Cordelia could still see that sepia photograph she kept in the family album. Rose had looked beautiful that day, so delicate and dark-haired against the robust strength and breadth of her husband.
‘Rose wore a pale lilac dress that had been donated by Lady Fitzallan. She had altered it to fit the occasion, and when she appeared in the church, the old lady burst into tears. Her bouquet was a bunch of wild flowers, bottle brush and kangaroo paw mixed with fern fronds and tied with white ribbon. She wore a single spray of yellow wattle as a garland for her hair. The reception was small, attended only by Lady Fitzallan and Henry, the convicts and one or two curious Aborigines, but there was time to drink a toast with the rough wine Otto had brought with him before he swept her away to her new life in the Hunter Valley. Henry and Lady Fitzallan stood in the dusty road, watching until distance made them tiny specks on the horizon.’
‘So Rose learned to love him?’ Sophie smiled. ‘I’m not surprised, he sounds a good man. I wish I could have known him.’
Cordelia dipped her chin and looked at her gnarled hands. ‘I never met him either, and I’ve always regretted it.’ She took a deep breath, as if to chase away sad memories, and carried on with her tale.
‘Their wedding night was spent on the road in the makeshift shelter of a canvas awning strung between tree trunks, their bed a soft mattress of eucalyptus leaves, ferns and moss. Otto was a gentle lover, his natural passion and enthusiasm tempered by the knowledge that for Rose this must be an experience she could look back on with fond memories.
She had so far not told him of Gilbert’s attack, and was tense – half expecting a repeat performance, for she had no other experience to judge. Yet Otto’s soft love-making stirred something within her that made her forget Gilbert, and she found a warmth and tenderness for her new husband she’d thought she would never feel. Perhaps this was love, she thought afterwards when he was snoring beside her. Perhaps this feeling of quiet peace and contentment was what marriage was all about – not the childish passion she’d felt for John.’
Sophie smiled. ‘I’m glad she came to love him. It would have been cheating Otto in a way if she hadn’t.’ She paused for a moment. ‘The bed they took back to the Hunter isn’t the same one you’ve got at the apartment, is it?’
Cordelia smiled and nodded. ‘It will be yours one day, Sophie. A family heirloom. Did you know that five generations of babies have been born in that bed? One day it will be your turn.’
Sophie let it go. She knew she was through with men but didn’t need an argument about it. ‘I think we’d better get going, Gran. The sun’s up, and I’ve still no idea where we’re going.’
Cordelia stood and leaned on her walking sticks. ‘I know the way from here, you won’t need the maps any more,’ she said quietly.
With her grandmother settled in the seat beside her, Sophie turned the camper van out of their night pitch and headed out on to the open road. It was half an hour before she spoke. ‘Why are you making such a secret of our destination?’ she asked. ‘What are you hiding?’
Cordelia was silent for a long moment, and when she did speak, she didn’t answer her granddaughter’s question. ‘It’s rather wonderful to think men and women like Rose and Otto forged this path through the bush and the mountains so that we, the following generations, could discover the beauty they fought so hard to maintain.’
Before Sophie could reply, she sat forward eagerly. ‘Turn here and drive up that hill.’
Sophie did as she was ordered, the camper van groaning its way up the rocky, rutted track in first gear. The engine was over-heating again, the sun was high, blinding against the dusty windscreen. She parked on the plateau and switched off the engine.
The view stretched from east to west as far as the horizon permitted. The gentle rolling slopes of the Hunter Valley were partly shadowed by the low protective hills that surrounded it. It was a stunning sight – one that almost took the breath away in its sheer magnitude.
‘Help me out, Sophie. I need to see it as Rose must have done on that first day.’
Sophie handed her grandmother down, and with a guiding hand on her elbow, led her to a rough picnic bench and table that had been set beneath the shade of a spreading gum tree.
Cordelia looked out at the land she remembered so well from that one visit during her girlhood. It hadn’t changed much. The terraces were laced with the dark green vines, the men who worked amongst them mere specks in the distance. The sun was dappled through the eucalyptus leaves and she could hear the chirp of crickets and the hum of flies. It was hot and still, not a breath of air disturbing the rich black earth or the pale green foliage of the gums. Tears blurred her vision as she remembered first coming here with her mother. It had been a long time ago and so many things had happened in the intervening years.
‘Otto brought Rose here at the end of their journey. It had taken them weeks, but finally they were almost home. He drew up his weary horse beside Rose’s and they stood right here, looking out at Otto’s little kingdom.’ Cordelia sighed. ‘It was smaller then, of course, and the fine house you can see in the distance much less grand …’
*
‘Look out there, Rose,’ he said proudly. ‘That is our land – our own little empire.’
Rose looked down into the verdant valley where row upon row of dark green vines climbed their way across the gentle terraces that were shaded by the pine trees and sheltering hills. It was a different kind of beauty from that of the outback – but no less inspiring.
‘All of it?’ she breathed. ‘But it’s even bigger than Squire Ade’s estate.’
He cocked his head. ‘Who is this man? He is vintner?’
Rose laughed. ‘If you mean does he grow grapes, no. It’s much too cold in Wilmington for that.’ She turned once again to the sight before her, hardly daring to believe this was to be her future home. It looked so cool in the shade, so green and lush compared to the outback’s dust and flies. Dreams were made of this – it was like coming home.
12
Kate had spent a restless night thinking about that meeting in the boardroom. It had come as no surprise to realise it must have been Mary who’d talked to the press, but the sheer venom of her attack had certainly shocked her, and she wondered, not for the first time, why her sister felt as she did.
Mary was the youngest and most spoiled of them all, and to her elder sisters it had sometimes seemed as if Mum had taken much more time with her than she had with them, had given in to her every whim, every tantrum. Even Dad had spoiled her, this unexpected child of his middle years, with a pony before she could even walk, numerous trips on his plane to exotic holiday islands, and a brand new Mercedes sports car on her eighteenth. No wonder she was such a grasping bitch now.
Kate grimaced. If anyone should feel aggrieved, it should be her and Daisy. For Mum and Dad had been too busy building up the legend of Jacaranda Vines to take much notice of their first two daughters, and it had seemed to them they had been pushed from one nanny to another throughout their childhood. Dad had remained a distant, domineering and very frightening figure right to the end of his life, Mum the buffer zone. Not for them the ponies and exotic holidays, but rusting bikes and second-hand utes to get them to the country dances in the bush.
Yet, with the hindsight of maturity, she realised Mum had always been loving. Had always had time to look at their drawings and tell them bed-time stories. Then there were the picnics at the water-hole, the days of helping bring in the harvest, with their mouths and fingers sticky from the sweet grapes they’d eaten as they picked. Walks in the bush, riding over the hills and out into the never-never where they hunted for pieces of opal and old spear heads.
Kate grinned as she sat on her verandah and watched a small grey wallaby make a meal of the lush grass she so carefully watered. No, there was no real grievance now as far as she was concerned. Mary might have been spoilt with material things but Mum had shown the other two how to have fun in simple ways. Had let them run b
are-foot in the dust and swim naked in the water-hole where the frogs croaked in the rushes and the sun browned their skin. Had taught them the aboriginal stories of the Dreamtime, and drawn pictures of the magic spirits in the dust.
She could still remember the great rainbow serpent they’d drawn that stretched in endless undulating curves across the red acres of wasteland. It had taken them all day, and when they were finished, Mum had found a strange yellow stone for its eye and they had danced like natives around it to bring them luck.
She finished her coffee, the smile still in her eyes as she stared out over her garden to the city below. That Mary had been conceived at all was a surprise, she thought. Mum had moved out of the château and into the Melbourne apartment three years before she was born. Dad was an infrequent visitor, rarely staying for more than a night – and when he did, it was always in the spare bedroom, and nearly always finished up in a row. She remembered asking her mother once why she didn’t go out and find a nice new daddy for her and Daisy, but Mum had just given a tight little smile and said she wasn’t about to be the first person in her family to go through the disgrace of a divorce.
Kate understood later that their lives were necessarily entwined because of her and Daisy and Mary, but most of all because of Jacaranda. Mum wasn’t about to lose any part of her precious vineyard through a divorce settlement, and certainly wouldn’t risk one of Dad’s mistresses taking her place. She preferred to keep her hands on the reins, and her humiliation to herself. Jock was welcome to his philandering, but he would find no fault in her, no scandal he could attack her with. She was content to remain in peace with her children.
The cup rattled in its saucer as Kate carried it back into the kitchen. Her old memories stirred up so many mixed emotions, and since that awful magazine article, she’d often found her pulse racing for no reason and her hand shaking as she tried to write her reports. It was most unlike her to react so violently, but she realised it was only because she could do nothing about any of it and the frustration had to manifest itself somehow.
Returning to the verandah, she tried to settle down to her charity reports. The money was still coming in but there was a lot to organise. Yet her mind kept returning to that board meeting, sifting through what she’d seen and heard. For something strange had happened – something so fleeting she’d almost missed it – yet it remained hidden in the furthest reaches of her mind and she knew she wouldn’t rest until she finally remembered what it was.
‘Daisy,’ she breathed at last. ‘It was something to do with Daisy.’ Kate gave up on the reports and leaned back in her chair, willing the memory of yesterday’s meeting into sharper focus. Daisy had been her usual silent self, coming in quietly, sitting down almost unnoticed during the initial hubbub of the meeting. But in that silence was a certain self-assurance, an unfamiliar watchfulness as the meeting went on around her.
The more Kate examined the remembered image, the more certain she became. Daisy had looked different. Not only in the clothes she wore, and the discreet make-up, but in the confidence that shone in her eyes and the way she carried herself.
Kate’s thoughts whirled. Why? she wondered. What had happened to Daisy to make her more confident – to give her that sharper edge as she sat there listening to them all? She hadn’t taken part in the argument, had given no opinion, no clue to what she’d been thinking. And yet … And yet …
Kate sat bolt upright as a flash of memory brought back those last few moments before Mary had slammed out of the room. What was it Daisy had seen then? And why had it made her eyes widen and her lips part?
Kate grabbed her bag and her keys and raced out of the house. She wanted to see her sister’s face when she asked her the same question.
*
Mary had returned to the hotel, thrown her belongings into a case and taken the next flight for Sydney. Now she was on the couch in the lounge of her harbourside mansion surrounded by dirty plates, empty bottles and discarded clothes. The man she’d picked up on the plane was pulling on his strides, obviously in a hurry to leave.
She watched him for a moment, her eyes bleary from too much gin. She couldn’t remember his name, and although she could remember how rough and demanding he’d been, his company was better than being left alone. She reached for the throw to cover her nakedness; the efficient air-conditioning was making her shiver.
‘Do you have to go?’ she mumbled. ‘I could get the maid to fix us breakfast.’
He zipped up, fastened his belt and began to hunt for his boots. ‘You told her to get out last night,’ he said as he tied the laces. ‘Besides,’ he added firmly, ‘I have to go. I’m late already.’
Mary reached out, the movement making her head pound so badly she sank back into the cushions. ‘Stay a while longer,’ she begged. ‘I get so lonely in this great big house.’
He looked down at her then, his youthful face unable to disguise his repugnance. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he muttered. ‘This place is a tip, and you look like shit.’
Mary winced. ‘That wasn’t what you said last night,’ she retorted. ‘You weren’t so picky when you wanted to get your end away.’
His lip curled in disgust. ‘Perhaps I should just put it down as doing my bit to help the aged,’ he sneered.
‘Bastard!’ Mary threw the bedside clock at him.
He ducked, snatched up his hold-all and headed for the door. Turning as he stood in the doorway, he slowly shook his head. ‘You should be thankful I was drunk and horny enough to screw you at all. The thought of it now makes me chunder. Goodbye.’
Mary swung her legs over the side of the couch and sat there for a moment, her breathing ragged, her head pounding. The door had been closed softly but she could still hear his footsteps on the pine staircase leading down to the ground floor and the slam of the screen as he made his way out into the street.
‘Hope the bastard has to walk back to the city,’ she muttered. The thought that he might steal her car, or any one of the expensive trinkets she had around the house, was something she preferred to ignore. She was insured. There were more important things to consider. Like her need for a drink.
‘Here’s to you, Dad,’ she slurred as she held up a glass of gin in a toast. ‘Here’s to you and all the other bastards who’ve screwed up my life. May you rot in hell.’
With the bottle firmly grasped by the neck, she weaved her way back to the discarded throw. Unable to bend and pick it up, she slumped to the floor and sat cross-legged, the bottle and glass between her thighs. She shivered as she pulled the velvet throw around her shoulders, the tears streaming down her face.
‘Why did you stop loving me, Daddy?’ she asked the empty room. ‘I know I was bad, but you didn’t have to ignore me.’
The telephone was ringing, but she left it. She didn’t want to talk to anyone – just wanted someone to hold her. With the throw around her shoulders she lay down and drew up her knees. Daddy had been the only man she’d trusted to love her without question. Now he was gone and there was only the memory of her banishment.
Jock had spoiled her, she knew that, and had played up to it – had used it as a weapon against her elder sisters and enjoyed their jealousy. He would buy her anything she wanted, take her away on wonderful holidays to the Barrier Reef and the Far East, treat her like a princess. She had known there would be a price to pay eventually – an arranged marriage to the son of a wealthy Catholic vintner which would make Jacaranda even more powerful than it already was – but was willing to go along with it because it was all a part of Daddy’s master plan, and power was an aphrodisiac to both of them. But her close relationship with Jock had come to an end when he’d returned to the château unexpectedly one day to find her in her pink and white bedroom with one of his field-hands.
Mary was home from college and had quickly grown bored in her father’s absence. Her life in Melbourne was an exciting one, with far more sophistication than the country drongos could offer, and now in the heat of the afternoon she�
��d become restless. The need for excitement laced with danger was impossible to ignore.
She’d gone for a walk around the château grounds and wandered out into the fields. The man was a stranger, an undergraduate working his summer vacation, but he was young and handsome, tanned by the sun and obviously flattered by her attention. It had been easy to lure him up to her room.
They had been too busy to hear Jock. Too lost in the tangle of their bodies to notice him standing there.
‘Whore!’ he roared. ‘You filthy slut!’
Mary and the boy whirled round to face him, all thoughts of pleasure swept away at the sight of Jock in the doorway, his face livid beneath a sweat-stained Akubra.
‘Get out,’ he yelled at the boy. ‘You’re fired!’
Mary sat up, the sheets covering her nakedness as the boy scrambled to find his clothes. Although she was terrified of her father’s rage which had never until this moment been unleashed on her, and ashamed he should have caught her like this, she started to giggle as the boy ran bare-arsed past him, then roared with laughter as he dodged Jock’s riding whip and scampered downstairs. ‘Go for it, Daddy,’ she gasped as the hysteria made her weak.
He marched to the bed, dragged her out by the hair and threw her to the floor. Shocked by the unexpected force of his assault, she lay there, stunned, tears dry, eyes wide with fear. There was no laughter now.
He stood over her, the whip still in his hand. ‘You disgust me,’ he roared. ‘A daughter of Sodom and Gomorrah – that’s what you are. And under my own roof with a farm labourer. You’re no better than the alley-cats we keep in the barns.’
He raised the whip, his face suffused with anger and frustration.
‘Don’t, Daddy! Don’t hurt me, Daddy,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’
Jacaranda Vines Page 20
