by Anna Romer
I wrenched backwards and fell against the table. ‘The people who were murdered in that massacre in seventy-nine were my people, Carsten. My family. And if I bear you the son you long for, they’ll be your family, too.’
Sweat broke out on Carsten’s brow. He grew still, his fury apparently deflated. ‘You’re lying.’
Slowly, I shook my head, savouring his evident distress. His lips had parted, his cheeks turned to hollows, his eyes seemed sunk in his head. I drank in the sight of him; never had I felt more afraid, nor more exhilarated. To finally speak the words I’d kept imprisoned within me for so long brought fierce joy to my heart.
‘It’s no lie. I was born before my father married. I went to live with him and Mama after my Aboriginal mother was murdered.’
Carsten stared at me, his face ragged with shock. ‘But Michael told me Florence had a baby that year. I thought . . . I thought she was—’
He shook his head, as if to clear the realisation. His face had greyed, his mouth thin as a cut. He went to turn away, but then half-turned back. Clenching his fingers, he drew back his arm, and I stiffened, thinking he planned to strike my face – but instead, his fist drove into my belly.
I buckled over, the breath gone from my lungs as I went to my knees.
Carsten stared down at me, his face twisted in a mask of hatred. ‘You agreed to give me a son. And your father took my money to save his godforsaken land, no doubt laughing all the while behind my back. By God, Michael has a bloody hide . . . but he’ll be sorry. All of you, you’ll all be sorry you crossed me.’
He swayed on his feet as though drunk, and his eyes turned hard. ‘I have to go, I can’t stay here. The sight of you sickens me. I’ll leave immediately,’ he added quietly, almost to himself. He spun on his heel and went to the door, and I heard him mutter, ‘If I ride hard I’ll catch the early steamer.’
He was going? I wanted to point out that he’d only just returned, but my thoughts were suddenly jumbled.
‘What will you do?’ I called after him. ‘Will you send me home?’
Carsten stepped into the dark hallway, then looked back. I had the sense that he was already gone, that his mind and spirit had rushed ahead, and the man staring back at me was merely a shell.
‘You’ll stay here,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But if you’re unlucky enough to give me a son – or any child – I’ll have it drowned before it draws its first breath. I’d rather burn this place to the ground than leave it in the hands of a savage.’
My racing heart woke me. I rolled over in bed, thinking someone had called my name, but it was only a choir of magpies in the tree outside my window. Then I heard the thud of hoofs on the drive, and knew my husband was departing.
I sat up, and the memory of last night’s encounter in the library crashed back. Carsten’s face appeared in my mind, flushed and contorted, his eyes alight with fury. I touched the sore spot near my ribs, and rolled my throbbing shoulder; mostly, though, I ached with the understanding that I had made a terrible mistake.
The day was already warm, but I found myself shivering, as if my marrow had turned to ice. Getting out of bed, I dressed hurriedly in my walking skirt and sturdy outdoor boots, and pinned my hair into a loose knot at my nape. As I reached for my hat, I saw, on the mantle, the black chess piece my father had given me the day of my wedding.
Picking up the little queen, I held her in my hand, remembering Fa Fa’s words.
Twenty years have passed since I lost her. In all that time, not a day goes by – not an hour, not even a minute – that I don’t think of her.
‘Yungara,’ I whispered. My fingers closed over the carved figure, gripping her, fusing her to my skin, wishing never to let her go. I squeezed shut my eyes to stem the tears, but they came anyway, childish tears that seemed to rush up from the wellspring of sorrow that I carried inside me.
Yungara’s warm skin and gentle voice and girlish laughter were not quite a memory to me; rather, they were etched into my being, an echo – not of what I’d once had, but of what I’d lost. Tucking the little queen into my pocket, I made my way down the stairs, through the parlour, and out the double doors into the garden. I needed air of the freshest, brightest variety, so rather than heading into the forest where the atmosphere was misty and damp, I took the path that led westwards to the cape.
There on the headland I stood and gazed across the bay, towards the dark waters of the strait. The air was cold and salty, and as I drank it in I lifted my arms like wings and imagined myself flying away over the water, across the sparkling blue–green waves until I came to the far shore; then over roads I flew, and towns and hillocks grazed bare by cattle. I would veer to the west and drift over the granite plateau, and down onto the western slopes until I could see the heart-shaped land that was my home. My wings would quicken me earthwards, through the treetops, and I would breathe air made peppery by the scent of bush flowers and eucalypt blossoms, and cooled by the sweet breath of the river—
‘Hello there.’
Snapping from my daydream, I lowered my arms and dug my hands into my pockets, twisting around to find a man standing several feet away. He was tall and lean, sharply cut in black. The rising sun was at his back and so his face was lost in shadows, but his hair betrayed him. Today it was loose, coiling waywardly over his shoulders, creating in my mind the indelible image of a male Medusa.
I tore my hand from my coat pocket to shade my eyes the better to see him – and so dislodged the small object I’d secreted there.
Lucien swooped on it. He made as if to give it back, but when I reached out my hand to take it, he hesitated.
‘A chess piece,’ he marvelled, then looked at me. ‘Do you play?’
‘Indeed,’ I managed to say.
He was carved from shadows, and his windswept silhouette took my breath away. In the dim morning light, his eyes seemed to shine. He stepped nearer, and I found myself transfixed.
‘May I challenge you to a game some time?’ he said, as he dropped the little queen into my outstretched hand.
‘Oh, no.’ My reply came out harsher than I had intended, so I felt the need to explain. ‘It might be best not to draw attention to our acquaintance. It might seem . . . improper.’
Before he could reply, I turned and hurried back along the headland in the direction of the house. I was sore and shaken after last night, feeling like a child who had been thrashed for wrongdoing; the last thing I wanted was to dig myself deeper into trouble. The wind cut across my path, bending the shrubs that grew there, pressing flat the silvery grass. As I retraced my footsteps, I could sense Lucien’s presence behind me.
‘Mrs Whitby, do you fear a challenge?’
I ignored him.
‘A wager, then?’
I stopped walking. My breath scurried in and out from the brisk pace I’d taken along the headland. I looked back. Lucien’s scar was stark white against his wind-flushed cheeks, and he stood very still, every bit a character from myth – but no longer a Medusa. He made me think of a Viking standing at the edge of his distant lands, gazing across the sea, his eyes reflecting the green ocean depths as he contemplated his realm.
I narrowed my gaze. ‘What sort of wager?’
He considered this, pulling his lips against his teeth in that same unconscious way my father sometimes did.
‘Anything you like,’ he said at last. ‘For instance, a carriage ride to Wynyard.’
‘I don’t need to wager you for that. I only have to give my order.’ I made to turn away.
He called after me. ‘Information, then?’
When I looked back, he was smiling, as if to deliberately taunt me; how had he known that a wager for information would tempt me so powerfully?
‘What sort of information?’
‘Hmm.’ He rolled his eyes skywards, as if pondering the clouds. Then he looked back at me and laughed, a raspy musical rumble that rose out of his chest and made his eyes gleam roguishly. ‘I know all the gossip that goes on at the house. And I’ve
got a strong memory.’
He was teasing me. I could see it in his eyes that he expected me to blush and declare that I was the mistress of the house and therefore well above the sins of gossip.
But my mind was suddenly awhirl. I thought of Carsten’s mysterious locket and his lost love; and I thought of the darkness in his past that Adele had hinted at – the answers to which Lucien, as Carsten’s trusted manservant, would surely know.
‘May I ask anything?’
If his offer had been a test of my integrity, then Lucien showed no surprise at my query. ‘You may ask any question at all . . . but only one.’
‘And you swear to answer honestly?’
He bowed low. ‘My brain is yours to pick. That is, it will be if you win. I must warn you, Mrs Whitby, that chess is a passion of mine. If we play, the likelihood of your success is slim.’
His boldness pulled me from my sour mood. I almost laughed. A thrill went through me, and suddenly the salty air was filling my lungs and the sky was brilliant blue, and Lucien was smiling into my eyes and I found myself thrilling at the prospect of stealing time alone with him.
‘We’ll see about that,’ I said, drawing on my gloves. ‘Where shall our game take place?’
He seemed to hesitate, then his words rushed out. ‘I have a set of players and a board at the stables, if you’d care to join me there. My quarters are humble, but clean.’
I nodded. ‘It will have to be at night, while the household sleeps. I don’t fancy trying to explain myself to Quinn.’
‘Midnight?’
I nodded, savouring our moment of conspiracy. The wind whispered cold around us and the salt air stung my eyes and lips, but still I could not turn away. I captured Lucien in my mind’s eye, already planning my new drawing. But then, in my moment of distraction, I realised I had not asked what Lucien wagered for.
‘If,’ I said pointedly, ‘it should pass that I lose the game, what prize will I secure for you? Perhaps one of my husband’s cast-off shirtwaists, or a parcel of food from the kitchen?’
‘Quinn feeds me well enough, so I’ve no need of food. And I have no desire for my master’s cast-offs.’
‘What, then?’
He trod nearer, and I saw that his breath came sharply and his cheeks had flushed a deeper pink.
‘A kiss,’ he said quietly. ‘From you.’
As his words sank in, I began to quake. Heat shot along my spine, while my fingertips seemed suddenly made of ice. My heart beat with such eager force, that for a moment I could not breathe.
Finally I found my voice. ‘We can’t,’ I whispered. ‘If Carsten found out . . .’
He watched me steadily. ‘There’s nothing else I want.’
My eyes widened. There was nothing else I wanted, either. Lucien was risking his position by speaking to me this way, but there was something irresistible in the notion of making a cuckold – even for the brief duration of the kiss – of the man who valued me so little.
‘We have a deal,’ I said. ‘Tonight at midnight, prepare to have your brains picked.’
Lucien bowed, and then without another word he turned and stalked away along the headland, his tall, black-clad figure quickly swallowed by the mist.
A cold breeze billowed from the ocean, filling the midnight garden with a freshness that made my heart want to grow wings and soar out above it. This sea air was coarse and ripe with its heavy odours of rotting weed and fish and salt, and as I ran along the pathway and through the trees towards the stables, I felt it seep beneath my skin and fill my spirit.
Lucien was waiting inside the stable doors. He stood aside for me to enter, and as I passed his gaze caught mine. I saw my own excitement reflected in the stormy green of his eyes, and I saw the blush of passion in his cheeks, as he surely saw it in mine. I knew, in that fleeting moment, we were somehow locked together, two souls woven from the same fibre and bound by fascination, neither one able to tear away without harming the other. And with Carsten between us, this new path we trod was suddenly strewn with danger.
Lucien lit a candle and led me across the straw-littered stables to a small door in the far wall. We entered a long narrow room. At one end, a curtain concealed what I guessed must be Lucien’s bed. There was a ladder against one wall, and a rickety-looking shelf crammed with tattered books. At the opposite end to the makeshift bedchamber was a small table and two chairs. The table was topped by a large chequered board, upon which sat a chess set beautifully carved from pale wood. The players lacked the intricate detail of my black queen, but they were flawless in their simplicity.
‘What lovely players,’ I told him. ‘Wherever did you get them?’
Lucien watched me in the candlelight.
‘I made them,’ he said dismissively. ‘Would you care for a drop of tea? It’s freshly brewed.’
I nodded and took my place at the table. As I stared at the carved players sitting on their polished board, I drew out my ebony wood talisman and sat her at the edge of the table.
‘For luck,’ I told Lucien, as he arranged an enamel pot of tea and two tin mugs carefully on the tabletop.
‘You’ll be needing plenty of that,’ he remarked as he poured the tea, and then gestured at the game. ‘Black goes first.’
I moved my central pawn, rethinking my strategy. I would clear a path for my rook, take out Lucien’s queen, and corner his king.
Lucien mirrored my move, and I gained confidence. Moving my second piece into the path of a white pawn, I watched as Lucien bypassed my bait and instead positioned his pawn in front of my bishop. I collected his piece, then realised I’d fallen into a trap.
My game went badly after that. Rather than attack, I seemed to continually move in a defensive manner. When I made a gap for my knight, Lucien positioned his bishop in readiness for the conquest. When I sent my queen out, she was immediately threatened by Lucien’s rook.
Lucien sat back, examining the board. At last he looked up at me and smiled, then slipped his queen in direct line with my king.
‘I’ve won your kiss,’ he said softly.
I withdrew my hands to my lap; they were suddenly damp. My heart pumped so furiously that my roaring blood deafened me. I dared to peek at Lucien.
‘You’re supposed to say, “checkmate”.’
His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. ‘Whatever you call it, you owe me a kiss.’
My tea had gone cold, but I drained the cup in a long swallow. I looked at Lucien. His hair coiled over his collar and his dark eyes watched me intently. Since our meeting in the glade, I had daydreamed of a moment where we might be alone again; I had even constructed scenarios where he drew me near and kissed me.
Yet now that my dream was reality, I quaked with a sort of delicious fear.
‘Where shall I collect my prize?’ Lucien wanted to know.
My limbs were suddenly unreliable, so I gestured vaguely at the table. ‘Here’s as good a place as any, I suppose.’
Lucien got to his feet, and helped me to mine. I stood before him, just out of reach of the candlelight. My fingers shook, and warmth was rippling through me. I waited, leaning ever so slightly towards him.
Lucien gazed at my face, as if committing every detail to memory. Then he smiled regretfully. ‘I enjoyed our game, Mrs Whitby. I’m pleased you agreed to play with me; you are a worthy opponent. Your company is enough reward for me. Come on, I’ll walk you back to the house.’
I had not realised, until disappointment struck, how very much I had been looking forward to his touch; to feeling him, breathing him in; having him near.
‘But we had a wager.’
The candle wavered in the draught. Lucien’s smile seemed sad. ‘I really didn’t expect you to kiss me. I’m flattered that you’re prepared to, but . . .’ He shrugged, and his gaze softened. ‘You’re so very beautiful, Mrs Whitby. And I’m an ugly brute.’
I searched his face. In the muted light, he looked angelic, a boy with hair made ragged by the wind, and a bittersweet s
mile that, all of a sudden, filled me with warmth.
‘But a deal is a deal, Mr Fells.’
Moving nearer, I stood on my toes and reached up, gently cupping his damaged face in my hand, intending to perhaps place a dry, motherly peck on his cheek. At my touch, his eyes locked to mine and his lips parted, and I felt my inhibitions fall away, replaced by a yearning of such power that it drew me to my toes and made me lift my mouth to his; but in the instant before our lips touched, Lucien jerked away from me and back-stepped into the shadows.
‘You mock me,’ he breathed, and his eyes gleamed with sudden tears.
‘No,’ I said, moving towards him, inexplicably desolate. ‘I would never—’
‘Please leave.’ He backed away and turned his face from the candlelight so that shadows engulfed his features.
‘Lucien . . .’
Moving through the shadows, he stalked to the other end of the room, where he slipped behind the heavy curtain and into his makeshift bedchamber.
Ashamed, I stared after him. When he didn’t reappear, I gathered my skirts and hurried to the door.
13
We’d all love to travel back in time and do it differently – avoid those mistakes we’re so ashamed of, work out more, save more money, say the right thing to that special girl or guy. Of course, time travel is a science-fiction dream; the only thing you can change now is your future.
– ROB THISTLETON, FIND YOUR WAY
Ruby, May 2013
There should have been rain for a funeral. Grey skies, thunder. Boggy lawns and a generally dank, dreary atmosphere. But Granny H had never been conventional in life; why would she have been any different in death? The sun blazed in a perfect blue dome, and rainbow lorikeets dive-bombed the acacias, screeching and fighting over seedpods. It was a raucous day, a bright and dazzling glory of a day, and I wished that Esther could have been here to enjoy it.
In her honour I chose a fifties-style dress – deep indigo with neat collar and sleeves and a full, flattering skirt. I pondered my reflection for a while, then realised that my face didn’t match my outfit. Rummaging in the bottom of my make-up bag, I found a cherry-red lipstick that I hadn’t worn for ages. It was an old favourite, but it hadn’t coordinated with the slimming black or charcoal hues that now dominated my wardrobe. I daubed it on, blotted on a tissue, and then stood back to admire the effect.