The Artist’s Secret

by Sonya Heaney

  Peter didn’t care about the papers, but he noticed the sampler was not amongst the junk. The man was washing his hands of his daughter, as he’d washed them of everyone else.

  The animal snorted and stamped, and Towner shifted his attention to the track leading south as he stepped away to take the reins. Peter’s heart jumped as the situation took on a new urgency.

  ‘You’re really off now?’

  ‘As I said, I got somewhere to be.’

  Peter took hold of the reins, stopping him.

  ‘Just a moment. Tell me, do you—’ he broke off and tried to gather his thoughts. There were a million questions he’d still have liked to ask, even knowing he’d not get satisfactory answers.

  This was probably the only chance he’d ever have. He knew that partly because of instinct—Towner seemed on the verge of disappearing into those blue-grey mountains and never returning—and partly because this old man was fading. It was as though each time he saw him he’d withered a little more.

  ‘What are the chances that any of my mother’s family are still alive?’

  He could not bring himself to say your daughter’s people, not to this man who so clearly wished for all of his past to disappear. Peter would be going back for the sampler that afternoon.

  ‘Still livin’?’ He tapped his chin slowly, thoughtfully, as though he’d forgotten his urge to be gone. ‘Might be one or two who made it through that smallpox outbreak. Anybody who could moved on right after that.’

  He’d not express his anger at the other man’s casual tone, Peter promised himself. He’d not show his anger that the lives of so many were so easily dismissed. It would achieve nothing, raise the man’s hackles, and he’d leave without the information he wanted—needed.

  A dreadful pause ensued, where Peter convinced himself he’d overstepped, that he’d never receive a response, but then the man shrugged. And spoke.

  ‘Ngambri people. Always’ coverin’ a big area, they are, but they’ve been movin’ northeast for a while now. You heard of Lake George? Big stretch of water on the way to Goulburn? Weereewaa, they call it.’ The man’s pronunciation sounded perfect to Peter’s ears.

  Towner inspected his battered old hat and then pressed it firmly onto his head, low enough that Peter could hardly see his eyes anymore.

  ‘If you’re determined, that’s where I’d go for answers. They built a mission somewhere between there and Bungendore an age ago. As for me? I’ve enough of this place. Thinkin’ of headin’ south. Got an old friend livin’ down along the Murray River, near Albury. Reckon me luck’s not so bad that I’ll get two floods in a year.’

  ‘I found this.’ Peter removed the daguerreotype from his pocket and held it out reluctantly.

  His grandfather, The Duffer, the so-called Irish Convict, the man who’d hidden in the bush to escape punishment for his life of crime, peered apathetically at the old image of his daughter. How a person became so removed from all that was theirs, Peter would never know. Working in the country, tramping through the bush day after day, he’d come to understand a man’s attachment to the land. It seeped into a person before he was even aware of it.

  ‘She was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ Towner sounded almost surprised.

  ‘She was.’

  ‘Good thing, then, that she got herself out of here and off somewhere she’d be better appreciated.’

  ‘Do you know where the picture was taken?’ he asked, trying to hide his urgency. His grandfather was already beginning to drift; his mind was off somewhere far beyond the town.

  ‘Lake George, as I remember it. Could be wrong, on the other hand, but that’s me best guess. Wish Elizabeth luck. She’s gonna need it, marrying one of me grandsons.’ Towner relieved him of the reins.

  There was no shake of the hands, nor were there any heartfelt words, not that Peter had expected them. The old man set off without a backwards glance, all the things that mattered to him in the world in that gig, leaving the daguerreotype in Peter’s hand. The scrub and the trees quickly swallowed him up.

  Peter’s feet squelched as he set back off the way he’d come.

  Surely it wasn’t too much to ask for a little more fanfare the moment one of his only relatives drove out of his life.

  ***

  Elizabeth’s boots were muddy. Not even the summer sun could dry out the land fast enough to make her walk out to her favourite paddock enjoyable. Thankfully her special perch under the scraggly old gum tree had survived the storm intact, and the countryside was fast returning to its usual life. The mud would dry soon, but not soon enough to save her clothes. She was once again in her old burnt umber dress, and was glad of it, because her hemline hadn’t survived the journey across the estate unscathed, either.

  As the morning became afternoon she found that, for the first time in a long time, on her own and going over some very private memories, she felt inspired. The work poured out of her, and instead of wanting to punish nature for the ordeals it had put them through, she wanted to capture it.

  She wiped a bead of perspiration from her temple with the back of her wrist, and then set her sketchbook aside for a while. After a solid couple of hours of work, it was time to simply appreciate the view.

  The Slade School welcomes women …

  It may well include women now, as her mother said, but no woman painting in the centre of London could capture what Elizabeth could where she sat there and then. Those women would learn from the greats, and it was an enviable situation, but she knew now it wasn’t for her.

  The first of her letters sat opened beside her. Mr Evanson in Goulburn had several clients up north in New South Wales, in places along the coast, people who were interested in depictions of stockmen in the dry centre of the colony.

  ‘Dry!’ Right then that was laughable. She shielded her eyes against the sun sparkling on the surface of a puddle and listened to the cicadas sing.

  Women several oceans away would have opportunities Elizabeth would only ever dream of. They wouldn’t ever know though, that even after a flood, grass could be so tough it poked a woman through her stockings, or that the smell of eucalyptus so soon after a storm could envelop a person completely, changing their perspective of the entire countryside. They’d have to travel far to see birds in such brilliant shades of green and blue.

  Her thoughts brought her back to the pendant, which she hadn’t worn since retrieving it from near the stables. It sat beside her now. The big sapphire, freshly cleaned, caught her eye.

  Since she’d last been out to the far paddock the old buildings across the fence had disappeared even further behind the encroaching nature. A person would need a machete to cut their way through now. Or perhaps a cannon. There was no need to check them this time to know they’d not been lived in since the last time. And now she knew for certain that Mr Towner, Peter’s grandfather, was very much alive.

  Resting a hand on her sketchbook—she’d done a decent job of capturing the last of the rain clouds as they swirled over the highest, furthest peaks of the Brindabellas—she put her feet on a freshly fallen branch, one she’d splintered her hands trying unsuccessfully to shift, and watched the pointed ears of a kangaroo off by the creek.

  She knew Endmoor was getting on fine without her, just as it had for a couple of years, since Alice took over as its mistress, learning one new thing after another at a dizzying pace. Elizabeth had been feeling redundant for a good long while, but now there was no depression in it, nor the bitterness she’d had to fend off in private moments.

  It was time for her to move along with her life and think of the future. She had her suspicions about what that future might be, but there was a certain Ngambri man she needed to talk to—alone—before she’d allow her daydreams to take her in that direction.

  She was not surprised when Peter walked over the rise some ten minutes later. They both knew there were things that must be said. She was more surprised by the timing; she still had a letter to read and hadn’t yet found the courage to
do so.

  He stopped when he saw her, and even though he was still too far away for her to make out his features, she knew that he smiled. Elizabeth stood, arranged her skirts, and as he approached she tried very hard to not look as thrilled to see him as she felt.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said after studying her long enough, eyes roaming over her features, she nearly squirmed. There was almost a question in his tone, she realised, and felt comforted by the knowledge he wasn’t quite as steady, as confident, as he first appeared. That made two of them.

  She stepped closer.

  ‘Is it afternoon already? I suspected but wasn’t sure.’

  ‘I’ve no real idea, but it took so long to walk all this way to reach you it must be close to midnight by now. Why come so far out? You could just as easily have hidden somewhere nearer to the house and saved me some time in finding you. My poor legs are aching with the exertion.’

  She gave his chest a little poke. ‘Good Lord, you can exaggerate. I like it out here.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful view,’ he told her, eyes still on her face.

  ‘Oh, nicely done. If that was your attempt at flattery, I’ll have you know it was awfully saccharine.’

  He winced, and gave the nearest bleating sheep a funny look.

  ‘I apologise. It was dreadful, wasn’t it?’

  She touched his jaw. ‘You’re forgiven.’

  With a flash of a grin he gave their surroundings a better inspection, taking in the creek and the animals and the particular view of the mountains that she loved the best before settling his attention on her little collection of things she’d brought with her.

  He nodded at the sketchbook. ‘Capturing the countryside in a state of disarray?’

  ‘I had to, before the world righted itself and I forgot the details.’

  He glanced down and then bent to move the branch at her feet as though it was nothing more than a twig. Elizabeth didn’t think he managed even a single splinter. If her heart hadn’t been too full of him then his casual strength would have been infuriating.

  ‘I might again remind you the mountains can be drawn from one of a thousand places closer to the house.’

  She grimaced and pointed. ‘Letters came for me, and I wanted privacy to read them.’

  ‘Ah. You want me to go.’

  ‘No!’ She tugged at his arm until she had them both sitting on the log. It was quite the squeeze—Peter’s poor legs required rather a lot of space—but she’d not complain about the closeness.

  ‘My mother wrote, though her advice is no longer needed. I’ll not be returning to England. Not now. Not after—’ She hadn’t the words to say aloud what they’d done together the day before. It was still too new, too special. And still a little bit embarrassing.

  He remained quiet, listening as he leaned down and took a gumnut between two fingers. It was a comforting sort of quiet.

  ‘The other letter …’ She trailed off and picked it up, turning it over, and then over again, reading the Sydney address yet another time, and then finally found the courage to open it.

  Miss Farrer,

  Now, thanks to your success, I know where to find you, I thought you might like this.

  V. Abraham

  Victoria Abraham. Elizabeth’s heart sank.

  There was a photograph inside, and she studied it a long time as realisation set in, and then handed it over with a grin. Suddenly, and wholly unexpectedly, her whole world was lighter. Evidently, poor letter writing skills ran in the Sumner family blood. Elizabeth decided it was a good thing she was sitting, and wedged so tightly against the man beside her, because the relief would surely have knocked her to the ground otherwise.

  As correspondence went it wasn’t much, but it was enough—more than enough.

  ‘Edward?’ Peter asked after a long pause to inspect the youthful face looking back at him.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled and reached across to touch a fingernail gently to the face of the man in the image just once, just for a second.

  Peter turned the photograph over to read the writing on the back.

  ‘Edward Sumner and Mrs Abraham.’

  ‘His aunt,’ she explained, pointing to the barely legible end of the description. She then accepted the picture back, tucking it away and not minding one bit when Peter’s hand came to rest on her leg. She’d confront the renewed pang of sadness later, on a day where her heart wasn’t quite so overwhelmed by so much else.

  Victoria Abraham wasn’t a rival after all; she was an elderly aunt. A married elderly aunt. That people made mistakes wasn’t a new revelation. What she hadn’t known until then was that newspapers were capable of putting the wrong name in a betrothal announcement.

  A final puzzle piece slid neatly into place. The disaster in the Sudan had caused chaos, and illness, and loss. She supposed that at the time people were too busy succumbing to typhoid to properly address their correspondence and condolences.

  Edward hadn’t betrayed her. She laughed, as everything finally, finally came still, clarity removing a haze she’d lived with for so long. Peter appeared confused and entertained in equal parts.

  Her empty stomach rumbled loudly and Peter looked at her, amusement written all over him.

  ‘I didn’t want to hate him. Edward, I mean. All this time, I didn’t want to hate him.’

  It occurred to her that she’d never explained the whole sorry drama to Peter, but that wasn’t for today either.

  ‘I should go to Sydney one day soon. I need to know where his memorial is. I owe him an apology.’

  ‘I suppose all of this will make sense to me eventually.’

  ‘It will.’

  She caught his glance at the pendant.

  ‘Edward bought it for me. I shall return it, perhaps to his parents.’ People she had never met. ‘It isn’t right for me to hold onto it, considering …’ Considering she now had another gentleman in her life.

  Peter tucked the gumnut into a pocket and tensed as his tone changed.

  ‘Elizabeth, don’t.’

  She looked at his hand, darker than hers, except where her fingers were once again stained with her charcoal. And then she looked up into his eyes, his expression shadowed a little, silhouetted by the sunshine.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t return it. It’s your necklace. And it was purchased for you, not for anybody else. Keep it.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  She considered it a moment longer before pressing closer to him, this man who was the opposite of Edward in so many ways, and who was generous enough to allow her room in her life for both of them.

  ‘I know that Edward will always be a memory for you, but—I’m sorry—you can’t escape me now, God help you. You’ve worn me down, or perhaps I’ve done that to you.’

  His fingers linked through hers, and he used the stronger connection to tug her closer still. Those creatures bouncing around inside her belly began to jump and dance faster.

  ‘Elizabeth … I didn’t hike all the way out here just to ruin my legs. I’ve been sent here to make my formal proposal of marriage. I was going to ask you anyway, you have to know that.’

  ‘You’ve what? Sent by whom?’ She was suddenly too suspicious to be nervous.

  ‘Your brother, of course. And yes, I can see your face turning pink, and don’t for a moment try and tell me it’s because of the sun. I wasn’t told to propose, specifically, but your brother’s meaning was plain enough.’

  Elizabeth was sure she was closer to crimson than pink then, but Peter was kind enough not to mention it. If Robert was sending this man off across the station to make his intentions clear, then he had to know that … Lord, she didn’t—couldn’t—think about it or she’d never be able to look at her brother again.

  ‘Oh my goodness, what does he know about—’

  ‘If he knows anything, it’s all just guesses. Don’t worry about that. It was awfully convenient of you to fall in th
e Murrumbidgee yesterday. Apparently it made the seduction that followed mandatory, and now you’ve gone and forced my hand. How clever you are.’ He paused. ‘You really do have to believe I was going to offer marriage regardless.’

  She nodded. She did know that.

  ‘I know being married to me will be a hardship.’

  ‘Peter—’

  ‘No, I’m not being maudlin. I’m thinking of your reputation. You told me that spinsters are more entertaining than wives. If we marry you’re going to have to work hard to rise above the tedium.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Do you think you could manage it?’

  ‘Oh, I think so.’

  Peter pressed his foot against hers and kept it there.

  ‘Should I make a grand declaration of love? I rehearsed a few possibilities on my way over.’

  ‘Good God, no. I’d die of embarrassment, and then feel obliged to make one in return.’

  ‘And have you?’ he asked, voice lowering. ‘Have you rehearsed any of your own, Elizabeth?’

  She felt hot and flustered and oh-so-excited all at once. It was too much for a person to experience at once. ‘Of course I have, you dolt. You’re the one who was fighting this from the outset.’

  He released her hand to clasp her to him then, and she was happy to be caught.

  ‘Well, then. That’s good to know. Do you plan to sketch much longer? I can wait while you finish.’

  ‘Peter Rowe, if you think that I’ll be able to draw a single line after what you just said, you’re mad.’

  He beamed, and then he kissed her, and she kissed him back.

  ‘Shall we return and share our news? It’s a little muddy, as I see you’ve already discovered, but I could carry you over the worst of it.’

  She baulked at the suggestion and jumped to her feet, backing away a step when he followed because he looked serious about it. When he continued looking serious she raised one hand in defence.

  ‘And have you slip and drop me in it? No, thank you. I’ve good boots on.’

  He took a look at them.

  ‘I suppose I won’t see you in clown shoes again. I think I should probably be offended by your lack of faith in my manly skills.’