The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart

      “I don’t give a damn what she likes,” Charlotte mumbled crossly. “I’ll set these in the pantry.” They walked down the steps together and along the corridor to the pantry. Charlotte dropped the plants on the counter then moved to the sink and turned on the single tap to wash away the dirt from her hands. “What did she want, anyway?”

      “Something to do with Brad and computer programs. She seems terribly efficient.”

      “Well, bully for her.” Charlotte gave the tap a sharp twist and dried her hands on an old kitchen towel. “She’ll jolly well have to adapt, Mum, if she’s going to do a half-decent job here. If she thinks she can waft in and turn Strathaird into her fancy Park Avenue digs, she’s got another think coming.”

      “Don’t be horrid, Charlie, it’s not like you.” Penelope looked at her, surprised. “By the way, I had a call from Ambassador de la Fuente. He and the twins are arriving straight from Uruguay via somewhere I can’t remember, on—” she leaned over and picked up the agenda that was never far out of reach and slipped on her glasses “—the fifteenth. I suppose they’ll arrive here by helicopter.” She glanced up, shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t think I can cope with picking anyone up just now. Oh, and Brad phoned to say he’s arriving on his own because Sylvia has some job or other she has to finish. She’ll be following in due course.”

      “Good. The longer she stays away the better,” Charlotte muttered, swinging a leg from her perch on the windowsill.

      “Charlie, do stop being petty and childish. There’s nothing wrong with the poor girl. In fact, the one time I met her she seemed perfectly charming. You know very well that it’s our duty to make her feel at home and help her take over. Daddy would have expected no less of us.”

      “Oh no, Mummy, not today, please.” Charlotte cast her eyes heavenwards. Jumping down from the ledge, she dragged a chair forward and straddled it. “I’m finished up at the cottage, by the way. Oh, and Armand was over at the gallery,” she added casually.

      “I know. He seems genuinely taken with your work.” Penelope sent her daughter an encouraging smile, saw clouds hovering and sighed. Charlotte was like a barometer, up and down, that temperamental artistic nature so difficult to fathom.

      “Armand wants to exhibit my stuff with his autumn collection,” she burst in a rush.

      “In Paris? That’s awfully flattering.” Penelope laid down the flowers she was holding with a surprised smile.

      Charlotte fidgeted. “Do you think it’s a good idea, Mum? I mean it’s not as if I have that many pieces ready and it would take time to make the others, and what with Genny and John and one thing and another I…” Her voice trailed off.

      “Now, don’t start making excuses,” Penelope exclaimed, exasperated. “It’s a wonderful opportunity and you must avail yourself of it. You’ve more than enough time and I’m sure Moira will pitch in to make whatever you need.”

      “I suppose so.” Charlotte gave a listless shrug, then grinned despite herself. “It would be incredible if my jewelry actually took on, wouldn’t it?”

      “Darling, of course it would. And I don’t see why it shouldn’t. Look at all you’ve already sold. People love it. You have such wonderful taste and talent.”

      “You’re only saying that because you’re my mother.”

      “Rubbish,” Penelope dismissed. “I say a lot of things because I’m your mother, but I wouldn’t lead you to spend your time and effort on something I didn’t think was worthwhile.”

      “I suppose not.”

      “Charlotte, look at yourself,” Penelope exclaimed, moving into the center of the room and wiping her hands on her jeans. “You’re thirty-four years old. You’ve spent the better part of your adult life in the clutches of a man whose treated you worse than the dirt under his feet—”

      “This has nothing to do with John,” Charlotte rejoined defensively.

      “It has everything to do with him. With all he’s stopped you from becoming, thanks to his threats and his selfish, egocentric behavior,” she answered, unable to disguise her bitterness. “I don’t say it’s all his fault,” she countered, clasping her hands. “Perhaps you should have divorced him long before this. But frankly, I don’t think you stood a chance.”

      “That’s ridiculous, Mummy,” Charlotte cried, rising so quickly she overturned the chair. “John needs me. And even if he doesn’t, I can’t just walk out on him in the state he’s in. It wouldn’t be humane.”

      “Was the way he treated you when he was conscious humane?” Penelope asked bitterly. “Was slapping you around when he didn’t get exactly what he wanted, or flaunting his mistresses in the papers, humane? I want you to wake up and take charge of your own life, Charlotte. I find it incredible that despite all he’s done to you, all you’ve gone through over the years, you’re still determined to go on catering to him. Is that really what you want, or is it just easier than facing reality?”

      “Stop it,” Charlotte cried, flushing indignantly. The truth of her mother’s words stung. “What has this got to do with Armand and the jewelry and Paris? I merely asked if you thought it was a good idea and look where it’s got me.” She threw up her hands. “I can’t say anything but you throw my marriage in my face.” Tears burned and she clenched her fists, determined not to give way.

      Penelope sighed and dropped her hands to her sides. “I’m sorry, darling. You’re right. It’s not my affair and I shouldn’t be telling you how to lead your life. I just pray that you won’t be obliged to see your child’s life being shredded to bits by some unscrupulous—” She stopped herself, let out a sigh and mustered a smile. “Forget it, darling. Coming back to Armand and the jewelry, I really think you should go ahead.”

      Charlotte nodded, and bent down to pick up the chair. “By the way, Armand thinks the cottage is the pits,” she said in an attempt at humor.

      “Armand is hardly a reference,” Penelope remarked, laughing, moving the plants to the floor, relieved Charlotte hadn’t flounced out in anger. “As far as he’s concerned, anything short of the 16ième arrondissement is the slums. God only knows what he sees in Skye to keep him here for so long. I would have thought he’d be bored stiff by now, yet according to Mrs. McKinnon, he was ensconced in the library this morning, sifting through the French book collection. He asked if it was all right to stay until Oncle Eugène arrives,” she added in a hollow voice. “Of course, I had to say yes, but you can imagine how thrilled I am!” She sighed guiltily and exchanged a long-suffering look with her daughter. “The Cardinal will be here at the beginning of August. I’m quite surprised he’s decided to make the trip at his age and after all these years. That means another three whole weeks of Armand,” she added gloomily. “I must admit that my heart sank at the thought of entertaining him all that time.”

      “Stop worrying, Mum, Armand’s all right. I’ll take him off your hands.”

      “Good.” Penelope gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I know I’m being perfectly horrid, but there are times…”

      “You’re not. I think you’re wonderful, the way you put up with us all. Especially me,” she said ruefully, taking her mother’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be off now. As for Armand,” she added airily, pausing at the door with a mischievous grin, “he’s probably just soaking up atmosphere for a Scottish-inspired clothing collection.” She giggled and rolled her eyes. “Just imagine, Mummy, Mrs. P. could well be next autumn’s fashion icon.”

      “Good Lord, what a ghastly thought!” Penelope gasped in feigned horror. “Off with you, before you come up with any other dreadful notions. You’ll be late picking up Genny unless you dash. And, darling—” she became suddenly serious once more as her gaze met Charlotte’s “—I really would give Armand’s proposal some serious thought, if I were you. It’s not every