“That’s neither here nor there,” he murmured dismissively, certain this was not the reason for Charlotte’s sudden departure.
“By the way, some sort of gym apparatus arrived.” Penelope pointed to two large crates at the side of the hall.
Brad followed her finger, still preoccupied with Charlotte’s departure. “I didn’t order any workout equipment,” he said.
“Well, no. I think Sylvia did. Very sensible of her,” she added quickly. “I’m sure she wants to keep up her exercise routine once she’s here. She has such a lovely figure.”
Brad scowled at the boxes as if they were in some way to blame. “I still fail to see what a treadmill has to do with Charlotte’s decision to move.”
“It wasn’t the actual treadmill, Brad, but the realization of just how much is going to change. Let’s face it,” she added, laying a hand gently on his arm, “Strathaird is yours now and you have to be free to make it into what you want, just as every generation has in the past. I think Charlotte feels—rightly, I might add—that it would be difficult for her to see everything she’s always known and taken for granted being transformed—and not just painful for her, but perhaps difficult for you and Sylvia too. After all, Brad, we can’t all go on living in the past, or under the same roof.”
“Why not?” He frowned, raising his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. “This is her home. I’ve always told you I don’t want anything to change. I want you both to go on living here as you always have.” He looked down at her, angry and hurt. “Charlie knows damn well I would never expect her or want her to be anywhere but here.”
“I’m well aware of that, Brad dear, and so is she. But think about it,” Penelope urged reasonably. “Sylvia is going to become Lady MacLeod. It’s only right and natural that she should take over certain duties that up until now have been mine, and in some measure, Charlotte’s. She should have the freedom to do so in her own manner. Believe me, it’s much better this way.”
“Like hell it is. It’s an absurd decision and she must come straight back. Doesn’t she ever use her brain?” he exclaimed, pacing the hall, ignoring Aunt Penn’s arguments and suppressing his growing frustration. “Christ, you’d think after all these years and all she’s been through, she’d have gotten some sense into that stubborn redhead of hers. And what about Genny?” he added. “Has Charlotte stopped to think of her?” He forced himself to keep his voice low and not give full vent to his feelings.
“Of course she has. And you know, Brad, that’s another point. Soon you’ll be married. You and Sylvia will probably be starting your own family—”
“Sylvia and I aren’t planning on having kids,” he interjected dismissively.
“Oh…” Penelope stopped, taken aback.
“Our lives are too busy, plus we already have the twins.”
“Yes. I suppose—I didn’t realize.”
“Why don’t you tell me where she is, Aunt Penn,” he interrupted, returning to the subject at hand. “I’ll talk to her and get this mess straightened out right away.”
“It’s not a mess, Brad, merely a fact of life,” Penelope sighed, hand dropping from his arm. “She’s at Rose Cottage, about half a mile up the road. But I’m warning you, her mind’s made up. The cottage is all on one floor, so in a way that will be an advantage for Genny,” she ended lamely.
“Advantage, my ass,” he muttered under his breath.
“You can go and talk to her,” Penelope murmured doubtfully, “but I don’t think you’ll get very far.”
“We’ll see,” he said darkly. “Don’t hold dinner for me, Aunt Penn. Please make my excuses to Armand. I’m going over there right now.”
Penelope watched, concerned, as he took the front steps two at a time, jumped into a spiffy silver Aston Martin and roared down the driveway, raising dust. She was surprised that he’d taken Charlotte’s departure so much to heart. After all, she’d only moved half a mile up the road.
With a resigned shrug, she turned, switched off the hall lights, and wandered back through the lurking shadows, remembering how attentive to her own children Brad had always been. With another sigh, she recalled the bantering, the tennis parties, the picnics in Dordogne and the summers Brad, Colin and Charlotte had spent clambering over the rocks and on the shore. Of course, he’d been several years their elder, which had represented a lot when he became a teenager and they were still children. Even so, he’d always had time for them and always cared.
She paused, gazing over the lawn to where Armand sat in the wicker chair sipping his wine, and wondered what would have happened all those years ago if Charlotte hadn’t become pregnant and married John.
Silly to conjecture, she reflected, giving herself a little shake before proceeding down the steps. Charlotte and Brad were grown-ups now. Each had their lives to get on with and the sooner Brad realized that, the better. She herself was very well aware of what lay ahead, the responsibilities he and Sylvia would be assuming. The same ones she was relinquishing.
She stepped onto the lawn glancing sadly at the rose garden to her left. She would miss tending it, just as she’d miss the autumn mists, the churning gray waters that had become such a part of her over the years. But that was life, and part of what happened in families like theirs. She smiled as she stepped over the grass. Brad’s insistence that they stay on at the castle was touching. Of course, being a man, he couldn’t understand how impossible it would be for them all to coexist under the same roof.
It was getting chillier, the evening closing in fast, and she pulled the heather-colored cardigan closer. Composing her features, she approached Armand, seated with his back to her, facing the sea. The more she thought about it, the more she realized Charlotte had done the right thing by moving out. It was time that she, too, begin making plans for the future. Plastering on a neutral smile, she sat down to finish her wine. What conversational subjects could she possibly introduce to keep Armand entertained throughout dinner? she asked herself. Perhaps mentioning the Rothbergs, whom he loved to talk about, would be a good way of whiling away the evening.
4
Brad’s temper rarely got the better of him, but Charlotte certainly had a knack for provoking it. She hadn’t done so for several years, he acknowledged as the car swerved up the rutted, narrow earth track that led to Rose Cottage. But as he approached the pretty, whitewashed dwelling, with its bright blue shutters and quaint thatched roof, he made a mental catalog of all the other times she’d tried his patience. Like when, at age seventeen, she’d posed nude for a London fashion photographer. Or her hasty, ill-considered decision to marry John Drummond. He recalled grimly how he’d watched her walk down the aisle. He’d been furious and heartbroken in equal measure.
He brought the car to an abrupt stop, noticing her muddy Land Rover drawn up on the far side of the riotous flower beds, satisfied there would be no escape for her. Slamming the door of the Aston Martin, he stalked up the garden path, then slowed, distracted by the cheerful array of roses, perennials, hyacinths and lilacs planted with little regard to order.
All at once, he wondered if there was a deeper reason for Charlotte’s sudden decision to seek a new home. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the sparkling, frog-shaped brass knocker perched arrogantly on the freshly painted blue door, and hesitated. Could he have misjudged the situation? At the sound of the wind chime he’d given her years ago tinkling merrily above the door, his lips twitched despite his irritation. He shook his head and knocked. By the time he’d reached up automatically to secure the birdhouse tottering perilously under the porch roof, a smile hovered. It was impossible to stay angry with Charlie for long, he reflected ruefully, dragging his fingers impatiently through