Claiming His Child. Margaret WayЧитать онлайн книгу.
Reef Island, mansion included and my favourite, a real classic....”
Bellemont Farm. He knew before Bebe ever got to the place’s name. A searing brand on his heart. He almost said the name aloud, feeling the prickling on the back of his neck, the terrible tensing of his muscles.
“A four-hundred-acre estate about twenty miles from Ashbury.” Bebe read on, unaware. “Used to be quite a successful horse operation and vineyard name of Bellemont. Farm. Sounds lovely! Rolling pastures, splendid old colonial, a winding creek that meanders through the estate, eight bedrooms, five baths, separate staff quarters, stables, fenced paddocks, riding facilities, tennis court, pool, great fishing in the nearby Ashbury River. Just the place for a high-octane guy.”
“You want to take care of me, don’t you, Bebe?” he said, trying to shift his tone.
“Of course I do.” She nodded her head twice. “You’ve taken great care of me. Mum and I include you in our nightly prayers.” Perfectly true. Going with Nick had changed their lives.
The chiselled mouth with its clean raised edges gently mocked. “You have to make sure I get to Heaven?”
“When you set out to charm you’d have the angels eating out of your hand,” she remarked, absolutely sure of it.
“Thanks, Bebe.” He returned to his desk, giving her shoulder a little pat as he passed. Though his mouth still curved in a half smile his wonderful eyes were jet-black in their intensity. Whatever was wrong? Bebe was puzzled. She had rarely if ever seen Nick inwardly churning. A creature of enormous volatile energy he always held it under strict control. Bebe looked at him for a space of time then retreated quietly to the door. “Professor Morganthal’s secretary confirmed his appointment at nine-thirty.”
“I knew he’d come back to us,” Nick said. “I’m the best one to help him.”
“I’m sure he realises that now. If you want to dive into Previews for five minutes I can get you a whole lot more information. I know you’re only young, Nick.” Not yet thirty-one, she thought, to have accomplished so much. “And you’re very strong but constant pressure is bad. You still need time off like the rest of us folks.”
“All right, Bebe!” He feigned a meekness that sat oddly on his dark genius and made Bebe laugh. “I’ll go through this when I have a chance. That’s a promise. You might send Chris and Sarah in when they arrive. I need them to step up their information gathering. It’s a massive job.”
“Leave it to me,” Bebe said briskly.
He worked on for ten or so minutes but in the end gave in, pulling the magazine towards him and opened up the pages where Bebe had flagged them. The Barrier Reef Island, an emerald oval surmounting a ring of pure white sand set down in a turquoise sea, glorious but maybe too far away, then in the centre, Bellemont Farm.
The place he had learned to love then hate, learned it cruelly and indelibly like some poor dumb animal seared by a brand. Bellemont Farm, home of the Sheffields since colonial times. In his time, home of Marcus Sheffield and his only child, his beautiful daughter, Suzannah. Suzannah. Would he never be free of her?
Just to murmur her name brought back a storm of emotion, anger and monstrous grief. Suzannah with her cloud of dark hair loose from its school plait floating around her heart-shaped face. Even as a child two years his junior, on first meeting her she had seemed so exquisite, so beautifully dressed, so obviously pampered and privileged he had felt almost frightened of her. He remembered he had swallowed on a hard breath that had actually hurt his chest. It had remained like that until, maddened by his grave silence she had started pulling funny faces at him and making up silly names to call him. Rude names, too, though where she got them from living like a princess with Marcus Sheffield for a father, nobody knew. The horse crowd, his mother had said, laughing ruefully. Suzannah’s clowning had been infectious and overnight they had become extraordinarily good friends. After a while Suzannah began to take lessons from his father in languages and mathematics after it was pointed out to Marcus Sheffield that Nick’s father had been a highly regarded academic in his own country. Piano lessons, too, from his mother, a Conservatorium graduate who had had to turn her fine talents to teaching ordinary country children to bring in an income. Three years later on the day he turned thirteen, his father died of a long-standing physical condition Nick hadn’t been able to fathom, something to do with his lungs, leaving his mother and him heartbroken and alone in a strange new country where everyone seemed so extraordinarily, inexplicably carefree, with substantially more money than they had.
That was how it started. Nick began to take on jobs. Anything. Mowing, mucking out stables, cleaning cars, premises, yards, a bit of carpentry. The foreign kid who seemed to be able to take care of everything. So workmanlike for one so young, practical, resourceful. It wasn’t long after that he began to assert his natural academic superiority, to the extent he started to outstrip his teachers, all the time praying to God for the impossible, that his brilliant father, his best teacher, would come back. At least his father knew what he was all about. He could go straight to his father with the most vexing problem and his father could instantly see the solution. Even Suzannah, far more clever than she let any of her flighty friends know, had benefited greatly from having his father for a mentor. After his father died she continued to come to their modest home for her twice weekly piano lessons at which under his mother’s guidance and her own musicality she excelled. He took over coaching her with her studies, the languages at which he was adept, and also in the maths and science subjects so that she, too, began to throw off her cloak of worked-at-mediocrity and shine. Both of them had gone to the Ashbury High School. Adored and adoring, Suzannah had refused to go off to one of the exclusive boarding schools in Sydney and be parted from her father.
“You, too, Nicko,” she told him, violet eyes glowing. “I couldn’t bear to be parted from you. We’re soul mates.”
It had seemed like that to him, too. She was never an honorary sister. The sister he never had. Even as children there had always been some distinction in his feelings. Feelings so innocent and pure they didn’t disturb him until he was what? Almost sixteen and already six feet tall. After that things got terribly complicated. For him and for Suzannah. Her father no longer seemed to look upon him with the same patronising favour as before. He eyed his height, the way he had filled out, his swift move to early maturity. Over the years Nick had dedicated himself to looking out for Suzannah. Much like Marcus Sheffield. But by the time he reached sixteen he began to realise he was no longer looked on as suitable to be Suzannah’s best friend.
That role was for Martin White, icon of one of the core group families in the district. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, Martin who had done everything in his power to make Nick’s life uncomfortable. He was a “foreigner”. Martin never let him forget it, though they both knew the animosity between them, which sometimes turned ugly, had at its heart their love for Suzannah. Even at fourteen Suzannah was surrounded by admirers, entranced by her beauty and high spirits, and by her social standing as the only daughter of the richest and most influential man in the district.
River Road. A beautiful emerald place with magnificent old trees sweeping over the crystal clear waters of the Ashbury River. All of the town’s young people loved to swim there, going off in groups. But he and Suzannah preferred to be a pair. They had their favourite place, Jacaranda Crossing, where one of the water holes was considered too deep. But he and Suzannah swam like fishes. He had to thank her for that accomplishment though she had declared him a natural. They always took their bicycles, tearing faster and faster along the river road, riding down the narrow dirt track that led them to their own private jade lagoon.
“Lord it’s so hot!” Suzannah jumped off her bike lightly, letting it go almost before he caught it and propped it against a tree. “I’ve never felt so much like a dip.” She began right there and then to shuck off her school clothing, a terrible maroon-and-white check pinafore, white school blouse and tie, shoes and stockings, until finally she stood in her navy swimsuit, tall for her age, slender as a willow, her long exquisite limbs gilded from a summer sun, her small blossoming breasts thrusting against the tight, thin material.
He had seen her do this many times before yet suddenly he felt