Molly shrugged. ‘She’s another pair of hands. I’ll soon sort her out.’ She mopped her face. ‘I listened to the races on the radio. Looks like Bob could turn out good, given the chance.’
‘Yeah, I reckon, as long as he doesn’t talk himself to death first. He’s hardly stopped for breath since he dismounted.’ He opened a bottle of beer for each of them. Despite the chill of the winter night, it was hot in the kitchen, and the beer slipped down nicely. ‘I saw Penny today,’ he said into the companionable silence.
Molly eyed him sharply across the scrubbed pine table. ‘Oh yeah? How’s she going?’
‘She’s good. Engaged to Alec Freeman.’
‘That didn’t take her long,’ she snapped, fists clenched on the table.
He smiled and covered her hands with his own. ‘Fair go, Ma. It’s been almost two years, and Alec’s a good bloke.’
Molly remained silent, but her thoughts were clear in her expression – she would never have made a poker player.
Joe sipped his beer and wondered how best to broach the subject of Gwendoline Cole and her relationship with Miss Pearson. ‘She told me something interesting,’ he began.
‘Really?’ Her tone was flat, her expression incurious.
‘It seems our Miss Pearson has a relative here.’
Molly’s interest was piqued, for she prided herself on knowing everyone within a hundred mile-radius. ‘I don’t recall any Pearsons,’ she said thoughtfully,.‘They can’t be local.’ She frowned as she sifted through her mental library of acquaintances. ‘They must come from the south,’ she said dismissively.
‘Actually her mother lives just outside Poatina, and her name isn’t Pearson – it’s Cole. Gwendoline Cole.’
Molly froze, the drink held almost to her lips, her eyes wide with shock. She blinked and carefully placed the glass down on the table. ‘Good God,’ she breathed. ‘I never thought I’d hear that name spoken in this house again.’
‘So you do know her then? Penny said you would.’
‘What can she possibly know? She wasn’t even born when …’
Joe frowned. His mother’s lips had formed a thin line, and her eyes, usually so full of laughter, were arctic. ‘When what, Ma?’
‘Never mind.’ She shoved back her chair and folded her arms as she stared, unseeing, at the over-boiling saucepans. ‘But it all suddenly makes sense,’ she murmured almost to herself. ‘Pearson, Bartholomew and Cole. Of course.’
‘Who’s Bartholomew?’
‘It was that woman’s maiden name before she married Ernie Cole.’ Molly got to her feet, opened the range door and proceeded to prod the pork with rather more vigour than was warranted before turning her attention to the saucepans. ‘Poor Ernie put up with her sluttish carrying-on far longer than anyone expected, and we all silently cheered when he drummed up the courage to leave her.’
‘Where did the name Pearson come from then?’
‘The baby was illegitimate; she was adopted.’ Molly’s expression was grim. ‘I don’t care how much money Miss Pearson has, or how good her colt is, I will not have that bitch’s daughter in my house.’
Joe took a step back, stunned by her uncharacteristic vehemence.
‘In fact,’ she said, her bosom rising with ire, ‘I’d rather not see her at all. She should catch the next boat home to England and leave decent people in peace.’
‘But if she was adopted, she’s probably very different to her mother,’ Joe said with quiet reason. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh, judging her before she’s even arrived?’
‘Bad blood will out,’ snapped Molly. ‘Adopted or not, she’s a part of Gwen Cole and I want nothing to do with her.’
Joe was becoming exasperated. ‘She’s arriving soon,’ he said flatly. ‘What am I supposed to do? Bar her from the yard?’
‘You can do what you bloody like,’ Molly snarled. ‘Just keep her away from me!’
Joe was about to remonstrate with her when he heard the twoway radio burst into life in the hall. He stood in a quandary, unwilling to leave his mother in such a state, but anxious not to miss the call. At this time of night it was probably important.
‘Well, go on. Answer the bloody thing,’ Molly yelled, flicking a tea towel at him, ‘and leave me to get on with this flaming tea.’
He eyed her warily and backed away. He had never seen his mother in such a temper, and it was quite extraordinary to behold. It was clear feelings ran deep where Gwen Cole was concerned, and Penny was not the only one to hate her – but he couldn’t begin to guess the reason for his mother’s reaction.
Beneath the clamour of the two-way radio’s static, he could hear Molly crashing pans and plates and wondered how much of the crockery would survive the evening. Frowning, he snatched up the receiver. ‘Galway House.’
‘Joe Reilly?’ The voice was deep, with an unmistakable Queensland twang.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Carmichael. I was wondering if you’ve heard from Miss Pearson since you sent the documents to London?’
Joe gripped the receiver. It was definitely an evening for surprises, for this was the first time he’d actually spoken to the man. ‘Indeed I have,’ he said. ‘She’s confirmed ownership, and is due to arrive in Tasmania on the fourteenth of October.’
There was a long silence at the other end and Joe wondered if he’d been cut off. The line was unreliable at the best of times, the local exchange in the habit of ending calls mid-sentence when they considered people to have talked long enough. He listened to the static. ‘Hello … ? Mr Carmichael?’
There was the faint sound of someone clearing their throat. ‘That date’s confirmed, is it?’
‘She sent a telegram.’
‘You’re certain she hasn’t changed her plans?’
There was a burst of static, but Joe could have sworn he’d caught an edge of wariness in the man’s voice. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he said curtly. ‘I would have told you earlier, but you’re a difficult man to contact.’
‘I move around a lot. Is there anything else you need to tell me?’
Joe could still hear his mother crashing about in the kitchen and decided that while he had the elusive Carmichael on the phone, rather than discuss Ocean Child he would find out just how much he knew about Miss Pearson. ‘Mr Carmichael, do you know a woman called Gwendoline Cole?’
There was another long silence from Carmichael. ‘I’ll contact you again, Mr Reilly. Please assure Miss Pearson that I have only her interests at heart.’
‘But it would be better if I could call you,’ said Joe. ‘Will you give me a number where I can reach … ?’ He stared at the angry buzz coming from the receiver.
‘Your caller’s hung up, Joe,’ said Doreen, who ran the local exchange and was suspected of listening in to every call. ‘Do you want to try him again?’
‘Yes, Doreen, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘No worries.’
There were a series of clicks and buzzes and lots of static before Doreen came back to him. ‘He rang from a hotel lobby in Brisbane, Joe. The manager has no record of a Carmichael staying there, so I reckon he must have just been passing through.’
Joe wasn’t surprised – Carmichael seemed determined to remain a mystery. ‘Thanks, Doreen. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Joe, and say hello to your ma for me, will you? I’ll catch up with her at the picnic races on Saturday.’
Joe disconnected the call and stood for a moment, hands in pockets, staring into space. His thoughts were in a whirl as he tried to make sense of what he’d learnt today. It was as if he’d been presented with a Pandora’s box, and although he’d only been permitted a glimpse of what it contained, he was no nearer solving the conundrum. But it was clear that Carmichael had orchestrated everything, and that somehow Gwendoline Cole and her daughter were at the centre of it.
He grabbed his hat and left the house, letting the screen door crash behind him as he ran down the steps. There were too m
any questions and not enough answers, and as he strode across the paddocks trying to wrestle with it all, he came to the unhappy conclusion that Miss Pearson must hold the key.
He stopped walking and dug his hands in his pockets as he looked up at the night sky. The Milky Way glittered above him, a splash of a million stars against inky black. He shivered. If Miss Pearson held the key, then her arrival would open that Pandora’s box. He suspected they would all be affected by the demons she freed.
Chapter 6
England was having an Indian summer, and as Clarice picked blooms for the house she could feel perspiration beading her brow. Feeling slightly giddy from the heat, she picked up the trug – a small wooden basket made only in Sussex and used for carrying flowers and small gardening implements – and carried it into the shade of the magnolia tree. The blossom had long gone, but the leaves and spreading boughs provided shelter from the sun and she sank gratefully on to the garden bench.
Dabbing her face with a handkerchief, she gazed at the garden with pleasure. The gardeners had done well this summer. The hedges had been trimmed, lawns cut, beds weeded and the pond cleared. There was still work to be done on the tennis court, but as it hadn’t been used since Lorelei’s departure, it didn’t really matter.
With just the right combination of rain and sun, the flower beds had been a riot of colour and the sweet-scented stocks had flourished. The scent seemed to fill the garden, but they couldn’t overwhelm the unsettling perfume of the late roses. She eyed the perfect blood-red blooms which would never grace the inside of the house and tentatively breathed in their fragrance in the forlorn hope that time and distance had diluted the powerful memories it invoked. They had once been her favourite flower, but events in Australia had erased that pleasure, and as she sat there in the shade of the ancient magnolia tree, the scents and images of the past returned full force.
Sydney, Christmas Day 1887
‘I do not have time for frippery,’ declared Algernon, his gaze fixed on the sheaf of papers before him.
Clarice stood in the doorway to his book-lined study and tamped down on her rising frustration. ‘But it is Christmas Day,’ she said. ‘Surely your work can wait.’
He took off the spectacles and slung them on the desk with an impatient sigh. His gaze was cool as he regarded her. ‘The governor has entrusted me to deal with a particularly thorny problem that must be resolved before the governing council sits again in the New Year.’
‘Surely not even the governor would expect you to forgo Christmas luncheon with the family?’
‘They are your family, not mine, thank God.’ He picked up his glasses and began to polish them. ‘My reputation and career are more important than frivolity,’ he snapped. ‘Both hang on the outcome of the work I’m doing, and if I’m to attain recognition for my services to Her Majesty before I retire, then my energies must be conserved wholly for my duties.’
Clarice returned his icy glare. It seemed her small rebellions against him had given her the ability to see him as he truly was – and she had little affection or respect for what she’d discovered. Algernon’s ambition to be awarded a knighthood on his retirement twelve months hence had become a force that had driven a chasm between them – and where once there had been a sort of companionship, now there was only mutual disinterest. ‘Then I shall attend on my own,’ she said.
‘Do as you like,’ he muttered, as he perched the spectacles on his nose. ‘Shut the door on your way out and tell the servants I am not to be disturbed.’
Clarice glared at him, but he didn’t see, for he was already immersed in his papers. A sliver of her once passionate nature rose anew and made her want to scream at him, to beat him with her fists until he took notice of her – but she’d been married to him for too long and she no longer had the will, or the energy, to confront his indifference. She closed the door with a soft click and left him to the oppressive silence of a loveless house.
*
The short carriage ride took her through the almost deserted streets of Sydney town and into the northern suburbs, where the sea breeze lowered the temperature and offered respite. Eunice’s new, two-storey home was perched on a hill that swept down to rocky cliffs and a small sandy bay. It was perfectly placed to take advantage of the cooling winds, and its many windows offered breathtaking vistas of the coastline. Shaded by trees, and surrounded with lush lawns and burgeoning flower beds, it offered a haven after the dour atmosphere she’d left behind.
As the carriage drew to a halt before the graceful wrap-around veranda, the front door opened and a maid came to take charge of the many packages she’d brought. Lionel followed her down the steps. ‘You look especially lovely this morning,’ he murmured as he handed Clarice down. ‘Happy Christmas.’
She dipped a curtsy and avoided his gaze. ‘Thank you, Lionel, and the best of the season’s greetings to you too.’ She had become inured to his flirtatious compliments and treated them lightly, but it was disconcerting that her pulse raced whenever his blue eyes looked into hers. ‘You can let go of my hand now,’ she prompted coolly.
He laughed and, instead of releasing her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘I see your husband has decided to remain at his desk, so I shall take advantage of his absence and make it my delightful duty to see that you have a splendid Christmas day.’ He leant closer as they reached the entrance hall. ‘There is a special gift for you in the drawing room,’ he murmured, ‘but you will have to be patient and wait until after luncheon to open it.’
Clarice felt a tingle of pleasure at his nearness and was warmed by his smile, but those pleasurable feelings couldn’t quite banish the unhappiness of her situation. Algernon had always disliked the jollity surrounding Christmas and refused to countenance the giving and receiving of gifts. She’d had to hide the presents for Eunice and her family until this morning, and knew he would question the receipts when he came to do the monthly accounts.
Lionel drew to a halt and looked down at her, his finger gently raising her chin until she looked back at him. ‘Why such a sad face, Clarry?’
She found she was mesmerised by his eyes and hastily stepped back. ‘I’m not at all sad,’ she protested.
The doubt was clear in his expression, but thankfully he didn’t press her, and instead pointed to the chandelier above them. ‘Do you know what that is?’
She eyed the plant hanging there. It had long, thick green leaves and starburst flowers of yellow and orange. ‘I’ve seen it growing on trees,’ she replied, ‘so it’s probably some sort of parasitic weed.’ She smiled at his astonishment. ‘Algernon lent me a book on Australian botany to improve my education.’
‘How very admirable of him,’ he said drily. He took a step closer. ‘It’s mistletoe,’ he said, ‘and the cost of walking beneath it is a kiss.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, nervously backing away.
‘I’m not being silly at all,’ he replied as he advanced, ‘and one has to keep the traditions going, even in the colonies.’ The intensity in his eyes was suddenly vanquished by a boyish grin. ‘It’s only a bit of fun, Clarry, and what harm can there be in one little kiss?’
Clarice had a suspicion he wouldn’t behave in such a manner if Algernon or Eunice were in sight. She swiftly glanced about the hall. They were alone, the sounds of the party drifting in through the doors to the garden. Looking back at him she saw his teasing smile and couldn’t resist. ‘One kiss, Lionel, and on the cheek. No cheating.’
‘No cheating,’ he promised as he bent towards her, his moustache twitching with his mischievous grin.
Clarice rose on the balls of her feet and rather unsteadily prepared to plant a hasty peck on the sweet-scented tanned flesh. She must have lost her balance, or he must have moved, for instead of his cheek beneath her lips, she felt his mouth – soft and warm, as delicate as a butterfly, it nevertheless scorched through her and stirred fires she thought long extinguished.
Almost swooning with desire, and fighting for b
reath, she had to force herself to push him away. ‘Lionel,’ she gasped, ‘how dare you break your promise?’
He grinned without a shred of regret. ‘I had my fingers crossed,’ he said, ‘so the promise didn’t count.’
She decided attack was the best form of defence and plastered on her most stern expression. ‘You really are the limit, Lionel. I don’t know how my poor sister puts up with you.’ Gathering the tatters of her pride, she marched towards the back of the house in search of the other guests. But her heart was pounding and she could still feel the touch of his lips. Lionel couldn’t possibly know what a dangerous game he was playing, for his kiss had awakened something in her that must be suppressed vigorously before it could destroy her and everything she held dear.
*
‘Of course you must attend. Get dressed immediately and stop making a fuss.’
Clarice bunched her fists. It was New Year’s Eve, and she’d tried everything to avoid the party – to avoid Lionel – but it appeared Algernon was for once determined to escort her. ‘I have a headache,’ she said.
‘Then take a powder.’ He was eyeing his reflection in the mirror and straightening his bow tie.
‘The powders don’t work. They make me feel sick.’
He spun around and glared at her. ‘Get dressed !’ he roared. ‘The governor expects us to attend, and I will not have you disgrace me!’
Clarice flinched but held her ground. ‘There is no need to shout,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m sure half of Sydney does not wish to hear your temper.’
His glare remained, but his voice was lower now, and trembling with rage. ‘Do as I say, woman, and be quick about it.’
Clarice knew she had no choice and left the dressing room. With angry tears almost blinding her, she marched down the corridor and slammed the bedroom door behind her with such force it made the glass rattle in the windows.
The maid leapt from the chair and nervously held out the pale yellow gown Algernon had bought her especially for the ball.
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