To find a place that felt like home and to stay there. The very thought had comforted and steadied her. As Miss Morphett talked on, Izzy would lean against her, breathing in her scent of vanilla and hairspray and imagining the endless golden plains sealed under a dome of blue sky, the settlers creeping across it in a trail, like ants. She knew she was destined, as they had been, to go there herself one day.
But as a year, then two, went by, Miss Morphett spent less and less time out of bed. Her kind eyes became strangely bright, her attention drifted. It was when Izzy sat beside her in the big bed and rummaged in her jewellery box that she had first set eyes on the locket, a relic of those early days of settlement.
‘It belonged to my mother. It was given to her in sympathy following an awful family tragedy. That’s all she ever told me.’ The old lady held the open locket up to her bedside lamp to reveal strange markings. ‘Maybe they’re a secret code. What do you think? Druids?’
‘Pirates!’ she remembered suggesting.
But then came a day when Tulip told Izzy she couldn’t visit anymore.
‘She’s too sick. She doesn’t want you crawling over her wearing her out,’ she had said. But there was something hungry in her mother’s face that Izzy knew well. Something that made her feel suddenly cold.
Two days later, cleaning her parents’ room, Izzy had come across the locket and knew instantly that her mother had stolen it. This was not a gift. Clasping the jewellery in her hand, she had run all the way to Miss Morphett’s and pounded on the door. But there had been no answer. She had been desperate to return it, devastated that her gentle friend might think she had taken it.
‘Sorry, love,’ a neighbour raking leaves had called to her over the hedge. ‘She’s gone to hospital in Sydney. Doesn’t look good, I’m afraid.’
She had never seen the old lady again.
With every step of the journey home, her rage had grown. She had accepted Tulip’s neglect and selfishness, taking responsibility for her sisters without complaint. But this was not forgivable. Angry tears were coursing down her face as she threw the front door open. Her mother, coming in from the kitchen with a cup in her hand, had stood frozen. Silently, Izzy had lifted the locket and let it dangle from her fingers in front of her mother’s solemn dark eyes. Then Tulip’s shoulders slumped and she nodded. Two weeks later she went into rehab.
Izzy pulled herself out of her chair and wandered downstairs to join her father. Did he know? she wondered. He was very good at not knowing things when he chose.
The soup was classic Joe, made with chunky vegetables from the garden, fresh herbs and pearl barley. She ate hungrily.
‘Still doing the freelance bookkeeping?’ he asked, passing her buttered toast.
‘Yeah, but less than I used to. The tour business is solid. I’m out at Wandalla every four weeks or so now. And my three-day package to the old goldfields at Sofala’s always popular. And the Hunter Valley.’ She dipped the toast and devoured it. ‘Funny thing is, I still love a spreadsheet.’
‘Good for you, Izz. I don’t know where you got that enterprising streak from. Not from either of us, that’s for sure.’
Izzy laughed. ‘Someone had to be organised around here.’
‘But with all this rushing around, do you still have time for love? That’s just as important. It seems like a long time since you had a partner.’
‘Well, there is someone. Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’ Joe raised his shaggy eyebrows.
‘His name’s Lachlan. He’s Nina’s cousin – remember her?’
‘The painter. Yes.’
‘He’s helping out with her art retreat – it was getting a bit too much for her. He’s like that. Kind. He’s into animal rights.’
‘But it’s still only “sort of”?’ asked Joe.
‘I’m not sure. I’d like it to be more, but I can’t really figure out what he wants.’
‘Why don’t you just ask him?’
‘Maybe I will.’
Izzy balanced the bag of groceries on her hip, put her key in the keyhole and jiggled it up and down, then sideways, then up and down again. She knocked. So annoying. She’d been on to the landlord to fix this for weeks.
She tried one more time and the key turned. Just as well – seemed like there was no-one home as usual. ‘Hello?’ she called as she lugged her bag on wheels down the hall of the large, dark terrace which contained the usual faint whiff of damp and deodorant.
She parked it by the kitchen door and headed in to unpack the groceries. Coffee, chicken, broccoli, mushrooms, coriander. It was only when she turned to put the milk in the fridge that she realised she wasn’t alone.
‘JEEZUS! You scared the crap out of me,’ she cried, clutching her heart dramatically and smiling at … now, what was her name again? She was the new flatmate she’d met briefly last week before heading to Wandalla. Billie. That’s right. Or Millie.
‘Hiya.’ The girl smiled but her eyes never left her phone. She was sitting at the table, her long tights-clad legs curled around a stool.
‘We really need to get that lock fixed,’ Izzy began again as she opened the fridge, trying not to grimace at the vegetable crisper. ‘Hungry?’
‘Huh?’ the girl replied.
‘You interested in Thai curry later?’ asked Izzy hopefully. ‘I’m making one.’
‘Nope. But ta,’ the flatmate replied, yawning.
‘Anyone else home?’
Billie shook her head and then started giggling at something on her phone.
Izzy wheeled her bag to her small room at the back of the house. She knew she’d been lucky to find this place in inner-city Stanmore – it was close to the station, relatively clean and not too pricey – but she wished it was more of a home. At least she was away a lot.
She threw her bag on the bed and unzipped it. She worked briskly, efficiently. Dirty laundry in the basket; makeup on her dressing table and toiletries in the bathroom under the stairs. Then there were the three outfits that needed altering for the ball. When Nina had told her on the phone she’d take the silver-grey, Izzy had been relieved. From the moment she saw the blue sateen, she had wanted it. And she knew what would set it off perfectly. The locket. But even if she had found it she could never have worn it. It wasn’t hers to wear.
Rightfully, it belonged to the Blackett boys, whether they knew it or not. In all this time, she hadn’t been able to tell them the truth. Her mother had stolen it. When she had first visited The Springs last year, and they had worked out that Miss Morphett was actually a Blackett, Izzy should have spoken up then – tried to find the locket and given it to Heath. But she’d been too gutless. And the longer she’d left it, the worse it all became. Then, Nina’s locket surfaced, then the old letter. She would have to find the locket and tell them everything.
Shaking the thought, she held the shimmering folds of the dress against her and reluctantly put it aside with the others for cleaning. Then another dress caught her eye – the ruined Alistair Trung. Immediately, an image of entwined, naked limbs appeared in front of her. She knew the dress was past redemption, but put it in the clothes hamper anyway. She couldn’t throw it out just yet. She opened her briefcase and took out paperwork and receipts and sorted them into the small filing cabinet under her desk, then put her recharger and tablet on top of it.
Done. She looked around the neat room with satisfaction. Her mind wandered to her bedroom at The Springs. She figured both houses would have been built around the same time. Each had high, decorative ceilings, sash windows and even picture rails. But her room at The Springs always seemed brighter. A haven.
Her phone beeped and she snatched it from her bedside table. Two missed calls. Lachlan? No. She brushed off a wave of disappointment. Silly. She wasn’t expecting to hear from him. The first call was from her sister, the other was an unfamiliar number. She dialled her voicemail.
‘Isobel? Isobel Rainbow? Martin Warrell here from CPY. Loved how you transformed the Ryde office. Now C
hatswood’s crying out for an accounting overhaul. Same deal as before – about six weeks, I reckon, and maybe a bit more money. I’ll talk to Doug. You know how it is – chaos, more chaos, and the fear of an audit breathing down our necks. Can you start – like yesterday?’ There was a rueful laugh. ‘Give us a call ASAP. Lerve your work.’
Izzy smiled as she remembered that job. It was one of her temp gigs. She recalled how she was shuffled in past the boardroom to the offices where a frantic manager was berating weary staff as they tried to make sense of accounts and emails late into the night.
She’d done brilliantly. Even now she felt a shiver of satisfaction when she thought of how the manager and his long-suffering PA had almost wept tears of gratitude as they surveyed her easy-to-understand spreadsheets that screamed ‘nothing to see here’.
Order out of disorder. Fun stuff. But she was far too busy with the tour business – and other even more welcome distractions in Wandalla – to accept any new work in Sydney.
As for Calliope, she was glad, no, relieved, she’d rung. She’d talk to her later tonight about how her new start in Brisbane was shaping up. The call would be another long one but she was confident that, as usual, she would eventually be able to calm her sister’s anxiety and fears. But almost immediately her father’s haunted face when he mentioned his girls came back to her, as did his oft-repeated: ‘People aren’t spreadsheets, Izz. You can’t always fix them.’
She suddenly felt hollow. Later. She’d call Calliope later.
Izzy stored the bag on top of the wardrobe, kicked off her shoes and flopped on the bed. Now what? Looked like it would just be Billie and her at home tonight – no surprises there.
She shut her eyes. Wandalla. A tiny, backward place – but she sort of missed it. And The Springs – someone always seemed to be coming or going there. Moira, Heath and, of course, Lachlan. She missed the … bustle of it. Ridiculous. She turned on her side and looked again at her torn dress peeping from the hamper. It would be great to talk to someone about her time away. About the dinner party. About Lachlan. She felt a tear start to form. Stop it, she scolded herself. She took a deep breath. Maybe another one of them would come home tonight. She hoped so. The truth was she had a tiny social circle since she’d moved to Sydney, away from her besties in the Mountains. And there had been the year-long outrageous mistake – an affair with a former colleague who had turned out to be married – which had left her feeling rudderless and uncertain. He was confused and had just needed some help, she had reasoned, until it seemed all reason had disappeared. And then there had been those two one-night stands after it finished. Grim. Tinder had proved to be nothing but bad news for her.
Snap out of it, girl, she told herself as she moved to her mirror and tried to smooth down her unruly hair. After all, maybe things were about to change. She felt a warm glow bloom from her stomach to her face. Lachlan. Maybe she would summon the courage to ring him, too, later. He was different this one. Funny, smart, secure. Nothing to fix there.
How would she ever be able to hold off seeing him for another three weeks? She would call him. But right now she needed food, a chat maybe, and a glass of red – for courage. She headed to the kitchen where Billie was blending something in a juicer.
‘Smoothie?’
‘No thanks, I’ll pass,’ smiled Izzy as she took in the green watery liquid. ‘But I do have this,’ she added, smiling and pointing to a bottle of shiraz she’d picked up near Orange. ‘Want a glass?’
‘Oh, ta,’ said Billie. ‘Cool. Hold on. Sorry – is that red?’
Izzy nodded.
‘So sorry. No red food or drink on a Sunday – bit of a rule of mine. But, hey, love that you asked.’
The two looked at each other blankly for a couple of seconds, then Izzy poured a big glass.
‘Oh, and Izzy,’ said Billie. ‘Would you be able to give me a hand later with my tax return?’
After a struggle with Billie’s receipts and probably one more glass of red than she should have had, Izzy phoned Lachlan who, much to her surprise, answered after the first ring.
‘Lachlan! It’s me.’
‘Well, hello you,’ came the voice down the line. He sounded cheery, happy to hear from her. ‘Lucky you caught me at the Commercial – good coverage. But damn, I’m about to drop out. Failing battery. I’d love to …’
And the line went dead.
Love to … what? thought Izzy for the tenth time that night as she got into bed. End this thing now while we can? Have wild sex with you again? Recite poetry to you under the stars …?
The sound of Lachlan’s voice filled her with warmth.
Yep. This one did not need fixing.
CHAPTER 13
If walls could talk, the Wandalla School of Arts hall would be flirting coquettishly, dressed up as she was in red, white and blue streamers matched with barrels of hydrangeas. On either side of the entrance, thick candles flamed in giant candelabras.
Cocooned in darkness, Hilary watched as throngs of ball-goers in period dress started filling the main street. From the verandah of the Wandalla Health Centre across the road, she could observe unseen and judge when the moment was right for her entrance. Nerves. She had not eaten since last night and that, along with her tightly-laced corset, made her feel giddy. Still, people were arriving. They had come. Fears of an empty hall had haunted her.
She steadied herself against the railing with black-gloved hands and listened to the excited chatter. Tonight would finally end her time as an outcast.
When Hilary tried to recall the events of two years ago that had led to her ostracism, it was like remembering a movie or a dream. Had she really been so desperate to recreate Durham in all of its grandeur that she’d blocked up The Springs’ only real water source – the bore? Everything she had thought was solid had begun to unravel after her exposure. And then there was that terrible moment when she saw the locket at Nina’s throat and knew that she was her daughter. So much deception. If only it had been a dream. If it had not been for Phillip and their daughter, Deborah – and, yes, Nina – Hilary wondered if she would have ever got through the confusion and humiliation. But tonight she finally had a way back to where she belonged. And she had earned it.
Peering over to the hall, she could make out Nina and her friend hovering near the front doors of the red brick Victorian’s grand entranceway. Well, grand for Wandalla.
But what was Nina wearing? It seemed to flap around her as she walked. And yet she still looked beautiful, her swept-up brunette curls showing off that elegant neck. They were standing there talking. What were they waiting for?
‘So what are we waiting for?’ said Izzy. ‘Let’s go in.’
‘Hang on a sec,’ said Nina, craning to look down the street. ‘Heath’ll be here soon. I guess Lachlan must be inside already. He left hours ahead of us.’
Izzy’s heart lurched at the name. She had to see him. She smoothed her gown hoping Nina didn’t notice how tense she was.
‘Yes that’s right – stand there preening in that amazing dress, why don’t you,’ Nina quipped. ‘It’s alright for you. You look like you’ve stepped straight out of Gone with the Wind. I look like I’ve had a callback for Les Mis.’
Izzy laughed. ‘Oh god, I’m so sorry.’ It was true. The grey dress she had salvaged in Blackheath hung on Nina in all the wrong places.
‘It has no waist – none!’ Nina said.
‘I did offer to swap,’ she insisted, though she had been relieved when Nina had refused the blue gown with the low neckline that emphasised Izzy’s curves and set off her fair skin. She had even managed to borrow a corset and hooped petticoat to wear under the huge skirt. She looked great and she knew it. Now, if she could just find the one person in this place who needed to see her looking like this.
‘Stop jiggling, Izz. Heath won’t be long,’ said Nina. ‘He just had to show Neville Bleat from the Commercial where the side door is so he can bring the kegs in. You know what an old worrywart Nev is.’
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‘Ladies!’ a figure in Victorian riding habit and black veil greeted them. Heath’s great-aunt, Kathryn Blackett, thought Izzy at once. She had come to recognise that distinctive low voice anywhere.
The three women went to embrace, but what with clashing ringlets and petticoats, they opted for air kisses instead.
‘Izzy, you look gorgeous. Oh, Nina …’ Kathryn stopped short after lifting her veil. In a beat, she continued. ‘Not a problem. Here, we can do something about that empire line under your bust for a start. Too Regency.’
Kathryn removed her own wide belt and tied it around Nina’s waist. She puffed the bodice up, flattened the folds of the skirt at the front and pulled them into a bunch at the back. The improvement was startling.
‘You’re the original fairy godmother!’ said Nina.
‘I whip up a pretty mean wedding gown too,’ smiled Kathryn, pointedly.
Nina busied herself untangling a stray curl from her locket and left the statement hanging.
‘And that …’ said Kathryn, pointing to the golden oval at Nina’s cleavage, ‘is perfect, Nina. That reminds me, Izzy, Nina says you’re tracking down the Blackett version. You must tell us all about it. Mac’s keen to hear about his long-lost cousin.’
‘Nothing yet,’ Izzy replied. ‘Mum swears she’ll upend the whole house if she has to.’
Kathryn smiled. ‘So, how did your mother end up with it?’
‘I’m not really sure,’ said Izzy carefully. Upstanding Kathryn Blackett was the last person she would confide the truth to.
‘You know, Izzy,’ said Nina, ‘if we could somehow get hold of this letter that Hilary’s meant to have, we could have more to go on. Ben’s been shaking the family tree. He can’t find anything about the Blacketts having a locket. It’s driving him crazy.’
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