Reaching the crest of the headland, she stood in the shelter of the forest boundary and looked beyond the lighthouse to the Bass Strait. The water mirrored the grey, angry sky and, as it rushed into the natural gully that divided the headland, it exploded through the blowhole. Lulu sat on the pine needles, her back against a sturdy tree, and drank in the vista before her, contented in her solitary worship.
Time lost meaning as she sat there, but she gradually became aware that the skies had darkened, and now rain threatened. She looked at her watch, and realised in horror that she’d been gone for over two hours. Dolly would be frantic. Leaping to her feet, she turned her back on the view, and began the steep descent through the deserted forest and back to the beach.
Dolly was pacing up and down the track, clearly furious. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she shouted. ‘I lost sight of you and … and …’ She burst into tears and threw her arms around Lulu, clinging to her like a limpet. ‘I thought you’d had an accident or something, and there was no one about – absolutely no one.’
‘I’m so sorry. I lost track of the time.’ Lulu dug a handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it over. ‘I’ve been selfish,’ she murmured, ‘and you’re freezing. Let’s go into town and find a nice cup of tea.’
Dolly blew her nose. ‘Next time you decide to take off, I’m coming with you,’ she declared. She climbed into the ute and slammed the door so hard it rocked the chassis.
Lulu bit her lip, fully aware of how badly she’d scared her best friend. She fetched the crank handle and had just slotted it into the shaft when a movement at the far end of the beach caught her eye.
She peered through the gathering gloom and frowned as a man emerged from the forest and stood by the rocks. She had not been alone on the bluff after all.
*
Major Hopkins had stayed for supper, and they had exhausted every avenue in the quest to solve the mystery of Mr Carmichael and the person who’d forged his name. It was clear that whoever sent the initial instructions to the London solicitors had a different agenda to the forger. It was also clear that the gift had been an enticement to get Lorelei back to Tasmania. But why?
The major had proved to be an astute, deep-thinking man, but neither of them could come up with any answers, and Clarice had finally sent him back to London on the last train. They would keep each other informed if anything came to light, but she doubted it would, and she had spent the rest of the night fretting, sleep eluding her as she tossed and turned and tried to make sense of it all.
Clarice lay in the darkness staring at the ceiling, her thoughts drawn repeatedly to the same unpleasant but compelling conclusion. She punched the pillows and turned on to her side, refusing to let that insidious thought take hold. It was impossible, ridiculous – the rambling of a distressed and weary old woman. And yet, if by some extraordinary chance it was true, she had no possible way of intervening and bringing this twisted charade to an end – and that frightened her.
Dawn was not far away when Clarice gave up on sleep and dragged herself out of bed. She was utterly exhausted, and although she’d always prided herself on being sprightly for her age, she felt every one of her seventy years. Shoving her feet into slippers and pulling the dressing gown tightly around her, she slowly went downstairs to the kitchen. A cup of tea would soothe her, and hopefully chase away the night’s demons.
‘Hello, old girl,’ she murmured fondly to the Labrador curled up in the basket. ‘I’m glad to see someone’s having a good rest.’
She filled the kettle and placed it on the hotplate. Hunting out a cup and two saucers, she put them on the table and rattled the biscuit tin. She and Bess liked a biscuit with their tea, and this had become an early morning ritual.
Keeping her mind firmly off her worries, she made the tea and poured some into a saucer. Adding milk, she placed it on the floor. ‘Bess? You can’t still be asleep. Come on, old thing, tea’s up.’
She frowned as she realised there was none of the usual scuffling and snuffling, or the stretching of old limbs. ‘Bess?’
Her heart began to thud and her mouth dried as she knelt and placed a trembling hand on the soft head. ‘Bess, wake up, darling. I’ve made our tea.’
But the faithful old dog could no longer hear her.
Clarice sank to the floor and rested her cheek on the still, silent body of the companion she’d brought home as a puppy sixteen years ago. It was as if her world was falling apart, tumbling and whirling out of control as one by one the solid structures she had always depended upon were taken away.
The tears came with a great sob that encompassed all the sorrows she harboured. Then they tore through her, the well of despair finally breached.
Tasmania, January 1895
Clarice had fretted over the weeks it took to put her affairs in order. She had sold the house and most of the furniture, as well as Algernon’s vast library of books; everything else was packed ready to be shipped to Tasmania. She didn’t know what to expect when she arrived there, but concluded it would politic to rent a small house close to Eunice rather than move in with her and Gwen. The atmosphere was bound to be fraught initially, and putting some distance between them might ease it. She arranged through an agent in Sydney to find a suitable property within walking distance of Eunice’s home.
Clarice finally booked a passage on the SS Norkoowa. She’d always prided herself on being a good sailor, but the Bass Straits had defeated her, and she arrived on the northern shores of Tasmania in a state of near collapse. Feeling decidedly unsteady, she’d been found a chair by one of the men, who placed it in the shade so she could orchestrate the loading of her crates on to a dray.
The men were almost finished when she saw her sister arrive in a carriage. Leaving instructions where to deliver the crates, she rose from the chair and nervously watched her approach. But as Eunice drew nearer, the nerves were replaced with concern, for she was far too thin, her complexion waxy and her steps halting. Gone was the pretty woman with dark hair and dancing eyes, and in her place was a frail greying matron who walked with the aid of a stick.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Eunice said stiffly. There was no kiss of welcome, and her dark eyes took in Clarice’s neat skirt, mutton-sleeve blouse and jaunty straw hat with apparent indifference. ‘You seem to have weathered the passing years better than I,’ she murmured.
‘I would have come sooner if you had replied to my letters,’ she said gently. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ She gave a wry smile as she glanced at the walking stick. ‘I suppose it is.’ She regarded Clarice and gave a sigh. ‘I was sorry to hear about Algernon, and started to write to you many times, but I found I just didn’t have the heart for it.’
‘So what has happened to make you change your mind?’
‘I will tell you when we get home. Come, the carriage is waiting, and as he charges for every half hour, we are wasting money.’
It took a while to settle Eunice comfortably against the many cushions, and Clarice’s concern grew. But Eunice made it clear she didn’t want to discuss anything until they arrived at her house, and maintained a brooding silence.
Clarice sat beside her in the carriage and looked around with interest. It was just over forty years since the last convict had been transported to this island that had once been called Van Diemen’s Land. The notoriety of those convict days had been well documented, and the privations and terrible punishments inflicted on those men at Port Arthur had been the moving force behind the abolition of transportation. Yet here in the north there was little sign of the island’s iniquitous history, for all seemed tranquil and verdant in the summer sun.
They were travelling through a tunnel of vast pine trees on a narrow track that ran parallel to the river. As they emerged into the sunlight and followed the long bend, they were greeted by the sparkle of water and a sandy beach which was sheltered at one end by a headland of dark rocks and more pine trees.
Th
e carriage rattled along almost to the end of the beach before the track took them inland. The horse turned off shortly after and came to a halt in front of a tiny wooden cottage. It had once been painted white, but the elements had made it shabby, and the single chimney and corrugated iron roof had been frequently repaired. Set back from the main track, it was surrounded by paddocks and outbuildings and overshadowed by trees. Chickens pecked in the grass, horses and sheep grazed nearby, and there was a goat tethered to a post near the front door. Clarice was dumbfounded.
‘It might not look much,’ said Eunice defensively, ‘but it’s cheap to run and convenient.’ She paid the driver and opened the front door.
Clarice was still wrestling with this conundrum as she followed her sister into the gloom of a narrow hall that had two doors leading off it and into an even darker kitchen that spanned the width of the house at the back. She stood in silence as Eunice set about making a pot of tea. This room was obviously used as a cooking and living space, for it was cluttered with furniture. The back door was heavily screened and looked out on wooden outbuildings whose purpose she could only guess at. It was a far cry from the beautiful house in Coogee Bay, and Clarice couldn’t begin to understand why her sister was living in such poverty.
‘I’ve had another bed put in my room, so I hope you don’t mind sharing?’
‘I wish you hadn’t gone to so much trouble,’ murmured Clarice, as she sat on one of the uncomfortable kitchen chairs and pulled off her gloves. ‘I’ve rented a small house nearby. The agent assures me it’s within walking distance, so I can visit every day if you wish.’
Eunice placed the cups and saucers on the table next to the teapot and sat down. ‘That was thoughtful of you,’ she replied, her expression unreadable. ‘There isn’t really enough room for all of us here, and I know you’re used to having more space.’
‘My dear,’ Clarice began, ‘why do you choose to live like this when—’
‘I have my reasons,’ she said flatly. ‘Please don’t pry.’
‘But there’s no need …’
‘If you’re going to question me, then you’d better leave.’
Stung by her sister’s tone, Clarice fell silent. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ she said when the silence became unbearable.
‘Of course. But it was a waste of time.’ Eunice sipped her tea. ‘He can’t do much,’ she said with weary acceptance. ‘It seems I have some sort of creeping paralysis that has no cure.’ There was no self-pity in her gaze as she faced Clarice. ‘I have good days and bad, but at least I’m not bedridden – yet.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ she sighed, finally understanding why Eunice had asked her to come. ‘I wish you’d told me sooner, then perhaps I could have sent out a Sydney doctor to look at you.’
‘Why waste money when there’s no point?’
‘There must be specialists in England. Why don’t I book passage? We could reopen the family home in Sussex, and—’
‘No,’ Eunice said sharply.
‘Why ever not?’
Eunice held her gaze for a length of silence and then sighed. ‘There are a lot of reasons, Clarice. Suffice to say I have responsibilities here that I cannot abandon.’
Clarice frowned and was about to question her further when a cheerful voice came from the hallway.
‘Cooee, only me.’ A woman came into the kitchen, bringing the scent of the outdoors with her. Her clothes were neat, but her hair was coming loose from its pins in dark drifts about her cheerful, pretty face. She had a fair-haired baby of about a year old on her hip, who stared solemnly at Eunice before shyly burying her face in the woman’s shoulder.
‘This is Primrose,’ said Eunice, her face lighting up, ‘but she prefers we call her Primmy.’
‘Nice to meet you, I’m sure.’ Primmy bobbed a curtsy.
Eunice held out her arms, took the baby on to her lap and kissed the golden curls before handing her a biscuit.
‘I can’t stay, Mrs Bartholomew. My old man’s due home and he and the kids will be wanting their tea. Is there anything you need before I go?’
‘Thank you, no. I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.’
Primmy nodded and hurried down the hall, banging the front door behind her.
Clarice rose in alarm. ‘She’s in such a hurry she’s forgotten her baby.’
‘It isn’t her baby,’ said Eunice, her fingers gently stroking through the pale yellow curls. ‘Lorelei is my granddaughter.’
Clarice sat down with a bump, noted Eunice’s defiant gaze and tried hard to disguise her shock. ‘Gwen is married?’
Eunice kissed the baby’s neck, making her giggle. ‘No,’ she said.
Clarice was reeling from the thunderbolt Eunice had delivered, and she had to battle to maintain an air of calm. Logically she knew she shouldn’t be so dumbstruck, for the gossip surrounding Gwen’s behaviour had been rife – the consequences obvious if one thought about it – but she simply couldn’t digest the appalling shame Gwen had brought to her family. She regarded the child and shivered. ‘Why hasn’t she been adopted?’
‘Lorelei was born too soon, and her heart wasn’t properly formed. Gwen wanted to give her away, but I couldn’t let her go to strangers – she’s far too precious.’
‘But she’s illegitimate,’ Clarice hissed.
‘She’s a baby.’ Eunice’s level gaze never faltered. ‘The time will come when she has to face up to things – for now I just want her to have the best start in life that I can possibly give her.’
‘Is that why you moved up here from Hobart?’ Clarice’s voice was strained.
Eunice nodded. ‘Gwen seemed to enjoy flaunting her condition and stirring up trouble, but I found it intolerable and thought we might escape the worst of it if we moved here.’ She fell silent. ‘We didn’t of course,’ she said flatly. ‘The island is too small – but we had nowhere else to go.’
‘You could have come to me,’ said Clarice.
‘That would not have been wise.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Your expression gives you away, Clarice. You could never have countenanced such a thing.’ She hitched the baby up her lap. ‘There’s been enough scandal attached to my family in Sydney without adding to your discomfort, and I’m simply not strong enough to bear more shame.’
Clarice was chastened. ‘Then why didn’t you go back to England? You could have pretended Gwen was widowed – that would have explained everything.’
‘I couldn’t afford it – not then,’ she stated baldly. ‘Besides, too many people already know the truth. I had a letter only the other month from a so-called friend asking about Gwen and her baby. I tore it up.’
‘Where is Gwen? Why isn’t she looking after her child?’
Eunice handed Lorelei another biscuit. ‘She will have nothing to do with her,’ she said sadly. ‘I have done my best to encourage her to love her baby, but she simply ignores her.’ She kissed the soft cheek as the little girl laughed and smeared biscuit down her frock. There were tears in Eunice’s eyes as she looked back at Clarice. ‘I know it isn’t easy to care for a sick child, but she grows stronger every day, and I simply don’t understand how Gwen can be so uncaring.’
Clarice glanced about the room, noting the worn furniture, the scruffy paintwork and faded curtains. Doctor’s bills must be making a huge hole in Eunice’s pocket – it was the only explanation for the poor surroundings. ‘The father should share the responsibility of raising the child,’ she said. ‘Where is he – and why hasn’t he done the honourable thing by marrying Gwen?’
The narrow shoulders drooped. ‘I have no idea. Gwen refuses to discuss him.’
Clarice stiffened her spine. ‘Well, it’s not good enough. He must be found, and made to face up to his responsibilities. What’s his name?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
Gwen was standing in the doorway, and Clarice turned to face her. ‘It is when my sister is left to raise your sick child,’ she retorted. ‘You and the father should be made ac
countable.’
Gwen strolled into the room, poured a cup of tea and flopped on to the couch. She was dressed for riding, and she’d brought the scent of the stables with her into the room. ‘I never wanted it in the first place,’ she said coolly, her disinterested gaze flitting past the baby. ‘Mother decided to keep it, so it’s up to her to provide for it.’
‘She is still your child,’ said Clarice with equal coolness, ‘and you and the father have a duty to her welfare. Who is he?’
Gwen drained the cup and balanced it on the arm of the couch. ‘As I said before, Clarice, it really is none of your business.’
‘You are as rude and spiteful as ever, I see,’ snapped Clarice.
Gwen’s expression hardened. ‘And you’re still the nosy bitch who sleeps with other women’s husbands and ruins lives,’ she retorted.
She saw Eunice wince, but Clarice couldn’t be hurt by words any more and refused to rise to the bait. ‘If you’d had a shred of decency, you would have made the father marry you – or at least ensure he pays his share of the child’s upkeep. It’s obvious your mother can’t cope.’
‘Then she shouldn’t have taken it on.’ Gwen rose from the couch and dug her hands into the pockets of her riding skirt.
Clarice eyed the insolent girl who stood before her. Gwen would have been beautiful but for the scowl. ‘If you give me his name, then I will arrange to meet him discreetly and have a solicitor draw up a contract so he pays his share of Lorelei’s upkeep.’
Gwen snorted. ‘I don’t think so,’ she scoffed.
Clarice spoke sharply. ‘Is he married? Is that why he didn’t marry you?’
She smirked and strolled towards the back door. Opening it, she turned and regarded the little tableau of mother, aunt and child. ‘That is something you will never know,’ she said slyly, ‘because I will never reveal his name.’ She took a breath, clearly enjoying the drama of the moment. ‘In fact, I will take his name to my grave just to spite all of you for ruining my life.’ With that, she shoved through the screen door and let it slam behind her.
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