Kitabı oku: «Wealthy Australian, Secret Son»

Praise for the author:

“Margaret Way delivers … vividly written, dramatic stories.”

—RT Book Reviews

“With climactic scenes, dramatic imagery and bold characters, Margaret Way makes the Outback come alive …”

—RT Book Reviews

“He’s mine, isn’t he?” Rohan ground out. His tone was implacable.

Charlotte wasn’t up to this. She was a lost soul. She was acutely aware of the pronounced pallor beneath Rohan’s golden-olive skin. He was in shock too. She wanted to touch his face. Didn’t dare. She felt sorrow. Guilt. Pity. Remorse. Her heart was fluttering like a frantic bird in her breast. She had to work out how to deal with the whole momentous issue. She needed time to think. She allowed a fallen lock of hair to half shield her face.

“Is that why you’re trembling from head to foot?” he asked curtly. “Christopher is mine. My child.”

Welcome to the intensely emotional world of Margaret Way

where rugged, brooding bachelors meet their match in the burning heart of Australia …

About the Author

MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

WEALTHY
AUSTRALIAN,
SECRET SON

MARGARET WAY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE
The present

IT WAS an idyllic day for a garden party. The sky was a deep blue; sparkling sunshine flooded the Valley; a cooling breeze lowered the spring into summer heat. A veritable explosion of flowering trees and foaming blossom had turned the rich rural area into one breathtakingly beautiful garden that leapt at the eye and caught at the throat. It was so perfect a world the inhabitants of Silver Valley felt privileged to live in it.

Only Charlotte Prescott, a widow at twenty-six, with a seven-year-old child, stood in front of the bank of mirrors in her dressing room, staring blindly at her own reflection. The end of an era had finally arrived, but there was no joy in it for her, for her father, or for Christopher, her clever, thoughtful child. They were the dispossessed, and nothing in the world could soothe the pain of loss.

For the past month, since the invitations had begun to arrive, Silver Valley had been eagerly anticipating the Open Day: a get-to-know-you garden party to be held in the grounds of the grandest colonial mansion in the valley, Riverbend. Such a lovely name, Riverbend! A private house, its grandeur reflected the wealth and community standing of the man who had built it in the 1880s, Charles Randall Marsdon, a young man of means who had migrated from England to a country that didn’t have a splendid past, like his homeland, but in his opinion had a glowing future. He’d meant to be part of that future. He’d meant to get to the top!

There might have been a certain amount of bravado in that young man’s goal, but Charles Marsdon had turned out not only to be a visionary, but a hard-headed businessman who had moved to the highest echelons of colonial life with enviable speed.

Riverbend was a wonderfully romantic two-storey mansion, with a fine Georgian façade and soaring white columns, its classic architecture adapted to climatic needs with large-scale open-arched verandahs providing deep shading for the house. It had been in the Marsdon family—her family—for six generations, but sadly it would never pass to her adored son. For the simple reason that Riverbend was no longer theirs. The mansion, its surrounding vineyards and olive groves, badly neglected since the Tragedy, had been sold to a company called Vortex. Little was known about Vortex, except that it had met the stiff price her father had put on the estate. Not that he could have afforded to take a lofty attitude. Marsdon money had all but run out. But Vivian Marsdon was an immensely proud man who never for a moment underestimated his important position in the Valley. It was everything to him to keep face. In any event, the asking price, exorbitantly high, had been paid swiftly—and oddly enough without a single quibble.

Now, months later, the CEO of the company was finally coming to town. Naturally she and her father had been invited, although neither of them had met any Vortex representative. The sale had been handled to her father’s satisfaction by their family solicitors, Dunnett & Banfield. Part of the deal was that her father was to have tenure of the Lodge—originally an old coach house—during his lifetime, after which it would be returned to the estate. The coach house had been converted and greatly enlarged by her grandfather into a beautiful and comfortable guest house that had enjoyed a good deal of use in the old days, when her grandparents had entertained on a grand scale, and it was at the Lodge they were living now. Just the three of them: father, daughter, grandson.

Her former in-laws—Martyn’s parents and his sister Nicole—barely acknowledged them these days. The estrangement had become entrenched in the eighteen months since Martyn’s death. Her husband, three years older than she, had been killed when he’d lost control of his high-powered sports car on a notorious black spot in the Valley and smashed into a tree. A young woman had been with him. Mercifully she’d been thrown clear of the car, suffering only minor injuries. It had later transpired she had been Martyn’s mistress for close on six months. Of course Martyn hadn’t been getting what he’d needed at home. If Charlotte had been a loving wife the tragedy would never have happened. The second major tragedy in her lifetime. It seemed very much as if Charlotte Prescott was a jinx.

Poor old you! Charlotte spoke silently to her image. What a mess you’ve made of your life!

She really didn’t need anyone to tell her that. The irony was that her father had made just as much a mess of his own life—even before the Tragedy. The first tragedy. The only one that mattered to her parents. Her father had had little time for Martyn, yet he himself was a man without insight into his own limitations. Perhaps the defining one was unloading responsibility. Vivian Marsdon was constitutionally incapable of accepting the blame for anything. Anything that went wrong was always someone else’s fault, or due to some circumstance beyond his control. The start of the Marsdon freefall from grace had begun when her highly respected grandfather, Sir Richard Marsdon, had died. His only son and heir had not been able to pick up the reins. It was as simple as that. The theory of three. One man made the money, the next enlarged on it, the third lost it. No better cushion than piles of money. Not every generation produced an heir with the Midas touch, let alone the necessary drive to manage and significantly enlarge the family fortune.

Her father, born to wealth and prestige, lacked Sir Richard’s strong character as well as his formidable business brain. Marsdon money had begun to disappear early, like water down a drain. Failed pie-in-the-sky schemes had been approached with enthusiasm. Her father had turned a deaf ear to cautioning counsel from accountants and solicitors alike. He knew best. Sadly, his lack of judgement had put a discernible dent in the family fortunes. And that was even before the Tragedy that had blighted their family life.

With a sigh of regret, Charlotte picked up her lovely hat with its wide floppy brim, settling it on her head. She rarely wore her long hair loose these days, preferring to pull it back from her face and arrange it in various knots. In any case, the straw picture hat demanded she pull her hair back off her face. Her dress was Hermes silk, in chartreuse, strapless except for a wide silk band over one shoulder that flowed down the bodice and short skirt. The hat was a perfect colour match, adorned with organdie peonies in masterly deep pinks that complemented the unique shade of golden lime-green.

The outfit wasn’t new, but she had only worn it once, at Melbourne Cup day when Martyn was alive. Martyn had taken great pride in how she looked. She’d always had to look her best. In those days she had been every inch a fashionista, such had been their extravagant and, it had to be said, empty lifestyle. Martyn had been a man much like her father—an inheritor of wealth who could do what he liked, when he liked, if he so chose. Martyn had made his choice. He had always expected to marry her, right from childhood, bringing about the union of two long-established rural families. And once he’d had her—he had always been mad about her—he had set about making their lifestyle a whirl of pleasure up until his untimely death.

From time to time she had consoled herself with the thought that perhaps Martyn, as he matured, would cease taking up endless defensive positions against his highly effective father, Gordon, come to recognise his family responsibilities and then pursue them with some skill and determination.

Sadly, all her hopes—and Gordon Prescott’s—had been killed off one by one. And she’d had to face some hard facts herself. Hadn’t she been left with a legacy of guilt? She had never loved Martyn. Bonded to him from earliest childhood, she had always regarded him with great affection. But romantic love? Never! The heart wasn’t obedient to the expectations of others. She knew what romantic love was. She knew about passion—dangerous passion and its infinite temptations—but she hadn’t steered away from it in the interests of safety. She had totally succumbed.

All these years later her heart still pumped his name.

Rohan.

She heard her son’s voice clearly. He sounded anxious. “Mummy, are you ready? Grandpa wants to leave.”

A moment later, Christopher, a strikingly handsome little boy, dressed in a bright blue shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and grey cargo pants, tore into the room.

“Come on, come on,” he urged, holding out his hand to her. “He’s stomping around the hall and going red in the face. That means his blood pressure is going up, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart,” Charlotte answered calmly. “Grandpa’s health is excellent. Stomping is a way to get our attention. Anyway, we’re not late,” she pointed out.

It had been after Martyn’s death, on her father’s urging, that she and Christopher had moved into the Lodge. Her father was sad and lonely, finding it hard getting over the big reversals in his life. She knew at some point she had to make a life for herself and her son. But where? She couldn’t escape the Valley. Christopher loved it here. It was his home. He loved his friends, his school, his beautiful environment and his bond with his grandfather. It made a move away from the Valley extremely difficult, and there were other crucial considerations for a single mother with a young child.

Martyn had left her little money. They had lived with his parents at their huge High Grove estate. They had wanted for nothing, all expenses paid, but Martyn’s father—knowing his son’s proclivities—had kept his son on a fairly tight leash. His widow, so all members of the Prescott family had come to believe, was undeserving.

“Grandpa runs to a timetable of his own,” Christopher was saying, shaking his golden-blond head. She too was blonde, with green eyes. Martyn had been fair as well, with greyish-blue eyes. Christopher’s eyes were as brilliant as blue-fire diamonds. “You look lovely in that dress, Mummy,” he added, full of love and pride in his beautiful mother. “Please don’t be sad today. I just wish I was seventeen instead of seven,” he lamented. “I’m just a kid. But I’ll grow up and become a great big success. You’ll have me to look after you.”

“My knight in shining armour!” She bent to give him a big hug, then took his outstretched hand, shaking it back and forth as if beginning a march. “Onward, Christian soldiers!”

“What’s that?” He looked up at her with interest.

“It’s an English hymn,” she explained. Her father wouldn’t have included hymns in the curriculum. Her father wasn’t big on hymns. Not since the Tragedy. “It means we have to go forth and do our best. Endure. It was a favourite hymn of Sir Winston Churchill. You know who he was?”

“Of course!” Christopher scoffed. “He was the great English World War II Prime Minister. The country gave him a huge amount of money for his services to the nation, then they took most of it back in tax. Grandpa told me.”

Charlotte laughed. Very well read himself, her father had taken it upon himself to “educate” Christopher. Christopher had attended the best school in the Valley for a few years now, but her father took his grandson’s education much further, taking pride and delight it setting streams of general, historical and geographical questions for which Christopher had to find the answers. Christopher was already computer literate but her father wasn’t—something that infuriated him—and insisted he find the answers in the books in the well-stocked library. Christopher never cheated. He always came up trumps. Christopher was a very clever little boy.

Like his father.

The garden party was well underway by the time they finished their stroll along the curving driveway. Riverbend had never looked more beautiful, Charlotte thought, pierced by the same sense of loss she knew her father was experiencing—though one would never have known it from his confident Lord of the Manor bearing. Her father was a handsome man, but alas not a lot of people in the Valley liked him. The mansion, since they had moved, had undergone very necessary repairs. These days it was superbly maintained, and staffed by a housekeeper, her husband—a sort of major-domo—and several ground staff to bring the once-famous gardens back to their best. A good-looking young woman came out from Sydney from time to time, to check on what was being done. Charlotte had met her once, purely by accident …

The young woman had left her Mercedes parked off the broad gravelled driveway so she could take a good look at the Lodge, screened from view by a grove of mature trees. Charlotte had been deadheading the roses when her uninvited visitor—brunette, dark-eyed, in a glamorous black power suit worn with a very stylish snow-white ruffled blouse—had near tumbled into view on her very high heels.

“Oh, good afternoon! Hope I didn’t startle you?” she’d called, the voice loud and very precise.

Well, sort of, Charlotte thought. “You did rather,” she answered mildly. The woman’s greeting had been pleasant enough. The tone wasn’t. It was seriously imperative. Charlotte might as well have been a slack employee who needed checking up on. “May I help you?” She was aware she was being treated to a comprehensive appraisal. A head-to-toe affair.

The young woman staggered a few steps further across the thick green grass, thoroughly aerating it. She had to give up as the stiletto heels of her expensive shoes sank with every step. “I don’t think so. I’m Diane Rodgers, by the way.”

“Well, hello, Diane Rodgers,” Charlotte said with a smile.

Ms Rodgers responded to that with a crisp look. “I’ve been appointed by the new owner to oversee progress at Riverbend. I just thought I’d take a look at the Lodge while I was at it.”

“May I ask if you’re an estate agent?” Charlotte knew perfectly well she wasn’t, but she was reacting to the tone.

“Of course I’m not!” Ms Rodgers looked affronted. An estate agent, indeed!

“Just checking. The Lodge is private property, Ms Rodgers. But I’m sure you know that.”

“Surely you have no objection to my taking a look?” The question was undisguisedly sarcastic. “I’m not making an inspection, after all.”

“Which would be entirely inappropriate,” Charlotte countered.

“Excuse me?” Ms Rodgers’s arching black brows rose high.

“No offence, Ms Rodgers, but this is private property.” The woman already knew that and didn’t care. Had she tried a friendly approach, things might have gone differently.

As it was, Diane Rodgers was clearly on a power trip.

She gave an incredulous laugh, accompanied by a toss of her glossy head. “No need to get on your high horse. Though I expect it’s understandable. You couldn’t bear to part with the place. Isn’t that right? You’re the daughter of the previous owner.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Why would you assume that?” Charlotte resumed deadheading the exquisite deep crimson Ecstasy roses.

“I’ve heard about you, Mrs Prescott.” The emphasis was heavy, the smile knowing—as if Charlotte’s secret was out. She had spent time in an institution. Possibly mental. “You’re every bit as beautiful as I’ve been told.”

“Beauty isn’t the be all and end all. There are more important things. But may I ask who told you that?” There was a glint in Charlotte’s crystal-clear green eyes.

“Sorry, that would be telling. You know yourself how people love to talk. But being rich and beautiful can’t prevent tragedy from occurring, can it? I hear you lost a brother when you were both children. Then a husband only a while back. Must have been frightful experiences? Both?”

Charlotte felt her stomach lurch. Who had this remarkably insensitive young woman spoken to? Someone she’d met in the village? Nicole, Martyn’s younger sister? Nicole had always resented her. If Ms Rodgers’s informant had been Nicole she would have learned a lot—most of it laced with vitriol.

A moment passed. “I’m sure you heard about that too, Ms Rodgers,” Charlotte said quietly. “Now, you must excuse me. I have things to do. Preparations for dinner, for one.”

“Just your father and your son, I’m told?”

It was more or less a taunt, and it bewildered Charlotte. Why the aggression? The expression on Ms Rodgers’s face was hardly compassionate. Charlotte felt a wave of anger flow over her. “I must go in, Ms Rodgers.” She folded her secateurs, then placed them in the white wicker basket at her feet. “Do please remember in future the Lodge is off-limits.”

Diane Rodgers had intended to sound coolly amused, but she couldn’t for the life of her disguise her resentment—which happened to be extreme. Who was this Charlotte Prescott to be so hoity-toity? She had well and truly fallen off her pedestal. At least that was the word. “Suit yourself!” she clipped, making too swift an about turn. She staggered, and had to throw a balancing arm aloft, making for the safety of solid ground.

Everyone appeared to be dressed to the nines for the Open Day. Filmy pastel dresses and pretty wide-brimmed hats were all the rage. Women had learned to take shelter from the blazing Australian sun. Sunscreen. Hats. Charlotte recalled how her mother had always looked after her skin, making sure her daughter did the same. Early days. These days her mother didn’t talk to her often. Her mother didn’t talk to anyone from the old days. Certainly not her ex-husband. Her parents had divorced two years after the Tragedy. Her mother had remarried a few years after that, and lived in some splendour in Melbourne’s elite Toorak. If she had ever hoped her mother would find solace in her beautiful grandson, Christopher, she had been doomed to bitter disappointment. There had only been one boy in her mother’s life: her pride and joy, her son Matthew.

“Mummy, can I please go off with Peter?” Christopher jolted her out of her sad thoughts. Peter Stafford was Christopher’s best friend from day one at pre-school. He stood at Christopher’s shoulder with a big grin planted on his engaging little face.

“I don’t see why not.” Charlotte smiled back. “Hello there, Peter. You’re looking very smart.” She touched a hand to his checked-cotton clad shoulder.

“Am I?” Peter blushed with pleasure, looking down at his new clothes. Christopher had told him in advance he was wearing long trousers, so Peter had insisted his mother buy him a pair. His first. He felt very grown-up.

Christopher hit him mildly in the ribs. “You know Mummy’s only being nice.”

“I mean it, Peter.” Charlotte glanced over Peter’s head. “Mum and Dad are here?”

Peter nodded. “Angie too.” Angie was his older sister. “We had to wait ages for Angie to change her dress. I liked the first dress better. Then she had to fix her hair again. She was making Mum really angry.”

“Well, I’m sure everyone has settled down,” Charlotte offered soothingly. She knew Angela Stafford—as difficult a child as Peter was trouble-free. “We’re all here to enjoy ourselves, and it’s a beautiful day.” Charlotte placed a loving hand on top of her son’s head. “Check in with me from time to time, sweetheart?”

“Of course.” He smiled up at her, searching her face in a near-adult way. “If you prefer, Pete and I can stay with you.”

“Don’t be silly!” she scoffed. “Off you go.” Christopher—her little man!

The boys had begun to move away when Peter turned back. “I’m very sorry Riverbend is going out of the family, Mrs Prescott,” he said, his brown eyes sweetly sympathetic. “Sorry for you and Mr Marsdon. Riverbend would have come to Chris.”

Charlotte almost burst into tears. “Well, you know what they say, Peter,” she managed lightly. “All good things must come to an end. But thank you. You’re a good boy. A credit to your family.”

“If he is, so am I!” Christopher crowed, impatiently brushing his thick floppy golden hair off his forehead. It was a gesture Charlotte knew well.

She turned her head away. She had to keep her spirits up. Her father was deeply involved in a conversation with the rotund, flush-faced Mayor. The Mayor appeared to be paying careful attention. The Marsdon name still carried a lot of clout. She walked on, waving a hand to those in the crowd who had stuck by her and her father.

Her parents’ separation, and subsequent divorce, had split the Valley. Her beautiful, very dignified mother had chaired most of the Valley’s charity functions, opening up the grounds of Riverbend for events much like today’s. She had been well respected. Her father had never approached that high level of Valley approval, though he was supremely unaware of it such was his unshakeable self-confidence.

The Tragedy had torn her mother to pieces. Her father, grief-stricken, had managed to survive.

What exactly had happened to her? She had grown up knowing her mother loved her, but that Matthew, her older brother, the firstborn, was the apple of their mother’s eye—her favourite. Her mother was the sort of woman who doted on a son. Charlotte hadn’t minded at all. She had adored her brother too. Matthew had been a miraculously happy boy. A child of light. And he’d always had Rohan for his best friend. Rohan had been the young son of a single mother in the Valley—Mary Rose Costello.

Mary Rose, orphaned at an early age, had been “raised right” by her maternal grandmother, a strict woman of modest means, who had sent her very pretty granddaughter to the district’s excellent convent school. Mary Rose Costello, with the Celt’s white skin and red hair, had been regarded by the whole community as a “good girl”. One who didn’t “play around”. Yet Mary Rose Costello, too young to be wise, had blotted her copybook by falling pregnant. Horror of horrors out of wedlock or even an engagement. The odd thing was, in that closely knit Valley, no one had been able to come up with the identity of Rohan’s father. Lord knew they had all speculated, long and hard.

Mary Rose had never confided in anyone—including her bitterly shocked and disappointed grandmother. Mary Rose had never spoken the name of her child’s father, but everyone was in agreement that he must have been a stunningly handsome man. And clever. Rohan Costello, born on the wrong side of the blanket, was far and away the handsomest, cleverest boy in the Valley. When Mary Rose’s grandmother had died, she’d had the heart to leave her granddaughter and her little son the cottage. Mary Rose had then worked as a domestic in both the Marsdon and Prescott residences. She’d also done dressmaking. She had, in fact, been a very fine dressmaker, with natural skills. It was Charlotte’s mother who had encouraged Mary Rose to take in orders, spreading the word to her friends across the Valley. So the Costellos had survived, given her mother’s continuing patronage.

Up until the Tragedy.

People were milling about on the lush open lawn that stretched a goodly distance to all points of the compass, or taking shelter from the sun beneath the magnolia trees, heavy with plate-sized waxy cream flowers. Children were playing hide and seek amid the hedges; others romped on the grass. The naughty ones were running under the spray from the playing fountain until some adult stopped them before they got soaked. Everyone looked delighted to have been invited. A huge white marquee had been erected, serving delicious little crustless sandwiches, an amazing variety of beautifully decorated cupcakes, and lashings of strawberries and cream. White wine, a selection of fruit juices and the ubiquitous colas and soft drinks were also provided. No one would be allowed to get sozzled on alcohol that afternoon.

Charlotte had a few pleasant words with dozens of people as she threaded her way through the crowd. Her smile was starting to feel like a glaze on her face. It wasn’t easy, appearing relaxed and composed, given the melancholy depths of her feelings, but she’d had plenty of practice. Years of containing her grief had taught control, if nothing else. Years of going down to breakfast with the Prescotts, a smile glued to her face, after another fierce encounter with Martyn. At such times he had hit her. Lashed out. Nowhere it would show. That would have caused an uproar. Though spoilt rotten by his mother and sister, his father would swiftly have taken him to account. Domestic violence was totally unacceptable. A man never hit a woman. It was unthinkable. Cowardly.

Only Martyn, who had turned out to be a bully, had desperately wanted what she could never give him. Her undivided love. He had even been jealous of Christopher. Had he ever dared lift a hand to her son she would have left him. But as it was, pride had held her in place. It wasn’t as though she could have rung home and said, I’m up to the neck with this marriage. I want out. I’m coming home.

Her mother had been endeavouring to make a new life for herself elsewhere. Her father at that stage would have told her to “pull her socks up” and make her marriage work. It was only after Martyn had been killed and the scandalous circumstances were on public record that her father had welcomed her back—lonely, and totally unused to running a house. That was women’s work. He’d detested the cleaning ladies who came in from time to time. His daughter would take over and cook him some decent meals. Such was his Lord of the Manor mentality. Besides, he loved his little grandson. “Chip off the old block!” he used to say, when Christopher unquestionably wasn’t.

He took it for granted that Charlotte would stay, when she knew she could not. But when would the right time arrive? Christopher was now seven. No longer a small child.

Everyone was agog to meet the new mystery owner. So far he hadn’t appeared, but an hour into the afternoon a helicopter suddenly flew overhead, disappearing over the roof of the mansion to land on the great spread of lawn at the rear of the house. Ten minutes later there was a little fanfare that got everyone’s attention. A tall man, immaculately tailored with a red rosebud in his lapel, followed by no less a personage than Ms Diane Rodgers in full garden party regalia, came through the front door.

Even at a distance one could see this was someone quite out of the ordinary. He moved with lithe grace across the colonnaded verandah, coming to stand at the top of the short flight of stone stairs that led to the garden. His eyes surveyed the smiling crowd as he lifted a hand.

Immediately, enthusiastic clapping broke out. Here was their host at last! And didn’t he look the part! They were just so thrilled—especially the children, who had stared up in wonderment at the big silver helicopter with its loud whirring rotors.

How is Dad going to handle this? Charlotte thought.

Her father revealed his class. He strolled out of the crowd, perhaps with a certain swagger, to greet the CEO of the company that had bought the ancestral home. “Come along, Charlotte,” he commanded, as he drew alongside her. “It’s just you and me now. Time to greet the new owner. I very much suspect he’s more than just a CEO.”

Unfailingly, Charlotte supported her father.

“My, he is a handsome man.” Her father pitched his voice low. “And a whole lot younger than I would have expected,” he tacked on in some surprise. “I fully anticipated someone in their late forties at least. Hang on—don’t I know him?”

Charlotte couldn’t say whether he did or he didn’t. Even with the broad brim of her picture hat the slanting sun was in her eyes. But she did manage to put a lovely welcoming smile on her face. They were on show. Anyone who was anyone in the Valley was ranged behind them—every last man, woman and child keen observers of this meeting. This was an historic day. The Marsdons, for so long lords and ladies of the Valley, now displaced, were expected to act with grace and aplomb.