by Ella Carey
Edward stood by the car a moment. “Come and meet Vicky and Mother.” He sounded fine, but his eyes darted to the two women who watched.
Rebecca swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. As if on automatic pilot, she placed her hand in Edward’s and climbed out of the car.
She stood up straight, held on to her hat, and made her way up the wide slate staircase to the veranda. As she and Edward approached, a thin smile appeared on Edward’s mother’s face. Her daughter nodded, but Rebecca saw in an instant that the girl’s blue eyes were narrowed into slits. And yet, did she detect a little amusement on Vicky’s face?
“Mother, Vicky, this is Rebecca Swift,” Edward said, his voice sounding well-modulated, perfectly cultured. A little different from her Edward.
Rebecca winced at the sound of her surname. It sounded cheap, too, in the midst of all this quiet assurance. She held out her bare hand, then cursed herself for not wearing gloves for travelling. But it was hot, and she hadn’t thought about such things.
Celia rested her own soft hand in Rebecca’s for a moment. “Delighted to meet you, my dear,” she murmured.
Edward’s younger sister’s eyes were definitely dancing.
Rebecca sat down, each movement that she made seeming heightened, somehow. Edward poured lemonade. Rebecca, thirsty after the long drive, avoided grabbing the cool, delicious drink and gulping it down in one go. She hoped that the fact that her hands were shaking was not obvious to anyone except herself . . .
“Did you get lost, Ed?” Vicky asked, turning her attention to Edward and widening those blue eyes into two round orbs. It struck Rebecca how innocent the girl—who had to be around twenty-two or so—looked, but how filled with insouciance and almost sarcasm her voice was. “We were expecting you for lunch.”
Rebecca put the glass down, the sugary drink having restored her strength a little. She placed her hands in her lap and laced her fingers together.
“We came up the old road. Wound our way through the paddocks. I wanted to show Rebecca that route,” Edward said.
“How tedious. Everything looks the same out here. They’re only trees, for goodness’ sakes.” Vicky turned her attention to the garden, as if there were something fascinating going on in the fountain. “But Edward sees things that I swear no one else bothers to look at.”
Edward chuckled next to Rebecca. He handed her a plate of sweet cookies while his gaze still lingered on his mother and sister. Rebecca would never admit she was starving. She took a piece of shortbread and raised it to her lips, but suddenly, the thought of swallowing it was impossible. She placed the delicate cookie back on her plate.
Edward’s mother observed this debacle and Rebecca felt her cheeks flush.
“You see, Rebecca, Vicky and I spent much of her childhood travelling on the continent,” Celia said. “Australia is dull for her at times, no matter how attractive our landscape is.”
“I imagine it would be,” Rebecca said. “Dull. After the excitement of Europe.”
It was as if she were playing a game of tennis in which she was not sure how to hit the ball. This was Edward’s sister and his mother, she reminded herself. His kin. There had to be some thread, some connection she could forge. The two women seemed relaxed. They didn’t appear to be worried by her.
Rebecca forced herself to take a deep breath. “You are so very fortunate to have travelled on the Continent,” she said.
Celia inclined her head. “Indeed. I know. Have you been to Europe, Rebecca?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t, no.”
“Haslemere does have its own beauty,” Celia said. “And Vicky, there is something in the landscape out here. It helps if you have grown up with it.” The older woman smiled at nothing in particular.
Vicky gazed into the distance again.
“Edward tells us you are an artist,” Celia went on. She sounded a little warmer now, but Rebecca sensed that the older woman was probably trying to be polite. It was an act, she suspected. How could Celia Russell be pleased that her son had brought home a girl who was clearly not the right sort of person? Rebecca had seen enough of the women who frequented the shop in Collins Street to know that she must seem strange and overly sensitive to them.
“I draw in charcoal and brush and ink, yes,” she said. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to describe myself as an artist.”
“But you are studying art,” Celia said.
“Yes, at the Gallery School. It’s not . . . well. It’s not quite what I had hoped it to be,” she murmured. “But I do appreciate the opportunity to be there.”
“I once took some art lessons,” Celia said.
“You were good at drawing, Mother.” Vicky’s voice rang in the still air.
Rebecca caught Edward’s eye. He winked at her.
“I would have liked to continue,” Celia went on. “But I haven’t had the time.”
“Perhaps you could draw with Rebecca,” Edward said.
“I think my opportunities are lost now.”
“What will you do with your art course, Rebecca?” Vicky said.
Rebecca smiled at the younger woman. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t thought.”
“One step at a time,” Edward murmured.
Rebecca reached for her lemonade. The journey had been long, and she felt grubby next to Edward’s pristine sister and mother.
Edward picked up on her mood. “Would you like someone to show you to your room, Rebecca? Perhaps a little while later, I could show you the garden. I want you to feel at home here.”
Vicky sat up taller in her wicker seat.
Edward rang a small bell on the table. The sound of footsteps tapped along the wooden veranda. It was a bucolic setting, Rebecca thought, dreamy and perfect for lazy afternoons in breezy outfits. A maid appeared, a young woman of around eighteen.
“Clare, would you show Rebecca to her room, please?” Edward said.
The girl nodded.
Rebecca stood up. “Thank you,” she said. “It was lovely to meet you.”
Celia smiled. “It was, my dear.”
“It was fun to meet you, too, Rebecca,” Vicky said.
But it seemed impossible to know what to think, or what Edward’s mother and sister honestly thought of her. Rebecca followed the maid along the cool veranda and through a screen door into the interior of the house. They went through a conservatory, resplendent with vast potted palms and more wicker seats, into a long gallery, bordered on one side with leadlight windows.
The maid walked in silence past several closed doors before entering a room that overlooked a sort of wild garden. Rebecca’s eyes roamed to the window. Outside, a cedar tree threw shadows over dark, untamed plantings. But the room was decorated in light colors—perhaps to make up for the rich, verdant garden outside—with light green-and-white striped wallpaper, a pale green carpet, a chair, and a four-poster bed. A painting of two children hung above the fireplace. When Rebecca looked at them, it was as if their eyes followed her.
Rebecca turned to the maid, who appeared to hover.
“There is a guest bathroom next door,” the maid said. “Is there anything I can do for you, Ma’am?”
“I really don’t need you to look after me.” Rebecca took in the girl’s pale eyes. What would it be like, being stuck out here working for Celia Russell?
“Mrs. Russell insists that we look after each and every one of her guests,” the girl said.
Rebecca smiled gently at the maid. “But you see, I am not Mrs. Russell’s guest,” she said. “I am Edward’s.”
The girl looked down at the carpet. “There is a guest bathroom for your use next door. You are welcome to have a bath. Please, make yourself at home here.”
Rebecca dropped her voice. “Thank you.” She was slightly taken aback by the girl’s acquiescence. Her good manners.
The maid nodded and went back to whatever task she was meant to be doing now. Rebecca closed her bedroom door and leaned her back against t
he white-painted wood. Then spotted something. She went over to the small desk below the window, where, like a salvation, her drawing things were laid out.
After an hour of blissful sketching, she went into the bathroom next door and soaked in the warm tub. When she was back in her room and dressed, the maid appeared. “Excuse me, miss, but Master Edward is waiting for you in the library.”
As Rebecca followed the maid along the gallery, she was able to take in the beauty of this old mansion with more of a sense of calm than she had felt earlier. When the girl led her into a vast room decorated with William Morris–covered sofas, where bookshelves lined the room from floor to ceiling, Rebecca gazed around and smiled. Heide’s smaller library came to mind, filled with Australian novels and books on art. Rebecca had to wonder who took the time to read the wonderful collection in front of her.
She hoped it wasn’t only Edward.
Edward stood by the mantelpiece, looking like the lord of the manor. Seeing him there was a little unsettling. He had changed into a pair of white moleskin trousers, and his light blue shirt brought out the color of his eyes.
“I’m seeing you differently here,” she had to say. “You look like the perfect country gentleman dressed like that.”
And suddenly she had to ask herself, which was the real Edward? The man who had seemed so at home with the modernists in Melbourne, or this one, who seemed equally comfortable out here on this grand old station? Did he know which he truly was himself?
“I know all this is overwhelming at first,” he said, his voice soft and close. “But it’s really just . . . home,” he said. “I’d like to show you around.”
“I’d love that. And it’s beautiful here.” She sensed that he needed reassurance.
He moved toward the paneled door that led directly to the driveway. She followed him into the late-afternoon light. English trees threw shadows on the drive. Edward made his way around the house to the back garden, moving across the lawn, then waiting for her to go first through an arch in the thick hedge. This led to a myriad of gravel pathways overhung with rose arbors and old frames lush with exotic species that Edward explained his grandmother had brought back from Spain. It was as if she and Edward were wandering in some ancient, long-held sanctuary, a testament to the creativity of generations past.
It was different, of course, from what Rebecca understood of Sunday’s relationship with the land and her garden at Heide—or was it the same? Did the fact that whoever planted this wonderland did not have the same ideals as Sunday matter? If they had both wanted to make something beautiful, was it relevant where they stood on the political divide?
Rebecca found herself questioning again as she wandered by Edward’s side. It was so hard not to become entranced by this, by this wealth, by the beauty that went with it. And yet . . . she held the same ideals as the Reeds and hoped that Edward did too.
“I love to garden,” Edward said suddenly, his words coming out urgent, as if, perhaps, he were making an explanation for everything out here. Explaining that he contributed to this. That he was not some lazy bystander, the entitled younger son. “Of course it’s not what I’m supposed to do.”
Rebecca looked up at him.
He stopped at the peacock aviary.
Rebecca’s eyes drank in the birds’ jewel tones, her gaze shifting while the peacocks moved, their feathers luminous as they passed from the shade to the sunlight.
“I have ideas but my parents don’t approve,” Edward said. “I think we should allow other farmers to grow crops on our land. In fact, I think we should convert the paddocks to a collective, sharing profits with other local sheep graziers, who would, in turn, contribute stock. As for the garden, I would make that more productive, more sustainable, to supply food for us and even for our neighbors. We have so much land to take care of. As it is, Haslemere is losing money. Badly. That needs to change. Before it’s too late.”
Edward walked as if with a new purpose, his arm around her. Rebecca felt a smile dance on her lips as she walked next to him, following him through the glass conservatory, its vivid orchids hailing from the Far East. When they came back out into the garden, he led her to a green wooden door set into a high brick wall. Edward took her hand and led her through to the stable courtyard with a clock tower. At least forty horse stalls overlooked the ghostlike space. But only a cat lazed now, alone in the center of the silent square. Once the courtyard would have rung with the shouts of hundreds of men. It was impossible not to feel their echoes lingering in the empty space.
Edward moved over to lean on a fence at the far end that overlooked the paddocks as the sun dipped and pinkness cast itself over the land. Curlews and magpies called to their mates.
“What a beautiful place to grow up,” Rebecca murmured, staring at the still beauty of the paddocks under the vast Australian sky.
“It was,” Edward said, his words drifting between them. “Vicky and I spent hours in the garden, dreaming up games when we were young. Robert was gone to boarding school by the time I was five. We did have a strict nanny, but we were blessed with a kind governess, and we had plenty of time out here to ourselves. And then . . .” His words trailed off. “Then. We were separated, so young, and everything changed.”
“Sunday talks of rules for people of your class,” Rebecca murmured. “I’m beginning to see what she means.”
“That’s it,” Edward said. “That’s exactly it.”
“Do you have a choice now, Edward?” she asked.
That was the question that hung between them—the choice between his family’s way of life or a new way of living. A sheep bleated somewhere out in the green expanse.
“I think I do.”
Rebecca’s gaze darted around the serene stillness in front of them, while her thoughts tumbled along of their own accord. “But Sunday and John have had to lose everything that they knew in order to create that new life. Would you really want to do that?”
Edward turned to her then, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”
And he drew her close.
She felt her heartbeat race when his lips touched her forehead.
“I love Haslemere,” he said, murmuring into her hair. “My connection with the land out here is not measurable in any terms. But at the same time, I can see what it is to have freedom from it all. Sunday and John may look like people from their class, but they feel differently. Their way of life is bold and experimental, revolutionary, in a quiet sort of way. But it’s a leap, and it’s a leap I just . . .” His voice trailed off.
Rebecca reached up and placed her fingers over his lips. He leaned down and kissed her. Until the sound of footsteps on the courtyard cobblestones clipped into the evening air. Edward pulled away with a start.
“Edward!”
Vicky stood in the middle of the stable courtyard, her arms folded. “Mother wants you back in for drinks at eight,” she said. “Father has arrived home, along with Robert.”
Something cold sliced through Rebecca’s system.
“We won’t be long, Vicky.” Edward’s tone was calm.
“You’ll get in trouble, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Don’t let her get to you,” Edward murmured, as his younger sister marched back to the house. Her figure looked slight now, her blond hair hanging in loose waves, as if it had been curled for some event or other to which she was not going to go.
“I understand where she is coming from. She seems astute though, Edward. I think she sees beneath the surface of things too,” Rebecca said. “Perhaps it’s a good thing that I’ve met your family out here, away from the city.”
Edward threw an arm over her shoulder. “Yes, although things can seem heightened out here without the distractions of Melbourne.”
Rebecca leaned into his shoulder as they wandered back through the courtyard to the house.
Edward held the heavy front door of the house open for her, standing aside.
“The dinner
ritual starts at eight. I’m afraid they are sticklers for time,” he whispered. “It’s seen to be rude to arrive even a few moments late. You’ll hear the butler ringing the gong; just come to the library then.”
He held her hand a moment, lingering, before turning and moving to the left, to another wing of the old, echoing house. Rebecca stood for a moment in the long gallery, wondering about the ghosts of past generations—the ancestors who had worked so hard to build Haslemere up. What would they think of the modernists and Edward’s attraction to their new way of life? Rather than moving toward her bedroom, Rebecca turned, suddenly wanting to spend even a few precious minutes alone out in the fresh air before meeting the rest of Edward’s family for dinner.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
New York, 1987
The next morning, seedy from lack of sleep, Tess crossed Fifth Avenue and entered her building. The smell of coffee permeated the reception area. Several of her colleagues stood around, chatting about the ball. While caffeine was gorgeously tempting, Tess needed her own space. She’d determinedly pushed thoughts of the evening out of her head ever since leaving the Plaza. Instead, she’d forced herself to focus on Edward. Once in her office, Tess picked up the phone. This was it. She was going to confront him with her plans. There was no point putting it off for another moment.
Leon stood at her door.
“Morning, Tess,” he said, his voice perfectly bright, eyes bright, tie just so.
Darn the tie.
“Morning, Leon.” Tess smiled her brightest smile right back.
“I’m calling a meeting about next week. Could you come over now? Does that work for you? Apologies for the short notice.”
Tess placed her phone receiver back in the cradle. “As a matter of fact, that’s just fine,” she said, almost falling out of her chair with real relief that she could put off her phone call to Edward for another hour.
