by Téa Cooper
‘Drink this.’
Her head weighed a ton. She propped her chin in her hand, blinked to bring Mr Waterstone’s concerned face into focus.
‘Plenty of sugar.’ He ladled a week’s ration into the cup. Mrs Black would have a fit. ‘Drink up. Come on now.’ He pushed the cup closer. ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Black. She’s quite happy for you to leave early.’
‘I can’t leave. What will I do for a job?’
‘My dear, you have more important matters to attend to.’
The scalding tea burnt its way down her throat. She licked her lips and placed the cup carefully back in the saucer. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will. Come along now. Go and get your hat and coat. We’ll take a cab to my office. It will be so much easier to deal with this immediately.’
Fleur pushed down hard on the table, making the saucers clatter. It was such an effort to move. Tears streamed down her face, blinding her as she walked towards the till and Mrs Black. Surely she’d used up all her tears.
Stale smoke, biscuits and steam seeped into her consciousness and she licked away the salt on her lip.
‘Not like you to cry.’ Mrs Black pressed a rumpled handkerchief into her hand. ‘Clean yourself up and tell me all about it.’
‘Nothing to tell really.’ She sniffed loudly and offered a halfhearted smile, more a grimace really. ‘Mr Waterstone says my husband is dead and I have an inheritance.’
‘An inheritance? That’s nothing to cry over.’
‘Oh, but it is. I don’t know what to do.’ She stuffed the corner of her handkerchief into her mouth to trap the wail. ‘Hugh can’t be dead. I don’t want to go.’
‘Come with me.’ Mrs Black grasped her elbow and frogmarched her into the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry for your loss but you have to stop this caterwauling. The customers,’ she hissed.
‘I don’t want to go to Australia, not without Hugh. I don’t want his money.’
Her mouth sagged open then snapped shut. ‘What’s the matter with you girl? Most people I know would take the money and run.’
It was a mistake. Whatever had possessed her to imagine Mrs Black would understand? That heady rush of euphoria. Love! She’d been so sure it was love. And before she knew it they were standing outside the registry office. He’d handed her a bunch of violets and lifted her face to his lips.
I love you Mrs Richards, with every fragment of my tattered heart, I love you.
And she’d known he’d spoken the truth. ‘He died fighting for you, for a country he didn’t even call home.’ Fleur snatched her coat and hat from the peg behind the till and followed Mr Waterstone out into the street.
‘Mr Waterstone, I don’t think I’ve made myself clear. I have no intention of taking one penny of Hugh’s money. There must be someone more deserving or entitled.’
‘Fleur, I’m sure this is what Hugh wanted. Why else would he have contacted his solicitor in Sydney and told them of your marriage.’
She had no idea he had. No idea she stood to inherit anything. She lifted her shoulders; if she tried to speak she’d simply break down again.
Like magic a cab slithered to a halt beside them, spraying her shoes with water. She shot a puffy-eyed look over her shoulder, thought about running, hesitated too long. Mr Waterstone ushered her inside and slammed the door closed.
‘Wellington House, please.’ He turned to look at her. ‘I’ll give you a few moments to gather your thoughts. We’ll continue the conversation in my office.’
Left with no alternative she sat back watching the incessant rain flooding along the gutters. When she lifted her head Buckingham Palace loomed large. Twice in a matter of days. What she would give for it to be last time she’d seen Buckingham Palace. Before the nasty envelope, when she still had dreams. She just wanted to crawl away and hide.
The taxi turned another corner into the Mews and slowed.
‘This shouldn’t take long.’ Mr Waterstone wound down the window and nodded to a soldier standing inside a sentry box. ‘Almost there.’
Five minutes later she was sitting with her hands in her lap like an errant schoolgirl facing Mr Waterstone across the biggest desk she’d ever seen in her life. ‘Hugh can’t be dead. I haven’t received a telegram. I can’t go to Australia without him.’
He pulled out a large buff-coloured file and opened it. ‘It’s most unusual but Hugh’s commanding officer wasn’t aware of your marriage, that’s why you haven’t received a telegram. He will forward Hugh’s personal possessions to his solicitor in Sydney as Hugh requested. When you arrive they will be waiting for you. I’m sure once you are there you will see matters in a different light. I appreciate this has come as something of a shock but I feel it is my duty to encourage you to do what is best. You said you have no family commitments. If you don’t take the opportunity of this passage, there’s no knowing when I might be able to find you another berth. You loved Hugh, didn’t you?’
His name thrummed through her veins. It was because she loved him … From the very first moment his eyes had locked with hers, something soft and wordless had passed between them. He’d drawn her hand towards him, pushed up the edge of her cuff with his thumb and pressed his warm lips against her wrist. She’d felt her heart open and her spirit settle. Her eyes burnt but she couldn’t cry. She had no more tears.
‘It’s most important that you take this opportunity. There may not be another.’
What was this man trying to tell her? Cold fingers trickled their way down her spine. The Ministry of Information. What had they said? Responsible for information and propaganda? Mrs Black reckoned they were the ones who sent all those men and women out undercover and look what happened to poor Edith Cavell, tortured and assassinated for serving her country. Was she missing something? She stared into Mr Waterstone’s pale eyes, willing him to tell her it was all a dreadful mistake.
‘I can’t just up and traipse halfway across the world.’ Her words ended in a high-pitched squeak.
‘If you are absolutely positive you don’t want to fulfil Hugh’s wishes then I can contact his solicitors for you and they can arrange for the properties to be sold and the money deposited in your account.’
That was the final straw. ‘No!’ Suddenly she was standing. ‘You don’t understand. I don’t want it. Tell them that.’ There had been a mistake. She knew there had. Hugh was still alive, lying injured somewhere, unable to contact her, worse still unable to remember her. Who was to say he wasn’t in some hospital, his memory shot to pieces, deaf or blind from the gas. Mr Waterstone hadn’t got his personal possessions, nothing to prove he’d died. No one had told her where he was buried. No telegram.
Hugh was alive. Hope blossomed and her heart gave a sudden hitch.
‘What better way to fulfil Hugh’s wishes? Leave all these wartime restrictions and the ghastly influenza epidemic behind. What have you to lose? It’ll be summer when you get to Australia. It’s what Hugh wanted.’
In Australia the sun always shines. We’ll be together. You’ll see.
Five
Sydney, NSW, 1853
‘Captain von Richter, allow me to introduce Mrs Cordelia Atterton.’ Stefan stifled a groan and schooled his face. He’d last seen the diminutive woman hovering behind the introduction line. ‘May I introduce Mrs Cordelia Atterton,’ she repeated, clapping her fleshy hands, rather as though she’d conjured an apparition from the heavens.
A tall woman stepped forward. Her slender fingers hovered for a moment and he bowed sharply, his lips a mere inch above the lace of her glove. She extracted her hand before he had the opportunity to stand upright. When he came to attention he found himself level with an icy, appraising stare. ‘Mrs Atterton, my pleasure.’
Her ivory skin was drawn smooth across sculpted cheekbones and her lips brushed with carmine. She might have been one of the statues supporting the Parthenon. Tall, straight and exquisite, she gave the impression of being capable of shouldering whatever burdens life might throw at her.
‘Could I beg a moment of your time?’ Unabashed, she rested her thin, bird-like hand on his forearm, staring boldly into his face instead of modestly lowering her eyes. Had it been any of the moths flitting their way around the ballroom he would have made some excuse but her fixed gaze intrigued him.
‘Shall we move to the verandah? The music is very loud.’
He bowed his head in agreement, offered his arm and escorted her outside and came to an abrupt halt, ensuring they were in full view of the entire assembly. The Baron had drilled the conventions of this strange society into him. There was also a large possibility Herr Atterton might be lurking somewhere in the shadows and he had no intention of beginning his stay by offending anyone. He dropped his hand. ‘How may I assist you?’
‘I believe I may be able to assist you.’
Did she indeed. He doubted that unless she owned a stable of fine horses and was prepared to offer him the use of several for the remainder of his visit.
‘I would like to extend an invitation.’
He muffled a sigh. Invitations weren’t in short supply and after six months confined aboard ship he yearned for the peace and solitude of the countryside and the opportunity to sample some of the delights of New Holland the Baron so eloquently described. Magnificent stands of eucalyptus trees and all manner of strange and beguiling plants and flowers, the invigorating scents of the wildflowers so prolific after rain. It had rained only the night before while they were moored inside the Heads, though one could hardly believe it as the moon threw its showy beams across the harbour.
‘I have an establishment which might be of some interest to you.’
No husband then. A whore? Surely not. His gaze raked over her thin body, noticing the bony flare of her shoulder blades masked by ripples of green silk, as though she hadn’t quite recovered from some debilitating sickness. She was not as young as he’d first imagined. ‘Thank you, but I intend to leave Sydney tomorrow.’ Not quite the truth unless Sladdin turned up trumps and found him some horses in double-quick time.
‘I am aware of that. I understand you are a collector.’
‘Indeed I am.’ There was only one person he’d told that tale to: Sladdin. News travelled fast, perhaps it was just as well his ruse had worked. He had no intention of making his search for Menge’s opal public.
Her curious gaze scanned his face and he struggled to remain impassive. ‘Despite our ever-increasing population, Sydney Town is nothing but a small village. Word gets around.’
‘You have me at a disadvantage, Mrs Atterton. Our introduction was brief.’ He turned in search of the tiny woman with the bulbous eyes but she had disappeared into the swirling throng. In fact, he and Mrs Atterton stood isolated like the tiny island of Pinchgut in the centre of the vast harbour, patrolled only by the matronly sharks encircling the ballroom.
‘I own The Curio Shop of Wonders.’ She waved her gloved hand in the direction of the town. ‘I understand you are interested in both the flora and fauna of the Antipodes.’
He stifled a laugh. Sladdin hadn’t wasted the opportunity when he’d left the flyer in his room. ‘I am. However, as I said, I intend to leave Sydney forthwith.’
‘Then we have no time to waste.’ She pulled a long ribbon from a hidden pocket and dangled an intricate key tantalisingly between her fingers. ‘Unless of course you have a mind to indulge in some dancing, supper will not be served for several hours.’
How could he refuse? She had him at his weakest point. His dancing days were long gone, cut short by the musket ball intended for Prince Metternich, and besides, the flyer had caught his interest. ‘Shall I call a carriage?’
‘There’s no need. The walk will take only a few minutes.’ She tilted her chin as though in challenge.
Like a waiting wraith the tiny woman appeared at her side and handed her a green cloak. With a practised flick, Mrs Atterton tossed it across her shoulders and drew the furred hood over her head before he had the opportunity to assist her. ‘Shall we?’ She lifted one dark eyebrow in question then disappeared into the shadows.
Before she’d reached the steps leading to the garden he was at her side, the thrill of the unexpected invigorating him more than any of the oversweet wine on offer. The small stones on the carriageway crunched beneath his boots as they walked into the velvety darkness.
‘I believe you came directly from London.’
‘You continue to have me at a disadvantage, Mrs Atterton.’
Her laugh surprised him. Deep, rich and throaty, it echoed in the night air. ‘As I said Sydney Town is nothing but a small village.’
‘This establishment of yours …’ He let the words dangle, wanting her to fill the void.
‘Let’s wait until we get there. A viewing will save so many words.’ She lifted the pace, her strides almost matching his. He had the strangest impression she’d like to lift her skirts and run. There was an undercurrent of tension, perhaps excitement or anticipation, about her movements.
They made their way up Macquarie Street through the yellow glow cast by the gas lamps, then she slowed her pace and slid into an inky alleyway. His right hand moved to the scabbard of his dress sword.
Again, the throaty laugh. ‘Fear not, Captain von Richter. You are quite safe with me.’
A mere ten yards later she came to an abrupt halt in front of a shiny black gate tucked between other premises. ‘This is the back entrance. Rather than leave you standing alone in the street I thought we’d come this way.’ She slipped inside and along a short path to the back of a terrace building. She led him up a short flight of stairs to a door which opened to reveal a large room lit by a series of wall lamps. Ushering him inside she closed the door behind him and he tasted the faintest odour of something earthy and strangely sweet.
‘Straight ahead.’
Stefan’s heels clicked on the honey-dark timber floor and he inhaled the strange fragrance; the chemical taint reminded him of field hospitals and injuries he’d rather forget.
Light from the street puddled on the floor and as his eyes began to adjust, he picked out a large window fronting the street. His breath caught and he froze. Three giant black birds, their wings spread showing red-tipped feathers and sharp curved beaks, perched on a branch prepared to take flight. He lifted his hand to fend them off. A lamp flared behind him. And he lowered his arm feeling his cheeks redden, his mistake obvious. ‘I thought for a moment they were alive.’
He took several steps closer, marvelling at the tableau the birds presented as the words on the flyer came back to him. All kinds of taxidermic work executed in first-class style. It was no exaggeration.
It was impossible to know where to look first. The room spanned only fifteen feet and the tableau was but one of three. Another set of birds graced the corner of a display cabinet—this time owl-like birds with ruffled feathers and a quizzical gaze and in the corner a water mole resting on a log, its leathery beak slightly open, as if in greeting. Exquisite, exquisite as the finest detailed drawings, yet perfect specimens. He stepped forward and ran the tip of his finger down the shiny black feathers of one of the birds while their beady eyes watched his every move. Large glass cases filled with stuffed animals and birds each telling a story of this wonderful land. Shells, emu eggs, birds of paradise with their plumage smooth and glossy, piles of skins, some uncured and others made into rugs and blankets. All as bizarre and unusual as the woman herself.
‘They are authentic specimens.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘But you had to make sure?’
He lifted his head to gaze at the strangely alluring woman who had whisked him away from the ball into this fairyland of glass-fronted cabinets, botanical oddities and preserved specimens.
She’d shed her cloak and gloves, the light of the lamps reflecting her smooth skin, alabaster white against the virulent green of her dress; Scheele’s Green, unless he was very much mistaken. A good choice. It brought out the golden lights in her luminous eyes. Her
hair was pulled back from her high forehead into an unusual arrangement at the base of her head from which protruded two long slender curved feathers which he hadn’t noticed before. He took a step to one side to get a better view and she pulled one free and held it out. ‘Menura Superba, better known as the Superb Lyrebird because of its wonderful tail feathers…’ She waved the curled feather beneath his nose, making his nostrils twitch with the faint cloud of powder ‘… which of course were not portrayed accurately in the first instance. I have attempted to remedy the situation.’ She gestured to a pair of mating birds, the male’s ornate tail fanned out completely covering his head, his back and that of the female.
‘Fascinating. You are very talented.’
She inclined her head, the first sign of colour staining her cheeks.
‘And quite right when you said I would be interested in your enterprise.’ More than interested, he could spend hours just roaming this very room, maybe even shipping the entire contents back to Vienna. ‘Where do you source the specimens?’
‘Largely from the Hawkesbury region. I have a property there.’ She extended her arm and indicated the other side of the room. ‘I also have a large collection of native artefacts which may interest you.’ The silk of her dress whispered as she led him around the room.
For one heart-stopping moment, his breath stilled as he prepared to safeguard her from the lurking warrior, then she lifted the lamp high to illuminate an ancient grasstree, its flower spike intact, and a relieved gasp slipped through his lips. The long narrow shape was nothing more than the burnt trunk supporting a collection of native spears and other implements, weapons, ornaments and curiosities.
‘And you have established a relationship with the local tribes? I would be very interested …’ His words tapered off as his thoughts tumbled to catch up. Mrs Atterton and her curio shop had his imagination racing. What he wouldn’t give to explore the area she spoke of. ‘Would it be possible to visit?’