The Artist’s Secret

by Sonya Heaney

  The stray paddle that had been circling in the swell came up against her side of the slope, was immediately drawn back out, and then was drawn back her way again.

  Elizabeth had half a second—less—to choose the sturdiest hanging tree branch, and hoped against hope she’d more strength than she thought as she braced her bare feet on the slope and swung outwards, stretching an arm in either direction until they hurt. The lace of her boot chose that moment to snap completely, and she nearly fell with the surprise of it.

  The ends of her fingers made contact with the paddle, but then the blasted thing slipped away.

  ‘Good God.’ She stretched further, feeling that any moment something important would pop out of a socket.

  God must have been listening then because a miracle struck and she grabbed the paddle on the second try. Praying for extra strength, she angled it towards the boat until the boy clutched it in both hands.

  Little David’s knuckles whitened with the effort as his sister wrapped one arm around his waist and grabbed the side of the boat in the other.

  Somehow, and Elizabeth would never remember exactly, it worked. The connection anchored them enough that when the boat came up against the bank a second time they were able to scramble out of it, sloshing through the shallower water at the river’s edge.

  Fiona, the little girl, dragged Elizabeth into an embrace tight enough to cause a serious injury. ‘Thank you.’

  In the next instant Moira McCoy was there, face grim, hair limp, most of it now hanging down her back. She took Elizabeth’s hands in a fierce, determined grip.

  ‘My da,’ the other woman said, gasping, as she struggled out of her panic. As she spoke she simultaneously gripped her children in a hold strong enough to raise matching complaints, and twisted enough to look up at what remained of the trail to her father’s house. There was little time left for them to reach the place before the entire clearing would be immersed.

  ‘Go,’ Elizabeth said and, with a final whisper of gratitude, Moira shoved the children in front of her, son and daughter alternating between tears and hysterical, excited conversation as they disappeared into the trees.

  They’d done it. Relieved, she took a step back, rocked sideways on her ankle, and—tutting—knelt in the muck. Her dress was as good as ruined anyway. Her troublesome boot was tossed aside, and after less than a moment’s thought—and because it seemed she ought to have some dignity and symmetry—she quickly discarded its partner.

  Freed, she looped the laces around her hand and stood, the boots thumping against the side of her leg.

  Mud and twigs and sodden grass felt disgusting beneath her toes, but it was hardly the most pressing concern right then. The trip back to the wagon would be an ordeal but she’d not ask Peter to carry her; the man was so honourable he’d probably do it, and likely expire from the effort in the process.

  Only then did Elizabeth become aware of the stranger up ahead, making steady progress along the higher, drier, part of the track. He led a pony and gig slowly towards them as if the drama he had to have seen was nothing more than a humdrum pantomime.

  She hadn’t the chance to make out his features before, at a snap of a splintering tree, she swivelled. The now-empty boat tangled with the fast-moving debris was pulled along by the river’s increasing speed, and then vanished beneath the straining branches of a crooked tree some twenty yards downstream.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  Startled by the nearness of the voice, Elizabeth swung her gaze around to the strange man with the gig, narrowing her eyes until she realised he wasn’t quite so strange after all. Mr Towner had neither died nor disappeared from the valley as she’d suspected, and had chosen to grace them with his presence several minutes too late to be of use.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she echoed, nonplussed. What an inappropriate sentiment it was to apply to the day. Something revolting squished between her toes where she stood.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ She whirled at Peter’s shout, and with her attention captured, he raised a hand in a gesture that was clearly meant to be an order.

  He probably thought she was in danger, but she didn’t think she was. Not from a crotchety old fellow who’d never made the effort to pose a danger before.

  Smiling her reassurance, she took a couple of steps towards him, about to explain that there was no danger in having Mr Towner about—well, not much, anyway—and there was no warning of the trouble she was in, no sign whatsoever.

  It was then the ground under her shifted, a whole chunk of the land collapsing, and taking her with it.

  Chapter 19

  Peter was some ten yards from Elizabeth when the inevitable happened and her footing was lost to the power of the flood.

  ‘Christ.’

  He broke into a run, but it was far too late. By the time he reached the spot she’d been standing on she was long gone into the water. His hand, extended to grab at any part of her before the bank gave way completely, grasped only air. And then he was clinging to the branch of a weeping willow, digging his heels into the mud in order to stop himself tumbling in after her.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ he called uselessly, and stumbled back another step when more of the land beneath him shifted. He was a decent swimmer, but if they both got trapped in the pandemonium …

  He could only watch as, mostly submerged, she kicked and reached for an exposed tree root—for a fraction of a second it seemed like she’d latched onto it. But the water’s force threw her back against the dirt, her swirling skirts fanning out across the surface.

  And then her bare hand emerged as she flailed again, and then she was off with the current. He lost sight of her for a moment and swore viciously.

  ‘Damn,’ he said, and took off along the overgrown path, tearing through the tangle of long grasses, low bushes, and sagging, rain-laden branches, his clothes catching here and there, his bare hands and forearms scraping against wayward twigs and prickles.

  Again, she emerged, and was swept up against the compacted dirt. Again, she stretched a hand out for a grip on one of the trees. And again she was dragged back before she could manage it. Her head was still above the water, the momentum of its pull so fast that it’d not yet dragged her down.

  Peter edged alongside her, struggling to move as fast as she was when the ground sagged and slipped under each step he took.

  He caught sight of her every so often as he raced to outrun the Murrumbidgee’s speed, every effort hampered by yet another obstacle nature threw in his way. For a few heart-stopping seconds Elizabeth, her dress billowing around her, finally managed to grip a branch that drooped into the water but the current took her away again—and part of the branch with her.

  The scrub in front of Peter disappeared and at last he could run ahead to the river’s curve where she’d next appear. He hoped. He was so focused on Elizabeth that it took several seconds to realise someone else was shouting his name.

  ‘Here.’ Vernon Towner shoved a coil of rope in Peter’s face. Its other end was secured around the trunk of a solid gum tree up ahead. ‘Me aim’s not the best anymore. You’d better bloody do it on the first try.’

  The next instant Elizabeth came around the bend and he shouted her name as loudly as he could—twice. She was paddling, completely helpless to stop the river’s pull, but still with enough strength and sense to keep herself upright and to turn partway around once his second shout registered.

  Knowing he’d only have that one chance, Peter tossed the rope so it uncoiled in an arc, praying he’d judged the timing and the conditions properly.

  Elizabeth came past and he was sure he saw her take hold of it. And yet she continued to drift downstream.

  As she continued along, away from him, Peter’s mind filled with images too horrific to contemplate. He was about to jump in after her when there was sudden tension on the rope and Elizabeth jerked to a stop midstream.

  ‘Hold it!’ Peter shouted, digging his feet in and struggling for traction on the slippery ground. �
�Wrap it around your arms and don’t let go!’

  She tried to do as he ordered but was hampered by dangerously large pieces of debris coming at her—leafy branches, sharp sticks. An entire bloody log.

  ‘Help me,’ he ordered the old man, not knowing what more could be done. He couldn’t drag her in if she was only to lose her grip the moment he started pulling, but her strength wouldn’t last forever.

  Elizabeth struggled, and kicked upwards to avoid gulping down the muddy, murky water as she called to him.

  ‘Just do it!’ The wind and the constant drum of the downpour nearly carried her shouted words away. He had no choice but to trust her, and so he did.

  Peter was vaguely aware of Towner swinging himself partway down the bank, gripping at branches that’d looked like they’d break any moment.

  Nature decided to behave at last. Nothing gave way, and the other man somehow didn’t fall in, defying every assumption Peter made. The man managed to keep his grip and his balance while extending a hand to Elizabeth, hauling her a couple of feet up the slope when she was free enough of the current to find her footing.

  ‘Keep holding the rope!’ Peter shouted, and then dropped to the ground, scrambling along and downwards until he lay on his belly in the carpet of fallen needles and leaves, reaching for her as she dragged herself upwards.

  She was a foot from him when he stretched out further, finally—finally—managing to clasp his hand. The angle was awkward, and it was a struggle, but he hoisted her upwards while she dug her feet into the bank.

  And then she was up and over the rise, falling half across him as she landed on safe ground, both of them panting with the effort and the shock.

  She shivered as Peter wrapped his arms around her and squeezed too hard. He couldn’t stop himself. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and gasped a few times, staying there with her hair in disarray across his face, and his chest, until the worst of her trembling faded.

  And then she was pressing upwards, forcing him to loosen his hold on her as she sat back and tried her best to put herself to rights with unsteady hands. Peter reached across and took a clump of her skirt in his fist.

  ‘Bit of an adventure, hey?’ Vernon Towner had used the rope to manoeuvre himself back over the ledge, and now held it in both hands, giving it a good inspection.

  ‘Nice to see it’s robust. How’re you, Miss Farrer?’ He went to the tree and began undoing the knot.

  ‘I’m all right.’ She wasn’t, but nobody called her out on it.

  ‘Good to know. At least the weather’s easin’.’

  It was a spectacularly optimistic take on the situation, but it surprised Elizabeth into laughter as she gathered a section of her skirt and wrung it out.

  ‘I’m not being hysterical, if you’re worried.’ She sounded matter-of-fact and very much herself, but when Peter sat up, bringing himself closer to her, he saw the tremors still running through her hands.

  ‘Maybe I’m just a little hysterical,’ she admitted in a whisper.

  ‘It’ll be a nice day for travellin’ tomorrow. You wait and see.’ Towner coiled the rope again, watching it with the sort of affection normal people reserved for their children.

  Enough fear had left Peter and enough sense returned for him to take in the particulars of the situation that he’d not before. He eyed the gum tree by the ridge, thinking it was owed a plaque for its help.

  ‘What was the rope for?’

  Towner shrugged. ‘I was plannin’ on crossing by boat—the thing’s long gone in the flood, just like the nearest bridge—but didn’t fancy attemptin’ it without the extra security. Of course, that was before it got as bad as this. It came racin’ across the valley faster than I’ve ever seen before.’

  Peter got to his feet and leaned down to tug Elizabeth up too. Despite her best efforts to stand on her own—namely, tugging away from the grip he had on her arm and uttering something about how fine she was—those waterlogged skirts looked heavy. He found he wasn’t ready to trust her word just yet.

  There was no hope of a return to town, not the way they’d come. Though he could just make out a church spire through the mist and the rain—Barracks Flat was very close, just on the other side of the trees—the danger was too great to even attempt it.

  They’d have to take the long way around and return to Endmoor instead. It would be a long, uncomfortable journey, but by far the safest option.

  ‘Do you know whose gig that is?’ he asked her in an undertone. In their present state a walk all the way to the wagon was out of the equation.

  She shook her head, and he raised his voice to ask the same question of the other man, the one who was presently averting his eyes and looking not at all like an innocent man.

  Towner man appeared bewildered by the question.

  ‘I’ve no idea. The animal’s mine. Well, as good as mine, seein’ the way her owner neglects her. The gig … well, I think I’d better not tell you about that. I’ll be needin’ them both in the mornin’, but I’ll loan them to you overnight.’

  He studied them with too-shrewd eyes. ‘Unless Miss Farrer ’ere needs a ride the long way round into town.’

  Peter nearly answered for her, but Elizabeth straightened and proved she was stronger than he’d have given her credit for.

  ‘Thank you, but no. I think I’d like to go home. If you meant it, we’ll borrow that borrowed gig. And thank you for the use of your rope.’

  He liked that response, old Towner. Respect glinted in his eyes.

  They started towards the vehicle, Peter with a hand at the back of her saturated dress. Elizabeth had just climbed up when the rough rumble of the man’s voice reached them again. Peter heard his name and turned back.

  ‘Where’ll I find me horse in the mornin’?’

  Peter pointed to the sorry little road up ahead. ‘We’re going that way. Towards your old cottage.’

  That caught his interest. ‘Still standin’, is it?’

  ‘It is. I’ve been there a time or two.’

  ‘Hm. I haven’t bothered with the place in years. Don’t like the memories. Too many people gone from there, but they always leave the bloody memories behind.’

  The rain eased just a little bit more, and Peter considered how much of this man’s loneliness was self-imposed. He supposed he’d never know.

  ‘And now you’re going, too.’

  ‘It’s well past time for me to be off from this valley. Well past.’

  ‘Thank you for everything.’ It had to be said at least once before he left, and Peter thought the fellow seemed amenable enough to the gratitude. He’d just set off towards Elizabeth when his name was called again.

  ‘The house is yours if you like. Way it’s going, you’ll be the only one left who’d want it.’

  ***

  ‘I think I can float.’

  Thinking back, Elizabeth decided—as she rocked and shook along with the gig, shivering each time her sodden hair deposited another droplet down the neck of her equally sodden dress—she might have overestimated her talents.

  She thought Peter was worried about her, which in turn made her think she should be worried about herself. Why she was reacting to her near-death as though she hadn’t done anything more exciting than taken a stroll around Alice’s rose garden was beyond her.

  Perhaps later the surprise of it would strike her. For the time being, she was happy enough to be numb. Now, if only Peter would stop worrying so much.

  ‘I’m really fine.’

  ‘Yes, you said so.’

  It wasn’t the first time she’d told him, and it wasn’t the first time he hadn’t believed her. She needed to distract him, but was having trouble keeping her thoughts in order.

  ‘Who is old Mr Towner to you?’ she finally asked, and judging by the change in his posture it did the trick.

  ‘He’s my grandfather.’ The answer was given flatly, but Elizabeth was not fooled.

  She spun back towards him. ‘Your grandfat
her? Why have you not mentioned him before?’

  He pressed his lips together as he thought. Elizabeth watched a raindrop track a path down his cheek, catching briefly in the stubble of his tense jaw before continuing on.

  ‘I only met him in recent weeks. And I’ve hardly exchanged more words with him than we had this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh.’ How strange that she’d seen the man in question coming and going from Endmoor most of her life. What a pity Peter had never come to the tablelands sooner.

  Peter chuckled. ‘If only Daisy could see me now, building barriers and tossing ropes in rivers. I wonder if she’d congratulate me or laugh hysterically.’

  He loosened the reins when it became clear the pony would go wherever she wanted at whatever pace she chose, and Elizabeth tried to ignore the icy sensation washing over her.

  Apparently oblivious to the change in her mood, he chuckled again quietly. ‘She’d probably do both.’

  ‘Who’s Daisy?’ She had to ask. Either way, she had to know.

  ‘My sister. With the people closest to her she prefers it to her first name.’

  He looked at her and his inattention had not even the slightest effect on the pony’s direction.

  ‘My mother named her after an aunt Edith Daisy’d rather not be associated with.’

  ‘Ah.’ Elizabeth leaned her head against his arm. Considering the conditions, it was not comfortable, but she had to touch him somehow. When they went over an unexpectedly large bump, causing her forehead to connect with the pointiest part of his shoulder, she drew back.

  ‘You’d like her. She’d like you,’ he finally added, eyes on the nodding head of the animal.

  Elizabeth gave his arm a squeeze and then released him to take in the valley from this new aspect. The shakes came in earnest then, and she decided she’d been a little premature in declaring herself well.

  ‘It’s really cold today, isn’t it?’ It felt like winter, not midsummer. Shivers she hadn’t a hope of hiding from him coursed through her, and the harder she tried to stop them, the more ferociously they fought their way out.