Contents
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION NOTES
ALSO BY FIONA McINTOSH
Sneak Peek: The Perfumer’s Secret
About the Author
Fiona McIntosh is an internationally bestselling author of novels for adults and children. She is a travel columnist and co-founded an award-winning travel magazine with her husband, which they ran for fifteen years before Fiona became a full-time author. Fiona now roams the world researching and drawing inspiration for her novels. Although Adelaide is her family’s home, she admits her best writing is done from the peace of Tasmania.
fionamcintosh.com
ALSO BY FIONA McINTOSH
Fields of Gold
The Lavender Keeper
The French Promise
The Tailor’s Girl
Nightingale
PRAISE FOR FIONA McINTOSH
Fields of Gold
‘A blockbuster of a book that you won’t want to put down.’
BRYCE COURTENAY
‘McIntosh’s narrative races across oceans and dances through ballrooms.’
SUN HERALD
‘A big, sprawling saga . . . sure to appeal to Bryce Courtenay fans.’
AUSTRALIAN WOMEN’S WEEKLY
The Lavender Keeper
‘This poignant, romantic read also packs a surprising hit of action’
INSTYLE
‘This book is fast-paced, beautifully haunting and filled with the excruciating pain of war.’
WEST AUSTRALIAN
‘A fine read . . . The moral ambiguity McIntosh builds into the novel gives it a depth that takes it beyond a sweeping wartime romantic thriller.’
SUNDAY HERALD SUN
The French Promise
‘McIntosh weaves a diverse cast together, and you gain an appreciation for her depth of research into World War II, Europe and Tasmania.’
BOOKS+PUBLISHING
‘A captivating saga of love, loss, and the triumph of the human spirit . . . Fiona McIntosh is an extraordinary storyteller.’
BOOK’D OUT
‘A perfect blend of romance, action, mystery and intrigue by one of our best known and popular authors.’
NOOSA TODAY
The Tailor’s Girl
‘Sure to appeal to lovers of period romantic dramas like Downton Abbey.’
WOMAN’S DAY
‘Written with zest and a talent for description that draws you into the world of the novel and its characters. Fiona McIntosh is a prolific and superior writer in the genre, and if you enjoy popular romantic fiction, you’d be mad not to try her.’
THE AGE
‘Everything I want in a curl-up-on-the-sofa read . . . The Tailor’s Girl is an exquisite story that just bursts from the pages and leaps into your heart.’
WRITE NOTE REVIEWS
Nightingale
‘Dreamily romantic and historically fascinating, this is McIntosh at her best.’
BRISBANE NEWS
‘A book for readers who enjoy a fairytale romance.’
BOOKS+PUBLISHING
‘An epic story of war and peace. A tribute to the lives lost in the war, but also to love itself – sensitive, poetically powerful and as gentle as the breath from a fluttering of wings.’
AUSTRALIAN WOMEN ONLINE
‘Now, this is a book. A real book. The kind of book you can’t put down and the kind of book you can’t wait to end, but don’t want to end. Full marks to McIntosh for reaching into our lives and stealing hours away.’
NEWCASTLE HERALD
This is for Pip and Michael Klimentou.
They began dancing lessons as I began to write this story.
PROLOGUE
LONDON – JANUARY 1933
Her tears had subsided but left their telltale traces of swollen eyes and numb cheeks that she couldn’t blame a frosty winter morning for. Stella hoped the act of burial might give her some respite from the grim tension of the previous fortnight that had conquered her ability to think clearly; a sense of weightlessness, perhaps, as the burden of finally being allowed to bury her parents lifted.
Instead, as the mourners drifted away she felt the loss more keenly, standing at the lip of the grave clutching the shoulders of her brother and sister. She swallowed, reached to dip into the jar they’d brought and tossed her handful of sand over the coffins. Rory and Carys followed suit and they listened in frigid silence as it landed with a light percussion against the side-by-side caskets to scatter eagerly across the shiny varnish like a million miniature marbles.
She had found the jar of sand in Rory’s room. It seemed to have trapped the spirit of their happy family weekend beneath its lid; held it captive for this moment of release. Perhaps the ancient shore had known the Myles children would need the reminder of Brighton beach to embrace them, vivid with its sensory memory of laughter and sunshine, picnic sandwiches and ice-cream. Stella closed her eyes and could still conjure the crunch of the pebbles sliding against each other beneath their bare feet. From a distance the beach was a neutral colour, but up close its shingle was a palette of greys and charcoals, fawns and creamy whites – almost all of them worn smooth by the roiling of waves to the foaming water that delivered them ashore. She wasn’t ready to let it go yet, so reached further, and could smell the cloying peppermint sweetness of the baton of seaside rock her father had handed her brother and sister. She recalled the sticky, neon-pink residue that clung to their grins like clown’s lipstick. That holiday was only last year. Now two of their ‘wolfpack’ as her father called his family were dead: the two elders, the leaders, the wise ones. How much wisdom had they shown in taking their lives so suddenly?
‘Stella?’ It was Carys, lisping on her big sister’s name in that charming, infantile way. ‘What do we do now?’
That was the question she too was casting out into the universe, begging the cosmos to deliver an answer, because she was lost for any idea that may offer this family a bridge from a terrible darkness back into the light.
What do we do now? she repeated silently as her grip on the two youngsters intensified to pull them even closer. She was now the eldest, the one required to lead, the person who must make all the decisions that had previously been the realm of her father.
‘Go with Aunty Dil,’ she said, catching the tentative wave from where her relatives’ car awaited.
‘What about you?’ Rory wondered. He’d been silent throughout the service, for the entire half hour of formality graveside and his voice sounded as gritty as the Brighton sand that had sketched its pattern of memory across their parents.
‘I’m coming. Go on, Rory, take your sister,’ she urged.
Reluctantly he moved, taking Carys’s hand and guiding her to where they were met with an affectionate hug from their remaining kin. Stella blinked her gaze back to the frozen earth that was now eager to accept the people she loved. Its sinister depth mocked her; asking if she’d like to join them. She took a deep breath and thought she tasted leaf litter at the
back of her throat. She didn’t want to contemplate that this may be an old grave and that she was tasting the decomposition of someone else’s parent.
Rallying, she tilted her head to the sky that was presently a vast smudge of dull grey. Its bleakness felt appropriate.
While she understood her father’s pain, his sense of guilt so crushing, Stella’s grief was hardening to anger for her mother.
‘How could you?’ she’d wept repeatedly to her mother’s corpse at the funeral parlour. ‘You’d leave us for the love of a man?’ It was a harsh view to take but when she boiled it down, this was precisely what her mother had done, so unable was she to consider life without the man she adored. And so she had preferred to die with him than find the strength to stay alongside her children.
Stella could not wrap her thoughts around such blind passion. She had never known a connection of that purity; couldn’t imagine losing herself so completely in the life of another. She saw it as a weakness rather than the power it represented in her mother’s life.
‘I’ll never allow myself to belong so wholly to anyone or need anyone as you two,’ she whispered to them. ‘Love like yours can only end in heartbreak.’ She put gloved hands to lips that were moist again from fresh tears before turning those kissed fingers to face the coffins in a final farewell. ‘I want to say I hate you but I can’t, and I already miss you so much I feel like part of me is being buried alive alongside you. For all that love, though, I won’t forgive you for leaving us.’ She hated herself for sounding so wretched when the moment demanded the compassion of forgiveness. Maybe, despite her words, it would come in time.
A sob escaped and Stella forced herself to turn and walk towards the living, to find a way to create a new life for them all.
1
APRIL 1933
Stella smoothed her palms down the sides of the soft wool crepe of her dress and was reminded that the last time she had worn it was to the funeral. The burial was fourteen weeks ago but it felt like a fresh wound that reminded her of its aching presence in the oddest of ways, from recalling her last conversation with her mother to looking at a pair of old shoes standing forlornly at the back door awaiting her father who was never going to step into them again. Even the smell of the bathroom or the coalscuttle drew buried memories that hurt like separate bruises.
The ‘life goes on’ comment was muttered to her in so many variations that she’d become immune to it. But, damn it, her life wasn’t going on; her life had been halted as though an invisible policeman had just blown his whistle, held up his hand and forbidden her to move on. Instead, he’d pointed her in a new direction and no matter how much she protested, he insisted she take the diversion.
She glanced down at her outfit. The simplicity of her only fully formal garment made it adaptable, fortunately, and so tonight she had disguised the funereal palate with a cream handbag and gloves, before adding a touch of whimsy with her silk voile scarf. Outwardly, she knew she looked the part for a night of dance but inside she felt anything but jolly. Her life’s trajectory had swerved with a bottle of pills and a bottle of whisky, neither of them hers, and yet all of the aftershock of the bombshell of her parents’ suicide was hers to bear and continued reverberating through her world.
The initial numbing disbelief of sudden death had altered and over the last few weeks it had distorted to a simmering rage that she sensed would also pass and likely end in despair as she returned to the same unanswerable questions. How could they be so selfish? No, cruel. Why leave her to face the tearful, enquiring expressions of her two young siblings? How were the little ones to face growing up without parents, without a family and its love to nurture them?
She felt her friend Madge’s elbow connect with her rib and return her consciousness to the glittering ballroom of the Berkeley Hotel. The warmth from people dancing, smoking and laughing had chased away the chill of it still being wintry and there was no denying the music from the thirty-strong orchestra was hot enough to make everyone but her want to hit the floor.
‘If you tell me he’s looking this way again, I’m going to deliberately step on your toes,’ she replied, throwing a soft scowl that was ignored.
‘No, he’s not looking,’ Madge confirmed. ‘He’s staring. Even tipsy, that stare makes me feel weak.’
‘Well, I hope he asks you to dance, then. You can swoon for him and really make his evening.’
‘He’s not interested in me.’ Madge gave her a look of dry amusement.
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Well, get in the mood,’ she replied in a tart tone. ‘You have responsibilities. We’re doing this for you.’ Madge dug her again. ‘Uh-oh, he’s making his move. Here he comes with his friend. Looks like you’ll earn double.’
It was Madge’s inspiration to come to one of the hottest dance spots in the city. She’d heard about the secret that girls were charging to dance and had been persuasive about the opportunity to earn potentially a few shillings and have fun as well.
‘Madge, are you sure about this? What if we get —’
‘We’re not the first. I’ve told you, plenty of girls are topping up their wages with this. The organisers turn a blind eye so long as we don’t make it obvious or too regular.’
‘My mother would be so ashamed of me.’
‘You’re doing this to put food on the table.’
‘And yet I feel like a pros—’
‘Don’t say it. We’re dancing, nothing more.’ Madge’s lips pursed as she tried to speak without moving them. ‘Now, be quiet, and smile!’
They watched as the pair of well-tailored gents breezed around the fringe of the dance floor, dodging the swish of silk from women’s dresses or the flick of men’s heels. She said no more, not wishing to make Madge cross as it was true that her friend was only trying to help ease what could become a dire situation. She knew the very least she could do was be grateful and go along with the plan. Those shillings could make a significant difference to her grocery bill this week.
With the image in mind of her brother and sister licking their lips at the smell of roast chicken scenting the kitchen, she noticed that the gentleman whom Madge had referred to was hanging back slightly. He was the taller of the two, the untidier as well with one of the buttons on his white dress waistcoat undone and his bow tie crooked with a smile to match, but even at this distance she could tell he reeked as much of money as he likely did gin.
‘Hello, girls.’ His friend beamed from a round face, flushed from alcohol. He lost control of the monocle balanced at the top of his podgy cheek. ‘Fancy shaking a leg?’
Madge giggled. ‘Sixpence a dance,’ she whispered. ‘But not here.’
‘Oh yes, yes, of course.’ He tapped his red nose. ‘Mum’s the word, what?’ He chortled, patting his waistcoat’s change pocket. ‘I’m Basil, by the way, and this is my friend, Montgomery.’ He wasn’t slurring yet but he was just on the edge. ‘Monty here has had eyes only for you,’ he said, looking blurrily past Madge to where Stella stood, who suddenly wanted to be anywhere else but here. Basil grinned lopsidedly again. ‘How about a couple of bob for a twirl around the floor with the loveliest pair of girls in the Berkeley tonight?’
She noted that Madge didn’t show any embarrassment. ‘I’m Margaret,’ she said, and took Basil’s arm. ‘If I decide I like you, I’ll let you call me Madge as my friends do,’ she added and they drifted away, chuckling.
Stella breathed deliberately before she returned her gaze to him. His intense stare hadn’t wavered, she noticed, and it was as though he was looking right at her internal chaos.
‘And you are?’ he asked, his tone polite, expression open.
‘Bored,’ she cut back. The word was out before she could halt it.
He didn’t look offended. If anything she sensed it amused him, for his crooked grin made a return. ‘That makes both of us. Shall we?’ He opened his hand in invitation.
‘You’ve paid too much for it already,’ she said, shrugging
, and immediately regretted how hostile she sounded.
‘Basil paid. You can refuse me and dance with him if you prefer.’
She gave a small shake of her head in apology and stepped forward when he gestured for her to go first. As they reached the dance floor, the bandmaster gave a flick of his baton and the music calmed from a foxtrot to a slow waltz. They stepped onto the boards and she felt the grit of the chalk beneath her soles and the warmth of his hand that he placed with only the softest pressure in the curve of her back. She was obliged to look up and wished she’d worn higher heels now to feel more equal.
‘Can I know who I’m dancing with?’
She wasn’t expecting the tender note in his voice.
‘Stella.’ No surnames were necessary and he gave a wink before their bodies moved as one as the band played a song about the girl of someone’s dreams. It was a favourite of her father’s – he used to hum it frequently as he shaved or waited for his tea to brew or stirred the morning pot of porridge for the family. She pushed that image away by opening a conversation.
‘You’re a good dancer.’ She hoped it didn’t sound condescending.
‘I suppose I do have to be light on my feet.’
‘In your work, you mean?’
She presumed he probably hadn’t heard her over the music because he didn’t answer. ‘Tell me about you, Stella,’ he said instead. ‘Why don’t you want to be here?’
She lifted one shoulder slightly as a way of avoiding anything churlish being said again.
‘Are you unhappy because you’re taxi dancing or taxi dancing because you’re unhappy?’
She wanted to smile but it wouldn’t come. Instead, she sighed. ‘Both, I suppose. Is that what I am? A taxi dancer?’
‘It’s an American expression. They have regular taxi dances in the States.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Men will always gladly buy tickets to dance with a pretty woman.’
She wasn’t sure whether to feel complimented or offended and realised too late that her face had become blank as she stared back at him.
The Last Dance Page 1