Lyrebird Hill

by Anna Romer

  I nodded.

  Lucien scratched his head. ‘I haven’t thought of her in years.’

  ‘But you remember her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  I sighed. ‘Our wager was that I could ask anything. I don’t know exactly why I asked. Perhaps because I’ve been thinking about my own mother a lot lately.’

  Lucien swept his hand across the tabletop and collected the fallen chess players. Then, with slow deliberation, he began to position them on their squares.

  ‘Hair like polished copper.’ He nudged the rook into place. ‘Big square hands like a man, only a gentle touch.’ The bishop found its spot, then the knight. ‘A pair of threadbare slippers scuffing across the kitchen floor. Red lips clamped around a pipe stem. She always smelled of smoke and rum and sweat.’ The king took up residence on his central square, and then finally the queen beside him. ‘She taught me to read.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I remember getting home in the dark, the house in shambles. She was gone. Everything she owned was still there, but my mother was gone.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I found employment with a man who bred horses.’

  I hesitated, then asked, ‘Is he the one who scarred you?’

  A startled pair of eyes lifted momentarily from the board to meet mine. Lucien nodded.

  I barely dared to breathe, so when the word left me it was on a whisper. ‘Why?’

  Lucien took a deep breath and shut his eyes. ‘One of the foals was born with a gammy leg. It always struggled to stand up, which riled the master. He took to it with a stick, and flogged it half to death. I grabbed the stick and gave him a taste of his own treatment. He saw that I got a few hundred lashes for my trouble, and promised that I would live to regret what I’d done to him. But he was wrong. That old horsewhip was my salvation. After it had done its job on me, Mr Whitby found me, and I came to live here. I get a feed and a warm bed, and best of all I get left alone.’

  He rubbed the backs of his hands, as if only now seeing the crisscross of scars. Discomfort radiated from him, but he didn’t shrink away as he had before. Looking up suddenly, he asked, ‘Is your mama still alive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you remember of her?’

  It was my turn to slump back in my chair. What did I remember? Sadly, too little. Yet I clung to those vague glimpses, and although they may have been more dream than memory, they were all I had. Wallaby fur, the tremble of warm bodies pressing close, the smell of smoke and the echo of screams. And my other mother in her bed, smelling of phosphorus tonic and unwashed hair.

  ‘Not much,’ I admitted with an ache in my heart, and it was the truth for both of my mothers. ‘I was young when she died.’

  Silence set up camp between us, but it was no longer uncomfortable; rather, the silence seemed to draw us nearer to one another, as if to a warm blaze on a winter night.

  ‘Another game?’ Lucien suggested.

  The board was set up, so I agreed. I felt moody and unable to concentrate, so when – fifteen minutes later – Lucien declared checkmate, I wasn’t surprised.

  He reached for the cake I’d brought, but I got to my feet and rounded the table. Collecting a strand of Lucien’s hair between my fingers, I tugged it playfully.

  ‘The cake is payment for your last win,’ I told him. ‘This is tonight’s prize.’

  Bending to him, I placed my mouth on his. His lips met mine with hesitation, but when I pressed nearer and slid my hand onto his chest so that I might lean with more force upon him and pin him beneath me, he moaned softly and lifted his scarred hand to my face, drawing me nearer still.

  I had expected to thrill a little at the revenge I was exacting upon my husband, so I was unprepared for my response to Lucien’s touch. When his mouth began to move hungrily on mine, my nerve endings burst into flame, my body filled with light and longing. I seemed to fall from a great height, and then somehow I was in his lap, enclosed in his arms.

  Breathless, I withdrew my lips but stayed close. We searched each other’s eyes. I felt transfixed by his storm-coloured gaze, and by the face that was no longer ruined by its terrible scar but, rather, all the more beautiful for it. The candle crackled, our breathing steadied. Then, the soft whinny of a horse in the adjoining stable broke the spell. I moved away and got to my feet, feeling the chill of his absence close around me.

  ‘Tomorrow night, then?’ I whispered.

  Lucien simply nodded.

  He saw me to the door. We mumbled hurried goodbyes, and I swept away along the moonlit path towards the house. When I reached the verandah, I looked back. I couldn’t see him, but there in the dark landscape of the garden, through the open stable doorway, I saw the faint fluttering candlelight and knew that he watched me still.

  Adele had heavy eyes at breakfast. Her face was puffy and her cheeks blotched, but she chatted gaily about our plans for the day.

  ‘Why don’t we ask Quinn to pack us a picnic lunch and we could walk to the headland and spend the morning in the cove collecting shells?’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’

  ‘Or, if you’d prefer, we could take the carriage into Wynyard and watch the ships.’

  ‘That sounds good, too.’

  ‘Then again, Quinn mentioned there’s a chance of rain this afternoon. Perhaps we should barricade ourselves in the library and pore through those botanical books you love so much?’

  ‘Indeed, Adele, I shall be most content to spend the day with you regardless of our activity.’

  She smiled at that, but then, as breakfast wore on, she began to wilt. She fell quiet and picked at her food, chasing the same crust around the plate with her fork.

  ‘Are you well?’ I asked at length, not wishing to pry but unable to ignore the lengthy bouts of ill health she seemed to be suffering.

  ‘You are so kind to me. I never thanked you for . . . well, for assisting me when I wandered out that night. I am grateful to you, and it pained me to ask that you not tell Carsten. I don’t like asking you to keep secrets from him.’

  There were already many secrets I was keeping from my husband, dangerous secrets. Yet the one I should have kept closest to my chest – the truth of my link to Jindera’s clan – had been spilled. I looked at the kind, sweet woman sitting opposite. I would be more careful with her secrets. I thought of the graveyard and its sad lure for her. We had never spoken of her lost child, but her silence, and her sleepwalking, confirmed the depth of her pain.

  ‘Oh, Adele,’ I said gently. ‘You’re not forcing me. I’m sure my husband has enough to worry about, without adding your night-time forays to his list. Besides, Aunt Ida used to say that if a man can’t fix something, he’d rather not know about it.’

  I had intended to lighten the mood between us, but Adele looked at me steadily.

  ‘Lucien has always been kind, too.’

  I shoved my plate away, dipping my head to hide the sudden blush that warmed my cheeks. ‘I’ve got an idea about our day. Do you think Quinn has any knitting needles in her possession?’

  Adele brightened, her eyes widening in curiosity. ‘Knitting needles? Of course, she has an entire trunk full of needles and hooks and wool scraps. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Winter is already upon us, but we still have time to knit ourselves a pair of decent shawls.’

  Adele looked incredulous. ‘Knit?’

  Scraping back my chair, I got to my feet and went to the kitchen door. Calling to Quinn, I explained what I wanted and she bustled away upstairs to oblige. Ten minutes later she was back with a large cloth-wrapped bundle, and her customary warning.

  ‘There you go, Mrs W. That should keep you and Miss Adele busy for the next fortnight or so. But if you knit yourselves into a corner, don’t expect me to come and dig you out.’

  We retired to the library, and I bade Adele remove her lacy shawl so we
could scrutinise its stitchery. The delicate snowflake pattern had been achieved with a lace hook and finely spun silk fibre; we would not get the same effect from scrap wool, but the attempt would certainly provide a distraction.

  ‘Brenna, dear?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why would I want to make my own shawl, when I can send Quinn into Launceston to buy one?’

  ‘Because it’s fun!’ I said, laughing, and settled myself beside her, digging in Quinn’s bag for the skeins of wool.

  By early afternoon Adele had succeeded in crafting what looked like an elaborate knot. The soft red wool she’d chosen was fluffed and ragged from constant unpicking, and huge loose strands wavered delicately on the draught that ventured under the French doors. Adele tilted her head this way and that, then held up her handiwork, beaming.

  ‘You’re right, dear Brenna. This is certainly a pleasing way to spend the day. Now, tell me again about Aunt Ida’s tame cockatoo, and how she taught it to speak.’

  ‘Actually, Adele, I was hoping you might tell me something.’

  ‘Of course, what would you like to know?’

  ‘I fear it might be a bit indelicate of me to ask.’

  She looked at me and smiled. ‘Please ask. We are friends, are we not? And sisters.’

  I halted my knitting, and picked absently at a loose tail of wool. I was slowly coming to know Lucien, but rather than quench my curiosity about him, the glimpses he gave me of his private life only made me thirst for more. But the topic of his past clearly caused him discomfort, and I was loath to repeat the blunder I’d made that first night with him.

  I hesitated, choosing my next words with care. ‘My husband’s groomsman is badly scarred. He seems a gentle sort of man, not prone to fights or violent behaviour.’ Unlike his master, I added privately to myself, then said, ‘He told me he was beaten by his previous employer. Do you know much else about him?’

  Adele set aside her knitting and shifted in her chair to face me. Glancing to the open doorway, she said in a low voice, ‘Carsten arrived home with him about eight years ago; Lucien must have been eleven or twelve. As you said, he had been flogged brutally and left to die. If it hadn’t been for Quinn’s vigil at his bedside, and her expertise with a needle and thread and comfrey poultices, Lucien would most certainly have died.

  ‘He didn’t speak to anyone for nearly a year. He wouldn’t even look at me or Quinn for ever so long. When he finally found it in himself to trust us enough, he declared that his name was Lucien Fells, and that he would like to live in the stables and look after the horses. And since that day, that’s exactly what he’s done.’

  ‘Do you know of his family?’

  ‘I’m not entirely certain there ever was a family, Brenna. If you’d seen the state of the boy when he arrived – not just the horrific injuries he sustained from the flogging, but his hair and eyes, his fingernails, his feet – you’d think he’d spent his young life in a pen with the pigs. Or, out there in the bush with the wild dogs and wallabies.’

  I picked up my knitting, but my fingers were clumsy. Adele’s account had shaken me. I did not pity Lucien for the rough life he had endured; rather, I felt my admiration for him deepen. Despite his hardships, I was certain he did not bear any malice for the man who had mistreated him. Lucien was blessed by a quality of peacefulness; he loved the simplicity of his life among the horses, and he loved the hard physical work of a life spent mostly outdoors. Instead of surrendering to bitterness, as so many would have done in his circumstances, he continued to believe in kindness, and truth, and love.

  Most of all, love.

  Adele drifted to another topic, and as I sat in the quiet room, struggling with my needles and wool, smiling and nodding and engaging in conversation, my secret heart flew through the window, growing wings in the cool air, speeding through the trees to the warm haven of the stables . . . and to the man who had suffered so much, and yet still believed in love.

  At the end of the following week, I rapped softly on the stable door. It opened immediately, as though Lucien had been expecting me, which of course he had. Our wagers had become – at least while Carsten was away – a delicious habit that, with the chime of midnight passing, always drew me to the candlelit barn.

  ‘I found these,’ Lucien said by way of a greeting, dipping into his shirt pocket, drawing forth a crushed bouquet of green leaves. ‘They’re not in flower yet, but they smell good. They were growing near your little glade. When I saw them, I immediately thought of you, which, I confess, is not unusual these days.’

  ‘Yellow-buttons,’ I said wonderingly, taking the leaves from his fingers and holding them against my nose, eagerly drinking their perfume. ‘How did you know?’

  Lucien looked puzzled. ‘Know what?’

  ‘That they grow at Lyrebird Hill. And that after the rain, or on a cold starry night, the air gets this wonderful scent about it, you just want to keep breathing deeper and deeper. Then the scent fades and you forget about it, but some time later when you least expect it, your nostrils flare and there it is again, all at once sweet and sharp and spicy and you breathe and breathe and wish with all your heart that it would never end. And now here it is . . . so far from home.’

  Lucien was gazing at me with such tenderness that my breath caught. He captured my fingers and crushed them against his lips.

  ‘I’d like to see your home one day,’ he said quietly.

  A look passed between us. He had spoken forbidden words, but my heart thrilled to hear them; I knew our secret meetings were wrong, but how could I deny the way I felt? Reaching up, I twined my fingers around a lock of Lucien’s fire-gold hair, and drew him to me. Our kiss was strong and sweet, and binding; and it made me ache for what I knew I could never truly have.

  One evening a week later, we sat on the floor in Adele’s room by candlelight in front of a carved oak dressing table, our skirts billowing around us. Adele opened the deep bottom drawer, in which piles of infants clothes were neatly folded. Her usually pale face was flushed pink, and the infusion of colour made her eyes gleam. She leaned nearer, as if to impart a secret.

  ‘Carsten insisted I get rid of them, but I couldn’t.’ She glanced at me warily, but I smiled encouragement. Carefully, she lifted out a tiny crocheted bonnet and matching dress. ‘Aren’t they precious?’

  I took the delicate items from her fingers and examined the intricate lacework. ‘They’re lovely, Adele.’

  ‘Quinn made them for me, the clever old thing. She made this, too.’ She passed me a baby’s knitted blanket of lacy, pale blue wool. ‘You must think me sentimental for hanging on to them for so long, and I wouldn’t blame you.’

  ‘I think no such thing, Adele. It would have been a crime to throw out such exquisite little treasures. Besides, they are your link to happier times. It must have been hard for you when your fiancé died. Did you never have the opportunity to remarry?’

  Adele smiled sadly. ‘Malcolm was such a kind-hearted man, he would have made a wonderful husband and father. When he was taken from me – just a few weeks before our wedding day – I resolved never to love again.’ She pulled more tiny garments and comforters from the drawer. ‘My brother is very good to me, you know. Whatever trinket or bauble takes my fancy, whatever treasure or luxury my heart desires, I can send Quinn to acquire for me in Wynyard or Launceston, or order in from overseas. Fine soap, kid gloves, satin slippers, silk dresses, damask underthings. Face paint and powder, Irish linen for my bed, lace shawls from Europe.’ She hung her head and smiled down at her hands. ‘Anything I want is mine for the asking, Brenna, except the one thing I truly wish for.’

  ‘What?’ I barely whispered. ‘What is it you wish for?’

  ‘A child of my own. A little son or daughter to reach their chubby arms around my neck and kiss my cheek with their cherub lips. Alas, for me that day will never come. But it will for you, Brenna, dear. Which is why I want you to have these little clothes. When you have your own baby, you’ll be glad of t
hem. They’re a wee bit outdated, but they’re warm and clean and so very pretty.’

  I grabbed her hand, unable to stop my eyes welling. ‘Oh, Adele, they are simply lovely. I’d be honoured to have them, but only if you can bear to part with them?’

  She nodded and quickly began pulling out more dainty clothes until the drawer was bare. When I noticed the tremble in her fingers, I reached for her hands and grasped them gently in mine.

  ‘He wore them, didn’t he? Your little boy.’

  Adele searched my face, a worried frown wrinkling her forehead. ‘You found the grave.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to pry, Adele. I only wanted to know where you went, those nights you walked in your sleep. You seemed so sad, and I thought there might be some way for me to help.’

  Adele bit her lip, regarding me solemnly. ‘Do you hate me, Brenna? Do you think me wicked?’

  Impulsively, I brought her hand to my lips and kissed her knuckles. ‘Of course not, silly. When I understood why you were so troubled, and what it was that drew you from the house and into the garden on your restless nights, I couldn’t help but love you more. If you can bear to speak of him, Adele, I will gladly listen. There is no judgement between friends.’

  Tears spilled over her lashes, glistening diamonds on her perfect skin. She squeezed my hands, then drew a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. Tucking it away again, she began to fold the little outfits into a neat pile.

  ‘Soon after Malcolm died, I found myself pregnant. Carsten and Mrs Quinn were the only ones who knew. My little boy lived for three and a half wonderful years. Then, one frosty morning in July, I went into the nursery and found the window wide open. The room was icy. Quinn swore that the window had been shut when she’d looked in upon him the night before. The only explanation I could think of was that I had wandered into the nursery in my sleep, and flung it open myself. My poor little Thomas. I gathered him up and held him against my warmth, but he was cold and unmoving. A few days later, he was sleeping in the ground.’

  ‘Oh, Adele.’

  We sat in the stillness, adding our collective silence to the room’s tomblike quietude. Then, somewhere downstairs a door slammed. Boots echoed on the floor below, then thudded up the stairs and along the hall towards Adele’s bedroom.