Fiona Hood-Stewart - The Lost Dreams

Reaching the castle, he circled the flower bed, heard the familiar scrunch of gravel under the tires and came to a standstill in front of the massive oak doors, aware that a new part of his life was about to begin.

He stood at the foot of the shallow steps, caught sight of the view and paused. The last rays of dying sun flirted languorously on the surf. In the distance, small fishing craft bobbed gently into harbor while twilight lingered in the wings. To his left, several crofters’ cottages nestled at the foot of the hills. Farther up the dirt road, a single thatched cottage stood by itself among a haze of purple heather. After the rush of New York, it was disconcerting to think that year after year, season after season, little changed in this remote part of the world.

He walked up the steps, about to knock on the huge, recessed oak doors, when he realized that since the evening was so fine, the family was probably having drinks outside on the lawn.

Making his way around the west face, past the herb garden and the conservatory, he opened the gate that led to the lawn, the sudden urge to see Charlotte making him hurry. He would surprise her by giving that long titian mane a good tug. Then, after she’d squealed in surprise, he’d take her in his arms and give her a major hug.

He reached the lawn. Two figures sat in white wicker chairs next to the summerhouse. Neither was Charlotte.

“My goodness, Brad!” Penelope shrieked, jumping up and stretching out her hands in welcome. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” Penelope reached up and kissed him affectionately.

“Sorry, Aunt Penn. I should’ve called. But I lost track of time.”

“You drove?” she asked, quirking a surprised eyebrow.

“Yeah. I picked up a car in Glasgow and ambled on up.”

“Good. You probably needed the break,” she said with her usual insight. “I hope you enjoyed the drive.”

“I did. It gave me some much-needed time to think.” He smiled down at her. She was still as attractive and lovely as ever. He took her arm. “I hope this isn’t too much trouble, Aunt Penn.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is your home now, Brad,” she said, making him cringe. He didn’t want her to think of Strathaird as no longer hers.

She led him to the table where he immediately recognized Armand de la Vallière, rising to greet him.

“Bradley. It’s been a long time. Quel plaisir.”

Armand shook hands warmly. Brad wished he could feel the same enthusiasm. Armand was someone he’d never quite figured out and whom he was ashamed to say irritated him for no reason in particular.

“Have a drink.” Penelope pointed to the tray where a bottle of wine stood chilling in an ice bucket.

“Love one. Where’s Charlie?” he asked casually, looking around, expecting to see her walk out any minute, through the French doors and down the steps of the castle’s south face.

“Charlotte’s not going to be here this evening, I’m afraid,” Penelope replied, pouring the wine.

Armand shook his head. “Charlotte is very obstinate.” He tut-tutted between sips. “This sudden necessity to—”

“Have a life of her own,” Penelope interrupted, handing Brad the glass. “Charlotte needs to get her life organized,” she added, putting an end to the matter. “Now, sit down and tell me all about New York and the twins, I can’t wait to see them. They must have grown so much this year. Oh, and Sylvia, of course.”

“The twins are doing fine,” Brad responded easily, wondering what Penelope meant about Charlotte and why she seemed reluctant to pursue the subject. “They’re having a blast in Uruguay. Diego’s hacienda is quite something.”

“So I hear. I’m so glad he’s decided to come. It may do him good to get away.”

“Definitely. I threatened to kidnap the twins if he didn’t. He rarely leaves home now except to go to his house in Switzerland.”

“I know. It’s so sad. But understandable, after losing his wife and daughter one after the other,” she murmured, her limpid blue eyes reflecting her own loss.

Seeing Armand pout, Brad made a conscious effort to draw him out of the doldrums that Penelope’s interruption appeared to have caused.

“How are the collections coming along?” He took a sip of wine and leaned back in the chair, masking his disappointment at Charlotte’s absence.

“Very well, very well indeed. In fact,” Armand purred with a conspiratorial wink, “Charlotte and I are hatching plans for the autumn.”

“Really?” Penelope pretended to look surprised.

“Yes, chère Penelope.” He pronounced her name penne-Lop, making it sound like a pasta dish. Brad smothered a smile, knowing how much it irritated her. “I have proposed to Charlotte that she exhibit her pieces with my fall—as you Americans say—collection.” Armand pronounced the words like a reporter announcing breaking news.

“That’s terribly generous of you, Armand,” Penelope exclaimed. “And so exciting. She must be thrilled.”

He gave a modest smile. “Her talent is exceptional and should not remain hidden from the world. Charlotte is a great artist. Her work is inspired by the great master Sylvain de Rothberg—my uncle by marriage, you will recall. It has a similar feel.”

“Really,” Penelope murmured politely. Brad caught her quick, astonished glance. Armand was prone to name-dropping and was always underlining his relationship to the la Vallières, his late father’s family, not to mention the tenuous one to the Rothbergs. Recalling the sad circumstances of Armand’s tragic youth, Brad decided the impulse to embroider his family history was understandable. “I never realized she was designing jewelry seriously,” he remarked.

“Neither did I until about four months ago, when she decided to open a gallery and workshop in the village. People seem to like her work, and I think it’s perfectly lovely. But of course, I might be prejudiced.” Penelope smiled apologetically.

“I’ll bet Charlie’s great at it,” Brad said. “She’s always had talent, but she just never bothered to tap into it or let it flourish into anything concrete.”

“Believe me, she has now, mon cher,” Armand said with a wise nod.

“I’m awfully glad you think so, Armand. Perhaps it’ll keep her mind off some of her other worries.” Penelope sighed and took a sip of wine, then tucked a stray lock behind her ear.

“How’s John?” Brad asked in a neutral voice. He’d schooled himself to have no feelings, negative or otherwise, regarding Charlotte’s comatose husband.

“Just the same, I’m afraid.”

“Why do they not remove the life support?” Armand raised a disdainful brow. “To think of such a handsome man deteriorating into mediocrity. Quelle horreur!”

“It’s not like he has much choice,” Brad commented dryly.

“I would much rather pull the plug and be remembered as my true self.” Armand shuddered delicately, the thought of John’s movie-star looks withering away apparently too much to bear.

Brad smothered his irritation, wondering how long it would be before he got Aunt Penn to himself. Not a chance before dinner, he figured, casting her an inquiring glance all the same.

Picking up on it, Penelope smiled brightly. “Armand, will you excuse us while I show Brad to his room? I’m sure you must want to get settled and freshen up before dinner.” She rose and Brad followed suit, blessing her for her quick-wittedness.

“I’m afraid poor Armand’s a bit of a bore,” she murmured once they were out of earshot and mounting the steps. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep him entertained until the Cardinal arrives,” she added as they went inside.

“Oncle Eugène’s coming?” Brad asked, surprised.