Kitabı oku: «Master of the Outback», sayfa 3

Liane shrugged, a bitter smile running across her mouth. “What happened was that I got tired of waiting for Bret to set a date for our wedding. It’s always Djangala. He’s married to the place. I admit it’s a huge responsibility. Too much has been put on his shoulders right from when he was a kid. But I wasn’t going to take second place. Not me!”

She wasn’t speaking the truth. No way had Liane Rawleigh decided to break off the engagement. She was still crazily in love with him. Liane was also sure Trevelyan wouldn’t talk about it, allowing her to put whatever spin she liked on their split.

“So how long do you think you’ll be here?” Liane’s eyes returned to fixating on Trevelyan’s tall, commanding figure. Obviously every moment of time with him was precious.

“I have six months at my disposal.” Genevieve felt a stab of pity for her.

Liane’s head snapped back. “Surely it won’t take that long?” She looked as if she was struggling to come to terms with it. “Hester has gathered all possible documentation. You won’t have to conduct any searches. She’s been at it like a bower bird for years on end. She has the Trevelyan family history at her fingertips—both from Cornwall and Australia.”

“Six months isn’t a long time,” Genevieve pointed out. “I’m surprised you would think it is. The first draft must be completed. The final draft can be done elsewhere, but I’ll have my work cut out even then.”

“Well, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” Liane asked with cold rationalisation. “To work?”

“Certainly. But I intend to take my time off. I want to see Uluru and the Olgas again. Bret did say he would make that possible.”

The finely arched black brows shot to her hairline. “Bret did?” Liane’s stare could have drilled a hole in a steel door. She actually looked quite savage. They might have been enemies on a battlefield.

“I imagine he could organise it,” Genevieve responded with composure. “He didn’t say he would take me, of course. I appreciate he’s a very busy man. Maybe Derryl?”

A look of amusement crossed Liane’s high-mettled face. “You’re not Derryl’s type, my dear. Derryl likes glamour girls, not academics. Besides, Derryl can’t fly the Beechcraft. I wouldn’t go making any plans either. Hester will keep you extremely busy. She’s a very domineering old b—biddy.” She’d nearly said bitch—stopped just in time. “Thinks she’s far more important in the scheme of things than she is. We never did get on. I tried, but pretty soon I didn’t bother. I know she did her utmost to influence Bret against me. Unforgivable in my book. Don’t worry, Ms Grenville, you’ll be expected to toe a fine line.”

“I assure you I haven’t thought differently.” Genevieve’s answer was mild. “Nevertheless, I’m entitled to my time off. That was part of our agreement.”

“Make sure Uluru and the Olgas are your only distractions.” Liane’s stare was very direct.

It was an unequivocal warning.

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying,” Liane answered bluntly. “You’re not that dumb.”

Genevieve gave a faint laugh. “I’m not dumb at all.”

“No, just dull.”

Genevieve didn’t respond to the jibe. “So why are you worried?” She decided to have a crack at Liane. It wasn’t as though she was in any danger of becoming Liane’s next best friend.

“Worried?” Liane sounded furiously affronted.

Genevieve pressed on regardless. “You have no need to be. I promise I won’t lose sight of why I’m here.”

It was as well Trevelyan was coming back. She’d had about enough of Liane, who would have her work cut out, constantly warning off any young woman she perceived to be a threat.

Even a dull ghostwriter who just happened to be hiding in plain sight.

CHAPTER THREE

GENEVIEVE had never seen anything like the remote splendour of Djangala. The sun blazed down on innumerable lagoons, creeks, swamps, and billabongs, the water throwing back reflections of thousands of small suns and glittery pinpoints of diamond-like light. Anyone would have been thrilled by it all. She was conscious of nature and its power as she had never been in the city. Nature was sublime—whether it worked for you or catastrophically against you.

All the waterways were bordered by verdant trees and vegetation in striking contrast to the rust-red of the plains that stretched away to the horizons. Desert oaks dotted the vast empty terrain, and acacias more abundant than gums in arid areas, with large areas of mulga woodlands that abounded with what seemed like thousands and thousands of small yellow wildflowers.

A hundred or more emu—Australia’s endemic flightless bird—disturbed by the descending aircraft, were streaking across the landscape at a rate of knots. She knew when threatened they could reach speeds of up to sixty miles per hour. It was fascinating to watch their flight. The kangaroos had to be taking their midday siesta. She could only spot ten or so, in a loosely knit group. Some were standing upright like a man, balancing on powerfully muscular hind legs and long tail, others were attending meticulously to their grooming,licking their forearms. It was an endearing sight to see the two wild animals that held the nation’s coat of arms aloft in their natural habitat.

The great Djangala herd, like that of its neighbouring station, Kuna Kura Downs, was strung out across the open plains. Large sections were being driven towards waterholes to drink.

There couldn’t have been a better way to appreciate the awe-inspiring landscape than from the air. From her wonderful vantage point she could look down on Djangala’s homestead, surrounded at a distance by numerous satellite buildings. It was a far bigger enterprise than Kuna Kura. She was struck by the thought that, had things gone to plan, two Outback dynasties might have been united in marriage.

And aren’t you glad it didn’t happen?

Safely on the ground, they were met by a Jeep manned by a laconic individual called Jeff, who was waiting to drive them up to the house. The way he straightened immediately out of his slouch told Genevieve the boss was held in very high regard indeed. She supposed out here Trevelyan was king of all he surveyed. Yet for all his commanding manner and self-assurance she hadn’t detected any arrogance. Derryl, who hadn’t inherited the reins, was the arrogant one.

The long driveway was an allee of long-established palms with waving mop-heads. Genevieve sat forward as they approached the main compound, with its eight-foot-high enclosing wall that offered protection against the dust storms that periodically swept in from the desert. The towering sand hills had been an amazing sight from the air, running as they did in parallel lines, like the giant waves of the ocean. The sand even gave the illusion of being composed of silk.

An extremely vigorous climber with glossy heart-shaped leaves and great sprays of white tubular flowers fell in thick latticework over the wall. The creeper conveyed an astonishing air of exotic lushness in the semi-desert. As they neared the impressive gold-tipped black wrought-iron gate, flanked by huge date palms, it suddenly parted in the middle, and each half slowly pulled back to the side as Jeff operated the controls.

They were inside the Trevelyan desert fortress at last!

It was a fantasy land of its kind, Genevieve thought. So isolated. If one wanted to leave one couldn’t simply jump in a car and drive off in a big hurry. By air was really the only way out. In the past, tourists not sufficiently respectful of the dangers of this desert heartland had come to grief—some dying, others mercifully saved by land or aerial surveillance.

Genevieve looked about her with intense concentration, storing up everything for the future. That was what made her a writer. She had studied various photographs of Djangala Station in large coffee table books featuring many of the country’s finest properties. The photographs didn’t do the homestead justice. Nor could the photographs convey how utterly bizarre it was to come upon such a mansion set in the middle of nowhere. But then she remembered the homestead had had as much importance to early settlers as the castle to an English lord. A homestead was any rural dwelling, but Djangala was the homestead of the “landed aristocracy”—the great pioneering families who, regardless of where they settled to make their fortunes, built houses of long-term permanence to proclaim their success.

Djangala wasn’t the traditional kind of Georgian house “gentleman squatters” in Tasmania, New South Wales, and Victoria had built in memory of the Old Country, the place of their birth. Djangala homestead, a twenty-room mansion, had a decidedly Spanish look. How intriguing! Maybe Richard Trevelyan, who had built it, had taken the Grand Tour of Europe and retained an image of the sort of house he wanted to build? Whatever its architecture, the mansion, constructed of finely cut sandstone, had a wonderfully romantic appeal. A two-storey central section with an arched colonnade was flanked on either side by tall rectangular wings. The upper floor, probably bedrooms, was decorated with little curved balconies that overlooked the landscaped grounds. Four chimneys sat atop the terracotta-tiled roof. She knew from past trips to the Red Centre that desert sands cooled down amazingly at night.

This definitely was not a humble abode. Genevieve wondered if Catherine had found her first sight of Djangala homestead as thrilling as she did. Had Catherine felt the same buzz of excitement? Only what had started for Catherine as a welcome invitation to visit a historic station had ended in a terrifying experience and death. Life could be destroyed in a second. Accident or not? That was what she was here to determine. She could almost see Catherine out of the corner of her eye. Catherine of the long blonde hair and radiant blue eyes. Catherine, forever young.

Her thoughts sobered. Many things weren’t as they seemed. No one really knew what had happened. Catherine had been alone at the time.

Or had she?

Had the policeman in charge of the investigation checked out alibis, or were the Trevelyans too highly esteemed to have to account for themselves?

Trevelyan, standing a little distance off, was struck by the demeanour of the young woman Hester had chosen to ghostwrite the family history. At the moment she appeared caught in a reverie he thought oddly melancholic, as though she was trying to silence some mournful voice in her head. Maybe she was struggling with personal hurt or disappointment? He supposed it would come out sooner or later.

It was he who had allowed this to happen, by giving Hester the go-ahead. It had been in the nature of giving her something to fill her time and her active mind, but he was fully prepared to self-publish—if the book was ever finished, that was. It had started out as a simple exercise in humouring Hester, but the downside was that he was becoming increasingly wary of having many of the old stories raked up. On a historic station like Djangala there were lots of stories to be told.

One he preferred not to be exposed again to the light of day was the tragic death of his grandmother’s friend, Catherine Lytton. The verdict had been accidental death, but he had always had the uncomfortable feeling something wasn’t quite right. He had no proof. He’d been born well over twenty years later, and as far as he could establish there had been no hint of foul play—just this unspoken gut feeling. He knew his father had experienced it too. Catherine Lytton, over the years, had grown to be a taboo subject.

There were other things he preferred not to get into print too. His father’s accidental death at the hands of a visitor to the station unused to fire arms. The visitor had been devastated at the time, blaming himself terribly. Then there was the ugly break up of his parents’ marriage, and his mother’s defection with a family friend. Oddly, she had never married him after the divorce came through. The great rift had never been mended.

All in all there were many things he would prefer to remain private. God knew there was enough safe material.

Genevieve Grenville intrigued him. Instinct told him she was a woman in disguise: a young woman playing a role. The lenses in her bookish spectacles were clear glass—a dead giveaway. What was the reason behind that? Another thing: here was a beautiful woman going all out not to draw attention to herself. Again, why? Playing it safe? Was she in hiding for some reason? Or did she think she would make a better impression on Hester if she damped her looks way down? Perhaps that was it.

When he had the time he would check Ms Genevieve Grenville out—although she came with excellent references. Apparently she had taught for some years at a prestigious girls’ school—Grange Hall. Even he had heard of it. It was quite possible it was then she had begun to camouflage her very real beauty. Girls’ schools didn’t encourage fashion plates. Too much distraction for the students—especially the teenagers she had taught.

He hadn’t missed the glorious flame of her hair—full of body, however tightly she had tried to control it—or the fluid grace of movement, the radiant smile, the flawless skin and fine features. Her large almond eyes were an alluring sea-green. He imagined mermaids had eyes like that. Cool, iridescent green. He even had a mental picture of her sitting on a rock, combing out her long hair with a seashell fashioned into a comb. The image amused him. It would be interesting to get to know the woman beneath the disguise.

He asked Jeff to take Ms Grenville’s luggage into the house. Derryl had rushed ahead. It hadn’t dawned on Derryl that Ms Grenville was not as she seemed. He hadn’t bothered to take a close look at her. Derryl had a line-up of pretty girlfriends—all of them with big plans to land Derryl Trevelyan. They might well get more or less, depending on their viewpoint, than they bargained for. Derryl’s temperament up to date had manifested itself as selfish to the core. He had often considered whether the fact their mother had abandoned them had significantly affected his younger brother’s mindset. No one seemed to be able to meet his needs—although he had a clear conscience on that one.

For most of their lives Derryl had see-sawed between looking up to him as his big brother and detesting him, or his position as the first-born son, and then later his authority.

Worse, on a working cattle station, Derryl hated work of any kind. So much so that he would have to make some hard decisions soon. Derryl wasn’t carrying his weight. He knew the men were fed up with his brother’s lack of commitment. His trusted overseer Steve Cahill had told him on more than one occasion that he couldn’t rely on Derryl to carry out an order, when all other station hands jumped to as expected.

From time to time Derryl talked about heading off to one of the capital cities, but he never did. It seemed very much as if he had no real ambition outside of making life as easy as he possibly could. He had a long-running conflict with authority anyway: endless complaints and a whole catalogue of resentments towards their father, endless sibling rivalry with him. It had proved very stressful for the household.

“Ms Grenville?”

His resonant voice was a clarion call to the present. Genevieve spun quickly, coming out of her reverie. “Please—call me Genevieve,” she invited.

He gave her another of those half-smiles that to her consternation caused the sweetest pain to her heart. Apprehension set in. She wasn’t a free agent. She had to remember why she was here. Unwise attraction could lead into dark labyrinths. Unwise attraction could even undermine one’s life.

“I thought perhaps I was breaking in on a private moment,” he said, dark eyes studying her in such a way that a wave of heat rushed from Genevieve’s head to her toes.

It sparked off a moment of panic. He was far too perceptive. The white smile in his sun-bronzed face was madly attractive, in accord with his whole dynamic. He had a beautiful mouth—firm, very masculine, sculpted with definite edges. She felt understandable alarm at the stirring within her. Trevelyan had such a compelling aura that her memory of Mark faded away into nothingness. How was that possible?

Her fiancé, a lover she’d been intimate with, all but obliterated? She might be in need of a powerful distraction, but not Trevelyan.

“Why aren’t you wearing sunglasses?” he was asking. “You really need them.” He was watching the effect of the sun on her flaming hair. It was flashing out all the bright coppers, the rosy reds, the threads of metallic gold.

Genevieve looked down, patting the mustard-coloured leather tote bag she had slung over her shoulder. She wondered if he’d noticed the designer label stitched onto the front. Probably had. “They’re in here somewhere,” she said.

“Find them.”

“I know an order when I hear one.”

“It is.”

“Okay.” This was a man well used to giving orders. She kept her head down as she removed her fake glasses and popped them into the capacious bag, rummaging for her sunglasses. Tiffany & Co. Again the expensive label would stand out—like the sparkling silver circles on the winged sides. Couldn’t be helped. Anyway, there had been no suggestion she was struggling financially. She’d held down a well-paid teaching job.

“Let’s go into the house,” he said, gesturing with his arm to the curving flight of stone steps. “You must be aware, as a redhead, you have to be doubly careful in the sun. I don’t want our sun to bake you.” Her skin didn’t have the milky-white ultra-sensitive texture of many redheads, he had noted. It had the luscious stroke-me creamy quality of magnolia petals. Still, she would have to use plenty of protection.

“I’ll be careful—promise.” Genevieve’s musical ear was becoming attuned to all the whistles and trills that filled the air around them, the rush of brilliantly coloured wings. Birds would naturally be attracted to all the nectar-rich plants—the grevilleas, the bottlebrushes and the banksias, to name a few. “I’ve brought plenty of sunblock.”

“If you run out you can get some at the station store. We stock just about everything—clothing, boots, hats, etc. Do you ride?” He found himself hoping she did. She was moving beside him with effortless grace, tallish, very slender, without looking in the least unathletic.

“I need to get in a little practice, but, yes. I learned to ride as a child. I love horses.” Enthusiasm suddenly entered her voice, causing a charming lilt. “My parents bought me my first pony when I was six—a gentle little Shetland. I have to say I pestered them. My mother thought I was too young. She wanted to wait a year or two. But I got my way. Apparently I had a natural ability, and I had a great teacher. She was patient and kind and an expert rider herself. She always won prizes for dressage. I still remember groups of us going out hacking with her.” Genevieve paused as if in remembrance. “We lived on acreage in those days—good grazing for horses. I used to ride every day when I came home from school. I did all the feeding, watering and exercising, as I was supposed to. When I was ten my father bought me the most beautiful Arabian.” She didn’t say it had been to cheer her up. “I called her Soraya, after the beautiful divorced wife of an ex-Shah—remember?”

“I do. She couldn’t give him children.”

“Yes. My Soraya was inclined to be skittish. I was thrown a few times, but I never broke anything.”

“So your parents were indulgent?” They must have been. Buying ponies and beautiful, elegant Arabs was a serious financial commitment. Although the acreage lifestyle would have helped.

“Very.” She averted her head, as though studying the superb central fountain—a focal point for the landscaping. It was playing, which she found delightful—silver streams spilling down over two great bowls like a waterfall. It added greatly to the illusion of cool.

“And your father is what?” She had unmistakable class.

“He’s a lawyer,” she offered briefly.

He let it go. She was prepared to talk horses, but not prepared to talk about family. “And your mother? Please don’t think I’m asking intrusive questions. I’d like to know a little more about you.”

“Nothing much to know,” she said, her expression settling back into a quiet reserve. “I’ve led an uneventful life.”

“Now, why do I think that’s not true?” he said in a decidedly challenging tone. “You haven’t told me about your mother. She must be a very beautiful woman if you take after her.”

Genevieve was stunned. She’d truly believed she had made herself unobtrusive. Her efforts appeared to have made no difference to Trevelyan.

“I do take after my mother, but I’d hardly call myself beautiful.”

“Nonsense.” With his height he loomed over her. “The beautiful know they’re beautiful—just as powerful people know they’re powerful. Beauty is power. It’s commonly accepted a beautiful woman has power over a man.”

“You occupy a powerful enough position yourself,” she retorted, to get off the subject of herself. She had the feeling he was determined on getting to know more about her.

“It’s a life crammed with hard work, Genevieve. And I don’t lose track of the great responsibility to use power for good. But we were talking about your mother …?”

She felt exposed again. “My mother died in a car pile-up on the freeway in heavy rain.”

“Ah! I’m sorry to hear that.” He spoke with very real empathy. “How old were you?”

“Ten. I’ll remember that shocking day until I die. For along time my father and I were in denial. It didn’t seem possible. The light of our lives—there one day, gone the next. I learned then that there are absolutely no certainties in life.”

“I’m in total agreement on that. You and your father took it very hard?”

“It was a terrible time.” She swallowed on a lump in her throat.

“I’m sorry.” He fully understood her pain. Probably her father had remarried at some time—if only to give his child a caring stepmother. Some very nice woman she could turn to—especially at such a vulnerable age.

“Will I be meeting Ms Trevelyan today?” Genevieve asked as they moved under a collonaded central section that was decoratively tiled. She was so in the grip of Catherine and her story that Catherine’s shadow might have been walking with them.

“We’ll get you settled first,” he said. “My great-aunt will probably send for you some time before dinner. She nearly always comes down for dinner. Even on her bad days—and she does get them. Extremely painful arthritis.”

“So Derryl told me. She used to be an accomplished pianist?”

“She was,” he confirmed. “She had no real ambition to become a concert artist, but she was very good indeed. Music is still an essential part of her life.”

“Of course.”

He gave her a brilliant sidelong glance. “You say that as if music is an essential part of your life?”

She knew he required an answer. Indeed, he was endeavouring to bring her into firm focus. “Music is life, isn’t it? It conveys it all. I studied the piano.” She actually held a number of diplomas. No need to tell him that. For all she knew Ms Trevelyan might deeply resent any attempt by her to playthe piano. As it was, Trevelyan was regarding her closely with those mesmerising dark eyes.

“So you do play?”

“Not as often as I’d like.”

“But you’re multi-talented?”

She knew she blushed. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“So modest?” He laughed gently, but it was apparent he wasn’t satisfied with her answers.

“Maybe modesty comes easily to me?” She dared to look up at him. It was a mistake. She lowered her head again in self-defence.

His tone was distinctly mocking this time. “So it would appear.”

The impressive double front door, iron-bound and studded, was open on both sides. Trevelyan extended a hand, motioning her into a great hall with a wonderful starburst granite and marble floor.

She stood perfectly still, trying to take it all in. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured at last, genuinely entranced. The huge area was flooded with light that rayed through a floor-to-ceiling transom window at the far end of the hall. A large table sat on a magnificent Persian rug. She had to tilt her head to look up at the massive carved wood chandelier, suspended way up. On the table sat a splendid stone sculpture of a horse’s head. And why not? Horses on a working station would be a man’s best friend. A dramatic arrangement of bush materials—vines, dried grasses with their “flowers”, tall spear-like reeds—had been set in a large ceremonial Japanese blossom jar. It was very sophisticated and enormously effective in that huge space. A gallery ran around the upper floor, supported by carved timber beams with delicate black wrought-iron balustrades. One could look down from the gallery into the central hall.

“I feel like a visitor to a grand residence on open day.”

“Not everyone is as enthusiastic as you.” He cast an amused glance her way. “Some prefer the traditional.”

“Not here,” she said. “The environment is so important. The house is perfect. I love the dried arrangement. It has soul. Not Ikebana—I think maybe Rikka?” She turned her green gaze on him. “I know your family hailed from Cornwall, but surely the design of the house has a decidedly Spanish feel?”

“The design is in the Spanish vernacular,” he said, “which suits the hot climate. My forebear, Richard Trevelyan, travelled extensively in Europe in his youth. He fell in love with Spain and Spanish architecture. He actually employed a highly successful Californian architect to come up with this design. You probably know many Californian houses are built in the Spanish colonial style?”

She nodded agreement, still staring with some fascination around her. “I can’t wait to see the rest of the house.”

Her inner voice broke in with a timely warning. Shouldn’t you be more standoffish? Lighten up on the admiration? Life had been a tragedy for Catherine, who had stood on this very spot, probably looking around her with much the same dazzled eyes.

Trevelyan gave her a searching look. “Earth to Genevieve …”

She came out of her reverie, giving him a slightly bemused look.

A smile tugged at his handsome mouth. “You were off again. One has to wonder where?”

“Maybe the house is speaking to me,” she said.

“You’re going to have to—” Trevelyan broke off as a small, serene-looking woman with jet-black hair streaked with silver came quickly towards them, with such elegance and dignity Genevieve wasn’t sure if she was a guest or staff. She was wearing an olive-green shirt with matching loose trousers. The material was silk. It was hard to pinpoint her age. She could have been anywhere between forty-five and fifty-five.

Japanese nationality. That might account for the superb dried arrangement. Genevieve wondered how many years the woman had been on the station. And how had she come to be here?

“I’m so sorry I missed you,” the newcomer said, with a faint bow that involved her shoulders and neck, bestowing a welcoming smile on Genevieve. “I had a medical emergency in the kitchen. One of the girls cut a finger.”

“Not badly, I hope?” Trevelyan, towering over her, lightly touched her shoulder.

“No, but it did bleed. There’s always some tiny drama.”

Trevelyan turned his handsome raven head towards Genevieve. “Genevieve, I’d like you to meet Mrs Cahill—our housekeeper. She keeps the homestead running like clockwork. Nori, this is Genevieve Grenville, who is here to help Miss Hester with her book.”

Genevieve put out her hand. Mrs Cahill clasped it. “I am happy to meet you, Ms Grenville.” The ivory-skinned, unlined face bore warmth and pleasure. The dark eyes glowed like lamps.

“Please call me Gena.” Genevieve gave the older woman an answering smile.

“And I’m Nori.” Djangala’s housekeeper didn’t stand on ceremony. “Steven, my husband, is Bret’s foreman. Let me show you to your room. I’m sure you’ll like it. Jeff has already taken your luggage up.”

Trevelyan glanced down at Genevieve, standing at his shoulder. “I’ll leave you in Nori’s capable hands.”

“You’re going out again, Bret?” Nori Cahill asked as he half turned towards the front door.

“Things to do, Nori,” he clipped out. “I’ll see you at dinner, Genevieve.”

He gave her a brief parting salute. Astonishing the knife-keen thrust of pleasure she felt.

The gallery was hung with oil paintings—all very valuable, Genevieve saw with her trained eye. Some fine chairs were set at intervals, and bronzes on stands. Both sides of her family were collectors of art and sculpture.

“We’ve given you a guestroom overlooking the front gardens,” Nori said, with inherent sweetness and courtesy. “Much of the house has been redecorated in recent times. Bret wanted changes. He commissioned a famous designer to landscape the grounds. He wanted the place transformed.”

“I’m very impressed.” Genevieve spoke with genuine admiration. “The dry climate native garden is spectacular. I love the great beds of lavender that got thrown into the mix. Lavender is a great survivor. And all those tall showy grasses, agaves, desert plants, the marvellous sculptural rocks and the swept gravel.”

“The landscaper has much experience in countries all over the world,” Nori remarked.

She hadn’t picked up any Australian accent, Genevieve noted. Nori’s accent was Japanese-British.

“Bret wanted the best,” Nori continued. “Mr Trevelyan—Bret’s father—overlooked the grounds almost entirely. He didn’t seem to realise everything had run down. He wasn’t—” Nori was about to say something further, but caught herself up.