‘Too bloody right you won’t,’ he growled. The whip hovered, then his arm sank, his rage replaced by weariness. ‘Why, Mary? Why do this when we had such plans for the future? You could have had the world – we could have had the world. Now …’ His cold gaze roamed over her, making her shiver. ‘You’re used goods. A target for gossip – a disgrace to the family. No decent man would want you now, least of all a son of the religious McFadyn family.’
She shook her head and pulled the sheet from the bed to cover her nakedness. For the first time in her life she was afraid of him. Afraid of his cold rage and what he might do next. Yet, before she could speak, he had turned away from her, his words falling like ice into the heat of the room.
‘You have an hour to pack. Then I never want to see or speak to you again.’
She got to her knees, her heart hammering as she realised how deadly serious he was. ‘He forced me,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t want to do it but he was stronger than me – I had no choice.’ She warmed to her theme as he hesitated. ‘You were right to be angry, Daddy, but it wasn’t my fault. He raped me. Forced me up here to make me do horrible, disgusting things with him. Don’t punish me for that, Daddy. Please.’
‘Don’t compound your sin by lying,’ he said grimly. ‘I’ve heard the rumours about you. Up until today I refused to believe them.’
Mary was cold, so cold in the bitter light of her father’s eyes. ‘But, Daddy …’
It was as if her protest had gone unheard. ‘You will live with Cordelia from now on, and when I visit, I do not want to see you – not ever. From this moment I have only two daughters. You no longer exist.’
‘You can’t do that,’ she yelled. ‘What about all the women you’ve had over the years? Why punish me because I’m like you.’
He turned in the doorway. ‘A woman’s reputation is priceless. You of all people should understand that once sullied, it can never be redeemed. Your worth lay in your looks and in your family name and what that stands for. You’re of no use to me any more.’
That had been the last time they had spoken. The last time she’d seen him. The grim, upright figure in boots and moleskins had watched her traipse out to the plane that would take her away from Jacaranda. She had looked down from that plane until he was a mere speck in the vast landscape beneath her, and had known this was one breach she would never heal. For Jock Witney was not a man who forgave easily. Once betrayed, forever lost.
Mary curled up on the floor of her Sydney mansion and whimpered. The gin trickled unnoticed from the bottle on to the carpet, and somewhere, not too far away, the telephone kept on ringing.
*
Daisy had been to the hospital to see Charles. Her cousin was surrounded by humming machinery, wires and tubes, and had been too doped with drugs to be able to have a proper conversation. After a long talk with his doctor, she’d returned home. Now she was sitting on her verandah, looking out at the ocean, thinking how beautiful life was, and how precious. How silly she’d been to fritter it away by leading a vicarious life through Martin. Where once she had thought it enough, she now knew she had so much more to offer and was almost frightened by the surge of resentment she felt for all those lost years.
It was Dad’s fault, of course. If he’d been supportive of her wish to go to university, how different her life would have been. But Jock Witney was not a man to change his mind about anything – even when he knew he’d made the wrong decision.
Daisy smiled grimly. She’d spent years living a lie. For although she’d been proud to achieve so much for the charities she’d worked for, she still yearned for something more challenging, where she could spread her wings and not fear her father looking over her shoulder. Now he was gone, and the fear with him. Once things had been set in motion over the future of the vineyard, then she would see about her own place in that future. Demand to be recognised as someone who had a great deal to give, and who no longer wished to remain on the side-lines.
Her thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of Kate. She swept up the driveway in her sports car, the gravel spitting from beneath the wheels into the flowerbeds. Daisy sighed. She did wish her sister would drive with more care. She’d only weeded those beds this morning, and now look at them.
‘Glad you’re in,’ Kate said once she’d reached the verandah. ‘You haven’t heard anything from Mary, have you?’ She collapsed on the swing-seat, making it groan and tilt. ‘Jeez, it’s hot! Traffic’s a nightmare.’
Daisy grinned and fetched her a glass of iced tea. ‘Why should I hear from Mary? She doesn’t make it a habit to keep in touch, and I can’t remember the last time she phoned me.’
Kate drank the tea, the ice tinkling against the frosted glass Daisy had taken straight from the fridge. ‘That’s better,’ she sighed. ‘I was parched.’ She put down the empty glass and scrabbled in her bag for a cigarette. ‘Mary’s left her hotel. I phoned earlier to give her a piece of my mind, but she’d already checked out. I suppose she went back to Sydney, but I can’t get an answer on her phone and the messages are piling up on her answering service.’
Daisy frowned. ‘You don’t think she’ll do anything silly, do you? She was right over the top yesterday at the meeting – almost out of control.’
Kate blew a smoke ring and watched it waft away in the warm breeze. ‘She’s probably either stuffing her face and making herself sick, or getting screwed and drinking herself into oblivion,’ she said grimly. ‘Either way, I don’t know why I care but I’m worried she’s not answering her phone.’
‘Mary always did like to live dangerously. Remember that drover she lived with for a while who used to beat her up? She used to say she liked a bit of rough now and again, and it was a refreshing change from the soft city men she usually hung around with. If Mum hadn’t done something, I reckon he would have ended up killing her in one of their drunken fights.’
Kate smiled. ‘Good old Mum. Always there in a crisis.’ She smoked her cigarette in silence as they both looked out at the ocean. It was sparkling like diamond-encrusted blue silk, and the plovers were circling around a small fishing boat as it chugged back to the shore.
‘I presume you’ve come to talk about something other than Mary,’ Daisy prompted her several minutes later. She knew Kate. Mary had never been her number one priority.
Kate stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Something about you is different and I want to know what it is,’ she said with her usual bluntness.
Daisy smiled. She might have known nothing could get past her sister. ‘It’s called self-belief,’ she said simply. ‘I just realised I no longer had to live my life through other people, and you’d be surprised what I have planned for the future.’
Kate eyed her for a long moment, then nodded. ‘I knew there was something. You seemed so in control, so sure of yourself yesterday – and yet to all intents and purposes, you were the same quiet, ineffectual Daisy.’ She smiled. ‘Good on ya, girl. About time you gave us a run for our money. So what did you see yesterday that knocked the wind out of your sails?’
Daisy looked away, the smile tugging at her mouth. ‘I saw the truth,’ she said quietly. ‘And now I’ve had time to think about it there can be no doubt. Everything fits into place, everything’s explained.’
*
Sophie eased the heavy camper down the steep track, the engine complaining, the wheels throwing up scree and dust. She breathed a sigh of relief as they finally reached the road. ‘This is too big for hill-climbing, Gran. I hope there aren’t any more scenic spots you want to visit.’
Cordelia smiled. ‘No more. Look. We’re here.’ She watched as Sophie changed gear and peered out of the window. Held on to the door handle as the camper braked sharply.
‘You’re kidding,’ Sophie breathed. ‘This is impossible. Why here? Why this particular place?’ She turned to her grandmother, her face pale beneath its tan. ‘I thought you said we were going to Rose’s vineyard? The one where Jacaranda Vines began? What are you playing at, Gran? Is
this some kind of cruel joke?’
Cordelia felt a tremor of unease. The last thing she’d meant was for Sophie to be hurt, but it was too late to change her plans now. ‘It’s no joke, Sophie. This is the right place. The vineyard where Rose and Otto laid the foundation of our family.’
‘So the people here are related to us? They’re another branch of the family I never knew about?’ Sophie dashed the tears from her eyes and slammed the van into reverse. ‘I’m going straight back to Melbourne,’ she declared. ‘There’s nothing for me here, and I’m amazed you thought there would be.’
Cordelia put her trembling hand over Sophie’s, stilling her. ‘There’s everything here for you, darling. Wait and see. Just be patient.’
They stared out of the window at the ornate iron arch above the dusty road, each with her own thoughts, her own memories. The black wrought iron gleamed in the afternoon sun, its message stark against the glare of the sky.
Coolabah Crossing Vineyards
Est. 1839
Part Two
13
Mary opened her eyes and lay there for a moment wondering if she’d died. She was surrounded by a glare of white and the quiet rustle of people moving just beyond her vision. Voices were hushed and there was a wonderful smell of flowers. She turned her head on the pillow, eyes watering from the glare, and saw who was sitting quietly by the bed.
‘Daisy?’ she mumbled. ‘What’s happened? What are you doing here, and where the hell am I?’
‘Making sure you stay alive,’ said her sister grimly. ‘Though God knows why I should bother after what you did to us all.’
‘I haven’t done anything to you,’ Mary protested weakly. ‘It’s me in this hospital bed, remember?’
‘That article should have had your name signed at the bottom,’ said Daisy with disgust. ‘Only you could have dished the dirt with such venom.’
‘You did it to yourselves,’ she muttered. ‘I only told Sharon the truth.’ She ran her tongue over dry lips. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Here.’ A glass of water was thrust into her hand. ‘You should try it more often – does wonders for the complexion, and doesn’t leave you with a hangover.’
Mary eyed her through half-closed lids as she propped herself up on one elbow and sipped the ice-cold water. Her mouth tasted foul, and there was something about Daisy that made her feel uncomfortable. Exhausted by the effort, she sank back into the pillows. ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she muttered. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We couldn’t reach you by phone and, after talking to your housekeeper, I contacted the Paramatta police. They broke in and found you lying in your own vomit, naked and out for the count. Not a pretty sight by all accounts. You were brought here to the hospital under an assumed name – the last thing we need right now is more scandal. I caught a plane and arrived about two hours ago.’
Mary eyed her sister and realised it wasn’t just Daisy’s voice that had changed. There was something strong and composed about her – not like Daisy at all. She was usually such a mouse, so grey and self-effacing, and yet here she was laying down the law as if she’d been born to it. She was wearing make-up too, Mary noticed, and a smart dress and jacket that hadn’t been bought off the peg. She closed her eyes against the sun. Daisy had to have a man lined up. It was obvious, for she wouldn’t go to all that trouble for anything else, surely?
‘Why, Daisy?’ she asked finally. ‘Why have you done all this for me?’
‘Because you’re my sister,’ she replied simply.
‘And?’ Mary knew there had to be more. Even this new version of Daisy would find it hard to forgive her betrayal.
‘You might be a gold-plated first-class bitch, but you don’t deserve to die like a wino in your own vomit. There’s unfinished business, Mary, and I’m determined you see it through.’
Mary groaned and closed her eyes. She felt like death, and the last thing she needed was her dim-witted sister coming on strong with this bossy, school-marm attitude. ‘My personal life has nothing to do with you,’ she hissed. ‘You’ve all made it quite clear you don’t want to have anything to do with me, and I don’t care a damn what you think. Now clear off before I ring for the nurse and have you thrown out.’
She watched through slitted eyes as Daisy chewed her lip and dithered. ‘Go,’ she barked, making her sister jump. ‘Piss off and leave me alone.’
Daisy stood up. There were high spots of colour on her cheeks, and her fingers nervously twisted the strap of her handbag. ‘You can be as rude as you like but it won’t change my mind,’ she said with a firmness that surprised her younger sister. ‘You’re coming back with me, whether you like it or not. There are things you should know before the board meeting – and once I’ve told you them, you’ll understand why I had to come.’
*
The homestead road to Coolabah Crossing was long and winding, smooth with concrete, fringed on either side by shady gum trees. Sophie’s hand rested on the gear lever, reluctant to begin the journey back to the past. Jay had talked so much about this place, and although she’d never seen it before, she felt she already knew what awaited her at the end of that road.
‘Do they know we’re coming?’ she asked nervously.
‘I phoned before we left Melbourne,’ replied Cordelia. She patted Sophie’s hand. ‘There’s no need to be nervous, darling,’ she said softly. ‘I spoke to Jay and he’s looking forward to seeing you again.’
Sophie stared through the window, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. ‘You shouldn’t have sprung this on me, Gran,’ she said softly. ‘It wasn’t your decision to make.’ Yet to see him again was all she had wanted a few years ago. To talk to him, to ask him why he’d suddenly stopped writing. But they had both moved on, forged separate lives on opposite sides of the world. they might have been close once – now they would be strangers.
‘I’m sorry, Sophie. I didn’t realise how hard this would be for you,’ said Cordelia softly. ‘But Jay holds no grudges, so why can’t you?’
Sophie gasped, all the old anger and hurt rising to the surface. ‘He what?’ she demanded hotly. ‘He was the one who stopped writing, who didn’t bother to call and explain why. It was he who broke every promise he ever made – not me.’ Her hands were shaking as she scrabbled in her bag for a cigarette. It would be the first for more than a week, and as the nicotine poured into her system she rammed the gears into first and put her foot down on the accelerator. ‘I’ll give him no grudges,’ she muttered through the cigarette smoke as they passed beneath the wrought-iron arch.
‘I’d slow down if I were you,’ said Cordelia mildly. ‘You’re missing some lovely scenery.’
Bugger the scenery, Sophie thought. But she took a deep breath and decided it might be a good idea to compose herself, and after a quick glance, had to admit Coolabah Crossing was impressive.
Gum trees swayed in the warm breeze, sending dappled sunlight over the road. Freshly painted fences surrounded the fields on either side, where a string of magnificent horses cropped in the long grass. As they turned the last gentle curve in the road, the vista opened out and Sophie couldn’t help but gasp in delight. Sprawled along the crest of a low hill, the ochre bricks of the ranch-style bungalow were mellow in the sunlight against a backdrop of pine-covered mountains. A verandah swept its length, supported by graceful white columns and white iron latticework. Bougainvillaea splashed purple and pink against the red-tiled roof, and terracotta pots spilled feathery ferns along the verandah where comfortable cane furniture beckoned from the shade. A wattle tree drooped over the yard, its citrus yellow droplets almost touching the cinnamon red of the path which led around the house, and the lime of the pepper trees was in stark contrast to the darker green of the vine terraces that appeared to stretch into infinity.
‘Bit different to Jacaranda,’ she said grudgingly. She’d be damned if she’d let the old lady see she was impressed. She was still too cross with her.
‘The château at Ja
caranda was never really a home,’ replied Cordelia sadly. ‘It was too big and grand for that. But Jock wanted a status symbol to match his growing reputation as a successful vintner, so he pulled down the original house, built his monstrosity and once he’d filled it with expensive porcelain and fine art, it felt more like a museum.’ She sighed. ‘Nothing stays the same, does it? Even this place has changed beyond recognition. I remember when there was just a little wooden house on that hill – grand by early-twentieth-century standards but certainly not as prosperous-looking.’
*
Cordelia was lost in memories – not all of them happy. She had first come here with her mother just before the end of the Great War. They had travelled the long, winding roads between the Barossa and the Hunter in a horse and wagon, stopping at dusty outback hotels on the way where their fellow travellers were drovers and ringers, swagmen and fossickers. Cordelia had loved life on the open road – for surely Rose must have felt the same excitement, waking up each day not knowing what they would encounter, meeting strangers, seeing sights she would never have seen back at home? Yet this journey with Sophie had brought back so many memories. So many regrets.
She stared out over the verdant grazing pastures, but her eyes were focused on the past. She saw only the sturdy little clapboard house that had once stood on that hill sheltered by gums, and the people standing on the weathered verandah to welcome them.
Mother had been both nervous and excited, her hands tight on the reins of the matching greys as they’d trotted up the dirt road to the house. ‘The last time I came,’ she’d confided, ‘was with your great-grandmother.’
Cordelia remembered so well the way she’d looked across at her mother. She had never seen her look so pretty, so animated. ‘Why don’t they ever visit us?’ she’d asked. For the news that there was another branch of her family had come as a surprise when she’d first been told of the planned visit.
Her mother’s expression had darkened. ‘There was a family row,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Your grandmother wasn’t pleased when I told her about our journey, but great-granny Rose was delighted. The rift had grown too wide, you see, and she was glad someone was doing something before it was too late.’
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