The Collector's Edition Volume 1 (15 page)

She turned to her son, who was propped on a stool at the end of the counter. He had inherited the blue eyes, the athletic build and the ability to play any sport well from his father, but he had her fair hair and basically her sense of fair play. He never cheated on his deals with his friends, and the fact that he had so many of them testified to the imaginative fun he supplied. She liked her son the
way he was. She did not want him reclaimed by the Harcourt family and instilled with values that were not her own.

‘Why do you want to go to Springfield Manor, William?’ she asked, needing to elicit how far Harry had gone in pursuing his quest and how much he had told William.

‘So I can go ghost hunting with Mr. Cliffton,’ he answered excitedly. ‘I’ll be the only boy in the street who has seen a real ghost.’

Ashley felt a deep stab of relief. William still had no idea he was the heir and expected to live at Springfield Manor. No doubt he was already planning how much he would charge the boys to hear a description of a real ghost, and Olivia Stanton would be on the telephone to voice another complaint.

Ashley looked dubiously at Harry. Had he decided an indirect approach through William was his best route to success? ‘Are there really ghosts at Springfield Manor? Tell me the truth, Harry.’

‘Many,’ he replied serenely. ‘It was at Springfield Manor that the great bard got the idea for the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and Charles Dickens got his inspiration for the Spirit of Christmas Past, the Spirit of Christmas Present and the Spirit of Christmas Future.’

‘This has to be fabrication,’ Ashley observed sceptically.

His eyebrows lifted in a display of innocence. ‘Would I fabricate to you?’

‘Probably. To get your own way.’

He looked pained. ‘Not at all. You must remember that the winter nights at Springfield Manor are very long and very cold. We spend a great portion of these hours sitting around the fire telling stories.’

William looked fascinated.

Ashley didn’t know what to believe. Harry rolled out these stories as though imbued with them, yet she had witnessed how quick he was with clever and manipulative responses to Gordon Payne and Olivia Stanton.

‘Don’t you have TV at Springfield Manor?’ she asked, determined on emphasising the present day instead of the long, historical past.

‘There are many sets, but rarely used. Not only are our own stories more lively and less boring than those on the television, it is our belief that families that talk together, stay together.’

Solid principles there, Ashley thought. If true.

Harry sounded so good, looked so good, but was it all a masterly performance to get his own way? Ashley reminded herself he had openly admitted he was a man who would not accept no for an answer. It was as well to keep remembering that. How was she to know if his interest in her as a woman was not merely a ruse to charm, even seduce her into doing what he wanted? Did he consider a widow fair game?

William was already putty in his hands. He had done everything right there, aiding and abetting
William in his schemes, filling his head with intriguing myths about Springfield Manor, appealing to the boy in ways that would plant her son firmly at his side in a battle about the future.

‘Is this your first trip to Australia, Harry?’ she asked, her eyes challenging the twinkling confidence in his.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Then may I suggest it’s an opportunity for you to learn about a wider range of life than what is incorporated in Springfield Manor. Perhaps you could try to forget that small part of England for the rest of this evening.’

‘Aw, Mum,’ William protested, ‘we were in the middle of a story about—’

‘It can keep to another day, William,’ Harry inserted smoothly. ‘It will hardly be a jolly evening if we bore your mother.’ He smiled at Ashley. ‘I would love to hear all about your life here.’

He sounded genuine. He looked genuine. He had accepted her block on Springfield Manor with good grace. The rest of the evening should go her way, Ashley thought with satisfaction. Given that he intended to stayed until he succeeded in his mission, she would have plenty of time to find out whether Harry’s attraction to her was genuine or not.

H
ARRY
insisted on serving their meal. Ashley insisted on his joining them at the table. It improved William’s table manners no end, and the ham salad followed by ice-cream and freshly cut strawberry mangoes never tasted better.

It was a marvellous evening. Ashley didn’t have to do a thing except enjoy Harry’s company. In between delving into all the important events of her life as though he was fascinated by everything that had contributed to the person she was now, he cleared the table, whizzed the plates into the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen, made and served coffee, saw William off to bed and generally performed all the duties of a housekeeper and parent while making Ashley feel special and extraordinary.

She had never been so pampered, never been the focus of such concentrated attention, never been so appreciated, never had her needs catered to with such charm and finesse. Certainly Roger had never done that. Harry had to be very close to the perfect man, she decided, feeling as intoxicated as though she had drunk a bottle of champagne.

William had not been ignored, either. Harry had generously committed himself to taking him to the Sydney Cricket Ground to watch a day of the test
match between England and Australia, since cricket was William’s abiding passion at the moment. That was only if Ashley could spare him for a day, which of course she could, for her son’s pleasure.

The more Harry committed himself to staying with her and William, the more chance she had of really getting to know him. Ashley had the feeling she could be very happy with Harry Cliffton. He was a giver, a listener, a man who didn’t have to prove himself a superior being by reducing women to nothing. Everything he had demonstrated so far put him on a completely different plane to Roger.

Could he be weaned away from his life at Springfield Manor?
As long as it takes,
Ashley thought, deeply pleased that she had a considerable amount of time on her side before any decisions had to be made.

She wandered out to the back veranda while Harry saw William to bed. It was a beautiful balmy night, the sky littered with bright stars, a three-quarter moon beaming enough soft light to take away the darkness, a gentle breeze wafting cooler air in from the sea. The house was only a few kilometres from the beach, and Ashley fancied she could hear the distant sound of surf breaking on the sand.

It was a night made for romance, and Ashley felt her body quivering with the need for it. So many years had been barren of any romance since Roger. She hadn’t trusted it, hadn’t wanted to invite more
disillusionment, hadn’t met anybody who attracted her enough to give it a chance.

Would Harry answer that need, she wondered? Would he succumb to more than a professional involvement with her?

The glass door to the family room slid open. ‘Can I get you anything, Ashley? An iced drink?’

The caring tone in Harry’s voice made her pulse quicken. She flashed him a smile. ‘No, thank you. I was just having a breath of fresh air before going to bed.’

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Please do.’

He had taken off his waistcoat and tie. His white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, shone starkly in the moonlight as he stepped out and quietly closed the door behind him. He moved over to the veranda railing beside Ashley and looked at the brilliant sky.

‘Where’s the Southern Cross?’

Still concentrating on all things Australian, Ashley thought with a twinge of uncertainty. Was he simply being obliging, the ultimate profession-alism of a butler? She didn’t want duty from him now. She wanted the man, not the man with a mission. She wanted truth, spontaneity of feeling and confirmation that he felt the same attraction she did.

‘There it is,’ she said huskily, pointing the constellation out to him, willing him to move closer to her.

‘So that’s what Captain Cook steered by,’ he murmured, maintaining a proper distance. ‘It’s very distinctive.’

‘The Polynesian and Portuguese and French navigators also used it, long before Cook,’ she informed him dryly, wishing he wasn’t quite so focused on English history. She remembered the Harcourt family line he had shown her earlier, tracing it through to William. A spurt of resentment made her ask, ‘Why did Roger’s greatgrandfather leave England to come to Australia if everything’s so marvellous at Springfield Manor?’

Harry gave her one of his quirky smiles. ‘He disgraced the family with the dishonourable act of publicly revealing he cuckolded a duke.’

‘And, of course, the British considered Australia the dumping ground for undesirables.’

His eyes caught hers, searing away their mockery with intense seriousness as he quietly answered, ‘It also provided the opportunity to start a new life.’

Was he making a personal statement or simply soothing any ruffled feelings she might have over her country’s convict and colonial past?

‘That’s been true for many people,’ she warmly agreed. Although there were some who clung to an old heritage, looking back instead of embracing what a new country offered. Like Roger’s mother. ‘William is fifth-generation Australian, Harry. I’m seventh generation,’ she added, wanting to impress on him that they were well-rooted here.

He smiled. ‘What I’ve admired about the Australians I’ve met is their attitude of anything being possible for them.’

‘Have you ever thought that other things were possible for you?’

‘I’m beginning to.’

Hope leapt through her heart. ‘Promise me you won’t tell William he’s the heir to Springfield Manor.’

‘I had no intention of doing so.’

‘Circumstances can change.’

‘Yes, they can,’ he agreed without the slightest hesitation, giving Ashley’s hope a further boost. ‘Though I must say William is a fine lad, Ashley. A credit to you.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled on a glorious lilt of optimism. ‘He likes you, too.’

His gaze dropped to her mouth. Ashley’s skin prickled, reacting to the sudden tension charging the air between them.
He wants to kiss me,
she thought exultantly. But he didn’t move. There was a quality about his stillness that screamed of ironwilled restraint. Duty and discipline stamping on desire, denying it free rein, Ashley surmised, and that in itself was exciting, feeling the tug of war taking place inside him.

She sensed the gathering of purpose. His gaze flicked to hers, and there was certainly nothing impersonal in the dark blue intensity of his eyes. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he wanted to scour her soul. Even before he spoke, she felt herself
tensing defensively, knowing instinctively that he had moved beyond physical attraction to a far deeper need.

‘What went wrong with Roger, Ashley?’

The shock of the question set her mind spinning. How did he know? She had never spoken of the crushing nature of her marriage. Even at the time, pride had insisted she maintain the public appearance of being happy with Roger. She had not confided her problems to her parents, let alone anyone else. She had hidden the guilty relief she had felt when Roger and his mother had died, accepted the condolences given, and closed the door on a hard-learnt experience that she never wanted repeated.

‘Why should you think anything went wrong?’ she countered, unaware of the guarded tone in her voice, the retreat from openness in her eyes.

‘What people don’t say is often more revealing than what they do say,’ he answered quietly. ‘You’ve told me a lot about your life. Roger Harcourt was your husband and William’s father, yet you did not once refer to him.’

‘Roger died seven years ago,’ she stated flatly. ‘I’ve spent far more of my adult life without him than with him.’

‘Happy times usually engender fond reminiscences.’ He shrugged and offered an apologetic smile. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. If it’s a sensitive subject…Perhaps you miss him so much it’s still too painful to recall.’

‘No. I don’t miss him,’ Ashley confessed bluntly, recoiling from the idea of letting Harry think she was nursing a long grief that had never been assuaged. ‘If he was still alive, we’d be divorced.’

‘Why?’

‘I guess I stopped hero-worshipping him. I was only nineteen when we married.’ Her eyes flashed with irony. ‘A pity you didn’t come looking for an heir then, Harry. Roger would have leapt at being lord of the manor.’

‘He acted that way with you?’

‘It had its attractive side for a while,’ she acknowledged. ‘I didn’t realise I was supposed to become totally subservient to another person’s will.’

‘Do you fear that would be expected of you if you came to England?’

‘I don’t fear it because I wouldn’t accept it.’

‘It isn’t the situation anyway,’ he assured her.

‘Well, I guess you’d know,’ she said lightly, aware that any other judgement by her would be blind prejudice.

‘Yes, I do. I’m sorry you had that experience with Roger, Ashley. I hope you don’t judge all men by it.’

‘If I did, you wouldn’t be staying here.’

As soon as she spoke the words, they seemed to hang in the air between them, gathering nuances, laying bare the fact that she thought him special as a man and that being her butler was completely irrelevant. Still he didn’t move, and Ashley felt heat creeping up her neck as she recalled the sad way he
had spoken of the woman he had loved. Did the memory of her remain in his heart, keeping it closed to any other woman?

She turned away and stared blankly at the night sky, fiercely arguing to herself that Harry had brought up Roger, so it had to be acceptable for her to ask questions that were just as personal.

‘What was her name…the woman you spoke of, Harry?’

The ensuing silence shrieked of dredging into deeply private areas. Was it too sensitive a subject? Did he miss her so much it was too painful to recall? They were the words he had used in referring to Roger.

‘Pen,’ he said at last. ‘Penelope.’ He gave the longer version of her name a soft, lilting cadence that filled Ashley with envy. It left no doubt in her mind that Pen had been very precious to him.

‘How long is it since…’ She hesitated, not wanting to sound crassly insensitive to his feelings. ‘Since she was with you?’

‘Pen died of leukaemia three years ago,’ he stated flatly.

Ashley closed her eyes. How awful! Bad enough for death to come suddenly. A long terminal illness had to be grief from start to finish. And afterwards… who could possibly forget it?

‘That must have been very harrowing,’ she said softly, her natural sympathy overriding her own interests. ‘I’m sorry it happened. To both of you.’

He didn’t answer. Ashley was acutely aware she had driven his mind into the past. She could feel a great distance between them that had nothing to do with physical space. She waited, although part of her wanted to tear herself away and leave him to his memories. In some strange way, staying with him was like holding a vigil, paying respect to the dead.

‘It wasn’t like that.’

Ashley barely caught the murmured words.

‘After the initial shock of the diagnosis, Pen refused to allow the situation to become harrowing,’ he went on quietly. ‘She made each day a celebration of life, finding joy and beauty and pleasure in even the smallest things. There were times when the treatment made her very sick, but she bore it so gallantly…’ He shook his head. ‘I took it harder than she did. I hated feeling helpless.’

‘I’m sure you helped all you could, Harry.’

It wasn’t a platitude. Ashley was certain he would have been a tower of strength, supportive, caring, considerate, willing to do anything to make life as easy and pleasant as he could for her. Yet as much as he might have tried to hold death at bay, it was always going to overtake his efforts. She understood his feelings of helplessness.

‘I guess her going must have left a terrible hole in your life.’

‘She was an adornment to the human race,’ he said softly.

How on earth was she going to compete with that? Ashley thought despondently. ‘Then you were lucky to have known her,’ she said with a burst of envy. ‘Not everyone gets the chance to love and be loved by someone so special. Even if it was only for a short time, at least you’ve experienced it.’

It jolted him out of his reverie. His head turned sharply towards her. Ashley lifted her gaze to his and gave him a full blast of truth. ‘Your Pen made part of your life beautiful, Harry. Maybe that makes the loss hard to bear, but you don’t carry the sense of having missed out on the best, the sense of an emptiness that has never been answered.’

‘Ashley…’ His hand swung out, ready to touch. There was something in his eyes…pity? Anguish? She instinctively backed away.

‘I think I’ll go to bed. I feel cooler now. Good night, Harry. And thank you for making it such a wonderful evening,’ she prattled, carefully skirting any contact with him as she moved to the sliding door.

Somehow he got there ahead of her and pulled the door open. She stepped into the family room, giving him a nod of thanks. He followed closely on her heels. The door clicked shut. Ashley crossed quickly to the staircase. Her eyes blurred with tears as she remembered the bubbling light-heartedness with which she had started the evening. It wasn’t fair, she cried to herself. What hope did she have against a ghost who represented perfection?

She hurried up the stairs, hoping he would stay behind and let her escape to the privacy of the bedroom before he followed to his room. She felt him watching her, but at least his footsteps stopped on the floor below.

‘Good night, Ashley.’ His voice softly floated after her.

She didn’t pause or turn. She had already said good night. Tomorrow was another day, she told herself, brushing the tears from her lashes. And she did have something over a ghost. She was alive. She was warm flesh and blood. And Harry found the arrangement attractive. She wasn’t mistaken about that!