Chapter Three
She took one last look at herself. Bruno was picking her up at eleven. She had chosen a cobalt-blue silk top that hung loose from shoestring straps over a short, crossover orange skirt cut like a piece of origami. The combination of colours was arresting, but it worked. The orange was almost the colour of the glints in her hair. Gold sandals on her feet. She had left her hair loose, at the last moment fixing heart-shaped gold earrings to her pierced ears.
She hadn’t slept much. Why would she, with a mind in turmoil? A thousand thoughts moved around and around through her head. She couldn’t clear them.
The confrontation with Hilary had deeply disturbed her. She could have ruined everything. What if her instincts were wrong? What if Hilary were her mother, however different they were as people? She couldn’t claim she resembled the man she had called Father all her life either. Not in looks, characteristics, interests. God forbid what she and Bruno had started turned out to be a betrayal, as Hilary had claimed.
On the other hand, if she really were connected to Helena Hartmann, the two people she had been raised to believe were her parents had lied to her all her life. She had seen and had to produce her birth certificate a number of times over the years. All had appeared to be in order. She wasn’t adopted. According to her birth certificate, she had been born to Hilary and Norville Martin at a private maternity clinic in London. If she were connected to Helena, if Helena was her mother, how could she possibly have handed over her baby to another woman?
How could she?
Helena couldn’t have been penniless. She’d had sufficient money to get her to London and find herself someplace to live. She would have had help. Even the pilot of the freight plane had been under suspicion for helping her to get way. He would have been grilled, but he’d continued to claim innocence, and the police and Ross McKendrick had not been able to prove otherwise. Helena would have had assistance to change her identity. No Helena Hartmann had appeared on the manifests of ships and planes travelling out of Australia for an extended period after her disappearance. Isabelle supposed if one had the money, the chances of changing one’s identity would significantly increase.
* * *
The Taylors lived in the affluent, leafy suburb of Double Bay, with a blue water view, a hop, step and a jump from the marina. Isabelle found whatever expectations her host and hostess had for her, she was greeted with open pleasure. No sign of the little boy, Josh. He did appear as they walked inside the house, running at Bruno but not calling his name. Bruno bent and lifted the blond-haired, blue-eyed child into his arms. “How’s it goin’, Josh! Six years old today.”
For answer, the little boy bent his head into Bruno’s neck. Isabelle was within his range of vision, but he didn’t look directly at her. So much depended on how the little boy felt with a stranger in his midst. Isabelle turned to her hostess. She was carrying a gift bag, from which she produced the big box of Lindt chocolates. “For later.” She smiled. “I have a little present for Josh. I hope he likes it. And me.”
“I’m sure he will.” Cassie looked both pleased and surprised. “You didn’t have to do that, Isabelle.” Their guest was much younger than Bruno’s usual women friends, but she looked perfectly at home with him, as comfortable as Bruno was with her, for that matter.
“Of course I did. I’ll wait a while before I show Josh. Let him get used to me.”
“He’ll probably think you’re the princess out of one of his storybooks,” said Cassie in a gentle, kind voice.
Lunch was set in the lovely, secluded sanctuary of the garden, under the broad, feathery dome of a jacaranda. The beautiful shade tree was due to burst into exquisite mauve-blue bloom by November. That was the month when the city with one of the best climates in the world to grow the Brazilian jacaranda was hazed with purple, much to Sydneysiders’ delight.
As Isabelle helped Cassie bring the various salads, the prepared sauces, the herb butters and the little crunchy bread rolls out of the kitchen, Josh hovered. Once or twice he walked out into the garden with them. Silent. Expression withdrawn. Mostly he stuck close to his father and Bruno, who were tending the barbeque. The sizzle alone was making Isabelle hungry.
“What a lovely setting!” she exclaimed with pleasure. “I love the way you’ve done all this, Cassie.” She looked down at the attractively set picnic table. Cassie had placed little glass vases at intervals, each containing two perfect yellow tulips folded within their green leaves. The colour was echoed in the yellow, pink and turquoise stripes of the tablecloth and napkins.
“Well, thank you.” Cassie’s anxious gaze slipped past Isabelle to her little son. Isabelle had already noticed Cassie was always looking to see how Josh was getting on. “I haven’t told you how much I admired your playing at the Lubrinskis’, Isabelle,” she said as her hazel gaze came back to her guest. She looked ethereal in the glittering, green, subtropical sunlight raying through the branches of the jacaranda. “Bruno tells me you have a Master’s degree from the Royal College of Music in London.”
“I do.” Isabelle inclined her head. “Did he tell you I also play the piano? I bet he did. I can see you’re good friends.”
“Actually, he did,” Cassie admitted, looking over at Bruno as he put some beautiful big prawns she had marinated in lime juice and zest onto the barbeque plate. He and her husband, Ian, a quiet, studious man, headmaster of a leading boys’ school, had always gotten along just fine. She and Ian had been late starters as parents. Just when they had thought they would never have a child, along came Josh as she turned forty. Her beloved boy. Josh loved Bruno, his godfather. Sometimes she thought Josh responded to Bruno more than he did to her and Ian. “He told me he was utterly enchanted. Those were his exact words.”
“That was nice of him. Better not tell Madame Lubrinski.”
Cassie gave an amused grimace. “Marta likes to take full credit for picking Bruno’s female friends.”
“Be certain I’m not trespassing on Madame Lubrinski’s turf. Bruno sees me as the young cousin he never had. As for me, I have no designs whatever on his splendid body.”
Cassie burst out laughing. “Isabelle, honey, he’s got enough women doing that already.”
“It’s all that handsomeness and sexual energy, don’t you think? Better still, he has a great sense of humour and he’s kind. I rate kindness highly. Now this Penelope—I keep forgetting her name.”
“Penelope Pfeiffer. She’s actually quite nice. Nothing like the last one, Gemma. She’s the daughter of Super Sam.”
“I know. My dearest wish is to remain Bruno’s musical friend. Has he discussed my background with you?” she asked openly.
Cassie leaned over to pat Isabelle’s arm. “Bruno wouldn’t do that without your permission. I admit to being aware of your striking resemblance to a young woman who disappeared when I was a girl. Helena Hartmann.”
“Ah, yes, the mysterious Helena,” Isabelle sighed. “Please let’s not talk about it now, Cassie. I want to enjoy myself.”
“And so you shall, my dear,” Cassie said.
It was Isabelle’s turn to laugh. “That’s exactly what Cinderella’s fairy godmother said when dressing her for the ball.”
“I’ve no difficulty visualizing you in Cinderella’s beautiful ball gown,” said Cassie.
* * *
Platters of delicious barbequed seafood were placed on the table: prawns marinated in different sauces, lemon scallops, calamari, succulent lobster. Bruno had even taken the grilled spanner crabs out of their shells so Cassie and Isabelle wouldn’t have that messy job, although there were little bowls of ice water to dip one’s fingers into.
Josh evidently didn’t like seafood because Cassie had placed a sausage with a liberal dollop of tomato sauce inside a slice of bread and handed it to him. She had also prepared a bowl of chips. Isabelle had already been told Josh objected to most foods. It had been impossible to get him to eat vegetables until Bruno suggested she turn vegetables into a puree and use it as a sauce over different pasta shapes, like farfalle, fusilloni and radiatori. Josh wouldn’t eat her gnocchi, but he would eat Bruno’s.
“I tell you, he’s a real catch!” said Isabelle, sounding utterly convinced.
Cassie started laughing again. Young Isabelle was very good company.
Bruno sat beside her, handsome face and tall, athletic body a powerful living sculpture. He was wearing a stylish navy shirt and navy stretch chinos, a mustard-coloured belt slung around his waist. She liked a man to dress well. She fancied she was a bit of a fashion plate herself. “A glass of wine?” He held up a bottle of Riesling for her inspection.
“Lovely. Just one glass, I think, in the heat. Everything looks wonderful. I hope your lady friends know you’re a serious cook.”
“They haven’t seen my skills put to the test, Bella.”
“Really? You haven’t asked anyone over for a quiet, romantic dinner for two? Dinner of course prepared by you.”
His dark eyes beneath his black brows pinned her in place. “I don’t know what you’re imagining, Bella, but I usually wine and dine a woman friend at a good restaurant.”
“Safer that way?”
“Drat your impudence!” he said, mock darkly.
“If you want to put your skills to the test you could ask me over one night. I’d love to come. No strings attached, which is as safe as it gets.”
He laughed. “You like a bit of mischief, don’t you?”
“It works for us,” she answered breezily. “Josh loves you.”
“Calm and understanding,” Bruno replied. “That’s the secret.”
“And a gentle manner. He’s a lovely-looking little boy. He doesn’t seem to mind me?”
“I’d say you remind him of the princess in one of his pop-out storybooks.”
“That’s funny. Cassie said the same thing.”
“I’ll find the storybook later,” Bruno promised. “What are you going to have?” He picked up her plate.
“A bit of everything,” she said happily. “Thank you for asking me today, Bruno.”
“Another one of my brilliant ideas.” Bruno began to select small portions of all the seafood he and Ian had barbequed, arranging it neatly on her plate.
“This looks marvellous!”
“I’m going to ask you a favour later,” Bruno told her.
* * *
All four had their barbequed food and a side salad in front of them. They charged glasses, not saying “Happy Birthday” in case Josh felt overwhelmed but making do with a “Cheers!”
They began to eat. The conversation flowed with ease, covering all manner of relaxing topics. Josh didn’t sit down. He wandered around the table, as content as his parents had seen him.
Once he stopped beside Isabelle, watching the flash of the sun off her copper-red hair with his eyes. Cassie passionately hoped Josh wouldn’t object to the attention Isabelle was getting from Bruno and make a big fuss, but somehow, he remained stable and connected to the party. He even sat down at the table beside Bruno while he ate two little cupcakes she had decorated with funny faces especially for him.
Afterwards, Cassie and Ian insisted they go into the living room while she and Ian made short shrift of cleaning up.
“Time to give Josh his presents, now he’s settled.” Bruno bent over Isabelle to murmur in her ear. She was wearing a lovely light perfume with floral top notes. It was perfect for her. Perfect for him, for that matter. An intoxicant. He was susceptible to a woman’s perfume. Anything that cloyed wasn’t his idea of enchanting.
“I hope he likes mine,” Isabelle said, suddenly feeling nervous. Josh had made no effort to communicate with her. Neither had he looked directly at her. He could speak; she had heard him speaking to his mother. He had sounded perfectly normal. His voice had the same soft, gentle quality as his mother’s. No way was Josh an emotionally deprived child as she had been; his parents clearly loved him. Cassie doted on her boy.
“It’s okay,” Bruno reassured her, sensing her fears. “He likes you.”
She threw him a little shimmering glance. “How do you know?”
“He’d have soon let us know if he didn’t,” Bruno told her, walking across to a mahogany and brass cabinet where they had left their birthday presents for the little boy.
Josh, who had been watching while not appearing to do so, moved quickly to catch hold of Bruno’s trousered leg.
“Let’s see what this guy can do,” Bruno said, handing the loosely wrapped robot to the child. Josh stood for a moment, obviously processing Bruno’s words before he fell to his knees, tearing the paper away. He had no difficulty with the sturdy toy. He simply picked it up, got it started. The colourful robot began to walk and flash its lights.
“Ah, a success!” Bruno murmured to Isabelle in a quiet, triumphant aside.
“Let’s hope I top you,” she punned. Her main gift was, in fact, a colourful spinning top.
To her great relief, the brightly painted and decorated present was almost as well received as the robot. Bruno had introduced her as Belle. Isabelle used that nickname as she’d handed her present to the child. “Hello, Josh. I’m Belle.”
“Belle,” Josh repeated, meeting her glance briefly before he looked away.
The star turn of the day came later. Bruno and Isabelle were sitting on the floor with Josh when his parents rejoined them. Both had made constant little peeps into the living room, thrilled their son had accepted their young guest. Josh, in fact, was leaning against Bruno, then Isabelle in turn, as if they were a pair of comfortable bookends.
“Play something.” Bruno caught Isabelle’s eye.
“Is that the favour?”
“Something bright to take Josh’s attention.”
“You take advantage of your seniority, Bruno McKendrick.”
“Thank goodness we’ve got that sorted,” he said, looking down his perfectly aquiline nose at her.
Isabelle glanced over at Cassie, pointing to the baby grand in the corner, silently seeking her hostess’s approval for her to play it.
Cassie understood perfectly. She nodded. Music was a powerful therapeutic tool. She knew it worked for Josh. She was in the habit of playing to her little son as often as she could because he was so receptive. She watched Isabelle go to the piano, lift the lid—which she seldom did, though a highly trained pianist would—then sit down on the long upholstered bench. Cassie wondered what Isabelle would choose and whether Josh would like it. She clutched her husband’s hand, experiencing a rush of adrenaline.
Isabelle launched into Mozart’s Rondo alla Turka.
Perfect.
Just perfect!
Immediately, as Bella’s fingers came down on the sparkling opening, Josh’s blond head shot up. Bruno moved quickly to help the child to his feet, watching with great satisfaction as Josh moved across to the piano, standing close to Bella’s moving left elbow. The piece required considerable manual dexterity. Anyone would know that, but Bella didn’t show any signs of being cramped. No change of expression on Josh’s face, but to those present who loved him, it was apparent his interest had been captured. Moreover, it was being held.
When Isabelle finished the piece, she didn’t stand up as Bruno expected. She started to play a snatch of some melody Bruno knew. Grieg’s “Morning.” She played the opening bars over and over, miraculously enticing Josh onto the piano bench. Bruno stood back, not crowding the piano, watching what was to unfold.
Bella spread the long, beautiful fingers of her right hand over the keys and then brought them down. She played two bars of the lovely, atmospheric melody and then she moved off the bench, standing up beside the piano. Josh, to the watching adults’ astonishment, took her place on the piano bench, as if this was a regular piano lesson. Isabelle the teacher, he the dutiful pupil.
Cassie clasped her hands tightly against her chest. What was Josh going to do? she thought in a sudden panic. Would he begin thumping the keys wildly? Would he work himself into a rage of frustration? Would the wonderful atmosphere of Sunday peace disintegrate? Cassie half-expected he would, but she had seen enough of their young guest not to have to worry about Isabelle’s reaction. Isabelle would handle the situation. She was a highly trained musician. She was also a born communicator, in Cassie’s view.
Her fears did not eventuate. There was no explosive reaction. Josh began to play. Play like a very young, aspiring pianist. Marvel of marvels, he reproduced the musical fragment with absolute accuracy.
Dear God!
He might be a savant! Cassie, overcome, ran back into the kitchen, swallowing down a gush of highly emotional tears. Josh’s father, equally stunned, followed her. Bruno continued to stand nearby, transfixed, while Bella sat down again, demonstrating several more bars of the music. She was playing the melody an octave higher, as Josh was centred middle C, but he had no difficulty repeating the motif from where he sat.
The exercise went on for another ten minutes. For Josh, it was manifestly clear this was serious business. His verbal communication skills would take time, but his musical skills appeared unique, especially in such a young child. Towards the end of what had become an important lesson, Isabelle demonstrated for her highly attentive pupil a three-note chord to play with his left hand, thus engaging both hands. Josh had no difficulty there either.
The implications of this were enormous, Bruno thought. Here was a child apparently very capable of musical achievement. He was thrilled for Cass and Ian.
Josh continued to play, unaware and uncaring of who else was in the room. He was locked into his own performance. He was even adding tonal colour.
Isabelle moved over to where Bruno stood, full of a born musician’s satisfaction and hope for the child. Her heart lost a full beat as, with a strong, muscular arm, Bruno pulled her into his side, giving her a spontaneous hug. “Bella, you’re a miracle worker!” He went further. Inclining his raven head, he landed a kiss on her temple.
Immediately, her temple throbbed. Isabelle couldn’t for the life of her suppress a huge rush of excitement. The scent of him was on her skin and her clothes. She’d had countless hugs from male friends. Nothing remotely like this. She couldn’t look at him when he was only a breath away. To look at him was to feel what she shouldn’t. She knew what a magnet Bruno was to women. She was conscious of the pulse beating away at the base of her throat. To save herself, she closed her eyes. As soon as he let her go, she prayed her heartbeat would slow.
A moment later, she was able to speak normally. “Josh is gifted,” she said.
“My God, so are you!” Bruno’s passionate dark eyes moved down over her. “That was fantastic!”
“Such responsiveness is,” she agreed. “You can write me a cheque for a million dollars.”
“It’s yours,” he said.
He sounded so utterly serious she produced a sweet, shaky laugh. “Don’t be silly, Bruno. I’m joking.”
“What has been accomplished is worth all of it.” Bruno found himself staring into her beautiful green eyes. He was feeling a little dazed. Come to that, the entire afternoon had had the sense of a dream.
“You honour me,” Isabelle said. “But dinner at your place will do. I really love Italian cooking. It’s so . . .”
“Squisito! Italian food is the best ethnic food in the world. I would have you know, Bella, my cooking would pass muster in Rome or Milan.”
“Skite!”
“Bella, you have a lot to learn about me.”
“We have a lot to learn about me. Have either of us asked if it could be dangerous?”
Bruno shook his head, trying to find an adequate answer. “You won’t be on your own. I’ll be right there beside you. You realize we have to take a trip to the Hartmann stronghold?”
“Have we got to?” she asked with a curious little shiver.
“Yes” was Bruno’s quiet reply.
“They might refuse to see us.”
“The older members of the family and the extended family will remember my father. Remember his name. I’ll get in touch with them. A photograph of you should secure a meeting.”
“They may not want to revisit the past,” Isabelle warned. “It could be too painful.”
“Or too problematic. Nevertheless, I’ll get in touch.”
“God knows what the response will be,” said Isabelle.
* * *
Cassie, still tearful, came back into the living room, Ian’s arm around her. “What can we say, Isabelle?” she asked, a poignant expression on her face. “My baby!”
“Josh is gifted, Cassie,” Isabelle said with gentle certainty. “We were all witness to that. I took a chance. I tried an experiment. It might not have come off, but it did. Autistic children have little or no impairment when it comes to music, I believe. Josh had no difficulty processing the notes I was playing, along with my fingering, the correct fingering. I suggest you have him taught. He engaged with me. He will engage with someone else, providing they have a calm presence. The right teacher can be found. I can help there. I don’t know if you’ve tried singing to Josh, but I had a friend—a fellow student—who stuttered painfully but sang fluently when we were at choir. I suggested he take singing lessons. They really helped. In time, his singing lessons rid him of the stutter.”
Ian Taylor said in his quiet, cultured voice, “We can’t thank you enough, Isabelle.” He turned his head in their great friend’s direction. “We can’t thank you, Bruno, enough for bringing Isabelle to us.”
Bruno sketched one of his elegant, expressive gestures. “I can say for all of us, we’re thrilled with what has happened this afternoon. I’m certain none of us will forget it. There are little miracles and there are wondrous miracles. I would say it’s the latter in Josh’s case. Now, what about opening those chocolates, Cass?” he said with a brisk change of tone. “I’ll make the coffee.”
“He’ll want me to help,” Isabelle explained as she quickly moved off after Bruno.
Cassie and Ian, starstruck by their son’s gift, sat down and listened to bar after bar of Grieg’s “Morning.”
There are indeed miracles, Cassie thought. Their son had to be given every opportunity to live the fullest life possible. There had to be a reason Isabelle had come into their lives. It had a feeling of rightness, of fate about it. Yet all wasn’t right with Isabelle’s world. Who was she? She had a highly memorable face. An experienced journalist, Cassie had no difficulty putting two and two together. She would look further into what was virtually a cold case. What had happened to Helena Hartmann? Past and present family had to be checked out. Helena Hartmann would have had friends.
She also would have had enemies, Cassie thought. Perhaps close to home?
Helena Hartmann’s story demanded an answer.
* * *
The last thought Isabelle had in her head Monday morning was that the man she called Father would make a return visit. She had a rehearsal with the quartet in thirty minutes, yet here he was on her doorstep. Was she going to be subjected to more abuse? No, not from him. Norville wasn’t an abusive man.
She opened her door, inviting him into the flat. Her heart smote her. He didn’t look like a man ready to demand apologies. He looked deeply distressed, a broken man, if one looked closely.
Isabelle led him by the arm to an armchair. “Father, you don’t look well.” She had decided she was going to call him Father until it was proven otherwise. “You must tell me what’s the matter. I know Hilary was furious. She would still have been furious when she reported to you. My intuition tells me I haven’t had the whole story. Perhaps the true story.”
Norville Martin slumped over, one hand massaging the back of his knotted neck. “Can I get you something?” Isabelle studied him with pity in her heart.
“No, nothing, thank you, my dear.” He straightened. “Hilary doesn’t know I’m here. I fly back this afternoon. I have no intention of telling her I’ve seen you. Not until I have time to think. The very last thing I want is to create a scandal. Please sit down, there’s a good girl. We must talk.”
“I have to make a phone call first, Father,” Isabelle said, half-turning away. “I’m supposed to be at a rehearsal in thirty minutes. I’ll cancel.”
“I’m sorry about that, my dear, but this is important.” Norville went back to massaging his neck.
She couldn’t get James on his mobile, so she left a message. He would be far from pleased. She could even lose her spot. A number of fine cellists would be delighted to take her place.
Norville didn’t even ask if her apology was accepted. He was too preoccupied with his own troubling thoughts. Isabelle sat opposite him, waiting.
“You know how much I love your mother.” He gave her an imploring look. “There has never been another woman for me. Not from the moment I met her. I considered myself the most fortunate man in the world when she chose me. She could have had anyone. She was so clever. So many people envied her. She left her male admirers in the dust. I have to say she was a little cruel in that regard.”
I bet she was! “So you won her hand and married her,” Isabelle said, wondering how and why that happened. Hilary was self-obsessed. Norville was a man obsessed. She had never seen her parents as two people who loved each other. The big distinction: only one did the loving. The full weight of that had fallen on Norville. “Please get to the point, Father,” she urged. “The time has passed for deception.”
Norville Martin threw back his head, the muscles of his face working as if in physical pain. “I’m not your father, Isabelle,” he said starkly. “I have no idea who your father is.”
Isabelle now found she wasn’t immune to rage. “You’re not my father and you’ve kept silent all these years?” she cried. “How could you!”
“I beg you to forgive me,” Norville said. “The whole business is monstrous, a nightmare. I know all about your mother’s affairs. She’s a woman of strong passions. I could never satisfy them, but I loved her so much I was prepared to turn a blind eye. She has never asked for a divorce. She made it plain we were going to stay together. I suited her, you see.”
The explanation left Isabelle utterly cold. “She knew she could rely on you not to intrude into her extramarital affairs. There’s a world of sorrow and shame in that.”
“There is. There is.” Norville was back to hanging his silver-grey head. “When you showed me those photographs, it was too much for me to handle. I’ve known if only in my heart you weren’t my child. You were some other man’s. Seeing those photographs sent Hilary off her head. I’m convinced she recognised that young woman, but in what context I don’t know.”
“Of course she recognised her.” Isabelle gazed at Norville as if she had never seen him before in her life.
Norville covered his face with his hands, desperate to be left in peace. “I managed to get the full story out of her. She was very fierce at the start, but she broke down. She admitted I wasn’t your biological father. Her interest in whoever it was—I’m guessing a colleague, and may be connected to the young woman—had only been sexual.”
“Hilary, the nymphomaniac! So what was the young woman’s name?” Isabelle’s voice was quiet and grave. “Hartmann?”
Norville fell back against the armchair like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “God knows!”
“You couldn’t get it out of her?” Isabelle’s whole body felt tremulous.
“Isabelle, there was no point in my trying. Hilary doesn’t give up her secrets. I’ve always been terrified of losing her if I pushed her too far. She seemed terrified. In all our years together, I have never seen her like that.”
“You know better than anyone she’s a consummate actress.”
“In certain lights, you look a bit like her.” Norville tried a weak smile.
“Rubbish!” Isabelle relished the denial falling off her tongue. “I look nothing like her.”
“No,” Norville admitted, the blood draining from his cheeks.
“So I’m to believe Hilary is my mother but you are not my father. Is that it?”
“Dear girl, I swear I didn’t know for certain until last week. Showing me those photographs changed my entire world.”
“Your world!” Isabelle could hardly believe her ears. “What about me? I still don’t count, do I? I’m the changeling.”
Norville sighed deeply. “Please don’t use that word. You do count. That’s why I’m here. I’m very fond of you. You must know that. You’re a beautiful, very gifted young woman. You’re a good woman.”
“Whereas Hilary is not,” Isabelle said bleakly.
“Some of the finer feelings are absent,” Norville was forced to admit. “I haven’t been able to sleep since I found out.”
Isabelle laughed. There was no humour in it. “In your own room. You and Hilary conspicuously sleep apart.”
“Sometimes she allows me into her bed,” Norville said, a man long enslaved.
“And that’s sufficient, is it?”
“She loves me in her own way.”
“So easy to lie to yourself,” Isabelle said sadly. “I pity you, Norville. You’ve been kind and generous to me.”
“I held to the belief you were my daughter.”
Isabelle cut him off brusquely. “That kept your soul in line, did it? If I were you, I’d divorce Hilary. Get your self-respect back. She’ll always have a lover on the side. Those appetites of hers! You still have time to find a good woman to love, who will, in turn, love you.”
Norville gave her a defeated, self-mocking look. “I know what I am, Isabelle. I’m a weak man held hostage by a strong woman. Hilary will have to leave me. I will never leave her.”
For once in her life Isabelle was tempted to be cruel. “That’s what leeches do,” she said. “They cling.”
* * *
Her life up to this point had been shadow play. After her father, in name only, had gone, Isabelle, even in the worst kind of pain, still managed to retain a measure of calm. She was sick to her stomach. She had been dealt with so badly.
If she had wanted one of them, Hilary or Norville, to be her biological parent, her choice would have been Norville. The thought that Hilary was now established as her birth mother made her laugh so hard her chest ached, scalding hot tears rushing into her eyes. She knew Norville meant it when he said he was fond of her. She had to accept he would have little in the way of love left over from his obsessive love for her mother.
She had thought, in secret, even from childhood, that she didn’t fit. Only in retrospect could she slot all the pieces together. Well, not all. It remained to find her biological father. She wasn’t Isabelle Martin. She was, in all probability, Isabelle Hartmann. It could be a life-changing existence. She knew families could be complicated, but hers was more complicated than most.
Midafternoon, she had a visit from James Kellerman. She wasn’t happy to see him arrive at her door. She was well aware of his roving eye. She also knew it had landed on her. She wasn’t in the least attracted to him, however much he was a hit with the other ladies. It was all so unwelcome. She would have to move cautiously. She so enjoyed being with the group, all fine musicians, but if the price of entry was an affair with the leader, she would have to move on.
“How did you know where I lived?” she asked when he arrived at her front door.
“You’re in the phone book, Isabelle,” he said, swaggering past her into the apartment, blond, blue-eyed, handsome and well aware of it. She remembered now his wife had left him. Rumour had it he had taken up with a very attractive blonde violinist in the Symphony Orchestra.
“Of course. Please sit down. I must apologize again for not being able to get to the rehearsal. A family matter came up. I had to attend to it.”
He swung back to her with a piece of advice. “I hope you’re not going to have to attend to family matters often, Isabelle,” he said, returning to roaming about. “Our rehearsals are extremely important.”
“I do realize that, James. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” He was very much playing the leader. He who had to be obeyed. “Your parents live in Adelaide, don’t they?”
“Yes.” She nodded. She couldn’t bring herself to mention Norville’s visit. Her psyche had been rubbed raw.
“Both doctors?”
“I’ve told you that, James. Can I offer you coffee?” Tea or coffee, the universal specific.
“Coffee would be lovely,” he said expansively, as though he were ready to settle in for the afternoon. “Where do you practise? You couldn’t practise here.”
“At the Conservatorium,” she said. “I’ve made arrangements. Soundproof room. I practise the piano there too, although I have my own in storage.”
“They have lots of good things to say about you at the Con,” he said, as though she were dying for a compliment. “No harm in giving the Young Performers a shot. I won it some years back.”
Ten years, she knew. “I do intend to enter,” she said. “My biggest award was in Belgium.” Her former professor’s opinion of her was all that she had or would ever need in the way of confidence building.
“I’m not surprised,” James drawled. “You’re very good. A black coffee and a sandwich would be great, if you could manage it. We didn’t stop for lunch.”
“No problem,” Isabelle said, wondering how much longer he intended to stay. She hadn’t been able to contact Bruno. She had left a one-word message for him: “News.” She could have made it two: “Bad news.” She knew he would ring back when he could.
James made short work of the chicken and avocado sandwiches. “That was lovely!” he enthused, his blue eyes sliding all over her as she sat in her leather armchair. “Filled the spot for the time being. If you’re free, we could do dinner?”
It was the second time he had asked her. She was supposed to say yes. She knew a lot of women would accept, including Emma, their viola player. She was madly in love with James, but Isabelle knew James would never invite Emma out to dinner. “Don’t you have a partner, James?” she now asked.
His gaze hardened. “I do. No matter.” He threw up a hand. “It’s not a soul-shaping love affair. Both of us feel free to have dinner with . . . friends.”
“That sort of arrangement wouldn’t suit me,” she said. “It would break my heart if the man I loved felt free to go out with other women.”
“Isabelle!” He laughed, steadily trying to magnetize her with his eyes. “You’re not a born-again Christian, are you?”
“I am a Christian, James. I have ethical standards. I should tell you, I do have someone.”
His blue gaze went oily. “You just made that up, Isabelle. No need to be nervous. I don’t bite. You’re a very interesting girl. I was merely hoping to get to know you better. The better I know you, the better we’ll perform together. As a quartet, of course. I can see you’re nervous with me.”
She shook her head. “You’re quite wrong, James. I’m a great admirer of yours as a solo violinist and the leader of the quartet. That’s as far as it goes.”
“You’re not trying, Isabelle.” He reached across the coffee table to grasp her hand.
She glanced away quickly as the intercom buzzer echoed through the flat. “Excuse me, James,” she said, retrieving her hand and making towards the intercom wall unit.
The cavalry had arrived. It was Bruno. She felt like bawling in relief. “Come up, Bruno,” she said, aware her voice sounded quavery.
He was there in seconds flat. She all but walked into him, white cotton shirt, blue jeans, tooled boots. Warmth and fresh male fragrance. He had his arm hard around her, his eyes making a sweep of the living room, taking in James Kellerman’s presence.
“James is here,” Isabelle said unnecessarily. “I had to miss rehearsal.”
“Hi there, James,” Bruno called, and then proceeded to take Isabelle by storm. He tilted her chin, bent his head and kissed her mouth. It was a profound experience and completely unexpected. Wave after wave of sensation began swooshing through her bloodstream. She was reacting as if she had been totally deprived of such a kiss. By the time he let her go her heart was pumping wildly and her head was reeling.
Watching this from the sofa, cold lights flared in James Kellerman’s blue eyes. He stood up, a man full of disappointment and discord. “Time to be off,” he said in a clipped voice much at variance with his practised drawl. “Many thanks for coffee, Isabelle. I’ll be in touch.”
“Nice to see you, James,” Bruno said suavely, opening the door for him, then shutting it afterwards with an air of satisfaction. “Can you beat that?” He gave a short laugh. “James Kellerman might be a fine musician, but he’s a serial womaniser.”
“Aren’t most men?” Isabelle was having some difficulty speaking. Her mouth was still throbbing. “He’s going to sack me, you know.” To her surprise, she wasn’t all that worried.
“His loss! I’m just appalled at his trying to make a move on you.”
“I had to tell him I had someone.” Now she was deeply inhaling. She could feel the blush of colour in her cheeks.
“You do have someone,” Bruno said. “You have me.”
“I mean a someone someone, though I guess that was a pretty convincing kiss. A lot of chivalry in it.”
“I’m an expert when it comes to reading situations,” said Bruno.
“You’re an expert at kissing as well. Fair warning. You might have to kiss me a thousand times more before we’re finished.” She was attempting to turn a heart-stopping moment into a joke. No need for him to see her vulnerability. It was clear kissing her had been no earthshaking event for him.
“No problem!” he confirmed. “Actually, you’re lovely to kiss, Bella mia. I can see a long line of future admirers coming to swords and blows. So what’s the news?” he asked, steering her into an armchair. “Have you been crying?” His dark eyes had turned very intent.
“It’s a sad story.”
“Bella, Bella,” he groaned. “I’m guessing the ceiling has fallen in on you?”
“Something like that,” she said. “Norville isn’t my dad.” Her heart contracted as she said it.
“I knew that.” Bruno spoke gently, taking the armchair opposite.
“’Course you did. I’m getting used to your impressing me. My entire life has been a circus.”
“And I am so sorry for your pain. We’re going to get your fake parents out of your life, Isabella.”
“Hilary is not my fake mother,” she told him in a melancholy voice. “She’s the real thing. God, what a mess! You and your dad got me into this, Bruno.”
“Don’t you want the truth?” he asked.
She gave a pained laugh. “The desire for the truth only comes in fits and starts. I’m afraid of what we might turn up, Bruno. Didn’t you tell me your father was killed by a hit-and-run driver? Any decent human being couldn’t run from such a scene. Could the accident have been deliberate? Maybe your father was stirring up trouble? Maybe he had found out something the Hartmann family wanted kept quiet?”
Bruno looked down at his clenched hands. The knuckles were white. The pain of his father’s violent death and the fact that it was never solved would never go away. Bella was only asking what he had asked himself innumerable times over the years. The driver of that car remained a shadowy figure. Police investigations had turned up nothing. No witnesses, not even a witness who was determined not to get involved. The murderer had slammed his car into his father and gotten clean away.
“So.” He looked at her, internalising her anguish. Isabelle in no time at all had managed to get under his skin. “Time to pass on your news in its entirety.”
Isabelle did.
“Why should we believe him?” Bruno asked, after Isabelle had told him word for word the meeting with Norville Martin.
“He’s absolutely sure of it, Bruno.”
“He isn’t,” Bruno flatly contradicted. “There’s no bitterness in you?” If there was, she was showing no sign of it.
Isabelle shook her red-gold head, almost abstractedly. “What good would that do? Bitterness is corrosive. Besides, I felt sorry for him. The man I called Father was good to me. Hilary ruined him.”
“Very revealing, don’t you think? He’s not a real man, Bella. He’s a puppet on a string.”
“He loves her,” Isabelle said. “Don’t they say love is a madness? Maybe you’ve never loved a woman, Bruno. Maybe you don’t want to love a woman? You know all about loss. Perhaps that’s why you’re on the run from Penelope and the rest of the pack?”
“As long as you aren’t one of them, Bella.” He spoke crisply, a cool glitter in his jet-black eyes.
“Never me,” Isabelle protested. “I told you. We’re partners. We’ve buddied up, as they say. You don’t believe Hilary is my mother?”
“I’m having it checked out.”
“Really?” she gasped. “You’re a fast mover.”
“I’m like that. Whatever the outcome, our next stop is the Hartmann Outback stronghold. Eaglehawk Downs. A small spread,” he said, an attractive quirk to his mouth, “some five thousand square miles.”
“Goodness me, that’s huge!”
“There are a couple bigger. Australian Outback stations are the biggest in the world. They have to be, given stock have to forage over a vast arid area. Eaglehawk is in the Channel Country, which you probably know is the semidesert region in the corner of the South West, crisscrossed by innumerable rivulets. When in flood, those rivulets can run fifty miles across.”
“It’s now I ought to tell you, I do watch the weather on the TV, Bruno. Most of the Channel Country is in Queensland, isn’t it? It runs into South Australia, New South Wales and the Northern Territory. I remember seeing the fantastic coverage of Lake Eyre that was turned into an Inland Sea years back.”
“Cyclone Olga. That was 2010. My good friend and mentor, Ivor Lubrinski, hired a helicopter to fly a small party of us over a magnificent inland sea. It was the most awesome sight I’ve ever seen. And the birds! They arrived from all over. The Channel Country is a major breeding ground for nomadic water birds. The Lake, every billabong, waterway and lignum swamp were literally alive with birds, pelicans, ibis, spoonbills, herons. We were flying at about two hundred metres. An area of the lake was covered in green algae. It looked for all the world like grass with thousands of pelicans at rest on top. It was a fantastic sight. We couldn’t look away, including the pilot. It was then he told us how two light planes had crashed into one another over the Lake because the pilot had forgotten to check the altimeter.”
“So what happened?”
“They took a dive straight into the Lake. They managed to exit, shocked but unhurt, but the planes are still in the Lake. Too expensive to salvage. When the flood subsides and all the waterholes shrink, the enormous bird migration takes off again.”
“I expect they’re nomads because they have to be,” she said sensibly.
“Right. Though Eaglehawk and the other Channel Country stations, even in drought, have access to water via numerous bores that tap into the Great Artesian Basin. The Diamantina River crosses Eaglehawk Station.”
“So tell me what you have to tell me,” she invited. “What’s the Hartmann history? I’m anxious to know.”
“Listen closely, because it’s fairly involved. The lease was first taken up by pioneer pastoralist Adler Hartmann in the 1860s,” Bruno said. “Adler is German for—”
“Eagle, I know. Hence, the Eaglehawk. I studied German for four years. German and French.”
“What a pity, not Italian?”
“Italian wasn’t on offer. Japanese.”
“Italian is the most beautiful language in the world.”
“Mozart thought so. I agree.”
“You would do; you’re a musician. I’ll teach you Italian, if you like. You have a trained ear.”
“Perfect pitch. One is born with it.”
“I’m in awe of your talents,” he said with sardonic humour.
“I suppose I am quite remarkable,” she answered, tongue in cheek.
“I think you might be. Too early to say. To continue with our discussion, from all accounts, our intrepid Adler was a high-flying adventurer keen to make his fortune in the New World. He brought his German-born wife, Viktoria, from a minor aristocratic Prussian family, with him. They had four children, three girls and a son. Two of the girls died in childhood.”
“How sad!”
“It is indeed. Going down the family tree, we come to Helena’s grandfather, Konrad, who instigated the search and hired my father to investigate when police enquiries came to a dead end. I suppose they’d come to the conclusion she’d taken off like a lot of other young people sick of the isolation. Money was no object, though my father wouldn’t have taken advantage of anyone, let alone a grieving family. Konrad was a fine man, according to my dad. ‘A true gentleman.’ His first wife died giving birth to their son, Erik, Helena’s father. Konrad remarried about eighteen months later. A young Englishwoman, Lillian, he met on a trip abroad. They had a son, Christian.”
“So two half brothers?”
“Yes. Very different personalities, according to Dad. Erik, the heir, was supremely arrogant. Christian took after Konrad.”
Isabelle tried to crystallize her thoughts. “And the offspring?”
“Erik only fathered one child, Helena. Twelve years later, his allegedly promiscuous wife, Myra, took a fatal fall from her horse. Christian had two children by one Abigail Hartmann, a boy and a girl, cousins to Helena. There’s a grandson, Kurt. The granddaughter lives with her mother in Adelaide. Divorce in the family. Christian came to a sticky end. He was the victim of a shooting accident on the station. They had guests that weekend. The men went out on a duck shooting party. An inexperienced shooter picked off Christian by mistake. The death was investigated. The official verdict was a tragic accident. The family appear jinxed.”
“Jinxed or targeted?” Isabelle asked. “What did this shooter take Christian for, a marauding lion?” She spoke as though she doubted the verdict was proper.
“Accidents happen on properties, Bella. Accidents happen with guns.”
“Too many accidents,” Isabelle said. “What if they take it into their heads to feed us to the crocodiles?”
Bruno’s serious, even grave expression turned humorous. “You won’t find a crocodile where we’re going.”
“I know that. Okay, giant goannas, perenties, aren’t they?”
“For all we know, they could be very nice people,” Bruno said, thinking just the opposite.
“Your dad didn’t think so,” Isabelle remarked darkly.
“Would you be ready to make a start next week?” Bruno asked.
“Next week! What do you think I am, rich?” She opened her emerald eyes wide. “Bruno, I should be chasing a job. James is bound to give me the push. He can easily find someone else.”
“Not as good as you. He’d be a fool if he let you get away.”
“I could be a fool to stay. James is not the man to tolerate slights.”
“Then he can go to the devil. Anyway, I’m paying for this. You’re doing me a huge favour.”
“Letting you pay for everything is just about as low as it gets,” she protested.
“Nonsense, Bella. I don’t give a damn about spending money. You’re in need of help and I’m here to give it.”
It would be very easy for a woman to work up a grand passion for Bruno McKendrick, Isabelle thought. She had enough turmoil going on inside her already. “So my knight in shining armour, then?” she asked.
“It’s in my blood.” He slanted a smile, thinking there couldn’t be a more romantic looking creature than Isabelle. It was easy to picture her in some gorgeous medieval gown with a garland of spring flowers on her titian head. “My dad was that kind of man.”
“Hallelujah!” Isabelle exclaimed. “I’m very sorry I never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”
Bruno gave her a long, approving look from his fathomless eyes.