The Secret Years

  ‘You’ve never seen where I live,’ Harry said, confirming her fears. ‘It’s not a lush tropical plantation like your aunt and uncle’s. It’s way out in the outback. It’s isolated and hot. We have drought for years at a stretch and then floods. And flies, damn it.’

  With every word he uttered, Georgina’s fear and frustration mounted. The one person she trusted to hold her world together was backing away, potentially walking out of her life.

  In the candlelight his face reflected the same agony that was ripping through her insides.

  ‘George, I’ve seen the way you lived in London. And now this —’ He flung out his hand in an agitated gesture that indicated the Hall, the grounds, the lake. ‘This estate is even grander and lovelier than your London house. And it’s not just the house. There’s the lifestyle – all your friends.’ His jaw squared and his mouth was a tight, hard line. ‘I’m sorry. Kalkadoon’s no place for a lady.’

  ‘Harry!’ Her cry was close to a shriek. Silenced, Harry stared at her, his throat working with emotion. ‘Will you shut up?’

  Surprise flared in his eyes and Georgina drew a deep breath for courage.

  ‘This cattle station of yours – Kalkadoon.’ She was pleased that she could speak more calmly now. ‘There’s a – a house, isn’t there?’

  ‘Well, yes, there’s a homestead. It’s nothing flash, but there’s —’

  ‘And the homestead has a roof?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Feeling braver now, Georgina took a step towards him. ‘A bed?’

  Harry nodded.

  She moved closer still. ‘A mattress? Pillows?’

  A sudden breeze made the candles flutter, but she could still see his handsome face and his slightly bewildered expression.

  ‘Very well, then.’ She was close enough now to touch him. ‘If you’ll also be there, then it sounds jolly perfect.’

  Lifting a nervous hand she traced the satin lapel of his dinner jacket. She felt him tense beneath her touch.

  ‘Harry, we had nothing but mud and mosquitoes and Japs trying to kill us in the jungle, and I fell deeply, irrevocably in love with you.’

  ‘But George, you don’t —’

  She pressed her fingers to his lips, cutting off the words.

  ‘The jungle confirmed things for me,’ she said. ‘It clarified the important things in life.’ She offered him her bravest smile. ‘And I now know with absolute certainty that every important thing that I want begins and ends with you.’

  Then, without warning, her courage disintegrated, her mouth pulled out of shape, her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t see Harry any more.

  But she felt his arms come around her, hauling her against his chest, and she felt his lips on her face, kissing her damp eyelids, her wet cheeks, her trembling lips.

  ‘My darling brave girl,’ he murmured against her cheek. ‘I love you so much. I promise I’ll do everything I can to make you happy, George. And . . .’

  And anything else he might have said was lost as her lips parted beneath him and he kissed her.

  Oh, what a kiss it was, filled with ocean-deep emotion and longing.

  And passion. Soon, and with feverish impatience, Georgina wriggled out of her evening gown and draped it over a bench while Harry shed his jacket and tore at his bow tie so fiercely that buttons popped and bounced onto the wooden floor. The rest of their clothes came off between wild kisses and embraces, until they were at last together among the cushions and picnic rugs, deliciously, gloriously naked. In the candlelight.

  Georgina wound her arms around Harry’s neck. ‘I’m going to be the perfect outback wife.’

  He kissed a line from her jaw to her ear. ‘I’ll look after you, I promise.’

  She wriggled her hips against his. ‘I can already ride a horse, and I want —’

  ‘George.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Now his hands were gliding over her skin. ‘Shut up, so I can make love to you.’

  Deliriously happy, Georgina obeyed.

  24

  Kalkadoon Station

  via Cloncurry

  August 1957

  Dearest Primrose,

  Finally, a photo of my darling little girl. Isn’t she just the most perfect baby you ever saw? Such a good, contented little bundle, and look at that mass of dark curls! I think she’s going to be a beauty.

  I can’t believe so many months have flown by already. You’ve probably heard from my parents and know that I’ve called her Rose Margaret. However, you might not know that I was also thinking of you, my dear friend, when I called her Rose – you and the poor struggling climbing rose I brought out with me from England that is still, miraculously, alive here at Kalkadoon. Margaret is for Harry’s mother, who is the dearest woman, and so thrilled to be a grandmother, at last, as is my mother, of course. Rose is the first grandchild for both of them – as you know, Harry’s only brother perished in the war.

  I think our little girl will probably end up being called Rosie, though. Harry calls her that already, as do most of the others here. I don’t mind.

  I feel so blessed, Primrose. Not only have I had ten wonderful years here with my Harry, living the most amazing, happy and interesting life in the outback, but when I’d just about given up all hope of ever becoming a mother, I have this sweet, loving, little daughter. Shirleen, one of the Aboriginal women who live here on the station, gave birth to a baby boy just a few weeks before Rose was born and, given that both babies are already crawling and generally getting into mischief, we often put them in a playpen together while we get on with chores about the homestead. Such a sight – the little white and brown babies giggling and laughing together as they stand on chubby legs, clutching the side of the playpen, while they hurl all their toys out onto the verandah.

  The mustering season has just finished, but it was a busy time. Shirleen and I fed the stockmen and it’s hungry work rounding up cattle all day, so the men were constantly ravenous. I’ve lost count of the number of fruit cakes and steaks we cooked, plus enough corned beef sandwiches to feed several armies.

  But last Sunday the men insisted I have the day off. It was Harry’s idea, I’m sure. He stayed home, and we had the loveliest lazy day, just the three of us, picnicking by the river, and resting on tartan rugs in the shade of weeping paperbarks while Rose slept. Harry caught fish called barramundi and cooked them on a camp fire for our dinner and we remained by the water till the stars came out. It was perfect.

  We might be remote here, Primrose, but as I’m sure I’ve told you many times, I’m never bored. There’s always something happening on a big busy station, and then there are social events like picnic races and balls, or shopping trips to one of the cities on the coast.

  You must tear yourself away from your farm, so you can come out to visit us. You know you’re always very welcome and I’m sure you’ll find the Australian outback fascinating. The brilliant colours of red earth and blue sky are just the beginning.

  Anyway, when Rose is old enough, perhaps around five years old, Harry and I will bring her home to England so she can meet you all. That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it? I’d love to see you again and to have a really long chat about everything.

  Please write and tell me all about your family and the farm and the latest gossip from the village. And what about you, dear Primrose? Any new beaus?

  For the time being, Harry and I both send our love and we hope this finds you well.

  George xx

  Lucy smiled as she carefully refolded her grandmother’s letter along the well-worn crease lines. She’d read it many times already in the few hours since she’d returned from visiting Primrose, and each time, she loved it more. The images of life evoked in Georgina’s lovely letter had given her an unexpected and precious window into her life with Harry at Kalkadoon and she was thrilled to know they’d been so happy.

  Now, she turned her attention once more to the photo that George had sent with the letter. Prim
rose had insisted that Lucy take a couple of letters and the photo home with her.

  ‘Rose might enjoy seeing them,’ Primrose had said.

  ‘Oh, she will,’ Lucy had assured her. ‘It will mean a great deal to her. Thank you.’ She was remembering the way her mother’s face had softened so noticeably when Rose spoke of Georgina, and Lucy knew her mum would be really touched.

  The small black-and-white photo showed Georgina, looking a bit thinner and inevitably older than the other photos in Primrose’s album of her teenage years, but still beautiful. She was squinting slightly in the bright outback sunlight as she held her sturdy infant in her arms. Both mother and baby were laughing and George looked so happy and proud. The baby had dark curly hair and she was reaching a chubby hand up to George’s face as if she was trying to squeeze her nose.

  Lucy loved the picture and found it very reassuring to see such clear evidence of their happiness. Not that George had been unhappy in the other photos she’d seen, but there was something more to her smile in this photo. Yes, her grandmother had been very contented living in the outback with Harry.

  Lucy felt this was important. It really mattered to her.

  It was especially reassuring to know that her darling Harry had enjoyed a happy marriage. Lucy was sure he’d deserved this and, in ways she couldn’t quite explain, the knowledge gave her fresh faith in her family. In her roots.

  ‘You look pleased with yourself. Does that mean all went well with your visit to Primrose?’

  Lucy grinned at Nick. ‘The old darling was awesome. Look.’ She drew the precious black-and-white photograph from her pocket. ‘She’s given me this snap of my grandmother and my mum.’

  ‘Nice.’ Nick leaned in to take a good look. ‘Wow, check out those outback plains. Aren’t they amazing? They seem to just go on forever.’

  ‘Hey!’ Lucy gave him a dig in the ribs with her elbow. ‘You’re supposed to be admiring the woman and the baby, not the landscape in the background.’

  ‘Well, the woman and baby are very attractive, too. Beautiful. But of course, that’s a given. They’re related to you.’

  This earned Nick another dig, but Lucy couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t a sucker for his flattery, and the smile that accompanied his comment made her as fluttery as she’d been on that first night in The Seaspray Arms.

  She blamed his gorgeous brown eyes, sometimes wicked and, other times, surprisingly gentle. That wild, dark hair of his. Those cheekbones. The hint of a five o’clock shadow . . . his long, long legs in blue jeans.

  Bottom line – Nicholas Myatt wasn’t just deadset gorgeous to look at, he was a blissfully exciting lover.

  And, amazingly, on top of his thoughtfulness in introducing her to Primrose, Nick was also cooking her dinner this evening.

  A message had arrived on her phone mid-afternoon.

  Dinner at my place? Smoked salmon spaghetti?

  Naturally, Lucy had accepted. And now, judging by the large pot on the stove and the array of ingredients scattered on Nick’s kitchen bench, he hadn’t simply ordered a meal from Penwall Hall’s kitchen, but was actually planning to cook it with his own fair hands.

  This man was a keeper.

  Or at least he would be a keeper for some lucky woman, who could stay in his company for more than a week. But if Lucy thought too much about saying goodbye, she’d end up droopy-mouthed and spoiling the pleasant, relaxed atmosphere.

  ‘I had a lovely time with Primrose,’ she said again, adding a deliberately bright smile. ‘And I’m really grateful that you arranged for me to see her.’

  ‘She’s a good old stick. I’m glad she was able to help, especially as my mother phoned today to say that she and Dad want to stay on in London for another week.’

  ‘Oh? Right.’ Lucy knew she should probably feel more disappointed.

  ‘But I can’t imagine that my parents would be anywhere near as much help to you as Primrose has been.’

  ‘She went out of her way to be helpful,’ Lucy agreed. ‘She said she felt she owed it to Georgina, given they were such close friends. She told me this story about losing an invitation or something when she was presented to the King, and Georgina finding it somehow, saving the day.’

  Nick’s eyebrows rose with interest, but he made no comment.

  ‘Anyway, Primrose gave me a couple of letters as well as this photo. There’s a letter from Georgina that I’ve read and it’s lovely. She was all in raptures about her baby – Mum’s going to adore it. And there’s another letter from Harry, my grandfather, that he sent to Primrose at the same time he sent Mum back over here to Penwall Hall.’

  ‘Wow. That might shed a little light.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s such a stroke of luck. I’m to take it home to Mum, though. I have no idea what it says. It’s sealed.’

  Nick’s eyebrows rose again. ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘It’s not really cloak-and-dagger. Primrose went to great pains to explain that it wasn’t sealed because she didn’t trust me, but she did want to reassure my mother that she would be the first person to read it, apart from Primrose, of course.’

  ‘It’s been a successful day, then.’ Nick slung his arm around Lucy’s shoulders and dropped a warm kiss on her cheek. ‘What say I open a bottle?’

  ‘Brilliant idea.’ She slipped the photo back into her pocket. Enough about her family. Nick had been incredibly tolerant, really. ‘And let me help you with the cooking.’

  ‘No need,’ he said, as he drew a bottle of chilled wine from the fridge and used a corkscrew. ‘This meal is dead simple. Once the spag is cooked, it’s pretty much a matter of tossing in the salmon, some olive oil and a few capers.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of cooking.’

  Nick handed her a glass. ‘Why don’t you choose us some dinner music?’

  ‘What are you in the mood for?’

  ‘Do you like jazz?’

  ‘I don’t really know much about jazz. I hardly ever listen to it, but I’d be happy to sample whatever you like.’

  Moments later, with Oscar Peterson playing ‘Georgia On My Mind’ softly in the background, Lucy was perched on a stool at the black marble bench in Nick’s snazzy kitchen, sipping his very nice wine, and chatting with him, while he set to work with an impressive chef’s knife and a solid, man-size chopping block. He looked surprisingly at home, cutting slices of smoked salmon into thin strips, grating lemon rind and chopping dill.

  And, sitting there, Lucy realised she was happy. Truly happy. All the way through to the soles of her feet.

  Normally she wouldn’t stop to measure her emotional state. Most days she just got on with her job, with her life, and took whatever came her way with resigned acceptance. This evening, however, she was very conscious of a heightened sense of well­being. She’d enjoyed an especially rewarding visit with Primrose, she’d read Georgina’s uplifting letter and now, a handsome and charming man was cooking her dinner. His kitchen smelled deliciously of herbs and lemon. Piano music rippled seductively around her. The wine was crisp and cold and dry, just the way she liked it.

  The whole scenario felt almost too good to be true and she was reminded again that it wasn’t going to be easy to walk away from Nick without regrets.

  She pictured herself leaving the Hall and driving her hire car to the station at Penzance, getting on the train and sitting through the long, scenic journey back to Paddington, a place that had been so exciting on the way down. After an overnight stay in London, she would be up early the next morning to catch the Heathrow Express. Inevitably, then, the long and tedious journey home: Townsville and going back to work and trying to sort out where she might live. Meanwhile Nick would be here and . . .

  Lucy realised that he’d finished chopping. When she looked up from her glass, she found him watching her.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, absolutely. I was just thinking about – about going back to work.’ It was a shock to realise her mood had sunk so quickly from
the heights of happiness, but perhaps she’d needed the reality check.

  Nick was smiling. ‘Take my advice. Don’t think about work until you absolutely have to.’

  ‘Yeah. I know – enjoy the moment.’ Which, of course, was one of those philosophies that was much easier to say than to put into practice.

  It was so hard to not think ahead, for here she was, spending another night in Nick’s flat and they both knew that the night would end, almost certainly, in his bed.

  Which was a damned delicious prospect.

  So, in theory, she should simply enjoy the meal and the promise of the pleasures to come, but already her annoying conscience was questioning the wisdom of this plan.

  Sad truth was, she was on the very brink of falling head over heels in love with Nick. Yes, it was incredibly short-sighted of her and yes, it was too soon, given the recent bust-up with Sam.

  If she wasn’t very careful, she would find herself setting out on the homeward journey feeling even more at a loss than when she left Townsville.

  Added to this potential problem, there was Nick to consider. Lucy couldn’t just ignore the no-girlfriends-Trappist-monk story that his friend Amelia had shared with her in the bar. Amelia had more or less inferred that Nick was emotionally vulnerable right now, and Lucy’s conscience was suggesting that the wise choice would be to sort a few things out – have the awkward talk. Lay their expectations on the table before this lovely night rolled on to the point where they got too carried away.

  Nick turned back to his cooking and, as he dropped a good fistful of dried spaghetti into the pot of boiling water, Lucy took a deep swig of her wine, for Dutch courage. She waited until he stirred the pasta to his satisfaction and set the wooden spoon aside.

  ‘So, I was wondering . . .’ she began carefully.

  His eyes widened with mild amusement. ‘Still musing?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘And your question is?’

  ‘It’s just something your friend Amelia said at the pub the other night. She told me that you haven’t dated since Simon died.’