The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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least one of us is happy.”
She was about to leave the kitchen when the sound of a muted cough made her stand stock-still. There was definitely someone out there.
Warily Charlotte slipped into the hall, opened the antique chest on the floor and picked out a cricket bat. Just as stealthily, she opened the front door. As she emerged, a shadow flitted near the gate.
“Stop,” she called, rushing forward, wielding the bat wildly. A figure stumbled through the gate and she hurled herself toward it.
“Dinna’ hit me, Miss Charlotte, dinna’, please.”
The pleading voice of Bobby Hewitt made her drop her arms in sudden relief.
“Bobby! What on earth are you doing here?” she exclaimed, limp with irritation and relief. “You gave me the most awful fright.”
“I wasna’ doing anything wrong.”
“But what are you doing out here? It’s past ten o’clock.” She glanced at the bowed figure. Poor Bobby was a simple, harmless soul in his mid-forties who’d been trailing her adoringly since she was a child. But he had never snooped around at night. Of course, she realized with a frown, she’d always been ensconced in the castle. Now, on her own at Rose Cottage, things were different.
“Come here,” she said, taking him by the arm of his worn jacket and making him stand under the porch light. “Bobby, you can’t wander around at night spying on people.”
“I wasna’,” he remarked, his mouth taking on a stubborn twist. “I was making sure everything was all right. There’s strangers about.”
“They’re called tourists, Bobby.” Her face broke into a smile and she shook her head. “So you thought to guard the cottage? Don’t worry about me, Bobby, everything’s fine. There are no marauders around here. You know that.”
“Ye canna’ be too careful.”
“No, of course not. Still, you mustn’t come scaring me like that. I almost went after you with Colin’s cricket bat.” She swung it over her shoulder. “Now get back to your mother’s cottage and no more roaming around here after dark, promise?”
“Aye.” He nodded penitently, seeking forgiveness.
Charlotte smiled at him. “If you wait two seconds, I’ll get you some of Mrs. McTavish’s toffees. You like those, don’t you?”
He nodded in eager response, like a small child.
Charlotte sighed, propped the bat against the hall wall and went back to the kitchen where she found a bag of toffees. Perhaps something should be done to help Bobby, although he seemed perfectly content.
“Here you are. Now off you go, straight home, and don’t let this happen again.”
“Aye. Thanks, Miss Charlotte. I’m sorry I scared ye. I didna’ mean any harm.”
“I know. Now run along.”
She watched as he hurried off, his shoulders slightly stooped, long hair trailing thinly on his shoulders. Poor Bobby. She should have realized he might get up to something like this, but frankly, Bobby Hewitt was the last person on her mind right now.
She locked up and glanced at the heavy gold watch on her wrist. Gosh, it was late. Better give her mother a buzz, then get to bed.
The library fire dwindled, embers stuttered, coals shifted and Armand de la Vallière sighed. It was his favorite room in the castle.
He sat in solitary contemplation, surrounded by leather-bound books, heavy mahogany furniture and the ancient French-damask curtains installed so many years ago by Tante Hortense, a balm to his strained nerves. He peered through the mullioned windows into the inky summer evening, vaguely aware of Penelope’s voice echoing through the Great Hall. Concentrating, he leaned forward, staring once more at the packed shelves of books, eyes narrowing. It would be a difficult search, one that would require all his ability. The sheer physical impediment of having to climb up to the highest shelves made it almost impossible to take a good look at the books without attracting suspicion. He stared into the dying flames, obliterating the haunting images that lurked in his memory since childhood, replacing them instead with shining scenes of glitz, glamour and glory. It was a technique he’d perfected over the years, and infallibly it worked.
Now, as fleeting shadows played on the spines of the ancient book covers and the darkened walls, he replaced the packed shelves with visions of splendid jewels. They shimmered in his imagination, and he sighed. The method acted as effectively as any hallucinogen. Slowly his tense muscles relaxed and he breathed easier, entranced, visualizing the catwalk, the agitated buzz, models preparing to strut the runway, hairdressers, makeup artists and seamstresses, all waiting for his final orders. His fingers unclenched as he pictured himself directing operations, adding the finishing touches with a master’s skill. Finally he would place each of Charlotte’s exquisite pieces at precisely the right angle before sending the model forth, waiting with bated breath for the murmured hush of the crowd.
A frisson of satisfaction left him sighing. Nothing less than perfection would do. And he had seen perfection in Charlotte’s work. He drew a cigarette from an antique silver cigarette case, tapped it thoughtfully on the arm of the old leather chair, then lit it. To have such amazing talent, yet be so oblivious. A quivering pang of envy darted straight to his heart. Why was life so unfair? Why did some have all the suffering, the toil, the trouble, while others glided unwittingly into fame and fortune? Indeed, why did life bestow talent on those who didn’t give a damn, while denying it to those for whom it meant the world?
He took a long drag and leaned back in the deep armchair, aware there was little to be gained from such thoughts. It was too late to acquire that which God had not given him.
Still, he decided with a grim little smile, it might not be too late to redirect fate into avenues more suited to his liking. After all, there was a reason for his presence here, at this specific time.
Once more he inhaled deeply, then let the smoke curl up toward the coffered oak ceiling and shut his eyes. He was so close. So very close. And nothing would convince him otherwise.
2
Brad studied the preliminary agenda for next month’s board meeting and added a few margin notes, increasing the time allotted to discuss international expansion. Harcourts may have begun as a porcelain empire almost a century ago, but over the decades, particularly since Brad had been CEO, the business had expanded to include all aspects of upscale home décor. International growth was essential and needed special attention. World markets were growing fast and he planned to be there on the crest of the wave.
Capping his pen, he tossed it on the desk, loosened the silk tie that was suffocating him and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. The last quarter’s profits had surpassed everyone’s expectations. The company was leaner and more productive than any in the industry, and the innovative publicity campaigns Sylvia had engineered for the new designer dinnerware lines had taken the public by storm; sales had doubled in several markets and Harcourts was on a roll.
And now he was obliged to carve two weeks out of the hectic and tense period before the annual directors’ meeting to go to Scotland. It wasn’t going to be easy, Brad realized, drumming his foot while studying the schedule his secretary had laid on the desk this morning. He wondered briefly if there was any way of avoiding it, knowing very well he could not put off the trip to Strathaird. Based on the teleconference with the solicitors in Edinburgh, it was clear his presence was required to settle the labyrinthine legal issues related to the estate, and he owed it to Aunt Penn and Charlotte to deal with matters as quickly and cleanly as he could. He thought of what he’d discussed with Sylvia the previous evening. It was true that he wanted to go. And of course the idea of seeing the family again, spending time in a place he’d always enjoyed, had its attractions. It was just such a damn inconvenient moment.
He leaned back and swiveled the ample leather office chair,