Red Dirt Duchess Page 13

  Charlie was so tired she could barely walk. Jon put his arm around her, holding her up as Barker led them out of the kitchen and down a long hallway. He threw the door open into a small, lemon-coloured sitting room. A young, heavily made-up woman was sitting on the sofa with an impossibly good-looking man beside her, their hands locked tightly together.

  Barker closed the door behind Charlie and Jon.

  ‘I wanted to say thank you,’ said the woman. ‘I’eard about Prue, poor love. Just goes to show, when a girl from the East End gets flash ideas some little bird’s going to crap on’er. But honest to God, the food was amazing. Wasn’t it, Keef?’

  Keith nodded, his gaze barely leaving Desiree Walton’s spectacular cleavage.

  Desiree stood up. ‘I’ve dreamed of my wedding day ever since I was a little tacker. I always knew I’d want the meringue frock and Cinderella coach.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I wanted to get married in a castle like this. I know it’s corny and probably low-class to people like you, but I’m me, know what I mean?’

  Charlie began, ‘But I’m not —’

  ‘I know you’re from the other side,’ Desiree said as she jerked her head towards the private side of the house, ‘so it’s super special that someone like you came an’’elped me.’

  ‘I loved doing it,’ Charlie said, and realised she meant it. If she’d helped give Desiree the wedding she’d dreamed of, she was happy. The tiredness started to seep away, replaced by mild euphoria.

  ‘Anyway, you saved my wedding. Thank you.’ Desiree stood and took a few teetering steps on ridiculously high stilettos before wrapping her arms around Charlie.

  Squeezed into that flesh, fighting for breath against a mound of silicone breast and ostrich feather, Charlie was touched. She managed to turn her head and meet Jon’s eyes. He grinned, a wide, wicked smile she felt all the way to her toes.

  Desiree pulled away and smiled. ‘And now, maybe you’d like to meet our friend Elton.’

  When Charlie finally fell into bed exhausted, she dreamed of copper pots and copper-haired witches. The food had gone wrong, poisoned by Diana’s dark spirit. There’d been ostrich feathers, flashy glasses and champagne toasts. And as she sank deeper, she dreamed of Maddie for the first time in years. Their relationship had changed, no longer that of a troubled mother and the daughter she’d lost. In the dream, they’d wrapped their arms around each other as friends. And just before she woke, Charlie had dreamed of Jon, trapped in a cage with rearing hound on top, a shower of violets at his feet.

  It was time to leave.

  Diana and Vera were alone in the breakfast room when Jon stalked in the next morning.

  His mother, immaculately made up, glanced up from her porridge and milk. ‘Good morning, darling.’

  ‘Is it? Sorry, but you’re not who I’m looking for. Good morning, Vera.’

  ‘That’s rather unkind.’

  His mother had a good line in pouts and discontented looks. He chose to ignore her as he checked out the usual boring breakfast offerings: porridge, cereal flakes, toast. Where was a good Shearer’s Special when a man needed it?

  Jeremy and Sarah dawdled in, followed by the dogs. The air was getting fusty and stifling. Had it always been like this? This moribund way of life, with all the cogs grating to a slow stop?

  Jeremy clapped him on the back. ‘So how did it go?’

  ‘If you’d been there, you’d know.’ He tried not to be too judgemental with his mother because she was clueless. She existed in a rarefied world where one could maintain – just – a butler. There was a small, charming dower house on the estate, purpose built for the use of widowed Countesses over the centuries, but instead of moving there or even to a flat in London, she rattled around Hartley Hall, freezing, bored and eminently proud. But there was no excuse for Jeremy and Sarah. They were running this business.

  Jon stared at him coldly. ‘Thanks to Charlie, it seems to have been a success. This pathetic family venture saved. But quite frankly, I’m embarrassed.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Sarah picked up a piece of dry toast and bit into it.

  ‘Charlie worked her fingers to the bone while every other person in this house sat in here, ignoring the whole situation.’ He turned and smiled at Vera. ‘You get a pass of course, Vera.’

  ‘But I can’t cook,’ Diana protested. ‘I had a little cordon bleu but it was such a long time ago.’

  Irritation spiked. ‘Do you realise you are almost incapable of operating in the real world? Sarah’s not much better. I suppose this is the sort of woman I’m supposed to marry? Someone who is of no help whatsoever? Just as long as she has the right bloodline.’

  Diana stared at him then glanced at Vera for support, but Vera’s head was bent as she inspected Bertie’s coat.

  The minutes ticked by and Diana looked pointedly at the clock. Breakfast was always cleared by nine, because of course they had a million things to do with their day.

  ‘Don’t even think about saying it, Mother. If Charlie sleeps till noon it won’t surprise me.’ Jon turned to his laptop as if it would help make them all go away.

  Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Charlie walked in, greeted everyone politely and took a seat. Fatigue etched her face, but the old spark was back. Jon couldn’t wait till they were out of here and he had her to himself for a few days.

  Moments later Barker arrived, bearing a large tray with a fresh pot of tea, a poached hothouse peach with fresh raspberries, and creamy eggs with smoked salmon, served on the best breakfast china. He set it on the sideboard.

  ‘Good God, where did you get that?’ Jeremy moved forward, his nostrils twitching.

  Barker swung around and barred his way. ‘This is Miss Charlie’s breakfast, and I’ll thank you all to back off.’

  ‘Barker!’

  ‘Madam?’ he responded smoothly.

  Jon couldn’t hide his grin as Barker placed the peach in front of Charlie. The room was silent as she picked up her spoon, carved off a perfect piece, scooped up a few raspberries and placed them in her mouth. Her eyes closed in pleasure.

  ‘Where did we get raspberries at this time of the year?’ Sarah could no longer help herself. ‘You might have at least offered them to Vera.’

  Barker drew himself up. ‘Actually, the raspberries are mine, Madam, as is the peach and the smoked salmon. I believe the eggs are yours.’ He turned to Vera and bowed formally. ‘I do apologise, Lady Rushton.’

  Vera inclined her head. ‘That’s quite all right, Barker. You’re very kind.’

  Jon caught the glance she flicked at him; amused and intrigued.

  The peach was removed, and the eggs set before Charlie. She leaned forward and inhaled the fragrance of the smoked salmon.

  ‘Scottish, miss. Shetland’s best.’ Barker’s unspoken words, his intent, hung heavily in the room.

  Jon could have sworn he saw Sarah lick her lips as Charlie lifted a forkful to her mouth.

  ‘While we’re talking about food,’ he said, ‘this may interest you. I saw a Daily Mail reporter in the crowd, which will annoy Caro no end. Turns out old Keith had done a little deal of his own on the side. Anyway, listen to this.’

  He focused on his laptop as he scrolled down the screen.

  ‘Desiree Walton … blah, blah … old manor house, filthy rich … celebrities,’ he kept scrolling, ‘It’s here some— ah, here’s the bit.

  ‘“The food was a triumph of understated simplicity. In drawing upon nature for inspiration, the organisational constraints of catering for so many did not result in the usual postmodern smears of indescribable matter surmounted by teetering architectural constructions. The stunningly conceived natural plating, juxtaposed against Desiree’s extroverted public persona, has shown a softer side. Perhaps a pointer to a new direction for Desiree? Vote below.”

  ‘Don’t believe that last bit for a second,’ Jon said, cheerfully. ‘Hello! will be banking on photos of her chugging lager and losing her top in the surf on her ho
neymoon.’

  There was a collective sigh of relief. He could see it on their faces. The reputation of Hartley Hall had been saved, there’d be more bookings, and therefore more money. They could continue to rattle around fruitlessly until the next crisis.

  ‘Thank you, Jon. And Charlie.’ Jeremy nodded at them both.

  ‘It had nothing to do with me,’ said Jon. ‘You can all thank Charlie that this was the success it was.’

  Jeremy stared at Charlie, his eyes full of admiration. ‘Well, on behalf of the family—’

  ‘Put a sock in it, Germs.’

  ‘Jeremy,’ Diana hissed. ‘You must speak to that wretched wedding planner and make sure Charlie is paid.’ Her voice could hardly have been louder if she’d used a public address system.

  The ultimate insult. His mother was going to put Charlie in her place by making her part of the hired help. They’d do it conspicuously, publicly. Not a discreet private nod to the wedding planner to ensure she checked what Charlie wanted.

  ‘I don’t want to be paid,’ Charlie said without even looking at his mother. She smiled as Barker poured another cup of tea.

  ‘You must be. We insist.’ Diana said.

  ‘We?’ Jon raised an eyebrow. ‘Since when were we involved in the wedding?’

  Diana fell back in her chair and raised a handkerchief to her mouth.

  ‘I didn’t do it for money,’ Charlie said. ‘I did it because they needed help. It’s what we do where I come from. We help people.’

  ‘Still …’

  Charlie placed her knife and fork carefully together on the plate. ‘I did it because it reminded me of happy times, of my mother and father, and the beautiful meals they created when I was a child, where everyone was welcome, no matter where they came from.’

  She folded her napkin and stood up, a hard glimmer in her eyes. ‘In a home with not much money, they served love and companionship. And very beautiful food. It was a pleasure to do it for Desiree and Keith.’

  Jon stood, closed his laptop and held out his hand to Charlie. ‘On that note, Mother, I believe we will bid you all goodbye.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was eleven years since Charlie had been in a gallery. She’d been fifteen years old the last time she’d gone with Cliff to tell his dealer his plans.

  He was leaving the art world, leaving his wife, and taking Charlie to the outback.

  She still remembered the dealer’s shock: not just because Cliff was on the cusp of greatness, but also because he was leaving the woman he adored.

  Everyone in the Sydney art scene knew Maddie used. In the early days it hadn’t been a problem. She’d been at the centre of things, a beautiful, wild-haired wild-child, famous for her hospitality and sense of fun.

  But what had started as recreational spiralled out of control. There’d been several attempts at rehab and promises that were quickly broken. Furtive meetings with strangers; secrets and lies. Petty stealing, and paintings that had gone missing.

  Maddie was disappearing before their eyes, day by agonising day, becoming an unpleasant stranger they could no longer help.

  Charlie would never forget that time. Cliff had worn his anguish like armour, his hair prematurely white and his face etched with new, deep lines.

  He’d explained to his art dealer that it was crunch time: Maddie or Charlie. Maddie had made her choices but Charlie still had her life ahead of her. He had to take his daughter away.

  They needed a new start, a safe place. He’d arranged funds and made the best arrangements he could for Maddie. But he knew that despite his plans she’d blow the money on drugs and elude the people who cared for her.

  Now, standing in the viewing room at Sotheby’s, it all came back. The heady excitement of an opening night, the chatter and argument. The rolling of eyes behind the backs of ‘art lovers’ determined to see something that just wasn’t there.

  Tonight it was crowded, and she wove between groups of viewers, searching for Jon’s Sticks. She’d left his side, aware of a different tension in him that unsettled her. When they’d entered the viewing room he’d seemed half excited, half fearful, and the inexplicable pull the work had on him puzzled her.

  The moment she saw the painting, the fine hairs on her arms rose. She knew it was Cliff’s. It wasn’t the largest in the room but it had an energy that vibrated, drawing the viewer in. She moved closer, until she stood squarely in front, studying the distinctive brushstrokes, although the colour was more subdued than he’d used in Australia.

  Entranced, she stared at it; Cliff’s work from nearly forty years ago.

  Jon moved to her side, waiting. ‘Yes,’ she said finally on a long outward breath.

  ‘Just yes?’

  ‘What more do you want me to say?’ She turned to find his eyes still locked on the painting, his expression strained as though he was chasing thoughts down twisted hallways.

  ‘It’s his. Definitely Cliff’s,’ she confirmed.

  That made him turn and smile. ‘I’m impressed. How can you tell?’

  She moved forward, reaching out to point at one particularly thick ridge of paint. ‘It’s the impasto, the way the light plays off it. Brushstrokes are unique, like a signature, and Cliff’s was distinctive.’

  ‘Are you sure you should be running an outback pub? I expect Sotheby’s could have some future for you,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘You hang around the art world long enough and you pick up the lingo.’

  ‘Modest as well.’

  She leaned down to inspect the signature in the bottom right-hand corner. It wasn’t the same as he’d used in Australia, just an elongated squiggle that was virtually illegible.

  ‘An interesting work.’

  Charlie straightened. A middle-aged man in an impeccable suit and fashionable black-rimmed glasses reached out his hand. ‘Giles Featherstone. I’m the curator of this auction.’

  Charlie gripped his hand. ‘Charlie Hughes.’

  ‘Ah, an Australian,’ he said, somewhat dismissively. ‘Welcome to Sotheby’s.’ He turned to Jon and extended his hand. ‘Giles Featherstone.’

  ‘Jon Hartley-Huntley.’

  ‘You’re …?’

  ‘Jeremy’s brother.’

  Giles relaxed a little, as though recognising that a member of the family was hardly likely to bid for a work he could more easily acquire privately.

  ‘You’ll know this, then.’ He nodded at the painting.

  ‘I remember it hanging in my father’s study when I was a small boy, and since we were passing I decided to have one last look. Do you know who the artist is?’

  So he wasn’t going to mention Cliff. Charlie remained silent. After all, what difference could it make at this late stage?

  ‘Unfortunately, no. Your brother had no idea, and a purchase isn’t listed in the family accounts.

  ‘The provenance is established, obviously. Since it has been in your family for nearly forty years I’d say it came straight from the hands of the artist.’

  That would mean Cliff had painted in England, before he came to Australia. But how had Jon’s father come into possession of the painting? In 1976, Cliff would have been too young, too unknown to have sold at an exhibition. So how had Sticks found its way to Hartley Hall?

  ‘It’s a lovely work, though,’ Giles continued. ‘Splendidly executed. To be honest, we might not have handled it but for the fact that your brother regularly sends us consignments. It has come, you might say, as a job lot.’ He gave a small rueful smile as though complicit in the Hartley-Huntley family’s continual search for revenue.

  ‘How much do you think it will fetch?’ Jon asked.

  ‘It won’t appeal to a serious collector but it has been much admired during the showing, so I expect it might do reasonably well.’

  Jon stood, considering the painting, humming a little under his breath, then he grabbed Charlie’s hand.

  ‘I’d be interested to see this. Let’s get some tickets.’

 
; They found seats towards the back of the packed auction room.

  ‘What have you got that for?’ Charlie nodded at the large white paddle with black numbers resting on Jon’s lap.

  ‘Oh, you never know. Something might catch my eye.’

  A dais with a dark-polished, raised gallery stood at the front of the room, flanked by two bays crammed with phone bidding agents. Assistants in white shirts and long black aprons were hanging the first lot of the auction, and soon an enlarged image appeared on the AV screens mounted each side of the stage. The bidding began.

  ‘Gosh, it’s awfully slow, isn’t it?’ Charlie murmured half an hour later. Used to outback cattle auctions where stock was knocked down in an unintelligible garble of words and the blink of an eye, the ponderous cajoling of bids from the audience and constant reference back to phone bidders lacked the excitement she’d expected. Still, when you were dealing with millions of dollars, a little caution was to be expected.

  Jeremy had consigned four paintings to the auction and the first three sold well. ‘That’ll keep a roof over their heads for the next couple of years,’ Jon muttered.

  Another painting was being hung, and suddenly there was Beech Forest at Sunset looking tiny on the stand from this distance, but huge, vivid and alive on the screens.

  ‘Next we have Lot 283, Beech Forest at Sunset,’ the auctioneer began. ‘A superb work in oil by an unknown artist. We will start the bidding at £20 000.’

  Charlie almost choked and glanced quickly at Jon. £20 000?

  It started slowly, with a paddle being raised near the front and then another to the side. Beside her, Jon’s knee jiggled as the bidding rose: £22 000, £23 000 …

  At £25 000 he grabbed his paddle and held it up. Charlie nudged him but his eyes faced resolutely forward, a strong muscle ticking in his jaw.

  ‘A new bidder, thank you, sir. The bid is in the room at twenty-five.’ The auctioneer nodded at the previous bidders. ‘It’s against you and you.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Charlie hissed.

  ‘Just having a little fun,’ he whispered, but Charlie didn’t think so. There was a dangerous glint in his eye and his body strained forward too eagerly.