by Margaret Way
“You know what I’m saying,” Liane answered bluntly. “You’re not that dumb.”
Genevieve gave a faint laugh. “I’m not dumb at all.”
“No, just dull.”
Genevieve didn’t respond to the jibe. “So why are you worried?” She decided to have a crack at Liane. It wasn’t as though she was in any danger of becoming Liane’s next best friend.
“Worried?” Liane sounded furiously affronted.
Genevieve pressed on regardless. “You have no need to be. I promise I won’t lose sight of why I’m here.”
It was as well Trevelyan was coming back. She’d had about enough of Liane, who would have her work cut out, constantly warning off any young woman she perceived to be a threat.
Even a dull ghostwriter who just happened to be hiding in plain sight.
CHAPTER THREE
GENEVIEVE had never seen anything like the remote splendour of Djangala. The sun blazed down on innumerable lagoons, creeks, swamps, and billabongs, the water throwing back reflections of thousands of small suns and glittery pinpoints of diamond-like light. Anyone would have been thrilled by it all. She was conscious of nature and its power as she had never been in the city. Nature was sublime—whether it worked for you or catastrophically against you.
All the waterways were bordered by verdant trees and vegetation in striking contrast to the rust-red of the plains that stretched away to the horizons. Desert oaks dotted the vast empty terrain, and acacias more abundant than gums in arid areas, with large areas of mulga woodlands that abounded with what seemed like thousands and thousands of small yellow wildflowers.
A hundred or more emu—Australia’s endemic flightless bird—disturbed by the descending aircraft, were streaking across the landscape at a rate of knots. She knew when threatened they could reach speeds of up to sixty miles per hour. It was fascinating to watch their flight. The kangaroos had to be taking their midday siesta. She could only spot ten or so, in a loosely knit group. Some were standing upright like a man, balancing on powerfully muscular hind legs and long tail, others were attending meticulously to their grooming, licking their forearms. It was an endearing sight to see the two wild animals that held the nation’s coat of arms aloft in their natural habitat.
The great Djangala herd, like that of its neighbouring station, Kuna Kura Downs, was strung out across the open plains. Large sections were being driven towards waterholes to drink.
There couldn’t have been a better way to appreciate the awe-inspiring landscape than from the air. From her wonderful vantage point she could look down on Djangala’s homestead, surrounded at a distance by numerous satellite buildings. It was a far bigger enterprise than Kuna Kura. She was struck by the thought that, had things gone to plan, two Outback dynasties might have been united in marriage.
And aren’t you glad it didn’t happen?
Safely on the ground, they were met by a Jeep manned by a laconic individual called Jeff, who was waiting to drive them up to the house. The way he straightened immediately out of his slouch told Genevieve the boss was held in very high regard indeed. She supposed out here Trevelyan was king of all he surveyed. Yet for all his commanding manner and self-assurance she hadn’t detected any arrogance. Derryl, who hadn’t inherited the reins, was the arrogant one.
The long driveway was an allee of long-established palms with waving mop-heads. Genevieve sat forward as they approached the main compound, with its eight-foot-high enclosing wall that offered protection against the dust storms that periodically swept in from the desert. The towering sand hills had been an amazing sight from the air, running as they did in parallel lines, like the giant waves of the ocean. The sand even gave the illusion of being composed of silk.
An extremely vigorous climber with glossy heart-shaped leaves and great sprays of white tubular flowers fell in thick latticework over the wall. The creeper conveyed an astonishing air of exotic lushness in the semi-desert. As they neared the impressive gold-tipped black wrought-iron gate, flanked by huge date palms, it suddenly parted in the middle, and each half slowly pulled back to the side as Jeff operated the controls.
They were inside the Trevelyan desert fortress at last!
It was a fantasy land of its kind, Genevieve thought. So isolated. If one wanted to leave one couldn’t simply jump in a car and drive off in a big hurry. By air was really the only way out. In the past, tourists not sufficiently respectful of the dangers of this desert heartland had come to grief—some dying, others mercifully saved by land or aerial surveillance.
Genevieve looked about her with intense concentration, storing up everything for the future. That was what made her a writer. She had studied various photographs of Djangala Station in large coffee table books featuring many of the country’s finest properties. The photographs didn’t do the homestead justice. Nor could the photographs convey how utterly bizarre it was to come upon such a mansion set in the middle of nowhere. But then she remembered the homestead had had as much importance to early settlers as the castle to an English lord. A homestead was any rural dwelling, but Djangala was the homestead of the “landed aristocracy”—the great pioneering families who, regardless of where they settled to make their fortunes, built houses of long-term permanence to proclaim their success.
Djangala wasn’t the traditional kind of Georgian house “gentleman squatters” in Tasmania, New South Wales, and Victoria had built in memory of the Old Country, the place of their birth. Djangala homestead, a twenty-room mansion, had a decidedly Spanish look. How intriguing! Maybe Richard Trevelyan, who had built it, had taken the Grand Tour of Europe and retained an image of the sort of house he wanted to build? Whatever its architecture, the mansion, constructed of finely cut sandstone, had a wonderfully romantic appeal. A two-storey central section with an arched colonnade was flanked on either side by tall rectangular wings. The upper floor, probably bedrooms, was decorated with little curved balconies that overlooked the landscaped grounds. Four chimneys sat atop the terracotta-tiled roof. She knew from past trips to the Red Centre that desert sands cooled down amazingly at night.
This definitely was not a humble abode. Genevieve wondered if Catherine had found her first sight of Djangala homestead as thrilling as she did. Had Catherine felt the same buzz of excitement? Only what had started for Catherine as a welcome invitation to visit a historic station had ended in a terrifying experience and death. Life could be destroyed in a second. Accident or not? That was what she was here to determine. She could almost see Catherine out of the corner of her eye. Catherine of the long blonde hair and radiant blue eyes. Catherine, forever young.
Her thoughts sobered. Many things weren’t as they seemed. No one really knew what had happened. Catherine had been alone at the time.
Or had she?
Had the policeman in charge of the investigation checked out alibis, or were the Trevelyans too highly esteemed to have to account for themselves?
Trevelyan, standing a little distance off, was struck by the demeanour of the young woman Hester had chosen to ghostwrite the family history. At the moment she appeared caught in a reverie he thought oddly melancholic, as though she was trying to silence some mournful voice in her head. Maybe she was struggling with personal hurt or disappointment? He supposed it would come out sooner or later.
It was he who had allowed this to happen, by giving Hester the go-ahead. It had been in the nature of giving her something to fill her time and her active mind, but he was fully prepared to self-publish—if the book was ever finished, that was. It had started out as a simple exercise in humouring Hester, but the downside was that he was becoming increasingly wary of having many of the old stories raked up. On a historic station like Djangala there were lots of stories to be told.
One he preferred not to be exposed again to the light of day was the tragic death of his grandmother’s friend, Catherine Ly
tton. The verdict had been accidental death, but he had always had the uncomfortable feeling something wasn’t quite right. He had no proof. He’d been born well over twenty years later, and as far as he could establish there had been no hint of foul play—just this unspoken gut feeling. He knew his father had experienced it too. Catherine Lytton, over the years, had grown to be a taboo subject.
There were other things he preferred not to get into print too. His father’s accidental death at the hands of a visitor to the station unused to fire arms. The visitor had been devastated at the time, blaming himself terribly. Then there was the ugly break up of his parents’ marriage, and his mother’s defection with a family friend. Oddly, she had never married him after the divorce came through. The great rift had never been mended.
All in all there were many things he would prefer to remain private. God knew there was enough safe material.
Genevieve Grenville intrigued him. Instinct told him she was a woman in disguise: a young woman playing a role. The lenses in her bookish spectacles were clear glass—a dead giveaway. What was the reason behind that? Another thing: here was a beautiful woman going all out not to draw attention to herself. Again, why? Playing it safe? Was she in hiding for some reason? Or did she think she would make a better impression on Hester if she damped her looks way down? Perhaps that was it.
When he had the time he would check Ms Genevieve Grenville out—although she came with excellent references. Apparently she had taught for some years at a prestigious girls’ school—Grange Hall. Even he had heard of it. It was quite possible it was then she had begun to camouflage her very real beauty. Girls’ schools didn’t encourage fashion plates. Too much distraction for the students—especially the teenagers she had taught.
He hadn’t missed the glorious flame of her hair—full of body, however tightly she had tried to control it—or the fluid grace of movement, the radiant smile, the flawless skin and fine features. Her large almond eyes were an alluring sea-green. He imagined mermaids had eyes like that. Cool, iridescent green. He even had a mental picture of her sitting on a rock, combing out her long hair with a seashell fashioned into a comb. The image amused him. It would be interesting to get to know the woman beneath the disguise.
He asked Jeff to take Ms Grenville’s luggage into the house. Derryl had rushed ahead. It hadn’t dawned on Derryl that Ms Grenville was not as she seemed. He hadn’t bothered to take a close look at her. Derryl had a line-up of pretty girlfriends—all of them with big plans to land Derryl Trevelyan. They might well get more or less, depending on their viewpoint, than they bargained for. Derryl’s temperament up to date had manifested itself as selfish to the core. He had often considered whether the fact their mother had abandoned them had significantly affected his younger brother’s mindset. No one seemed to be able to meet his needs—although he had a clear conscience on that one.
For most of their lives Derryl had see-sawed between looking up to him as his big brother and detesting him, or his position as the first-born son, and then later his authority. Worse, on a working cattle station, Derryl hated work of any kind. So much so that he would have to make some hard decisions soon. Derryl wasn’t carrying his weight. He knew the men were fed up with his brother’s lack of commitment. His trusted overseer Steve Cahill had told him on more than one occasion that he couldn’t rely on Derryl to carry out an order, when all other station hands jumped to as expected.
From time to time Derryl talked about heading off to one of the capital cities, but he never did. It seemed very much as if he had no real ambition outside of making life as easy as he possibly could. He had a long-running conflict with authority anyway: endless complaints and a whole catalogue of resentments towards their father, endless sibling rivalry with him. It had proved very stressful for the household.
“Ms Grenville?”
His resonant voice was a clarion call to the present. Genevieve spun quickly, coming out of her reverie. “Please—call me Genevieve,” she invited.
He gave her another of those half-smiles that to her consternation caused the sweetest pain to her heart. Apprehension set in. She wasn’t a free agent. She had to remember why she was here. Unwise attraction could lead into dark labyrinths. Unwise attraction could even undermine one’s life.
“I thought perhaps I was breaking in on a private moment,” he said, dark eyes studying her in such a way that a wave of heat rushed from Genevieve’s head to her toes.
It sparked off a moment of panic. He was far too perceptive. The white smile in his sun-bronzed face was madly attractive, in accord with his whole dynamic. He had a beautiful mouth—firm, very masculine, sculpted with definite edges. She felt understandable alarm at the stirring within her. Trevelyan had such a compelling aura that her memory of Mark faded away into nothingness. How was that possible? Her fiancé, a lover she’d been intimate with, all but obliterated? She might be in need of a powerful distraction, but not Trevelyan.
“Why aren’t you wearing sunglasses?” he was asking. “You really need them.” He was watching the effect of the sun on her flaming hair. It was flashing out all the bright coppers, the rosy reds, the threads of metallic gold.
Genevieve looked down, patting the mustard-coloured leather tote bag she had slung over her shoulder. She wondered if he’d noticed the designer label stitched onto the front. Probably had. “They’re in here somewhere,” she said.
“Find them.”
“I know an order when I hear one.”
“It is.”
“Okay.” This was a man well used to giving orders. She kept her head down as she removed her fake glasses and popped them into the capacious bag, rummaging for her sunglasses. Tiffany & Co. Again the expensive label would stand out—like the sparkling silver circles on the winged sides. Couldn’t be helped. Anyway, there had been no suggestion she was struggling financially. She’d held down a well-paid teaching job.
“Let’s go into the house,” he said, gesturing with his arm to the curving flight of stone steps. “You must be aware, as a redhead, you have to be doubly careful in the sun. I don’t want our sun to bake you.” Her skin didn’t have the milky-white ultra-sensitive texture of many redheads, he had noted. It had the luscious stroke-me creamy quality of magnolia petals. Still, she would have to use plenty of protection.
“I’ll be careful—promise.” Genevieve’s musical ear was becoming attuned to all the whistles and trills that filled the air around them, the rush of brilliantly coloured wings. Birds would naturally be attracted to all the nectar-rich plants—the grevilleas, the bottlebrushes and the banksias, to name a few. “I’ve brought plenty of sunblock.”
“If you run out you can get some at the station store. We stock just about everything—clothing, boots, hats, etc. Do you ride?” He found himself hoping she did. She was moving beside him with effortless grace, tallish, very slender, without looking in the least unathletic.
“I need to get in a little practice, but, yes. I learned to ride as a child. I love horses.” Enthusiasm suddenly entered her voice, causing a charming lilt. “My parents bought me my first pony when I was six—a gentle little Shetland. I have to say I pestered them. My mother thought I was too young. She wanted to wait a year or two. But I got my way. Apparently I had a natural ability, and I had a great teacher. She was patient and kind and an expert rider herself. She always won prizes for dressage. I still remember groups of us going out hacking with her.” Genevieve paused as if in remembrance. “We lived on acreage in those days—good grazing for horses. I used to ride every day when I came home from school. I did all the feeding, watering and exercising, as I was supposed to. When I was ten my father bought me the most beautiful Arabian.” She didn’t say it had been to cheer her up. “I called her Soraya, after the beautiful divorced wife of an ex-Shah—remember?”
“I do. She couldn’t give him children.”
“Yes.
My Soraya was inclined to be skittish. I was thrown a few times, but I never broke anything.”
“So your parents were indulgent?” They must have been. Buying ponies and beautiful, elegant Arabs was a serious financial commitment. Although the acreage lifestyle would have helped.
“Very.” She averted her head, as though studying the superb central fountain—a focal point for the landscaping. It was playing, which she found delightful—silver streams spilling down over two great bowls like a waterfall. It added greatly to the illusion of cool.
“And your father is what?” She had unmistakable class.
“He’s a lawyer,” she offered briefly.
He let it go. She was prepared to talk horses, but not prepared to talk about family. “And your mother? Please don’t think I’m asking intrusive questions. I’d like to know a little more about you.”
“Nothing much to know,” she said, her expression settling back into a quiet reserve. “I’ve led an uneventful life.”
“Now, why do I think that’s not true?” he said in a decidedly challenging tone. “You haven’t told me about your mother. She must be a very beautiful woman if you take after her.”
Genevieve was stunned. She’d truly believed she had made herself unobtrusive. Her efforts appeared to have made no difference to Trevelyan.
“I do take after my mother, but I’d hardly call myself beautiful.”
“Nonsense.” With his height he loomed over her. “The beautiful know they’re beautiful—just as powerful people know they’re powerful. Beauty is power. It’s commonly accepted a beautiful woman has power over a man.”
“You occupy a powerful enough position yourself,” she retorted, to get off the subject of herself. She had the feeling he was determined on getting to know more about her.
“It’s a life crammed with hard work, Genevieve. And I don’t lose track of the great responsibility to use power for good. But we were talking about your mother…?”
