Master of the Outback Page 10

  Dig deep. Dig deep. You’ll have to dig deep.

  Three days had to pass before Trevelyan’s return. Genevieve found herself so engrossed in the Trevelyan story that she spent much of her weekend off working. Nori was most concerned.

  “You don’t have to work so hard, you know, Gena,” she said, shaking her head. “All Saturday morning, and now today?”

  “I’m enjoying myself so much it’s not actually work, Nori,” Genevieve explained. “But don’t tell Ms Trevelyan that.”

  Nori laughed freely. “I can’t remember a single occasion when I’ve told Ms Trevelyan anything.”

  “I accept that,” Genevieve said. “But please don’t worry about me. I’m having a ball. I’m a writer, after all.” That was a slip. “The family history is fascinating. There’s definitely a book in it. How are you getting along with Derryl and his friends?”

  Nori hesitated a moment. “They’re no trouble, really. All they want to do is enjoy themselves around the pool. Maybe I could wish they didn’t drink quite so much, but it’s not for me to say.”

  “Riding’s not on their agenda?” Genevieve was planning on taking out the sweet-tempered mare Akela that afternoon—with mandatory hard hat, of course. He who had to be obeyed had given instructions. She knew the boys wouldn’t saddle up any other horse but the mare for her. No matter. She had no complaints. Akela was fleet enough of foot, and she did have her frisky moments. She would have given anything to ride Trevelyan’s glorious white stallion, Caesar, but there was no chance of that. Caesar was a one-man horse.

  Derryl’s current girlfriend, Nori told her, was not happy around horses. “I overheard her say she finds them most dangerous.”

  “Which they can be,” Genevieve said fairly. “It’s a question of mutual respect.”

  “I’ll be glad when Bret gets back,” Nori confided, ready to return to her duties.

  “Me too!”

  Nori’s delicate black brows shot up. “Meaning…?” There was a decided glint in her dark eyes.

  “Just a remark!”

  Nori made off with a little happy giggle.

  Genevieve could have given herself a slap. She trusted Nori. She and Nori had grown comfortable in one another’s company. But still she had to watch her tongue. Nori said she would be glad to have Bret back. That didn’t go any way towards the truth for her. She had found herself longing for his return. Did that add up to falling in love? Many attractive men had come into her life before Mark. None of them had made a dent. Love at first sight had never worked for her.

  Until now.

  She oscillated between elation and unwavering worry. She should be resisting this powerful attraction that had so drawn her in. Instead one part of her—the least in control—was actually wallowing in the magic of it all. She could see him when she shut her eyes. She could feel him—feel the touch of his mouth on hers, hard, punishing, but lushly passionate, feel his hands on her body, his arm enclosing her as she inhaled the clean spicy scent of his skin. She was even dreaming about him, waking with a start in the darkness astonished not only by her own vulnerability but her extravagant reactions. It was all so unlike her.

  She had never thought in her life she would meet a man like Trevelyan. And more than half a century ago Catherine had never thought she would meet a man like Geraint Trevelyan. Had that meeting not taken place, Catherine would not have met her own destruction. Echoes from the past should be giving her pause. Infatuation—whatever—could bring heartache and even harmful consequences. Poor Catherine, so much in love was gone, gone, gone. Never more to take part in anything under the sun. There had been no magic powerful enough to keep her safe from harm.

  She did her best to keep out of Derryl and co’s way. Not that any of them came looking for her. No one put a friendly head inside the magnificent library. Obviously not readers. It didn’t bother her in the least. So far as Derryl was concerned she was an employee, not a guest. That was the message she had to heed.

  Derryl seemed to derive power and a kind of pleasure from lording it over people. Trevelyan, Master of Djangala, a man of high achievement, had no such mindset. He couldn’t have been nicer to Nori. She, along with the entire domestic staff thought he was wonderful. Genevieve had already learned every man, woman and child on the station felt the same way.

  Towards late afternoon she called a halt. She was doing well. She put down her pen, then rose from the desk, spending a moment or two doing her usual limbering exercise to avoid backache. A comfortable gallop—nothing all-out—seemed like a great idea. It would help her unwind and straighten out any kinks.

  She still couldn’t get used to the incredible freedom, the vast open spaces, the aromatic purity of the air, the extraordinary light! She was longing to explore more of the incredible landscape. What were those pulsing fire-like glimmerings amid the trees? And she especially wanted to explore the chains of glittering billabongs. Nori had told her they were heavily carpeted with exquisite water lilies.

  There was a profound peace about this ancient land. And a palpable near mystic power one couldn’t ignore. The aboriginal tribes had lived in this land for well over forty thousand years. No wonder they were so closely tied to it. She hoped she could get to see the rock drawings in the hill country. She’d have to wait on Trevelyan’s okay.

  Hell might break loose if she disobeyed a direct order.

  A voice behind her startled her out of her reverie. It wasn’t that loud, but it might as well have had the power of a lioness’s roar.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Hester Trevelyan asked in her most intimidating voice.

  Someone really should have stopped her long ago, Genevieve thought. Hester would have been a tyrant in the making from the cot. She moved into the room, a stash of papers in her hand. She was superbly dressed as if for a big occasion: a high-waisted Empire-style silk dress in silver-grey printed with tiny black leaves. More important jewellery. She had learned Hester was never seen without her jewellery. She probably wore it to bed. Hester was a lady out of her time.

  Taking a leaf out of Nori’s book, Genevieve answered courteously. “I’m thinking of going for a ride, Ms Trevelyan.”

  “Too bad.” Hester eyed Genevieve with disapproval. “I want you here. I have all this additional material with me.”

  “And I’ll be interested to see it, Ms Trevelyan,” Genevieve said. “But I’ve been hard at work most of the day. Yesterday too for that matter. It is the weekend.”

  Ms Trevelyan tapped an arthritic index finger against the sheaf of papers she was carrying. “I hope you’re not going to claim these as extra hours?” she asked, as though readying for a lecture.

  Genevieve assumed an innocent expression. “Me? No. It was my own choice, and I’m happy to report considerable headway. I think you’ll be pleased.”

  Hester nodded without replying. “You’re a good rider, are you?” she asked unexpectedly.

  Genevieve came up with a modest smile. “I started riding lessons when I was a child. I love horses. I love riding.”

  “I was a wonderful rider myself, don’t you know?” Hester offered abruptly. “There is such grief in growing old. Don’t let anyone tell you there isn’t. It’s downhill all the way.”

  Genevieve’s tender heart softened. “I’m sure you were a splendid horsewoman, Ms Trevelyan. Were you never concerned about taking a spill and perhaps hurting your hands?” she asked gently. “I’ve heard what a wonderful pianist you were.”

  Maybe it was the past tense that did it.

  “Really? You’ve been discussing me?” Hester retorted in a brittle voice.

  Any minute now and she’d be in a rage, Genevieve thought. Massive invasion of privacy. “Not at all, Ms Trevelyan. Bret mentioned it in conversation, and there are many photographs of you at the piano. Beautiful phot
ographs.”

  That was true. In her youth Hester Trevelyan had been beautiful—in a severe kind of way. Rather androgynous, now she thought about it. Hester in riding clothes could just as well have been a striking young man as a striking young woman.

  A sound of despair entered that autocratic voice. “I squandered my gift,” she said, like a lament.

  For some reason Genevieve felt moved to tears. “I’m so sorry.” She dared not press further. But it was becoming clear to her that Hester Trevelyan had suffered in her own way.

  “Do you play?” Hester barked, as though these days music damaged her ears. There were strange glints in her sunken coal black eyes.

  Sometimes only the truth would do. “I studied the piano for years—which isn’t to say I’m good.”

  Hester groaned. “I hope you’re not planning on playing the Steinway downstairs? Some talentless idiot attacked it last night. One of Derryl’s featherweight friends. I was too exhausted to come downstairs and order them to stop immediately.” Hester scowled darkly.

  Genevieve too had heard the piano. Pop tunes, the inevitable Chopsticks, accompanied by loud hoots of laughter. The house was so big the piano hadn’t been loud by any means. Besides, the lid had remained down, largely muffling sound.

  “I would only get in a little practice with your permission, Ms Trevelyan.” She thought better of saying her nephew had already given her permission.

  “Tausig?” Hester fired the question, at once sharp and sly.

  “Not until it hurts.” Genevieve smiled. “A few warm-ups.” Carl Tausig, the Polish virtuoso who had died at the very early age of thirty, had written books of finger exercises that could and did work miracles on technique. Every serious piano student had their book of Tausig. Plainly Hester had been sounding her out.

  “He was Liszt’s favourite pupil, you know,” Hester said, approval, of all things, settling on her face. “Critics consider he may have been a greater virtuoso than the maestro himself. Anton Rubenstein thought him infallible as a pianist—never a single digital error. Fancy that! I have heard all the great ones. They make errors. Myself included—though of course I was not great. Just good. World of difference there! But I do have recordings of myself, you know,” Hester said, with a mixture of pride and pain. “All the Chopin études, preludes…some of his most beautiful ballades. Beethoven’s major sonatas. Brahms, Liszt…the others.” She waved her hand like a baton.

  “I’d feel honoured to hear them,” Genevieve said, thinking it a tragedy that Hester had been so badly crippled with arthritis. The degenerative disease had stolen an important part of her life.

  Hester could not fail to hear her sincerity. “I don’t know if I could bear it.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Come here, girl. I want to look at you.”

  Instantly Genevieve’s heart quaked. She felt the flush of panic. Nonetheless she did as she was told, moving closer.

  “You’re not wearing your glasses?” Hester squinted at her ferociously.

  Genevieve could hardly say her great-nephew had confiscated them. “I don’t wear them all the time,” she said. Hester wasn’t wearing hers either. Was that a lucky break or what?

  “When did you first start wearing your hair in a bun?” Hester didn’t mince words. “That is the natural colour? Not a rinse? You’re not really a blonde?”

  “Goodness me, no!” Genevieve managed a mystified shrug. “As for the bun—that happened when I first started teaching, I suppose,” she fibbed. The fibs were starting to really pile up. That was worrying.

  “You’re a secretive young woman, aren’t you?” Hester accused, looking through and beyond her.

  “Why would you say that?” Genevieve was becoming increasingly nervous under Hester’s intense scrutiny.

  “Takes one to know one,” Hester said, her smile not without humour. “You’re a ghostwriter. The odd thing is you do put me in mind of a ghost. Someone I knew when I was young.”

  An overwhelming sadness broke over her voice like a wave. Sadness? Genevieve was suddenly ashamed of all the negative thoughts she’d had about Hester. A vulnerable softness had come into the arrogant old face.

  For a long moment Genevieve could think of nothing to say. “You cared for her?” she dared to ask eventually, as the opportunity had presented itself

  “I loved her.” It was an agonised admission. “Loved her,” she repeated in a near whisper, her vision clearly directed inwards.

  Whatever revelation Genevieve had been expecting, it had never been this. She watched in stunned amazement as Hester put a knotted hand to her throat. “She’s dead, you know. Long dead.”

  Genevieve couldn’t utter a word. What was Hester telling her? She was convinced that in advancing age Hester was desperate to get some intolerable burden off her chest. She had to be talking about Catherine. She just knew it. She never discounted those strange feelings.

  “I’m so sorry.” She was perturbed by Hester’s abrupt cave-in. “But she lives on in your memory?”

  Ah, the fatal question! Hester didn’t answer. Hester was in full retreat. As violently as her frail body permitted, she pitched the sheaf of papers onto Genevieve’s desk, causing many to fly about like a fleet of paper planes.

  “Go for your ride,” she barked, returning to her habitual arrogance. “This can wait for tomorrow.” She pattered away on her soft embroidered slippers, quoting Macbeth as she went.

  “‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time.’ Make that the crack of doom!” she called back. “Sometimes it takes an awfully long time to die.”

  To Genevieve’s sensitive ears, her voice betrayed the pain that was in her.

  “Others die just like that! You know what they say, young lady? Only the good die young.”

  Genevieve could have agreed with her.

  Catherine had been several years younger than she was now when she’d stepped off a cliff and into the great void.

  It was no use. The night dragged on. Genevieve turned this way and that, plumped up the pillows, tried to nestle her aching head into the soft mounds. Only it was no use. She couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too active. That was no surprise. She was like this when she was working. But it was Hester’s extraordinary admission that kept playing over and over in her head, like a CD she couldn’t turn off. That on its own was making it impossible for her to close her eyes. She had tried a touch of lavender oil on her temples and the nape of her neck. She loved the smell of lavender. But this time the old remedy didn’t work.

  She didn’t know what to believe now. She was unexpectedly warming to Hester—wanting to believe she had nothing to do with Catherine’s accident. Hester was Trevelyan’s great-aunt, after all, but she was convinced that not only Hester but the shadow of Catherine was trying to tell her something. How did one communicate with a shadow anyway? It was the other way around. The shadow communicated with you.

  She couldn’t think about it any more. She had to break the cycle—otherwise she’d be a wreck in the morning and Hester might well be in the mood to work. She didn’t normally resort to painkillers for sleeplessness, but she felt desperately in need of a couple of aspirin without delay.

  A glance at her bedside clock told her it was just after midnight. She knew the first-aid room downstairs was well-stocked with everything that might be needed on a working station. Derryl’s friends had gone home, and Derryl, no doubt exhausted from exploring his girlfriend’s charms and other non-stop entertaining would be in bed. Trevelyan wasn’t expected until the morning. She was familiar now with the layout of the house.

  Once the decision to go downstairs was taken, she didn’t hesitate. She slipped out of bed, reached for her apricot silk-satin robe, shouldered into it. She was addicted to beautiful lingerie and nightwear�
�the lovely allure of it, the luxurious feel against her skin. The matching set—robe and gown—had been expensive. But no one was around to catch her out of character.

  A few downstairs lights were on. That came as no surprise. Low-wattage bracket lamps were left burning along the corridors at night. It was a very big house. Some lighting would be necessary for anyone who needed to get up and go downstairs. The great house was hushed all around her. She really loved the homestead. It had enormous appeal for her.

  She intended to shake out a couple of tablets and then take them back to her room. She hoped they would work. She hadn’t settled into a quiet existence on Djangala. She had been propelled into a fantastic new world that fascinated as much as terrified her.

  Trevelyan was in his father’s study, rather wearily turning over papers in seeking a document he urgently needed to check: all to do with aboriginal land claims. He had flown in less than an hour before, his routine inspections over to his satisfaction, and he needed to get an early start in the morning, when the road trains would arrive to transport several hundred head of cattle to market.

  He didn’t smoke. He never had. It was the age of enlightenment. Why damage an all-important lung? He did, however, like a drink. Not that he would call himself a heavy drinker. He picked up the half-empty tumbler of single malt Scotch and drained it, tipping back his head.

  As he righted his head a lovely flash caught his eyes: a female figure, moving silently, more like floating, towards the rear of the house. It might have been a figment of his imagination he was so tired. Only this was no phantom. It was a beautiful, breathing woman.