Master of the Outback

by Margaret Way

  “Certainly.” With composure, Genevieve walked across the room without once letting her jaw drop. It was quite a challenge. The suite was crammed with sumptuous eighteenth-century European furnishings Genevieve just knew were horrendously valuable. It all looked wildly inappropriate: the bedroom of an old-style monarch or perhaps a madwoman. The most ornate curtains she had ever seen in her life had been down to the point where the room was almost dark, when there was still blazing sunlight outside.

  The atmosphere had turned cold. What was this ability of hers? A gift or a curse? Whatever it was, it had been handed down through the generations.

  An elderly woman sat in state, straight as a ramrod, in an extraordinary gilt wood chair that had to be the next best thing to a throne. Her painfully thin spotted arthritic hands were clawed over the arms. She didn’t look well. She looked wasted. In fact a bag of bones. If seventy was the new sixty, Hester Trevelyan appeared closer to ninety. She wore full regalia—a heavily embroidered silk garment, black, imperial yellow, flashes of a gorgeous blue, radiant gold. The last Dowager Empress of China, Tzu His, had liked to cloak herself in “divine glory”. This was a robe she might well have coveted. Stick-like legs were shoved into elaborately embroidered Chinese slippers. Snow-white hair, as abundant as Genevieve’s own, was drawn tightly back, thick and heavy against her nape.

  They had a hairstyle in common at least.

  The only feature that was brilliantly alive was her eyes, black as polished onyx, and unfaded through time. They were “family” eyes in the sense that Bret Trevelyan’s eyes were black as well. But whereas his eyes were beautiful, letting in life, his great-aunt’s blocked it out. Certainly her unwinking gaze was fixed on Genevieve with no welcoming light at all. Rather a gathering awareness, a grim stare that was filled with the unthinkable.

  Recognition?

  The stare went on and on…Genevieve persisted in holding it. How she did so, she had no idea. She had absorbed the fact that this was one ruthless woman. Powerful emotions still burned in her. They showed in the banked fire in her eyes. Here was someone who in a blind rage might well have pushed another woman over a cliff. She knew her thinking wasn’t rational, but she sensed she had stumbled on an important clue. If so, things were starting to fall into place.

  Hester Trevelyan settled her weight more heavily on her crippled hands before she spoke again. “Who are you?”

  The jarring words set vibration in motion, giving Genevieve the chills. She actually gasped, as if exposed to a cold draught running across the room. Her very real fear was being unmasked. Could it happen? Did Catherine stand so close to her? Could Hester Trevelyan actually see a shadowy image? Maybe she and Hester were both endowed with a gift?

  “I’m Genevieve Grenville, Ms Trevelyan,” she said, as though utterly perplexed by the question.

  “Of course you are!” Ms Trevelyan drew back. “You have settled in?” she asked, as though she didn’t care one way or the other.

  God forbid she should say she wasn’t happy with her accommodation. “Yes, thank you, Ms Trevelyan. May I say how pleased I am to meet you? I’ll be most comfortable in my beautiful room.”

  A cold, patronising smile touched the old woman’s lips. “I dare say it exceeded all your expectations?”

  “Everything has exceeded my expectations,” Genevieve said quietly. “I’m thrilled to be here.”

  “Are you just?” Definitely a snort. “You’re here to work, Ms Grenville.”

  She made it sound as if Genevieve might well be called on to scrub the odd floor or two. This was a woman who had outlived her time.

  “I won’t let you down, Ms Trevelyan,” Genevieve said, sounding appropriately earnest. “But I would like to confirm at this point I have the weekend off to explore the station.”

  The parchment face was further ravaged by a scowl. “You should remember I don’t have the best of health—as has been pointed out.” It hadn’t been. In her letter Ms Trevelyan had professed to be in good health. “If we can’t work during the week, I expect you to be on hand at the weekend.”

  “I sincerely hope you remain in good health, Ms Trevelyan,” Genevieve answered, like a courtier. Obviously that was her allotted role. “I’m most interested in our project.”

  “My project, don’t you mean?” Hester Trevelyan was still staring at Genevieve. Or was it at a wraith Genevieve had called to mind?

  The Dowager Empress of China had often been described in books as the wicked witch of the east. She had a counterpart in the west. “Of course it’s your project, Ms Trevelyan.” Wasn’t it said the wise man profited by appearing a fool?

  “Although we did agree that my name, Genevieve Grenville, will also appear on the cover.”

  Scowling fiercely, Hester Trevelyan folded her arms into the wide sleeves of her robe. “Yes, yes!” she agreed reluctantly. “You can hardly be called accommodating.”

  “I’m so sorry. That’s what I wish to be.”

  The apology worked. Hester appeared slightly mollified. “So you were a schoolteacher? How deadly dull was that?”

  “May I sit down?” Genevieve had to ask. She hadn’t been invited, but what the heck?

  “It’s what we do, isn’t it? Sit down? Take that chair.” Hester spoke sharply, indicating a classical chair that had to be one of the least valuable.

  Genevieve didn’t dare settle back. The chair wasn’t very comfortable, in any case. She sat as upright as Ms Trevelyan, ramrod straight, ankles together. “On the contrary, I enjoyed teaching,” she said. “I found it very stimulating. My classes were filled with highly intelligent teenage girls.”

  Hester Trevelyan gave a genuine shudder. “How ghastly! That’s the last thing I could have done. I have absolutely nothing in common with the young. What are you going to do about that red hair?”

  Was she about to suggest options? Hair dye, perhaps? “In what way, Ms Trevelyan?” Obviously red hair affronted her eye.

  “Your colouring is all wrong for out here, “Hester Trevelyan declared, the black-eyed stare quite unnerving. “I don’t want to see you so sunburned you have to pack it in.”

  “I’m well-organised, Ms Trevelyan,” Genevieve assured her. “But thank you for your concern. I realise one can’t be too careful. I have plenty of sunblock with me.”

  “You’ll need it. At least you possess a good speaking voice. I attach much importance to voices. I can’t abide our Australian twang. Oh, another thing—those glasses? You’re shortsighted?”

  “Only slightly,” Genevieve fibbed.

  “They don’t fit very well,” Hester said, sounding half angry and the other half suspicious of something about Genevieve and her appearance. “You may go now. I’ve already told Mrs Cahill I won’t be coming down for dinner this evening. I expect you’ll be eating in your room?”

  Without thinking, Genevieve answered, “I’m expecting to eat with the family.”

  Appearances suggested she was violating a rule. “In my day governesses and the like ate either in their room or the kitchen.” Ms Trevelyan said, waiting for Genevieve’s response.

  She had a mad impulse to say, Your day is over, and tack on a fervent Thank God. “Mr Trevelyan made it specifically clear I’m to eat with the family,” she said, in an appropriately grateful voice.

  Hester muttered something beneath her breath. “You know, you’re a lot better-looking than you seem,” she said, her wrinkled brows drawing together. “I haven’t lost my powers of observation, young lady. We’ve had good looking young woman here in the past. One, I recall, was pretty enough to take your breath away.” Abruptly her breath cut out. She made a choking sound, thumping one hand on the side of her throne-like chair.

  Genevieve was reading Hester Trevelyan’s mind.

  Catherine.

  She could feel
herself start to tremble. Many inexplicable things happened in life.

  “Shall I fetch you a glass of water?” she asked with genuine concern. This was an elderly woman.

  Ms Trevelyan didn’t even bother to respond. “Go on. Go!” she said, waving an imperious backhander. It was obvious to Genevieve she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She knew intuitively her looks had something to do with it. Had her hair been blonde like Catherine’s she would have had to put a semi-permanent rinse through it. “We start in the morning nine o’clock sharp,” Ms Trevelyan called in stentorian tones. “We’ll work in the library. You had better be as good as I’ve been told.”

  “I’ll do my very best, Ms Trevelyan. Good evening.”

  She was almost at the door before Hester shot off a warning salvo. “I want results, Ms Grenville.”

  Genevieve half turned, levelling her own eyes with the old lady’s. “You’ll get them, Ms Trevelyan.”

  Oh yes, you’ll get them.

  She knew Hester Trevelyan had had Catherine in mind. Catherine the young woman Hester had never been able to forget. From the moment she had overheard her grandparents talking all those years ago, she too had been caught into Catherine’s story without ever being able to let go. Some people refused to stir up troubling matters from the past; things that couldn’t be changed. She wasn’t one of them. There had been no resolution for Catherine. That was what had torn her Nan to pieces. Catherine couldn’t speak for herself. Genevieve had come around to thinking it was her pre-destined job to set the record straight. The disturbing thing was Hester had given her the impression she had been ferociously jealous of the young woman “pretty enough to take your breath away”.

  The big question was why?

  That’s what you’re here for, said the voice in her head. To find out.

  She wasn’t walking blind into this either. She truly believed she had help from the other side.

  They ate in the informal dining room, under the glow of an extraordinary wrought-iron light fixture. The table was contemporary, of bleached and oiled oak, as were the chairs—eight in number, with four set back against the walls. The soft rust-red pattern in the creamy fabric that covered the seats was repeated in the border and central motif of a beautiful moss-green rug that was set beneath the table. The walls were papered in stripes of cream and green. Above the long console lovely framed prints of Australian birds were set in pairs, from close to the high ceiling to about a foot above the console where dishes would be laid.

  French doors were wide open, allowing the cool night air to flood in. A broad area of luxuriant green foliage and slender palms formed a background for a white marble statue of a seated Buddha. Nori—it couldn’t be anyone else—had placed a large black ceramic bowl of floating opulent cream waterlilies before the statue as an offering.

  This informal dining room was where the family ate. The formal dining room was obviously for grander occasions, when the station was hosting a gala function or entertaining visiting guests.

  The meal confirmed Genevieve’s belief that Nori was an excellent chef. She didn’t serve the table herself. The various dishes were brought in by one of Nori’s staff—a deft young aboriginal girl, who moved like a natural dancer around the table. Genevieve was impressed.

  The aboriginal people she knew had a cultural heritage spanning millennia. This land was their spiritual bedrock. They had no desire to be parted from a land their Dreamtime ancestors, Super Beings with enormous powers, had created. Genevieve knew “the Dreaming” did not refer to dreams in her sense of the word. It was more about the doings of those great Beings. She had read there were many sacred sites across Djangala—rock art galleries. She had a great interest in seeing them. If she was allowed to.

  Derryl was making a surprising effort to be pleasant. Trevelyan remained himself: a dynamic presence. He excited her. That was becoming all too clear. Indeed, excitement was a deep thrum resonating inside her like a bow drawn slowly across a cello. She even regretted her decision to downplay her appearance. She wanted to look beautiful for him. How insane was that? But she saw in this man something she had hungered for. Passion? A passionate relationship? She could see now that hadn’t been the case with Mark.

  Only fatal attraction could be deadly. History could not be repeated. Liane Rawleigh was still madly in love with Trevelyan. She had already given a glimpse of her hard, cold jealousy of any young woman who came into his orbit. There were many such women, Genevieve realised. Had Hester been one?

  Trevelyan’s smile inspired in her all sorts of sensuous feelings. It was wonderful the way it illuminated his darkly tanned face. She had to wonder how this man—a total stranger up until today—could seem somehow familiar to her. She wondered how she was affecting him. There was something that had caught both of them off guard. Something that wasn’t easy for him. Or her. Derryl’s start of surprise when he’d first spotted her after she came downstairs hadn’t been lost on her. It must be her figure that did it. Her bare arms and legs. She couldn’t very well hide away in a loose shirt and trousers. Not in the evening anyway.

  Both brothers wore open-neck shirts, but in the finest cotton. Both had rolled the long sleeves back. Their trousers were beautifully tailored. She wondered if they wore a tie when that very grand anachronism Great-Aunt Hester joined them for dinner.

  The first course came and went amid light conversation that drifted over a range of non-controversial subjects. Trevelyan had a wealth of amusing stories of station life at his disposal. Derryl, as was his way, let his brother do the talking.

  Genevieve looked down with pleasure at the beautifully presented entrée—tartare of trout—on a white porcelain plate.

  “Flown in today,” Trevelyan told her. “With other station supplies, of course. It’s a regular thing.”

  “We get barramundi, Red Emperor, Gulf prawns from the Territory,” Derryl tacked on. “Salmon and lobsters all the way from Tasmania. Pretty well everything. Not like the old days, thank God.”

  “What are you talking about?” Trevelyan turned to his brother with an arched brow. “We weren’t around in the old days.”

  “True.” Derryl started to fork in.

  The trout was diced and mixed with a medley of ingredients. Genevieve tried to isolate each one, meaning to ask Nori for the recipe. Goat’s cheese, certainly, egg yolk, black olive paste, various herbs—parsley, coriander, chives. Other things she wasn’t sure of. The fresh lime juice and zest was easy. The combination had been mixed, set in fairly big oiled rings, then taken out to be served on the centre of pure white plates.

  “So, how did you get on with Great-Aunt Hester?” Derryl asked, clearly wanting to put her on the spot.

  Genevieve looked across at him. They sat opposite each other on either side of Trevelyan in his magnificent carver chair. “She seems to be an extraordinary woman,” she answered diplomatically, thinking that good-looking as Derryl was, he was but a shadow of his brother. That couldn’t have been easy for him growing up. It still wasn’t as a man. She could well see how Derryl’s resentments had arisen. It might even have damaged his personality.

  “That’s not telling me much,” Derryl jeered. “Ducking the answer?”

  “I only saw her for ten minutes at the outside,” Genevieve demurred.

  “I suppose she thought you were perfect, schoolmarm and all?” Derryl gave an unkind laugh.

  A schoolmarm who could very easily turn into the Swan Princess. Trevelyan sat nursing his wine glass, thinking his own thoughts. He had an urge to sweep those dud glasses from Ms Grenville’s nose and pocket them. She didn’t need them. They were part of her disguise. Better to let her be. He wanted to find out her real motivation for coming here. He couldn’t shake his gut reaction that Ms Grenville had an agenda of her own.

  Was she information-gathering? An undercover journalist
, perhaps? A would-be novelist looking for inspiration for a book of her own? Perhaps the ghostwriting was only a stepping stone? Djangala was a veritable Mecca for would-be mystery writers, he pondered. He hadn’t missed the intelligence in her sea-green eyes or her sharp perceptions. Sooner or later he would pin her down. She might be trying to make herself look as ordinary as possible, but she was a beautiful woman without even trying. Even her composure told of innate self-assurance.

  She had beautiful long-fingered hands—not overly delicate, but strong. He thought she probably played the piano a whole lot better than she claimed. The Steinway here had cost a great deal of money. It was badly in need of real playing. Hester, now that she was crippled, couldn’t even bear to touch the keys. She had instructed Nori to have one of the girls regularly run up and down the keys with a duster, pressing down hard.

  “So when do you start?” Trevelyan turned to her, his dark voice smooth as molasses.

  It was the sort of male voice that struck a shivery chord deep within her. She actually felt a kind of swooning, like a young girl in the throes of an almighty crush. How ridiculous! It confused and angered her. Yet she couldn’t deny the coursing of her blood through her body. Hormones—God! She even found herself studying his hands. They were darkly tanned, very elegant in shape. Hands were very important to her. She could almost feel the thrill of them moving over her body, exploring her quivering flesh.

  Keep this up and you might as well start packing, her inner voice censured her.

  Good advice. The sooner she regained control the better. Blind attraction was a heavy burden to shoulder. As it was, she had paused overlong before answering his question. “Nine o’clock sharp in the library,” she said finally.

  “She’ll keep you at it,” Derryl warned. “She’s a tyrant.”

  “Both of us know Genevieve can handle it,” Trevelyan intervened suavely, aware their mystery woman was getting under his skin. That couldn’t happen. He couldn’t afford to lose himself in an ill-advised relationship that was bound to end badly. If she was going to go prying into Trevelyan affairs—and he felt certain she had that in mind—it would be into the family’s past. For some pressing reason of her own she appeared to want to unearth some family secret—dark all the better. He took consolation in the knowledge that Hester wouldn’t impart a single one of them—even on her deathbed.