by Margaret Way
Trevelyan put out a hand, placing it rather solemnly on Genevieve’s shoulder.
“I have to thank you, Genevieve,” he said. “It would appear you’re the chosen one.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
GENEVIEVE found herself warming more and more to her project, despite her underlying motive for taking on the job. And Hester, though she didn’t make an appearance if she was in pain, was slowly becoming a more agreeable person. She had even dropped the “Mrs Cahill” with Nori, following Genevieve’s lead.
“You’re a miracle-worker, Gena,” Nori confided, her heart lightened.
“I’m certainly not that.” Genevieve shrugged it off. “But I try to understand. If a person isn’t blessed with love, understanding has to be a help—don’t you think?”
Nori agreed. Genevieve had been instrumental in bringing about Ms Trevelyan’s most welcome sea change.
In the end, it was the old photograph that did it. Hester was becoming more involved in their project, viewing Genevieve with respect, even a degree of affection.
“I do enjoy your company, my dear,” she said, as she finished off a potful of hot sweet tea. She was seated at an angle to Genevieve’s desk. “You’re a born storyteller. It’s as though you’re seeing it all through my eyes.”
Genevieve’s coffee lay untouched near her hand. “You won’t tell me about that lovely blonde in the photograph?” She knew she was diving headfirst into possible trouble.
Hester’s eyes seemed to sink more deeply into their sockets. “There’s only so much I can speak about, Genevieve.”
“It upsets you?” Genevieve asked gently.
Hester turned the words over in her mind, weighing them up. “I’ll have to speak to Bret,” she said finally. “If he’s against including an old sad story, that’s it, my dear. Some things are better not put down on paper.”
“You can speak about it, then?” Genevieve asked quietly. “If you and Bret don’t want a particular event or story included, then that’s it!”
“You should ask him,” Hester said, frowning in concentration. “I sense he’s strongly drawn to you.”
“I’ve done nothing to warrant it.” Genevieve only just managed to conceal her shock.
“My dear, you don’t have to do anything,” Hester remarked, very dryly. “We’re either drawn to people or we’re not. I can understand it, of course. You’re a beautiful, highly intelligent young woman, with good manners. The Queen’s late mother, the Dowager Queen Elizabeth, was once asked what quality she thought most necessary to get us smoothly through life. Her answer was good manners. I have to say I’ve been a tad short on them. Pain, grief… They take you down to dark places. By the way, Bret told me you were instrumental in getting young Wakefield to stay with us. As good as saved his life! I have to say Kit’s looking a whole lot better since he arrived. Bret has done the right thing, setting him to work. The men will look out for him. Everyone likes Kit Wakefield. But losing the love of your life is a tremendous blow. Poor little Sondra—rest her soul. She didn’t deserve to die like that. The most dreadful things happen to good people. The bad seem to get off scot-free.”
No one got off entirely scot-free, Genevieve thought. And her objective remained: to find out where exactly everyone had been the day catastrophe had come to her kinswoman Catherine.
Trevelyan pushed his leather chair away from his desk so forcibly it smacked into a cabinet. He was trying to calm a rising anger that held a bitter tang and a certain sense of disappointment. Someone had sent him a book—no inscription, no covering note—freighted in with the usual station supplies.
The fact the book had surfaced wasn’t strange. It had been bound to happen. He knew who had sent it. Liane had left Djangala in a jealous rage.
In the early days he had never guessed at Liane’s true nature. Why would he have? She had always been at her best with him. Until such time as he was away on an extended overseas business trip, that was.
This was the result of a woman’s jealousy. As for him—all doubts and speculations were over.
It was a beautifully produced hardback copy of Michelle Laurent’s Secrets of the Past. The cover design featured a beautiful young blonde woman. There was a well-known magazine’s sticker affixed to the top right hand corner: Great Read. The back cover offered information about the author, along with a photograph of her.
So why was he surprised he wasn’t surprised?
There were several reasons. He hadn’t trusted Genevieve or her motivation from the start. And his hunches were nearly always right. Michelle Laurent was Genevieve Grenville’s pen-name. He recalled how she had told him about her grandmother Michelle. Michelle had been French. But the book was an achievement—so why the big mystery?
Genevieve appeared to have a passion for secrets. Hester had hinted that Genevieve had shown interest in the old tragedy of Catherine Lytton. She was leaving it to him to decide whether he wanted the heavy cloak of silence that had been drawn over the incident to remain.
The key question was: why was Genevieve Grenville, published author, so deeply interested in that particular old story? Why had she come to Djangala, complete with a covering disguise? Was it possible she had some family connection to Catherine Lytton? Far more likely she wanted to gather material and write another bestseller based on a true-life tragedy on Djangala station. He supposed that was natural for writers seeking out inspiration.
What he had to do now was unmask her; get to the bottom of things. He hated all this subterfuge, but he had no intention of confronting her tonight, though he dearly wanted to. She had succeeded in getting Hester’s permission to play one of Hester’s old CDs after dinner. Derryl might take off after ten minutes or so, but Kit, a music lover, had expressed a desire to hear the recording too. And, as promised, he had organised to take Genevieve on an exploratory trip to the Hill Country the following afternoon.
The confrontation would have to wait until then. Genevieve Grenville—aka Michelle Laurent—who thought she could delve at will into dark crevices, was as of now exposed.
It was a pity, in its way. Hester—notoriously hard on people—liked her. And Genevieve, from all accounts, was doing a fine job. Why ever not? She was a published author. Also, in her mysterious way she had rescued Kit from a heart-rending fate, though she continued to insist her actions had been motivated by another party: Sondra. What was that? Telepathic communication from beyond the grave? He wasn’t into psychic phenomena, but there was no question she was extraordinarily percipient. A whole hidden world lay behind Genevieve’s sparkling, crystal-clear eyes.
What was she? he asked himself. Halfway between woman and witch?
Blessing or burden, Genevieve’s sixth sense told her she was out of favour with Trevelyan. There was no hint of challenge, much less even the slightest degree of hostility in his manner. He was himself. Only she knew. The microcurrents that ran swiftly between them if not visible were palpable.
She had imagined herself safe. Now she knew she wasn’t. And the one to blame for the abrupt change was most likely Liane Rawleigh. She had made the huge mistake of arousing the green-eyed monster in Liane. Before she’d left Djangala Liane had as good as given herself away, leaving Genevieve with the disturbing thought Liane, with her eyes like chips of blue ice, was set on having her checked out. She supposed if someone was committed to the job the threads wouldn’t be all that hard to pick up. Liane wouldn’t have to do it herself. She could leave any checks to a private investigator. She wouldn’t put it past her.
Whatever Liane had seen pass between her and Trevelyan, the quality of their exchanges must have presented a dire threat to Liane, who still had hopes of winning her ex-fiancé back. If looks could have killed, Genevieve would have considered herself in extreme danger. There were even links between what had happened to Catherine and what could happen t
o her if she ever found herself in a bad situation with Liane Rawleigh. Love could be a battlefield. The aim of war was to destroy the enemy.
Kit Wakefield, in the fortnight he had been staying at the homestead, working along with the station’s stockmen during the day, was showing a marked improvement both in general health and demeanour. It was as though he was coming to terms with his grief and internalising it, locking his Sondra away in the caverns of his heart. He would always love her, but he appeared to have accepted that life went on and he had to go with it.
Genevieve he had come to look on as a real friend, who cared about what had happened to Sondra and what happened to him. Indeed, they’d had a couple of private conversations about Genevieve’s extraordinary dream.
“Millions of people believe in an afterlife,” Kit had mused. “There may not be proof positive, but it doesn’t douse the fire of faith. My Sondra was a spiritual person.”
Genevieve already knew that. She was grateful neither Trevelyan nor Kit had rejected her claim out of hand. It was obvious to them Genevieve truly believed—even if they couldn’t grasp it—that she had been chosen to pass on Sondra’s message. That apparently meant everything to Kit Wakefield. The difference between living and opting out of life.
After dinner Hester retired to her suite, saying she had no wish to stay and listen to her long past performances. All the same, she had given her consent to Genevieve to have a practice hour here and there. On such occasions Genevieve had stuck religiously to the Tausig finger exercises. Maybe along the way she would pick a minor work from the stack of piano music in the piano seat. She had no wish to upset Hester or cause her pain.
She mightn’t have thought it possible only a month ago, but she and Hester had settled into a good relationship that went beyond employer-employee. Hester had told Trevelyan that Genevieve was a great help to her. This provoked renewed bouts of speculation on Genevieve’s part.
Hester had loved Catherine. Genevieve had the sense Hester was still genuinely bereft decades later. Which caused her to have serious doubts. Hester would not have harmed Catherine. And if not Hester, which of them had? Just because people didn’t look dangerous, it didn’t mean they weren’t. Murderers appeared quite normal in their photographs. All that was needed was perceived threat.
The other alternative was, despite all the promptings that came from beyond her, it had been a tragic accident. Not a cover-up.
As expected, Derryl bade them goodnight after a bare fifteen minutes, although the opening of Liszt’s “Mephisto Waltz” had Genevieve catching her breath.
She was amazed by Hester’s breathtaking technique. It became apparent over the following most loved and difficult concert pieces that, virtuosity was her great strength. Technique and driving power. As the music filled the room Genevieve found herself longing to hear more of the fabled “singing” tone, a deeper lyricism—especially with the Schumann and Chopin.
She gave herself a mental shake. This was a wonderful performance. She was being far too critical. That was the trouble with being a trained musician. Instead of simply listening and enjoying, as Kit Wakefield clearly was, her ear was committed to studying the various interpretations in detail. She was familiar with every selection. Therefore it seemed to her that Hester at that stage had found her virtuoso technique but not the passion. Which begged the question. When exactly had she met Catherine? It was imperative to find out.
All the time his great-aunt’s music had been playing Trevelyan’s brilliant black eyes had rested on Genevieve’s expressive face. He could see plainly the playing didn’t seem quite right to her, though God knew Hester could have had a concert career if she’d persisted. Performances were such subjective things. It all depended on the point of view. He remembered his mother’s playing. She had lacked Hester’s superb technique, but she had something he thought Hester hadn’t. Soul.
When the recording was finished, Kit put his hands together in loud applause. “That was splendid!” He turned to them, his thin face alive with pleasure. “I had no idea Miss Hester was such a marvellous pianist.”
“And what do you think, Genevieve?” Trevelyan asked smoothly.
Her nerves were quivering and humming like a bow stroke across strings. “I agree with Kit. That was a wonderful performance. Hester had a formidable technique.”
“And?”
She knew she flushed. Had he reached the stage where he could read her mind? “I wish I had it. I think it so sad she had to be crippled with arthritis. Her music would have been such a comfort to her.”
“Of course it would, “Kit agreed. “Sondra and I always thought it the greatest tragedy Jacqueline du Pré contracted multiple sclerosis. So many sad things happen in life…” His voice trailed off.
Trevelyan decided to stir things up. “Feel up to playing something for us, Genevieve?” He was deliberately putting her on the spot. But he played his hunch. She was an accomplished pianist.
“After that performance?” Genevieve endeavoured to cry off. She had never and could never reach Hester’s daunting level of virtuosity
“You play too, Gena?” Kit turned to her in pleased surprise. “I’d love to hear you.”
“We promise not to be too demanding,” Trevelyan said suavely. “Hester tells me you’ve been getting in some practice. She would have stopped you if she hadn’t approved.”
Genevieve reacted to the suavity of his tone. “All I got round to was exercises from my days at the Con. I’m sure you don’t want to hear them.”
Kit was taking stock of the flying sparks. “Play whatever you think we’d enjoy, Gena,” he broke in. “If you studied at the Conservatorium you must know lots of pieces?”
“Very well.” She picked up the gauntlet Trevelyan had thrown down.
Gracefully she walked to the nine-foot concert grand. She had played one often in the old days, property of the Conservatorium, and her father had presented her with a six-foot Steinway on her twenty-first birthday—a replacement for their ageing Bechstein.
She considered playing two Debussy arabesques—lovely, dreamy music—but as Trevelyan had more or less forced a performance on her she decided at the last minute to play her old party piece from her student days—Chopin’s “Revolutionary Etude”. It was a marvellously stirring étude in a set dedicated to his friend Franz Liszt. She knew fellow students had found the long, rapid harmonic minor scales that needed to be taken by the left hand extremely difficult, but the desire was growing in her to return fire and shake Trevelyan up. He was hiding it supremely well, but she knew he was angry with her. She would soon find out the reason for the sudden gulf.
Trevelyan rose to his feet. “You want the lid up?”
“Yes, thank you. One doesn’t play with the lid down unless accompanying someone. And even then the lid would be opened a fraction.”
“Forgive me. I stand corrected,” he said suavely.
She knew she would pay for that. She sat down, made herself comfortable, then said over her shoulder to Kit, “Chopin’s ‘Revolutionary Etude’. You will know it, Kit. The ‘Revolutionary’ was the last piece played on free Polish radio before Poland was invaded by Germany. Chopin poured all his emotions into this étude. Sometimes it’s called ‘Etude on the Bombardment of Warsaw by the Russians’. I’ll try to do it justice.”
“Oh, bravo!” Kit looked brightly at Bret, who had resumed his seat. Bret’s striking face was full of a certain amusement, and something else Kit couldn’t quite define. It seemed to him there was some sort of contest going on between Trevelyan and Gena.
Genevieve began as she must if she was to do Chopin justice. Passionately. Allegro con fuoco. Fast with fire. She played it to make Trevelyan shiver. Give Kit renewed heart.
When she was finished, throwing up her hands after the final chords, they were all astonished to see Hester, in a fanta
stic beribboned night garment loaded down with lace, moving from beneath the great archway into the living room.
“Play something else,” she ordered in a gruff voice. Impossible to tell whether she was pleased or highly dismissive of Genevieve’s gift.
Trevelyan didn’t intervene. Instead he went to his great-aunt, leading her to a comfortable armchair.
“Go on. Go on,” Hester ordered in a merciless tone, cocking her white head to one side the better to evaluate. “It doesn’t matter what you play. I don’t care,” she said. Then immediately contradicted herself. “Widmung. Devotion. Schumann,” she barked. “Du meine Seele, du mein Herz. You are my soul, my heart. Rapture. Peace, glimpses of heaven. He wrote it for his beloved Clara. Liszt arranged the piano solo. The music’s there, if you can’t play it from memory. Someone once told me I had to fall in love before I could successfully play Widmung,” Hester abruptly confessed, further astonishing them. What would Hester say if the floodgates opened up? “I gave my everything to mastering all the technical details, you understand? At that time I didn’t know about love.”
The way she said it made involuntary tears spring to Genevieve’s eyes. She turned back to the piano, actually seeing the printed pages of music in her head. She could play it from memory. It wasn’t just muscles that remembered.
“I haven’t played this for some time,” she murmured.
“You won’t fail.” The way Trevelyan said it gave her all the confidence she needed.
Genevieve played Widmung as she had never played it before. She had learned all about passion right here on Djangala. The man she had found it with was seated only a short space away from her. Caught up in the moment, she felt Catherine’s passionate love and her dire fate retreat to the back of her mind.