Red Dirt Duchess Page 11

  She was falling in love with him. But what had been improbable till now was, after today’s revelation, impossible. Anguish mixed with beer made her queasy. It was time to step back and regroup.

  ‘It’s okay. I mean, I’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow. I think I can handle it for another day.’ She pulled the menu from the stand on the table. ‘Let’s see what they’ve got. It will have to be good to beat Rhonda’s cooking.’

  It was hard to meet his eyes, the bleak expression pulling at her in unaccustomed places. She concentrated on the menu, aware that his gaze rested on her.

  ‘Hmm, fish and chips would be good, but the fish would be frozen, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Cod,’ she mused then looked up. ‘Seriously, cod?’

  He gave her an impatient look. ‘Of course. What sort of fish do Australians use for fish and chips?’

  ‘Shark,’ she answered smugly.

  ‘Figures. Australians have to have the most dangerous everything in the world, don’t they? Even your fish and chips should come with a warning.’

  He flashed her a grin and she burst out laughing. Maybe he was right. Here at least was a return to the old Jon, not this new, watchful stranger with moody grey eyes that followed her as though she might disappear.

  ‘Okay, I’ll have the steak and kidney pie.’ She slid the menu back into the stand.

  He got up to order, and as soon as his back was turned she closed her eyes, trying to remember the old cynical, supercilious Jon. That way she might have a chance. But something had dangerously shifted.

  When she opened her eyes he was back with two glasses of wine. One wobbled a little as he put it down, splashing liquid on the table.

  ‘Don’t be so nervous,’ she said.

  He straightened his shoulders and pulled a wad of paper napkins from a holder to blot the wine. ‘I’m not nervous.’

  She waited a beat. ‘You didn’t promise to marry me, you know. You dared me to come and check out your painting, to see if it was Cliff’s. And I did.’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  ‘Whatever feudal obligations you have to your family are no business of mine.’ She took a sip of wine. It warmed her, helping alleviate the chill that, even in this snug room, had started to creep into her bones.

  His jaw tightened. ‘I know it sounds feudal to an outsider but that’s the way it has always been. It might have been different if Jeremy and Sarah had been able to have a baby.’

  She nodded understandingly. ‘So in the interests of your ancient lineage, I need to step aside.’

  His mouth drooped but she decided to press on. ‘Besides, I don’t want to upset your mother. She seems a little highly-strung.’

  He strained his neck as though his collar was too tight. ‘Well, she has a lot on her mind at the moment.’

  ‘She has plans for you, so it wouldn’t be right for a barmaid to get in the way.’ It needed to be said, if only to remind herself as well as Jon.

  He said nothing but the small frown that had settled between his eyes deepened.

  Alan brought their order to the table, two large plates holding china ramekins with tall puffed-pastry lids. They waited while he brought salt and pepper, sauce and cutlery.

  When he walked away, she picked up her knife and cut into the pastry, releasing a waft of fragrant steam, then leaned forward and sniffed in appreciation.

  ‘And of course it wouldn’t be fair to give you the best night of your life by picking up where we left off in Bin. Because that’s what I’d planned, you know. I think we left off round about the naked-but-for-tiny-panties stage.’

  His jaw dropped and the fork with it, clattering onto the table.

  ‘It would have been so good,’ she continued, allowing herself a small, delicious shudder that she hoped went straight to his cock. ‘I got into some of Rhonda’s erotica before I left, and I have to say I learned a thing or two. I’d been fantasising about trying out some of the wilder stuff.’

  His face drained of colour as he emitted a small, stifled groan.

  ‘Never mind, it will keep for some other time. Some other man.’ She picked up her fork and smiled. ‘Enjoy.’

  Charlie awoke determined to put yesterday behind her. She’d smile at Diana and ignore her barbs. She’d stay out of Sarah’s way. And she’d treat Jon like a good friend, not like a man who’d flitted in and out of her dreams until she’d woken in the middle of the night in a frustrated tangle of sheets and blankets.

  It was wedding day, and there was a noticeable buzz around the house. At least someone was happy. Early this morning, lying warm under the covers, she’d heard vehicles drive by the front of the house. There’d been slamming doors and raised voices, shouted directions.

  As she dressed a low, insistent beat inserted itself into her consciousness. It was like a pulse coming from outdoors, and it drew Charlie from her room. She walked down the corridor and turned into the Long Gallery. The sound was louder here, less muffled by the thick stone walls, and a skirl of bagpipe started, the plaintive sound carried on the cold morning air.

  Charlie stepped into a window bay to peer out the window but frost misted the glass. She pulled down the sleeve of her jumper and used it to polish a small pane. Below, a large florist van was pulled up outside and two men were manhandling a giant arrangement of pink flowers onto a wheeled cart.

  She moved back into the gallery, heading towards the music. Generations of Hartley-Huntleys, captured forever on canvas, looked down their aristocratic noses as she passed. Not one looked like Jon; they were all fleshy lips and protuberant eyes, many of them wearing ridiculous powdered wigs.

  When she got halfway along the gallery, she stopped. At the far end, a bent figure stood at the oriel window, the little beagle sitting patiently at her side. Lady Rushton, the silver cloud of hair floating like a halo around her head, looked tiny in the immense frame of the window, her body teetering a little as she leaned heavily on her stick.

  Charlie hesitated. These people were so different. They had all kinds of rules about intruding she didn’t understand, and easy familiarity didn’t go down well. But Lady Rushton looked so alone and so unsteady on her feet that Charlie took another step forward.

  There was a shouted command from below, then the dull thud of stick against drum before the pipes started again. Lady Rushton’s back was still turned and she was delving into her sleeve for a handkerchief.

  Perhaps Charlie could see from one of the other windows without disturbing her. She turned back just as an autocratic voice demanded, ‘Who’s there?’

  She paused then took a few steps forward, into the light from a window. ‘It’s me, Charlie.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Hughes, come and join me. You must see this.’

  When she reached Lady Rushton’s side, the woman’s rheumy eyes were fixed on the drive below and her hand shook on the stick. Charlie reached out to help her.

  ‘Don’t mind me, dear, I have Parkinson’s. It’s a dreadful nuisance. Look.’ She nodded down at the massed band, the uniformed men standing rigid in the freezing morning as they played.

  ‘A marching band,’ Charlie exclaimed.

  ‘They’re playing a tattoo,’ Lady Rushton corrected.

  ‘I’ve heard of that. There’s one on TV every year but it wasn’t the sort of thing that was watched in our home when I was a child.’

  Except that they hadn’t owned a TV. Their life back then had been chaotic parties, strangers floating in and out of rooms, an ambulance, a pool of vomit, empty bottles. But before that, food and laughter. Free-flowing wine and conversation. Images quickly penned on any available surface.

  ‘Yes, the Edinburgh tattoo is the one that gets all the attention, my dear, but a tattoo can be performed anywhere. They’re practising for the wedding this evening. It appears this Desiree creature wants the full works. And why shouldn’t she?’ She thumped the stick on the floor in emphasis and Bertie jumped.

  Charlie sneaked a quick glan
ce across at her. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt, Lady Rushton.’

  ‘It’s Vera. Please call me Vera, child, and I shall call you Charlie.’

  They stood together in silence, watching as the band started to march in perfect unison, their feet crunching on the gravel. The bandmaster’s stick twirled in a complicated pattern before he pointed it to the left and the band turned in unison.

  ‘Jon and Jeremy laugh about this sort of thing,’ Vera said. ‘They think it’s funny and old-fashioned. But Jeremy encourages anything that might be good for business. As for Jon, he’s always had a strange relationship with this house and his family. I only hope he doesn’t …’ Her voice trailed off and an air of sadness settled over her.

  ‘I think it’s lovely to have traditions,’ Charlie said. ‘We had none in my family.’ For the first time it bothered her, that lack of rituals. They’d had celebrations but never over the same things as other families. One year Christmas might be celebrated lavishly, but the following would be a non-event with an egg and bacon sandwich for lunch, because Cliff was painting and Maddie was stoned.

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity. Still, it’s up to us all to make the best of life, no matter what happens. Perhaps you’ll make your own rituals one day.’

  It was a comforting thought. Charlie cherished the childhood she’d had with Maddie and Cliff but she’d sometimes wished they were a little more like other families, something Cliff and Maddie dismissed as ordinary and boring.

  She turned and looked back at the portraits behind her. All these generations had made Jon who he was, had provided stability and an unfaltering foundation.

  ‘Of course Jeremy and Jon don’t know what it means.’ Vera’s voice dragged her back.

  ‘I’ll have to plead ignorance as well,’ Charlie admitted.

  Vera’s voice trembled a little. ‘It’s the call home.’

  ‘Huh?’

  The old lady turned her head, one elegant brow arched.

  ‘I mean, I beg your pardon?’ Charlie amended.

  ‘A tattoo is the call home. It dates back hundreds of years. Soldiers used to leave barracks to go drinking or womanising, and of course no one had watches back then. So they’d stay out till all hours. Then the tattoo was devised. It’s played in the evenings, in the dying light of the day, to call troops home.’

  Vera fell silent. Her eyes had left the band in the forecourt below and were focused on something across the park, maybe even further. Something that only she could see.

  ‘Sometimes we need these reminders, dear. We stray too far and forget to return. By the time we do, it’s often too late.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  There were loud voices in the breakfast room.

  It had taken quite a while for Charlie and Vera to walk slowly back along the Long Gallery and down the staircase. Vera carried a little bag full of all the things she might need before her afternoon nap, and Charlie took it so Vera could deal with the stairs, while admonishing Bertie for getting under her feet.

  At the raised voices in the hall Charlie paused and glanced at Vera uncertainly. The old lady pressed her hand. ‘If we walk into that room and they are all murdering each other, I don’t care how much blood is splashed on the walls, wish them good morning, step around the knives, and just sail across to a chair. That is how it is done, my dear.’ As if to emphasise her point, she composed her face into a mask of supreme unconcern.

  But when Charlie pushed the door open she encountered an air of sudden, studied casualness that told her she’d been the topic of conversation. Jeremy and Sarah were feeding the dogs with scraps from their breakfast plates, Jon had his head buried in his laptop and Diana was gazing absently into space, perhaps worried that having woken up and found Charlie still here, it hadn’t been a bad dream after all.

  Good mornings were exchanged as Jon led Vera to a chair and saw her settled, while Charlie took another. On his way back to his own chair he placed a hand on her shoulder then leaned down and kissed her cheek. As kisses went it was gentle, with a touch of regret.

  ‘I thought we’d take a drive to Stonehenge this morning,’ he whispered. ‘We should be able to make it there and back before the wedding starts, and it will be much better than sitting around here.’

  He was right. This place was starting to get her down. Within minutes it became apparent that the Hartley-Huntleys weren’t interested in the wedding. If they had to raise money by having strangers in their home, they’d do their very best to ignore it.

  Charlie shrugged and moved to the sideboard where a simple array of toast, cereal and marmalade was laid out. She’d never understand these people. A wedding was big news in the outback, no matter whose it was. People would travel hundreds of kilometres, sometimes halfway across the country, flying in by private plane or driving bone-rattling hours along dirt roads. Everyone pitched in to help, and grudges and feuds were put aside for the day.

  Without even knowing Desiree Walton and her fiance, Keith, Charlie felt a shiver of excitement for them. Falling in love and getting married was supposed to be a happy affair, but a wedding under their own roof left the Hartley-Huntleys utterly unmoved.

  The door opened and Barker entered, followed by a slim woman with a pixie haircut, dressed in a black suit and clutching a clipboard. A headset was clipped to her ear.

  ‘I will not wear livery,’ he insisted, crossing to the sideboard with fresh toast and a covered dish.

  ‘Oh, Mr Barker, it would be wonderful. It would be so perfect for Desiree and Keith if you were to open the door when she arrives. It will make her feel like a real princess. We have the suit here; you could just slip it on before they arrive.’

  Barker turned and gave her a frigid look. ‘It’s just Barker, and butlers do not wear livery. I am not part of the package.’

  He started towards the door but she stood in his path, sidestepping to block his way as he tried to dodge around her.

  ‘Well, just the jacket then. That couldn’t hurt, and I doubt they’d know the difference.’

  Jon looked up from his breakfast. ‘Barker, since when have you passed up the opportunity to wear a bit of glitter? You can bet it will be over-the-top and you might get to keep it for the parade. Wiltshire Pride will never have seen the like. You might even get to meet you-know-who.’ He waggled his eyebrows theatrically.

  ‘I’ve already met him,’ Barker snapped, and as Jon opened his mouth, he added, ‘and never you mind.’

  ‘Go on, Barker. Throw it into the package as a sweetener,’ Jon urged. ‘The minute people hear we have a butler who hobnobs with —’

  ‘Leave Barker alone, Jon. You’re impossible,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘I’m just trying to make sure that Desiree and Keith have the wedding they deserve. Someone ought to be happy on their wedding day, don’t you think?’ Jon muttered.

  Barker turned on his heel and strode from the room. The wedding planner sniffed and ran her pen angrily through something on her clipboard. ‘Well. I might think a little harder before I book another wedding at Hartley Hall.’ Without waiting for a reply she followed Barker.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Diana wrung her hands. ‘Maybe we should … maybe you could talk to Barker, Jon.’

  ‘Me?’ Jon bit into a crust of toast. ‘Not a chance. Leave Barker alone, Mother.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Our problems are not Barker’s. Just because we have a generational, congenital inability to live within our means, it’s no reason to turn poor Barker into a performing seal.’

  Twenty minutes later, Barker flew into the sitting room and stood, flapping both hands in front of him as though shaking them dry. Outside a woman shrieked, the sound echoing down the cold marble hall.

  ‘There’s a bit of a problem …’ Barker began.

  The door flew open and the wedding planner entered unceremoniously in a gust of frigid air, just in time to hear Barker’s words.

  ‘A bit of a problem? We’re all ruined,’ she wailed.

  ‘All the
same, would you kindly close the door?’ Diana snapped. ‘Now, what’s happened?’

  ‘The caterer is ill. She’s head-down in a toilet bowl and the guests are due to arrive in three hours,’ the planner said, her hands shaking so much that she dropped her clipboard and papers fluttered loose to the carpet. She bent down to pick them up.

  ‘So get another caterer,’ Diana said airily.

  Charlie shook her head. It was sad, really. Marie Antoinette must have used just that tone when she said, ‘Let them eat cake’, and look at what had happened to her.

  ‘Who?’ The planner looked up at Diana as though she were an imbecile. ‘It’s a Saturday in winter, and in the middle of bloody Wiltshire.’

  ‘She wasn’t doing it all herself, surely. What about her staff?’ Diana persisted.

  ‘They won’t touch it. They’re all hired on and union. They’ll cook the food but that’s it. The plating and special touches were top-secret. No one knows what she had planned.’

  ‘Who’s the idiot that worked that out?’ Jeremy asked.

  The wedding planner stiffened. ‘It’s quite common, I assure you. The more that can be kept secret, the more the magazines will pay for the story.’

  Charlie noticed that Jon kept his back resolutely turned away, as though it all had nothing to do with him. But if the wedding was a failure, what would happen with Aristo? Caro couldn’t blame him personally, but these things had a way of rubbing off. Didn’t he care?

  Jeremy dragged a hand through his hair. ‘What can we do?’ He looked blankly at Sarah, who shrugged and looked at Diana.

  At this stage it became apparent that earls, and perhaps the aristocracy in general, weren’t very proactive.

  ‘Perhaps I can help.’ The words spilled out before Charlie could stop them. It was none of her business, but Desiree Walton deserved someone doing the best they could for her, not a bunch of people standing around, clueless.

  All heads turned in Charlie’s direction. ‘You?’ Diana said with blatant disregard.