by Margaret Way
The second course was being brought in. Slices of succulent roast duck with a golden crumb coating over a tomato and herb mixture.
“Nori is gifted, isn’t she?” Genevieve said, lightly spearing a slice of duck. “Flower-arranging, beautiful cooking and presentation.”
“She’s a cultured woman,” Trevelyan offered. “We’re very fortunate to have her. She’s used to beautiful and valuable things. We’ve never had such well-trained home staff.”
“How she fell in love with Steve, I’ll never know.” Derryl’s lip curled with scorn. “She had to be insane. He’s a stockman, for God’s sake, and her dad was the big CEO of a Japanese electronics company. She could have had her choice of plenty of suitable Japanese suitors.”
“I wonder.” Genevieve laid down her fork. “Her choice or her father’s choice?”
“Now, that’s perceptive,” said Trevelyan. “And, Derryl, would you please keep your voice down? We don’t want to offend Nori. She just could come in.”
“Sorry, sorry…” Derryl said, like a kid about to throw a tantrum. “Spoken by a man who never makes a mistake or offers offence.” He stabbed at the roast duck in lieu of his brother. “I bet you found her totally unexpected, Gena?”
“Her being Japanese, you mean?” She sipped her glass of white wine—a delicious Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand’s Marlborough district.
“Of course I do.” He gave her a hard stare. “We get waves of Japanese tourists every year—they’re mad for the Outback—”
“The vastness?” Genevieve suggested. “The infinite horizons, so different from their homeland islands?”
“Whereas we have a whole continent to ourselves—even if most of it is empty,” Derryl lamented—a young man who hankered after the bright lights.
“Then there’s the uniqueness of our wildlife,” Trevelyan turned his brilliant dark glance back to Genevieve. Her mouth had such a beautiful natural curve. She always appeared to be on the verge of smiling even when she wasn’t. “Tourists are fascinated by our Outback lizards.”
“They would be.” Genevieve took another sip of wine. It wasn’t the wine that was making her feel so heady. “Our dracoes—the Dragon Lizards and the Frilled Lizards especially. The way they lift their extraordinary frill is spectacular. Who wouldn’t love our miniature dragons?”
“I used to have a passion for dinosaurs when I was a kid,” Derryl interrupted.
“And saber-toothed tigers, as I recall.” Trevelyan gave him a glance filled with humour and affection.
Genevieve was getting a much clearer view of the brothers. She suspected, for all his resentments, Derryl looked to his brother in all matters.
“It sounds as though you’ve visited Japan, Genevieve?” It was a perfectly normal question, yet Trevelyan fancied he caught the glitter of unshed tears in her beautiful gem-like eyes.
She kept her head discreetly lowered. “My mother took me the first time, to see the cherry blossoms. It was and remains one of the most memorable experiences of my life—seeing such beauty with my mother. I remember all their delicate glory. Our favourite spot was the view from the Meguro River.”
“The blooming on both sides?” Trevelyan nodded
“You know Tokyo as well?” At last she met those dark light-filled eyes that gave her such a buzz.
“Of course we do,” Derryl said almost fiercely, as though putting her in her place. “Big brother here has even been to Antarctica. We’re world travellers. We’re not stuck in the middle of nowhere all the time.”
“You especially,” Trevelyan commented, with the faintest edge.
“Ah, well, I’m not the boss, am I? I’m not Trevelyan.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to take the job on, Derryl.” Trevelyan made a point of turning his attention back to Genevieve. “Australia and Japan have an excellent bilateral relationship, Genevieve. The two countries have grown closer and closer. We’re partners in the Asia-Pacific region. I’m not exactly sure how many, but there are a lot of sister-city relationships.”
“So you’ve visited Japan many times?”
“Of course he has!” Derryl broke in rudely.
A warning frown crossed Trevelyan’s striking face. It appeared to have a sobering effect on Derryl. “Japanese businessmen and important guests have stayed here. We export Djangala beef to Japan. Our finest merino wool as well. Our grandfather started diversifying very early. He was a visionary.”
“He must have been,” she said with admiration. “I’m looking forward to learning all about him.”
“Oh, you will!” Derryl crowed. “Hester adored him! She might have been in love with her own brother, if you ask me.”
“A good thing we’re not asking you, Derryl,” Trevelyan said repressively.
“Well, let’s face it! They had one hell of a bond. So old Hester says!”
“Not unusual between brother and sister,” Genevieve offered, finding Derryl’s assessment provocative. Not that he would know.
“Tell Gena we own two of the country’s biggest sheep stations,” Derryl prompted, taking heed of his brother’s expression and wisely changing the subject. “We’re involved in lamb production as well. Bret is Mr Midas—a finger in every pie. I’ve tried to talk him into selling Djangala. It’s only a small spoke in the wheel.”
Trevelyan looked as though his patience was running out. “Don’t talk rubbish, Derryl,” he clipped out.
“Over your dead body, eh?” Derryl gave a bitter laugh.
“It won’t happen, Derryl,” Trevelyan said. “Djangala is our ancestral home. It won’t go out of our hands. Anyway, you’re a free agent. I’ve told you many times if you want to pursue some other life you can. I’ll back you.”
“At what?” Derryl cried, exactly as though he was throwing out a challenge. “I’m twenty-eight.” He spoke as though time was running out. “How old are you, Genevieve?”
“Young enough to tell you.” She smiled. “I’m twenty-seven.”
Trevelyan liked her steady gaze. He liked watching the lights from the chandelier flash over her glorious hair. He wanted to see it long and loose. Spread out on a pillow? It wasn’t going to happen. Tendrils were escaping to lie like coppery gold filaments against her temples, cheeks and her vulnerable nape.
“And you’re not married?” Derryl was asking, raising supercilious brows.
“I’ll change that when I’m ready, Derryl.” She wasn’t at all rattled by Derryl. It was Trevelyan who was having the wildly unsettling effect on her. Probably he turned all that sensuous excitement on and off like a switch. His ex-fiancée was still mad about him. So what had she done wrong?
“You must have a bloke, though?” Derryl persisted, bold eyes moving over her face and shoulders. “Or have you come to meet someone out here?” He transferred his malicious gaze from her to his dynamic brother. “They all fall in love with big brother here.”
“Dash the thought away.” Genevieve smiled. “Finding someone, Derryl, couldn’t be further from my mind.”
“So you say! I’ve never met a girl who doesn’t want to get married. I don’t understand why you don’t do yourself up. You’ve got great legs. Great figure now you can see it. And you really ought to get contact lenses. Those glasses are awful. They’re not even stylish.”
“Derryl, could I plead with you to stop?” Trevelyan intervened with heavy patience. “I won’t have Genevieve embarrassed.”
Derryl burst out laughing. “But she’s not embarrassed, is she? Gena here is a pretty cool customer.”
It was an assessment Trevelyan had already made.
There was a choice of desserts: crêpes with a mandarin sauce that had the perfume of Grand Marnier, or a heavier ricotta cheesecake with mascarpone cream.
Genevieve and
Trevelyan elected to have the crêpes. Derryl had both.
To Genevieve’s eyes, Derryl looked and acted much younger than his age. Probably his development had been arrested by having such a brother as Trevelyan. Coming from such a wealthy family, Derryl was a young man who had never known what it was to be deprived. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He had been deprived of his mother—a huge blow to any child. But he gave the impression that whatever he wanted in life he believed he was entitled to. Throughout dinner she had been conscious of the undercurrents. The intense anger in him—partly directed at himself, mostly at his brother. The ambivalence suited the classic sibling rivalry pattern. Love and admiration coupled with jealousy and resentment. She was reminded of her own relationship with Carrie-Anne.
It was over coffee that Derryl asked if he could invite a few friends for the following weekend. Genevieve had the feeling he was doing it for her benefit—putting on a show, intimating that Trevelyan ruled with a hand of iron.
“Why would you ask?” Trevelyan responded, controlling his irritation.
“You do think my friends are airheads.”
“You said it, Derryl, not me.” He turned towards Genevieve. “You’re most welcome to get some practice in on our piano, Genevieve. It’s standing idle.”
She had seen the magnificent nine foot concert grand.
“Oh, for God’s sake—you don’t expect Gena to pick up where Hester left off?”
Derryl cried in near horror. “If she’d played the blues or jazz, even popular music, it might have been different.”
“You don’t speak the universal language, then?” Genevieve asked.
He gave her a resentful look. “I love music. My kind of music.”
“What about you, Bret?” She was so stimulated—over-stimulated, really—by his company and Derryl’s stubbornness that she was forgetting her role.
Trevelyan wanted to encourage that. Who was Genevieve Grenville behind the mask? He had the oddest feeling he knew her. Not possible. He would never have forgotten. Yet he felt he knew her far better than he had known Liane, who had been fool enough to betray him and think she could get away with it.
“Hester could have played all day and all night and that would have been fine with me,” he said. “Our mother was an accomplished pianist too. The piano was hers. My father bought it for her.”
“Our mother who abandoned us,” Derryl burst out, his expression full of angst. “She upped sticks and took off. Went on her merry way with George Melville. Old George—the family friend.”
If it was an unhappy marriage the woman would have suffered, Genevieve thought. Derryl couldn’t let go of his anger. What about Trevelyan?
Trevelyan’s expression drew taut. “For God’s sake—stop, Derryl. She could never have gone against Dad.”
“Did anyone?” Derryl asked bitterly. “You’re getting more and more like him every day,” he accused, with a return to aggression.
“Just as well for you I am myself,” Trevelyan answered bluntly. “Dad would never have given you so much leeway. None of which answers my question. Would you like the use of the piano while you’re here, Genevieve?”
“It’s okay to answer.” Derryl gave her a malicious grin. “You look the sort.”
“What sort?”
Derryl shrugged. “Serious as in highbrow.”
Her laugh rippled. “I’d greatly appreciate it.” She returned her gaze to Trevelyan, trapped by the intensity of his regard. This man was knocking all the sense from her head. “I’m very much out of practice.” It wasn’t true. She hadn’t let her music slide. She had regularly performed at Grange Hall’s annual concert. “Should I ask if Ms Trevelyan would mind?”
“She’d mind if you were any good,” Derryl assured her in a sarcastic voice.
“I can understand that, in a way. She wouldn’t welcome reminders of how good she once was.”
“There’s that,” Trevelyan agreed.
“Hester would near hate you if you could play her stuff well. She’s like that,” Derryl zoomed back.
“Then I’d better turn down your kind offer, Bret.”
He gazed back at her with his sparkling black diamond eyes. “I won’t hear of such a sacrifice. In any case, the piano was my mother’s—not Hester’s. You needn’t worry about Hester. I’ll speak to her. You realise you’ve as good as admitted you do play well?”
“Honestly!” Derryl groaned. “I thought we’d all settled down. I remember Mum playing. She didn’t thump like Hester.”
“Hester would have been trained to concert standard,” Genevieve pointed out. “It wouldn’t have been thumping, it was power. But if my playing actually does upset you, Derryl…”
“What upsets me is the fact we lost our mother,” he cried, in a voice wrought with emotion. “She wasn’t Hester’s favourite either. Believe me, Hester is a weird woman.”
Trevelyan held up his hand. It was clear he meant business. “Genevieve doesn’t need to hear this, Derryl.”
“But she’s taking a big interest, isn’t she?” Derryl countered shrewdly.
Another something Trevelyan had noted. He was convinced Genevieve Grenville was a beautiful young woman who wanted to get close to his family. He also thought her intelligent enough to realise she was already under his surveillance.
All of us are locked into something, Trevelyan thought. Derryl had suffered and was still suffering over their mother’s abandonment. He had his deepest emotions well under control. What motivated this iridescent-eyed enchantress who thought she was in disguise?
CHAPTER FIVE
GENEVIEVE knew almost immediately she hadn’t been employed as a ghostwriter. She was meant to be the writer.
Ms Trevelyan had reams of records, endless memorabilia, documents of all kinds—wedding certificates, birth certificates, death certificates—heaps of photographs, all sorts of reports on the Trevelyan family’s life and their increasingly important position in the pastoral world. Just to sift through it was mind-boggling, yet a fascinating challenge. It looked very much as if the Trevelyans had never thrown out a thing. Ms Trevelyan was definitely a pack rat.
A keeper of the family secrets.
Far from sitting with Genevieve—something Genevieve had been rather dreading—supervising what amounted to endless sorting, the old lady had taken off, trumpeting warnings as she padded away on her little ballet-type slippers. “Make sure you keep busy.”
Will do.
“Morning tea break ten-thirty. Lunch not a minute before one,” she’d added sternly. “Mrs Cahill will bring you a tray. I’ve had a word with her. Plenty of places here you can sit.”
She gestured around the very grand library, which was said to be one of the best in private hands in the country. Genevieve the writer, with the boundless curiosity of a scholar, felt like a kid let loose in a chocolate factory.
“I think I’ll go out into the garden,” she looked up to say, fascinated by the wealth of old photographs under her hand. “It has a wonderful Zen quality.” There was a beautiful water feature right outside the French doors.
She had to wonder if it was possible Catherine had somehow found herself in one of these photographs. Or had all trace of her been removed? That was the big problem, though, wasn’t it? A clear photograph of Catherine—especially if it was black and white—might show up a resemblance, point a finger at a face that looked similar?
“Zen?” Ms Trevelyan lifted disbelieving brows. She was wearing what presumably were her everyday clothes: an ankle-length royal blue silk dress with a wide pleated sash. Pearls dripped from her lobes, an important-looking opera-length strand reaching almost to her tiny waist. She stood arrested, a vaguely perplexed frown on her haughty old face.
Hester Trevelyan was a force to be reckoned with
. What must she have been like in her heyday? Genevieve wondered. Small wonder suitors had made the decision to steer clear of her. Or had it been the other way around? Was Hester single by choice?
“I think the native gardens here show a great appreciation of their natural heritage,” Genevieve said. It was true, and it might mollify the old lady. “Your landscaper did a marvellous job—the placing of the great rocks, especially, and the raked gravel. That’s what puts me in mind of a Zen Buddhist garden.”
“Does it indeed?” Ms Trevelyan looked totally unimpressed with the Zen concept. The famous landscaper had obviously gone too far in the wrong direction. “Please get on with your work. I’m paying you an excellent salary. More, I suspect, than you’re worth—but that McGuire woman insisted on it. So, for that matter, did Bret. He’s a very generous man. That’s his trouble. So good.”
Her face was transformed by a look marginally short of idolatry. At least one of her great-nephews meant a great deal to her.
Poor old Derryl.
A good thing he had escaped to boarding school, then university, Genevieve thought. She wondered if Romayne came back often, bringing her husband. Trevelyan would be sure to welcome them with open arms. Derryl too, for that matter. Romayne was his sister after all. Apparently none of them had thought to draw up a petition to see Hester reallocated. A Sydney harbourside penthouse apartment might possibly have been far enough…
You’ve only just arrived and already you’re over-involved.
Her heart ached with the certainty Catherine would have felt just as she did.
She couldn’t credit it was already one p.m. when Nori came in with lunch.
