Lillian's Light Horseman (2 page)

Her mind drifted to her father—how he’d pushed suitor after suitor in her direction in the hopes that she’d make an affluent marriage, and how she’d spurned every attempt of his matchmaking.

Lillian had desperately wanted to please her father with a good connection, but she’d never been able to forgive or forget her first love. The inability of hers to obliterate him from her memory had made courtship with another man almost impossible. Even after ten years, just thinking his name made her chest constrict painfully. By the time Lillian had taken up residence with her aunt, she’d despaired at ever finding true love again. She’d received more than her fair share of attention from a number of eligible gentlemen, but not one had touched her heart. She knew that her view of marriage for love was silly and juvenile, that matches were often made less for love and affection and more for the social advantages of beauty and position, but she couldn’t bring herself to relinquish her romantic notions and dreams. Now, at nearly twenty-six, she was left completely alone in the world with barely enough money to see her through to the end of the year.

Finally, she locked her trunk and walked from the room, checking the other chambers before she emerged into the hallway where she spotted the driver at the front door. She directed him to the bedroom to retrieve her belongings and took one last look around the home that had been her safe haven for the past two years. With a sigh and a heavy heart, she stepped outside, locking the door securely and with finality behind her. She would drop the keys at the attorney’s office on her way to the port where she would board a ship—a ship due to sail later that evening. Soon she’d be on her way back to the country of her birth, a country that she had loved passionately—a country that she’d been told she’d never see again.

* * * *

As she sat waiting to board the vessel that would carry her to the next phase of her life, she reflected on the letter that had brought her to the decision to leave England. She retrieved the correspondence from her reticule, the paper now soft and fragile, the folds tearing slightly owing to her repeated examination. For what seemed like the hundredth time, she reread the words that had recently changed the course of her life so dramatically.

Dear Miss Hamilton,

I expect by the time this missive reaches you, your Aunt, Mrs. Agnes Hamilton, will have passed on. Please accept my sincere condolences for your loss.

I hardly know where to start so I shall start with the letter that I received from Mrs. Hamilton one month ago. She stated that she was very ill at the time of writing and expected to be taken into God’s hands in the very near future but that she could not rest in peace until she’d done all she could do for her beloved niece, a Miss Lillian Hamilton (Baxter).

Mrs. Hamilton explained the death of your father with his subsequent debt and her concern for your welfare and well-being once she’d departed this world. It appears that Mrs. Hamilton was quite knowledgeable about your life in Australia before your family left for England, and in particular about your connection to Mulga Creek Sheep Station and the Cartwright family. I can only assume that your mother imparted this information to your aunt before she died.

Now I shall get to the heart of my reason for writing to you. Mrs. Hamilton asked if there might be a position for you at Mulga Creek station as governess to Mr. Cartwright’s children. She’d heard that Mr. Cartwright’s wife had succumbed to the Spanish influenza and, while she was deeply saddened by the news, your aunt hoped that your education and upbringing would be of benefit to the Cartwright children, particularly as their mother has been so cruelly taken from them.

I must confess that I too have been concerned about the welfare of the children. Their father, while a good and decent man, is very busy with the demands of the sheep station and while I was taught my letters and sums, I do not have the education or the time necessary to instruct children in a position such as theirs.

Mr. Cartwright’s intention has been to engage a governess, so your aunt’s communication was warmly welcomed as quite fortuitous. I must also confess that I hope you take up the offer, as I would enjoy seeing you once more at Mulga Creek. I remember you to be a warm-hearted, sweet child and a charming young lady, and your aunt assured me that you have grown into a thoughtful and lovely woman.

I must warn you, however, that I have not imparted all of this information to Mr. Cartwright. He only knows that a lady by the name of Miss Hamilton will be taking the position of governess. I have not conveyed to him the whole truth of your identity. I will no doubt be chastised warmly for my duplicity but I believe that the past must stay in the past and that you should impart any explanations personally.

There is something else you should know. Mr. Cartwright fought in The Great War and might seem a little changed from what you remember. I will say no more of this and leave it to your own personal observations if, in fact, you decide to accept the position.

Please respond in the quickest haste so that I may make the necessary arrangements.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. Millie Thompson

Head Housekeeper—Mulga Creek Sheep Station

Lillian reflected yet again on the letter’s contents. She’d read it so many times that she could quote it verbatim. Unfortunately, it raised more questions than it answered.

When had her mother spoken to her aunt about their life in Australia? Lillian had never mentioned that time. She preferred to forget it in order to attempt to move on. She’d been deluding herself, of course. It had been ten years since she’d seen William Cartwright, and still his image haunted her dreams. Then there was James Cartwright’s fighting in the war. How much had those experiences changed him? And had the death of his wife affected him terribly, perhaps adding to the change in character that Mrs. Thompson thought necessary to allude to? And where was William? Mrs. Thompson had not made mention of him in her missive, yet she must be partly aware of the connection that she and William had shared. A connection they’d had, at least until Lillian’s father had relocated the family to England shortly before William had married. Just thinking of William married to another sent a deep ache lancing through her. After all the years the pain had not lessened, but rather had morphed from an intense, overwhelming sensation into a dull, aching throb.

She shook off her momentary melancholy and thought about Mulga Creek Sheep Station, wondering if it had changed a great deal. It made sense that James Cartwright would require a governess. The property was too large and too isolated to enable the children to attend a standard school and she imagined that they were too young for boarding school. She pondered what James’ reaction would be when he learned that Lillian Hamilton was, in fact, Lillian Baxter. She could only hope that his reaction would be favorable. She’d always liked William’s older brother and she had to have faith that the feeling was mutual. At least if her correspondence was anything to go by, she would have an ally in Mrs. Thompson. She remembered the housekeeper as a kind and very capable woman who was much respected in the Cartwright household.

Lillian was risking considerable emotional distress by traveling back to Australia and opening herself up to a whole world of potential hurt, but her options were limited. She had no connections or dependable income to keep her in England.

No, she had no real choice but to take a chance and start afresh in Australia.

Chapter Two

I love a sunburnt country,
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!

My Country
—Dorothea Mackellar (1904)

Australia—August 1921

Lillian stopped and looked around Coolabah train station as she waited for her trunk to be offloaded. She was beyond weary. Between the lengthy sea voyage and the journey from Sydney to Coolabah, she’d been traveling for nearly two months and she longed for nothing more than a warm bath and a soft bed.

She stood uncertainly on the dusty platform, unsure as to how she was to get from the station to the property. A moment later, she had her answer when a tall, wiry-looking man dressed in dusty work attire strolled purposely in her direction. Removing his bush hat, he bowed slightly and introduced himself. He was one of the Mulga Creek station hands come to collect her. Within minutes, he had her trunk secured in the buggy and they were on their way.

Lillian was relieved that she’d been picked up in a buggy and not an automobile. It meant that she’d have more time to prepare herself for seeing Mulga Creek and all it represented. It would give her a period to reconnect with her surroundings and hopefully allow her some reprieve until the bittersweet memories, bubbling just below the surface, would rear up and take her under assault.

As they traveled along the dirt road, she took an avid interest in the environment. Recollections from ten years before swirled through her mind and brought with them overwhelming feelings of both happiness and sadness—memories of a previous life and her only love.

She’d forgotten the desolation of the Australian outback—how dusty and dry it was and how unbearably hot it could be. She was lucky that she’d arrived in winter but the days in the outback, even in winter, could still be warm. She knew that her clothes would be impractical for the environment but there was not a lot she could do about that. Her wardrobe was designed for English weather and she knew that as the days grew warmer, her dresses and skirts of durable, heavy European fabric would be oppressively uncomfortable.

They drew nearer to Mulga Creek Sheep Station and her nervousness increased, making her palms damp and clammy. She’d spent the past ten years trying to forget about William and her memories of their time together, first as childhood friends then as childhood sweethearts, only now to put herself into a position where those bittersweet memories would be thrust to the forefront of her consciousness. She wondered where William was living and whether he bore any resemblance to the young man of nineteen he had been when last she’d seen him.

The buggy rounded a bend in the road and the homestead finally came into view. The house was newly painted white and glowed welcomingly in the midday sun. A garden fronting the residence was filled with hardy, durable flowers and plants—the only type to survive in such a dry and unforgiving climate. Geraniums and wattle bordered a pathway that led to the front door and an extensive vegetable garden took up the right side of the house adjacent to the kitchen.

The sight of the homestead and the sudden pang of
déjà vu
that it brought with it took Lillian’s breath away, and all too soon they were pulling up in the long drive and the station hand was unloading her belongings.

“I’ll take your trunk inside, miss. Mrs. Thompson has gone into Bourke to run errands. She asked that you wait in the drawing room for the boss. I’ll let him know that you’re here.”

Lillian’s anxiety deepened. She’d expected that Mrs. Thompson would be at the homestead to greet her and had hoped that she’d be present to ease any awkwardness that might arise when James Cartwright discovered her identity.

Lillian followed the station hand into the house and stopped in the hall to assess her reflection in the mirror. The image that greeted her made her gasp in shock. Her hair, which she’d styled so carefully that morning, was coming loose from its chignon and fell in dusty ringlets around her shoulders. And her face, usually of a peaches and cream complexion, was caked in a fine layer of red outback dust. She stepped back and surveyed her traveling attire, unsurprised to find that her skirt and jacket were creased and covered in fine ocher-colored powder. She’d forgotten how quickly the outback dirt permeated everything—even her mouth was gritty with the stuff.

She couldn’t meet James Cartwright looking like she did. She needed to freshen up. Making a decision, she left the hall and went in search of someone to assist her. Finding a maid in the kitchen, she requested a basin of water and a cloth and quickly scrubbed her face and hands. She scraped her hair back and re-pinned the escaped tendrils as best she could. There was nothing much she could do with her attire, so she settled for patting herself all over liberally with the damp cloth. It would have to do. One more inspection of her reflection in the hall mirror confirmed that she looked moderately better.

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she made her way to the drawing room. There were subtle changes in the décor. The furniture had been re-upholstered and beautiful hand-worked cushions dotted the room, giving it a comfortable and cozy feel. She picked up a gilt-edged frame and examined the photograph. It was of a woman, not conventionally beautiful, but she was handsome and radiated strength of character through a strong jaw and direct gaze at the camera.

“This must be James’ wife,” she mused aloud then replaced the frame on the mahogany table top and turned to survey the rest of the room.

Spying the piano, she walked to it, running her fingers over the polished wood, remembering when she used to sing and play this same instrument and recalling how William would sit and listen to her with a rapturous expression. She hissed in a breath and drew her fingers back from the piano sharply, not wanting the hurtful reminder of happier times.

Turning, she went to stand by the window, her back to the door, and took deep breaths to quell her anxiety. As she gazed out at the garden, she heard footsteps in the hall then the unmistakable sounds of someone entering through the door behind her.

“Miss Hamilton,” a deep voice greeted her. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

She turned to offer a greeting of her own and stopped abruptly, gasping in shock as she faced the man standing in the middle of the room. Her hand flew to her mouth and she swayed slightly, her equilibrium tilting.