Her head thumped, and her legs could barely support her, but it was amazing what a person could achieve if they worked at it hard enough, she thought as she pulled on the silk sweater and skirt Daisy had brought with her from the house. She struggled with her underwear and finally gave up on her bra and tights. Exhausted, she sat in the bedside chair and watched Daisy through the crack in the door. ‘I won’t go back with you,’ she muttered. ‘You can sit there all bloody day, but I’ll never let you boss me around.’
It was almost an hour later when Daisy eyed her sister’s hospital room, frowned and put her lunch wrappings back in her bag. Then, with one last hesitant look, she stood up and walked down the corridor.
Mary dragged herself to her feet, got to the door and looked out. She was just in time to see Daisy’s back as she disappeared around the corner. The adrenalin rush gave her the energy to hurry in the opposite direction.
Down the corridor, around a corner, then another. There had to be a lift somewhere. She had no bag and no money, not even a credit card. But with a bit of luck she could reach the Paramatta house before the alarm was raised – throw a few things in a bag – pick up her credit cards and go into hiding until it was time to return to Melbourne.
14
Sophie stood on the verandah. It was barely an hour past dawn but the sun was already suffusing the land with an extraordinary light which brought everything around her into glorious focus. The men had been gone since before dawn, their clatter and deep voices bringing her slowly awake. Now, in their absence, the peace and tranquillity were almost tangible.
Shoving her hands into the pockets of the jodhpurs she’d borrowed from Beatty – they were more practical out here in the long grass than shorts – she breathed in the scent of eucalyptus, freshly dewed grass and sweet wattle that hadn’t yet been smothered by the day’s heat. This was a long way from the city with its sweltering pavements, bustling crowds and forbidding tower blocks. Even further from the gloomy, grey London winter. And although she hadn’t visited Jacaranda château for many years, this place reminded her of its serenity, and the freedom to breathe and be herself – offered space and grandeur that no city could provide. If only Jay had kept his promise, she thought bitterly. Coolabah Crossing would have been a perfect place to raise a family.
Her thoughts soured by his broken promises she stepped down from the verandah and headed for the stables. At least his younger brothers had been welcoming, and last evening had been spent listening to their stories as they tried to outdo one another. She hadn’t believed half of it, but then the Aussie man could always tell a tale, and she’d played her part and thoroughly enjoyed herself.
Three of the brothers were almost identical, with the same dark hair and eyes, the same smile. The fourth was blond like his mother, with blue eyes and the long black lashes of his father, John Jay. He and Jay were the only bachelors, the only ones who still lived in the house on the hill with their parents and grandfather.
Sophie stopped walking and looked out over the home pasture. There was something about this place that was drawing her in. Perhaps it was the story of Rose that made it seem so familiar – or perhaps it was only her memories of Jay’s descriptions all those years ago? She watched a flock of rosellas swirl overhead before they settled in the pepper tree. Whatever it was, she thought, the magic had little to do with him.
She resumed her walk. The stables were over on the far side of the home paddock, well away from the house so the horseflies didn’t get indoors. Gran was still sleeping, which wasn’t surprising after last night, thought Sophie with a grin. She and Wal had been talking long after the rest of them had left or gone to bed, and although she couldn’t hear what was being said, she suspected Gran and Wal had a history. It was something in the way they looked at one another – something in the easy way they were in each other’s company. It was amazing how Gran could still surprise her.
The long grass swished against her boots, the fragrance drifting up to her as she made her way across the paddock. The intriguing split between the two sides of the family had so far not been explained, but she was fairly certain Gran would tell her before they returned to Melbourne. Gran never did anything without a purpose, and as Sophie already knew so much about Rose, it stood to reason that her grandmother would tell her the rest of the story.
The stables were clean and orderly, the yard swept clear of manure and straw. Inquisitive heads appeared over the half-doors, long eyelashes batting at the flies that had already begun to swarm. Sophie stroked the velvet noses and murmured to each of the horses as she passed. They were fine blood-stock, nothing like the hacks she’d sometimes hired back in London.
‘See you’ve made friends already. Do you ride?’ Beatty appeared around the corner of the stable block, water bucket in one hand, a bale of straw in the other.
Sophie retrieved the bale and carried it into an empty stall. ‘Not as much as I’d like. We had horses in Kent but the city hacks don’t really interest me, and I have so little time to ride I’ve sort of let it slip.’
‘Can’t have that,’ said Beatty firmly. ‘Come on. You can take old Jupiter out for a canter. He could do with the exercise – getting far too fat and lazy.’ She tossed Sophie a hat and proceeded to saddle an enormous black stallion who snorted and stamped and tossed his head as she fitted the bit and bridle. ‘Stand still, you old bugger,’ she said bossily. ‘You know this won’t hurt.’
Sophie chewed her lip. The stallion was at least eighteen hands, and obviously full of oats despite his greying whiskers. ‘I don’t know,’ she began.
‘Nonsense,’ said Beatty as she slapped the glossy black neck. ‘Quiet as a mouse once you get going. He’s just showing off. Up you get.’
Sophie was hoisted into the saddle. She grasped the reins, found the stirrups and fought to keep her balance as the stallion danced beneath her.
‘Talk to him, let him get used to you,’ ordered Beatty. ‘If he doesn’t do as he’s told, give him a touch of the whip to show him who’s boss. Enjoy your ride. Jay’s out there somewhere,’ she added vaguely as she returned to the stall and began to rake out the straw bedding. ‘Get him to show you around.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ muttered Sophie as she finally got Jupiter under control and they made a regal exit from the yard. ‘Come on, Jupiter. Let’s get some exercise.’
The stallion seemed to understand, and as they left the home paddock and headed for the horizon, he stretched his neck and broke into a gallop. Sophie leaned over the graceful neck, the sun in her face, the warm wind at her back. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed the horses in Kent or the freedom of being in the saddle on a bright, clear day.
The rhythm of the horse beneath her and the sheer joy of freedom and space made her forget Jay and her grandmother, even the troubles at Jacaranda. If only life could always be like this.
They eventually slowed to a walk, the horse’s great lungs heaving like organ pumps, the sweat drying in salty foam on his neck. She turned his head and made for a stand of box and red bloodwood eucalyptus. Sliding from the saddle, she led Jupiter through the trees to the small stream she’d spotted. Birds chattered overhead, flies buzzed and crickets sawed in the humid green glow of the leafy canopy.
She knelt beside the horse and they both drank from the cold, clean mountain water that trickled through clumps of spinifex and giant grey boulders. Then, with Jupiter happily grazing in the undergrowth, Sophie leaned against the rough bark of a red bloodwood, tipped the bush hat over her eyes and settled down to listen to the birds.
‘You’ll get bit,’ warned a deep familiar voice.
Sophie realised she must have dozed off for the sun was already high above her and as she sat up the hat fell over her face, the leather strap catching in her hair where she’d let it loose. She wrestled with it, teeth gritted as she heard Jay chuckle.
‘You’re only making it worse. Here, let me help you.’
Seething and embarrassed, she tried one la
st time to free herself, but her anger was short-lived as she felt the warmth of his fingers on her hands. She snatched them away, the breath coming fast as Jay knelt before her. He was too close for comfort, his eyes dark in that tanned face, and she became fascinated by the tiny scar at the edge of those black brows which she’d never noticed before. He needed a shave and his shirt had lost a button. She looked away, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. Afraid of another rejection.
His own breathing was ragged as he finally freed her. ‘There. No harm done.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured. She took back the hat, mesmerised by him as he knelt so close. The tension was tangible; so much electricity sparked between them, that even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have moved away.
She flinched as he reached out and stroked her hair. ‘I’m glad you’ve never had it cut,’ he said softly. ‘It’s so beautiful.’
Sanity fled. She was trapped like a butterfly in a web as his eyes held hers and his hand drew her close. Their breath mingled and their lips were a whisper apart. Despite all that had happened, she wanted him to kiss her. Wanted his lips on hers again, his arms around her.
Then she remembered the promises he’d broken and the way he’d just stopped writing – remembered how he’d simply put her to one side and forgotten about her. ‘Stop!’ she said hoarsely, struggling away from him and clambering to her feet. ‘I can’t do this.’
He stood there with his hands at his sides, his dark eyes full of mocking laughter. ‘But I thought …’
‘Well, you thought wrong,’ she snapped as she grabbed the reins and clambered back into the saddle. It was easier to face him now she was high above him. Easier now she was on the verge of escape. How dare he laugh at her? Didn’t he have one ounce of feeling in that testosteronefuelled body of his? ‘Don’t follow me, Jay,’ she warned as he reached for his horse. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’
*
Cordelia was sitting in the shade of the verandah, watching the activity in the home paddock and admiring the mares and foals. With their silken coats and long, delicate legs, they were fine specimens. Beatty certainly knew her business. These were no half-tame droving ponies but pure-bred racehorses.
She leaned back in the cushions and sipped from the glass of lemonade Beatty had brought her earlier. Sophie still hadn’t returned from her ride and Jay was nowhere to be seen, which augured well. Wal was out somewhere on his old nag.
Silly old fool, she thought fondly. He’ll fall off and break his bloody neck one of these days. But at least he’s still capable of getting on a horse. Despite his old war wound and stiff knee, he didn’t have useless bloody legs that let him down. She eyed her own feet with disgust. Her ankles were swelling with the heat.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture how this place must have been all those years ago when Rose and Otto had first settled here. She remembered how it had looked back in the twenties, with the old wooden house on the hill that Rose had said was freezing in winter and a hothouse in summer. The terraces hadn’t spread quite as far then, for the land was still mostly bush, and of course the stables were merely a series of corrugated tin shelters.
Cordelia smiled as she recalled how Rose had told her of Otto’s enthusiasm which had swept her along and taught her so much. But despite Rose’s cheerful account of her time here, Cordelia had sensed the years had been hard. They had seen many changes in this once untamed colonial outpost, not least of all in Rose herself.
*
The year was 1847 and Rose was twenty-three. The years of working in the terraces and helping to clear the scrub had taken their toll. She had been delivered of four children, but none of them had lived long enough to draw breath. Now she was in the last stages of her fifth labour and Otto could be heard pacing the hall outside. The atmosphere in the room was tense.
‘Where’s the doctor, Muriel? Why doesn’t he come?’ Rose panted as another pain gripped her and made her cry out.
Lady Fitzallan, who had moved to Coolabah Crossing after her son Henry had died of a snake bite, shook her head, her grey eyes glancing worriedly towards the door. ‘I sent one of the boys to fetch him but he’s out with another patient. He’ll come as soon as he can, my dear. Try and hold on.’
‘I can’t. I need him now,’ screeched Rose as the pain tore through her and she felt the urgent need to push.
Muriel Fitzallan moaned fretfully, then seemed to pull herself together and became the efficient bustling little person Rose and Otto had grown to love. ‘If you want to push, then do it,’ she ordered. ‘But easy, easy.’
Rose gritted her teeth, grabbed hold of the ornate carved posts at the head of the preposterous bed and bore down. ‘Please let this one be born alive,’ she panted. ‘Please, God. Please.’
The baby was impatient to be born and slid from her into Muriel’s capable hands. ‘There!’ she said with triumph as she cut the cord and slapped the tiny bottom. The newborn’s cries trembled in the air as Muriel deftly cleaned eyes and mouth and swaddled it in a clean cloth. ‘It’s a girl, Rose. A healthy girl who’s very much alive.’
Rose’s tears were of joy and relief, of triumph and thankfulness as she cuddled her precious, red-faced baby. Then without warning another pain ripped through her and she arched back into the pillows. ‘What’s happened?’ she yelled, terrified something had gone wrong and she was about to die.
‘Merciful heaven, Rose, there’s another one!’ shouted Muriel who stood flushed with excitement at the other end of the bed. She snatched the baby away and unceremoniously dumped her squawling in the basket on the floor before returning to help Rose.
She felt the urge to push again, and as she bore down a second little life slithered from her. There was a long silence. Although she was exhausted, she propped herself up to see what was happening. Her pulse raced and dread lay cold upon her. She’d heard that grim silence before. Knew what it meant.
Muriel Fitzallan was hastily clearing the second baby’s mouth and nose, then she held it up by the feet and sharply rapped its bottom. There was no answering cry. The colour left her face and her mouth fixed itself in a determined line as she tried again. Still no sign of life.
Rose burst into tears but Muriel seemed determined to defy fate. Without a word she plunged the newborn baby into the bucket of iced water she’d used to keep Rose cool during labour. As she brought it out, dripping and blue, the baby’s tiny chest expanded and the first explosive yell filled the room to join that of her sister.
‘She’s alive,’ Muriel breathed. ‘Thank God, she’s alive.’ She turned back to Rose, the yelling baby held high. ‘Rose,’ she declared proudly, ‘you have twin girls.’
Otto must have been listening for he tore into the room then and almost fell to his knees beside the bed as he looked from one squalling baby to the other. ‘We haf two babies?’ he said with such awe and disbelief that both Rose and Muriel burst out laughing.
‘Too right,’ said Rose proudly as Muriel placed both babies in her arms. The fear was over, the pain forgotten. There was no need for tears any more. ‘This is Emily,’ she said snuggling the first born. ‘And this,’ she said, kissing the soft, downy head, ‘is Muriel.’ She looked up at the stoic little woman who had become more of a mother to her than hers ever was. ‘That’s if you don’t mind?’ she added.
Muriel touched the soft cheek of the nestling baby with one trembling finger, the tears coursing down her face. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she whispered. ‘It’s an honour.’ She sniffed and pulled her handkerchief from her waistband to blow her nose. ‘They are the nearest I will ever have to grandchildren, and I’ve already come to think of you as a daughter. Dear Rose. Dear Otto.’ She hurried out of the room, the power of speech failing her for the first time in her life.
Otto made the great bed dip and sway as he sat down and put his arms around his tiny wife and even tinier babies. ‘Now ve are true family,’ he said proudly. ‘And I promise you, Rose, that one day ve vill have the best wine
in Australia.’
*
Cordelia surfaced from her thoughts to see Sophie striding down the path towards her. There was something about her that told her grandmother all was not well. There was anger in her stride, and a defiance in the set of her head. Cordelia sighed. It could only mean she and Jay had not patched up their differences. Perhaps this called for more drastic measures?
‘Enjoy your ride?’ she asked with deliberate innocence.
Sophie gave her a peck on the cheek and slumped into the chair next to her. ‘Jupiter was wonderful,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And the scenery was fantastic.’
‘But?’ Cordelia eyed her with a mixture of exasperation and affection.
Sophie took her time to drink the last of the lemonade, her face carefully neutral. ‘I’d have preferred to be on my own,’ she said finally.
The silence grew and Cordelia waited for the outburst she knew would come. It didn’t take long.
‘He’s got the cheek of Old Nick,’ she exploded. ‘There I was, minding my own business, and he comes along and tries …’ She took a deep breath and bit her lip. ‘He must think I’m stupid,’ she finished lamely.
‘Perhaps he just wants to make up for whatever happened between you,’ said Cordelia mildly. She was trying hard not to smile. It was obvious Sophie was more furious with herself than with Jay.
‘A bit late for that, Gran,’ she muttered. ‘Years of silence can’t be made up for with a quick grope.’
Cordelia raised an eyebrow and sipped from her glass to hide the twitching of her lips. Things were looking promising. ‘What exactly is it you’re objecting to, Sophie?’ she said quietly. ‘Jay’s obviously heavy-handed attempt at reconciliation or your own unwillingness to reject it?’
‘It wasn’t heavy-handed,’ she retorted. ‘In fact, it was rather romantic.’ She looked away, the colour rising in her face as she realised how this must have sounded. ‘You’re right,’ she said after a long silence. ‘I’m furious with myself for letting him get to me again.’
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