The English Bride

by Way, Margaret

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  “Sure?” He badly wanted to kiss her, hold her in his arms, comfort her, only he was too keenly aware it could all get out of hand. She made his blood soar, this exquisitely fashioned young woman. Not a figurine. She had far too much intelligence, humour, radiance to be that.

  “I don’t think I could love Mamma any more than I do. I know she’s not ordinary but I have missed her terribly many times in my life.” Read years, Francesca thought but would never say. Not now when the estrangement was over.

  “It could have ruined your relationship forever,” Grant considered broodingly, “but you’re far too compassionate for that. Fee was perfectly charming to me when we left, but I got the feeling she’s afraid of something.”

  “Oh, Grant, don’t talk about it.” She came to him and took his hand, trying to distract his attention. “I feel like a cup of coffee and I want to look over the homestead.”

  “You know you’re safe with me, don’t you,” he said, not to be deflected.

  She stared right into his eyes. “To me you’re the most honourable man on the face of the earth.”

  “Francesca!” He couldn’t help it, he pulled her into his arms as his emotions took control. “I have to tell you I’m suffering for it.” His tone was self-mocking and dry.

  “What could be wrong about falling in love?” she whispered rejoicing in being within the circle of his arms.

  “Falling in love is wonderful, Francesca,” he agreed in a low feeling voice. “The world is a lovely, romantic place, but there’s no question falling in love with the wrong person can wreck lives.”

  “Then why don’t you let me go,” she taunted him very gently, lifting her head.

  His expression was wry. “It seems my arms have a life of their own.”

  “So you are happy to hold me?”

  “I love holding you,” he said and meant it. “I could hold you like this forever. I could spend eternity looking into your eyes. I could run my mouth over that little pulse in your throat. I could open that pink shirt and caress your breasts. I could topple you into my bed. But that wouldn’t get the coffee made.” Determinedly he bent his head, kissed her cheek and swiftly turned her about. “Do you like it black or white?”

  “You’re a devil,” she said. So he was for tempting her so richly.

  “There’s a devil in every man,” he warned her, his eyes glinting,” but depend on it I’ll keep him well hidden around you.”

  They took the horses along the long, twisting trail of gullies and billabongs that led to the ancient flat-topped hill the aborigines named Myora. At intervals they came across stockmen leading herds of cattle to camp, stopping briefly to watch an aboriginal stockman breaking in a silver-grey brumby obviously descended from station stock. The stockman’s movements were filled with a kind of exquisite grace and Francesca was reminded Australian aborigines were among the finest natural dancers in the world. Overhead legions of birds flew like bright flags in the sky and there was music, too, from thousands and thousands of tiny throats with occasionally a wonderful cello solo from some bell-toned bird in the furthermost branch of a towering gum, or deep in the swamp.

  There were kangaroos of all sizes, a marvellous sight when they bounded away across the flats, endearing standing stock-still by the water as they picked up their scent, ears pricked, pointed noses quivering, a curious look in their large, bright eyes. Through all this wonderful ride, Grant kept exclusively to the shade, following the tree-lined creeks that were scented with acacia and some kind of little lilies that grew thickly guarded by grand old coolabahs and ghost gums. At one of the many reed fringed billabongs they saw masses of waterfowl, and several times the wonderful blue cranes, the brolgas, making a striking picture as they fished among the waterlilies. Pink in this lagoon, blue in another, sometimes a mixture of blue and cream. Francesca, the nature lover, was utterly enchanted, thinking as she always did, the bush was a place of great magic. Her mother’s blood truly spoke to her. She had absorbed it into her soul.

  By the time they reached Myora there was a taut expectancy in the air. Because of the extreme flatness of the vast open plains even an elevation of a few hundred feet took on a considerable aura. Today as she had seen it from the air Myora’s base was floating in a sea of amethyst mirage giving the impression the ancient eroded mesa was anchored to a cloud. To north, south, east and west the plains ran on for endless miles. In fruitful years wildflowers bloomed in their countless millions, way out to the far horizon but even in the Dry it was a magnificent sight.

  “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” Grant said with immense satisfaction, keeping a sharp look out for anything to startle her, a large goanna, a prowling dingo, the frilled lizards that came at a lightning rush but were harmless, some slight movement at the base of a bush that could only be a snake trying to escape.

  “This is a special place,” Francesca breathed, watching as Grant hitched the horses to a huge fallen tree limb for all the world like a massive sculpture. “This is where you should build your house. Right in the middle of the sweeping plain with Myora as a backdrop. It must be an incredible sight when the great inland blooms. I’ve missed it on every visit.”

  “You’ll have to come back when the time is right,” Grant managed to say in a casual voice, at the same time feeling a deep ache that took a moment or two to pass. “Flowers as far as the eye can see,” he continued. “Mile after mile, the flowers go on. Over the graves of the pioneers. Over the graves of the lost explorers. The flowers are fragrant as well so the air might be blown in from heaven. Last year after the winter rains the country around here was smothered in yellow and white paper daisies, golden craspedia, green pussy tails, poppies and firebush, hopbush saltbush, yellow top carpet of snow, you name it. Though I’ve witnessed the flowering of the desert gardens all my life in times of drought even I can’t believe the flowers will ever rise again. Yet they always do.”

  “A miracle,” Francesca said quietly, still badly shaken by his casual acceptance she would be returning home.

  He walked towards her, tall and powerful. “It sure seems like it. Experiments have been done on the remarkable desert seeds. Apparently they contain chemicals that prevent germination until the optimum time. Nature’s green light. They don’t spring to life for example after a brief shower only to quickly die back. The right timing ensures the seed crop for future generations.” He pointed upwards to the ancient glowing hill.

  “At the right times, there are beautiful blooms hidden away up there on Myora. Tucked into all sorts of places where the wind has blown the seeds. Fan flowers, wild hibiscus, little lilies, Lilac Lamb’s Tails literally covering the rubble down the hillside, all waving in the breeze. Anyway, come along.” He took hold of her hand. “I’ve something special to show you. Something we don’t talk about a great deal on Opal mainly for protection.”

  “That’s exciting! What is it?” She stared up into his golden-skinned face, his iridescent eyes shadowed by the broad brim of his akubra.

  “All in good time.” He stopped, touching a gentle forefinger to her chin. “God, you’re beautiful!” He truly didn’t mean to say it but it just popped out. Why was he sending out all these dangerous, conflicting, messages? Only her lovely face looked so rapt.

  “I’m happy,” she told him.

  “That’s what I want you to be.” He spoke quietly but something in his voice turned hard. “Let’s climb to the summit.” He drew her on. “It’s not that far and it’s amazing the view of the surrounding countryside.

  Despite his contradictions, a not to be denied exhilaration took hold of Francesca. It lent wings to her small feet. She was like a gazelle going up the rocky slope, foot sure, keeping hold of his hand but making her own confident ascent.

  “Oh, this is marvellous!” she announced, when they finally reached the plateau.

  “Get your breath,” he advised, knowing he was being overprotective.

  “I’m not out of bre
ath.” She showed a radiant smile to him.

  “No, you’re not,” he admitted.

  “It’s all so vast!” She turned away from him and threw up her arms. “Overwhelming. I love the colours of the inland. All the ochres. They’re so deep and weathered yet they vibrate. And the sky’s so blue. Not a cloud in sight. The European explorers must have thought they’d ventured onto another planet. Thousands of square miles with not a soul in it except for nomadic tribes. And that sea of red sand dunes on the horizon sweeping on and on forever.”

  He went to her and checked her progress towards the rim. “Deserts are powerful landscapes. They’re also death traps, so don’t forget it. Knowledge is the thing. Modern transport, equipment. Even then things go wrong.”

  “Hey, Grant, you can’t put me off,” she warned gently.

  “I can see that.”

  “Besides the Channel Country is a riverine desert,” she pointed out. “All this wonderful network of interlocking rivers and creeks. The billabongs and lagoons.”

  “In drought except for the permanent billabongs they go dry,” Grant told her. “In flood the rivers run for miles across. That’s what the Channel Country is, a vast flooded plain. It covers a good five percent of the continent. During the monsoonal months the deserts to the north and here can be hit by fierce electrical storms. One claimed Stewart Kinross’s life. Almost claimed Rebecca’s. The roars of thunder are quite terrifying and they’re accompanied by tremendous flashes of lightning. When lightning hits the inflammable spinifex we can have grass fires for days.”

  “So you’re telling me it’s a beautiful savage land.”

  “One has to remember that at all times.”

  “Yet it’s so incredibly peaceful.” Francesca looked out over the endless open vista. “Man needs the wilderness. These vast, open plains. There’s such dignity about the outback. So much character. When one loves city life, cities are the place to be. I’ve always been a country girl at heart. I’m like my father. I love the land.”

  “This is a far cry from what you’re used to, Francesca.” He felt driven to keep repeating it.

  “Certainly,” she agreed. “Sheer size alone. It’s a strange beauty. Primeval. One is constantly aware of the land’s great antiquity but it’s not alien to me. Don’t you see that?”

  “Francesca, you’re classic English,” he pointed out bluntly.

  “And you just could be a classic stubborn Scot,” she returned with a touch of fire.

  He inclined his head in wry acknowledgment. “Anyway I love your company. I love your calm, your patrician elegance and that little fiery streak that shows itself now and again.”

  “But you’re discouraging anything beyond close friendship?”

  “Actually I think I’m behaving impeccably while we sort something out.”

  “I’ll remind you of that when you’re married, secure and settled.” She managed a smile. “But you haven’t told me. What do you think of my idea of Myora for a homesite? It’s spellbinding country.”

  “Don’t you think I should consult my future bride?” he asked, a sardonic note in his voice.

  “Not necessarily. Opal homestead has been lived in for generations. I’m part of everything. I’m descended from Cecilia Kinross who married her kinsman Ewan Kinross when she really loved Charles Cameron.”

  Grant groaned. “That story has been around for a long time.”

  “It must have been true. What do you think? There must have been some reason for Cecilia to turn her back on the man she loved? Then there was the famous opal-and-diamond necklace. Cecilia’s Necklace. Both men Kinross and Cameron gave it to her.”

  “I love your accent.” He digressed knowing where this was heading.

  “I love yours, too.” She barely paused. “The deep drawl until it gets very clipped. Anyway to continue the conversation maybe your ancestor allowed my ancestor to outmanoeuvre him. Maybe your ancestor tried to talk Cecilia out of staying in this country. It would have been hard indeed in the early days. He must have felt obliged to warn. He may have even urged her to go back to Scotland for her own good.”

  “Now why aren’t I surprised you’d get around to saying that?” he asked a little caustically.

  “I wonder what did happen?” She moved away a few feet, staring down at the spinifex-covered plains. The mirage was abroad, creating phantom hills, lakes and tall, sticklike nomads.

  “My family believes there was a trick,” Grant admitted after a pause. “Kinross managed to convince Cecilia his friend was promised to another woman, a woman far more suited to his way of life. The woman, in fact, Charles Cameron eventually married. But what does it matter now? Eventually the two families were reunited but the two men were never close again. It happens like that with betrayal. God knows a man like Stewart Kinross could have played that role.” The accusation surged out, borne of many old resentments and griefs.

  “But my grandfather wasn’t like that,” Francesca protested, recognising the hard kernel of truth in what Grant had said of her uncle Stewart. “Sir Andrew was greatly loved and respected.”

  It was perfectly true. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Francesca,” Grant apologised. “Sir Andy was a fine man. Don’t let’s talk about ancient history anymore.”

  “It seems to me it has repercussions to this day,” Francesca sighed. “Everyone gets stirred up when they talk about that old love affair.”

  “A love affair gone wrong.” He spoke briskly. “Come back from that edge, there’s a lot of loose shale.”

  “I’m no daredevil.” She obeyed at once. “But it does have a compelling fascination.”

  “Tell me have you seen enough?” He was moved by her reactions, the great pleasure she had taken in their trip.

  “For now. But you promised me a surprise.”

  “And I’m going to show it to you.” He captured her hand again, so small in his, fingers so delicate. “We’ll take another route down.”

  She would have missed the dome-shaped entrance to the cave guarded as it was by a desert grevillea in full orange flower that appeared to grow out of sheer rock.

  “We’re here.” Grant steadied her, though the ledge was fairly wide.

  “Oh my goodness!” She felt a surge of excitement and anticipation. “Don’t tell me, rock paintings?” She looked at him, willing him to say “yes!”

  “This isn’t a recorded site.” He smiled at her enthusiasm. “There must be thousands all over the country. We like to keep ours a secret. It’s not an important site but it’s fascinating and it’s been here since God knows when. The aborigines love to give colour and life to all of their shelters and caves. Inland hills, rocky outcrops, anywhere they can execute their art. A great many are in inaccessible places. It would be very easy to miss this. The family didn’t know about this particular cave until fairly recently. Of course the local aborigines knew of its existence. Apparently they decided by my grandfather’s time the Camerons had sufficient respect for traditional aboriginal culture to be told of its location.”

  “Why haven’t I heard of this?” Francesca’s expression was a mixture of awe and animation.

  “You might have repeated the story all over.” Grant drew back a large sage-green branch with its long, slender spines and masses of curly orange brushes exposing the wide, shallow entrance.

  “Heavens you could have trusted me,” Francesca said, peering in.

  “I’m trusting you now,” Grant’s tone was dry. “I also want that ribbon you’ve got in your hair.”

  “Really?” She turned in surprise, standing stock-still as he reached out and pulled the ribbon from her thick upturned braid. Immediately the plait began to unravel and he smiled in beguilement, thinking she had the most wonderful hair he had ever seen. “Don’t worry, Francesca, I’ll give it back. For now I want to tie up this branch and let a bit of sun into the cave otherwise we won’t have sufficient light.”

  “Keep the ribbon. A memento.” It was a throwaway line but she found herself quiv
ering at the look in his eyes, utterly brilliant, utterly desirous. She could not look away. She felt powerless to move. He tied the branch back, then he took her arm, moving her away from the neck of the cave. “Just stand out of harm’s way for a moment while I check the interior. Some animal might have made the cave its home.”

  “As long as we’re not talking bats.” She gave a little shudder.

  A moment more and he returned, so masculine, so vibrant, he stirred every deep feeling in her. “All clear. Actually I’ve forgotten how marvellous it is.”

  The instant they were inside the sandy-floored cave Francesca straightened up. Her eyes flashed around the ancient gallery that was covered in drawings. So many! The stone mass of the rear wall displayed highly stylised designs Francesca couldn’t understand but found very attractive, executed in ochres, red, yellow, charcoal, black and white. On the ceiling, the highest point of the dome some eight feet, the designs were quite different. She understood immediately that they were male and delicate female figures in different aspects of making love watched over by what appeared to be totem beings or spirit figures. On the end walls were drawings of kangaroos, emus, mammals, reptiles, fish, birds and what seemed to be giant insects. Simple linear drawings but accurate and charming, the whole framed by impressions of human hands like a decoration.

  “I can’t possibly see this all in one day,” she said her voice instinctively pitched low in deference to all these ancient symbols and ancestral beings. For all the drawings’ simplicity this wasn’t doodling in any shape or form. The rock paintings had a definite mystical power. The paintings relating directly to sex were even bringing the hot blood to her cheeks.

  “So what do you suggest?” Grant’s voice too was quiet with a faint shivery ring caused by the acoustics of the cave.

  “Oh, God, I don’t know! These are wonderful. Who else have you brought here?” She was aching for him to touch her, as sensations flashed through her body like so much sorcery. Weren’t all those paintings supposed to mean love magic? Now there was a light wind blowing through the neck of the cave, adding its own hollow drumming, deep, soft notes reminiscent of the native didgeridoo, the wind’s movements rippling the burnished sandy floor that she now saw had delicate, unusual patterns all over it. Spiders or little dragon lizards, she thought. Tracks recorded on the fine sand. Their tracks as well. Hers and Grant’s. Her foot so much smaller.