‘She’s just young and rather full of herself. I shouldn’t let her worry you.’ Molly waved the cheque under his nose. ‘They’re paying top money, Joe, and Eliza hinted they might recommend you to their friends. I realise you find her a little daunting, but if you remember you’re in charge, things will work out. You never know – this time next year we could have a full yard.’
Joe didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm, so kept his opinions to himself. ‘Has the post come yet? I’m waiting for that money order from Hobart.’
Molly reached into her cardigan pocket. ‘Sorry, I forgot all about it in the excitement. Nothing from Hobart, but there’s a reply from England.’
He tore it open and scanned the single page. It didn’t take long, but the contents drained the colour from his face and he sat down with a thump.
‘Whatever is it?’
‘Trouble,’ he said tersely, as he gave her the letter. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that Carmichael.’
‘But this makes no sense,’ breathed Molly, as she scanned the note and sank into the chair beside him.
‘Worse than that, we have a horse without an owner. A promising two-year-old I can’t race, and can’t sell on until this is cleared up. What the hell am I going to do?’
‘At least the fees for the next two years have been paid upfront, so we won’t be out of pocket,’ snapped Molly. She shoved the single sheet back into the envelope. ‘Get hold of Carmichael and demand an explanation, then send her the papers and a stiff letter ordering her to stop playing games.’
Joe retrieved the letter that was in danger of being mangled and tucked it into his pocket. His expression was grim as he glared into the distance. ‘I’ll do that, but Carmichael’s not an easy man to pin down. There’s something fishy about all this, Ma, and I aim to find out what the hell’s going on. No one plays me for a fool and gets away with it.’
Chapter 2
The men from the foundry drove away, and in the silence following their departure Lulu admired the bronze. Ocean Child stood on a black marble plinth, head lifted as if scenting the sea at his feet, stubby tail and mane ruffled by the salt wind. He was everything she had hoped for, and although she knew it was her best work, she was still anxious for Maurice and Clarice to like it.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ said Maurice, ‘but I dread to think how much it cost you to have it cast in bronze.’
‘Bertie paid,’ she explained. ‘He’ll get the money back when he sells it.’
Maurice’s gaunt face twisted in disgust. ‘Agents are leeches – always taking their money first. No wonder we artists are so poor.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Lulu scolded. ‘Bertie’s a benefactor, not an agent. He doesn’t charge commission, as you well know, and I’m lucky he’s seen fit to sponsor my work.’
Maurice sniffed and tightened the scarf around his neck. Although it was April, it was cold in the summer house, and his coat was too thin to counter it. He shrugged bony shoulders and dug his large hands into his pockets, dark eyes trawling over the sculpture in undisguised admiration. ‘No doubt he’s already got a buyer lined up,’ he muttered. ‘You always were his favourite.’
Lulu was exasperated. This was an old gripe and she was sick of hearing it. Bertie Hathaway was rather daunting, for he was a very rich man who was used to getting his own way. Maurice’s relationship with him was tenuous to say the least, and she suspected Maurice was a little jealous of his patronage of her. This was not helped by the fact that Bertie had yet to show any enthusiasm for Maurice’s work. ‘He’s offered you space at the exhibition in June,’ she reminded him.
Maurice gave a deep sigh and buried his long nose in the scarf. ‘He wouldn’t have if you hadn’t persuaded him.’
She wanted to tell him to stop behaving like a petulant child, but knew from past experience that any kind of criticism would leave him depressed for days. ‘The offer to exhibit your paintings in London is there if you want it,’ she said instead. ‘It could be a marvellous debut.’
‘I don’t know if I’m ready to exhibit yet. All that noise and fuss – you know how it affects me.’
She took in his mournful expression and held her tongue. She had met Maurice at art school, had formed an immediate friendship and after graduating it had seemed logical for him to move into the upstairs flat of Clarice’s house in London and share the attic studio. But the Maurice that stood before her had been psychologically damaged by his ordeal as a war artist, and there was little trace of the gregarious man he’d once been. ‘Why don’t you go indoors and get warm?’ she said softly.
‘Are you coming?’ His dark eyes were pleading.
She shook her head. ‘I’m waiting for Clarice, but she shouldn’t be too long.’ She watched him walk towards the house, noted how thin he’d become over the past few months, and how his walk was that of a much older man. He wanted so much from her, and her soft heart filled with the pity he would despise – yet even that was wearing thin from his constant neediness.
‘Good, you’re alone.’ Clarice stepped into the studio and firmly closed the door. She pulled the fur coat a little more snugly around her slender figure and shivered. ‘Maurice gets me down when he’s in one of his bad moods.’
There seemed little reason to reply so she pointed at the sculpture. ‘What do you think?’
Clarice studied it from every angle in silence. Then she reached out and ran her fingers over the muscled hindquarters. ‘It’s perfect,’ she breathed. ‘You’ve captured his youth, the promise of what he’ll become, and the energy he possesses.’ She turned to Lulu, her eyes suspiciously bright. ‘I never realised how very talented you are, my dear. Congratulations.’
Lulu’s emotions were in turmoil. To see Clarice so moved was more than she could ever have hoped for. She threw her arms around her great-aunt and gave her a hug.
Clarice remained stiff in the embrace, her hands fluttering as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. ‘I’m delighted you’re so happy, dear, but please mind the coat. It’s my only mink, and although it’s a bit moth-eaten now, I wouldn’t want make-up all over it.’
Stung, even though the rebuff was gentle, Lulu stepped back and tucked her curls behind her ears as tears pricked.
The soft hand patted her cheek. ‘You’re a clever girl, and I’m very proud of you, Lorelei. But just because I’m a firm believer in never letting my emotions get the better of me, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.’
Lulu nodded, her unshed tears making it impossible to speak. Of course she was loved – the signs were all around her in the home Clarice had provided, in the studio, the clothes in her wardrobe and the flat in London. Yet Lulu yearned for something more tactile. There were times when all she needed was a cuddle, a kiss, some outward show that her aunt cared – but she knew it was a forlorn hope, and silently berated herself for being as needy as Maurice.
Clarice seemed to realise the inner battle Lulu was having and changed the subject. ‘I like the way he’s dancing in the waves. Is there a particular reason for that?’
‘He’s called Ocean Child.’
‘What an intriguing name,’ murmured Clarice. ‘What made you think of it?’
Lulu remembered that she hadn’t told Clarice about the letter. ‘It was rather strange, actually,’ she began. ‘I got this very odd letter from Tasmania and—’
‘Letter from Tasmania?’ Clarice interrupted sharply. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘It was ages ago, and I got so involved in my work I forgot about it.’
‘Who was it from?’
‘A man called Joe Reilly at Galway House. He’s a—’
‘I know what Reilly is,’ Clarice interrupted again. ‘Why is he writing to you?’
Lulu noted the alertness in Clarice’s demeanour, the intense gaze, the stiffening of her slender shoulders, and was confused by this strange reaction. She told her the contents of the letter. ‘It was obviously a mistake,’ she finished, ‘and I wrote to t
ell him so. I haven’t heard from him again.’
‘Good.’ Clarice sniffed delicately into a lace-edged handkerchief.
Lulu was curious. ‘How do you know him?’
Clarice dismissed the man with the wave of an elegant hand. ‘I met members of his family years ago through my late husband’s interest in horse racing.’
‘Don’t you ever wish you could go back for a visit?’
Clarice drew the fur collar to her chin, her expression formidable. ‘I can think of nothing I would like less.’
‘Perhaps one day I’ll be able to afford to return,’ she said wistfully.
‘There’s nothing for you in Tasmania,’ snapped Clarice. ‘Don’t start that nonsense again, Lorelei. Your life is here, and a good English education has rid you of that ghastly colonial accent. You wouldn’t fit in over there any more than I did.’
Lulu bit her lip as she remembered those awful elocution lessons. Her accent had been the last bit of Tasmania she’d held on to – but it seemed that too had to be expunged.
As if she could read her thoughts, Clarice looked at Lulu almost accusingly. ‘Childhood memories can be very unreliable. Much like your upbringing before I took over,’ she added in a mutter. She shivered and moved towards the door. ‘I’ll freeze to death out here. I’m going inside.’
Frustrated by Clarice’s continued refusal to even discuss Tasmania, Lulu turned off the lamps, locked the door behind them and followed her down the path towards the house.
*
Clarice avoided the drawing room, where Maurice was no doubt ensconced by the fire reading her newspaper, and made her way slowly up the stairs to her bedroom. She was in no mood for polite conversation, and was certainly not prepared to continue any discussion on Tasmania.
She eyed the miserable fire in the hearth and gave it a vigorous prod with the poker to stir it into life. With the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the draughts, she poured a glass of sweet sherry, sank into the armchair by the fire and mulled over the events of the evening.
Hearing about the letter from Reilly had come as a terrible shock, and even though Lorelei seemed to have dealt with it sensibly, Clarice had a nasty feeling that wouldn’t be the end of it.
Drawing the cashmere shawl around her shoulders, she took a sip of sherry and set the glass aside. Despite the passage of time, and her own best efforts to dissuade her, it seemed Lorelei was still drawn to Tasmania. Reilly’s letter had stirred her up again, but worse, had brought memories back to Clarice she’d thought long buried.
As she sat in the flickering light of the fire she tried to recapture the faces of those she had once loved. Time had smudged their features and silenced their voices – they had become ethereal, elusive shadows – but they still haunted her.
It had all begun that January, when she and her husband had arrived in Sydney. She could remember that day so clearly – even now – for she had dreaded it. And as the shoreline had drawn closer her emotional turmoil had increased. She had prayed fervently that marriage to Algernon and the passing years would have stifled the forbidden love that had once consumed her, proving it to be only a transitory infatuation of youth – but within hours of landing she had been put to the test. And found wanting.
Sydney, 1886
As the mariners clambered up the rigging to furl the sails, Clarice was forced to accept that her expectations for this long voyage had been too high. She had hoped the exotic places they visited and the star-filled nights at sea might rekindle ardour in Algernon and bring them closer. But Algernon seemed impervious to her needs, blind to her thwarted desires, and determined to maintain a distant courtesy which prohibited intimacy. Her marriage was a sham and, at thirty-six, her future was bleak.
News of Algernon’s posting to Australia had come as a terrible shock, and although it would mean she would be reunited with her elder sister, Eunice, she’d recognised the danger of coming face to face with the man she had once loved. She had tried to dissuade Algernon, but the position in the Governor’s Office would bring a knighthood a step closer, and that being his driving ambition, he’d refused to countenance her pleas.
She stared at the glittering water in the vast harbour without really seeing it, tucked a strand of fair hair behind her ear and dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief in an effort to control the emotions Algernon found so abhorrent.
Her marriage to the widower Algernon Pearson had been arranged by her father, who was closer to him in age than she was, and at first she had refused to consider such a match. But at twenty-five, and considered plain, she’d had little choice. The man she loved had married another, there were no other suitors and her father had been insistent.
It had not been the love match Eunice had made, but Algernon proved to be an attentive, erudite man, and after months of courtship she’d reluctantly agreed to marry him. Their wedding night had not been the ordeal she’d expected, for Algernon was a man of experience and had shown surprising consideration and enthusiasm in his lovemaking.
That had all changed as the years passed and there were no children. He began to spend more hours at the Foreign Office, and when he did come home, he slept in another room. An air of weary acceptance seemed to hang over him now, his disappointment in her almost tangible.
‘Open your parasol, and put on your gloves. The sun will darken your skin.’
Clarice was startled by her husband’s voice and, feeling guilty about her unkind thoughts, quickly complied.
Algernon stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back, the straw hat placed squarely over his grey hair. He regarded the shoreline with little interest and seemed impervious to the debilitating heat, even though he was wearing a tweed jacket over his starched shirt and woollen trousers.
‘No doubt there will be a reception committee to welcome us,’ he said. ‘As British aide to the governor I would expect certain standards – even here.’
Clarice saw his nostrils flare above the trim moustache as if the very smell of Australia insulted him. Algernon’s standards of conduct, dress and manners were impossibly high – which was why, despite the temperature, she was tightly corseted, her long skirt and petticoats clinging to her legs as her hands sweltered in cotton gloves. Eunice had written to warn Clarice of the dangers of wearing too many clothes; now she could feel the perspiration running down her spine and see it beading her décolletage. She just hoped she wouldn’t faint. What Algernon would say to that didn’t bear thinking about.
She glanced at the gathering on the quay and silently prayed for an official welcome. Algernon would plunge into a sour mood for the rest of the day if there was not. ‘Eunice wrote that Sydney is quite sophisticated for such a new colony, and that Governor Robinson is looking forward to your arrival.’
The nostrils became pinched. ‘Your sister would hardly have the ear of the governor,’ he replied disdainfully. ‘Enough prattle, Clarice. I wish to concentrate on memorising my speech to the welcoming committee.’
Clarice had heard it many times and thought it pompous in the extreme, but as her opinion didn’t count she turned her attention to the harbour as the Dora May was towed in by a flotilla of small boats. Now they were nearer, she could see the elegant houses and gardens, the stately red brick of government buildings and churches, and the broad, paved roads. It appeared far more civilised than some of the ports they had visited on the way.
Her pulse quickened as she searched the crowded dock for that familiar, once-beloved face, dreading seeing it, but unable to resist trying – but too many people waited there and her disappointment was tinged with relief.
The press of passengers on deck soon became claustrophobic, and the combination of heat and her own thudding heart overwhelmed her. Her head felt as if it was stuffed with kapok, and there were bright pinpricks of light darting before her eyes. Seeking air, she began to fight her way through the mass.
‘Clarice? Where are you going?’
His voice sounded distant, and as darkness closed in
she began to push harder. If she fainted, she would be trampled. She had to find shade and room to breathe.
She finally stumbled free of the crush and sank thankfully on to one of the hatches. A tarpaulin had been strung above it to provide shelter and Clarice sighed with relief as, at last, her head seemed to clear and the draught of her fan cooled her.
‘Get up,’ Algernon hissed, his large hand encircling her wrist. ‘You are making a spectacle of yourself.’
‘I feel faint,’ she replied, wresting her hand from his grasp. ‘Let me recover.’
‘You cannot sit here like an untidy bag of laundry!’ he snapped. ‘Go to our cabin where you will be out of the public gaze.’
She tried to rise, but the dark clouds returned and her legs threatened to give way. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered. ‘Please find me some water.’
Algernon glared, realised they were being watched and immediately became solicitous. ‘See to my wife’s needs,’ he ordered a nearby maid, ‘and be quick about it.’
Clarice didn’t care if the whole world was watching as she rested her head in her lap and tried to regain her senses. The cloth was cool as the girl mopped her brow and neck, and helped her to drink water from a cup. Pulling off the hated gloves and taking the cloth, Clarice discreetly dabbed the perspiration from her chest and face.
The water, shade and cooling fan began to ease her discomfort at last, and she eyed the clearly disgruntled Algernon, who was pacing the deck and checking his pocket watch. ‘If I could have your assistance,’ she murmured, ‘I am still a little unsteady.’
His expression was grim. ‘This simply won’t do, Clarice. The governor will be expecting us to disembark first,’ he said. ‘Now we must go ashore with the common herd and make our own introductions.’
Clarice grasped his arm, opened her parasol and let him lead her to the gangplank. Her legs trembled still, but her head was clearer and Algernon had yet to notice the absence of her gloves. She pasted on the smile that she knew was expected of her, lifted her chin and prepared to greet the governor.
Ocean Child Page 3