I turned off the bedside light, drifting. A vision of a woman in the old lace dress we had discovered in the attic floated toward me. Remember me, it said. I jolted awake, confused.
Stop it, I told myself. You are being fanciful. Maybe it was because I had been talking of ghosts and Halloween to the children today.
I thought of Zane, again. His white-hot sexiness, the way that he had kissed me. I drifted off to sleep in a pleasant turned on state. Thoughts of the woman called Florence receded far into the distance.
***
“So, do we think apple bobbing?” George chewed his pen, glancing down at the paper.
I was sitting across from him, and we were making lists of things to do for the party. It was a pragmatic chore, and dispelled completely both my romantic wanderings about Zane and intrigue over the old journal. Bright sunlight poured through the windows, making it hard to see. I got up and drew down the blinds, to diminish the glare.
“Does it ever get cold here?” I asked, squinting.
George laughed slightly. “Yes, but not much,” he answered. “The rains can be fierce, though.”
Now, back to the entertainment...?” George looked at me, expectantly. “I need your expert advice. You are the only American here, you know!”
I sighed. “I’m not an expert,” I said. “And apple bobbing is kind of for kids. Cara and I used to do it at parties when we were little, along with games like count the candy in the bowl and pin the face on the jack o’ lantern. All stuff that these kids will love.”
“Yes, but what about for the adults?” George frowned.
“How many people are we expecting?”
“Around a hundred, if everyone comes.”
“Well.” I frowned myself, thinking. “It’s too large to exchange scary stories. What about a scavenger hunt? I’ve never done one, but I’ve heard they can be fun.”
“Brilliant!” George wrote it down. “A prize, with clues left around the station. We can get some old lanterns so people can see where they are going, and have some scary stuff lying in wait along the way.” He quickly wrote it all down.
“That sounds fantastic,” I said. “We could have some ghosts or mummies waiting.” It was going to be a wonderful evening.
If I was here for it, I thought to myself, suddenly. I sighed. What was happening with me?
“What’s eating you?” George looked at me.
“Nothing.” I sighed, again. “George, tell me a bit about the station’s history. Have you ever heard of a woman called Florence Connelly?”
George frowned, again. “Maybe. I think she was the wife of Benedict Connelly, who founded Birrimba back in 1894. How have you heard of her?”
“I found her journal.” I looked at George, gauging his reaction. “Up in the attic, when we were looking for material.”
“Oooh, an old journal,” George breathed, his eyes widening. “How interesting. But you should ask Mrs. Price. She knows everything around here, including the history of the place.”
“As if she’d tell me anything,” I said, darkly. “That woman hates me.”
George burst out laughing. “Don’t let Mrs. Price get you down,” he said. “She’s a pussy cat when you finally scratch the surface. Just do things by the book, and she’ll come around.”
I started blushing, as I thought about what Zane and I had done by the fence last night. I didn’t think that Mrs. Price would approve, somehow. It wasn’t exactly doing things by the book, passionately kissing the boss. I had probably broken every rule in the nanny handbook, let alone the rules of conduct for staff at Birrimba.
I hadn’t seen Zane, today. But my heart started hammering at every footstep I heard approaching the room we were in. What would I say to him? And what would he say to me? I half expected him to request to see me, to give me my marching orders. That, or suddenly throw me across his desk to have his wicked way with me.
I shivered. The thought was very appealing. I shook my head. Not for the first time today, I wondered what the hell was happening to me.
“So, what’s Mr. Connelly up to today?’ I asked George, in a neutral voice. If anyone knew Zane’s schedule, it was George.
“He’s out with Robbo,” George answered, not looking up from his writing. “Roland’s flying them around to a couple of other stations. I think they want to exchange some stock.”
I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. A reprieve, at least for a little while. Time to think how on earth I was going to talk to him, in a normal way. You know, without the thought that I wanted to feel his hands all over me transparent on my face.
“Back to the party,” said George. “What are you going to wear?”
I opened my mouth to say I really had no idea, but then it suddenly struck me. It was, of course, perfect. Zane had made a joke about it with the kids, but there was absolutely no reason I couldn’t make it happen.
“Florence’s dress,” I said. “The Victorian era is about to make a comeback to Birrimba.”
George’s eyes widened. I could see he was as entranced by the idea as me.
***
“Stay still, Poppy!”
Harper had her hands on her hips, doing her best imitation of a disgruntled housekeeper. I didn’t know which was worse: having Poppy jig around while I was trying to pin her costume, or Harper mimicking everything that I said. She was like my shadow, that girl.
Well, I had wanted them to bond with me, I thought, somewhat ruefully. Be careful what you wish for. For the girls had decided – quite suddenly – that they were head over heels in love with me, and needed to follow me everywhere. And I meant everywhere. I was even tripping over them when I exited the bathroom.
“Alice would know how to keep still when her dress was being hemmed,” I wheedled.
Poppy looked at me, then mercifully stopped jigging. Harper nodded, importantly. “Of course she would,” she lisped, in her best grown up voice. I had to stifle a giggle.
“There!” I stepped back, admiring my handiwork. “Poppy, go and take it off and get your own clothes on. I just need to machine this hem, and then I think we’re done.”
Poppy clapped her hands excitedly, then ran off to do my bidding. I stood up. Almost two down. Now the only costume I had to make was Max’s Captain Jack Sparrow. And some alterations to Florence’s dress if they were needed for myself.
Mrs. Price walked into the room. “Here are the items you requested. From town.” She put down a box of stuff on the table, not smiling. But I could see her surreptitiously looking at Harper’s costume, which was lying on the table.
“Do you sew, Mrs. Price?” I asked, looking at her. She normally rebuffed every attempt I made at conversation, but I kept trying.
“A little,” she said. She picked up the skirt on the fairy costume, running her hand along the length of it. “I must say, you have done an excellent job with this. The stitching is seamless.”
“I trained as a fashion designer,” I said. “We had to be flawless seamstresses, to pass the course.”
“They used to always have a seamstress on staff at Birrimba,” she said, her eyes misting a bit. “When I was young, a woman named Mrs. Davis was the house seamstress. But she was just the last in a long line of them. There was no way the station could order so many clothes, you see. It is so remote. And trips into town were only done once a month, at most.”
“A house seamstress?” I looked at her, smiling. It was the most she had ever shared with me. “Would they have had one when Florence Connelly lived here, back in the 1890’s?”
She turned to me, her eyes piercing. “Well, well. You have been reading up on the station’s history, I see. What do you know of Florence?”
“I know she lived here,” I said, vaguely. “I was hoping you could tell me more about her.”
“Florence was the station’s matriarch,” answered Mrs. Price. “She and her husband Benedict founded Birrimba. They moved here from Sydney, before there were proper tracks. She made this station what
it is.”
“A formidable woman, obviously,” I said. “Did she want to move from Sydney?”
“I think she was opposed, initially,” Mrs. Price said. “But they had backbone in those days. They endured. She had a lot of hardship in her life. The first was the fire.”
“What fire?” I put down my dressmaking scissors, absorbed.
“The house that they built,” Mrs. Price answered. “Before this one. It burned down, in the middle of the night. They had to rebuild.”
“In the same spot?”
“No, the remains of the first house are about a mile away, still on the property.” Mrs. Price looked at me. “There’s not much left.”
“Are you talking about the fire?”
Both Mrs. Price and I jumped at the voice behind us. It was Zane. Neither of us had heard him approach.
“Mr. Connelly.” Mrs. Price was flustered. “I was just about to start lunch.”
“How about you prepare a picnic, then?” Zane said. He turned to me, his eyes glowing. “Miss Harris? You are interested in the station’s history?”
“A little,” I admitted. I could feel myself flushing, at his proximity. I hadn’t had time to prepare myself for his arrival.
He turned around to Harper and Poppy. “Come on, then! Find Max. We’re all going for a walk.”
Zane
It was hot. So hot, I could feel sweat trickling down my back.
I looked at the kids. Their eyes were shining; it wasn’t every day I suggested an impromptu picnic lunch on the property. They were excited, running ahead.
I glanced at Bianca, trying to be cool about it. But it took all my effort not to stare; I felt like my tongue was in danger of falling out of my mouth. Panting after her, like a dog. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking of our night time tryst down by the fence. If it hadn’t been for Robbo’s interruption, where would it have ended? I felt my cock stiffening at the thought.
The invitation was impulsive. I just wanted to spend some time with her, be next to her. And I guess I was pretty chuffed she was interested in the station’s history; I was so proud of it. But now, I didn’t know if it had been a great idea. I was finding it very hard to keep my hands to myself. She was so effortlessly sexy.
“How much longer, Daddy?” Harper was starting to lag. The remains of the old house weren’t far away, but sometimes I forgot that the kids couldn’t walk as far. I turned to her.
“How about I give you a piggy back?” I said. “Bianca can take the picnic basket, if she doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Bianca said, reaching for the basket. Our hands touched as I passed it to her. An electric current seemed to course between us.
She pulled back, yanking the basket. She wouldn’t look at me. I frowned, flexing the hand she had touched as if it had been burnt. Then I hoisted Harper onto my back.
“There!” Max was running ahead, pointing. “I can see it!”
And indeed, there it was. We could all see the top of a chimney, pointing up into air. I set out into a run, bouncing Harper on my back. She loved it, laughing gleefully.
We walked the last couple of steps, each of us gazing at the ruins.
It had been a grand house, in its time. Not as big as the current one, but still impressive. The ruins spread out over a good half acre. Two old chimneys survived at either side of the house, almost like sentinels standing watch. We were all silent as we walked amongst it.
“Daddy.” Poppy looked up at me with her big eyes. “What happened?”
Bianca looked at me, too, waiting for the answer. I could tell she was very curious. So were the others. We all gazed around the ruins. I tried to picture what it would have looked like, before it was burnt to the ground. Had I seen a photograph of it, once?
“It was just after the house was built,” I answered, trying to recall what my own father had told me. “I think Benedict and Florence had not long moved in. It had taken them a year to build it. Legend says that it was the fault of a housemaid; she left the main fire unattended at night, didn’t put the fire shield up. A big log rolled out, and caught. Before they knew it, the house was on fire. It burnt to the ground.”
Bianca gasped. “How awful,” she murmured, looking around. I could see she was trying to picture the house on fire, the way it would have been, that night. “To have just moved in! Was anyone caught in it?”
I frowned, thinking. “Not that I know of,” I said. “They were all sleeping, but as far as I know, they managed to escape. No one was hurt.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she said, her eyes wide. “At least they were safe, and able to start over.”
I turned to her. She was completely absorbed, wandering around. She picked up what must have once been a kettle. It was black and charred.
“It’s hard to imagine,” she said. “Starting over. Everything gone.”
“Yes,” I agreed. I wandered over to where she was standing. I looked at the kettle in her hands. “They lost just about everything; furniture, clothes, personal items. When my father told me the story, he always emphasized what survivors they were. They had risked everything, coming to the Outback from Sydney, to run cattle. This…” I spread my hands over the ruins “…would have destroyed a lot of people. Most would have packed it in, said it was too difficult.”
“But not Florence and Benedict?” Bianca had turned to me. The wind had picked up a bit, and was whipping her dark hair over her face. I caught my breath, my eyes wide at her beauty.
“No,” I answered. “Not them. They started over, and built the current homestead. And the cattle station. Hard work, grit and determination.” I couldn’t keep the pride out of my voice. This was my family’s history. It was a legacy, which I was determined to pass down to my own children. It was something that Jo had never understood, constantly pressuring me to move away.
“You must be so proud,” said Bianca. She looked at me, a softness in her eyes. “Of your ancestors, and what they did. It’s amazing.”
“Yes, I am,” I answered. She really seemed to understand, how important it was to me. “It’s like…” I struggled for words. How to explain? “It’s like I’ve been given a gift, to cherish. It’s a responsibility, no doubt about that. But then, nothing good in this world isn’t worth fighting for.”
She looked up at me. Our eyes locked, filled with meaning. Was she remembering last night? I hoped she was. Because I simply couldn’t forget it.
“Dad!”
Max had gone exploring further. The moment broke, and our eyes slid away from each other. We all followed his voice, walking beyond the ruins. The little girls chattered excitedly, and I smiled. It was like an adventure. What would we discover next?
“Look!” Max was pointing. We gazed to where he indicated. It was the old graveyard. I hadn’t been there in years.
We wondered amongst the tombstones. Most were falling apart, leaning precariously. The inscriptions on them were faded. The red dust of the land lay like a blanket over them. It was an eerie sight.
“This is crazy,” said Bianca, her eyes shining. “An old cemetery! When did they stop burying people here?”
“I think around the turn of the century,” I answered. I kicked a stone, thinking. “After the church was built, the cemetery was moved there.”
The silence was deafening. We wandered amongst the graves. Even the children were solemn, as we stared at this reminder of the past. Bianca was leaning against an old tombstone, squinting at the writing. Suddenly, she stood up. She turned to me.
“It’s her,” she whispered. “Florence. But there’s someone else, buried with her.”
“Benedict?” I said, leaning against the old tombstone. But even as I said it, I knew it couldn’t be. Benedict had lived beyond the time when they buried people here. At least into the 1920’s. He had been a very old man when he died.
“It’s definitely Florence,” I said.
Her epitaph read: Florence Mary Connelly 1869-1899. And I could just make out th
e writing below it: Violet Edith Connelly 1890-1892.
“It was a child,” I whispered. “Violet. She was only two years old when she died.”
“Florence and Benedict’s daughter?” Bianca asked. She gazed at the tombstone, as if it might suddenly speak, revealing its secrets. “Did you know they had a young daughter who died?”
“No,” I answered. I had never really spent much time here, even when I was younger. My parents had discouraged me wandering this way. I had known that the cemetery existed, of course, but I wasn’t that curious about it.
“I knew they had two children,” I continued. “Edmund, who was my great grandfather, and Peter. He died at Gallipoli, during the First World War. But I have never heard of Violet.”
“Florence was young herself when she died,” Bianca said, staring at the tombstone. “Only thirty. Do you know how?”
“No,” I said. “All I know is that she was Benedict’s first wife, who founded the property with him. He married again, I think.”
We fell silent as we continued staring at the tombstone, lost in thought about the past.
“Daddy.” Harper had wondered up to us. “I’m hungry. Can we have the picnic? I don’t like this place.” She had stuck out her bottom lip, which was trembling.
I swept her up in my arms. Enough of this.
“Of course, my darling,” I said. “Let’s go and find a good spot, maybe under those eucalyptus trees.”
I turned and started walking away. The children followed me.
“Bianca?” She was still looking at the tombstone, lost in thought. But she roused herself at my call.
“Coming,” she said. I saw her look back at it, before she turned and slowly followed us.
***
It was late afternoon before we returned to the homestead.
The children were tired, but happy. They chattered to Mrs. Price, telling her all the details about what we had discovered that day. I was glad I had suggested it. Despite the sadness of looking at the old house and the graveyard, it had connected them with the station’s history. It was important, to me. And, of course, it had been good to spend time with them, after everything they had been through.
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