by Ella Carey
What would Rebecca think?
The two-seater convertible was a knockout, something he knew most girls would jump into at the snap of a finger. But how would Rebecca react to his wealth? There was no doubt that his background was about as far from hers in Elwood as a fairy-tale castle was from a Nissen hut. He’d put off troublesome thoughts about how he’d explain his background to a modernist after the party last night, preferring instead to remain in the dreamy haze that meeting Rebecca had induced. But there was nothing for it. He was going to have to raise the topic of his family at some point and just see how she would react.
He proceeded to the car.
Once he’d made his way through the city and down toward the bayside suburb where she lived, any doubts Edward had felt about his family’s status, not to mention their political stance—opposed to everyone’s at the party last night—were overtaken by excitement at the prospect of seeing Rebecca again. He pulled up outside her house, a bungalow on Dawson Avenue, which ran directly to the beach. Perhaps they would stroll along the sand today. Avoid the car entirely. He jumped over the door, landing on the sidewalk with its trimmed trees.
Rebecca’s garden was also seriously maintained. The front fence, which was whitewashed and low, was freshly painted and the front lawn was edged with clipped hedges and flower beds that stood sentinel in the heat. Not even the searing summer had caused them to droop. He wondered if Rebecca was expected to stand at attention in the same way. She had mentioned her mother . . .
Edward stood on the long veranda, running his hands through his honey-gold hair. The front door was black, with a brass knocker in the shape of a fist. Even outside, the stink of caustic cleaning products was potent in the afternoon heat.
Before he had a chance to raise his hand and knock, Rebecca opened the door. She wore a white cotton dress studded with tiny red flowers. Her dark hair waved underneath a wide-brimmed hat, cascading down her shoulders in the most charming fashion. She wore red lipstick, something that Edward knew his mother and sister would detest, and red-heeled sandals.
He grinned. “You look delicious,” he said, reaching forward instinctively and kissing her on the cheek.
Rebecca linked her arm through his. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “I’d invite you inside, but Mrs. Swift’s seats are no good for anything but perching. She’s got them covered in shining plastic in case any visitors leave a stain.”
Edward felt his forehead crinkle into a frown. Her tone was light, but he suspected that was deliberate, and he hated to hear about her home life being in any way constrained. He led her around the front lawn, taking care to remain on the immaculate path that circled the green space. “I’m glad of one thing about your mother.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m glad she works in a boutique,” he said. “Your outfits are charming. You obviously have flair.”
“Oh! Do you like my hat?” Rebecca performed a little twirl by the front gate before leaning down and opening it, then standing aside for Edward to go out.
“Yes, I do like your hat.”
But Rebecca had spotted the car. She looked up at him, her brown eyes widening in the most adorable of ways.
Edward laughed then. “You are funny,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s mine, but I thought we’d walk along the beach. If you like.”
Rebecca smiled at him from under her hat. “I’m not going to tell you that I’m impressed by your car. I would never do that. Follow me.”
He laughed again and held out his arm. She took it. He wanted to take her hand in his other hand and hold that too. He glanced down at its softness where it rested in the crook of his elbow.
Edward stopped for a moment once they reached the end of the street, taking in the expanse of white, unspoiled sand. During the war the only trips he had made to the seaside had been quick visits to one of the family beach houses when on leave, where the landscape was wild and windswept, with waves from the Southern Ocean crashing treacherously on the rocks.
But here, there was none of that. Several children played in the shallow, clear water. The beach’s gentle beauty was perfect for a first date, and that was what he hoped this would turn out to be.
Edward held Rebecca’s hand while they walked. The feel of it was exactly as he had imagined, and the closeness of her was almost impossible to resist as she walked with him, her hand swinging in his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I talked your head off last night,” she said. “I want to know all about you. For a start, you must be terribly dashing.”
Edward sighed. Where was he supposed to begin? “I hope that doesn’t put you off.”
“Do you?” she asked, her tone razor sharp.
“Yes,” he said, keeping his voice firm. “Well, Rebecca, the thing is, you see, my family own property. Actually, quite a lot.”
Rebecca was quiet beside him, but she nodded.
Edward focused on the old broken jetty ahead and went on. “I may as well tell it to you straight. We own three sheep stations in South Australia. My great-great-grandfather started up the first Merino station in the country—it’s now the largest and has been since late last century. My great-great-grandfather literally stepped off the boat from England and agreed to drive three hundred sheep across the country to the new colony in South Australia, on foot all the way from New South Wales in 1841. In return, he was given a land grant. He kept a portion of those sheep, and throughout his lifetime, expanded his holdings, ending up with most of the land we own now. The main property, where we live most of the time, is called Haslemere. My grandfather, his only heir, then turned the house and garden into something quite . . . beautiful. He caused the sheep stations to thrive and bought another one in the west of the state, and, I guess, started up this sort of idea that the family would live like English aristocracy here in Australia. Due to my grandfather’s efforts, the family ended up with . . . well, a steamship on which they travelled to England, apartments in London, a house here in Melbourne, and two beach houses in South Australia as well. I know it’s all rather grandiose. I struggle with it and I do understand how it conflicts with . . . modernist views.”
He stopped. Rebecca was staring straight ahead, her expression intent. Edward shuffled his shoes in the sand. Had he killed their budding friendship before it had a chance to take off?
She picked up a stone from the foreshore and threw it out into the sparkling water, then watched its ripple effect.
“I felt more at home with the people at that party last night than I ever have with my family’s wealth. The war changed everything for me, and I guess deep down I’ve never believed that people should be judged on their social standing, or that others should be exploited for my family’s sake. I’m not sure whether my feelings are justified, given my immense privilege, but at the same time, meeting Sunday and John was riveting—I’m not the only one who feels constricted by my background, no matter how much I care about my family.
“The thing is, with all the wealth comes . . .” He hesitated. Was he boring her? Sounding like a wealthy upper-class fool?
But she faced him, her expression serious. “Keep telling me. I want to know.”
He swallowed, but she stood there, her brown eyes clear.
His voice was shaky, but at the same time, some strange urgency propelled him to speak. Had he ever told anyone how he truly felt about his life before?
“I don’t want to sound unappreciative. But the thing is, I was sent away to boarding school when I was seven. My mother, bored with life in the country, spent most of my childhood years travelling in Europe. It was important to her to be presented at court. That sort of thing . . .”
“Did she come home for your school holidays?” Her question was so to the point that Edward smiled.
“No.” It became easier to talk. “There were a few desperate Christmases when I did write to her and beg her to come home. But she didn’t seem to see the point of being here. Didn’t seem to th
ink it mattered. So, no, I didn’t go home on the holidays, unless my older brother and father came to pick me up, which happened . . . once over the years.”
Rebecca looked out over the water. “You hear of artists and actors and writers having these darned unstable lives,” she said. “It’s as if we are blamed for that. But I often wonder whether it’s the other way around. I think people become artists and writers as a result of the situations that are forced upon them.”
Edward took a step toward her, reaching out a hand to stroke her face. Her skin was soft and tanned and flawless. The sense of intimacy between them hit him with such acuteness that Edward never wanted it to go away.
“You’re spot-on, Rebecca. And I think you’re right about the things we can’t see being the things that matter in this world of ours. I’m glad I met you.”
“Tell me what happened after boarding school,” she whispered. “Tell me the story.”
He wanted to lean down and kiss her. But he daren’t. Not yet.
“I trained in the air force,” he said, his voice still shaking a little, but perhaps it was only nervousness. “I was sent to France as a pilot. I wasn’t a bomber pilot, but I dropped parachutists who were helping with the resistance, until my plane crashed in the south of England. At which point I was sent home with injuries and assigned to shuttle runs up and down the Australian coast.”
“Thank goodness,” she said, and looked up at him, a gentle expression on her face.
He marveled a little at what he knew was her genuine warmth. The world seemed so brash at times. And people seemed brash too. Edward had never quite fit in with any of it, he knew that. As for the war, the whole thing seemed to be the most monumental cock-up of all.
“Rebecca,” he said, still adoring the sound of her name on his lips. “Can you promise me something?”
She turned to look up at him. “I can.”
“Don’t tell anyone what I’ve told you about my family,” he said. “I have never confessed how I feel about their—our—way of life to anyone.”
She held a finger up to his lips. “I’m good at keeping secrets,” she whispered.
And he reached out a hand, ran it down the side of her cheek, leaned forward, and kissed her softly, a whisper on her lips.
CHAPTER NINE
New York, 1987
Tess opened the small leather-bound book of poetry, stopping to read the title. Still Life, A Collection of Poems. The pages were made of thin paper. Tess was careful when she turned them, as they were delicate, and each one was edged with gold. Gilt. It was something Edward had known all his life. The little book seemed somehow representative of a time when people took care with the production of things, a past when Edward’s family must have lived surrounded by unimaginable luxuries such as this beautiful little book.
The poems were testaments to a kaleidoscope of emotions—the flare of love, pain, cries for the devastation of war—while his sense of the landscape around his home wound itself into each piece like a silken ribbon. He wrote about its lingering beauty in spite of cold, hard human catastrophe during the war years, while love whispered too, remaining the one strength that could redeem humans in the aftermath of all the destruction.
The book was published in 1946 with a preface written by John Reed.
Tess placed the book in her briefcase, settling it in its own compartment. She gathered her coat, her mind still drifting toward the soft gum trees and paddocks where flocks of wild birds would take flight into the vast Australian sky. Practical matters seemed of less importance somehow, and she wanted to linger in the atmosphere he’d created. She didn’t want to think about anything else, not for a while. It was a long time since she’d read work that moved her in this way—years, perhaps?
She moved out of the office, her head down.
And froze in her tracks when she reached reception.
James and Alec Burgess stood together by the elevators. As the doors opened, Tess felt her insides coil as James rested a hand on Alec’s back, motioning for him to go in first.
Suddenly, Tess felt an urge to confront them both with their betrayal. It was so strong that she found herself marching toward them as they stood in the elevator, placing her hands between the doors as they tried to slide closed, prizing them open and placing one red-heeled shoe between them.
“Tess?” James reached forward and slid the doors fully open for her.
Ever charming. Tess muttered her thanks. She forced herself to push any lingering ideas about beauty, about Edward’s belief in things that mattered, right out of her head. Instead she eyed James, her gaze beady and dark.
James looked away. In the uncomfortable silence that was only punctuated by the soft sounds of the elevator descending, Tess turned to Alec, who had the grace to stare down at the floor, as if there were something fascinating happening around his feet.
“Going out for a drink?” she said, sounding as nonchalant as a schoolgirl making plans for a milkshake.
Something wicked slipped in. Why should she be a victim, standing by and taking all of this rotten behavior? Well and good, she would do her best to work with Edward Russell, no matter how difficult he seemed to be. But at the same time, her sense of being betrayed was not going to disappear fast.
James squared his shoulders and coughed slightly, before placing his hands in his pockets and leaning against the side of the elevator. Tess sensed his eyes on her, and his posture, his relaxed, avant-garde approach, fanned further flames. How dare he? How dare he be so casual about taking her hard-won, coveted author out for drinks, or for dinner, or perhaps to some club, Tess thought irritably. A men’s club. That would be it.
“How is your new . . . partnership going?” she asked, her voice dripping with the allure that she knew James possessed.
Both men looked at the elevator buttons. Alec shuffled up and down on his heels.
“I never had the chance to hand things over. It’s funny, how you can cut someone off, someone who has worked hard and been loyal to you, without a backward glance. It’s something I could never do.” She sounded bright now, as if her words were laced with some new flavor. She swept her glance from one of them to the other.
Alec ran a hand through his hair, which was just starting to thin a little on top. He’d admitted such a thing to Tess only last week, when they’d had lunch together.
“Look, Tess . . .” Alec’s voice cracked a little when he pronounced her name. “It’s nothing personal.”
The elevator came to a standstill. They were on the ground floor. The time between the thud of the landing and the doors opening seemed interminable.
Tess was not going to be in the business of making things easier for either of these men.
There was an awkwardness while both James and Alec waited for Tess to leave the elevator first. James held the door open.
“After you, Tess,” he said.
A cynical smile appeared on her face as she swished past him out to the lobby. They all stopped by the fountain, the most ill-at-ease group in the world. Tess arched her brow and folded her arms hard against her chest.
“You know,” Alec said. He reached a hand toward her, only to draw it back. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. You’ve been great.”
The breath Tess let out was audible.
James glanced around the lobby. Was he hoping someone would come to relieve him from this awkward conversation?
Tess stayed put. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t stunned,” she said. “Forgive me for thinking that I put in all the hard work and have been sidelined now that you are famous and successful, Alec. It’s just not something I thought you’d do.”
“Perhaps we should all go out for a drink,” James said. He sounded firm. Confident. Tess wanted to kick him.
“I don’t think that we should have any bad blood between us over this,” he went on.
“I wish you all the success in the world for your future novels, Alec.” Tess cut James off, even forced herself to smile
at them both. “But I don’t want to come out for a drink with you, because that would be insincere. Not authentic, you see.” She winced at the way she’d adopted Edward’s language.
“Tess.” James, unbelievably, spoke her name as if it were a warning.
But Tess cut him off. Her voice cracked a little now. “Truly, I wish you all the best for the remainder of your career, Alec. I’m sure James is a fine editor and I’m sure you will continue on with great success.” She held her head up.
Alec took a step closer to her, then back again.
“Goodbye, Alec. Goodbye, James,” Tess said, and strode toward the door to Fifth Avenue.
While her insides churned, and in spite of the fact that she had no idea how she was going to convince Edward Russell to see sense, she knew that she’d found something in Edward’s work that was more genuine and honest than anything she’d seen in that elevator today. And she was going to stick with Edward now. She was going to make her new author into a success, no matter how difficult he was turning out to be. She could do it. Alec was testament to the fact that she’d done it before . . . only this time, she would not be overthrown by James Cooper. In fact, she swore she would never be bulldozed again.
CHAPTER TEN
Melbourne, 1946
It was still light as Edward’s car purred past the late nineteenth-century mansions of Toorak—each immaculate property a remnant of the wealth that had flooded into Melbourne during the booming gold rush days that started in the 1850s, when one of the world’s richest shallow goldfields caused Victoria to be described as California all over again. In the following decades, the city became known as “marvelous Melbourne,” one of the world’s biggest cosmopolitan cities. And yet now there was almost an atmosphere of hush in the tree-lined streets of the most prestigious suburb. The green lushness of it all seemed to offer protection from life’s ills.