Chapter Two
No way could she wear an outfit with evening pants to dinner, not even a very short dress. After a few minutes of indecision, she chose a deceptively simple crepe dress in a beautiful shade of indigo. The skirt hit well below the knee. Her father would like that. Feminine. Ladylike. To further gain his approval, she had subdued her copious hair, pulling it back into an updated roll like the wonderfully stylish Princess Mary of Denmark, Australian born and bred.
Many times over the years she had wondered if her parents had had a choice they would have picked a different child. A child they recognised. A child they identified with. One who shared the same characteristics. Not the changeling they got. A special trial was her riotous red hair. “No restraint about red!” her mother, Hilary, a handsome brunette who favoured a short, brush-back style that suited her, had once said. She must have been one troublesome kid, but she had settled down once she got her piano and the household was no longer a “madhouse.”
She could well imagine she might have been swapped at birth. Some new mother, probably with red hair, would have gone home with a dark-haired, dark-eyed changeling who never did fit in. It was possible, as Bruno McKendrick had so kindly pointed out. Thanks to him, she had completely yielded to this crazy idea, but then, the resemblance was incredible. Baby swapping was a conclusion one could reach, though it would have been nigh on impossible to put one over her mother. And there was the horsey, redheaded cousin conveniently living in the wilds of Scotland.
* * *
Dr. Norville Martin was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late fifties. He had a full head of fading fair hair, grey eyes, fine regular features, unlined pale skin that rarely saw the hot Australian sun. He looked like what he was: a man of high moral and ethical standards, a dedicated doctor, recognised in his field of oncology, which was the very serious business of diagnosing with great accuracy the various types of cancers, then advising on treatments best suited to the specific cancer. Dr. Martin was therefore a serious man.
Both her parents dealt in life and death. The making of music wasn’t their scene, though she had often thought listening to beautiful music could provide great pleasure and a relief from all the pain and suffering they saw on a daily basis. Her father had the harder time. Her mother coped brilliantly. She had a very different temperament. Or a heart carved out of stone?
He was waiting for her in the lobby of the hotel where he was staying. He rose to greet her. No kisses or hugs, but his fondness for her was apparent in the numerous pats she got on the shoulder. “How are you, my dear? You look well.”
“I am well, thank you, Father. It’s lovely to see you. How’s Hilary?” She had been instructed to call her mother Hilary after her graduation from high school. As though Mother wasn’t somehow right. As far as that went, she had always thought she should have been allowed to call her father Dad, like all her friends. But the very formal Father worked best.
Her parents inhabited a totally different world from the one her friends’ parents did. Few people measured up. She knew she didn’t. On the plus side, she was no snob, though her mother was among the worst of them.
She almost missed what her father was saying in his quiet, controlled voice. “Your mother is extremely committed, as usual, my dear. Shall we go in? I must admit to being hungry. I missed lunch.”
Isabelle found herself ordering much the same thing as her father. Her heart was thrumming and she had butterflies in her stomach. She wasn’t hungry. Her father might say he was hungry, but she knew both parents ate sparingly. Unlike the French, they ate to live, not live to eat. She had a mad urge to order octopus but settled for pan-seared snapper with a warm Mediterranean salad. Her father chose chargrilled salmon with a Greek salad. All very healthy and, as it turned out, delicious. Dessert was light and healthy too: lemon curd tarts with fresh raspberries.
“Oh, I do feel so much better,” her father said, giving his fugitive smile. It was such a nice smile, he should smile more often. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. I have something to show you. A curiosity.”
“Really?” Dr. Martin summoned their waiter. “Two short blacks, if you would. Okay with you, Isabelle?”
“Fine.” What she really needed was a short brandy.
“So what is this curiosity?” he asked indulgently when their coffees were set in front of them.
“A photograph. I wanted your take on it.” Her stomach was tied in knots.
“Well, then, better show me, m’dear. Is it of you?”
“What do you think?” She passed the photograph across the table.
Her father looked down at the photograph. Looked up at her in puzzlement. “Where was this taken, in London? That’s not your piano.”
“It’s not me, Father.” She kept her eyes on him.
Norville Martin made a helpless gesture. “It’s not?”
“It’s of a young woman called Helena Hartmann. Ever heard the name?”
He looked back at her in silence. “No, I haven’t,” he said finally, his grey eyes darkening.
“It’s an extraordinary resemblance, wouldn’t you say?”
“Certainly. But people do have doubles, my dear.” He picked up his coffee, drank it in one gulp.
“I’m her mirror image. She’s even a musician, a pianist.”
Now his cheeks flushed. “What are you expecting of me, Isabelle?” he asked with unfamiliar testiness. “I’ve commented on the likeness. There’s no more I can say.”
“And you deny knowing anyone of the Hartmann name?”
He reacted sternly. “What on earth are you talking about, Isabelle? Why are you questioning me in this way? I do deny knowing any Hartmanns. Your mother wouldn’t brook such questions. It could be seen as insulting.”
“I wouldn’t dream of insulting either of you, Father. Perhaps you’re overreacting a little. The Hartmanns could well be kin you don’t know about.”
Dr. Martin sat up very straight. “I know my family tree, thank you, Isabelle. Your mother’s family tree is far more illustrious than mine. Hartmann is a German name. No Germans in the family, only English and Scots.”
“I know that, Father, but you can see how very intriguing this is?”
“Who gave you this photograph?” he asked, as though denouncing whoever it was.
“Someone I met for the first time a few nights ago.”
“And how did this person come to have it, let alone produce it for your viewing? Man, woman? Are you sure you haven’t met before?”
“It was a man, Father. A Bruno McKendrick, a respected name in the city. His father was a private investigator. He was hired by the Hartmann patriarch to find his missing granddaughter. This was some twenty years ago. He never did find her. She vanished.”
“Australian family?”
“Yes.”
He sat back, staring at her. “That settles it. Twenty years ago, my dear, your mother and I were a young married couple living in our homeland, England, where you were later born.”
“Go on.”
He showed a rare anger. “What do you mean, go on? There’s nothing more to say. No story to tell. The likeness to the young woman in the photograph is no more than coincidence. I’m very surprised this man showed it to you. It’s a long time ago.”
“And you’d be unhappy if I did a little investigating myself?” For a moment, Isabelle thought he was going to stand up and leave the table.
“My dear girl, I see no need whatever. For that matter, why would you want to?”
She put her thoughts into words. “She speaks to me, Father. I can see the unhappiness in her eyes. They’re my eyes.” She gave a little off-key laugh. “Maybe it’s a case of reincarnation?”
“I think we can rule that out,” he said sternly, as though she had lost her mind. “You always were far too imaginative. I hope you don’t intend showing that photograph to your mother. You’ll get short shrift there.”
“Why exactly?” Isabelle asked, not understanding anything at all. “We all know my mother is a formidable woman, but what possible objection could she have to my showing her a photograph of someone who looks like me? Everyone likes a mystery.”
“Your mother doesn’t. Neither do I. Neither of us have the time to go chasing after mysteries. I can offer you no encouragement, Isabelle. I have no idea who that young woman could be.”
“Except she’s the image of me, Father. You were taken in.”
The rare flush in his cheeks deepened. “I’d be obliged if you’d stop, my dear. We’ve had a pleasant evening. Please don’t spoil it. If you’ve finished your coffee, we should go. Come along now. The concierge will call you a taxi.”
Isabelle shook her head. “Not necessary, Father. I’ll find one on the street.” It came to her with a sense of shock that it seemed as though her father had aged ten years right in front of her eyes.
* * *
She kept telling herself not to rush into anything. She had upset her father. God knows what would have happened had Hilary been present at dinner. Would her father tell Hilary all about the incident when he arrived back home? She might be due to get a stern, admonishing phone call. She was on her own now. Whoever Helena Hartmann had been, her parents didn’t want to know.
Two days went by. She had taken on a few students at the Conservatorium. Fledglings who would grow. Two with very real promise. Both male. The rest of the time she spent practising with the quartet.
“You play really well, Isabelle,” James Kellerman announced, in his smooth, patronising fashion, waving his bow at her. “You’ve fitted in far better than I hoped.” Immediately Emma, the viola player, went into a sulk. She worshipped James. The second violin, Simon, turned shyly admiring eyes on her. He seemed to have developed a crush on her. She smiled, taking little notice of James’s condescension. She was quite confident she played better than really well. She was a very good cellist. She had studied with the best of the best. Professor Otto Morgenstern would have thrown her out the door if she hadn’t met his extremely high standards.
“What say we run through the Schubert today?” said James.
She was happy. She loved Schubert.
When they broke late in the afternoon, James suggested they meet up for drinks and conversation later that night, his blue gaze intent on hers, waiting for her to look delighted and agree.
She had been prepared for something like this. “No can do, James.” She smiled at him cheerfully. “I’m seeing my father. He’s in town.” In fact, her father had flown back to Adelaide that morning.
Always on her mind was the worrying feeling she should get in touch with Bruno McKendrick, who already had profoundly altered her life. He had given her both his unlisted home number and his mobile number.
She waited until 8 p.m. before she rang his home number. If he were out on the town, as he very likely was, with the very attractive Penelope, who clearly had Madame Lubrinski’s approval, she would leave a message. Simple. She would tell him the matter was closed. Her father did not want her to pursue it.
To her surprise, he answered the phone. His voice was so immediate, so deep and sexy, it caused a spontaneous ripple in her blood. She could hear other voices raised in laughter, a woman’s voice in particular, in the background.
“It’s Isabelle Martin,” she announced herself quickly. “You’re busy? I can call back another time.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at home.” The voices had receded, so he must have moved off. “I need to tell you my father doesn’t know any Hartmanns. My parents lived in London at the time Helena disappeared.”
No comment on that. “What was his spontaneous reaction to the photograph, Bella?” he asked, cutting to the chase.
“He thought it was me.”
“Of course he did. Anyone would. Did he appear rattled in any way?”
“This is my father you’re talking about,” she protested.
“You sound like you’re hurting.”
Yet again he surprised her. He had picked up on her distress. “Arrah, not a bit,” she lied. “Listen, I won’t keep you from your friends. I had to call.” She was about to hang up.
He must have sensed it because he called urgently, “Bella? Bella, don’t hang up.”
She did. He could go back to his guests. He probably had someone over every night. Unbelievably, she was shaking all over.
* * *
Two hours later, she was in bed, rereading a leather-bound book of poems by one of her favourites, Emily Dickinson. Emily, she reckoned, must have been a pretty dark horse. Softly, she recited aloud:
Wild nights—Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile—the Winds—
To a Heart in port—
Done with the Compass—Done with the Chart!
To a Heart in port—
Done with the Compass—Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden—Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor—tonight—
In thee!
Might I but moor—tonight—
In thee!
Reading the poem had quickened her pulse. Who was Emily’s mystery man?
The phone by her bed suddenly rang, startling her out of her little reverie. She knew before she picked up it would be him.
“Hello, Bruno McKendrick,” she said.
“Hello yourself, Bella Martin. How did you know it was me?”
“I don’t get late-night calls.”
“It’s only ten-fifteen.”
“Late for me.”
He laughed. “Come on. It was nearly one a.m. when I dropped you off the other night.”
“That was a special occasion. I’m not a party animal.”
“You’ll have to try a little harder. We have the same initials, by the way.”
“No, we don’t,” she corrected. “I’m I. M. I for Isabelle. M for Martin.”
“You’re Bella to me.”
“Your guests have gone?” she asked. No sounds from the background.
“My friend Jake and his wife, Sara. I managed to make quite a bit of money for them on the stock market.”
“They must love you.”
“They do. When you meet them, you’ll see for yourself.”
“I’m going to meet them?”
“There is no way, Bella, you’re going out of my life.”
“Could that be related to the fact that I’m the image of Helena Hartmann?”
“Actually, I’d miss the piano playing,” he said smoothly.
“Did you tell them about me? About your father’s old case; the resemblance, I mean.”
“Absolutely not. That’s our little secret.”
She was pleased. “Maybe you can make a bundle for me? I’m renting.”
“Really? Your parents must be well off, both specialist doctors. Haven’t they helped out?”
She tut-tutted. “They’ve been very good, Bruno. I won a scholarship to the Royal College, but naturally there were many expenses. They bought me a very fine cello before I left. My professor didn’t like it much. He traded it in for me and found me one very much better. He knew the lady who owned my current cello, actually a real Lady, and a philanthropist. I’ve been very lucky.”
“There are and always have been patrons of the arts,” Bruno said. “You are obviously a very deserving case. Marta Lubrinski’s husband, Ivor, was a great help to me, opening doors in the business world.”
“While Madame Lubrinski wheels out potential wives.”
“Don’t let’s go there,” he groaned. “I’m leading the good life as a bachelor.”
“Can I be serious now?” she asked, her tone changing.
“That’s why I rang you back. I had the idea you were worried sick.”
Gosh, he was intuitive. “Why should that be?”
“Maybe it’s your destiny—our destiny—to find out what happened to Helena Hartmann. Your father gave you no encouragement, I take it?”
She couldn’t help it; she gave a deep sigh. “I have never seen his disapproval so pronounced. He warned me against speaking to Hilary—my mother—about it.”
He sounded surprised. “You call your mother Hilary? May I ask why?”
“Obviously because she thought by the time I was seventeen, it was time. I still call my father, Father.”
“Can’t that be softened to Dad?”
“No. What was your father’s first name?”
“Ross. Ross McKendrick.”
“I like that. And your mother?”
“I’ll be darned if I remember. Chiara,” he said, after a moment, with a pure Roman accent.
“I suppose you speak fluent Italian?”
“I do. I’m proud of my heritage.”
“Chiara.” She had perfect pitch, so his mother’s name and the exact inflection he gave to it, rolled easily off her tongue. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”
“How do you know she was beautiful?”
She heard the grate in his voice. “You have to look like someone, Bruno. Someone Italian. You must see your mother every time you look in the mirror.”
He did. “It must spook you, not bearing any resemblance to your mother and father,” he countered. None of his friends ever mentioned his mother. Isabelle Martin was the first to bring her into the conversation.
“There’s the cousin in Scotland.”
“I understood she looked like a racehorse. Do you feel you could approach Hilary? I’ll come with you.”
“To Adelaide?” Her voice soared in surprise.
“There are daily flights in and out,” he pointed out dryly.
“You would come with me to meet my mother?”
“Bella, you can’t be serious. I meet scary people every day of my life. I’ve caught all your negative worries about your parents. Your mother in particular. You can bet your life your father has spoken to her about your meeting.”
“I am who I am,” she said.
“Tell me who you are?”
Some note in his voice turned her heart over. “You’ll have to wait until I get my head around it. Say good night, Bruno. I have a full day tomorrow.”
He answered not with the good night she expected, but a mellifluous stream of Italian.
That threw her. She knew all the musical terms in Italian. She could toss off the Italian words and phrases everyone knew, but of the words that rolled off his tongue so smoothly, she had no idea. Probably she would never know, but she could listen to his voice all day and all night.
* * *
Saturday morning and she planned to do a little shopping: groceries, fresh fruit and veggies. She had just finished dressing in blue culottes with a white camisole, colourful violet, blue and green-printed sneakers on her feet, when she heard her intercom buzzer. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She sprinted to the wall fixture adjacent to the kitchen, pressed the button and stared at the video image. For a moment, her mind blanked; then she whispered to herself, “My God!”
It was her mother. In Sydney. This visit meant trouble and no escape. There had never been long, leisurely conversations with Hilary. If it was any consolation, her father didn’t have that pleasure either. What else could she do but let her in?
“Open up, Isabelle. I know you’re there,” Hilary ordered, sharp as a knife.
Had she really expected, “It’s me, darling”? She almost asked what proof her mother had. Had she been camped out on the street? She unlocked the security door before snatching up her mobile to leave a message for Bruno McKendrick. She didn’t think about it. She just did it.
My mother’s at the door. She’s on the war path.
Not that he could do anything. Probably he had planned his day sailing the Harbour. She had heard he was an experienced yachtsman.
Heart beating fast, well aware she was going to be given a hard time, she went to her door, opening it to her mother, who regarded her with cold, narrowed eyes.
“Surprised to see me, Isabelle?”
She nearly said, “Naw!” offered instead, “Greetings to you too, Mother. Please come in.”
Hilary didn’t so much walk as stalk past her, her dark eyes sweeping around the combined living/kitchen space, searching for something that would meet with her disapproval. It was only a small flat, but Isabelle was naturally house proud. She had a flair for design. She always had fresh flowers in the flat, at the moment perfumed yellow roses in a copper bowl on the coffee table, white daisies on the kitchen bench beside a colourful ceramic dish holding lemons and limes. Lemons in the kitchen was a must for her.
“Not a happy face, then?” she dared to quip in the face of icy disapproval. She might have been a badly behaved schoolgirl in need of taming. “You flew in obviously. Can I get you something—tea, coffee?”
Hilary didn’t bother to answer. She threw her expensive Bally leather holdall onto a sofa. “To put it bluntly, this is outrageous, Isabelle.”
Isabelle stood her ground, controlling her strong impulse to run for the hills. “You need to explain, Mother.” She fully expected Hilary to remind her she wished to be called by her first name. “What is outrageous?”
“Your reckless disregard for the feelings of others. I tell you, my girl, you upset your father terribly.”
That was true enough. “Do please sit down,” Isabelle invited, thinking Hilary would never change. “You’ve flown in especially to tell me that? Or are you on your way to someplace else?”
“You can show me that photograph you showed him,” Hilary said with severity.
In the old days she would have hopped to. Now an adult Isabelle said, “In good time. Shocking Father definitely wasn’t my intention.”
“Of course it was!” Hilary declared in a controlled rage. “And this person who gave it to you. What’s his agenda? What is he playing at? Or rather, why is he playing you? Obviously, he’s out to make trouble.”
“What possible trouble could he make? Where are you going with this?”
No explanation was forthcoming. “Do what you’re told, Isabelle. Go get the photograph. It’s quite possible it’s been doctored. What’s behind it I intend to find out.”
“If it weren’t you, Mother, I’d say you were acting a little crazy.”
“Don’t attempt to insult me, Isabelle,” Hilary said coldly. “Bring me the photo.”
“I will, but first, I’m going to make coffee.” Isabelle moved behind the kitchen counter. “Who am I really?” she shocked herself by asking, staring across the space at the tall, slim, elegantly dressed brunette who was the highly respected Dr. Hilary Martin.
“You stop that!” Hilary looked like she was about to throw something. Maybe the copper bowl of roses. “You know damned well who you are. You’re my daughter, even if you are a susceptible little fool.”
“Susceptible to what?” Isabelle popped a coffee pod into her machine. “I’d like to hear.”
“This is a hoax of some kind,” Hilary said, as though she had weighed up the situation and come to that conclusion.
Isabelle felt her heart skip a beat. Hoax? “To what purpose?” she asked, suddenly wondering if she could possibly be a victim. Bruno McKendrick was an extremely convincing man. “Please sit down. Surely we can discuss this calmly? The this is no more than a photograph of a girl who could be my double.”
“You fool!” Hilary shot her a look full of scorn. “The name is Hartmann, right?”
“Yes. Helena Hartmann.”
Hilary looked like a woman with her feet planted firmly on the high moral ground. “I’ve been able to make some enquiries about a Hartmann family. Very wealthy people. They own cattle stations in two states. A daughter left home of her own accord twenty years ago.”
“Never found.” Isabelle poured Hilary’s coffee. No sugar. She placed it on a small tray and then took it over to where Hilary was seated, setting it down on the coffee table. “Where did you get this information from, and so quickly?”
“I have friends in all sorts of places, Isabelle,” Hilary pronounced loftily. “Friends with information about many people.”
Isabelle nodded. “So you’ve got contacts everywhere, including God.”
“Don’t, I mean, don’t use that tone with me,” Hilary cried, her level of ferocity stunning Isabelle. “You owe everything to your father and me.”
“Of course I do. But is that so extraordinary? All my friends, my fellow students, had good, loving parents. Many of them had made big sacrifices to get their gifted sons and daughters into college. You and Father are very successful doctors. Am I supposed to go down on my hands and knees and thank you for providing for me, your only child?”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Hilary gritted, picking up a spoon and swirling it around her coffee cup. “You’ve always been thankless, as a child and as a young woman.”
Isabelle tried to find answers to all this vehemence. What was behind it all? The photographs of Helena Hartmann had clearly spooked both Hilary and her father. “That’s simply not true, Mother. No way did I not express my gratitude. I was over the moon when Father bought my piano, then my cellos. I worked very hard for you. I won prizes. Gained lots of attention, got to play the Elgar with a symphony orchestra, yet you never came to see me. Not once in over four years.”
Hilary’s good-looking face was scrunched. “You know perfectly well we couldn’t get away.”
“I know that’s not true,” Isabelle said quietly.
“What?” Hilary’s head shot up.
“The Suttons looked me up when they were in London. They told me you and Father had just returned from a trip to Dubai. You loved it. But you don’t love me, do you, Mother?” Isabelle said, sad and serious at the same time.
Hilary slipped into top gear. “Don’t be absurd! You’re my daughter, my only child.”
“Yet you don’t love me. You’ve never been cruel or unkind, but you’ve been as distant as the far side of the moon. I’ve tried and tried and tried. God knows I’ve tried to get close to you. You’ve never kissed me, hugged me, even as a toddler. We’ve never been pals.”
“Pals!” Hilary reared back in astonishment. Any child of hers would need to be a supreme optimist to expect to be pals with Hilary. “I have no obligation to be pals with my own daughter. I’m not that idiotic woman, Betty, your school friend Cressy’s mother. You were looked after very well, Isabelle. You wanted for nothing. You were handed a future.”
“Not a musical future. All very well to become an accomplished musician, but my real future was to marry well. Settle down and have children. Definitely not with red hair. I bear no resemblance to you or to Father whatever.”
“My cousin, Fiona, has red hair,” Hilary said, as though that settled everything.
“Do you have a very plain cousin called Fiona, or did you rustle up that photograph from somewhere?”
Hilary gave a grim smile. “It’s not my fault you’re so mixed up and full of resentments. You’ve been lied to, Isabelle.”
Isabelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. I do not accept my friend—”
“Your friend!” Hilary nearly leapt up from the armchair. “A man you’ve just met. A man who produces a photograph like a rabbit out of a hat. You’ve been conned, my dear. Brainwashed, if you like. This is some sort of game. One you should have avoided like the plague, only you have no self-confidence, no self-esteem, no experience of life.”
“That really should be the case, but it isn’t. The way you are, Mother, made me strong. Maybe I was strong all the time. I hung in there, didn’t I, until Father bought me my piano. I was that naughty, naughty little girl, remember? Difficult. That off-putting red hair. You’ve always hated my hair.”
“All right, I don’t like red hair,” Hilary declared, almost savagely for her. “It reminds me of Fiona, ghastly girl, but your father wanted a child. One child was all I could handle. I had the promise of a brilliant career, but I allowed myself to fall pregnant.”
“Only neither of you wanted a child like me. Can you blame me if I wonder?”
“I do blame you, Isabelle,” Hilary said with crushing condemnation. “This man read you right. You’re gullible, firing off in all directions. I understand it hasn’t been easy for you having both parents in the medical profession. I admit we were both disappointed, even dismayed you chose music as a career instead of following in our footsteps. I know you’re gifted, but unless you’re a du Pré or the like, it comes down to teaching, getting into one of the symphony orchestras—unlikely where the members never seem to die—join a quartet or keep your music as a hobby, playing for your own enjoyment.”
That analysis pierced Isabelle to her soul. A hobby? “Certainly not yours or Father’s enjoyment,” she said. “Anyone else would call you a couple of Philistines, because that’s what you are. Father is my father?” She allowed a thread of disbelief into her voice.
“Shame. Shame on you, Isabelle,” Hilary retorted, picking up her coffee and draining it. “If you’ve been persuaded you could be a Hartmann, let me destroy your hopes . . . You’re not. I’ll never tell your father what you just said. It would break his heart.”
Isabelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. After I showed Father the photograph, he changed. He showed anger when he’s such a quiet man. There was no need for anger, surely? Anyone would think I had raked up some awful scandal. He—” She broke off at the sound of the intercom buzzer.
Hilary barked the order. “Leave it. Whoever it is they can go away.”
“I’ll see who it is first.” She already knew. Without speaking, she pressed the button to open the security door. Bruno McKendrick’s handsome head came into view.
Hilary looked up expectantly, a frown furrowing her brows. “Well?”
“Just a friend. He’ll come up.”
Hilary looked pushed beyond endurance. “I told you to send whoever it was away.”
“I thought you might want to meet him,” Isabelle countered. “It’s Bruno McKendrick, the man who showed me the photograph. His father was the late Ross McKendrick, a respected private investigator hired by the Hartmann family.”
“A private investigator?” Hilary made it sound like Ross McKendrick had been a known associate of criminals.
A tap came on the door. Next, the sound of the lock being tested, then Bruno was inside the door.
“Hi! The door was open, Bella.” He knew without being told she had left it that way.
“Come in.” She gave him a quick telling smile, standing aside. Bruno’s whole aura was one of magnetism and disciplined energy. Here was a man impossible to ignore. A man equal to the likes of her formidable mother.
Bruno fixed his dark gaze on the seated woman who was looking back at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Dr. Martin?” He gave her a semblance of his charming smile.
Hilary didn’t respond. She remained staring up at him as if she had never met such an extraordinary person in her entire life.
“What about a coffee, Bruno?” Isabelle asked in an effort to ease the situation.
“Grazie!” For a tall man of impressive physique, he moved with considerable lightness of foot. “May I?” he asked of Hilary, taking the armchair opposite in the absence of her consent.
“You’re the young man who has been filling my daughter’s head with nonsense.” Finally, Hilary spoke, wasting no time launching into accusation.
“Not nonsense at all, Doctor,” Bruno replied mildly. “I’m assuming Bella has shown you the photographs?”
“Bella? Bella?” Hilary pulled a stern face. “Her name is Isabelle.”
“Most people shorten first names,” Bruno pointed out pleasantly.
Isabelle quickly made coffee and brought a cup out to him. “I haven’t shown my mother the photographs. Not yet.”
“Might be an idea if you go and get them,” he said, taking the coffee cup and saucer from her.
“Have you no sense of shame?” Hilary cried, as Isabelle moved off.
“Shame has no part of this, Dr. Martin,” Bruno said.
“You’re exploiting my daughter.”
“Just maybe you are,” he returned.
A flush spread across Hilary’s smooth cheeks. “I beg your pardon!”
“It’s not wise to insult me, Doctor.”
“It’s my duty to protect my daughter,” Hilary fired back. “She’s young and very impressionable.”
“She’s young, certainly, but I wouldn’t call her all that impressionable. Isabelle is highly intelligent, with a fine eye for detail. She’s also a high achiever. I’ve heard her play both the cello and the piano beautifully. You must be very proud of her.”
The expression in Hilary’s eyes darkened. “We pride ourselves on being excellent parents, thank you. I would love to know what you think you’ll get out of this, Mr. McKendrick? What is my daughter to you? She’s an attractive young woman.”
“Far beyond attractive,” Bruno said smoothly. “She’s very beautiful. Your daughter honours me with her friendship, Doctor. Does that answer your question? She didn’t inherit her looks or her colouring from you.”
Was there sarcasm in his smile? “You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?” Hilary asked, her gaze glued to him as though hypnotized.
“No more foreign than you, madam,” he returned suavely. “None of us is original to this country. Our aboriginals, on the other hand, have lived in Australia for some fifty thousand years. I was born in Sydney of an Italian mother and a Scots father. Your question implies you could be something of a racist.”
Hilary shuddered all over, as if she had received an electric shock. “I beg your pardon.”
“Then I pardon you,” Bruno said.
Isabelle hurried back into the living room, holding the two photographs. She was acutely aware of the high tension in the room. Hilary was holding her side as if she’d been wounded.
“I don’t want to see those,” she cried in a harsh voice as Isabelle approached her.
“Why, Mother? Are you afraid?” Isabelle spoke gently, suddenly feeling very sorry for Hilary. “Please look at them. This isn’t just your life. It’s my life.”
“I don’t doubt there’s some kind of resemblance,” Hilary said, making no move to take the photographs in hand.
“Please look, Dr. Martin.” Bruno stood up, taking the photographs out of Isabelle’s nerveless hand and putting them into Hilary’s. He stepped back, took Isabelle by the hand, moving her to the sofa where he joined her.
Hilary’s eyes whipped over the photographs. “Are you trying to tell me you see one or other of them as your twin, Isabelle?” She gave another harsh laugh. “They’re different women,” she pointed out scornfully. “One is older than the other.”
“I know that,” Isabelle said quietly. “I believe they are mother and daughter.”
“Possibly. Possibly.” Hilary’s words dripped contempt. “I have never seen either of these women in my life. It’s a superficial resemblance at best.”
“There’s a great deal more than that, Dr. Martin,” Bruno took up from Isabelle, who although she spoke with composure, was shaking. “You’re a clever woman. You’re a surgeon used to studying bodies, heads and faces. My father—”
“Ah, yes, your father!” Hilary burst out, as if Bruno should feel shame. “He’s dead.”
“As is the very beautiful Myra Hartmann, Helena Hartmann’s mother. I’m convinced Isabelle is directly linked to the Hartmann family. My father, had he lived to meet Bella, would have been convinced too. The resemblance isn’t superficial, as you well know. Isabelle is the mirror image of Helena. There’s a connection. We thought you would tell us about it.”
“Us? Us?” Hilary sounded as if she would like to see both of them hanged.
“There’s history there, Doctor. Isn’t it time Bella knew?”
“You have some nerve, Mr. McKendrick!”
He regarded her ironically. “I’ve never lacked it. You must appreciate yours and your husband’s reactions have been extreme. There would have to be reasons. There was no intention to upset and offend you. The intention is to discover the truth. Hopefully with your help. If not, easy enough to check these days through DNA analysis.”
Hilary’s skin burned as though a fire had been lit inside her. “How dare you? You’re nothing but an opportunist. You come into our lives and turn our daughter against us with your insinuations and lies. What’s in it for you? I ask. Are you going to attempt to pass her off as a Hartmann? I understand they’re very wealthy people. This Helena must have a share of their wealth?”
“You know who she was, Dr. Martin,” Bruno said with remarkable conviction.
“None of which is any of your business,” Hilary said, bounding up out of her armchair. “Not one jot of this is true.” She transferred her flashing dark eyes to Isabelle. “How very disloyal you are. You’ve betrayed me and your father.”
Isabelle too stood up, confronting the woman she had called her mother all her life. “I’m sorry for all of this, Hilary, but it was meant to happen. Destiny, if you like. My heart tells me you have a secret you don’t want to reveal. I have doubts now I’m your biological daughter. I’ve never felt like your daughter. There’s no way of knowing without DNA samples.”
“You’ll get nothing from me,” Hilary said, looking incredulous.
“It’s on your coffee cup, Dr. Martin, as you of all people would know.”
“Now that’s a crying shame!” Hilary turned back and swept her coffee cup and saucer into her bag, regardless of what liquid might have been left in the cup. “It’s high time to say good-bye.” She looked at Bruno with condemnation in her eyes. “I despise your intervention in our affairs. My idiot daughter has clearly fallen under your spell. You’ve probably had her in your bed.”
“Bella is my friend, Dr. Martin. Nothing more. I seek to protect her, as she doesn’t appear to have you on her side.”
Isabelle stood, shocked and mortified.
“Don’t come near me, you traitor,” Hilary warned in a voice thick with disgust. “After all we’ve done for you. Your father will be devastated.”
“He will be if faced with the truth,” Isabelle said with absolute certainty. “I saw his reaction, remember? Nothing remains a secret forever.”
Hilary stomped to the front door, head and shoulders thrown back. On line with Isabelle, she suddenly lifted a hand and struck Isabelle across the face. “You’ve always been the viper in the nest.”
“And there we have the key to everything.” Isabelle made no attempt to put a hand to her flaming cheek.
“Leave, Dr. Martin, if you don’t mind,” Bruno said, as though ready and willing to lend assistance. “Isabella may have pity for you. I don’t. You’re a woman who can successfully lead double lives.”
Hilary, at the door, whirled back on him. “Meaning?” Spots of red stood out on her cheekbones.
“I see you understand perfectly. Double lives.”
Hilary flushed deeper under his mocking gaze. “You’re just like your lowlife father, wanting to dig in the dirt. You’ve made an enemy today, McKendrick.”
“I’ve made worse,” Bruno said calmly. “Can I give you a lift to wherever you want to go?”
“Are you mad?” Hilary’s handsome face contorted with fury. “You’re like a character out of some bad movie, seducing my daughter and filling her head with nonsense.” Hilary shifted her gaze to Isabelle. “You’ll apologize on your hands and knees before your father and I ever forgive you for your unforgiveable disloyalty, Isabelle.”
“I will.” Isabelle physically recoiled from the look of enmity in Hilary’s eyes. “When and if a possible connection to the Hartmann family is ruled out.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, Bella,” said Bruno after Hilary had gone. “You’ve committed high treason.”
“Oh my God!” Isabelle flopped down on the sofa, badly shaken. She covered her face with her hands. “That was as close as it came to a fistfight. Hilary has never laid a finger on me; then she lashes out as if she’d needed to for years. I hope I haven’t trusted you too far, Bruno?” The fire in her cheeks was subsiding. She lifted her head. “What were you getting at, accusing Hilary of living double lives?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t saying anything at all.” Bruno shrugged it off.
“Do you think I’m satisfied with that? There was a decided whiff of threat to it.”
“I was overdoing it, I have to admit. Now, I’ll have another coffee. That one went cold.” He made a move, going behind the counter. “I hope Dr. Hilary didn’t make off with part of a set?”
“Did she ever! Wedgwood, Cornucopia. Now I’m down to three.”
“You ought to send her the bill.” Bruno looked around him. “Why don’t you use freshly ground Italian coffee instead of these pods?” he asked.
“Stop complaining.” She got up from the sofa, taking the barstool facing him. “The pods are okay. Don’t change the subject either. What did you mean, double life?”
He turned his broad back on her. “I just wanted to shake her up.”
“You did and no mistake. Your little thrust hit home. Are you going to tell me?”
He turned to look at her, a cup of coffee in hand. “Have you cream?”
“In the fridge. I only take a little.”
He opened the fridge door, bent to look at the contents. “You’re a neat little hausfrau, aren’t you?” He withdrew a carton of cream.
“I’m not a frau anything,” she said. “I’m like you, Bruno. I’m happy to live on my own. Not that you’re on your own much, I expect.”
He knew she was making a gallant effort to appear okay. He reached out a hand, softly pressed a thumb to her reddened cheek. “I didn’t like that. That woman hitting you. I did like the way you didn’t make a sound or put up your hand to touch the spot.”
“Wasn’t that just awful!” Without conscious thought, Isabelle leaned her cheek into his cool palm. “Hilary has never touched me. I was never smacked. My life was normal enough.” She pulled a face, realized what she was doing and lifted her head away. “Stop being nice to me, Bruno McKendrick.”
“I suppose it’s because you’re very easy to be nice to. Drink up.”
“I must. I have to go shopping. I was on my way when Hilary arrived.”
“Where do you shop?”
“Local shopping centre. I like to get my fruit and vegs from the street markets. Lovely and fresh.”
He lifted his coffee cup. “Here’s looking at you, kid!” He saluted her.
She knew that distinctive voice. It hadn’t been all that long since she had seen a remake of Casablanca. “Humphrey Bogart? That was good.”
“I have others. I’ll take you shopping.”
She opened her green eyes wide. “Now there’s a gentleman for you! Don’t you have things to do?”
“Nothing more important than shopping for fresh fruit and vegetables,” he said.
She held his lustrous dark eyes. “Listen, I’m not a fool.”
“Indeed you’re not!” He didn’t laugh.
“I know perfectly well there was something to what you said to Hilary. Something that worried her. Made her want to run away. It’s odd, you know, because I have often wondered about my parents—about Hilary and Norville’s—relationship. What you said has brought me face-to-face with a jumbled idea. Were you implying Hilary has been having an affair? Maybe a long-time relationship? My poor father was always far from happy. Hilary is the boss. No question about it. I don’t know if she could actually love someone, but she could . . .”
“Want sex?”
She knew she flushed. Twenty-two and she had given sex a wide berth. Casual sex was beyond her. Allowing a man into her body had to have real meaning. So far, she hadn’t met that man. “I can’t see her closing the door on it like she closes the door on . . . poor Norville.”
“Sorry, Bella. I can’t enlighten you.”
“More likely you won’t.” She slipped off the barstool. “Norville would feel so bad if he ever found out. He idolizes her.”
“That’s where power kicks in,” Bruno said. “He would do whatever she said at every stage. He mightn’t like it. He mightn’t want to go along with it, but her will would prevail.”
“Brainwashing. She said no matter what you had led me to believe I was not a Hartmann. It was like I was more not a Hartmann than I was a Martin. She sounded so utterly sure.”
“It could be she’s a consummate liar and she knows her target,” Bruno said. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Why? Are you going to take me away from all this?” she mocked.
“It’s my godson Josh’s sixth birthday. He’s mildly autistic. His parents, Cassie and Ian Taylor, are good friends of mine.”
“It’s a party? There will be other children?”
He shook his dark head. “Josh isn’t at his best with people, even other kids, but he is making strides. He gets the very best attention and ongoing therapy.”
“I’m sure he does. But why take me, a stranger? I’d only be intruding and Josh could well mind.”
Bruno shook his head. “Somehow I don’t think he will. Besides, I want you to meet Cass and Ian.”
Isabelle gave him a full-on look he couldn’t ignore. “Cass?” she questioned, her head on the side. “That wouldn’t be Cassandra Taylor the journalist, now would it?”
“The very same.”
“She was there at the Lubrinski function?”
“Right again.”
“And your Cassandra had me under surveillance.”
“Did she? I wasn’t aware of that.” It was the truth. “She did remark early in the evening that you reminded her of someone.”
“Now I understand,” Isabelle groaned.
“No, you don’t. Please, Bella, keep calm. I want you to come with me, because . . .”
“I’m waiting.” She began to drum her fingers on the granite counter.
“Because I want you to come with me,” he said, disconcerted at how true that was. “You’re a truly bright spark. I like that. Besides, the family will love you.”
“Sez you!” She began playing with a loose strand of her beautiful hair. “I don’t know.”
“They own a piano,” he said as an inducement. “Cass plays. Nothing like you. Josh loves music. It keeps him calm.”
Isabelle let him stew. “Then I’ll come for Josh,” she said after due consideration. “Not you. I’d say you get your own way too often.”
He shrugged. “For all the good it does me. Well, chop-chop. Shopping time.”
“I’ll have to get a present for Josh,” she said. “Big box of chocolates for your friends. Who doesn’t love chocolate?”
“Actually, I knew a girl some time back who didn’t. Zinnia was her name.”
“Really? That’s brilliant! Names are getting more and more unusual. I think the zinnia is part of the sunflower tribe. You split up?”
“Bella, I assure you it wasn’t serious.”
She laughed out loud.