The Artist’s Secret

by Sonya Heaney

  Almost home she paused one final time, removing her old hat before walking on to the house, smoothing her hair with her fingertips and trying to regain some semblance of tidiness. Holding the hat by its ribbons with one hand and her bag with the other, she climbed the last gentle slope of the land as the family homestead of Endmoor emerged from the landscape.

  The sunshine reflected on the corrugated iron of the roof and veranda, and the garden, tamed and blooming with the first wave of spring, dazzled with its array of flowers. The main house was surrounded by a series of other buildings: stables and sheds in various states of newness and decay.

  And, descending from a vehicle on the carriage drive were two gentlemen.

  Robert turned her way first. The stranger, whose attention had been fixed somewhere off towards the mountains, removed his own hat and then turned too, revealing a wealth of jet-black hair and a set of strong, broad shoulders Elizabeth wished she’d not noticed.

  It was brief before it was disguised, but she caught the change in his posture, the sudden alertness, and oh … It had been a long time since someone had looked at her that way.

  And it had been a long time since she’d looked at a man that way. This couldn’t be the new employee. Her brother had told her to prepare for someone much older.

  Elizabeth closed the distance between them and prayed nobody would notice she looked like she’d just emerged from a trek through the Amazon, or that her gown was so old the fabric was beginning to tear at the seams. Burnt umber—of all the colours in the world to choose. What had she been thinking?

  Robert beamed broadly and stepped forward.

  ‘Mr Peter Rowe, this is my sister, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, Mr Rowe is from—’

  ‘Rowe and Son Accountants,’ she finished for him, and then set her things at her feet and made herself look directly at the most interesting person to arrive at the estate in a long time.

  ‘It seems there’s been a change of plans, and we’ve been saddled with Mr Rowe, the younger.’

  Robert, in the way of brothers, didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. He continued the introductions, all good breeding and fine manners. There hadn’t been many times over the years Elizabeth felt the need to strangle the man, but right then the urge was gargantuan.

  All the usual pleasantries were exchanged, and Elizabeth supposed she said the right things at the right time, enquiring about the journey, remarking on the quality of the new railway that’d only reached town mere days before. She was fairly sure something was said about the weather. And she absolutely refused to break out in romantical shivers simply because a handsome man stood so close to her.

  And then Alice, her sister-in-law, came out of the house, crossed the veranda, and proceeded to help lug a bag inside, and Robert was off to stop her, an admonishment on his lips and an indulgent smile on his face. Leaving Elizabeth and Mr Rowe alone and watching each other with caution and masked interest. It was dangerous, she knew, to put too much stock in first impressions, but as the world continued around them and she sought desperately for something halfway intelligent to say to fill the silence she struggled to take her own good advice.

  While she dithered Alice won her debate with her husband, and Elizabeth latched onto the sight of the two of them walking off together wrestling a case.

  ‘You might find us a little … odd from time to time, this far out in the country,’ she eventually said, and watched as a smile broke across the man’s face, dazzling her into forgetting the rest of her words.

  Well. If she’d been looking for a change in her world, she’d certainly just found it.

  Chapter 2

  The reality of Endmoor wasn’t quite what Peter had expected. The thought came to him sometime between a close call with a roaming, clucking chicken upon his arrival, and an encounter with a hay-laden wagon that nearly ran him down as it passed by, headed for the paddocks beyond.

  In truth, he’d expected something a little more … idyllic.

  With so many people around there was no way he could go poking about the property during the day without looking suspicious about it—and his intentions were suspicious, after all.

  The cheerfully bickering Farrers disappeared somewhere with his luggage, and Peter assumed he’d eventually see it again. He knew he should step away and try to offer his assistance for a second time; surely that durable Mr Adamson could be worn down with persistence.

  However, he stayed as he was, facing the most unexpected part of his journey so far.

  ‘I do promise we’re not mad all of the time,’ his employer’s younger sister told him, her brown eyes sparkling. He really ought not to notice that refined voice that carried more than a hint of England, or that her tone was refreshingly unguarded. She was of average height, and certainly not dressed to make an impression. And yet …

  He was about to respond to the only Farrer left on the drive when a cacophony of deafening calls rang out above him. Black birds, tipped white on their tails, chased each other in a manic pattern above them and across to the rich green grapevines, continuing their call as they did.

  As their hollering faded the bleats of the sheep filtered back across the landscape.

  Miss Farrer grinned.

  ‘You’ll find the country as loud as the city, I think.’

  ‘Louder,’ he said with enough ferocity she laughed outright.

  She glanced over at those vines and brushed back a curl of brown hair that had fallen across her ear, and Peter decided against mentioning the dark smudge on her cheek. Dirt? Soot? He hadn’t any idea.

  ‘Do you know much about wine?’

  A pertinent question for a man who’d been employed to oversee the family’s new business. Peter considered lying but knew she’d catch him out.

  ‘I’m good at drinking it. Beyond that, I assume I’ll receive a hasty education over the coming days.’

  She wasn’t, he decided, too appalled by the admission.

  ‘In all honesty we’re just happy to have someone take over those ledgers. Warring currawongs aside, I hope you like it here at Endmoor. The estate is named for our—mine and Robert’s, that is—childhood home in Cumberland. I was so small when we left England, and not much bigger when my parents decided to move inland from Sydney and make a go of working the land.’

  ‘You were probably horrified by what you found here. All those bushrangers and escaped convicts running wild.’

  She tilted her head, thinking about it.

  ‘Well, I didn’t love knowing the Clarke Gang and The Duffer and all the others haunted the region, and I certainly wasn’t thrilled about the size of the spiders.’ She held up a hand. ‘Some of them are this big.’

  ‘Are you trying to scare me off on my first day? I promise I’m less cowardly than I look.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, if you’re fine with the spiders, we’ll find something else to frighten you,’ she told him happily. ‘When we first came out here it was just the four of us, a horse, and a couple of bollocks, and I—’

  She broke off abruptly as she realised what she’d said, and a shocked look came over her face, her eyes going wide.

  Peter tried; he really did. Even so, a huff of laughter escaped as Miss Elizabeth Farrer’s porcelain skin flushed a distinct shade of pink.

  ‘A couple of bullocks, perhaps?’ he suggested.

  She stared at him—or, rather, at a point somewhere on the wall behind him—and struggled to respond.

  ‘Please tell me I didn’t say that.’

  There was no way—none—that he couldn’t laugh again.

  ‘I’m absolutely certain that you did.’

  That got her eyes back on him. She gave her head a little shake.

  ‘It’s my accent. It just sounded like—’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But nice try.’

  The frustrated sound she made was dainty but audible enough.

  ‘Could you perhaps forget you heard it?’

  ‘Sorry, Miss Farrer, but there’s no c
hance of that happening.’

  She grappled in a few moments of outraged silence. The sheep continued to bleat.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on your best behaviour on the very first day of your job?’

  ‘Ah, but I’m not to begin until tomorrow, so I consider myself safe. Predictability is boring. Don’t be afraid to be surprising.’

  Somewhere outside a dog barked, and then Robert Farrer reappeared, handed Elizabeth a letter with a knowing look—‘Post from town,’ he told her unnecessarily—before switching his attention to Peter. He beckoned to a building to the side of the homestead, and whatever it was that’d passed between Peter and Farrer’s sister was over. Miss Farrer turned her attention elsewhere with obvious relief, and Peter followed the brother to the cottage to the side of the homestead that would serve as his new home.

  ***

  Elizabeth dreamt insignificant things that night.

  After a friendly if stilted dinner, their new employee had made his excuses and returned to the cottage they’d spruced up for his stay, leaving her weak with relief. How fortunate that they’d never demolished the old house, as it was a convenient place to stash visitors who were either very unwelcome, too argumentative, or distractingly attractive.

  Awkwardness was the way of things when people hardly knew each other, but she was certain the man thought she was an imbecile. Throughout the evening she’d spent an inordinate amount of time gripping her wineglass too hard, and swirling the straw-green liquid around inside it. Rather than try to participate, she’d let the conversation unfold around her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ her brother asked at one point, drawing unwanted attention her way.

  ‘She’s doin’ research,’ Alice had explained, nodding at the bottle on the table. It was Endmoor, after all, and they had a vineyard to develop.

  If there was something strange about the evening, Elizabeth had been the only one to notice apparently. After the meal the men had discussed business. Mr Rowe spoke of revenue and expenditure the way Elizabeth might of the French Impressionists, while Robert became enthused about the topic of settling tanks and sediment. By the time their newest employee had made his excuses and returned to his accommodation Elizabeth found she’d spent a good deal of time staring a blank page of her sketchbook.

  Alice put her little son to bed and then sat down with a book so sensational and scandalous it had Robert snorting and Elizabeth oddly curious. Even Gertrude, the aloof cat, had rolled around on the rug, purring her contentment.

  Needing some time alone, Elizabeth took herself off to her room, only to discover there was no respite for her in her sleep. She dreamt of everyday things of no particular interest. Of helping Alice with the roses, and of numbing her mind with her brother’s ledgers. She dreamt of wandering about the estate, but each time she tried to take herself beyond the property’s borders some invisible power forced her back.

  Supposedly it was the monotony that finally woke her. She’d quite literally bored herself awake. For someone whose heart lay in creativity, it was an utter disgrace.

  Confused, uncertain how much of what was in her mind had really happened and how much had happened only in her head, she lay still for several moments, listening to the night as she came back to herself. Somewhere in the distance a bat let out a nightmarish screech that sent a shudder through her from top to toes.

  Sitting up and kicking the blankets away, she lit the lamp and then untangled and braided her hair, going over the events of the previous day in her head.

  In reality, Mr Rowe had displayed better manners that evening than he had in the afternoon, and not mentioned any aspect of the male anatomy once—not even the politer parts. He’d acted as though the whole event had never taken place.

  Even so—even now—her face heated with the memory of it.

  Still groggy, but certain she’d not get back to sleep any time soon, she slipped off the bed, reaching for a shawl. It didn’t matter what he thought of her. She’d had enough of men in general. Robert, a brother, was all she needed.

  Her mother’s letter, the one that had arrived in the afternoon, sat beside her, stamped and marked with all the signs of a journey from Britain to Australia. Already she’d read it some half a dozen times.

  Your brother was always more settled in New South Wales. If you were to return home, we wouldn’t be surprised, and you’d be very welcome here.

  It was the truth, was it not? Hadn’t that been the reason she’d written in the first place? To return to England … it was almost another dream. Squinting until her eyes became accustomed to the glow, she walked to the dresser and moved a couple of inlaid trinket boxes aside until she could reach the plainer one behind it.

  Tracing the familiar dents and scratches in the old wood, she opened it and retrieved another, older, letter—one that had been read many more times.

  Khartoum has fallen, and General Gordon is dead. We’re to send a contingent to the Sudan.

  Forgive me, but I’ll be late to meet you this afternoon.

  E.

  It was such an inconsequential note, dashed off in an excited, barely legible hand, news delivered so casually a person would think he’d reported on nothing more important than what he’d eaten for breakfast.

  It was so like Edward.

  One day she’d find the strength of will to burn the silly thing, but not yet. Not this week, and probably not the one after.

  She reread the note, smoothing out a creased corner as she did, and when she didn’t burst into devastated sobs she put it carefully away again and wondered what else she might do for the remainder of the night. Precedent told her she’d not be sleeping anymore.

  September nights were never easy. Not when every creature in existence thought spring existed solely for them to fight their rivals. And not when so many of them chose to wake well before dawn and announce their woes to the world, even earlier than the farmers did. Already, and despite it being hours from sunrise, she could hear various calls from the trees surrounding the house.

  Moping about the bedroom was far too maudlin for an early Thursday morning. And so she would wander the house instead.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she whispered. For goodness’ sake, she’d never said that word aloud in her life before.

  Crossing the wooden floor on careful, bare feet, she eased her door open and stepped out into the hall, toes coming into contact with the plush rug that ran its length.

  A few doors down she heard her infant nephew Duncan fussing, and the soft rustles of someone leaving their bed to care for him. Elizabeth plastered herself against a wall for a little while, feeling ridiculously guilty for a woman in her own house.

  She stayed absolutely still until both the fussing and the murmurs died down, feeling like a fool for hiding from her family. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she didn’t continue on until the place fell silent again. Once she finally did, she winced with each new step as the parquet floor creaked beneath her feet.

  It would never do if her cautious, protective brother came searching for an intruder. And it certainly wouldn’t do if the night ended with him crowning her with their parents’ antique vase that sat on the hall table, the one that had lost its brilliance since the elder Mr and Mrs Farrer had given up on the colonies and left their son and daughter behind.

  There will always be a place for you in Cumberland, though you might prefer London, now that the Slade School welcomes women.

  The suggestion in her mother’s letter had made her heart leap with excitement. It was a heady thing to imagine, being welcomed into an academy in Bloomsbury. To be included along with men, and be taught by Heaven only knew who, but she was certain they’d be important.

  It was a suggestion almost tempting enough to encourage her onto the next ship home. Life somehow seemed easier back there, and she wouldn’t have to worry about all the dreadful things the Australian landscape inflicted upon them. There’d be no concerns about whether the elements would utterly ruin them from
one year to the next.

  A draught picked up from nowhere, and Elizabeth shivered violently and again curled her toes.

  ‘Stupid, bloody weather,’ she said as loudly as she dared, delighting in the freedom of saying appalling things when there was nobody around to scold her.

  It was perfectly normal to startle at a shadow, she reasoned, as her heart began to beat too fast. It was also perfectly normal to stop still for a full minute to be certain the next shadow was normal and unthreatening and definitely not a poltergeist, and that it would not attack her if she continued on.

  In the past, when she, Robert and their friends had been much younger, they’d scared themselves silly telling stories of ghosts drifting across the old, barren land. Nights had been worse for the Farrer children, living so far from town. A normal woman would have forgotten those stories a long time ago, but Elizabeth had a good memory—especially in the middle of the night, and especially when the air was alive with … something …

  She firmly ignored the sensation of fingertips crawling up and down her back.

  The hall table, she finally realised. It was the hall table that had been there at least a decade whose shadow had appeared ominous a few steps back.

  ‘Ghosts do not exist,’ she breathed.

  Once she was clear of the corridor she felt safe enough to move faster, but the word—that ridiculous word she’d said to Mr Rowe—chased along after her. To make matters worse, she’d not known until seeing her reflection half an hour after meeting him that she had charcoal smudged in various places on her face, and a scattering of burs attached to her gown in interesting locations.

  Gliding through the dark house, she made her way to the drawing room, skirting around furniture and avoiding banged shins by memory. She used the shadows as an additional guide, and managed to not bump into anything important.

  The curtains were drawn back from the large window, a nod to the sun that came through in the mornings and warmed the house naturally over the cooler months. And it was there that she dropped into a chair, curling her feet up under herself.