Master of the Outback

by Margaret Way

  She felt exposed again. “My mother died in a car pile-up on the freeway in heavy rain.”

  “Ah! I’m sorry to hear that.” He spoke with very real empathy. “How old were you?”

  “Ten. I’ll remember that shocking day until I die. For a long time my father and I were in denial. It didn’t seem possible. The light of our lives—there one day, gone the next. I learned then that there are absolutely no certainties in life.”

  “I’m in total agreement on that. You and your father took it very hard?”

  “It was a terrible time.” She swallowed on a lump in her throat.

  “I’m sorry.” He fully understood her pain. Probably her father had remarried at some time—if only to give his child a caring stepmother. Some very nice woman she could turn to—especially at such a vulnerable age.

  “Will I be meeting Ms Trevelyan today?” Genevieve asked as they moved under a collonaded central section that was decoratively tiled. She was so in the grip of Catherine and her story that Catherine’s shadow might have been walking with them.

  “We’ll get you settled first,” he said. “My great-aunt will probably send for you some time before dinner. She nearly always comes down for dinner. Even on her bad days—and she does get them. Extremely painful arthritis.”

  “So Derryl told me. She used to be an accomplished pianist?”

  “She was,” he confirmed. “She had no real ambition to become a concert artist, but she was very good indeed. Music is still an essential part of her life.”

  “Of course.”

  He gave her a brilliant sidelong glance. “You say that as if music is an essential part of your life?”

  She knew he required an answer. Indeed, he was endeavouring to bring her into firm focus. “Music is life, isn’t it? It conveys it all. I studied the piano.” She actually held a number of diplomas. No need to tell him that. For all she knew Ms Trevelyan might deeply resent any attempt by her to play the piano. As it was, Trevelyan was regarding her closely with those mesmerising dark eyes.

  “So you do play?”

  “Not as often as I’d like.”

  “But you’re multi-talented?”

  She knew she blushed. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “So modest?” He laughed gently, but it was apparent he wasn’t satisfied with her answers.

  “Maybe modesty comes easily to me?” She dared to look up at him. It was a mistake. She lowered her head again in self-defence.

  His tone was distinctly mocking this time. “So it would appear.”

  The impressive double front door, iron-bound and studded, was open on both sides. Trevelyan extended a hand, motioning her into a great hall with a wonderful starburst granite and marble floor.

  She stood perfectly still, trying to take it all in. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured at last, genuinely entranced. The huge area was flooded with light that rayed through a floor-to-ceiling transom window at the far end of the hall. A large table sat on a magnificent Persian rug. She had to tilt her head to look up at the massive carved wood chandelier, suspended way up. On the table sat a splendid stone sculpture of a horse’s head. And why not? Horses on a working station would be a man’s best friend. A dramatic arrangement of bush materials—vines, dried grasses with their “flowers”, tall spear-like reeds—had been set in a large ceremonial Japanese blossom jar. It was very sophisticated and enormously effective in that huge space. A gallery ran around the upper floor, supported by carved timber beams with delicate black wrought-iron balustrades. One could look down from the gallery into the central hall.

  “I feel like a visitor to a grand residence on open day.”

  “Not everyone is as enthusiastic as you.” He cast an amused glance her way. “Some prefer the traditional.”

  “Not here,” she said. “The environment is so important. The house is perfect. I love the dried arrangement. It has soul. Not Ikebana—I think maybe Rikka?” She turned her green gaze on him. “I know your family hailed from Cornwall, but surely the design of the house has a decidedly Spanish feel?”

  “The design is in the Spanish vernacular,” he said, “which suits the hot climate. My forebear, Richard Trevelyan, travelled extensively in Europe in his youth. He fell in love with Spain and Spanish architecture. He actually employed a highly successful Californian architect to come up with this design. You probably know many Californian houses are built in the Spanish colonial style?”

  She nodded agreement, still staring with some fascination around her. “I can’t wait to see the rest of the house.”

  Her inner voice broke in with a timely warning. Shouldn’t you be more standoffish? Lighten up on the admiration? Life had been a tragedy for Catherine, who had stood on this very spot, probably looking around her with much the same dazzled eyes.

  Trevelyan gave her a searching look. “Earth to Genevieve…”

  She came out of her reverie, giving him a slightly bemused look.

  A smile tugged at his handsome mouth. “You were off again. One has to wonder where?”

  “Maybe the house is speaking to me,” she said.

  “You’re going to have to—” Trevelyan broke off as a small, serene-looking woman with jet-black hair streaked with silver came quickly towards them, with such elegance and dignity Genevieve wasn’t sure if she was a guest or staff. She was wearing an olive-green shirt with matching loose trousers. The material was silk. It was hard to pinpoint her age. She could have been anywhere between forty-five and fifty-five. Japanese nationality. That might account for the superb dried arrangement. Genevieve wondered how many years the woman had been on the station. And how had she come to be here?

  “I’m so sorry I missed you,” the newcomer said, with a faint bow that involved her shoulders and neck, bestowing a welcoming smile on Genevieve. “I had a medical emergency in the kitchen. One of the girls cut a finger.”

  “Not badly, I hope?” Trevelyan, towering over her, lightly touched her shoulder.

  “No, but it did bleed. There’s always some tiny drama.”

  Trevelyan turned his handsome raven head towards Genevieve. “Genevieve, I’d like you to meet Mrs Cahill—our housekeeper. She keeps the homestead running like clockwork. Nori, this is Genevieve Grenville, who is here to help Miss Hester with her book.”

  Genevieve put out her hand. Mrs Cahill clasped it. “I am happy to meet you, Ms Grenville.” The ivory-skinned, unlined face bore warmth and pleasure. The dark eyes glowed like lamps.

  “Please call me Gena.” Genevieve gave the older woman an answering smile.

  “And I’m Nori.” Djangala’s housekeeper didn’t stand on ceremony. “Steven, my husband, is Bret’s foreman. Let me show you to your room. I’m sure you’ll like it. Jeff has already taken your luggage up.”

  Trevelyan glanced down at Genevieve, standing at his shoulder. “I’ll leave you in Nori’s capable hands.”

  “You’re going out again, Bret?” Nori Cahill asked as he half turned towards the front door.

  “Things to do, Nori,” he clipped out. “I’ll see you at dinner, Genevieve.”

  He gave her a brief parting salute. Astonishing the knife-keen thrust of pleasure she felt.

  The gallery was hung with oil paintings—all very valuable, Genevieve saw with her trained eye. Some fine chairs were set at intervals, and bronzes on stands. Both sides of her family were collectors of art and sculpture.

  “We’ve given you a guestroom overlooking the front gardens,” Nori said, with inherent sweetness and courtesy. “Much of the house has been redecorated in recent times. Bret wanted changes. He commissioned a famous designer to landscape the grounds. He wanted the place transformed.”

  “I’m very impressed.” Genevieve spoke with genuine admiration. “The dry climate native garden is spectac
ular. I love the great beds of lavender that got thrown into the mix. Lavender is a great survivor. And all those tall showy grasses, agaves, desert plants, the marvellous sculptural rocks and the swept gravel.”

  “The landscaper has much experience in countries all over the world,” Nori remarked.

  She hadn’t picked up any Australian accent, Genevieve noted. Nori’s accent was Japanese-British.

  “Bret wanted the best,” Nori continued. “Mr Trevelyan—Bret’s father—overlooked the grounds almost entirely. He didn’t seem to realise everything had run down. He wasn’t—” Nori was about to say something further, but caught herself up.

  Genevieve suspected she’d been about to say it had been Bret’s mother who had looked after all aspects of the garden.

  “I hope you’ll be happy here.” Nori opened up a solid looking timber door, standing back for Genevieve to enter.

  For a long moment Genevieve paused on the threshold, images swimming in and out of her head. She was experiencing another one of those moments when she had to draw calming breath into her lungs. If only walls could talk! She had a certainty—God knew how—that Catherine had slept in this very room. To her highly imaginative mind it seemed as if Catherine was a presence who had joined her on her journey, guiding her.

  “You have a concern?” Nori asked, an upward note of anxiety lifting her soft voice.

  Genevieve shook her head. “Not at all. It’s beautiful, Nori. I hadn’t been expecting anything so grand. I’m not a guest, after all.”

  “You are to be treated as a guest,” Nori said. “This room suits you.”

  “I know I’ll be very comfortable and happy here,” Genevieve said, her eyes on the carved four-poster. It was huge, made of honey-coloured timber. An antique brass-bound carved chest—perhaps once a wedding chest—stood at the foot of the bed, that was an inviting chaise near the French doors, a sofa piled with cushions, a large ottoman nearby, two bedside tables with elegant lamps, a carved writing desk with a similarly styled chair. “Anyone would love such a beautiful room.”

  Above the bed hung a large oil painting of sacred blue lotus lilies floating on a green lagoon. She moved across to the desk to admire a lovely arrangement of tall, slender Japanese iris in an antique bronze container that had dragon ears.

  “I know who the floral artist is now,” she said, smiling over her shoulder at Nori. “You must give me lessons. The arrangement in the central hall is wonderful, and this arrangement so enhances this room. I greatly admire Japanese subtlety. Rikka, isn’t it?”

  A faint glitter of tears shone in Nori’s eyes. “My mother was a dedicated student of the art. I am still developing,” she said modestly. “Upright flowers and leaves form the basis of these architectural arrangements. The Japanese iris is extremely important. So too is the lotus flower. When Buddha spoke of flowers he meant the lotus. There is an abundance of both in the homestead’s rear water gardens, and of course the lagoons are nearly always filled with waterlilies of all colours. They thrive here.”

  “In Greek mythology Iris is the goddess of the rainbow,” Genevieve said. “You’re a very artistic person, Nori.”

  Nori only smiled. “This room used to be blue and cream,” she said, rather wistfully. “Exquisite old Chinoiserie wallpaper. But Bret wanted all things changed. I’d always thought it very pretty, but he wanted something different and new. The colour scheme is perfect for you, Gena—celadon.”

  Genevieve put out a hand to stroke the beautiful silk coverlet that matched the curtains. It was the same lovely jade-green, but different textured fabric covered the chaise, the sofa and the ottoman. Sheen came from a variety of silvery cushions on the bed and sofa.

  “The Chinese began making celadon ware as far back as 200 AD, didn’t they?” She was certain this very elegant Japanese lady would know.

  Nori dipped her head. “It is said they were after the luminous green of precious jade with their glazes.”

  “And they found it. How do you come to be way out here in the desert, Nori?” Genevieve smiled.

  Nori clasped her hands together. “My mother died when I was still a student, and I was very lonely and sad. My father, who was an important businessman, could spare little time for me. He had his son—my brother Katsumi, who has since succeeded him. My father sent me to relatives—first in New York, then in Sydney—as therapy for me. A complete change. I settled better in Australia, and studied at Sydney University. Despite everything I remained very unhappy, although my relatives were kind to me. It was Steven, wearing his beautiful smile, who came to my rescue like a warrior of old. My father was much opposed to our marrying, but we made our decision the moment our eyes met.”

  Nori’s darkest brown eyes shone with love.

  “Steven picked me up on a powerful wave and carried me away. He is an educated man. He holds an important job. Bret thinks highly of him. I, too, am very efficient. I have settled down wonderfully well in this place.”

  “How long have you been here, Nori?” Genevieve asked, intrigued by such an unusual love story.

  “Twelve years now,” Nori said, with a look of surprise that it had been that long. “Djangala needed an overseer. Steven secured the position despite many others vying for it. This is a vast and very important station. Not all that long after the break-up of Mr and Mrs Trevelyan’s marriage their housekeeper of many years left. She had an important allegiance to Mrs Trevelyan. Two replacements also left. Miss Hester was displeased with them. Finally Steven suggested me. I have no difficulty running a large house, and I’m an excellent chef. Since Bret has become Master of Djangala I have a totally free hand.”

  Which couldn’t always have been the case. It sounded as though Miss Hester might have been a mite overbearing. “I’m glad you’re happy, Nori,” Genevieve said. “You have children?” she asked with delicate interest. She thought Nori must be in her early fifties.

  Tori beamed. “Our son, Peter. He is a scientist. This year he was honoured to receive an appointment to the Institute for Medical Research in Western Australia. He is part of a team under a woman professor of the very highest calibre.”

  “He sounds brilliant. You and your husband must be very proud.”

  “Peter has always wanted to be a medical scientist ever since we can remember. Now, shall I send someone up to unpack for you?” Nori asked.

  “Goodness, no.” Genevieve smiled. “I can manage that myself.”

  Nori moved to the door. “I’ll send a tray up to you shortly. You must want to relax awhile. What would you like me to prepare?”

  “Coffee and a sandwich will do me fine.” Genevieve smiled again. “Thank you so much, Nori.”

  “A pleasure.” Nori gave another one of her quick small and dignified bows. “Come downstairs whenever you’re ready. Settle in first. I’ll show you over the ground floor. The bedrooms are all on the first floor. Miss Hester’s suite of rooms is at the far end of this wing. Bret has the other wing. Steven and I have a very comfortable bungalow in the grounds.”

  Without setting foot inside the Cahill bungalow Genevieve knew Nori would have turned it into an elegant, serene haven. Most of the girls she had taught English and French had studied Japanese with another teacher. It was a language that had come to the forefront of the curriculum in the late 1990s.

  She was sorry that during her time at college she had missed out on the new wave of Oriental languages, although most of her older colleagues had admired and envied her bilingual abilities. She wouldn’t have mastered fluent French with a Parisian accent without her beloved Michelle.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN Genevieve was requested—it was probably an order—to go to Hester Trevelyan’s suite of rooms, she went quickly.

  She had spent the afternoon being familiarised with the Trevelyan mansion, which far exceeded her al
ready high expectations. No wonder Nori was happy here. She’d been the best possible guide. Hester Trevelyan might be something of a disappointment in the sympatico department.

  She had just changed her clothes for dinner. Again, nothing to draw attention: a navy linen shift dress that left her arms bare. She couldn’t have borne long sleeves in the heat anyway. The dress, however, did skim her figure a bit too closely. Oh, well—she had no intention of appearing in a tent. Her hair, just as she’d feared, was already breaking out of its tight restraint. Little copper tendrils were appearing around her hairline and at her nape. They glowed against her skin. In a day or two her hair would spring back into its natural deep waves and curls. Couldn’t be helped.

  She stepped forward a pace, staring into the mirror. Best put the glasses back on. She already had the certainty Trevelyan saw something phoney about them. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if he told her to take them off.

  As she hurried down the gallery, she took heart from the fact Nori had been nothing like she had expected. Maybe Hester Trevelyan wouldn’t be either.

  She knocked on the heavy timber door to be greeted not by a quiet voice, befitting a septuagenarian, but one that was strong and forceful enough to resound through the heavy door. Anyone else might have had to shout, “Come in.”

  She was grateful she wasn’t a young woman desperately in need of a job, like the governesses of old. She had to recall Liane’s bitten-back description that would have emerged as bitch. Ah, well, Genevieve was here now, and she had no intention of turning back. She had to get to the heart of things without dying in the attempt. Hester Trevelyan would have known Catherine. They would have been of an age. Perhaps they had become friendly? Much depended on when Hester had been away, studying piano at the Royal College of Music in London.

  “Are you coming in or not?”

  Once she was inside, the voice had an even more powerful resonance, giving the illusion that it was bouncing off the walls. And Genevieve had her first glimpse of a born tyrant.