‘I’ll wear the red,’ said Clarice.
‘But the master …’
‘The red, Freda.’
The little maid heard the determination in her voice and reluctantly pulled the gown from the cedar trunk. It was deepest rose-red silk, draped into a soft bustle held in place by a cluster of silken flowers, and with a daring décolletage that showed off her slender shoulders and still-pert bosom.
Clarice stepped into the petticoat, instructed Freda to keep the corset as loose as possible, and lifted her arms so the red silk could slide down her body. She stood impatiently as the maid fastened the tiny buttons that ran down the back of the dress, then sat before the mirror as the girl did her hair.
The effect of her temper was quite remarkable, for there was heightened colour in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled – for the first time in her life she felt beautiful. Freda had piled her fair hair into a posy of curls and pinned it in place with Algernon’s mother’s ruby tiara. More rubies glittered in her ears and at her throat, highlighting her pale skin, and the blush of defiance on her cheeks. Dabbing perfume on her neck and wrists, she nodded with approval.
‘He’s going to be ever so cross,’ said Freda with a sniff.
‘Good.’ Clarice snatched up the gossamer shawl Lionel had given her for Christmas, glanced once more at her reflection and swept out of the room.
Algernon was pacing the hall, watch in hand, expression grim. He looked up as she approached and his face darkened. ‘I thought I told you to wear the yellow.’
Clarice lifted her chin. ‘I prefer red.’
‘It’s the colour of harlots,’ he snapped.
Algernon had recently discovered religion, but she knew it was only another weapon in his armoury to attain his knighthood and refused to be cowed. ‘It’s the colour of roses,’ she retorted, ‘and as we are already late, there isn’t time to discuss it.’
His brows lowered as he regarded her – then, without a word, he headed for the waiting carriage.
Clarice kept her head high and followed him. If he was determined she should attend the ball, then she was just as determined to enjoy it.
Government House, the same night
Clarice had been dancing all evening, for although Algernon had all but ignored her once he’d become immersed in tedious dialogue with another diplomat, left to her own devices she’d discovered she was in great demand.
Hot and breathless, she took another glass from the passing steward and drank thirstily. The room was a swirl of colour from the jewel-bright gowns and the scarlet uniforms, and as the orchestra continued to play enthusiastically, and the noise rose to even greater pitch, she began to feel the effects of heat, noise and rather too many glasses of champagne.
She glanced around the room. Algernon was still occupied, Eunice was dancing with Lionel, and Gwendoline, who in Clarice’s opinion was far too young to even be here, was flirting outrageously with a group of young military officers. It seemed she was forgotten, but she shuddered at the thought of sitting with the dowagers and maiden aunts who were gossiping in the corner. Midnight was an hour away – it was the perfect time to get some fresh air and clear her head.
Clarice fetched her wrap and wound an unsteady path through the gathering that filled the reception rooms and spilled out into the gardens, and as she stepped through the French windows on to the veranda, she had to grasp the railing. It felt as if the veranda moved beneath her feet, and as she stood there and tried to stop her head from swimming, she gazed blearily at the garden. It looked lovely, with lanterns strung from the trees and comfortable chairs arranged to catch the refreshing breeze that came over the water, but she did wish she hadn’t drunk quite so much champagne – she felt very odd.
She carefully descended the steps, acknowledging greetings and declining invitations to join the various groups who had made themselves comfortable on the lawns. She needed to be alone – to clear her head and stop the world spinning.
Unaware that a curious Gwendoline had followed her, Clarice headed for the rose garden.
It was a haven of tranquillity after the raucous bustle of the party. Lit only by the sickle moon, the deserted paths and arbours drew her in. The night air was soft and heavily perfumed, and as she walked along the deserted paths she breathed a sigh of contentment. The garden reminded her of Wealden House, of her mother’s roses – the scents of home.
She came to a patch of lawn at the centre of the garden and sank down in a rather ungainly way that set off a fit of giggles. If Algernon could see her now he would be apoplectic – but she didn’t care. It was good to be alone, to not worry about appearance and manners and all the other nonsense he considered so important – to just be herself.
Still giggling, and heedless of damage to her dress, she lay back on the manicured grass as if she was a child again and looked up. The stars were so bright and clear, the moon so serene, it was as if she might pluck them from the sky. She watched in wonder as a shooting star pierced the dark firmament, and tried to count the stars that swept above her in the great splash of the Milky Way.
As she lay there in the perfumed garden, her eyelids grew heavy and the sounds of the party faded further into the distance until all that was left was sweet silence.
*
Her dream was erotic and very real, for she could feel his lips on her neck, tracing fire at her throat and down to her breasts. His breath was warm on her skin as his teasing mouth found her nipple and she arched her back in supplication and need.
Fingers traced the line of her calf and up to the softness of her thigh. It was as if her limbs had become liquid, and she opened up to him, offering the heat and want that had built to an almost unbearable yearning. His fingers softly caressed and probed, increasing her desire, and as the tidal-wave of pleasure swept over her, she gasped at its force and was left trembling.
‘That’s a good girl,’ he murmured. ‘Now it’s my turn.’
Her eyes snapped open. It wasn’t a dream, and the euphoria swiftly died. Lionel’s hand smothered her cry of protest, and his weight pinned her to the grass.
‘Come on, Clarry,’ he urged, ‘you know you want to.’
She shook her head and wriggled beneath him in an attempt to throw him off as she clawed at his face.
He dodged her nails, swiftly stuffed a wad of the gossamer wrap into her mouth and captured her wrists with his strong hand. ‘Stop fighting me, Clarry,’ he hissed, his face twisted with lust. ‘It’s what you’ve wanted from the moment you arrived – and you will enjoy it, I promise.’
‘No, please, no,’ she begged through the wrap, her eyes pleading with him, her body rigid.
He was impervious to her pleas, lost in his own need as he forced her legs apart with his knees and entered her.
Clarice gasped and almost choked on the wrap. Despite her abhorrence for what was happening, her body reacted with traitorous fervour. She was still aroused and desirous – and as he plunged into her she felt her muscles clench, drawing him further in as another wave of lust threatened. She tried to fight it, but it was too strong, too demanding, and she found she was drowning in a vortex from which there was no escape.
She was left gasping for breath as he took the material from her mouth and rolled away. Every inch of her felt as if it was on fire. Her limbs trembled and her heart pounded. She had never experienced such pleasure, but as she felt the cool night air on her splayed thighs and naked breasts she shuddered with disgust. She was guilty of the worst betrayal.
Lionel was swiftly buttoning his trousers. ‘We’d better get back before we’re missed. It’s almost midnight.’
Clarice adjusted her clothing and leapt to her feet, distressed and angry with them both – shocked by how little time had passed since she’d left the ballroom. ‘How dare you?’ she hiccupped through her tears.
His smile was unrepentant as he looked down at her. ‘You’ve been in love with me for years,’ he replied, ‘and I thought it was time you learnt how a real man
makes love to a woman.’
Her face burned with humiliation and her anger was stoked by it. ‘Algernon is more of a real man than you’ll ever be,’ she hissed. ‘At least he doesn’t have to resort to rape.’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘That wasn’t rape, Clarry. You enjoyed it too much.’
The sound of her hand hitting his face resounded in the quiet of the garden.
His expression hardened as he caught her wrist. ‘Rape is an ugly word, Clarice, and I would advise you not to use it. You are as guilty as me regarding what happened tonight, and it is to remain our secret.’ His eyes bored into her. ‘Think of your sister – and the scandal it would cause. Algernon would never get his knighthood once it’s revealed how his wife likes to couple out in the open.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she breathed. ‘It would ruin your reputation just as much, and devastate Eunice.’
‘Eunice is well acquainted with my little diversions,’ he said blithely, ‘but of course she wouldn’t countenance you being one of them.’ He released her wrist, his expression suddenly crafty. ‘Rumour and gossip spread like wildfire here, and a single hint that the lovely Mrs Pearson is a trollop would be enough. The scandal wouldn’t touch me.’
Clarice regarded him with loathing. How could she ever have loved him? How could she have spent so many wasted years yearning for a man with so few scruples? She hated Lionel for his arrogance and indifference to the pain he caused in his pursuit of self-gratification, but most of all she hated herself for her weakness and stupidity, her blindness to his true character and the ease with which he’d seduced her.
‘It’s probably best if we return separately,’ he said, running his fingers through his hair and smoothing his moustache. ‘I’ll go first. You will need to tidy your hair and dress before you show yourself.’ He spun on his heel, and was gone.
She stood in the pool of moonlight that shone on the trampled grass and tried to control her emotions. The night breeze had cooled, and she felt its chill, but she remained there, an alabaster statue but for the tears rolling down her face. The sky was still starlit, the moon still sailed overhead – but all she could smell was him – and the cloying scent of roses.
*
Clarice realised she was crying and swiftly composed herself. There had been too many tears shed for what had happened, and Lionel was not worthy of them. She adjusted the old straw hat she always wore when in the garden and coldly regarded the roses. The events of that night remained with her as sharply as ever – the shame still as strong.
She had not returned to the ballroom, but left a message for Algernon that she was unwell and leaving for home. She had maintained a stiff composure on the short drive and during the few moments it had taken to assure Freda she didn’t need help to undress. But on gaining the sanctuary of her bedroom, and with the door firmly locked behind her, she’d torn off the dress and ripped it to shreds. She never wore red again.
Clarice glanced down at her hands. They were the hands of an old, tired woman. Knotted with veins and the onset of arthritis, they marked the passage of time more clearly than anything. In a way she was glad, for with age had come wisdom – but it had been hard-won, and the sacrifices it demanded still echoed today.
That night long ago should have been the end, for neither she nor Lionel spoke of it, and thankfully there was no child as a result. But neither of them could have known the terrible fate that awaited them – for Gwendoline had witnessed it all, and had waited until the optimum moment to reveal what she’d seen, thereby causing a rift that had ultimately damaged them all.
Chapter 7
The log cabin was set among the trees in the valley, out of sight of the homestead and stables but within yards of the river. Joe’s father had built it as a hideaway where he could tinker at leisure with old bits of machinery, cook over a campfire, drink too much beer or just doze in the shade waiting for the fish to bite. Since his death, it had been used as a repository for junk and left to moulder.
His mother had accepted that every Aussie man needed his shed and had come to enjoy the peace of having a tidy house to herself for a while. What she would think of Joe’s plans for the cabin’s future use was rather less certain.
Joe cleaned his hands on a rag and eyed the single room with satisfaction. He and the stable hands had spent every spare minute down here making it habitable again, and repairing the old copper boiler out the back. Now the roof was mended, the floor sanded and varnished and the shutters and screens replaced. The ancient range had been rubbed down and re-blacked, the flue cleaned out and the woodpile restocked. He’d fixed up a new dunny out the back, bought a tin bath, replaced the bed and brought fresh linen from the house, and even found a comfortable chair to put on the veranda. All he had to do now was convince his mother it was the perfect accommodation for Miss Pearson.
‘So this is where you’ve been hiding. I suppose this means you’ll be sloping off like your dad used to.’
Joe stuffed the rag in his pocket and turned to face her. ‘It’s not for me,’ he said firmly, ‘but for Miss Pearson.’
Molly folded her arms. ‘Then you’ve wasted your time, because I’ve booked her in with the Gearings.’
‘She’s not going there, Ma.’ He refused to be intimidated by her glare. ‘The Gearings live too far away, she won’t have any transport and this place is perfect.’
Molly’s cheeks flushed with anger. ‘She can borrow the ute. I don’t want her on my property.’
Jack sighed in frustration. ‘She’s an owner, Ma. You can’t keep avoiding her.’
Molly remained resolute, her plump little body almost vibrating with hostility. ‘Too right I can,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t mind accommodating the other owners up at the house – but even this shack is too close to home, and I won’t have her here.’
‘It’s not really up to you, Ma,’ he said gently. ‘Dad left Galway House to me, remember? I can accommodate who I want.’
Molly bit her lip. ‘Even if it means making me face someone I’ve spent most of my life avoiding?’ There was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. ‘Don’t make me do that, Joe. Please.’
‘Oh, Ma,’ he sighed, ‘I wish you’d tell me what the hell this is all about.’
‘It’s better to remain in ignorance,’ she murmured. ‘It’s old history, and doesn’t concern you.’
‘It does when it affects my business. As for it being old history … if I had a penny for every time the subject of Gwen Cole has come up over the past months I’d be a rich man. It seems everyone knows her daughter’s coming – and speculation on your reaction to her is rife.’
‘Doreen’s been listening in again,’ muttered Molly. Her expression softened at last. ‘I’m sorry, Joe. I know you think I’m being unreasonable, but I simply cannot risk coming face to face with that Cole woman.’
‘She’s unlikely to come out here for a family reunion,’ he said flatly. ‘I understand from all the gossip she’s not exactly the doting mother.’
‘You’ve got that right,’ she snapped. ‘The only thing that woman loves is herself – and making mischief.’ She bit her lip. ‘But I wouldn’t mind betting she’ll turn up to have a look at her. It has been sixteen years, and she’s bound to be curious.’
Joe felt a pang of distress at the loathing in his mother’s eyes. ‘What did she do to make you hate her so, Ma?’
Molly took a deep breath. ‘She tried to ruin your father.’ She met his gaze defiantly. ‘That is all I have to say on the subject, Joe, so don’t push it.’
He knew his mother well enough not to probe further. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, ‘but I still think you shouldn’t judge the daughter before she gets here.’
Molly stood in silence as she regarded the cabin. ‘It’s getting late,’ she muttered, ‘and Tim is due any minute.’
Joe looked at his watch, frustrated by his mother’s refusal to discuss anything fully and the short time left to him to pers
uade her otherwise. Tim Lennox was coming to check the cut on one of the horse’s legs, the owners were expecting him to call after his visit and there was a mountain of paperwork to get through before the big race at the end of the month.
He watched as Molly opened the cabin door and surveyed the interior. The gossips were already having a field day, and as Friday approached it was reaching fever pitch. It was an impossible situation, worsened by his mother’s obstinacy.
He was suddenly struck with an idea. ‘You know, Ma,’ he said carefully, ‘you’re letting Gwen Cole get the better of you.’
She whirled to face him. ‘How exactly?’
‘By refusing to accommodate her daughter, you’ll prove to Gwen you still harbour the hurt she inflicted on you. And I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?’
Molly held his gaze as she digested this. After a prolonged silence she gave a sigh that seemed to release all the fight in her. ‘No, it isn’t,’ she admitted. She eyed the cabin and dug her hands into her apron pockets. ‘I suppose it’s far enough away,’ she said grudgingly.
‘So Miss Pearson can stay?’
Molly nodded with obvious reluctance and without another word headed back to the house.
*
‘I thought it was supposed to be sunny and dry in Australia,’ grumbled Dolly, as they sought shelter beneath the Melbourne hotel’s dripping awning.
Lulu stared miserably at the gloomy skies and the rivulets of water rushing along the gutters. It had been raining since they’d landed three days ago – not the introduction to Australia for Dolly that she’d hoped for. ‘It’s still only October and the start of spring,’ she reasoned, ‘but I’m disappointed you haven’t seen Melbourne at its best. When Clarice brought me here before we caught the ship to England, it was summer, and absolutely glorious with blossom.’
They stood waiting for the taxi, their newly purchased umbrellas unfurled ready for the mad dash into the rain-soaked street. ‘At least we managed to do some shopping,’ said Dolly. ‘Those lovely department stores in Bourke Street were utter bliss – and so many of them too. Quite like New York, and most unexpected.’
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