Red Dirt Duchess Read online

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Charlie had been looking around the study with interest, and now he followed her gaze in case the painting had been moved, trying to block out the sounds clawing at his memory. There were landscapes and maritime scenes, and a particularly repellent representation of a child mourning a dead dog that his father had been fond of. But not the painting he was seeking.

  He took a deep breath. ‘At the risk of repeating myself, I’m afraid the painting isn’t here.’

  ‘So maybe they moved it?’ Charlie offered with all the optimism of someone who hadn’t lived as his family had. ‘We can ask your brother.’

  ‘Nothing gets moved in this house unless it’s straight out the back door and into a Sotheby’s van.’ He ran a distracted hand through his hair, intensely aware that she was watching him. He turned to her, trying to keep his voice even. ‘If they’ve sold it, then your trip is for nothing.’

  ‘You think that? You know, seeing a painting that may or may not have been done by my father is not actually at the top of the list of reasons I came to England.’

  Blood pounded in his head. He allowed his gaze to rest on her a long moment. Her eyes glowed in the dim light.

  ‘Really?’ he asked.

  And then she moved forward and in that spot, so imprinted with decades of pain and uncertainty, she kissed him. At first it was the merest flutter of her lips against his, her breath hot, sweet and tentative. He didn’t leave her in any doubt as his arms came around her, pulling her body up hard against his. His mouth covered hers, opening and seeking. Wanting.

  The painting, his father, his whole damned family and their impossible demands flew out of his mind as she melded into him as though it were meant to be. Her hand slid up his neck and cupped the side of his face, drawing him closer. Deeper.

  He wanted her, and his thoughts galloped forward in anticipation. The green bedroom was at the end of the same corridor as his. But between them was his mother’s room. He’d be damned if he’d go creeping along the corridor at midnight, avoiding every squeaky board like an actor in a second-class period farce. Charlie deserved more than that. She deserved to face his mother at breakfast without disapproving looks, without being treated as a bit of skirt.

  She would have the best he could offer; if not forever, at least for now. He eased her away, reluctantly surrendering her lips, and then smiled down at her. She looked a little mussed, with luminous eyes and flushed cheeks.

  ‘I don’t want you like this, creeping up and down staircases at Hartley Hall,’ he whispered, leaning forward and placing his forehead against hers. The walls around them seemed to sigh with him. How much had this old house seen?

  She shook her head, their foreheads rubbing a little together. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘We’ll be back in London the day after tomorrow. For now, let’s try to find out what’s happened to the painting.’

  When they arrived back in the sitting room everyone had gravitated to the fire. Jon ignored his mother’s piercing look and led Charlie to a chair by the fire to make sure she was warm.

  ‘God, it’s cold in here,’ he complained. ‘Why can’t we have some more heating?’

  ‘Ask him,’ Jeremy said shortly, jerking his head towards a portrait that hung to one side of the mantel. Their late father, looking prosperous and suitably aristocratic as he relaxed in a large armchair with dogs at his feet.

  The painter had taken a great deal of artistic licence in Jon’s view; their father’s tenure of the earldom had been characterised by wild bouts of spending followed by achingly cold and deprived periods of near penury. And through it all they were expected to maintain a stiff upper lip. Cold? Gracious, no. Bracing, that was all. Awfully good for the constitution, what?

  ‘How could I forget,’ Jon drawled. ‘Listen, I was showing Charlie around and we were up in the Long Gallery.’

  ‘Excellent. Did you enjoy it?’ Jeremy asked Charlie eagerly. ‘The panelling is quite superb, isn’t it?’

  Jeremy could be so mind-numbingly polite sometimes. Before Charlie could respond Jon jumped in. ‘Yes, yes, I couldn’t stop her turning cartwheels. I hope you don’t mind but I wanted Charlie to see something so we went into your study.’

  ‘You don’t need to ask. No problem.’ Nothing was ever a problem for Jeremy. If he was cold he’d just pull on one more jumper. Broke? Open the family home to strangers. Jon just hoped that the next earl took after Jeremy and not the previous earl.

  Jon pushed his foot at a log that had rolled away from the pile in the fire until it nestled more closely with the others. A new lick of flame leapt up with a miniscule change in temperature. ‘Well, actually there is a problem. I wanted to show her Sticks.’

  Jeremy looked at him blankly. For God’s sake, didn’t the man even know what was hanging on his own study wall?

  ‘The painting, Sticks,’ Jon pressed, trying for a patient tone.

  ‘Sticks?’ His brother’s voice rose on the improbable-sounding title and his brow furrowed. ‘I don’t recall it. Although I guess there must be artwork here I haven’t seen before.’ He turned towards their mother. ‘Do you know it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t sound like much of a painting, darling.’

  How could they not know it? Jon tamped down his irritation. ‘The painting in father’s study. You must know it. For a start it’s just about the only thing in this house from the twentieth century.’

  Jeremy’s expression brightened. ‘Oh, you mean Beech Forest at Sunset?’

  Jon’s jaw dropped. Beech Forest at Sunset? It was a beech forest? A small childish voice inside him shouted, No, they’re pick-up sticks! It’s called Sticks! He caught the edge of a look from Charlie, a slight frown that seemed to say he’d been wrong when he claimed the paintings were by the same artist.

  ‘I always called it Sticks. Anyway, I need to show it to Charlie.’ He glanced across at her and smiled. She’d leaned towards the fire, her hands outstretched and her booted feet thrust forward to absorb the heat.

  Jeremy rolled back and forward on the soles of his feet, a habit when he had bad news or when he’d been naughty as a small boy. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’ A log fell in the fireplace, punctuating the ensuing silence.

  Jon gave him a long look, the creeping awareness of Sticks’ fate already dawning. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s in London, at Sotheby’s. It’s in their Contemporary Art auction on Tuesday.’

  Why did it surprise him? All his life, things had disappeared from the house, never to be seen again. The official story was that they’d been ‘relocated’, suggesting a new home in another, distant part of the house. When it was a Delft vase or a pretty piece of Chinoiserie it was hardly noticed. But the week his father had lost a fortune on a racehorse, ‘a sure thing’, the enormous bust of Georgiana, the fifteenth countess, had been ‘relocated’ from the head of the stairs, leaving an empty marble plinth. Occasionally someone put a floral arrangement on it but most times it sat bare, with the small brass plaque fixed to the plinth, suggesting that the absent Georgiana had disappeared into thin air.

  There wasn’t much Jon could say in response to Jeremy’s disclosure. He didn’t own the painting. In fact he hadn’t seen it in years. He’d avoided his father’s study and on the rare occasions when he couldn’t, he’d taken care to never look at the painting.

  So why did the idea of its sale upset him so much? Why, now, did he want to look at it again? His eyes slid across to Charlie, her shoulders slumped with resignation.

  ‘Look, we need money,’ Jeremy dropped his voice. ‘It’s impossible to keep this place running. Why do you think we’re doing these sod-awful weddings? I’d love to live in a cottage on the estate and hand the whole mess over to the National Trust but Sarah has a fit every time I even mention it.’

  ‘And she’s right to. Don’t be ridiculous, Jeremy. We just have to keep going. As we always have,’ Diana said.

  Jeremy’s face cl
ouded and he rocked harder on the soles of his feet. ‘All for nothing, as far as I’m concerned.’ His colour rose, suffusing his cheeks and reaching the tips of his ears. And suddenly Jon felt his misery, and cursed himself for his flippancy. Just because the begetting of an heir filled him with terror didn’t mean it was the same for Jeremy. His brother was happily married and had been ancestrally wired to procreate. The expectation had sat heavily on his shoulders all his life.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s a pity.’ Their mother had never been one to pamper them, especially emotionally. She shot a quick, pointed look at Jon. ‘But there is another solution.’

  From the corner of his eye, Jon caught Charlie’s puzzled expression. She clearly had lost the thread of the conversation, and why wouldn’t she have? How could she know that he had been pegged as the family’s last chance?

  A horn sounded. Two sharp, peremptory beeps.

  ‘And here’s Vera, right on cue,’ said Diana.

  Diana left the room and Charlie took a deep breath. There was so much tension swirling around here, undercurrents that made her feel as though she were paddling safely by the shore while everyone else was drowning, without bothering to reach for the lifejackets floating nearby.

  She ran a tentative tongue across her lips, still tasting Jon’s kiss. It had changed everything: a subtle shift back to the promise that had been ignited in Bindundilly. The desire was there, but hampered now by the actions of this family. She closed her eyes and brought up an image of home. It was probably nighttime, and if she was there, she could sit on the verandah and watch the stars. Steady things, stars. Once in a long while one would break free and burn up in a last furiously incandescent streak against the velvet sky. But most times they just did what they were supposed to do. Hang there and light up the universe.

  This world was too complicated, full of unspoken hurt. The family wasn’t steady like those stars. No matter how many generations the Hartley-Huntleys had behind them, shoring them up, there was something broken here. She could just imagine Cliff confronted with the tensions in this family. He’d swear lavishly, deliver a warning against family expectations and then go and throw some paint against a canvas.

  Jon gestured to her and she stood and crossed to the windows with him.

  A sleek black Daimler sat in the drive, with an elderly woman wearing bright-red gloves at the wheel. A small beagle sitting on the passenger seat jumped up and scraped a paw against the window.

  Barker emerged from the house and held the car door open. The old lady handed him a walking stick, then leaned back as the beagle bounded across her lap and leapt onto the gravel. Then she eased herself from the car and accepted the stick from Barker.

  She was elderly but strikingly elegant, with high, hollowed-out cheekbones, and a cloud of immaculately arranged silver hair that swirled around her head. A slash of bright-red lipstick perfectly matched her gloves.

  ‘What should I call her?’ Charlie whispered.

  ‘Officially she’s the Dowager Countess of Rushton. Better stick with Lady Rushton until she says otherwise,’ Jon said. ‘The family’s as old as Methuselah. Massive great house in Shropshire.’

  The sitting-room door opened and Diana entered, followed by Lady Rushton in a cloud of expensive fragrance. Despite her erect bearing she leaned heavily on the stick. She paused and looked around the room. This close Charlie could see the web of fine lines marking her skin beneath the immaculate makeup. Despite the woman’s exquisite presentation there was a sadness that no amount of make-up, fragrance or couture could mask. It was as though there was some hole inside, eating her up.

  The beagle sniffed around the room, evidently recognising the inhabitants until he encountered Charlie. He jumped up against her legs and wagged his tail.

  ‘Oh, he’s so sweet,’ Charlie said, running her hand over his head and giving him a little tickle under his chin.

  ‘Bertie!’

  The dog trotted back to his mistress’s side. She was kissing Jeremy and then Jon. When she turned to Charlie, Diana gestured to Charlie to come forward.

  Those old eyes were perceptive. Unlike Diana, Lady Rushton didn’t rake them over Charlie in a coldly assessing manner, yet Charlie felt herself thoroughly examined. With the benefit of years, Lady Rushton seemed able to make an instant judgement. She smiled faintly, perhaps amused.

  ‘Vera, this is our guest, Charlie Hughes,’ said Diana. ‘Charlie, Lady Rushton.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Charlie said and from the corner of her eye she saw Jon grin.

  Lady Rushton smiled and inclined her head. ‘How do you do, Miss Hughes?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Green Bedroom was like a luxurious silk purse, the sort of elaborate and lavishly embroidered drawstring bag that Maddie used to wear, slung carelessly by a plaited ribbon across her body.

  Barker, holding Charlie’s simple bag as though it were an expensive Vuitton, opened the door and stood aside, waiting for her to enter. No doubt few who stayed in this room travelled as lightly as her.

  ‘It’s stunning,’ she said, overwhelmed by the luxury. A large four-poster bed hung with peacock-green curtains featuring intricate blue and gold stitching stood against one wall. The bedspread, drapes and wallpaper all matched, and Charlie felt a bubble of laughter rise when she thought of the dongas at home. No wonder Jon had been aghast.

  Barker placed her bag on a low table and turned. ‘Best not to comment on the décor when you’re downstairs, miss,’ he said, ‘but between you and me, yes it is.’

  He headed across to the fireplace and switched on an electric radiator. ‘I’m afraid the days of strong young footmen carrying up buckets of coal are long gone, more’s the pity.’ He gave a slightly theatrical sigh.

  ‘I wish you’d call me Charlie.’

  He gave her a level look. ‘Very well, miss.’

  She decided to ignore his mild rebuke. ‘I’m so out of place here,’ she mused, wandering across to the window. ‘If you could see the rooms we have at Bindundilly.’

  In the face of her persistence, Barker seemed to give up. ‘I’m sure he’s seen worse in all his globetrotting. I’d say he enjoyed his stay with you.’

  She glanced up, trying to disguise her eagerness. ‘He said something?’

  ‘He’d hardly confide in me. But you’re here, aren’t you?’

  He studied her for a moment then walked to a wallpaper-covered door and opened it. ‘Here’s your bathroom. It’s shared with the bedroom on the other side, but since no one else is staying you have it to yourself.’

  He closed the door and crossed the room to twitch at the bed drapes and smooth an imperceptible crease from a pillow. He seemed about to add something, but when he looked up his expression had settled back into pleasant but bland.

  ‘I’ve left some books on the bedside table, miss, in case you’d like something to read.’

  After he left, Charlie walked around the room, bending to inspect a delicate writing desk and a pretty chair with an embroidered seat. It was the sort of room that should have a red velvet rope cordoning it off, so that people like her could only stand in the doorway and gawk. All these things belonged to the Hartley-Huntleys, and there were dozens more rooms filled with treasures like this.

  For the first time, now she was alone, Charlie felt the immense weight of this family. There was solid history here, layered year after year, decade after decade, lifetime after lifetime in a sumptuous parade. Every item in the house represented a meaningful gift or purchase or something significant that had happened in this family. Dozens of Grand Tours, dynastic marriages, the spoils of royal patronage – all of these had been woven into the fabric of this family, bringing a sense of history and obligation. Just how Beech Forest at Sunset had come to be part of that history was a question that might never be answered.

  Charlie wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she’d made the crazy decision to fly to London. All she knew was that when Jon had left Bindundilly, doubt about where she’d co
me from had started to creep in. She’d unwrapped her memories and looked at them carefully. Despite the love she’d had for Cliff, the conscious layer he’d created separating his life from the past had been exposed. Behind it, there was nothing. The Hartley-Huntleys might have weight but right now Charlie would have settled for depth.

  She glanced up and caught sight of her face in the mirror. ‘Get real, girlfriend,’ she muttered. ‘You came here for Jon.’ She hadn’t been able to get Jon out of her thoughts. It would be a fling, she’d told herself when she set out, like when she went to Sydney. But instead of going 1200 kilometres for her holiday, she’d upped the ante to 12 000.

  Things weren’t turning out the way she’d expected. Instead of dinners, sightseeing and the fling, she’d been drawn into this rarefied world. The attraction between her and Jon was undeniably there, but something hazy and undefined stood between, holding Jon back.

  She reached the bedside table and picked up the two books. No ordinary paperbacks for this family. Both were leather-bound with gilded writing on the spines. The first, Rambles in Wiltshire, didn’t sound all that inspiring. The other was a history of Hartley Hall. She flicked to the title page and found the date, 1921. A piece of paper fell out, a page from an exercise book, startlingly white and modern against the washed sepia tones of the old book. It had been folded in four, and some time ago too, as it was crushed by the weight of the pages.

  Through the paper she could see strong handwriting, thick strokes in black ink. Perhaps she shouldn’t read it but it was in a book, after all, not in a private drawer. Before she could change her mind, she moved to the light of the window and unfolded the paper.

  Addendum.

  The Hartley-Huntley family resides at Hartley Hall, their country seat in Wiltshire, seven miles from the market town of Devizes. It is an Elizabethan manor situated in an ill-favoured position well suited to the disposition of its inhabitants. On the north side of an oddly shaped hill, possibly an ancient burial mound, it boasts a brackish river, and in winter a most gloomy prospect may be seen from most of the principal rooms, the windows of which are adorned with ancient hangings of a particularly nauseous shade of puce. The chatelaine is rather loose with the truth. The master is frequently absent, which suits everyone to a tee.