Matilda Next Door

by Kelly Hunter

‘The old Sinclair place. Bluestone. Five acres. Many bedrooms. Dodgy old kitchen, and by that I mean it still has an open fireplace, a wood stove and copper pots for washing up in. But it’s a big kitchen, enormous, and we could rebuild it.’

  ‘That’s heritage listed.’

  ‘We could rebuild it to heritage-listed specifications.’

  ‘It’s a money pit.’

  ‘I have a lot of money.’ No bragging. Useful fact. ‘We used to go past it on the school bus. It was empty even then. You spent an entire week debating exterior paint colour options for it. I remember it well.’

  ‘I was thirteen!’

  ‘I’m expecting your colour choices to have matured.’ There was the sparkle that had been missing from their conversation a few moments ago. ‘Mad Henry and Silly Tilly strike again. Want to buy it and set the town tongues wagging? Because I’m in if you’re in.’

  ‘You want me to help you bring a glorious old Wirralong building to life? Work my way through renovations and paint colours, home fabric choices and furnishings, set up a commercial kitchen to grow my business in, and do it with laughter and children and you at my side? I’m in. I’m so far in I may never emerge into the real world again. How deep are your pockets again?’

  ‘Very deep.’

  ‘I’d like to feel intimidated by that, but for some reason, I’m not.’ Her confidence warmed him through. ‘I’m marrying you for your money, you know. And your daughter. And your shirts.’

  It was all too easy to beam back. ‘You love me,’ he said.

  ‘That too. You know there’s an observatory in the garden out the back of that place? All it needs is a big-ass telescope, and the stars are your playground.’

  ‘I am aware.’

  ‘Oh, you sneaky man. You have it all planned.’

  ‘I’m trying.’ The shower could wait. ‘There’s one more thing I need to talk about though. It’s complicated.’

  ‘Pretend I’m smart enough to understand,’ she encouraged dryly.

  ‘You are. It’s me that needs a moment to drop barriers and put it all out there.’ He took a deep breath and faced her. ‘There’s a chance Rowan isn’t mine. Another bloke was in the picture around the time of her conception. That’s why I went to London. I wanted facts, not rumours. I needed to know that I could protect Rowan, and you, against claims on her in years to come.’

  ‘And you couldn’t tell me that was what you were doing?’

  Her eyes pleaded with him to say the right thing, but he was who he was. ‘I didn’t want to worry you and I didn’t have all the facts. Speculation is useless without enough facts.’

  He willed her to understand him, and finally she nodded.

  ‘The other man who had a relationship with Amanda, I met him, we spoke, and he’s relinquished all legal rights to Rowan. Doesn’t want to know—even if a paternity test can prove he’s the father, and there’s a fair chance it could. Anyway, the solicitor saw to the legal aspects, and in the eyes of the law Rowan’s all mine. Tilly, even if she’s not biologically mine, Amanda gave Rowan to me for a reason. I honestly can’t say what I would have done if the other guy had wanted to claim her, but he didn’t and that suited me more than I can say. I don’t want to walk away from her, ever. I want her to be part of our family.’

  He watched in horror as her eyes filled with tears again. ‘Do I get to ask why you’re crying?’ Because he really wanted to know. ‘I didn’t want to worry you before I had all the facts. Then once I went looking for the facts, I ended up sorting it out along the way, and now it’s past time to tell you and I really wanted to do it face-to-face, because then there could be pacing and longer explanations, and then hugging and kissing, and … you’re still crying. It’s good news. Why are you crying?’

  ‘Because I’m so glad you’re mine.’ She wiped at her eyes. ‘Can I confess my bit now? Because your paternity test result got faxed through to the Red Hill kitchen, and I saw the result and I hated that I saw it and broke that confidentiality, but it happened.’

  ‘So … what did it say?’ A thin sliver of hope still remained.

  ‘She’s not yours. Biologically.’

  And there it was, and all that went with it. Amanda’s decision to involve him regardless. The actions that had brought him and Matilda together. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Because it didn’t. ‘Does it matter to you?’

  ‘Only in that I worried you would be hurt by the news. Believe me when I say I have imagined every possible horror scenario when it came to what you might be facing over there, but you never did say, and I promised not to push. But Henry, you have to trust in me too. Trust is like love in that it runs both ways—and I don’t ever want to be left out of a loop that big and terrifying again. I’m right here and I can help, no matter what. I’m sturdy.’

  ‘You’re a sprite.’

  ‘Sturdy. Sprite. Whatever. I’ve got your back.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, oh.’

  ‘Guess I could get used to that.’

  ‘Try very hard. It shouldn’t take too long. I hear you’re bright.’

  Bright enough to heed what she was saying, yes. He took her in his arms, and she sagged against him, warm, willing and so very beloved. ‘I love you so much.’

  Tilly’s face took on an edge of spritely delight. ‘Henry, you added more words!’

  He had and he would. ‘I like to improvise, once I have the basics down.’

  ‘Match made in heaven; so do I.’ Gleeful, spritely delight. ‘For example, it is a long-held fantasy of mine for you to turn up in one of your fancy London suits, all pristine and buttoned up …’ She began tugging him towards the shower. ‘So we’ll ignore the fact that this one looks like a cow sat on you while you slept in it.’

  Fair cop. ‘What happens when I turn up in my suit?’

  ‘Well, we start with the basics.’ That smile would get her anything. ‘And then I improvise.’

  Epilogue

  The wedding took place as autumn leaves covered the modest bluestone church with a blanket of burgundy, orange and gold. Because it was a local wedding, between two established farming families, every seat was taken, and more people peppered the aisles and spilled out the church doors.

  The hardworking florist in town had been bombarded for days by Wirralong residents bringing in their autumn roses for use in Tilly’s wedding. Henry had been hearing all about the flowers from the florist, who’d wept tears of joy at their wonderful scent, and shortly thereafter entered a small-town political world he was ill equipped to deal with when it came to whose donated flowers would go where. The long-suffering floral artist had ended up calling on Wirralong’s Smart Ladies’ Supper Club for help, and between them they’d sorted him out. Apparently champagne, and plenty of it, solved all kinds of problems.

  The florist was an honorary member of the Supper Club now. Their next meeting was at Elsa’s Hair Affair and there was a wet shave and facial treatment with his name on it. Henry knew all this because he was part of the town now. All in, and loving it.

  This place. This glorious, barmy place, where people drove for days in outback trucks and utes that looked like they belonged on a Mad Max set, in order to see Matilda Moore marry Henry Church.

  The promise of an all-night ball afterwards, at the historic Wirra Station woolshed, in lieu of a more formal wedding reception, didn’t hurt.

  Henry saw the pair of white peacocks from the corner of his eye as he stood on the steps of the church, greeting people as they went inside and waiting for word that it was time to head for the altar and wait for his bride. His grandfather stood with him, the only groomsman he wanted at his side today. Joe Church, resplendent in grey suit and tails—to match the bride’s eyes—was also staring at the peacocks and trying to hide a smile.

  ‘Please tell me they’re not part of the wedding procession,’ Henry murmured.

  ‘You want to pray they’re not a wedding present,’ his grandfather murmured, and there was that. ‘They have ribbons
around their necks. And little cards. They probably have names.’

  ‘Not helping, old man.’

  And then Matilda’s mother approached, a vision of elegant restraint in a duck-egg blue dress and matching coat that ended just below her knees. ‘They’re coming over the bridge.’

  Meaning it was time to go inside.

  ‘Wait.’ She stepped up and fussed with his tie, moving it a fraction to the left, and then brushed her hands over his shoulders and down his arms and stepped back. ‘Your final clothing check.’ His soon-to-be mother-in-law turned to Joe next and fussed about all over again. ‘Beth’s inside already, in pride of place on your side of the church. Welcome to the family, Henry. We’re here for you. Whatever you need from us, ask.’

  His first instinct was to say thank you and think never, that’s not going to happen, but he was better at the give and take between people now. Between families, new and old. He could do this, and be supported, and at other times he would do the supporting. ‘I will.’

  ‘Time to go inside, son.’

  Time to step up and say the words in his heart.

  Maggie’s sweet little daughter, Bridie, entered the church first, plucking rose petals from a little cane basket full of them and dropping them on the ground.

  The poppet’s mother came next, Maggie Walker-O’Connor, in a dusky-rose gown. Redheaded Elsa, hairdresser extraordinaire, followed, wearing a gown of palest, forest green. Then Isabelle, who was a celebrant but who couldn’t be a celebrant this time because she was in the bridal party, in champagne gold. Then Holly, another Wirralong soul who’d lit out of town fast and years later finally found her way home. Holly wore a bolder coloured green gown, and carried Rowan on her hip. His daughter was a vision in pink, with a tiny crown of pink rosebuds woven into her fiery curls. Viewed together, Tilly’s attendants reminded him of the bouquet of roses Tilly carried in her arms.

  Matilda, who in a field of beautiful women, outshone them all with her shining eyes and her brilliant smile and sheer happiness. He could feel her joy, even if he couldn’t see it behind the veil. It flowed over him, into him, filling him to bursting.

  His bride.

  It took an eternity for her to reach him. Another decade before she and her father shared a few words and he finally left her side. Were they ready yet? He was ready to say the words.

  And then the minister started, and he barely heard the half of it, because those words so wanted to come out.

  ‘I do,’ he finally got to say. Forever-and-a-day, I do, and Tilly did too, and the rings went on and they were wed.

  And then he lifted her veil and kissed his wife, and thanked the stars for all his many blessings, including the baby on his doorstep who’d finally brought them together. ‘Hey, there,’ he murmured. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘You certainly do. I’m the clever woman who just married you.’

  ‘Would we use the word clever in that context?’ he teased gently, because they did that now, loved and laughed and made new memories to paper over the old. The names Silly Tilly and Mad Henry had become terms of endearment. ‘Possibly not.’

  ‘I know a rare treasure when I see it. Trust me.’

  ‘I do.’ All that practice had paid off. ‘Can do, will do, love you.’ His new mantra, one to live by every day.

  ‘Oh, I like that. Say it again.’

  ‘Can do, will do, love you.’ So much. ‘I’m the luckiest man in the world.’

  The End

  Want more? Check out Maggie and Max’s story in Maggie’s Run!

  Buy now!

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  If you enjoyed Matilda Next Door, you’ll love the next books in….

  The Outback Brides Return to Wirralong series

  Book 1: Matilda Next Door

  by Kelly Hunter

  View the series here!

  Book 2: Maeve’s Baby

  by Fiona McArthur

  Buy now!

  Book 3: Serenity’s Song

  by Cathryn Hein

  Buy now!

  Book 4: A Nanny Called Alice

  by Barbara Hannay

  Buy now!

  Enjoy an excerpt from

  Maeve’s Baby

  Fiona McArthur

  Book 2 in the Outback Brides Return to Wirralong series

  Keep reading below or buy now!

  Email from Lacey James to Maeve McGill:

  You should move to Wirralong, Maeve. How can I describe it? It’s beautiful, with auburn and rust-coloured leaves from the deciduous trees that float like flakes of red confetti onto the open grass. Changeable weather that’s fun. Cool breezes yesterday; warm, wear-no-sleeves weather today. With puffy, fluffy clouds that skitter across the cobalt skies above like cotton candy escaped from the bag.

  Autumn brings dahlias and camellias and chrysanthemums to the gardens here, along with the rampant flush of glorious second-growth roses at Maggie Walker-O’Connor’s wedding centre.

  Have I told you about Wirra Station? How it rose from a run-down homestead into a dreamy stage for the most iconic and picturesque weddings. The success of Maggie’s venue impacted the town. And the townspeople.

  Unlike other rustic gold-rush villages down the southern tip of mainland Australia, Wirralong thrives. We haven’t scattered our inhabitants like tumbleweed into oblivion—because weddings are big business.

  Wedding parties waltz around the town’s boardwalks, spreading new life into our previously struggling shop owners’ tills. There’s even a Smart Ladies’ Supper Club where you can meet the business and professional ladies in town.

  And the Outback Brides Coffee Shop is the place for lunch. Of course, the doctor’s surgery, where you’ll work if you take over my job, is busy with all these new families. The word has spread of Maggie’s weddings all over Victoria.

  You should move to Wirralong, Maeve.

  It’s a friendly little town. A great place for taking stock. A haven to pick yourself up from being knocked down. A great place to find inner, amazing, super-strength with friends like me who will stand by you.

  Oh, and … There’s this amazing property up for sale and you should buy it, Maeve.

  *

  Jace

  They met on the street outside the Wirralong Family Doctors Surgery. Two big men, mid-thirties, athletic and confident with wide smiles. One carried a shy three-year-old with curly red hair and dimples. Auburn hair like her daddy’s.

  ‘We finally got here.’ Jace Bronson grabbed Ben Brierley’s hand and squeezed hard. ‘Can’t believe you’re a father. Two sets of twins and one due, and only since I last saw you!’

  ‘Not all our own work. The boys were Holly’s sister’s, and we adopted them after she died, but they’re ours now.’ He smiled at the little girl. ‘And you’re Jemima? Hello, gorgeous. Have you come to see Daddy’s new surgery, today?’

  A solemn nod, but no words from Jace’s daughter. People passed, smiled, said hello to Ben, and smiled at Jace and Jemima.

  ‘So good to see you, both.’ Ben slapped his friend on the back. ‘It’s kid city at my house. Tom and Pat are nine and Layla and Amber turned two last week. I’ve found heaven, that’s for sure.’

  Jace shook his head. ‘I pull my hair out with one.’

  ‘Bet you wouldn’t trade her for the world.’

  Jace squeezed his daughter tight against him briefly and the little girl slipped both arms around her daddy’s neck. ‘Not a hope.’ Jace looked away. ‘It’s been two years and we’re getting good at juggling, aren’t we, Jem?’

  ‘I take my hat off to all single parents. You’re doing a great job.’

  Jace could see Ben meant that. His friend understood how badly Jace wanted Jemima to grow up happy, despite not having a mother.

  ‘Kids. Who would believe it of us?’ Ben shook his head. ‘Appreciate you coming down. Makes it easy that we can settle in here together before Holly goes into
labour.’

  ‘Nice for me to get away. I need a break from home and you needing me for six months is perfect. Thanks for setting us up with Sandy; knowing a good babysitter makes it smooth.’

  ‘We’re experts with babysitters. Been juggling for a while now. It’ll be nice to spend time with the family when I do go on leave.’

  ‘You have a baby in order to get holidays?’ Jace teased him.

  ‘This one wasn’t planned. Holly kept one day a week in the surgery to stay current. Sandy’s a treasure with the twins and comes across to pick them up. Jemima will love her.’

  Sounded hectic to Jace. ‘When’s your baby due?’

  ‘Six weeks, but Holly’s tired and happy to give up her office to you now. Even happier I’ll be on leave before the baby comes. Come in and look around.’

  Jace followed his friend up the two steps into the surgery entrance, then into a light, roomy waiting room with lots of empty chairs and stopped at the front desk with Ben.

  ‘Jace Bronson, this is Imelda Miles, receptionist extraordinaire and best scone maker in Wirralong.’

  ‘Hello, Jace. Good to meet you.’

  ‘And you, Imelda.’ They nodded and both looked at Jemima who jammed her face against Jace’s shoulder.

  ‘And who’s this?’ The smiling, older lady with the same pure white hair his mother had—a good omen, Jace hoped—lifted a hand in an enthusiastic wave at Jemima.

  ‘Jemima.’

  ‘And nice to meet you, too, Jemima.’

  Ben gestured to one of the consulting rooms and Jace waved back at the receptionist and followed his friend in for a look.

  One wall of the consulting room, the one that faced the street, had been built out of glass bricks, letting in light while maintaining solid patient privacy. The desk stretched large and mahogany in front of the light from the frosted glass, and on the back wall behind a pulled-back curtain the examination couch hid. The computer and printer looked state-of-the-art, as did the instruments and monitoring equipment, and from what he’d seen already, everything else in the surgery.