The Artist’s Secret

by Sonya Heaney

  ‘Don’t be. The day is too nice to be cranky.’ Her stomach had other ideas, however, sending out a protest so loud it almost drowned out the warble of a magpie in the tree above.

  He kissed her one more time.

  ‘I think we need to find you some food.’

  ‘I know.’ But instead she returned to her perch on the log and patted the space he’d warmed beside her. ‘First, though, let’s just sit together for a while. The others can wait.’

  Epilogue

  March

  ‘I’ll leave you to finish your work,’ Daisy (if you’d met my aunt Edith you wouldn’t want the name either) Rowe told Elizabeth one sunny afternoon the next month.

  Dressed in a stylishly bustled, fashionable purple dress from Sydney that both complemented her dark colouring and turned heads in town, Peter’s sister had come to Barracks Flat the previous week to join her brother and Elizabeth on their newest adventure.

  On her way out of the room she paused for the briefest of moments, to look again at Namadgi Sunrise. After being driven some two-hundred miles along the rails from Maurice Rowe’s Sydney terrace, the painting now hung in its new home above the mantle. It was a wedding present, Daisy had explained when, wrapped tightly and causing all kinds of trouble for the porters, the painting arrived at Barracks Flat Station the same time she had.

  ‘Though, not a great one,’ she’d told Elizabeth, laughing, ‘as Peter already owns it.’

  Elizabeth returned to her canvas with the sort of determination she only needed on days nothing went right, when—with a little sound of surprise—Daisy stopped again.

  ‘I should warn you, I heard a horse outside just now, and saw a very familiar fellow walking towards the house. I doubt you’ve much time left to yourself.’ She smiled. ‘Be prepared for another interruption.’

  Elizabeth smiled back at her and then fixed as much of her attention as she could manage on her work, tingling with anticipation. That familiar fellow would have to wait; she was soon to be a famous artist, and such an achievement required hours of effort.

  Off to one side, and currently covered to protect them from the damaging sun, were two completed works. Ready to be sent off to Goulburn, and then to the cities beyond. She was still adamant she was no McCubbin, and yet she found a great deal of joy in her painting.

  It was an unusual thing to be in a new home, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. It was an adjustment, mostly, becoming accustomed to the idea that Endmoor was no longer hers. The homestead would always be there, waiting for her whenever she needed it. And anyway, she needed those paddocks and those vines for inspiration to keep her customers happy.

  Another letter from England sat opened, read and reread on the small table beside her. Her mother’s heartfelt advice was very much appreciated but no longer necessary. Elizabeth had made her decision. When the news she’d sent off a few weeks earlier reached Endmoor—the Endmoor of Cumberland, not of New South Wales—Mary Farrer was going to be very surprised.

  She and Peter had been married when the town recovered from the disaster, and as soon as—Elizabeth had made sure to mention then—the church was no longer soggy. Their house was not as large as her old home, but it had the advantage of being directly in town, on Church Lane, a pretty little street close to the river that afforded them a view of the expansive grounds of the mayor’s residence on the other side.

  Not too near the river though, Peter had pointed out with a wry smile the day of their wedding, while they’d watched as some of his possessions from Sydney and her own from the homestead were moved in a flurry of activity and excitement.

  Thanks to its slightly elevated position, Martha’s house had come away from the flood unscathed, bar damage to the English garden at its front. The same could not be said for some of the gristmills nearby, but Barracks Flat had rallied as it always did and was steadily putting things back as they were meant to be.

  Best of all, in this new home Elizabeth had an entire parlour on the ground floor to herself. The room faced in such a way the light was good most days, even if that particular afternoon was a little overcast. A gift of sorts, her new husband had called it. Once she’d finished laughingly explaining that parlours were not standard gifts for new wives, she had been forced to admit he could not have thought of anything better.

  A flutter of colour at the window caught her attention, and she glanced up to see a pair of lorikeets working their way steadily around a nearby bush, nibbling at Heaven only knew what on its yellowing autumn leaves. Setting her palette aside, she took a moment just to enjoy the view.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Near to five,’ her husband replied.

  She’d known he was there, watching her and yet still giving her space, waiting for her to be finished before he interrupted.

  Peter came closer and gave her work a frank assessment.

  ‘The colours are … interesting …’ he eventually decided. The too-kind assessment made her laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny about that?’

  ‘Interesting is a generous way of implying you’re not impressed but don’t want to hurt my feelings. Interesting happens to be the kindest word I have for it, too. The whole work is disastrous and ought to be abandoned, but I can’t seem to do it.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘Goodness, no. I’ve badly missed my mark. At this rate I might as well make the birds pink and the trees orange; it couldn’t possibly make the scene any less accurate.’

  He snatched one of her hands in his with a sudden movement, as though she would make good on her promise and ruin the piece there and then.

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  Squeezing her fingers lightly, he kept possession of her hand as he walked around the chair to face her, and then he tugged her up so they stood face to face.

  ‘Lizzie?’ he began and she groaned.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed against doing that.’

  He stroked a finger across her palm. ‘I apologise. I thought it might be worth a second try.’

  ‘And it’s still not acceptable. Unless …’ They were close enough for her to see the flash of alarm in his eyes, and—smiling—she stopped to think, taking in the strong angle of his jaw and the hint of a shadow running across it. It was a sensible exterior that hid so much strength beneath.

  ‘I don’t like the tone of your voice, nor the look on your face. It’s dangerous.’

  A breeze beyond the windows sent the garden rustling. Dappled light bounced around the room in the shape of a hundred-thousand petals and leaves.

  ‘Perhaps if I’m Lizzie you might be Petey.’

  That strong jaw clenched. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘It’s sweet, and it suits you.’

  Her husband’s alarm grew. ‘I truly hope it doesn’t.’

  He thought she was serious. Pleased with her newfound power, she bit her lip until she had control of herself.

  ‘You hate it, don’t you? Now I know how to best punish you. This is the sort of thing a wife should learn as soon as possible.’

  The word wife was still new enough to startle a reaction out of him; it startled her, too. Feeling too happy even to tease, she patted his chest.

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  His relief palpable, he indicated the painting. ‘I was going to tell you it’s an impressive piece.’

  ‘I think you are an unreliable art critic,’ she told him earnestly.

  ‘Truly? I thought I was getting rather good at it.’

  She grinned at him. ‘Liar.’

  The firmness of his hand at her waist was in stark contrast to the softness of his lips when he brushed them against the nape of her neck.

  He turned again, holding her lightly from behind and they simply stood a while, enjoying each other’s company, and the silence of the room contrasting with all the squawks and chirps of nature outside. The sun came back again, lightening the room at such speed it felt like a different day an
d a different season.

  Elizabeth ran her fingers back and forth over his hands where they rested, folded at her waist.

  She felt his contented sigh, and then a moment later his sudden shift in attention.

  ‘What are your plans for the painting?’

  ‘Peter, please stop looking at it. When I create a masterpiece you may appreciate it all day, but this really ought to be condemned to the fire.’

  His arms tightened. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘No. It’s not terrible, just not my best. Perhaps I’ll add those pink birds and orange trees and call it a new genre. I’ll rename myself something exotic and pass myself off as a master.’

  He thought about that. ‘Maybe Angélique Rowe. Or Benedetta Rowe? Juliette Rowe?’

  She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I notice all of the names you suggest come with your name attached to them.’

  ‘Well, yes. I’ve only just given it to you; you’re not to dispose of it yet.’

  She dropped her head back against his shoulder. ‘I should be packing.’

  Peter paused. ‘When you speak of packing, what exactly will that entail …?’

  ‘No,’ Elizabeth told him hastily, knowing what he assumed. ‘I wasn’t planning taking all of this with me.’

  They were off out of town the following morning. On Miss Hall’s advice they’d stop in Bungendore first, where, allegedly, they might find a stray relation or two to share what they knew of the tablelands’ past. Then it was off to the north, where Lake George stretched some sixteen miles in the direction of Sydney.

  It wouldn’t be the usual sort of honeymoon, but there were much more important and interesting things that needed doing first. Peter’s quest for a connection to the country hadn’t ended simply because one old man with a penchant for horse theft had a disinterest in his family.

  ‘Weereewaa.’ She tried out the word, still so new to her.

  ‘Weereewaa,’ Peter echoed, saying it better.

  Thanks for reading The Artist’s Secret. I hope you enjoyed it. If you liked this book, you might enjoy my other title in the Brindabella Secrets series, The Landowner’s Secret.

  Reviews can help readers find books, and I am grateful for all honest reviews. Thank you for taking the time to let others know what you’ve read, and what you thought.

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  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing …

  Discover another great read from Escape Publishing …

  The Landowner’s Secret

  Sonya Heaney

  New South Wales, 1885

  When Alice Ryan wakes to find thugs surrounding her cottage, on the hunt for her no-good brother, she escapes into the surrounding bush.

  It is wealthy landowner Robert Farrer who finds her the next morning, dishevelled, injured, and utterly unwilling to share what she knows. With criminals on the loose and rumours that reckless bushrangers have returned to the area, Robert is determined to keep Alice out of danger, and insists on taking her into his home-despite the scandal it may cause. Convincing her to stay on with him for her own safety, however, is going to take some work.

  What Robert doesn’t expect is his growing attraction to the forthright, unruly woman staying in his home. Before either of them can settle into their odd new situation, their home and wellbeing come under threat and they will need to trust each other to survive. But they are both keeping secrets, secrets that have the potential to ruin their burgeoning love, their livelihood … and their lives.

  Find it here.

  ISBN: 9781867208204

  Title: The Artist’s Secret

  Copyright © 2020 by Sonya Heaney

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises (Australia) Limited, Level 13/201 Elizabeth Street, Sydney, NSW, Australia, 2000.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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