The Artist’s Secret

by Sonya Heaney

‘Excuse me?’ she called when nobody came stampeding out to yell at her for intruding. ‘Mr Rowe?’

  The cicadas grew louder.

  Wondering where on earth her well-installed manners had gone, and with arms starting to ache under the weight of an enormous pile of paper and binding, she stepped up into the building’s cooler interior. She might have gone a little mad with her selection from the library. Mr Rowe would be reading his way into the next decade.

  Nobody stopped her on the first step in, nor on the second, and before she knew it she stood in the middle of the cottage.

  Looking around, chin resting on the cover of the top book, she found an empty space on the table. Setting everything down with a thud loud enough to have her looking over her shoulder in alarm, she took a slow turn about the place, flexing her fingers and shaking out the strain.

  They’d not much bothered with changing the place’s interior in the years since the main homestead had been completed and the Farrers had moved out. A fortnight earlier she, Mrs Adamson and Alice had done their best to make the space slightly less musty, and had moved a few items of furniture across from the main house to replace two battered old pieces that had been there since her childhood. The wallpaper was a deep but slowly fading red, a raised lozenge pattern print that she’d traced her fingers along a thousand times when she was a girl.

  If they’d had more warning that Robert was bringing another man to work on the station, they might have done more. ‘I wasn’t sure anyone would want to move out here from the city’ had been his excuse when they’d devoted a whole afternoon to admonishing him about the surprise.

  It was too small a place for a man to be hiding anywhere, unless he’d crawled under the bed. Elizabeth was definitely alone.

  ‘What were you expecting to find?’ she asked herself, and then cringed because her voice sounded far too loud, bouncing around the unoccupied space. Many a criminal wasn’t very bright, but she doubted even the worst of them left giant, obvious clues out on the table, or pinned to the wall.

  Maybe there was a much simpler answer to the man’s odd behaviour that night. He might have had trouble sleeping in a new place, in such a new situation. Maybe the birds bothered him. Or the bats. Had she not also been wandering around in the middle of the night? Or maybe he was one of those men who walked in their sleep. She’d heard of such people, and also heard there was no rational explanation for it.

  Mr Rowe wasn’t a criminal. She realised she’d known that before she’d even invited herself into his house.

  ‘You fool,’ she muttered, and then looked this way and that in search of something she might scribble a note on to let him know why a library’s worth of books had appeared on his table while he was out.

  She came to a stop in front of the sole painting on the wall and made herself give it a frank assessment. Taken out of storage in the main house, it was one of hers, depicting two horsemen in the valley. She’d based it loosely on her brother and his business partner, with one rider’s hair dark under his hat, and the other one a contrasting gold. With their faces concealed and their attention on the herd of sheep in the distance, it was certainly not a masterpiece.

  Elizabeth shut her eyes for a moment and then forced herself to look at the picture closer still, assessing it as an expert might, wondering if anyone in Bloomsbury would see it and laugh her out of the academy.

  Groaning quietly—and groaning far more loudly inside her head—she wondered if she could steal it from the wall and sneak it into the house without anyone seeing. Perhaps Mr Rowe hadn’t even noticed it was there. He’d been very busy since beginning his new position. Perhaps he hated art, and perhaps he would rather it hadn’t been there when he arrived.

  Perhaps—

  The crunch of a footstep behind her was such a surprise she spun too fast and stumbled over her own skirts, smacking a thigh into the table.

  A touch, slight and fast, but firm on her waist saved her, and then she was righting herself and looking up into Mr Rowe’s dark eyes as half of the books dropped to the floor, one heavy thud at a time.

  ‘Oh my goodness.’

  So much for a spot of stealthy snooping.

  One of the books settled badly, wide open, spine bent horribly, but neither of them moved as Mr Rowe assessed the situation. Elizabeth’s pulse raged at her, and she was sure she trembled in delayed surprise. It all made it hard to appear innocent.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ The man was more amused than offended, which was a blessed relief. When he ascertained she wasn’t about to crash into anything else, he took a step back, placing a polite distance between them.

  ‘Mr Rowe. I was …’ There was probably a wonderful and convincing lie she could tell him then. What a pity she couldn’t think of it.

  Because there was nothing else to do but stand there and try her best to appear innocent, Elizabeth ignored the heat rising all over her, and also the excessive pounding of her heart, and tried to summon a smile that felt tight and comical as it stretched across her face.

  ‘I’ve been looking at fences,’ he told her, saving her from having to think any harder. ‘I’m not entirely sure I’ve come away from the situation an expert, but it certainly explained some of the entries in the books. So much needs to be ordered. So much to be restored.’

  Elizabeth grasped at the mundane offering with a pair of imaginary, desperate hands.

  ‘Fences are the bane of a landowner’s existence. They’re always coming down, always needing to be maintained. And occasionally there’s a thief with an eye to stealing an animal or two, and they cut their way in to do it.’

  She should not, she remembered too late, mention thievery, considering her present situation.

  ‘I’m not here to rob you.’ It was a pertinent point to introduce to the conversation.

  He tilted his head as he looked down at her, and even though his face gave nothing away, she knew with absolute certainty that he was laughing.

  ‘That’s very good to know. The idea never even struck me.’

  She nodded, accepting it even if he didn’t mean it. She pointed, first at the table and then the haphazard pile on the floor.

  ‘I thought you might like some books. My plan, however, hadn’t been to come over here and throw them at you.’

  He seemed amenable to the idea but continued to study her silently.

  ‘You should probably lock your door,’ she added feebly, and then crouched to retrieve the book with the bent spine first.

  He joined her down there and reached for the tome nearest to his feet, pausing briefly to examine it—should she have chosen something more original than Edwin Drood she wondered—and then reaching for another.

  ‘Thank you. For thinking to do this, I mean.’

  Their hands nearly touched as they reached for the same book at the same time. Mr Rowe’s apology was a low murmur, and he reached for another and—too late—Elizabeth noticed the colour of the cover.

  Oh Lord. How inattentive had she been when making that stack of books?

  Task finished, they both climbed back up to their feet while she tried to decide if there was a way to snatch a book out of his hands without seeming impolite. There wasn’t, of course. Which meant she could only hope he added it to the stack without paying the thing any attention. Surely he’d not pay much attention to one small, maroon …

  Mr Rowe turned it over and read the title. His eyebrows rose, and Elizabeth wondered how she could have been so careless and stupid.

  ‘I didn’t mean to bring that one.’

  His lips curved upwards a fraction.

  ‘It’s not mine. Really, it isn’t.’

  ‘Lady Audley’s Secret? And here you were trying to entertain me with Dickens.’

  It would be nice if Elizabeth had any idea what the book contained to put that knowing smile on the man’s face, but Alice had been merrily tight-lipped about it. If she was going to earn a reputation as a connoisseur of scandalous stories she should be allowed to read them
first.

  He allowed himself another second to be entertained, reading the title another time for good measure, and then took pity on her, passing the offending item across.

  ‘Thank you, again, for thinking of me. You may have this one back.’

  ***

  ‘I’ve not read it,’ Miss Farrer seemed compelled to tell him, which was a lie Peter was reluctant to let go. ‘I haven’t so much as opened the cover.’

  Returning from the land to the surprise of her standing in the middle of his sitting room had quickly given way to amusement. She didn’t like him feeling that way about her; he hadn’t known her very long, but it was obvious in the almost-concealed frustration in her hazel eyes each time he saw them. He knew that and resolved to try harder to conceal his own thoughts in the future.

  ‘Whose book is it if not yours?’

  In such a small community he’d have expected the reading selection to be fairly limited. He expected a healthy collection of dull, dry guides on housekeeping, and wheat and sheep. There was likely an overabundance of Bibles.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, too fast to be believed.

  Bigamy, abandonment, murder, arson—Lady Audley ran the gamut of outrageous topics. He wondered if Miss Farrer even knew what bigamy was. If she didn’t yet, she’d know by the time she reached the book’s end.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with reading something other than Mrs Beeton’s instructional guide every now and then,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m twenty-six years old. Well and truly of an age to read something a little controversial without fainting from it.’

  ‘Controversial, is it? How do you know what sort of a book it is?’

  ‘I don’t. However, it’s easy enough to figure it out when everyone reacts like you just did whenever it is mentioned. How about you? How do you know what type of book it is?’

  ‘I just know. It’s common knowledge.’ It was the best answer he could come up with spontaneously, and he was well aware it was woeful. And the triumph on her face told him she knew it.

  Needing a distraction, he scoured their surroundings. There was sturdy furniture, and a bowl of fruit on the table. They were hardly topics for riveting conversation.

  Struggling, and aware she’d bested him, his eyes came to rest on the painting on the far wall.

  ‘Is it an image of Endmoor?’ He risked a glance back at those hazel eyes as he asked, and so did not miss the face she pulled. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was hoping you’d not notice the painting—or not comment, at least. It’s not very good. I’m sorry we hadn’t the time to furnish the place better before you arrived.’

  Actually, he’d been thinking the piece was a sight better than anything he’d left behind on the walls of the Sydney terrace. It appeared there was a creative way to depict a man on a horse.

  He examined the thing again, perplexed, and then met—and held—her eyes and again there was awareness between them.

  The slow roll of a wagon’s wheels passed by. Miss Farrer hugged the book to her chest with the title facing towards her, and began edging away.

  ‘Um … Do you need anything else? I mean … you can always come by the house if you do.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Peter murmured.

  She stepped back further.

  ‘All right then. I’ll leave you to settle in. I ought to go and … do something … I’m sure I’m needed at the house by now. Mrs Adamson will be wanting to discuss tonight’s menu.’

  Peter smiled a little and let her flimsy excuse hold.

  Don’t follow her to the door.

  She walked past him, primly and properly, cheeks a little flushed.

  He followed her as she stepped out onto the path.

  Don’t watch her go.

  Somewhere nearby a magpie warbled and then called across the clearing.

  It took Miss Farrer until she was halfway down the path before her shoulders relaxed and her gait became more natural.

  Somewhere, off in the distance, another magpie replied.

  Step back inside the house, you fool.

  Robert Farrer was waiting for her out on the veranda. The siblings spoke briefly, and then the sister headed into the homestead. Farrer saw Peter and raised a hand; Peter waved back and then finally stepped inside and firmly closed the door.

  Chapter 5

  Peter expected the stares as he walked along Monaro Street in town a few days later with Robert Farrer at his side. Several decades of practice meant he did a decent job of pretending ignorance.

  The one saving grace of cities was that often enough there were too many people with too many things to do for anybody to stop and give a stranger a moment of their time. They were communities that bred a sense of self-preservation. Peter almost believed he could catch on fire in the middle of a pavement back home and people would politely ignore his predicament and continue on their way.

  A small town was a disconcertingly different matter. It wasn’t possible to go unnoticed.

  ‘It’s a struggle …’ Farrer was saying as they passed a series of shops that ran the length of the road between the park and the river. Up above a few people wandered out onto the balcony of one of the terraces and rested their hands on the laced iron railing to watch the street in what, Peter thought, was a convenient display of timing. He pretended not to notice.

  ‘Europe wants our wool and our opals, but they’re not sure they want us providing them with wine. Why buy Australian wine when there’s perfectly good booze coming out of France? The Germans are rather attached to their riesling and not all that thrilled to share their success, but we’ll get there.’

  He laughed quietly.

  ‘John’s a lot more charming than me. That’s why he gallivants around Europe convincing everyone that New South Wales is the only place a man would want to buy from, while we stay languishing in the country, doing the dirty work.’

  A young woman passing in the opposite direction shifted her attention their way, eyes holding Peter’s for just long enough to convey a message. Unfortunately he didn’t understand, nor did he want to interpret what it was.

  He switched his attention to the man beside him. ‘I wouldn’t say bookkeeping is all that dirty.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but there are a lot of people on Endmoor who would think so. My sister included.’

  Peter took a sudden interest in a shopfront across the street. Conversations about Miss Farrer were best kept to an absolute minimum, especially when her brother was the other person involved.

  It was easier, Robert had explained the day before, to come in and get all the business done in town rather than wait for mail and news to trickle out to them at Endmoor.

  ‘And it’s also good for your sanity,’ he’d added with a flash of teeth. ‘Things can get a little too lonely out in the bush.’

  Peter wasn’t sure what was good for his sanity right then.

  They reached the top of the street and came to a stop. Farrer called a few words in greeting to a Mr Addison who passed on a horse, and then adjusted his hat.

  ‘All right. I’m headed to the church. Alice likes to maintain reasonable standing with the Salvation Army ladies, and I’ve been tasked with spending a few minutes of my day charming them on her behalf. Marriage,’ he added with a sigh, and then waved to someone else near the churchyard’s little gate.

  Peter declined the offer of an ale at The Dog and Stile once the charming was completed and the ladies satisfied, and headed towards the post office on his own, trying out a few politely distant greetings for various locals. He was a stranger, and that was enough to earn anybody’s curiosity so far out in the middle of nowhere. He supposed a newcomer was always worth a second look.

  There was correspondence waiting for him, just as he’d hoped, as well as a parcel for Miss Farrer that was reluctantly handed over into his keeping. Peter read and reread the return address on his own correspondence and realised he’d been away from home just long enough to begin missing it. He�
��d missed Daisy, and the pang at seeing his name written in her familiar, loopy hand was unexpectedly strong.

  Not wanting an audience while he read his letters, he left the office and wandered through the gate and onwards, past the churchyard, concealing a grin at the sight of his employer surrounded by a gaggle of enthusiastic women. Popularity wasn’t always a good thing.

  The park was expansive and already well established—a surprise, considering the size of the town. Someone had put in a lot of effort and worked a few miracles to keep the place so green. It was, Peter couldn’t help but notice, a very European sort of garden, with imported trees shedding the last of their spring blossoms and drooping lilac perfuming the air, alongside a whole lot of flowers he hadn’t a clue of the name of. That dreaded fluff from the kapok trees still drifted around in the air. He sneezed.

  Spring. It was a little different in Barracks Flat.

  He wandered over to the artificial pond halfway into the grounds and sneezed again as he took a seat on a bench. Before he’d even unfolded the first letter he found he was smiling.

  He read them both, and then read them again in case he’d missed something, and then stood and set off towards the mill-lined river to find The Dog and Stile. He could well do with that ale after all.

  ***

  ‘What is he like?’ Elizabeth’s oldest and closest friend asked that afternoon.

  It was a question she should have expected. Elizabeth blew a stream of seeds off a plucked dandelion and buried her first instinct, which was to tell the other woman about her distracting attraction to Endmoor’s new accountant. Not only was that truth something she wasn’t ready to admit to herself, but it was something she suspected might end up getting her hurt.

  They sat by the river, not far from the Wright house, but hidden in an alcove of wattle bushes and weeping willows. It afforded them enough privacy that they could hear the occasional horse on the road, but the riders would never see them. The old rope bridge was up ahead, and beyond it the barracks, the town’s namesake, stood abandoned and crumbling.

  ‘He’s tall,’ Elizabeth said instead. ‘And he has dark hair—darker even than yours. Dark eyes. He’s obviously well-educated.’