no objection to my taking a look?” The question was undisguisedly sarcastic. “I’m not making an inspection, after all.”

“Which would be entirely inappropriate,” Charlotte countered.

“Excuse me?” Ms Rodgers’s arching black brows rose high.

“No offence, Ms Rodgers, but this is private property.” The woman already knew that and didn’t care. Had she tried a friendly approach, things might have gone differently.

As it was, Diane Rodgers was clearly on a power trip.

She gave an incredulous laugh, accompanied by a toss of her glossy head. “No need to get on your high horse. Though I expect it’s understandable. You couldn’t bear to part with the place. Isn’t that right? You’re the daughter of the previous owner.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Why would you assume that?” Charlotte resumed deadheading the exquisite deep crimson Ecstasy roses.

“I’ve heard about you, Mrs Prescott.” The emphasis was heavy, the smile knowing —as if Charlotte’s secret was out. She had spent time in an institution. Possibly mental. “You’re every bit as beautiful as I’ve been told.”

“Beauty isn’t the be all and end all. There are more important things. But may I ask who told you that?” There was a glint in Charlotte’s crystal-clear green eyes.

“Sorry, that would be telling. You know yourself how people love to talk. But being rich and beautiful can’t prevent tragedy from occurring, can it? I hear you lost a brother when you were both children. Then a husband only a while back. Must have been frightful experiences? Both?”

Charlotte felt her stomach lurch. Who had this remarkably insensitive young woman spoken to? Someone she’d met in the village? Nicole, Martyn’s younger sister? Nicole had always resented her. If Ms Rodgers’s informant had been Nicole she would have learned a lot—most of it laced with vitriol.

A moment passed. “I’m sure you heard about that too, Ms Rodgers,” Charlotte said quietly. “Now, you must excuse me. I have things to do. Preparations for dinner, for one.”

“Just your father and your son, I’m told?”

It was more or less a taunt, and it bewildered Charlotte. Why the aggression? The expression on Ms Rodgers’s face was hardly compassionate. Charlotte felt a wave of anger flow over her. “I must go in, Ms Rodgers.” She folded her secateurs, then placed them in the white wicker basket at her feet. “Do please remember in future the Lodge is off-limits.”

Diane Rodgers had intended to sound coolly amused, but she couldn’t for the life of her disguise her resentment—which happened to be extreme. Who was this Charlotte Prescott to be so hoity-toity? She had well and truly fallen off her pedestal. At least that was the word. “Suit yourself!” she clipped, making too swift an about turn. She staggered, and had to throw a balancing arm aloft, making for the safety of solid ground.

Everyone appeared to be dressed to the nines for the Open Day. Filmy pastel dresses and pretty wide-brimmed hats were all the rage. Women had learned to take shelter from the blazing Australian sun. Sunscreen. Hats. Charlotte recalled how her mother had always looked after her skin, making sure her daughter did the same. Early days. These days her mother didn’t talk to her often. Her mother didn’t talk to anyone from the old days. Certainly not her ex-husband. Her parents had divorced two years after the Tragedy. Her mother had remarried a few years after that, and lived in some splendour in Melbourne’s elite Toorak. If she had ever hoped her mother would find solace in her beautiful grandson, Christopher, she had been doomed to bitter disappointment. There had only been one boy in her mother’s life: her pride and joy, her son Matthew.

“Mummy, can I please go off with Peter?” Christopher jolted her out of her sad thoughts. Peter Stafford was Christopher’s best friend from day one at pre-school. He stood at Christopher’s shoulder with a big grin planted on his engaging little face.

“I don’t see why not.” Charlotte smiled back. “Hello there, Peter. You’re looking very smart.” She touched a hand to his checked-cotton clad shoulder.

“Am I?” Peter blushed with pleasure, looking down at his new clothes. Christopher had told him in advance he was wearing long trousers, so Peter had insisted his mother buy him a pair. His first. He felt very grown-up.

Christopher hit him mildly in the ribs. “You know Mummy’s only being nice.”

“I mean it, Peter.” Charlotte glanced over Peter’s head. “Mum and Dad are here?”

Peter nodded. “Angie too.” Angie was his older sister. “We had to wait ages for Angie to change her dress. I liked the first dress better. Then she had to fix her hair again. She was making Mum really angry.”

“Well, I’m sure everyone has settled down,” Charlotte offered soothingly. She knew Angela Stafford—as difficult a child as Peter was trouble-free. “We’re all here to enjoy ourselves, and it’s a beautiful day.” Charlotte placed a loving hand on top of her son’s head. “Check in with me from time to time, sweetheart?”

“Of course.” He smiled up at her, searching her face in a near-adult way. “If you prefer, Pete and I can stay with you.”

“Don’t be silly!” she scoffed. “Off you go.” Christopher—her little man!

The boys had begun to move away when Peter turned back. “I’m very sorry Riverbend is going out of the family, Mrs Prescott,” he said, his brown eyes sweetly sympathetic. “Sorry for you and Mr Marsdon. Riverbend would have come to Chris.”

Charlotte almost burst into tears. “Well, you know what they say, Peter,” she managed lightly. “All good things must come to an end. But thank you. You’re a good boy. A credit to your family.”

“If he is, so am I!” Christopher crowed, impatiently brushing his thick floppy golden hair off his forehead. It was a gesture Charlotte knew well.

She turned her head away. She had to keep her spirits up. Her father was deeply involved in a conversation with the rotund, flush-faced Mayor. The Mayor appeared to be paying careful attention. The Marsdon name still carried a lot of clout. She walked on, waving a hand to those in the crowd who had stuck by her and her father.

Her parents’ separation, and subsequent divorce, had split the Valley. Her beautiful, very dignified mother had chaired most of the Valley’s charity functions, opening up the grounds of Riverbend for events much like today’s. She had been well respected. Her father had never approached that high level of Valley approval, though he was supremely unaware of it such was his unshakeable self-confidence.

The Tragedy had torn her mother to pieces. Her father, grief-stricken, had managed to survive.