by Margaret Way
Stefan and Robyn’s daughter Kimberley, Isabelle’s new found cousin, had been thrilled to be asked to be one of the two bridesmaids, the other Isabelle’s best friend at the Royal College. Bruno had taken care of all Marianne’s expenses, flying her in. Cassie had acted as matron of honour. Bruno’s great friend from university days had been his best man. Kurt had acted as a groomsman. Several of Bruno’s team happily took over the role of ushers. Bruno’s wedding was a great excitement for all of them. They all thoroughly approved of his beautiful bride.
Marta Lubrinski couldn’t be kept entirely out of it. No way! She had set her heart on arranging the reception at the Lubrinski mansion, so both Isabelle and Bruno gave way on the condition that she run all her splendid ideas past Isabelle. In no time at all, Marta had found she was able to love Bruno’s most beautiful and talented bride. Isabelle had even asked her opinion of the wedding dress, to be made by a top designer house. The most exquisite, delicate white lace over taffeta. A strapless gown with a sweetheart neckline and a wide taffeta cummerbund to show off Isabelle’s tiny waist. Marta had pronounced it perfect for a young bride.
The evening before the wedding, Bruno had presented his bride with his wedding gift. It was a time of high emotion for them both. His gift took Isabelle’s breath away. An emerald and diamond pendant necklace and earrings to match her lovely engagement ring. Even Isabelle, who had never focused on her looks, thought she looked radiant on her wedding day. It was a day that would forever be remembered by all who had had the good fortune to attend. Weddings were known to work magic. Bruno and Isabelle McKendrick’s wedding was judged more magical than most. It was such an uplifting feeling to see two people so much in love.
* * *
It was a cloudy day with intermittent grey drifts of rain, more like drizzle to anyone born and bred in Australia. They had hired a 4WD in Edinburgh, and now they were in Sir Walter Scott Country. They had taken in his favourite view overlooking the River Tweed valley. Lord and Lady Wyndham’s country seat, which stood by the Tweed, would be their final destination.
“Does it ever stop raining?” Bruno asked, his eyes narrowing against the rain spatter on the windscreen.
“The short answer to that, dearest husband, is no. That’s why it’s so lovely and green. I think I can spot a patch of blue,” she said hopefully. “With any luck, the sun will come out. I always feel better when the sun is shining like at home.”
They had left the upland hills behind now they were driving through a spectacular all-shades-of-green valley.
“Nervous?” Bruno asked. His own nerves were churning. If things didn’t appear welcoming, they would leave. He wasn’t going to have Bella upset.
“Of course,” she breathed. “Though they mightn’t even be there.”
“Most probably are,” Bruno said. “Like a lot of the grand country homes, they’ve had to open up parts of the house and gardens to cover the huge maintenance costs. They probably run various events as well.”
“What am I going to say?” Isabelle asked rather desperately.
Bruno reached out to place his hand over hers. “I don’t think you’ll have to say anything. Your face will do the talking.”
“We believe I’m Lady Helena’s daughter stolen in infancy?”
“We do. If we’re blessed with a meeting, we let Helena take the lead.”
“Of course.”
“What will she do when she hears my story?” Isabelle asked with a quiver in her voice.
“Up to her, my darling. She’s either going to believe the accidental swap was made by the hospital or take it further.”
“That would shake a lot of people up,” Isabelle said. “Most of all Hilary, though she will stick to her story to the death.”
“Or go to jail. We still don’t know why neither Helena nor Piers ever contacted her family.”
“I expect if we’re lucky we’ll find out. They must have had a good reason. Maybe Abigail?”
“Most probably. Whatever happens, you and I are going to have a wonderful life together, Bella mia. I’m going to do everything in my power to make that possible.”
She turned her head to smile. “I love you, Bruno McKendrick.”
“I love you too, Isabella McKendrick,” Bruno said. It was a declaration that came from the bottom of his heart.
* * *
They passed through the huge gates of the estate, with their enormous pillars, a lodgelike building to the right, coming on the house through a long tunnel of trees with wonderful open woodlands, oaks, ash, sycamores, with slopes of spring flowers to either side. One huge area was carpeted in blue bells. Another, yellow daffodils.
“May in the British Isles! It’s an enchanting sight.” The beauty around her was calming Isabelle’s nerves. She couldn’t help comparing Eaglehawk’s home compound with the entry to Wyndham Manor. The one set down in the remote desert heart of the continent, the other a magnificent green woodland sown with flowers. They could see as they approached the eighteenth-century house walls of glorious blood-red rhododendrons in full flower half-tucking out of sight the various outbuildings with signs posted outside.
“We’re here now,” Bruno said in a perfectly calm and composed voice. He didn’t park near the outbuildings, as Isabelle had expected. He ran the 4WD right into the great courtyard that fronted the four-story house with a city of chimneys atop, its portico held up by six huge columns.
“Ready, my love?” Bruno asked, unclipping his seat belt.
“I’m ready for anything with you by my side.” Isabelle met his dark eyes, her pride and trust in him apparent.
A young girl was watching them from the top of the stairs. She was wearing riding gear. The sun had come out, lighting up the clouds of Isabelle’s titian hair. Almost hesitantly, the girl, in her early teens, came down the stone steps. Her hair shone a glossy red, woven into a thick pigtail that hung down her back.
The girl shaded her eyes. “Do you have an invitation?” she asked politely, clearly surprised to see them.
Bruno answered in his usual charming manner. “I’m Bruno McKendrick. This is my wife, Isabella. We were hoping to see Lady Wyndham.”
“We’ve come a long way,” said Isabelle. “From Australia. But I was born in England.”
“Australia?” The girl’s lips trembled.
“Who is it, darling?” A tall, slender woman, also in riding dress, moved from the entrance hall out into the portico.
The girl’s eyes darted back to her mother, who came down the steps, a look of intense concentration fixed on Isabelle. It was obvious the closer she came, the more deeply she was affected.
In a dreamlike state, Isabelle moved off towards the beautiful woman who now appeared on the verge of collapse. She caught the woman in her arms, saying over and over, “Helena. Helena, Helena. It’s you! I think I got stolen from you in the hospital where you gave birth to me. Another baby was switched into my place.”
The young girl turned her eyes on Bruno. “Who is Isabelle?” she cried. “Why does she look so much like my mother?”
Bruno didn’t hesitate. “We are hoping she’s your long-lost sister,” he said.
“Really?” The girl’s voice rose in astonishment. She was greatly struck by the fact that her mother and the young woman from Australia were hugging each other as though they would never let go. She gave Bruno’s words due consideration. She knew her mother was from Australia. She also knew her mom had had a baby before she was born and her mother’s heart had been broken when the baby died. Maybe she didn’t die . . . “I can live with that,” she said finally, giving Bruno the sweetest smile.
Her mother turned, the beautiful young woman who looked so much like her mother and she too for that matter, turned towards her as well. They waved, clearly inviting her into the circle of their arms.
Bruno watched the young girl run to join them.
No explanations appeared necessary. This was his idea of the power of blood. Of recognition. A knowing that needed
no words. It had taken over twenty years, but they had found Helena. He knew his beloved father, Ross, could rest in peace. He would eventually go back and investigate his father’s death. He believed Abigail had been behind it.
Lady Wyndham called to him, her beautiful face aglow. She was clearly in a state of euphoria, as was his adored wife. “Bruno, Bruno, please join us. We’re going into the house. You must stay with us.” The words came out with absolute joy.
And afterwards, Bruno thought, they would talk, and uncover the mystery that had surrounded Helena’s departure from Australia. But he pretty much knew the answers—fear for her life, and she had left with the love of her life.
She who had been lost was now found.
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POINCIANA ROAD
by
Margaret Way!
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Mallory knew the route to Forrester Base Hospital as well as she knew the lines on the palms of her hands. She had never had the dubious pleasure of having her palm read, but she had often wondered whether palmistry was no more than superstition, or if there was something to it. Her life line showed a catastrophic break, and one had actually occurred. If she read beyond the break, she was set to receive a card from the Queen when she turned one hundred. As it was, she was twenty-eight. There was plenty of time to get her life in order and find some happiness. Currently her life was largely devoted to work. She allowed herself precious little free time. It was a deliberate strategy. Keep on the move. Don’t sit pondering over what was lodged in the soul.
The driver of the little Mazda ahead was starting to annoy her. He was showing excessive respect for the speed limit, flashing his brake lights at every bend in the road. She figured it was time to pass, and was surprised when the driver gave her a loud honk for no discernible reason. She held up her hand, waved. A nice little gesture of camaraderie and goodwill.
She was almost there, thank the Lord. The farther she had travelled from the state capital, Brisbane, the more the drag on her emotions. That pesky old drag would never go away. It was a side effect of the baggage she carted around and couldn’t unload. It wasn’t that she didn’t visualize a brave new world. It was just that so far it hadn’t happened. Life was neither kind nor reasonable. She knew that better than most. She also knew one had to fight the good fight even when the chances of getting knocked down on a regular basis were high.
It had been six years and more since she had been back to her hometown. She wouldn’t be returning now, she acknowledged with a stab of guilt, except for the unexpected heart attack of her uncle Robert. Her uncle, a cultured, courtly man, had reared her from age seven. No one else had been offering. Certainly not her absentee father, or her maternal grandparents, who spent their days cruising the world on the Queen Mary 2. True, they did call in to see her whenever they set foot on dry land, bearing loads of expensive gifts. But sadly, they were unable to introduce a child into their busy lives. She was the main beneficiary of their will. They had assured her of that; a little something by way of compensation. She was, after all, their only grandchild. It was just at seven, she hadn’t fit into their lifestyle. Decades later she still didn’t.
Was it any wonder she loved her uncle Robert? He was her superhero. Handsome, charming, well off. A bachelor by choice. Her dead mother, Claudia, had captured his heart long ago when they were young and deeply in love. Her mother had gone to her grave with her uncle’s heart still pocketed away. It was an extraordinary thing and in many ways a calamity, because Uncle Robert had never considered snatching his life back. He was a lost cause in the marriage stakes. As was she, for that matter.
To fund what appeared on the surface to be a glamorous lifestyle, Robert James had quit law to become a very popular author of novels of crime and intrigue. The drawing card for his legions of fans was his comedic detective, Peter Zero, never as famous as the legendary Hercule Poirot, but much loved by the readership.
Pulp fiction, her father, Nigel James, Professor of English and Cultural Studies at Melbourne University, called it. Her father had always stomped on his older brother’s talent. “Fodder for the ignorant masses to be read on the train.” Her father never minced words, the crueller the better. To put a name to it, her father was an all-out bastard.
It was Uncle Robert who had spelled love and a safe haven to her. He had taken her to live with him at Moonglade, his tropical hideaway in far North Queensland. In the infamous “blackbirding” days, when South Sea islanders had been kidnapped to work the Queensland cane fields, Moonglade had been a thriving sugar plantation. The house had been built by one Captain George Rankin, who had at least fed his workers bananas, mangoes, and the like and paid them a token sum to work in a sizzling hot sun like the slaves they were.
Uncle Robert had not bought the property as a working plantation. Moonglade was his secure retreat from the world. He could not have chosen a more idyllic spot, with two listed World Heritage areas on his doorstep: the magnificent Daintree Rainforest, the oldest living rainforest on the planet, and the glorious Great Barrier Reef, the world’s largest reef system.
His heart attack had come right out of the blue. Her uncle had always kept himself fit. He went for long walks along the white sandy beach, the sound of seagulls in his ears. He swam daily in a brilliantly blue sea, smooth as glass. To no avail. The truth was, no one knew what might happen next. The only certainty in life was death. Life was a circus; fate the ringmaster. Her uncle’s illness demanded her presence. It was her turn to demonstrate her love.
Up ahead was another challenge. A procession of undertakers? A line of vehicles was crawling along as though they had all day to get to their destination. Where the heck was that? There were no shops or supermarkets nearby, only the unending rich red ochre fields lying fallow in vivid contrast with the striking green of the eternal cane. Planted in sugarcane, the North was an area of vibrant colour and great natural beauty. It occurred to her the procession might be heading to the cemetery via the South Pole.
Some five minutes later she arrived at the entrance to the hospital grounds. There was nothing to worry about, she kept telling herself. She had been assured of that by none other than Blaine Forrester, who had rung her with the news. She had known Blaine since her childhood. Her uncle thought the world of him. Fair to say Blaine was the son he never had. She knew she came first with her uncle, but his affection for Blaine, five years her senior, had always ruffled her feathers. She was more than Blaine, she had frequently reminded herself. He was the only son of good friends and neighbours. She was blood.
Blaine’s assurances, his review of the whole situation, hadn’t prevented her from feeling anxious. In the end Uncle Robert was all the family she had. Without him she would be alone.
Entirely alone.
The main gates were open, the entry made splendid by a pair of poincianas in sumptuous scarlet bloom. The branches of the great shade trees had been dragged down into their perfect umbrella shape by the sheer weight of the annual blossoming. For as far back as she could remember, the whole town of Forrester had waited for the summer flowering, as another town might wait for an annual folk festival. The royal poinciana, a native of Madagascar, had to be the most glorious ornamental tree grown in all subtropical and tropical parts of the world.
“Pure magic!” she said aloud.
It was her spontaneous response to the breathtaking display. Nothing could beat nature for visual therapy. As she watched, the breeze gusted clouds of spent blossom to the ground, forming a deep crimson carpet.
She parked, as waves of uncomplicated delight rolled over her. She loved this place. North of Capricorn was another world, an artist’s dream. There had always been an artist’s colony here. Some of the country’s finest artists had lived and painted here, turning out their glorious land- and seascapes, scenes of island life. Uncle Robert had a fine body of their work at the house, including a beautiful painting of th
e district’s famous Poinciana Road that led directly to Moonglade Estate. From childhood, poincianas had great significance for her. Psychic balm to a child’s wounded heart and spirit, she supposed.
Vivid memories clung to this part of the world. The Good. The Bad. The Ugly. Memories were like ghosts that appeared in the night and didn’t disappear at sunrise as they should. She knew the distance between memory and what really happened could be vast. Lesser memories were susceptible to reconstruction over the years. It was the worst memories one remembered best. The worst became deeply embedded.
Her memories were perfectly clear. They set her on edge the rare times she allowed them to flare up. Over the years she had developed many strategies to maintain her equilibrium. Self-control was her striking success. It was a marvellous disguise. One she wore well.
A light, inoffensive beep of a car horn this time brought her out of her reverie. She glanced in the rear-vision mirror, lifting an apologetic hand to the woman driver in the car behind her. She moved off to the parking bays on either side of the main entrance. Her eyes as a matter of course took in the variety of tropical shrubs, frangipani, spectacular Hawaiian hibiscus, and the heavenly perfumed oleanders that had been planted the entire length of the perimeter and in front of the bays. Like the poincianas, their hectic blooming was unaffected by the powerful heat. Indeed the heat only served to produce more ravishing displays. The mingled scents permeated the heated air like incense, catching at the nose and throat.
Tropical blooming had hung over her childhood; hung over her heart. High summer: hibiscus, heartbreak. She kept all that buried. A glance at the dash told her it was two o’clock. She had made good time. Her choice of clothing, her usual classic gear, would have been just right in the city. Not here. For the tropics she should have been wearing simple clothes, loose, light cotton. She was plainly overdressed. No matter. Her dress sense, her acknowledged stylishness, was a form of protection. To her mind it was like drawing a velvet glove over shattered glass.
