‘But you stayed on, Maggie.’ Olivia tucked Maggie’s hair behind her ears and cupped her face. ‘You’re braver than I. The first sign of hostility and I ran away.’
Maggie shrugged. ‘She doesn’t come down to the house very much,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve only seen her a couple of times since. We don’t speak, and certainly never acknowledge one another.’
‘Do you think that story about the rape is true?’
Maggie squinted into the sun. ‘Who knows? Who cares? Irene’s the only one with the answers, and she’s such a vindictive bitch, how could I believe anything she said after that?’
‘If only Jessie was still around,’ murmured Olivia.
‘Who’s Jessie?’
‘Someone who would have had all the answers and would have told us the truth,’ said Olivia with a sigh. ‘But it’s too late. She died some time ago, and I suspect the truth died with her.’
Maggie’s smile was tremulous as she gave Olivia a hug. ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ she said. ‘We’ve found each other – that’s the important thing.’ With a giggle, she swiped away the last tear from her cheek. ‘How does it feel to be an aunt, Olivia? Not too crook, I hope?’
Olivia licked dry lips and forced herself to remain composed. Yet the breath was trapped in her throat and all she could do was shake her head.
*
Sam eased away from the house and quietly made his way back along the alley and up the sandy lane. His thoughts were whirling, his pulse racing so fast he was finding it hard to breathe.
Slamming through the side door he ignored the yells from the dining room, the smell of burning toast and the screeches of the fighting kitchen maids. He reached for the telephone. He needed some advice – and quick.
13
Irene put down the receiver and stood deep in thought. Things were going from bad to worse. In fact, she realised, they had started to deteriorate when that little tart, Maggie, had turned up out of the blue.
She lit a cigarette and tried to put her thoughts into some kind of order. Her sleep had been disturbed by strange dreams, and the awful heat had made it impossible to remain in bed. Now, in the light of that telephone call, she knew there would be many sleepless nights to follow.
She began to pace the shadowy corridor. Her gaze flickered over the valuable oil paintings that lined the walls, and the china ornaments William’s grandmother had collected over the years. Her feet were silent on the Persian runner that glowed with warm colour despite its age. She was tempted to snatch the lot and find a buyer down in Sydney, but knew she’d never get away with it. The Stanford collection was well documented and William had catalogued everything, the provenance safely tucked away somewhere she’d yet to discover – and without that she didn’t have a hope in hell.
She stubbed out her cigarette in an exquisite Meissen dish, turned on her heel and wandered back the way she’d come. Deloraine homestead had begun life as a two–roomed wooden shack in the middle of nowhere. It was still isolated by at least two days’ drive to the nearest neighbour, but as the years went on and children were born, the succeeding generations of Stanfords added on to the building. Now it was a labyrinthine collection of corridors and rooms, which eventually led to the wrap–around verandah. Tall, narrow, double doors led to this verandah, where, in the summer, when escape to the coast was impossible because of the stock round–ups, the inhabitants slept on iron bedsteads.
Irene eventually came to the bedroom she’d shared with William for more years than she cared to remember. She stood in the doorway, hands deep in her pockets as she looked around. William’s closet was open as usual, the shirts and trousers spilling out. His spare riding boots were stuffed beneath the Queen Anne boudoir chair, and his hairbrush had been thrown on to the bed. It had taken a good deal of money to get the four–poster all the way out here, and the drapes had been hand–made down in Sydney. Yet the place had an air of neglect – a dusty, forlorn look about it, and Irene realised for the first time it was indicative of her marriage.
Impatient with her meandering thoughts, she pushed open the double doors and stepped on to the verandah. Screened in to keep the flies at bay, it was cooled by ceiling fans and a collection of tropical plants. Cane screens divided the whole into sections to give privacy to those sleeping out. Tables and chairs were placed in cosy groups and a gas refrigerator hummed in the corner, cooling the drinks. The beds had been made up some time ago, for the heat was rising and it was already too hot to sleep indoors.
She slumped down on a bed and leaned back against the wooden wall as she stared through the foliage out to the yard. The men were drafting off the bullocks and the dust was rising in a great sepia cloud as the Queensland Blues barked and the men cracked their stockwhips. Grey gallahs were circling, blue and yellow parakeets were squabbling, and the sulphur crested cockatoos were lording it high in the gum trees. At night, all would be still but for the chirruping crickets and the grazing grey wallabies that ventured into the grassy compound surrounding the homestead. Bats would fly from their roosts, silhouetted against the moon, and the cane toads would trumpet their bass calls.
Irene sighed. Some of the men had already left to begin repairs on the manager’s house, and she had made a start on the packing. It was strange to think this could be the last time she’d sit here. Strange to realise that now it was denied her, Deloraine meant far more than she’d ever suspected.
She reached for her cigarettes, found the packet was empty and crushed it before throwing it hard against the fly screen. An empty packet. An empty life. Things weren’t supposed to turn out like this, she thought bitterly. Yet fate seemed determined to vanquish any of her plans – to keep her on the sidelines, and isolate her from the things she most desired.
‘It’s not fair,’ she breathed. ‘Why the hell should it always be me that’s punished?’
Pushing away from the wall, she stood and tucked the checked shirt into the waistband of her moleskins and took a deep breath. Life seemed to have the habit of thwarting her, regardless of any plans she might have, but at least this way she’d be free of William. Free to come and go as she pleased. Free to begin again. It would just take time and patience – and that was the hardest part, for Irene acknowledged her tolerance level was minimal.
She left the verandah and stepped back into the bedroom. Dragging two large cases from the top of the wardrobe, she began emptying drawers and cupboards. The maids had been instructed in the art of packing her precious china, silver and crystal, and there were already crates and boxes stacked on the back verandah. The tack would go with the horses once the new stables were finished.
Her mind was working furiously as she automatically folded her clothes and packed them neatly in the cases. Shoes and boots were stacked in their boxes and would go in the crate with the linen. She would buy new furniture and kitchen utensils in Cairns and charge them to William’s account. He couldn’t be allowed to get away without paying for something.
With her clothes packed, she stripped the expensive bed of its linen, took down the drapes and carried the bundle out to the kitchen to be laundered. It could be packed with the rest of the linen – they had cost too much to be left behind. The bed could stay – it would only remind her of William, and that was the last thing she needed.
She wandered from room to room and collected the silver photograph frames, the bronze horses and her riding trophies. Then she gathered up the photo albums and returned to the denuded bedroom, where she spread them out on the bed.
Most of the albums were very old, relicts of a different era that had been left behind when Eva and Olivia sailed for England. The faces meant nothing to her and she stacked these albums on one side to be thrown out. The newer albums were covered in tooled leather, the shiny paper protecting each page still crisp and smooth to the touch. Irene stretched out on her stomach, her ankles crossed like a child as she slowly turned the pa
ges.
Here were Mother and Father, smiling happily as they stood in front of that pretentious house in Melbourne. Father was handsome, she realised, with his beard and moustache and wide, brown eyes. He was tall and strongly built, his hand square and capable as it rested on Mother’s shoulder. Mother was tiny beside him, and she remembered Eva telling her that Frederick could encircle her waist with his fingers when they’d first married.
Irene stared at the photograph. Eva’s apparent frailty was deceptive, for there had been few occasions that Irene could remember, when Eva had shown any sign of being overwhelmed by circumstances. She ran the house and the servants with a no–nonsense approach, survived Father’s long absences by keeping herself busy with committees and lady’s circles, and had become a driving force for numerous charities. Tiny, she might have been, but beneath that veneer of feminine frailty lay a core of steel. Her glare had been enough to stop anyone in their tracks if Eva disapproved of their behaviour, and her utter belief that she was right in everything made her difficult to argue with.
Irene pushed the album aside and rolled on to her back. Things had begun to go wrong shortly after her seventeenth birthday. Father was on the point of leaving for yet another surveying trip, and as June turned into July, Irene realised she was in deep trouble.
*
It was harsh, that winter of 1914. The wind was icy, the rain torrential as it swept in from The Bass Straits and tore up the Yarra. The news of war in Europe merely emphasised the bleakness, and the men were already leaving to enlist, spurred on by a national euphoria that sometimes verged on the hysterical.
Irene felt the wind buffet her as she tucked her chin in the fur collar of her coat and held on to her hat. At least the rain had stopped, but the warmth of her lover’s bed was long forgotten as she struggled to keep her balance on the slippery pavement, and watch for a passing taxi. Her thick tweed skirt was long and tight, making it impossible to run, and the narrow heels of her leather boots kept catching the roughly laid cobbles.
If she wasn’t careful she’d twist her ankle and fall, she thought grimly as a passing motorcar drove through a puddle and splashed a fine spray on to the path in front of her. And yet that might be a good thing – a fall – would solve all her problems.
She hurried on as the rain returned and began to slash the wind, her thoughts flitting from one possibility to another as her boot heels rapped out a tattoo on the cobbles and her long skirt and dainty hat became sodden. The imposing house finally came into view, and she hurried up the short flight of white steps to the colonnaded front door. She was about to slot the key in the latch when Jessie snatched the door open.
‘Get in out of the rain, you silly girl,’ the woman scolded. ‘It’ll be the death of you one day, running about in all weathers without a decent coat.’
‘Do stop fussing, Jessie,’ retorted Irene as she let the woman divest her of the soaking coat. ‘We can’t all sit about doing nothing just because of a bit of rain.’
‘Hmph. Strikes me there’s no ‘arm in keeping dry and warm.’ Jessie draped the coat over her arm, her scrutiny making Irene feel uncomfortable. ‘What’s so important you gotta be runnin’ about out there?’
‘None of your business,’ snapped Irene.
‘It is when I gotta nurse you back from the pneumonia,’ Jessie mumbled. ‘Remember last year?’
Irene ignored her. The illness last year had seemed to last for ever, and although Jessie and Mother had nursed her through it, Jessie was after all, only doing the job Mother paid her for.
She turned to admire her reflection in the hall mirror as she carefully pulled out the ornate hatpins. Her colour was high, stirred by the cold and the wind, and there was a sparkle in her eyes that made her look very well. She smiled, noting how her small, even teeth gleamed in the gaslight. Sex in the afternoon was certainly to be recommended, she thought.
‘Pretty is as pretty does,’ said Jessie who was fond of coming out with these strange adages. ‘Looks as if you swallowed the cage along with the canary. Reckon you’ve been up to some kind of mischief, miss.’
Irene shot her a glance before returning to her scrutiny. Jessie was easy to cajole out of these suspicions – it just took a kind word, a hug – but she wasn’t in the mood. Let her think what she wanted, she thought as she eyed the ruined hat. It was none of her damn business anyway.
With a sigh of regret for the once lovely hat, she drew off her gloves and handed them over with the hat to the waiting Jessie. She patted her hair. It was drawn from her face and swept back into a tumble of curls that had the same lustre as her favourite horse, the fires of red and copper burning brightly amongst the brown. With a tweak here and there and a fluff of the frills on her high–necked blouse she was soon satisfied with her appearance.
Jessie was still hovering and it was beginning to annoy her. ‘Has tea been served?’ she asked with telling sharpness.
Jessie nodded. ‘You know it has,’ she said grimly. ‘Same time every afternoon. Lost your watch, have ya? Or just too busy to notice the time?’
Irene saw the gleam of suspicion in the other woman’s eyes and decided she would ignore any insinuations. Jessie was rough and common, God only knew why Mother employed her. ‘I’ll take tea,’ she said imperiously. ‘Have the maid draw me a bath, and make sure there’s a fire in my bedroom so I don’t freeze when I’m dressing for dinner.’
Jessie glared before bearing away the sodden clothing to the kitchen, where it would be dried before the range.
Irene adjusted the blouse at the waistband of her skirt. It was getting tight, but her afternoon’s exertions had given her a raging appetite.
Eva was waiting for her – alone for once – yet her expression was grim. She sat in the low chair by the blazing fire, her back ramrod straight. Her dark hair was brushed in lustrous waves from her face and loosely coiled at her nape. Pearl drops dangled from her earlobes and the fire sparkled in the diamonds on her fingers. As usual, her attire was immaculate, from the highly polished ankle boots to the rust coloured skirt and pristine white lace blouse. She was every inch the matriarch.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked as Irene helped herself to tea and sandwiches.
‘I’ve already had this conversation with Jessie,’ she said firmly.
Eva waited as Irene sat in the opposite chair and placed her cup and saucer on the delicate side table. ‘Rudeness doesn’t suit you,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re such a pretty girl, with so many things to be grateful for, why do you persist in being so nasty to everyone?’
Irene ate the sandwiches and drank some of the tea. At last she was beginning to warm up. ‘I’ve been visiting friends,’ she said brightly. ‘Surely that isn’t a crime?’
Eva stood and looked down at her daughter. ‘What friends?’
Irene shrugged, careful not to make eye contact with her mother. ‘Just friends,’ she muttered. ‘You don’t know them.’
Eva’s gaze was firm. ‘I pride myself in knowing all of your friends,’ she said finally. ‘So why be so secretive?’
Irene drank tea and helped herself to another sandwich and a piece of cake. She was ravenous, and these ladylike morsels hardly took the edge off her hunger. ‘I’m not being secretive at all, Mother,’ she replied. ‘They are new friends I met at the riding stables. If you like, I could invite them to tea next week?’ She looked squarely at her mother, defying her to argue.
Eva held the gaze, her expression thoughtful and yet with a hint of something that might have been construed as sorrow. ‘You’ve been with him,’ she said.
It was a statement, not a question, and Irene realised there was no point in denying it. The subject was not new and she was weary of having to explain herself. ‘What if I have?’ she said as her chin lifted.
‘He’s married, Irene. That’s why.’
‘Not for long,’ retorted Irene as she
leaned forward in the chair and held her hands out to the warmth of the fire. ‘He’s getting a divorce.’
The sharp intake of breath was swiftly muffled. Eva cleared her throat. ‘He has a wife and four little girls,’ she said coldly. ‘Why suffer the ignominy of divorce when he obviously can obtain everything he needs without one?’
Irene felt the colour flood her face and she looked away. ‘It’s not like that,’ she muttered.
Eva’s steely fingers grasped her chin, forcing her to look up into her eyes. ‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘What else would a man of his age want with a girl like you? Don’t take me for a fool, Irene. I know you too well – and I know his sort too. He’ll use you for as long as he wants and at the slightest hint of trouble he’ll shun you.’
Irene twisted from those cruel fingers and stood. She was taller than her mother by several inches, yet she felt at a disadvantage in that fearsome glare. ‘He’s not like that,’ she insisted. ‘We love each other.’
Eva sat down again, her hands plucking at the cameo brooch at her neck. ‘Oh, Irene,’ she said with a deep sigh. ‘You’re so young. There’s plenty of time to fall in love with the right man.’ She looked up at her daughter, her eyes strangely bright. ‘If your father should hear of this he would be destroyed. Don’t see him again, Irene. I beg you.’
‘I love him, Mother. Passionately and for ever. I’m going to see him as much as I can before he leaves, and when he returns we’ll be married.’
The eyes were sharp in the little face, the high cheekbones angular in the shadows cast by the fire. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
The words hit Irene like the blast of icy wind. She reddened and clenched her fists. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she shouted. ‘Of course I’m not.’
Eva rose again from the chair, her expression clear and understanding. ‘That’s it,’ she breathed. ‘You’re expecting his baby.’ She reached out and grasped Irene’s arm. ‘Does he know?’
Irene wrenched away from her mother’s grip. ‘Give me some credit,’ she stormed. ‘I’m not some shop–girl or kitchen maid. How dare you accuse me of such a thing?’
Undercurrents Page 19
