Hidden Legacy

“Zizi never had a child!”

Alyssa said the words angrily. She gave a slightly hysterical laugh, afraid of Adam’s effect on her, afraid of the sensation, the intimacy, of his touch.

His eyes held compassion. “If Elizabeth told you so little—after all, you were a child when she was already a middle-aged woman—surely someone in your family knows. Her sister, Mariel, perhaps?”

“My grandmother? And she kept it from us? No way! Zizi never married. She never had a child. Do you seriously believe we wouldn’t know?” Why were clouds of confusion blanketing her mind?

He sat back, staring at her. “It’s happened before,” he said. “The thing is, secrets don’t always remain buried. My aim isn’t to shock you, Alyssa, but you must trust me on this. Elizabeth did have a child. And for reasons of her own, she appears to have led a life of deception.”

“Why should I sit here and listen to you destroying all my illusions about the Zizi I loved?”

“The closer the link, the more intense the pain,” he said. “Elizabeth Calvert was a riddle. Secrets were her way of life.”

Dear Reader,

Most families, even dysfunctional ones who carry the baggage of old conflicts, have within their annals a story of enduring love, a love that triumphed over every obstacle thrown in its way.

It might be a great-aunt’s story, or that of a grandparent, an uncle, a sister. Or maybe it’s the story of a veteran of war who finally got to marry his foreign-born sweetheart and bring her home.

True love dreams, even when that love seems impossible. Is it any wonder, then, that families still get caught up in the passion and excitement of a love affair that played out long ago, whether it ended happily or not? The grand passion was there, and therefore miraculous. Miracles pass many of us by, so when it happens it must be celebrated.

The story you are about to read, Hidden Legacy, is just such a tale. It begins with our present-day heroine trying to unravel a mystery; during this exploration she has to reinvent a beloved great-aunt and in the process learn that time has no place in affairs of the heart. True love has the power to outlast it.

Now welcome to Australia’s beautiful north Queensland….

Margaret Way

Hidden Legacy

Margaret Way

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family at weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.

This is for Debbie Macomber,

a woman much to be admired.

Contents

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

SHAFTS OF LATE-AFTERNOON sunlight pierced the high arched windows of Alyssa Sutherland’s studio, turning the huge panes of glass into sheets of liquid copper. Inside the studio, it was as if someone had switched on dozens of electric lights. Caught in the golden illuminance was a large open area with white painted walls, dark, rough-hewn ceiling beams and dark-stained timber columns that supported the soaring ceiling. Visitors to the studio often expressed the opinion that it was more like a country antique shop than a workplace, for the room was filled almost to overflowing with all manner of beautiful and valuable objects, often used as props in Alyssa’s paintings. As a centerpiece stood an easel, with a half-finished canvas on it. The artist was at work, her blond head suffused by the sun’s radiance.

It took a few moments for the dazzling incandescence to pass by the windows, leaving the delicate, dusky mauve that heralded the brief twilight of the sub-tropics. Alyssa broke off with a sigh, placing her paintbrush in an earthenware pot of solvent, then wiping her fingers on her paint-spattered smock. She had lost all notion of time but a glance at the wall clock told her she’d been working all afternoon without a break, stopping now and then to stare at the painting—a still life of bread, wine and fruit in a Ming dynasty bowl—to see how things were progressing.

No magic there today. She doubted a good night’s sleep would help much, either—if she could even subdue her jangled feelings long enough to sink into oblivion. Despite the exquisite strains of Bach’s A Minor violin concerto blossoming out of one corner of the studio, her head was seething with angry words.

A serious relationship had been brought to a bruising end. Brett had packed up his possessions and left the house they’d settled into barely a year before. Only a year—that was how long their relationship had survived the initial pleasures of being together before taking the downward slope into the stresses and strains of two very different people trying to live in harmony.

Alyssa saw it as Brett’s relentless drive to back her into a corner. From the day he’d moved in, he had begun to assert an urge to dominate. That diminished her sense of guilt about the split-up. She believed in equality, but Brett had been more interested in exerting control. She’d finally had enough and found the courage to say so. What she’d often heard was painfully true—you had to live with someone to even begin to know that person…and maybe not even then.

Troubled in mind and spirit, Alyssa turned away to pour herself a cup of coffee. She knew she drank too much of it, but late at night when she was working, the caffeine kept her awake and her senses razor-sharp. Coffee in hand, she settled into a leather armchair, leaning her head against the plush upholstery, her mind returning to that final scene…

IT ALL BEGAN innocuously enough, as major upsets often do. One minute she and Brett were sitting on the deck finishing the steak and salad dinner she’d prepared for them, the next, something he said—something she found jarringly mean-spirited—triggered a powerful reaction in her. The straw that broke the camel’s back, as she now thought of it. In the preceding months she’d usually shut up at such provocative moments. Anything for peace although she realized now, with a pang of self-disgust, they hadn’t been her finest moments. But on that occasion she’d sprung up from her chair, distraught tears in her eyes.

Let it out, Alyssa! You can’t stand it anymore!

Her intense response had nothing to do with the topic at hand; it had everything to do with her growing feelings of repression. “I can’t be with you anymore, Brett! You…you damage my psyche.” That was the way she’d come to think of it. How had Brett Harris turned from the man who claimed to love and admire her unreservedly, into a partner determined on controlling her? And in such a short time? It was a side of him she’d never seen, let alone imagined.

That evening he, too, had jumped up, apparently as ready to engage in a major confrontation as she was. His action had toppled a beautiful long-stemmed crystal wineglass that predictably broke, breaking up a valuable set of six. Strangely enough, when she’d decided to use those particular glasses she had a presentiment one of them might break.

Brett cursed his clumsiness, sucked at a tiny cut on his hand, but ignored the dark-crimson wine stain that spread over the white cloth. “Damage your psyche?”

He had developed an irritating habit of repeating her words as though he found them incomprehensible. “What sort of mumbo jumbo is that?” He followed her into the house, a whipcord-lean young man just short of six feet, dark-haired, with hypnotic dark eyes and handsome if rather hawklike features. His hands, not as attractive as his face, clutched the back of the sofa. His dark eyes glittered with contained contempt. “You can’t mean that, Ally?”

“I do!” Her voice sounded stricken. “These last six months have been awful. It’s truly the end for us.”

His response was to take her forcibly her by the shoulders. Alyssa considered any sort of violence, especially violence toward women and children, totally reprehensible. She had often had occasion to express her views, working pro bono for a women’s refuge during her short career as a lawyer. He was well aware where she stood on domestic violence. “Every time you come back from visiting that bloody woman, you’re different,” he accused, his face tight. “Zizi egged you on to do this. Zizi’s always overstepping her role—ridiculous bloody name. Okay, you might’ve called her that when you were a little kid but it sounds stupid now. She’s never liked me, has she? I could kill her.” The expression on his face carried real threat.

“That’s appalling!” She shook him off angrily. “And you a man of the law!”

“I’m a man first,” he reminded her, anger flashing in his eyes.

“So, does that mean you have the right to lash out?” she shouted at him, although shouting wasn’t her style.

“Zizi is not at fault here,” she said, trying desperately to calm herself. “She had nothing to do with my decision, so keep her out of it. It’s about the two of us. It’s not working, Brett. You’re becoming intolerable to live with.”

He released a sharp whistling breath through his nose. “I’m becoming intolerable? You’re the who’s up until all hours of the night when I want you in bed with me. Goddamn that bloody woman!” he exclaimed, his handsome face ugly with hate. “She’s had far too much influence on you. She works on you until she takes over your mind.”

It was all so unfair! Zizi’s influence had always been good. Zizi was her confidante and dearest friend.

“Oh, spare me!” he groaned at her defense of her great-aunt. “The facts contradict your judgment. Your great-aunt’s never had the guts to live in the real world, floating around that old plantation house like some bloody witch. Hell, she’s more than a touch mad. Your grandmother, her own sister, has said as much.”

It was regrettably true. “Gran and Zizi are different kinds of people,” Alyssa said quietly, putting more space between them. “Zizi’s living the life she wants. Without her I wouldn’t be what I am today. She taught me not only how to paint and see beauty in so many different places, but about life in general. I don’t know what I’m going to do when she leaves me.”

“The old bitch will live until she’s ninety!” Brett scoffed.” You have me! Aren’t you supposed to love me? You have your parents, plenty of friends. You’re supposed to be such a fine painter—”

Alyssa rounded on him, saying the words she’d long held back. “You’re jealous of what I do, aren’t you?”

He didn’t even attempt to deny it. “I’m jealous of anything that takes you away from me. When you’re working you don’t even remember I exist. Couldn’t you have stayed a lawyer? You know how upset your parents were when you left the firm.”

“That was two years ago, Brett. Mom and Dad came to terms with it. I was always a dutiful daughter. I did what they wanted. I just never got any satisfaction out of practicing law. That’s your world, their world. It’s not mine. I’m an artist, but you don’t want me to be one. My painting’s only made you resentful. You’d be thrilled if I said I was going to stop painting altogether.”

“You bet!” He spoke with frightening grimness. “It was Zizi who managed to convince you that you had the gift!” He couldn’t resist the note of parody. “She even managed to pull a few strings to get you a showing. She chucked her own career—it didn’t give her satisfaction or fulfillment—yet she pushed you into it.”

“I’m making money, Brett.” She was regaining a little of her composure.

“You’re making money at last, you mean,” he reminded her sharply, totally overlooking the fact that he was living in her house. “Your parents bought you this place.” Obviously that devalued her standing in his eyes.

“So you got some acclaim. You have more going for you, that’s all. You’re young. You’re beautiful. You come from a distinguished legal family. Even dotty old Zizi was a name in her day. Elizabeth Jane Calvert! What happened to her? How come she burnt out overnight?”

Alyssa tried slow, deep breathing. “No one knows the answer to that one.” Not family, friends, agents, dealers. While still in her twenties, Zizi’s brilliant talent had earned her considerable renown. Those were her glory days, the ten-year period between 1960 and 1970. But Zizi had retired at the very early age of thirty to a reclusive life in an old sugar plantation house in tropical North Queensland. It had caused a sensation in the art world.

Alyssa’s eyes rested on the middle distance. Other famous artists had fled to the North to escape the rat race and gather the beauty of the tropical environment into their souls. North of Capricorn was glorious. She and Zizi had often cruised around the dazzlingly beautiful coral cays and emerald islands of the Great Barrier Reef in Zizi’s little sailing yacht, Cherub. It was Zizi who’d discovered that she had talent as a sailor. Indeed, by age sixteen she far outstripped her mentor much to Zizi’s amusement and pride. She loved the sea. She loved sailing. It was in her blood.

From time to time, other prominent artists who’d belonged to the colony had emerged from their rain forest sanctuaries to travel south to the big cities to show the civilized art world what masterpieces they had created. Zizi, however, had stayed there.

Infuriated by Alyssa’s inattention, Brett seized her by the arms. “Snap out of it, Ally! You can’t think I’m going to let you walk away from me! Not after what we’ve been to each other. I love you. I can’t possibly let you go. I hold your precious Zizi responsible for the change in you.”

She stared into his dark eyes, seeing a tiny red glow in their depths. “All Zizi wants is for me to be happy. I tried, Brett.”

“You shouldn’t have to try!” He shook her as if she were a child and a good shake would bring her to her senses.

“Take your hands off me.” Flinching, she broke away, rubbing her shoulder.

He came after her. “You’re everything I want, Alyssa. I’d kill anyone who tried to take you from me.”

Alyssa saw the violence in him, but she was driven by a risk-everything determination.

They stood a few feet apart, regarding each other like the warring couple they’d become. “You’re very needy, Brett. You want my undivided attention and if you don’t get it I have to tread my way through a minefield of scowling and sulking that goes on for days. It has to come to an end. I’m an artist. I’m going to remain an artist all my life.”

“Like Zizi?” His voice was full of contempt.

“I hope I’ll be like Zizi one day. I certainly haven’t reached her level of excellence yet.”

Brett threw up his hands in an impotent gesture of rage. “Who the hell even remembers the genius’s name these days?”

She sighed wearily. “Everyone in the art world knows of Elizabeth Jane Calvert. The private collectors who have her early paintings treasure them. They won’t part with them. That’s why they never come on the market…something did go seriously wrong in her life.”

“She hasn’t told you all about her nervous breakdown, has she?” he sneered. “Your grandmother said she had one. The trouble with you is you’re brainwashed!”

“And you’re a coward, attacking a woman in her absence.”

He stared back at her as though she’d drawn blood. “You go out of your way to provoke me. But I love you, Alyssa. I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you.”

She shook her head. “You fell in love with the way I looked, Brett. And with who I was, the daughter of two senior partners in the firm.”

“I fell in love with you. I fell in love with you before I even knew who you were. There’s something missing, though. You let me make love to you, but I can’t get close to you. Not your heart or your mind. One of these days you’ll discover that painting isn’t enough!”

“That’s not going to happen, Brett.” She spoke with finality.

His face contorted. “Well, I hate it! It’s separated us.” He lunged for her and she backed away swiftly, protecting herself from possible physical harm. “We can work this out,” he insisted. “If we break up, it’ll be a huge mistake. This is all that bloody woman’s fault.”

Distressed as she was, she was still desperate to show compassion. “I’m sorry, Brett. Truly sorry. But this is my life. I don’t love you.”

Brett sloughed off his civilized veneer as a snake sloughs off a skin. He surged toward her and struck her openhanded, but with such force she staggered back and fell to the floor, hitting her head against the foot of a teak cabinet.

For long moments he gazed down at her, rooted to the spot. Her long hair tumbled around her face in an ash-blond storm. In the fall, two buttons of her silk shirt had slipped their holes, so he could see the upward curves of her breasts.

Desire soared. He wondered what it would be like to take her right there, on the polished floor. He hunched down, wanting nothing more than to have her whether she wanted it or not. “Oh, God, Ally, I’m sorry. Forgive me.” Common decency briefly exerted itself.

He tried to get his arm around her, but his sexual excitement was showing in his flushed skin and his glittering eyes. Alyssa resisted wildly. One side of her face was scarlet, her skin bearing the imprint of his hand. Somewhere deep inside her ear a phone was ringing stridently, yet the outer shell was deaf. “Get out!” she cried, swallowing down her shock. She wasn’t going to grieve over their breakup anymore. This new Brett was a monster.

He just knelt there, staring at her. “You’re so beautiful!” Lust was coming off him in waves.

It presented a clear threat. “Get out!” Alyssa repeated, beyond fear. “You’re a brute and a coward. Violence is a sickness, an illness, a disease! You’re sick!”

The cold outrage in her voice, the condemnation in her eyes, slammed the brakes on hard. Brett started to remember who he was; more importantly, who she was. He thrust a trembling hand through his hair. “How did this happen?” he asked in a wondering voice.

Alyssa scrambled unaided to her feet, although she felt ill and more than a little dizzy. “I can tell you this. It will never happen again. Get out!”

He did.

Of course there were innumerable phone calls, messages she didn’t answer. Sheafs of her favorite flowers arrived, red roses galore. She refused to take delivery. It was over. Dreams had turned to ashes. She’d seen the real Brett, the dark side that had been hidden inside him. She could never ignore it now. She prayed he wouldn’t be foolish enough to stalk her, or show up at her door. She knew he was capable of it; she’d glimpsed that disturbing glow in the depths of his eyes. She wanted to keep their breakup private. If the full facts got out, it could mean the end of Brett’s promising legal career. She had no wish to harm him. She simply wanted out!

LOOKING BACK at her life over the weeks that followed, Alyssa felt deeply perturbed at how virulent Brett’s attitude to Zizi had become. He’d actually spent very little time in Zizi’s company, only two or three visits. She had so wanted them to like each other but as Brett had been at pains to tell her, he’d immediately perceived Zizi as a threat.

How could she have been so wrong about him? Her spirits sagged beneath the weight of her bad judgment. On her most recent visit to Zizi, she’d wisely gone on her own. They had a perfect, harmonious week together, sharing an empathy that went even deeper than the one she shared with her much-loved mother, Stephanie, and certainly her formidable grandmother, Mariel, Zizi’s older sister.

Then there was Zizi’s marvelous old plantation house, Flying Clouds. She’d adored it at first sight. As a child, it had seemed to her that there was no other house in the entire world like it. For one thing, it had a widow’s walk. She’d never heard of such a thing, let alone seen one. She’d found it thrilling beyond words to pace the narrow walkway looking out to the turquoise Coral Sea.

The house, a profoundly exotic jungle mansion, had a history. Of course it did. A Captain Richard Langford, an English adventurer-entrepreneur, had built it in the late 1800s. At that time Australia had been announcing to the Old Country that it really was the land of opportunity. Captain Langford had answered the call. It was his beautiful schooner, Medora, hired out for trade or charter that had brought him a fortune before he’d eventually turned his attention to starting a small shipping line that serviced the eastern seaboard. His ancestors today ran the giant Langford Container Lines, which transported anything and everything all over the world—automobiles, antiques, fine arts, boats, industrial machinery, whole households of personal effects, you name it. There was no stopping progress, and the Langfords had prospered.

Was it any wonder that in her make-believe games she’d often played the role of wife—and sometimes daughter—of that heroic sea captain? She’d stand high up on the observation platform, waiting for a glimpse of his ship returning home. Other times she was the grief-stricken widow, shedding real tears. For a change she’d be Peter Pan or Wendy and even the infamous Captain Hook. Treasure Island was a favorite and so were all sorts of swashbuckling pirate games—anything to do with the sea. Sometimes she was the beautiful damsel in distress, held for ransom, other times the dashing pirate. Zizi had always given her just the right old clothes to turn into a costume. Those were unforgettable days for the kind of child she was. Zizi understood her imaginative nature far better than anyone else. She was a dreamer, a great reader, often devouring books way beyond her years. It was Zizi who’d understood and nurtured her compulsion to draw and finally, paint.

Zizi!

She’d been totally happy at Flying Clouds, with the bond between them deepening steadily through the years. They both loved the house, although Zizi made it clear from the outset that it was haunted by the benign Captain Langford. At any rate, both of them found they were remarkably easy in his company. Captain Langford had actually died in his bed, but one of his descendants—another Richard and a renowned yachtsman—had drowned off the Reef when his yacht, Miranda, had capsized and sunk without trace during rough monsoon weather. That was in the late 1960s.

Some time after that, Zizi had made her final escape to the tropical North where, in her youth, she’d painted some of her most ravishing canvases. Back then she’d stayed on and off in the artists’ colony long since disbanded. With her intimate knowledge of the area, she’d had the great good fortune to acquire Flying Clouds cheaply, as most people, certainly the locals, believed it to be haunted.

The setting alone captured the imagination. The entrance fronted on to a private road lined by the white flowering evergreen species of frangipani that in the lush tropical climate had grown into very big trees. The rear faced the glorious Coral Sea, with a long, sea-weathered boardwalk that led to a zigzag flight of steps and on to the beach.

The house was of fine proportions and remarkably grand for the area. According to local folklore, Captain Langford’s mother was an American shipping heiress who’d lived in such a house when she was a girl. Whether that was true or not no one knew, but all agreed it was a good story.

The two-story—three if one counted the widow’s walk—was constructed of brilliant white stuccoed sandstone with deep verandas decorated and embellished with distinctive white cast-iron lace railings that appeared again on the upper walkway. The verandas shaded the house from the tropical sun while still allowing every available sea breeze to pass through. The shutters for the French doors, three to either side of the solid cedar front door, and the door itself were painted so dark a green that in certain lights they appeared a glossy black. The huge roof was a harmonious terra-cotta red.