by Téa Cooper
Praise for Tea Cooper
‘Take a journey into the heart of Australia’s past, in the company of the strong and inspirational characters in Tea Cooper’s latest triumph, The Girl in the Painting. A stunning historical timepiece … one of Australia’s leading historical fiction specialists.’ —Mrs B’s Book Reviews on The Girl in the Painting
‘Refreshing and unique, The Woman in the Green Dress sweeps you across the wild lands of Australia in a thrilling whirl of mystery, romance, and danger. This magical tale weaves together two storylines with a heart-pounding finish that is drop-dead gorgeous.’ —J’nell Ciesielski, author of The Socialite, on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘Readers of Kate Morton and Beatriz Williams will be dazzled. The Woman in the Green Dress spins readers into an evocative world of mystery and romance in this deeply researched book. There is a Dickensian flair to Cooper’s carefully constructed world of lost inheritances and found treasures as two indomitable women stretched across centuries work to reconcile their pasts while reclaiming love, identity and belonging against two richly moving historical settings. As soon as you turn the last page you want to start again just to see how every last thread is sewn in anticipation of its thrilling conclusion. One of the most intelligent, visceral and vibrant historical reads I have had the privilege of visiting in an age.’ —Rachel McMillan, author of The London Restoration, on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘… boasts strong female protagonists, an infectious fascination with the past, and the narrative skill to weave multiple timelines into a satisfying whole … smartly edited, cleanly written … easy to devour.’ —Sydney Morning Herald on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘An exciting, moving and satisfying read.’ —Australian Books + Publishing on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘a rich historical fiction novel about the choices we make, and the unimaginable consequences that can unravel for us, and for those who come after us.’ —Better Reading on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘weaves a seductive narrative of secrets, memories, lost love and mystery … a freshly drawn bittersweet saga that draws nuggets of “truth” with timeless magic and might-have-beens.’ —North & South Magazine (NZ) on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘Cooper weaves historical fact and creative fiction through the two periods with success. Her primary and additional characters are interesting and well developed. The plot … contains Cooper’s signature mix of colonial and indigenous social history, scientific discovery, mystery and a hint of romance. The colour green appears throughout the novel as a fascinating visual symbol, adding an extra layer of intrigue.’ —Historical Novel Society on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘If you are a fan of historical fiction, with a particular eye for trusted Australian historical fiction, you must turn to Tea Cooper. The Woman in the Green Dress is a prime example of Cooper’s prowess in the area of carefully considered historical fiction. With a rich and pervading sense of place, accompanying a rich character set … not to be missed.’ —Mrs B’s Book Reviews on The Woman in the Green Dress
‘Cooper is a welcome inclusion to the rising ranks of female-centred historical Australian novels.’ —Herald Sun on The Naturalist’s Daughter
About the Author
TEA COOPER is an established Australian author of contemporary and historical fiction. In a past life she was a teacher, a journalist and a farmer. These days she haunts museums and indulges her passion for storytelling. She is the bestselling author of several novels, including The Naturalist’s Daughter, The Woman in the Green Dress and The Girl in the Painting.
www.teacooperauthor.com
Also by Tea Cooper
The Horse Thief
The Cedar Cutter
The Currency Lass
The Naturalist’s Daughter
The Woman in the Green Dress
The Girl in the Painting
(Available in ebook)
Matilda’s Freedom
Lily’s Leap
Forgotten Fragrance
The House on Boundary Street
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
To Carl Hoipo
Chief Historian, Historical Guru and Cartophile
with more thanks than I can ever express.
Contents
Praise
About the Author
Also by Tea Cooper
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Sydney, Australia, 1911
‘Ladies, ladies. Your attention please. It is imperative that we take advantage of this opportunity.’ An air of despair laced Mrs Booth’s voice. ‘Miss Fletcher is a very busy woman, her studio portraits are in high demand. We are very lucky to have her here today.’
The hands on the wall clock ticked their agonising way to two. By the time the women were herded into place it would be well past the hour Letitia Rawlings promised to be standing on the corner of George Street. The boat race started at three and she had to be aboard before the starter’s gun.
Precious minutes lapsed while Miss Fletcher arranged every single member of the Women’s Club, seating Mrs Booth in the centre, adjusting drapes, worrying about height, the set of elbows and the ability to remain silent and still. When she’d accomplished those major feats, she spent more valuable moments measuring the intensity of the light while a further argument ensued about who should sit next to whom.
Patience worn to a frazzle, Lettie turned to Mrs Booth and hissed, ‘I really must leave. I have a prior commitment.’
‘You cannot.’ Mrs Booth clamped her hand firmly on Lettie’s arm and held her steady, fixed her eyes on the camera and nodded. ‘Continue, Miss Fletcher. We are ready.’
A further eternity passed until finally Lettie managed to offer her farewells and escape. She scanned the busy street searching for Thorne’s pride and joy—his motor. The shiny green custom-built Model T Ford with its distinctive khaki roof was nowhere to be seen.
There was no sign of her brother in Pitt Street either which was hardly unexpected. If he’d waited he’d have missed the pre-start checks. Thorne always won the sprint and she usually made a fine showing in the ladies’ steering race but she’d promised to attend the luncheon at the Women’s Club. There had been several of her cohort from the Ladies Debating Society present and she hadn’t caught up with them since university days. Now she wished she’d refused the invitation.
Clamping her hat over her unruly curls and dodging the crowds she bolted down the hill towards the Quay. The start line was just beyond Fort Macquarie Tram Depot. It couldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. If she hurried she might have time to slip into her well-worn seat at the back of the boat before the race began.
The first glimmer of the harbour appeared between the buildings surrounding the Quay. Seven minutes until the gun. Even if she wasn’t aboard she�
��d be there to cheer Thorne to the finish. Tucking her bag under her arm, she lifted her skirts and ran.
The ground shuddered.
A deafening explosion ricocheted from the buildings, thundered through her body and shook her to her core.
And the sky lit up—an obscene ball of flame and smoke shot into the windless air. Jagged timber shards knifed towards the sky. Flames crackled and her ears rang, filling her chest with a strange, heavy thump.
A limp puppet-body arced through the billowing clouds.
All-encompassing silence. No sound, no words, just an horrendous earth-stopping dread as the dancing blaze and floating debris mesmerised the crowd of onlookers.
And there in the benign waves lapping the small stretch of sand, a boater. Not a mark on it, the blue hair ribbon he’d pinched from her dresser that morning still pristine.
The gaping hollow in her stomach sliced its way to her heart and Lettie knew her beloved brother, Thorne Ludgrove Rawlings, was no more.
One
Sydney, 1911
Lettie lay on her bed, eyes focused on the ceiling rose waiting for her breathing to settle and the sweat to dry on her skin. She knew, down to the last second, how long it would take to rid herself of the flickering images.
No matter what the papers described, no matter what the eyewitness reports and the scientific evidence suggested, the result was conclusive. A careless cigarette and her brother was no more.
She reached for her sketchbook and flicked through the pages to the last drawing she’d made: Thorne at the stern of the boat, his boater at a rakish angle and his smile blazing in competition with the noonday sun. If only she’d done as she’d promised, and hadn’t agreed to the ridiculous photograph to commemorate the insignificant achievements of the Women’s Club.
Perhaps if she’d made it to the wharf in time, Thorne wouldn’t have lit the cigarette. She could imagine his impatience. She’d berated him hundreds of times for smoking in the boat—they both knew the dangers of a naked flame with the engine primed.
They’d dreamt of shared adventures and exploration, made so many plans. The largest of them sat mocking her in the old stables behind the row of terraces on Macquarie Street. Their future, their escape. And now, she couldn’t bring herself to lift the dust sheets covering the Model T Ford. She might as well lie buried beneath them; better still, buried with Thorne beneath the open-armed angel in Waverley Cemetery.
‘Letitia! I wish to speak to you.’
She wiped away her tears and rolled off the bed, squinting into the early morning sun rising over the Botanic Gardens. Donning yesterday’s black skirt and blouse she hurried along the landing in answer to her mother’s call.
The creaking door echoed her silent groan as she swung it open, her mouth clamped against the stale air she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
Pillows plumped, bed jacket neatly arranged and breakfast tray balanced across her lap, Mrs Miriam Rawlings lifted her lorgnette to her eyes and surveyed her daughter from head to toe. ‘I imagined you’d be up and breakfasted. The time for excuses is over, a routine must be established.’
Something Lettie simply hadn’t managed to do. Only Thorne made their privileged existence bearable and since his accident she’d done very little other than mope around the house. Even Pater’s cherished grandfather clock no longer ticked away the meaningless hours of her existence, its pendulum tied in place marking the time of her brother’s demise.
The half-light softened Miriam’s features but failed to mask the perpetual shrewdness in her gaze. ‘I have made a decision.’ She patted the side of the bed, inviting her to sit.
Unnerved by the unusual gesture Lettie parked herself on the corner of the bed, hands in lap, feet tucked to one side, seeking to present the picture expected, rather than suffer yet another diatribe about her shortcomings.
‘Letitia,’ Miriam murmured in a soft tone, the tone she used when she despaired her standards would ever be met. ‘You must come to terms with the situation. We can no longer leave matters to chance.’
Not this again. Not the endless discussion about Thorne’s inheritance. ‘Have you not written again?’
‘I wrote before and after the funeral and, as expected, she hasn’t deigned to respond. Why would I write again?’
A very good question really. To the best of her knowledge, the ridiculous silence between the Ludgroves and the Maynards had been maintained for nigh on thirty years. Lettie examined the cuff of her blouse. ‘To ensure Great-Aunt Olivia received your letter and knows of Thorne’s passing.’ Great-Aunt Olivia Maynard, the sole orchestrator of the estrangement between the Ludgrove and the Maynard families.
‘I’ve procrastinated for too long.’ Miriam tapped her lorgnette against her teeth. ‘There’s nothing for it … I shall have to make the journey.’
Lettie squirmed under her gaze. ‘Shall I come with you?’
‘I’ll take Connors, drive down and spend the night in Wollombi. I believe there is a tolerable hotel there.’ She picked up her journal and leafed through the pages, letting out a series of sighs and tuts and indulging in a deal of head shaking. ‘You have so many engagements.’
Lettie’s spine gave an involuntary twitch. An ever-increasing pile of invitations lay unanswered and now, after a six-month reprieve, Miriam had decided the time had come to crank up the Hunt-For-A-Husband rigmarole and expected her to flutter and fawn and make sheep’s eyes at every one of the distinguished gentlemen Miriam paraded in front of her. She had some ridiculous notion that Lettie was the best catch in Sydney, which at twenty-five was so far from the truth as to be laughable, never mind the fact she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in matrimony. She enjoyed male companionship, liked nothing better than to tinker with the engine of the motor car or discuss the benefits of motor spirit over electric, but she hated the societal demands Miriam forced upon her, missed her brother like an amputated limb and was seriously suspicious of the state of matrimony. Most men were looking for a servant and a bed fellow. She craved the type of companionship she and Thorne had shared but there were few among the upper classes of Sydney who understood the workings of a Model T Ford or the delights of motorboat racing. She refused to marry, pander to some man’s quirks and whims. There had to be more to life.
The string of gentlemen callers, conjured like rabbits from a magician’s hat, had reappeared in the last few weeks and Lettie wanted none of it. She intended to manage her own affairs. She leapt to her feet and pulled back the heavy brocade curtains with a deal more force than intended.
‘Lettie don’t, please don’t.’
The use of her pet name brought her to a standstill. Pater was the only one who called her Lettie. Pater, and Thorne.
‘We must put this behind us and move on, no matter how painful it might be. Too much time has passed.’ Moisture leaked from Miriam’s eyes tracking the fine lines she tried so hard to mask. Lettie had never seen Miriam truly cry. Not when Grandfather died, not when the Depression had stripped the family of many of their assets, not even when Lettie had broken the dreadful news of Thorne’s accident. It was something Miriam simply didn’t tolerate.
An unexpected rush of compassion took Lettie by surprise. Miriam never offered her any show of warmth or tenderness, never had. Thorne was the sun around which every member of the family revolved; she couldn’t remember a time when it had been otherwise.
‘You must attend to these invitations.’ Miriam tightened the matrimonial net.
And in that moment Lettie saw her escape.
‘Why don’t I go and break the news to Great-Aunt Olivia?’
‘You?’
‘Why ever not? It would save you the trip.’
‘Alone? You can’t go alone.’
‘You said yourself you would go.’
Miriam picked up the hand mirror from her bedside table and peered into it, stretching the skin of her cheeks. ‘I am not at my best. The last months have taken their toll—’
‘The very reason I should go,’ Lettie interrupted. Hopefully alone. ‘I believe the road once out of Sydney is quite rough. It may aggravate your rheumatic fever …’
‘And what about these?’ Miriam indicated the list of engagements in her journal.
‘Surely they can wait, be postponed. A week at most. What difference would it make?’
‘You’ll have to be careful. Olivia is a difficult character. She’s got a tongue like acid and a mind to match. Very fixed ideas. Take Connors.’
Lettie had no intention of taking Connors, Mother’s lugubrious part-time chauffeur and factotum, but leaving Sydney was an enticing option and one Thorne would thoroughly approve. He’d taught her to drive. One day, you’ll thank me for this, he’d said as she’d crunched the gears and stalled for the umpteenth time on the steep hills around Sydney. A lady should never rely on a man to see her out of trouble—spoken with a wry grin after another of his spectacular failures to arrive at the appointed hour. On that occasion, she’d ended up walking home alone. A journey she’d thoroughly enjoyed though never admitted, and now would never have the opportunity. ‘I’ll take Thorne’s motor, drive myself. You can’t manage without Connors, not while Pater’s so busy.’
‘Oh no. I don’t believe—’
‘It’s the obvious solution and I have long since attained my majority so there is nothing inappropriate in travelling alone.’ And very little Miriam could do to prevent her. Her own bank account contained a very tidy sum from her commissions. After Thorne approached the editor of The Bulletin they’d published several of her drawings, albeit under a pseudonym. Fortunately, neither Miriam nor Pater had discovered Raw Edge was in fact Miss Letitia Rawlings. ‘Tell me all I need to know about Great-Aunt Olivia.’
‘Perhaps it is a solution. Your commitments could be rescheduled.’ Miriam pulled herself a little higher up the pillows. ‘There’s very little you don’t know. Olivia is my mother’s sister, your great-aunt on the Maynard side, the last of the line. She’s always had an unladylike passion for breeding horses and very fixed ideas.’ Her lips pursed. ‘Although I suspect her passion will have waned, she must be close to seventy.’ An air of evasiveness hung for a moment. ‘She can be very loose with the truth. Are you sure you’re up to it? It will be fraught with difficulties.’