ROSIE MACKENZIE was born in Tipperary and moved to Australia when she was seven years old. Over the years she has returned many times to Ireland. After a successful business career in Tasmania she now enjoys spending her time writing, sailing and with her family. She is married to Rob Peterswald and has two daughters and five grandchildren. She and Rob have published five photographic coffee table books on sailing, seafood and wine together. She has adopted the pen name Rosie Mackenzie for her historical fiction to honour her mother. When not in Australia, she and Rob are on their boat exploring the world.
The Homestead on the River
Rosie Mackenzie
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
To Rob, Charlotte and Georgie, for all you have given me.
Contents
About the Author
Calcutta, India, 1945
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Two
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Three
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Four
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part Five
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Calcutta, India, 1945
Kathleen Wynn stepped to the edge of the verandah and took a long, cold sip of iced tea. Before her was one of her favourite views in India: the glorious Tollygunge Country Club gardens rolling down to the lagoon thick with water lilies and tall reeds. In the distance she could hear the sounds of a drum and a flute drifting from the servants’ quarters.
She turned and smiled as she watched Jessica in her element, surrounded by a group of admiring servicemen. Next to her was a jovial fellow with closely cropped dark hair. Already the red veins on his face suggested he was a heavy drinker. Jessica had pointed him out to Kathleen last week when he’d fallen off his horse at a servicemen’s polo match.
‘His name is Guy Preston,’ she’d told Kathleen. ‘His parents made a fortune in jute broking after the First World War. Even if he’s a bit of a bore,’ she laughed, ‘with all the squillions of family money bound to come his way I must say it makes him rather attractive.’
As Kathleen came over to join the group, she saw a stranger standing to one side, watching her. She noticed his blue eyes shaded by thick, feathery lashes and how his hair was blonded by the sun. He was wearing an RAF uniform and the insignia of a squadron leader. She noticed that among his ribbons was a Distinguished Flying Cross. As she sat down next to Jessica she could feel his eyes upon her. She looked up and for some time they held each other’s gaze. It was as if neither of them wanted to look away.
Jessica turned around and waved to the stranger with her half-smoked cigarette in its ivory holder. ‘My dear man, how divine to see you.’
Reluctantly he moved his eyes from Kathleen to Jessica. ‘And I must say it’s a pleasure to see you, Jessica.’ He leant down to kiss her cheek. ‘As always you look a picture.’
‘And as always you’re far too kind,’ said Jessica with a beaming smile that showed her perfect white teeth. She took hold of the man’s hand and turned to Kathleen. ‘Do let me introduce you to Kathleen Wynn … my very best friend. As you can see, she’s by far the most ravishing woman in Calcutta.’ She gave a laugh. ‘Except for me, of course. Not only is she sublime, she’s unfairly clever. She’s a Hindi interpreter at Garrison Headquarters.’ She grinned at Kathleen. ‘We grew up together, didn’t we, Kate?’
Kathleen nodded. ‘Jessica’s parents had a place on the Hooghly River at Barrackpore next door to mine.’
‘The most romantic stretch of water in India,’ he laughed, pulling up a seat next to Kathleen.
‘Yes, it was a paradise for us children. My father was a commissioner in the civil service and the house came with the job when he brought the family out from Ireland.’ She glanced at the badge on his cap, which he had tucked under his arm. ‘Are you newly posted here? If you know the river so well, maybe not.’
‘I’ve been seconded back to headquarters from the Burma front.’ He grinned. ‘For some reason they seem to think my experience there might help. Perhaps they imagine I’m far cleverer than I am.’
Jessica raised a beautifully arched eyebrow. ‘Oh, I very much doubt that.’
‘So you’ll be here for a while?’ Kathleen asked.
‘For a while, yes. Then in and out as usual.’ He smiled broadly at her. As he did, she felt she’d known that smile forever and an exhilarating thrill tingled along her spine. He glanced at her riding helmet and the leather crop by her side. ‘And where did you learn to ride like that?’ he asked.
‘You saw me ride in?’
‘I did for sure. And a fine-looking beast you were on.’
‘Are you a rider as well?’
‘I’ve done a fair bit in my time. Enough to know a good seat on a horse when I see one.’
Much to her embarrassment Kathleen felt herself blushing. ‘Thank you.’
He looked towards the stables. ‘So what’s his name?’
‘Joker. I come out here to the Tolly and ride him when I can.’
‘She’s besotted by him,’ Jessica laughed. She leant over Kathleen and placed a hand possessively on his knee. ‘Now tell me, where are you staying? At the Officer’s Mess?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Jessica smiled seductively. ‘Well … you know where I am. Make sure you contact me.’
* * *
Just on dusk the party headed to Guy’s old Wolseley to go into Calcutta for dinner at Firpos, followed by a movie at the New Empire theatre, promising to wait for Kathleen as she checked on Joker in his stable. But when she returned to the gravel courtyard the Wolseley was gone and the squadron leader was standing there on his own, his cap tilted rakishly and a smile on his handsome face.
‘There wasn’t enough room in the car for you,’ he told her. ‘So I hoped you might like to come with me.’ He pointed to a motorbike parked under a spreading rhododendron. ‘If you like horseriding, I took a gamble and thought you might like to try this.’ He opened an intricately stencilled saddlebag on the side of the bike and took out a leather helmet. ‘My head has taken too many batterings for it to matter, but your pretty head … well —’
Kathleen took the helmet and put it on, pulling her hair free. Then she ran her fingers along the side of the red bike where the Indian Chief logo stood out in gold. ‘It’s beautiful,’ sh
e said. ‘I’ve never seen one so beautiful.’
‘I found her neglected at the barracks. A couple of the other officers and I have kept busy restoring her on our time off.’
Moving the Indian from under the tree, he straddled the seat, beckoning Kathleen to climb on behind him. Glad she was wearing jodhpurs, Kathleen sat astride but wasn’t sure where to put her hands, laying them on her knees, then her lap and finally on the side of the bike. Looking up at the clubhouse, she could see a group still sitting on the verandah where lanterns were casting a warm glow on the balustrades. She wondered if anyone was watching them. If so, would they recognise her? In a second it would be back to the Maharani of Cooch Behar, a family friend, whose city residence housed the small flat where Kathleen lived. That’s how it worked in Calcutta. Gossip travelling faster than a Bengal tiger in full flight. She could almost hear the Maharani’s startled voice. ‘Honestly, Kathleen, you really should be careful. Some of these servicemen can’t be trusted.’
‘You’ll have to hold on to me,’ he said, gesturing for Kathleen to grab his waist. She wrapped her arms around him tightly. Now one almighty roar filled the air and he edged the bike forward, taking off in a thick cloud of dust. She loved the wind in her face, the feeling her hair was going to blow away from under the helmet, the speed with which the paddy fields and rubber plantations hurtled by; the screeching gravel; the dust. And she laughed out loud when they roared past the marshy grassland and scattered the sleepy buffalo into the safety of the tree-covered hills. No car was ever this noisy.
‘What do you think?’ he shouted, turning his head for a second.
‘It’s brilliant. I’d no idea …’
‘Hold on. There’s a corner coming up.’
As they took the bend, Kathleen gripped his waist even tighter. She could sense the warmth of his body against hers, feel her breasts sinking into the curve of his back. A tingle ran from the tips of her toes to the very top of her head. On that balmy evening when the world was racked by war, she wanted to ride on the back of his motorbike forever.
* * *
Two days later he turned up at Kathleen’s flat. ‘Come,’ he beckoned with a wide grin, ‘let’s go see the real India.’
Once more Kathleen climbed onto the back of the motorbike. Soon they were weaving between cars and rickshaws down Chowringhee Street and out through the native village on the outskirts of town among giggling children, cows, goats scavenging through rubbish, pushbikes, beggars, and women in colourful saris. The smell of burning cow dung permeated the air.
‘I wanted to share this with you,’ he said, turning to Kathleen. ‘It’s my favourite place in Calcutta.’
Although Kathleen often enjoyed wandering through the market stalls in the native villages, being part of the chaotic hustle and bustle with him made it even more special.
Watching him laugh and joke with the children, she realised she was falling hopelessly in love. Every off-duty moment they could steal they explored on his motorbike, had picnics by the river, went horseriding in the hills, dined at Firpos Restaurant and went dancing at Government House. Wherever they went, Kathleen was happier than she had ever been.
Until the awful day arrived when her world came crashing down, sweeping away that happiness in one fell swoop and breaking her heart. A few years earlier, when her parents were killed in a railway crash on the way to Bishnupur, Kathleen had thought her world had ended. For weeks she had wept with heartbreak and sorrow until the events of the war made her realise there were people hurting far more than she was.
Now, just six months since that magical afternoon at the Tollygunge Club, it seemed she was one of those people. A week later Kathleen was gripped with a fear greater than any she had felt before.
PART ONE
Kenmare River, County Kerry, Ireland 1963
CHAPTER
1
‘I do love this one,’ Alice said. ‘Such a good shot of Lillie.’
‘There’s no way she’ll let us use it,’ Kathleen laughed. ‘You can see her face.’
Kathleen O’Sullivan and her mother-in-law sorted through Kathleen’s photographs in the glass conservatory of Rathgarven, a stone manor house nestled in a secluded rocky cove of the Kenmare River in County Kerry. Alice was writing another article for an English magazine depicting country life in Ireland. To accompany it, Kathleen had taken some photographs, which she’d developed in the small darkroom set up off the woodhouse.
Kathleen picked up another picture of her daughter. Lillie was riding her horse Merlin among the apple trees in the walled garden. It was such a lovely photograph with the light filtering through the trees onto her dark hair. Kathleen had taken the shot from behind, as Lillie was adamant she didn’t want her face to be in a magazine.
‘Maybe this one will do,’ she said, handing the photo to Alice.
‘The colours are certainly lovely. But it’s such a pity we can’t see Lillie’s beautiful face.’
Another photo Kathleen had chosen was of her eldest son, Ronan, sailing their small yacht the Daphne on the river. There was also one of her younger boys, Marcus and Freddie, climbing the oak tree in the front garden, and a scene of the first hunt meet of the season gathering on the gravel driveway in front of Rathgarven, with Maisie, dressed in her best apron embroidered with harps and shamrocks, bringing the hunters a stiff stirrup cup before they headed off. In all there were five photographs. More than adequate for Alice’s article, Kathleen thought.
Now her attention was drawn beyond the window to the curve of the river where a red steamer chugged around the point, heading towards Rathgarven’s jetty. With a jolt Kathleen recognised whose steamer it was. Most likely it had come down the river from Kenmare Harbour where the Killarney bookmaker TJ Donoghue kept it. He had visited before under happier circumstances when there had been a regatta on the river. She glanced at Alice to see if she had noticed. Fortunately she still had her head over the photographs. What a hide Donoghue had to arrive like this. If he thought he was going to alight on Rathgarven’s jetty, he had another thing coming. Rathgarven wasn’t his house yet — and never would be, if Kathleen had anything to do with it.
‘I’ll just pull this curtain across,’ she said to Alice, pushing her chair back and moving to the window to block Alice’s view of the jetty. ‘You’ll be able to see more clearly without the sun on the photos. And,’ she added, glancing to the door, ‘can you give me a moment. Maisie’s heading into Sneem. I forgot to tell her to pop into the chemist for me.’
‘Of course, dear,’ Alice said as she looked at the photographs. ‘You certainly have a way of capturing all of Rathgarven’s moods. I’m not sure whether I like it wild and woolly best, or ablaze with sunshine.’
‘They’re both lovely,’ Kathleen said, heading towards the door. ‘Although I must admit I prefer it sunny.’
Outside, Kathleen flew down the stone steps and across the newly rolled front lawn, through the green wooden gate and across the meadow to the jetty.
‘How can I help you, Mr Donoghue?’ she called out, as the bookmaker disembarked. A small smartly dressed group stood on the deck behind him.
‘Ah, good afternoon, Mrs O’Sullivan,’ he said, tipping his flashy trilby in her direction. ‘I trust you be well on this grand day.’
‘I am, thank you,’ Kathleen said, anger tightening her voice.
‘That be great to hear.’ Donoghue glanced at the group on the deck. ‘I was telling these good folks about your lovely Rathgarven. And they persuaded me to let them have a wee peek.’ He puffed the cigarette in his hand and looked towards the house. ‘Would Mr O’Sullivan be around?’
Although her husband was up in the back field with Danny, the overseer, rebuilding a stone wall that a rampaging bull had barged through yesterday, there was no way Kathleen was going to tell Donoghue that.
‘I’m afraid it’s not convenient for you to stop off today. We have a large house party arriving from Dublin for the weekend,’ she lied. ‘Maybe you could
give my husband a telephone call and arrange another time.’ She glanced at the group standing on the deck of the boat waiting to disembark. ‘I’m sorry to be so tiresome. Today’s not convenient.’ Donoghue’s smart sports coat did little to hide the many good lunches he’d partaken of over the years. Lowering her voice, she said, ‘Mr Donoghue, I’d be grateful if you could get back on your boat. Rathgarven is not yours as yet. And until it is, the only guests who’ll disembark on our jetty are the guests of the O’Sullivan family.’
‘Ah. Is that so, Mrs O’Sullivan?’ He removed his trilby and smoothed his thick black hair. ‘Though I’m sure Mr O’Sullivan would feel differently. It’s a pity he’s not here.’ He stomped his cigarette into the ground with one highly polished brogue. ‘In any case I’ll happily take my guests further along the river to where I know they’ll be greeted more cordially.’
‘Thank you,’ Kathleen said. ‘I’d appreciate that very much.’ She glanced at the hawser in his hands. ‘I’ll hold the rope steady for you until you’re back on board and give you a push off.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Donoghue grunted. ‘I can back out quite easily myself. But be sure to tell your husband I’ll be in touch. And be giving him my best wishes.’
‘I will indeed,’ Kathleen said.
Kathleen watched him reverse away from the jetty, the loud revving of the steamer’s engine sounding an angry farewell. Kathleen didn’t care. She was glad to get rid of him. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to calm down. Had there been a gun handy, she felt sure she’d have picked it up and taken a pot shot at him. She could imagine the headline in the Irish Times: ‘Angry Kerry wife shoots leading bookmaker’.
She turned and walked back along the jetty and into the meadow dotted with daisies and buttercups. For a moment she stopped and gazed up at the gabled house of pale grey stone with its wide French windows and the conservatory on the southern side, where thankfully the curtain was still drawn. The late-afternoon sun shone softly across the façade, coating it with a golden tinge. A shudder passed through Kathleen. Rathgarven had been the home of O’Sullivans for generations. It had even risen again after being burnt to cinders in the Civil War of 1922, when Ireland seemed to have lost all reason. How could James have put his family home in jeopardy? It would destroy his mother when she found out. Although Kathleen had only come to live at Rathgarven fifteen years ago, Alice had arrived as the young bride of the late Eoghan O’Sullivan at the beginning of the century.
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