‘You will.’ His stance was rigid, his face determined. ‘There’s enough evidence there to divorce you for adultery several times over. The scandal will finish you. Read the petition – it’s a way out, Irene. I should take it if I were you.’
She snatched up the divorce petition and read swiftly through it. Her hands were shaking as she put it back on the table. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she breathed.
‘Because I’ve had enough,’ he replied simply.
‘I assume this woman you spent the night with in Brisbane isn’t the same as the one you’ve really been screwing?’
He shook his head. ‘The private investigator set it up. His statement and the photographs he took are enough for you to divorce me for adultery.’
Irene knew he’d covered all the angles. She was trapped. Yet she needed time to think, to plan her next move. Changing tack, she decided to play on his sympathy. ‘But where shall I go?’ she said, her voice catching. ‘I’ll have no home, no–one to help me with the horses. Nothing.’ The tears were real enough, and she let them fall unheeded down her perfectly made–up face.
William drew a third document from the case on the chair. ‘I’m sure Arthur will help you. After all, he’s been very attentive.’ He threw the document on the table. ‘Those are the deeds to the property on the eastern borders of Deloraine. It’s yours. The land, stables, house – everything. But only if you sign the divorce papers and we come to a final agreement over the settlement.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But I warn you, Irene, it won’t be much. The money’s tied up in the trusts – and your own wealth will be taken into account.’
There was plenty of fight left in her, but she decided now was not the time. The investigator’s report hadn’t proved as thorough as she’d first thought. A great many of her assets were still hidden, and with clever accounting she could dispose of most of the rest. William would be made to pay – she’d see to that. ‘You seem to have thought of everything,’ she said, her voice flat.
‘I knew I needed to be thorough,’ he replied. His voice was regretful, his eyes sad. ‘I loved you, Irene. Thought we could achieve so much together. But all you’ve ever given me is lies and more lies and treated me like dirt.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll both be happier, and if you were honest for once, you’d admit you’ve been planning to leave for a while.’ His gaze was steady as he waved away her sharp interjection. ‘Enough, Irene. No more lies.’
Irene watched as he plucked his hat from the peg by the door and turned to leave. ‘Mother was right,’ she snapped. ‘Despite all your money, you are just a dirt farmer – and a lousy one at that.’
He turned in the doorway, the smile tinged with sadness. ‘Eva was certainly right when she warned me that marrying you could be the biggest mistake I would ever make,’ he said. ‘She told me what you were like. Said you were marrying me because you wanted to escape. Said you needed a man to help look after your horses. A man with money and land. A man so besotted he wouldn’t see you for what you really were until it was too late.’
He shook his head, the smile still playing around his lips. ‘I didn’t appreciate her warning at the time, but I soon became all too aware of how right she was.’ He sighed again. ‘I wish she was still around. I would have liked to see her again.’ He nodded and tipped the brim of his hat over his eyes. ‘I’m going to Brisbane for the stock sales. Sign the papers and get out before I come back. You have two weeks.’ His eyes were sad. ‘Goodbye, Irene.’
Irene waited until she heard the screen door slam behind him before she slumped down into the chair and stared into space. Her own mother had betrayed her. Bitch, bitch, bitch. How dare she tell William all those things. How dare she! Served her right if she died in agony – she only wished she’d been around to see her squirm.
She pushed the heated thoughts to the back of her mind and pondered her future. William had outwitted her for once. The timing was wrong, for Arthur had yet to leave his wife, and now she wondered if perhaps he’d been stringing her along all these years. Then there was the small matter of Justin and Sarah’s wedding. The scandal of a divorce now could ruin everything.
Irene’s tears were bitter as she screwed up the deeds to the outstation and flung them against the wall. It was a dump. A shelter used by the droving boss during round–up. A shack in the middle of nowhere with few redeeming features, that would probably blow down in a strong wind. The land was good grazing, but the stables and corrals hadn’t been fixed for years, and the thought of being exiled to this lonely outpost made her want to scream.
‘You alonga finish, missus?’
Irene snapped out of her thoughts and eyed the lubra in the doorway. She and the rest of the servants had probably heard the entire argument, and no doubt were sniggering in the kitchen. Irene picked up the teapot and flung it across the room. ‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘Get out, get out, get out!’
12
The church was full of friends, the scent of flowers heady in the English summer sun that streamed through the stained–glass windows. The music was soaring to the cantilevered rafters as Giles waited nervously for his bride.
Olivia looked wonderful in the flowing white gown, her beautiful face masked by drifts of almost ethereal lace. She came to stand beside him and they exchanged their vows. Then he reached for the veil, lifted it so he could at long last kiss his new wife.
Irene glared back at him. Her blood–red lips opened and she threw back her head as her victorious screech of laughter filled the church – and his head – chilling him to the bone.
Giles woke with a gasp of horror. He lay there in the soft, warm darkness, his pulse hammering, the sweat dewing his skin. The dream had seemed so real – so real he could have sworn he could still smell Irene’s perfume. But why such a dream? He’d met the woman once, and as he’d taken an instant dislike to her, he’d given her very little thought since their return from Deloraine.
The travelling clock ticked away the minutes as he lay there. Finally, impatient with his thoughts and the discomfort of his bed, he tossed the sheet aside and padded naked to the double doors leading to the verandah. The hinges complained as he opened them just enough to see through. But there was little air, and certainly no breeze coming off the sea to cool him. He ruffled his hair as he paced the room. It was stifling. The room closing in on him like the prison cell in Italy.
His thoughts returned to those two weeks of incarceration when the agony was overwhelming as his arm festered in the filth and flies of the Turin gaol. The long journey north was by train. The POW’s crammed in like sardines amongst the bewildered, frightened refugees. There had been nothing to drink and nothing to eat for two days, and the dead remained standing, for there was no room to fall. The stench of human waste, of fear and death still lingered – like Irene’s perfume. He’d survived by turning within himself. Survived by blocking out the pain, the fear, the sheer horror of what was happening around him, and focussing on Olivia and home.
Giles closed his eyes and took a deep, trembling breath. He was safe – far from the train, the prisoner of war camp and the terror of his escape. The months of fear of capture – the fear of not reaching the coast and the little boat that would take them across the channel, were behind him. He was on the other side of the world with the woman he loved. He was alive, with a good future ahead of him. There was no space in his life for those awful memories.
Turning from the window he snatched up the borrowed swimming trunks and struggled to pull them on. He wouldn’t sleep again tonight, but a swim might chase away the nightmare and put him in a better frame of mind.
With a towel over his shoulders he padded out of the bedroom and into the connecting lounge area to collect his cigars and lighter. He stilled. Olivia’s door was ajar and he could see the rumpled, empty bed.
‘Olivia?’ he called softly.
There was no reply and Giles looked at his watch. Five thirty
in the morning. There was only one place Olivia could possibly be. He picked up his smokes and lighter and headed out into the hall and down the stairs.
Giles stood on the gentle dune of sand that dipped towards the water and scanned the beach. There was no sign of Olivia, and he suspected she’d gone for a long walk. Olivia enjoyed walking and the exercise helped her to think. Giles found walking an utter bore unless it involved golf clubs – another pleasure denied him by his injury – and decided he preferred to perfect his swimming action rather than traipse all over the beach looking for Olivia, who probably didn’t want to see him anyway.
He dropped the towel and splashed into the sea. The water was cool, the sky a canopy of stars that were slowly fading in the first streaks of dawn. Giles floated on his back, his thoughts meandering, touching on the darker elements of his life before being tugged elsewhere. This was not the place or the time for those thoughts, he acknowledged. This was the time for plans, for the future – a future, perhaps, which might include Olivia.
He had no idea how long he’d been in the water, but when he began to shiver he realised it was time to get out. With chattering teeth he ran up the beach and grabbed his towel. Rubbing it briskly over his torso, he dried off as best he could and with the towel over his shoulders, sat in the sand and lit a cheroot.
The smoke drifted as the crickets chirruped and the tiny waves lapped at the shore. It was so still, so silent, and Giles could now understand why this place brought Olivia so much peace. For there was something primal about the sea that touched his soul – that calmed and soothed the troubles away. Perhaps it was the rhythm of those soft waves, which seemed to echo the steady beat of his pulse? Or perhaps it was the return to the womb – that dark, watery cradle of his creation?
He grinned at his own foolishness. It was certainly a night for profound thoughts.
The sound drifted to him along the beach. As insubstantial as mist, it disappeared. Yet it had sounded like a voice.
He listened for a moment, but came to the conclusion it was probably a bird in one of the trees. Then he heard it again, and knew he hadn’t been mistaken. Gathering his things, he began to walk towards the voices.
As he drew level with the beach houses he caught sight of the two women sitting in the sand. Their heads were together, their arms around one another – it sounded as if they were involved in an extremely intimate conversation.
Faltering, he eased into the twilight shadows of an overhanging palm tree. He felt intrusive, realising immediately that Olivia and Maggie would not wish to be interrupted. Turning back, he kept to the shadows and slipped through the alley between two houses.
His thoughts were racing as he hurried back to the hotel. What on earth did Maggie and Olivia have to talk about at this unearthly hour? And why the intimacy between them when they hardly knew one another? Olivia was reticent at the best of times, now it appeared she was pouring her heart out to a virtual stranger.
He shook his head. Women were a mystery.
*
Olivia had seen Giles approach and breathed a sigh of relief when he turned back and disappeared behind the houses. She had enough to contend with, without having to explain things to Giles. Not that she could explain, she thought as the chill of foreboding chased away the last of the night’s heat. For, how could she explain an intuitive dread? How to explain that sixth sense which came rarely, but with devastating insight that something was very wrong?
She shuddered as if icy fingers had run over her spine, but Maggie was too distraught to notice and Olivia kept her arm around the other woman’s shoulders, holding her, trying her best to console her even though she had no real idea of where Maggie’s story was leading.
She passed her a handkerchief once the sobs had turned to hiccups. ‘Feel better now?’ she asked.
Maggie nodded as she blew her nose and wiped away the last of her tears. ‘A bit,’ she admitted. ‘I’m sorry, Olivia. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you.’ She lifted her chin, her eyes still swimming with unshed tears. ‘But I couldn’t help it. Not after you told me Irene was your sister.’
Olivia battled with the impulse to snatch Maggie up and take her back to the hotel. Battled with the urge to run away before anything more was revealed. Yet she remained silent. Running away was no longer an option.
‘I still don’t see the connection,’ she murmured. ‘You went to the convent to find out about your father, and suddenly you’re here in Trinity getting in a state over the fact that Irene’s my sister.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie. But so far you haven’t made much sense.’
‘I was just eighteen when I went back to that convent,’ said Maggie after a long moment of silence. ‘I can still feel the chill of those marble floors, even now, and smell the incense they burned day and night.’
*
Maggie hesitated before pulling the wire cord that would ring the bell in the echoing hall. The inmates of this dreadful prison had not been allowed to use the front door except when they were rounded up and made to stand for hours in the quadrangle.
She blinked away the sharp images of her first day and grasped the iron pull. She was eighteen – a woman who had experienced a different kind of hell in the life outside these walls. She was no longer the little girl who could be cowed. No longer the child still confused and hurting from her father’s departure and having to face the cruelty of the Reverend Mother.
The door opened and Sister Claire’s face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Maggie,’ she exclaimed in her thick Irish brogue. ‘Is it yourself? And after such a long time.’
Maggie grinned back with relief that Reverend Mother was nowhere in sight. ‘How you goin’, sister? You look well.’
The little nun pulled a face. ‘Things are much the same,’ she said. ‘Only the heat seems to get worse.’ She opened the door wider and stood aside. ‘Come in, come in. I’ll make us a cup of tea and we can catch up on all the news.’
Maggie followed her through the vast entrance hall until they came to the door that led to the kitchen. It was strangely quiet. ‘Where are the children?’ she asked as Sister Claire filled the kettle and put it on the range.
‘All gone, my dear,’ she said sadly.
Maggie sat down with a thump. ‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘Some of the boys have been sent to a Catholic farm school in the Territories and the girls have gone to another place further south. Times are hard, my dear, and the church needs strong souls to carry on Our Lord’s work.’ She sat across the table from Maggie, her hands tucked inside the copious sleeves of her habit. ‘But we shall soon have more children to bring life to this place. There are so many in need of our care in these terrible times.’
Maggie thought about this as she sat there in the silent kitchen. What Sister Claire meant was using children as fodder to keep the place going. Using their labour, destroying their youth and sending them out to work where they could be abused and tormented. So much for the protection of a loving church, she thought bitterly.
Yet Sister Claire had always been kind and she found herself telling her about the job in the pub and her two years of travelling with Matt. She didn’t reveal she was alone again – it was too painful – and after all, she wasn’t seeking sympathy.
‘I came to see if there had been any word from Dad,’ she said finally. ‘And to pick up my papers. Matt and I couldn’t have a proper marriage ceremony without my birth certificate, and it makes it difficult when it comes to getting a proper job.’
Sister Claire’s eyes misted over and she remained silent for some moments before she pushed back her chair and walked to the range. Her back was turned to Maggie when she spoke. ‘There’s only one letter for you. It came almost three years ago. Reverend Mother has it in her office.’ She paused. ‘I’ll be after fetching it for you.’
‘And my birth certificate? Is that in there as well?’
&nb
sp; Sister Claire kept her back to Maggie, her head dipped, her stance rigid. ‘The records are in confusion,’ she said finally. ‘What with all the coming and going, we seem to have mislaid a great many over the years.’
Maggie pushed away from the table and went to stand by the nun. She put her hand on her shoulder and forced her to turn around. ‘Without those papers I don’t exist,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t get properly married. Can’t apply for a job, and can’t get the dole. What is it you’re hiding from me, Sister Claire?’
The little nun shook her head, the high spots of colour on her cheeks burning with the same feverish intensity as her eyes. ‘You’ll have to talk to Reverend Mother,’ she said, the words tripping one over the other in her haste to have done with the conversation. ‘I have no authority to go through the files.’
‘But I only left four years ago,’ Maggie persisted as the niggle of doubt wormed its way into her thoughts. Sister Claire was definitely hiding something. ‘You know how vital those papers are – how the hell could you lose them?’
She saw the little woman flinch and realised she was shouting. With a muttered apology, she tamped down on the frustration and anger by clenching her fists and turning away.
‘I’m sorry, my dear.’ The gentle hand on her shoulder was trembling. ‘Come with me. It’s better if Reverend Mother explains.’
Maggie took a deep breath and followed the little nun out of the room. The squirm of doubt had grown. She was suddenly a little girl again, waiting for the summons to Mother’s office. She felt her pulse begin to race, and she smeared her sweating palms down her cotton dress as they walked back through the hall to the highly polished oak door.
Sister Claire tapped lightly on the wood and entered, closing the door behind her. Moments later she was signalling for Maggie to join her.
Undercurrents Page 17
