The children were tired, but happy. They chattered to Mrs. Price, telling her all the details about what we had discovered that day. I was glad I had suggested it. Despite the sadness of looking at the old house and the graveyard, it had connected them with the station’s history. It was important, to me. And, of course, it had been good to spend time with them, after everything they had been through.
It had also been good to spend time with Bianca. She was intriguing me further, the more time that we spent together. There was an overwhelming physical attraction between us, but there was more than that. She had been so interested in the history of the station, which was a far cry from Jo. Jo had never expressed any interest; she had hated this place.
Bianca was an intelligent, sensitive woman. A wonderful woman. I could see that we could have a relationship, if I let it happen. But did I want that? I was still trying to get over Jo. And Bianca had been adamant that this was a temporary arrangement. She wanted to go back to the States, re-establish her business there. This was just a means to an end for her.
Still. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
I found her on the veranda that night. I didn’t stop to question why I sought her out; I just knew that something was compelling me.
She was staring at the stars, but I could tell she had heard me approach.
“It’s so vast, out here,” she whispered. “I have never seen a bigger sky. And the land! It’s brutal, but beautiful.”
“It sounds like it’s getting under your skin,” I said, staring at her, entranced.
She laughed. “Maybe it is,” she said. “I can see why people battle it out here, now.”
“I love a sunburnt country,” I said. She looked at me, quizzically.
It was my turn to laugh. “It’s a quote, from a poem,” I explained. “A famous poem, by a woman called Dorothea McKellar. All Australian children learn it at school. It’s about the contradictions of the land, its harshness but also its magic.”
“Can you remember it?” She was smiling.
“Not all of it,” I said. “It has a few verses. But I can remember the most famous verse.” I squinted my eyes, trying to remember. I had learnt it by heart, all those years ago.
“I love a sunburnt country,” I began. “A land of sweeping plains. Of ragged mountain ranges, of droughts and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel sea. Her beauty, and her terror. The wide brown land for me.” I bowed, a bit self-consciously.
She clapped, her eyes shining. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “I never would have picked you for a poetry lover.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I whispered. The air was suddenly charged with tension.
And then, we were kissing. I don’t know who started it; it was like we fell into each other.
Compelling. Undeniable.
“Shall we go inside?” I whispered. She slowly nodded.
Zane
He led me through the dark house. My hand felt heavy where he held it.
What was I doing? This was madness. My boss was leading me to his bed. And all because he had recited a verse of some old poem. I shook my head. I knew better than that. Yes, the poem had touched me, in some deep place I had no idea existed. But it was more than that. Much more.
And then, we had arrived. His bedroom. I tried to still my nervousness, but I could feel myself shaking.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, trailing kisses down my neck. They burnt, as if he were branding me.
I forced myself to ignore the trembling that had started to rack my body as he carefully undid each button on my shirt. But the touch of his hands against my bare skin as the garment slid to the floor sent another wave of shivers through me.
Zane leant back, looking at me with narrowed eyes. He reached behind and nimbly unclasped the hook on my bra, letting my breasts fall out. I felt my nipples harden beneath his intense scrutiny.
“You’re magnificent,” he breathed, easing me backwards, bringing his mouth to my nipples. He latched onto one, softly suckling until I felt myself arch my back. Fierce waves of desire coursed through me. I could hear myself moaning, as if my voice belonged to someone else.
My hands explored his chest beneath his shirt, finding his nipples, rubbing them with my fingertips. He groaned.
Suddenly, he broke contact and started shedding his own clothes. I caught his urgency, and slid out of my skirt. Then we embraced. I could feel him against my thigh, fully aroused. I needed to feel him; I clasped his cock in my hand, drawing groans of appreciation from him. We were kissing frenziedly now; tongues barbing against each other. I was vaguely aware he was removing my panties.
He found my center, and gently caressed it with his fingers. I felt a surge of wetness as his pressure increased. Then he pushed me gently onto the bed. I watched him, through narrowed eyes, above me. He was beautiful; I had never felt such desire before. He was rough, but tender at the same time. It was a heart stopping combination. I could see him fumbling for a condom in his bedside draw, waiting impatiently.
He turned me around, and then he was inside me. It was unbearable. I started to back against him, unable to stop myself. He started thrusting, moaning softly. He was quickening, and I matched his rhythm. I felt it building within me, the sweetness of relief. Yes, no. I wanted to put it off, as much as I longed for it.
I could hear from Zane’s groans that he was close, too. There was no need for finesse. It was primal, and urgent. His hand had snaked around to me, and was picking up in intensity to match his thrusts.
The relief when it came was mind blowing. Little pinpricks of light seemed to flash before my eyes as the sensations overwhelmed me. I could hear him reaching his own climax behind me, his groans reaching fever pitch.
And then, it was over. I collapsed onto the bed, shivering in the aftermath. He collapsed on top of me, panting heavily. He turned me over, gazing into my eyes. “That was fantastic,” he whispered, stroking my thigh gently. “Unexpected, but fantastic.” He chuckled silently. “Maybe I should learn some more poetry.”
I punched him on the arm, lightly. “It’s the way to a woman’s heart, don’t you know,” I remarked, smiling. But inside, I was unsure. What did this mean? Was it a one off, or – more horrifying to consider – did Zane do this with every nanny? Was it an unwritten part of the job description?
I had never been into casual sex. Jesus, I had only had one lover in my life, before now. I didn’t give myself over to romantic entanglements easily. Which was why I was a bit shocked at how quickly this had happened. I had never felt such an overwhelming attraction before.
This place. This man. Something magical was occurring, but I had no point of reference for it. No compass to point me the right way. And beyond that, I had a sneaking suspicion that Zane was probably not ready for a relationship. He was still in the aftermath of a messy divorce, wasn’t he?
I didn’t want to be his rebound affair. But then, I didn’t know what the hell I wanted, anymore. My life was all over the place. A failed business, a new country, and now sex with my new boss.
And that’s when I saw it. On his bedside table. A framed picture of Zane and his ex-wife, on their wedding day. She was beautiful; no, I corrected, myself, she is beautiful. She isn’t dead. She had long golden hair, just like Poppy’s. Big blue eyes, like Harper’s. And did I see Max’s heart shaped face?
Zane was gazing down at her, while she looked at the camera. His eyes were overflowing with love, and there was a tender smile on his face. That picture told me I all I needed to know. I hadn’t seen any photos of her around the house, not even in the children’s rooms. But he still kept a photo of them both on his bedside table, where he could see it. It would be the first thing he saw in the morning when he woke, and the last before he closed his eyes at night to go to sleep.
I didn’t think that a man who had fallen out of love with his first wife would display such a photo. Zane still loved her, that was obvious.
H
e saw me looking at it. He sighed, but didn’t say anything. My heart constricted.
“Well.” I got up, gathering my clothes. “I should get to my own room.”
“Bianca…” His voice trailed away, as he watched me dress. What more was there to say?
It had been a stupid mistake, a monumental error of judgment on my part. Zane had seen his chance, and taken it. The silly, naïve nanny falling to pieces over the verse of some old poem. As if any man would say no.
He didn’t stop me. He didn’t say a goddamn thing. He just watched me walk out of the room, closing the door behind me.
As soon as I got to my own room, with the door safely closed, I sagged. The tears which I had held in as soon as I saw that photo gushed out. I sobbed, burying myself into my pillow.
I thought of the wonderful day we had just shared, talking about his family history. I had felt so close to him; had seen the passion he had for Birrimba, and those who had built it. And then, tonight. Sweet words about the love he had for his country, his home. Had he confused that passion, just a little bit? Seen that I was there, obviously willing and able. Had I misread everything?
As I drifted off to sleep, sobbing quietly now, I resolved that this had to stop. I couldn’t stay here. I would see things through past Halloween, then I would leave. Go back to my real life, such as it was.
“You read the gravestone?”
I was talking with George, the next day. A catch up about the Halloween party. He was eager to hear about the excursion to see the ruins of the first house, and the old graveyard. And I was eager to distract myself from the terrible mistake that I had made with Zane last night.
“Yes,” I answered, pushing thoughts of Zane aside. “It was Florence’s grave. And her daughter’s, I presume. A two-year-old named Violet.”
“Interesting.” George stood up, going to the bookcase. He ran his hands over some books, before locating the one he was after. “Aha. Got it. When you asked the other day about the history of the station, I suddenly remembered this book. I haven’t looked at it before.” He extracted the book, passing it to me.
I looked down at it. It was an old book, called A History of Birrimba. A very old sepia toned photo of the homestead adorned its cover.
“Maybe there’s some information about Florence and Violet in there,” George said. “Go on, take it. A bit of bedside reading. I can tell you’re fascinated by the history.”
I ran my hand down the gilt-edged spine of the book. Why not? It would pass the time until I left, along with Florence’s journal, of course. I had to admit the story was drawing me in. I wanted to know more.
“I’m thinking we can use this,” continued George, tapping his pen against his notepad. “For the scavenger hunt. We could leave clues in the old ruins, and the graveyard. They’re not so far away, and the guests will have lanterns.” His eyes were shining. “It’s perfect! Ready-made spooky places to decorate and scare people. It will be like a ghost tour.”
I smiled. His enthusiasm was infectious. “Have you ever thought about quitting your day job and becoming a party planner?” I teased. “Or maybe a ghost tour guide. I think you might have found your true calling, George!”
He grinned. “I just enjoy organizing things,” he said. “Talking of which, have you tried on the old gown? Time is ticking.”
I sighed. “Not yet,” I said. “But I should get to it; it might need some alterations. That’s if it fits me, of course. It looks like the right size, but who knows? And let’s not forget it might start to break apart the minute I try it on. The dress is ancient.”
“Even more reason to try it soon,” he said. “Just in case you need to make something else.”
I smiled, then stopped. What did it really matter? I was putting all my effort into creating this party and Halloween for the kids, but who really cared if I dressed up or not? I was only the nanny, after all. Was I even allowed to mingle with the guests?
“The staff are welcome at the party,” George said, as if he had read my thoughts. “I checked. Mr. Connelly said that we were all welcome. He is going to hire some people from town to be the waiters for the evening.”
Mr. Connelly. The big boss. I saw now that is where I had made my first mistake. I had been over familiar from the beginning, calling him by his first name. And it had progressed way beyond that. I could still feel his hands on my body, making me melt like molten liquid…
I stood up, grabbing the book. I needed to distract myself. “Okay, I’m going to try on this dress,” I said. It was now, or never. Halloween was only a few days away.
The dress billowed slightly in the breeze where it was propped over a chair in the corner of my bedroom. I gazed at it, wondering how on earth I was going to wear it.
Oh, it fitted perfectly. I wouldn’t have to make any adjustments. It had been so well made, it had stood the test of time. Some slight fraying at the neck, and the hemline, were the only damage I could find.
It was late at night, and I had been reading for hours, unable to stop. Florence’s journal, and the book about Birrimba’s history. I knew now what had happened, and it wasn’t a happy story. In fact, it had made me cry. But then, I was feeling a bit lost and lonely anyway. Broken hearted.
Violet had indeed been Florence’s daughter. She had died in the fire at the old homestead. In her journal, Florence had described the desperate efforts to get to her, before they had been defeated by flames. She had only been two years old.
It had broken Florence’s heart, of course. She had battled on with her husband, starting over; building a new house, and having two more children. But the history of the homestead said she never recovered from the loss. One day, she walked from the house, and didn’t return. They found her body days later.
There was an old photograph, in the history book. A beautiful woman, in the lace dress that was now on the chair. And by her side, a little girl, with ringlets, clutching a porcelain doll. The same doll that Harper had claimed, which she had named Dora.
So sad. How could I wear the dress, knowing what had happened? I knew it was all ancient history. Florence and Violet would be well dead by now, anyway, even if their lives hadn’t been cut short by tragedy. It was the circle of life, after all.
Maybe I would just forget it, make my excuses and not even go to the party. Why would Zane want me there, anyway? I hadn’t even seen him today. And I assumed he was down the hallway, in his bedroom. He hadn’t made any attempt to talk to me, to reassure me. Nothing.
No, I wouldn’t go. And as soon as the night was over, I would make plans to leave Birrimba once and for all. Leave her sad history and my broken heart behind, forever. For I knew now what I had been trying to deny: I was in love with Zane. But he couldn’t love me. He was still in love with his ex-wife.
And I loved this place. I knew its history, and the land. Zane had been right: it had gotten under my skin. God knows, I even loved the children.
But I had to leave. For as much as I wanted to, I didn’t belong here.
Zane
I sipped my first cup of coffee for the day as I leaned against the veranda railing, trying to arrange my scattered thoughts.
The kids had been up early, bursting with excitement. Well, it had finally come. Halloween. Bianca had done such a brilliant job at rousing their enthusiasm for the event. The excitement was almost on a par with Christmas, their birthdays and Easter. I shook my head in amazement, at all she had accomplished in such a short time.
The old house was decorated with cotton wool cobwebs and skeletons, hanging from every doorway. A huge jack o’ lantern, which she had carved the day before, took pride of place in the living room. I had seen her yesterday, going to all the men’s quarters, doling out lollies to them to give to the children when they came trick or treating.
The costumes she had made for them were fantastic. No detail had been missed. I had even seen a grudging smile on Mrs. Price’s face when she had seen them.
And tonight, of course, was the bi
g party. George and Bianca had had their heads together for days, arranging it all. There was going to be special entertainment, but they wouldn’t reveal what it was. I was in the dark the same as everybody else.
I could hear her laughing, from the kitchen, at something Max had said. It was nothing short of astounding how she had turned the kids’ opinion of her around. I believed that they were starting to love her, even Max.
But what wasn’t to love? She was an amazing woman, that much was obvious. Smart, talented and full of life. A catch, as my mother would have said. A woman that any man in his right mind would be crazy to let slip through his fingers. Especially when that woman and man had such an electric sexual connection. She matched me, there was no other way to describe it. Even now, my heart started pounding at the thought of her naked, moaning, in my arms.
Why couldn’t I go to her, this minute, and tell her that? Get down on my knees, and plead for forgiveness. For having fucked up things between us. For having let her walk out that night, after we had made love, without trying to stop her. For not talking to her since then.
I knew what she was feeling. I saw the devastated look on her face, when she had seen the photo of Jo and I on our wedding day. She thought that I was still in love with Jo. But it was way more complicated than that. It was so complicated I didn’t even know the truth of it, anymore.
But one thing I did know was that it was time to let go. Of the past, of Jo, of our marriage. I had been hanging onto it without even realizing. I had told myself that I was over it, but it wasn’t true. A part of me had wanted to return to our marriage, for things to be how they were. Even while I knew that it was impossible, that it was never going to happen. The marriage had been over long before Jo had met Billy Baker. That had been a symptom of our problems, not the cause.
I watched Bianca through the kitchen window. She was so beautiful. Could I go to her now, and tell her? But she was busy with the children. Today was going to be madness. No, I would wait for tonight, at the party. I would find her alone, and tell her how I felt. What she meant to me.
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