by Anna Romer
‘Thanks.’ I hesitated. ‘Did you know Jamie?’
He shook his head. ‘She was in high school by the time I came on the scene. You were the one I was—’ He cut off, and shrugged. ‘You know, close to.’
I searched his face, trying to summon the features of the boy he’d once been. Had we really been close? How was it possible to draw such a blank on someone I’d known?
‘I’ve got a rotten memory,’ I said, trying to make light of it. ‘That’s why I’m here, I was hoping to see Esther. Of course, on the way my old car broke down and I got stranded, had to walk here this morning, through the mud. I ran into Esther a few weeks ago in Armidale, and she invited me to stay. We got talking about the past. She said she might be able to help me remember.’
‘Oh hell, Ruby.’ Pete’s face crumpled. ‘I’m really sorry. Esther died last night.’
I stared, hoping I’d heard wrong.
Pete pointed down the slope that led to the river. ‘She had a fall, slipped in the rain. I found her late last night on the riverbank. She’d been there for hours.’ He slumped and seemed to shrink into himself. ‘Listen, I’ve just got back from the hospital. I’m going to make a cuppa, are you up for one?’
‘Sure,’ I said shakily. Shock was taking hold, making an empty hollow around my heart. I flashed back to the gallery, to the vibrant woman I’d chatted with so easily; to her kind smile, and her bouquet of wildflowers, and her promise to help me navigate back through my forgotten past. If my car hadn’t broken down, if there hadn’t been a storm, if I’d arrived yesterday afternoon as intended – then Esther might have still been alive.
‘Do you think,’ I began, then cleared my throat. ‘Do you think Esther might have something a little stronger than tea?’
Pete looked at me. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s some brandy stashed in the larder for just this sort of emergency.’
We climbed the verandah steps, and Pete opened the back door, then ushered me in and followed silently as I made my way out to the kitchen.
‘As you know, the storm hit suddenly,’ Pete told me. ‘I waited until the worst of it was over, then drove here to see if there’d been any damage to the new seedlings we’d planted.’
We were sitting on the verandah, the tray between us crammed with tea and biscuits, brandy bottle, and two glasses. The dogs lay side by side at the foot of the stairs, their ears pricked to the soft murmur of our voices.
Pete continued. ‘I guess I knew the minute I got out of the car that something was wrong.’
The raspy emotion in his voice made me look more closely at him. He could not have been more different to Rob. He was like some kind of wild bush mechanic, with his raggy jeans and crazy hair and beard. His hands were knotted and looked stiff from years of hard work, but he wasn’t old. My age, maybe a year or so older. But while I had the rosy glow of a pampered town dweller, Pete seemed worn and somehow battered, as though the nicks and cuts and tiny scars on his hands went more than skin deep.
‘Esther always had this uncanny sense of knowing I was on my way,’ he said. ‘Even if I walked over from my place, she’d be waiting on the verandah, as if she’d heard me approaching from a mile away. I even tried sneaking through the pine forest at the back of the house, or cutting along the river, but she was always there, dusting her hands on her apron, the kettle already on the boil.’ He sighed. ‘Last night, it must have been about eight, I ran through the house calling, but she wasn’t here. That’s when I really started to worry.’
‘Why was she down at the river if it had been raining?’
‘She liked to sit on the rocks when she had something on her mind. The sound of the river soothed her, she always said.’
Pete was quiet for a time. His big body trembled, and I felt my eyes well in sympathy. Despite our history as school friends, this man was a stranger to me, but as I watched him his evident sorrow touched a nerve in me and I found myself wanting to soothe him, or at least distract him.
‘You found her on the riverbank?’ I gently prompted.
Pete looked up, scrubbing away his tears. ‘At first I thought she was dead. I carried her to the house. Her head was gashed and she was blue from cold, but still conscious. I wrapped her in a blanket and got her into the car and cranked the heater, then drove like billy-o to the hospital. They managed to stabilise her, but I guess the damage was already done. Just before midnight she drifted off to sleep, and didn’t wake up. If only she’d carried the PLB I bought her, she could have signalled for help.’
I looked at him. ‘PLB?’
‘Personal locator beacon, bushwalkers carry them in case of life threatening falls or snakebite, that sort of thing. The device alerts emergency services via satellite. Esther didn’t want to know about it, so it’s gathering dust under my sink. She always insisted that something like that was an invasion of her privacy.’
After a while, Pete dragged out a hanky and blew his nose. ‘You know the worse thing? If I’d turned up an hour earlier – hell, half an hour, fifteen minutes – then she’d still be here.’
‘You can’t know that.’
I heard a scuffle, and saw that one of the dogs, the sharp-featured female, had crept up the stairs and quietly settled herself against Pete’s feet. Pete reached down and absently tugged her ears. She was comforting him, I realised, and although I shifted uneasily on the bench, I didn’t have the heart to wish her away.
‘Esther taught me not to beat myself up for my mistakes,’ Pete said. ‘But I’ve got a feeling this one’s going to haunt me.’
He was blaming himself; I recognised the signs. The pinched lips, the distant-focused eyes, the way he sat hunched into himself as if unwilling to take up space; I’d been seeing those same signs in myself for years.
He got up. ‘I’m sorry, Ruby, I’m rotten company at the moment. I’ll go for a swim and lighten up, and get these dogs fed. You’re probably starving, so I can make us breakfast. Then I’ll get to work on the ute.’
I was still thinking about Esther, so his words took a moment to sink in.
‘The ute?’
Pete sighed. ‘I was upset coming home this morning, and I got careless. I swerved to miss a kangaroo and hit a rock, buggered up my front end. I wasn’t sure the Holden would get me home, which is why I came here – it’s closer to the main road than my place. By the sound of that rattle under the bonnet, I won’t be driving anywhere until the wishbone’s fixed.’
‘Wishbone? Ouch.’
‘Yeah, nasty. I can repair it – I’ve got the parts in the shed at my place – but it’s tricky work. Fiddly and time-consuming. Once it’s fixed, I’ll drive you in to Armidale. I’d take you in Esther’s car, but that’s out of operation, too. If luck’s on our side I might have the ute working by tomorrow afternoon. Although,’ he added darkly, more to himself, ‘I don’t like my chances.’
‘So, we’re stranded.’
The blue eyes locked on mine for an instant, and his smile seemed somehow regretful. ‘Nothing that drastic. There’s a landline at my place. You can call a cab if you like. The Armidale drivers don’t like coming out here – once you get past Clearwater, the road’s a goat track at the best of times, and after last night’s rain it’ll be a mud nightmare. A taxi ’ll cost a bomb, but at least you’ll get back to civilisation. Are you in a rush to be somewhere?’
I thought about my cottage overlooking the beach with its breezy windows and inviting patio. There was mud cake in my freezer, new bubble bath to try out, fluffy slippers and clean pyjamas to snuggle into, fresh sheets on my bed – and a bottle of shiraz stashed in the linen press for an emergency. I thought about my friends and our late dinners and boozy book rambles. I thought about my little bookshop with its sweet papery aromas and tranquil atmosphere, and Earle happily fossicking among the shelves.
Then back came the sharp, sweet smell of Rob’s bathroom, and the likelihood that he’d already forgotten me. We were finished, I realised. I’d be alone again. Trudging through the day
s of my life, empty and sad.
Pete was watching me, his eyes curious.
I drummed up a smile. ‘I was planning to spend a few days here, anyway. Do you think that’d be all right?’
‘Esther would have wanted you here, Ruby. I expect the solicitor will arrange her funeral for some time mid-week. I don’t suppose you’d . . .’
‘I’d love to.’
Pete seemed pleased, but his eyes stayed sad and he glanced down the slope towards the river. ‘Poor old Esther,’ he said softly. ‘I wish she was here right now. You would have just made her day.’
8
Brenna, May 1898
Since my arrival at Brayer House three weeks earlier, I had seen Adele twice more escaping through the garden. And both times, Lucien had appeared on the path soon after and followed.
I did not know what to make of my new sister-in-law’s nocturnal activities. In the short time we had spent together, we had become amiable companions. We occupied ourselves in the library, or studied fashion catalogues that Adele ordered from England, or wandered among the flowerbeds cutting daphne and hydrangeas and sprigs of abelia for the table. I was reluctant to suspect her of illicit meetings with her brother’s manservant, but how else could I interpret what I’d seen?
I quickly settled into what was to become my routine as Carsten’s wife. Each morning I rose early, bathed, and dressed in one of my plain shirtwaists and a wool skirt, and buttoned boots.
Adele liked to help me pin my hair, which soon became an excuse for us to engage in conversation – at first about general topics, such as the establishment of a municipal police force, or the proposed electric lighting in Hobart, or the ongoing debate about Federation. I soon noticed that Adele never spoke of the son Carsten hoped I would bear for him; nor did she ever ask how many children I wanted, or whether I was looking forward to the experience of motherhood. The topic of babies, I quickly understood, was taboo. And yet, her reserve was a relief to me; had she asked about my expectations regarding a child, I might not have known how to answer. Carsten rarely visited my room, and our intimate relations were still bafflingly non-existent.
An hour before breakfast, it became my habit to go downstairs to the kitchen and see if all was well with Quinn. The housekeeper routinely rose before dawn to bake the day’s bread and prepare breakfast. The kitchen was always warm and full of delicious aromas. Some days I sat over the household account ledger, which was more a custom than a necessity, because Quinn kept it in perfect order.
Brayer House enjoyed every luxury: oriental carpets, and high walls hung with paintings in gilt frames, lacquered furniture, carved chairs and lounges upholstered with exotic silks. And yet, in a flash, I would have given it all away to be back at Lyrebird Hill; to be sitting at the scarred oak table with Fa Fa, or wading in the river with Owen, or sitting with Millie in her lean-to nibbling fruit cake; or running along the track to the encampment, catching sight of Jindera’s smiling face, feeling the approval that radiated from her dark eyes, that were, with the benefit of hindsight, so similar to my own—
‘Brenna?’
Adele was watching me across the breakfast table. Shadows circled her eyes, and she had barely touched her porridge. This morning we were eating alone, because Carsten had left the house early to ride into Wynyard on business.
‘You’re lost in your thoughts,’ Adele chided. ‘I do believe you’re daydreaming about my brother.’
My cheeks burned. How could she know that my thoughts of Carsten were chaste, and that my daydreams more likely involved thoughts of her and Lucien, or my home at Lyrebird Hill? So I found myself spinning a tiny white lie.
‘I was simply wondering what book I’ll choose for us to read today.’
‘Oh, Brenna, didn’t I tell you?’ Adele shoved away her plate. She drew a large handkerchief from her skirt pocket and coughed delicately into it. She dabbed it against her lips, and then said, ‘I have an engagement in Launceston, I’m afraid I will be away for several days.’
My spirits deflated. Several days? I longed to ask why, but Adele was clearly reluctant to speak more of it. When she asked me to help her bathe and dress, I agreed with only half a heart. I sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen while Quinn drew a bath and helped Adele into it. Adele chatted almost nervously while Quinn sponged her arms, her back, her neck, and when she closed her eyes and let herself sink into the water, I found myself studying her. Without her fine clothes and jewelled necklets and elaborately pinned hair, she was even more beautiful. How lovely she must seem to a simple man like Lucien, as he follows her through the garden at midnight, perhaps to some secret trysting place.
Later, as the carriage rattled off down the driveway and through the gates onto the road, I told Quinn I was feeling poorly and stomped upstairs to my bed chamber. Seating myself at the window, I glared down into the garden. In daylight, it seemed empty. Without the darkness and shifting shadows, without the moonlight lacing the treetops with silver – without Adele – it was a dull and uninteresting place indeed.
Carsten spent little time at the house.
We had separate bedrooms, so my first glimpse of him every morning was at the breakfast table. At eight on the dot he would be there, Quinn fussing at his elbow, pouring the strong tea he loved, and filling his plate with bacon rashers and scrambled eggs and big chunks of toasted bread. After he had eaten, he would go down to the stables and check his horses. He was in the habit of riding out most days with Lucien.
Although he employed several stockmen, he liked to check the fences and feed troughs and any possible storm damage himself; farming was not his financial mainstay, but I came to see that he enjoyed being out in the fresh air, and there were many days when he and Lucien were gone until dusk. He always returned from these excursions sweaty and flushed in the face, and usually in a good mood.
After dinner, he retired to the library, where he pored over his account books, then smoked a pipe and drank sherry until midnight. Once the grandfather clock struck the hour of twelve, Carsten climbed the stairs to bed.
On those rare occasions he visited my room, we seemed to simply re-enact our first night together. He would instruct me to lift my nightgown, then half-heartedly roll on top of me. His efforts were always unsuccessful, so he would lie beside me in grim silence until the clock struck the half hour, then rise and dress himself, and go out.
Tonight, I had attempted to cheer the room with a vase of rosemary, which I had placed upon the little desk. Its sharp scent perfumed the air. I lay under the covers in my nightdress, listening for footsteps along the hall, wondering, as I did each evening, whether tonight I would finally know how it felt to be loved, and if perhaps that love might thaw my husband’s frosty manner towards me.
There was a shuffle outside my door, then a quiet knock. Carsten entered the room. He checked his watch, as he habitually did, and placed it on the desk beside my jug of rosemary. He undressed and got into bed. For a long while he lay without moving. His body heat warmed me, and I began to doze.
‘I’ll be leaving for New South Wales in the morning,’ he said. ‘An offer has come for a farm of mine near Hillgrove, and I want to oversee the sale. I’ll be away for three weeks.’
I rose on my elbows, my pulse taking flight. ‘But Hillgrove is only a couple of hours from home.’
‘If I see Michael, I’ll give him your regards.’
I was trembling now; I could almost smell the wildflowers of home, and hear the soft sigh of the river. My longing gave me courage, and I dared to place my hand on my husband’s chest. The muscles tightened at my touch and I withdrew.
‘Carsten, please take me with you. I’d like to see my father.’
‘It’s business,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’d be in the way.’
‘I could stay with Fa Fa, and then take the coach to Hillgrove once your sale has gone through. I wouldn’t get in your way, you’d hardly know I was there.’
‘Out of the question.’
The weight of
disappointment settled over me, but my thoughts continued to race. My husband was a wealthy man, a man of influence. His business took him to many places, and saw him in the company of a range of people. Until now I had believed that seeking justice for the murder of my mother, Yungara, would be a pointless exercise; any evidence would be long gone. But if anyone had the means to locate and expose her killers, it was Carsten.
‘Twenty years ago,’ I began cautiously, ‘there was a massacre at Lyrebird. An entire band of Aboriginal people were murdered.’ I paused, noticing that Carsten lay very still. I took a breath and went on. ‘Afterwards, my father was stricken down by grief, and I know the memory of it haunts him. It would bring him,’ and me, I added privately, ‘great relief to learn the identity of the men responsible. Carsten, you once promised to do all you could to make me happy.’
Carsten made a rough sound in his throat. ‘What are you asking?’
‘Someone must know who those men were. Perhaps you could broach the topic with your associates?’
He rolled away, punching flat his pillow. ‘I’m a busy man, Brenna. I haven’t time to chase your whims.’
I expected him to get out of bed and stalk from the room, but instead he settled beside me. Soon, his breathing slowed, became rhythmic. The clock downstairs struck the half-hour. I tried to sleep, but my eyes kept flying open, seeking Carsten’s dark shape. He hadn’t agreed to my request, yet nor had he outright refused. For the first time since I had learned about Yungara’s fate, justice seemed more than a distant dream.
A while later, I needed to use the chamber pot. Lighting the lantern, I rolled quietly off the mattress and padded across the icy floorboards to the privacy screen. I was about to duck behind it when I caught sight of Carsten’s fob watch sitting on the desk. It attracted my eye because of its odd shape. It was oval, and flatter than a watch ought to be. I went closer.