Helen thought, frantically, finally mumbled her acceptance and wrote down the necessary details, and when the conversation was over she sat staring numbly at the now silent telephone.
‘Oh, Dane, you do think of everything,’ she finally sighed, shaking her head as if that action could fling aside the tears that welled up to blur her vision.
It was half an hour before she could even begin to think of packing, and even longer before the threat of imminent tears had totally diminished.
CHAPTER TWO
The plane journey was uneventful, especially in comparison to the chaotic days of preparation that preceded it. Days of packing and repacking, deciding what to take and what to throw out, days of final farewells to her few close friends in Brisbane and — very nearly at the last minute — to the girl whose flat Helen had been minding.
Lorna only arrived back from Europe on the Friday, and slept right through until the time when she had to rise to get Helen to the Gold Coast airport next day.
‘Really, I think you’re mad,’ was her comment as they drove through the southern suburbs and into the crowded semi-rural zone that theoretically separated Brisbane from the Gold Coast.
‘I don’t see what’s so mad about it,’ Helen had replied, hardly bothering to argue now that the decision had been made.
‘You will when you get off the plane and start freezing,’ her friend replied. ‘Or didn’t you pay any attention to the weather on television last night? They’ve got snow down there, Helen ... snow!’
And the words were uttered with the awe of a true Queenslander, believing that the Sunshine State was the centre of the universe and that snow, especially, was the devil’s punishment on those fools who chose to live elsewhere. Loma had never seen snow in her life before arriving in Europe six months earlier, and from the way she went on about it, Helen couldn’t help feeling pity for any person to whom something that simple could remain the highlight of a six-month European tour.
It had been, in her own opinion, rather a wasted exercise for her friend, believing as Loma did that even the rest of Australia was somehow foreign territory. Europe had been as alien as Mars.
But from her own viewpoint, particularly at this point in time, Lorna’s trip had proved a godsend. Unable to restrain herself in European shops, Lorna had arrived back with several tasteful woollen outfits that she’d never even worn and which, with hindsight had been no bargain at all, being quite unsuitable for Brisbane’s temperate climate.
And as they were much of a size, Helen found that she had the bargains, paying give-away prices for clothing that she not only liked, but which was eminently suitable for the Tasmanian winter she was flying towards.
Deciding exactly what to wear for her journey had posed little difficulty, despite her certain knowledge that Dane might be waiting at the airport in anything from farm work clothes to evening wear.
‘I might be a jillaroo, presuming they use the term in Tasmania, but I’m damned if I’ll arrive looking like one,’ she’d muttered to herself at one point. And had chosen for her trip a light woollen outfit in tones of beige and camel. The turtle-neck sweater was light enough to ensure comfort during the trip itself, and the matching jacket would ensure reasonable comfort once she had arrived in the southern capital.
Packed were her riding gear, several pairs of jeans and soft cotton shirts, the other good outfits she’d bought from Lorna and the few really good clothes she’d owned. Little enough, but during the past few years she’d come to realise that travelling lightly was the only sensible approach.
With her luck, she might get off the plane to find that Dane couldn’t meet her as arranged, and she didn’t fancy trying to manage half a dozen suitcases when one would do the job.
But that fear was nullified when she stepped from the aircraft and walked into the arrival terminal to a welcome that was all she might have wished for.
Strong arms wrapped themselves around her and she felt the never-forgotten familiarity of a soft beard against her cheek as Dane growled, ‘Welcome to paradise,’ into her ear before enfolding her in an embrace she feared might crack her ribs.
She didn’t really even get a chance to look at him until he’d set her down again and stood back, grinning hugely, his hands still imprisoning her waist.
It was, initially, confusing. He looked older, and yet somehow younger as well. There was a touch of grey in his hair now, but his face was tanned and his figure lean and fit. He moved with his old assurance, and now there was the addition of a tremendous physical vitality, due — she supposed — to his farm and the work involved.
She cocked her head slightly, looking up to meet his eyes and smiling her own welcome because she was so filled with warmth and happiness she hardly dared speak.
‘You look marvellous for somebody who’s on the breadline,’ he grinned. ‘You ought to give up eating more often; it agrees with you.’
A tribute to her maturing slenderness, only, but to Helen it was praise beyond price. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ she managed to reply.
‘Considering my age and infirmities,’ he replied. ‘It must be all this good, clean living. I’m so fit, it’s positively disgusting.’
And he looked it. Dressed in an expensive casual suit, with his shirt open at the neck to reveal a tanned, muscular throat, his entire being seemed to belie the grey in his hair and beard and the deep lines squinting from beside his deep set eyes.
Helen stepped free of his hands, striking an exaggerated pose as she deliberately surveyed him from top to toe, cocking her head first to one side and then the other.
‘Yes, not too bad for an old man,’ she finally said with mock seriousness. ‘I’ll bet you cut quite a swath with the girls ... about fifteen years ago.’
‘Fifteen minutes ago,’ he grinned. ‘You should have seen what I had to leave in the airport bar to come collect you.’
‘I’m surprised you bothered, then,’ she replied, then paused, surprised at how tart the response sounded even in her own ears.
But Dane, not surprisingly, ignored or chose to ignore the acid in her reply. ‘I hope they didn’t feed you up too well on that flying sardine can,’ he was saying, ‘because I haven’t eaten all day and one of the best restaurants in the entire country is only a few minutes from here.’
Helen, who’d easily turned away the airline’s food, except for coffee en route, needed no persuading. They picked up her luggage when it arrived and within minutes were driving away in a large, luxuriously appointed station sedan.
In a tiny community which Dane explained was Cambridge, little more than an outer suburb of Hobart, they turned north on a narrow bitumen road and drove for about ten minutes to Richmond, which he said was the doyen of Tasmania’s historic villages.
Prospect House, which had begun life as a sumptuous Georgian home in the 1830s, fairly took Helen’s breath away. Nestled in an idyllic setting on the outskirts of the village, it fairly glowed with a newfound vitality as a licensed restaurant with its own private passport into history.
‘Just as well I didn’t arrive in my jodhpurs and riding boots,’ she muttered as Dane handed her from the car. ‘They’d have very likely made me eat on the back steps, or in the servants’ quarters.’
He laughed, a full, rich sound that matched the welcome offered by the elderly building.
‘So long as you were clean and tidy, I doubt if anybody’d even notice,’ he replied. ‘Tasmanians — thank God — don’t seem to suffer the same ridiculous attitudes as the mainland. Much more relaxed, down-to-earth, sensible people. I still haven’t figured out if it’s the climate or the fact that tourism really is the important industry here, but I expect you’ll find, as I have, that it’s like living in another world.’
He followed her into the building, greeting the proprietor as an old friend, and quickly introduced Helen as ‘another one with the good sense to get out of Queensland before they sell it to the Yankees.’ He then explained that the proprietor and hi
s wife had also come south from Queensland, albeit several years ago.
Helen found their friendly greetings tinged with something else, some faint, almost unidentifiable reserve, perhaps. And found herself wondering why, unless it was because — as he surely would have — Dane had brought Vivian here regularly before her death.
But no one else since? She wondered about that, debating if his grief at his wife’s death was still so poignant, however well hidden, that he would have avoided their favourite restaurant with anyone else, or perhaps even entirely.
They sat over drinks while considering the extensive menu, which dazzled Helen with its choices. Squab in cream, Armagnac and pate sauce vied with salad of wood pigeon with black currant vinaigrette and roast venison, or hare casserole.
‘About the only thing you won’t find down here is the same approach to seafood,’ Dane was saying. ‘Oysters, I have to admit, aren’t a patch on those in Queensland, and you sometimes don’t see quite the standard of king prawns, but the scallops are ten times better and some of the deep-sea fish is phenomenal. This place, obviously, specialises in game, but if you’re having adjustment problems I can recommend the yabbies to start with.’
She was tempted, but instead chose to begin with the quail and mushroom salad, tempted by the additions of chicory and pine nuts in a warm vinaigrette. And then the roast venison, because she’d never tasted venison in her life.
Dane, after insisting on an agreement that there’d be no trades allowed, selected the yabbies, and when the succulent little freshwater crayfish arrived before him, Helen could have kicked herself for so easily agreeing.
‘You’ll learn,’ he chuckled, steadfastly refusing her even the smallest of tastes and continuing to be equally bloody minded when his squab arrived at the table.
Her own choices were so immensely pleasurable that she agreed to forgive him, provided a return visit might be arranged so she could try the rest of the menu.
‘It’ll depend on how well you behave,’ he replied with a slow grin, then hoisted a glass of excellent wine and quite sombrely toasted her arrival. A gallant and pleasing touch, she thought, but hardly a patch on his next comment: ‘And I’m glad you didn’t arrive in your jodhpurs; what you’re wearing is immensely more flattering.’
The simple sincerity of the compliment brushed away all chance of a flippant reply. She could only murmur her thanks and quickly looked down to her meal to hide the blush she feared was starting.
Damn the man, she thought. He could still charm the birds from the trees without even trying. And why shouldn’t he? A swift calculation showed him still on the sunny side of forty by two years.
‘You’re only as old as you feel,’ she thought, and didn’t realise she’d spoken the thought until he grinned at her and replied.
‘Well just don’t get any funny ideas about feeling me to find out,’ he chuckled. ‘Old Mrs Buscombe wouldn’t approve of such goings on in her very elegant home.’
At Helen’s bemused look, he called over the host to explain that Mrs Buscombe was the wife of the house’s builder, James Buscombe, in the 1830s. Her ghost, a friendly one, was reportedly seen by some visitors.
Helen was then given a brochure on Richmond, wherein she learned that another, later owner, had once shattered most of the windows while firing his cannon in the front garden during the 1860s.
‘I’m glad he isn’t still hanging round to haunt us,’ she prompted. ‘I think I’d much prefer a friendly old lady, presuming I must have any sort of ghost at all.’
And couldn’t help wondering if Mrs Buscombe were the only ghost present at Prospect House that evening. Was Vivian there too, lurking in their memories, a tangible spectre of Dane’s grief? And if so, what would her reaction be to his too-flippant reply, or worse, to his blatant compliment and charm?
Helen shivered, telling herself silently that it was something she mustn’t think of. There had been nothing between she and Dane during Vivian’s lifetime to be ashamed of, and whatever might have been in her own mind on occasion was surely locked away too securely even for a ghost to discern.
Not that it mattered, really. Helen knew full well that Vivian had been quite aware of the crush she’d developed over Dane when he’d first stepped into her life. And had ignored it, secure in his love and the fact that a crush, if never returned, soon dies.
Only seeing him across the table now, Helen wasn’t all that sure it had totally died. Perhaps put on the shelf would be a better description, although the unreturned aspect certainly still applied.
Then she shook herself mentally, glad that for the moment the two men were involved in a discussion that took their attention from her. What a thing to be thinking! And something she’d best stop thinking, now! If she were to start putting interpretations on Dane’s kind invitation, it would only lead to problems, and she had quite enough of those without adding to them.
Whatever her own feelings, past, present or future, it would be an abuse of hospitality and plain bad manners to let her own imagination start reading things into the relationship that might not even exist.
They ended dinner with some of the most delightful desserts she’d ever seen created, then sat over coffee and port, both of them silent and staring into the open fire that kept the room so pleasantly warm. What thoughts lurked in Dane’s mind at such a time, Helen wondered? Was he, perhaps, already regretting having invited her? Or thinking of Vivian and past meals here in this most marvellous of restaurants?
For her own part, she was comfortably replete, mildly sleepy from the excitement of the day overall, and rather wishing they could finish up and get home, wherever home was. From his infrequent letters she knew the farm was somewhere on the Huon, an area south of Hobart and bounded by the Huon River and the D’Entrecasteaux Channel leading to the mouth of the river Derwent, but how that related to their present position she hadn’t a clue.
And I really should have, she thought idly. Imagine not even bothering to study a map when you’re off to somewhere new. Slack, Helen, very slack!
Not that even a map would have helped much as they finally drove through darkness towards the lights of the city, then through the city centre itself on a maze of one-way streets before once again coming to rural travel as they headed, presumably, south.
Helen found herself dozing as Dane conveyed the vehicle smoothly along a route that seemed to be constantly either climbing or descending, twisting and turning as if the very land itself was on edge. But he drove with consummate skill, his entire concentration on the dark road before him, and she felt strangely safe and secure, much more so than if she’d been driving herself.
She was, in fact, so secure that she fell quite asleep before he finally turned into a narrow, gravelled driveway and stopped the vehicle. What woke her was the deep-throated bark of a dog near at hand and Dane’s softly hissed, ‘Quiet, Molly, that’s a good girl.’
‘Uhm ... do I have to get up?’ Helen sighed, still only half-aware of what was happening.
‘Unless you fancy sleeping in the car and probably freezing off some valuable part of your anatomy,’ was the reply, coupled with the opening of the car door to introduce a chilling breeze that brought her instantly awake.
‘I’ll pass, thank you,’ she gasped, and scurried to follow as he disembarked and hurried to grab up her luggage from the rear.
She could see the house only vaguely in the dim moonlight, and her first impression was of sprawling, long-established permanence. When Dane snapped on a light to show the way down a long footpath to the gate, she got a glimpse of white weatherboards beneath a shroud of vines with carefully-tended flower-beds at their feet.
At the gate, a leaping black shape revealed itself to be a Labrador bitch who quieted instantly at a word from her master, but kept Helen under a watchful, apparently resentful, stare.
‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Helen murmured as Dane flung open the gate, and was immediately proved wrong as the dog pranced up to lick at her fing
ers and give a little wriggle of pleasure as Helen stooped to scratch her behind the ears.
‘She likes everybody,’ he replied casually. ‘And besides, I’ve taught her she’s not to bite the pretty girls ... only the ugly ones. Now let’s get inside before we all freeze to death.’
Helen followed through a long, narrow porch filled with dog leashes, gumboots and work clothing, past a neat stack of stove wood, and into a rambling farm kitchen that was comfortably warm compared to the chill outside.
Then, through a series of passages to a small, tidy room with a three-quarter bed, wardrobe, walls full of bookshelves and a door that appeared to lead to an adjoining bathroom. On the bed, a fluffy, down-filled quilt promised warm sleeping, and on the floor beside the bed sat a pair of obviously new sheepskin slippers.
‘You’ll need those around here,’ Dane muttered, following her glance. ‘Get into them after you’ve freshened up, then come on out for a nightcap and I’ll show you the rest of the house.’
Even with the small radiant heater he’d thoughtfully provided, Helen found the room icy, and she was glad enough, having changed to jeans and a warm sweatshirt, to join him in the warmth of the kitchen where a large cast-iron stove threw a pleasant glow into the room.
Molly rose from where she’d been sprawled in front of the fire, but after a gentle nuzzle at Helen’s fingers, promptly returned to flop down again in the warmth.
Dane had also changed, and now looked quite in place with his surroundings. A soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, hung loosely over faded, well-worn jeans, and his feet, like hers, were encased in soft sheepskin boots.
‘It’ll take a bit before this room’s warmed up properly,’ he said with a slow grin. ‘Fancy a small brandy to carry along while I give you the two-dollar tour?’
‘Whatever you’re having,’ she replied, then looked away as it suddenly dawned on her that he looked more than just fit ... he was intensely, almost startlingly masculine in these casual clothes, an effect enhanced by his lithe, easy way of moving, the obvious strength of his muscular body.
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