Lyrebird Hill (35 page)

I burned with shame.

But I could not find the will to stay away.

The following midnight I knocked softly on the door at the back of the stables. Shifting from foot to foot, I waited, fearing that Lucien was already deep asleep and deaf to my presence. But finally I heard a shuffle and Lucien opened the door. He was dishevelled, his face rumpled and sleepy, his hair a wild mane about his shoulders.

‘Are you up for a challenge?’ I said, pushing past him into the candlelit gloom of his chamber. ‘I feel a lucky streak tonight, but in the unlikely event that you win, I’ve brought cake.’

I crossed to the table. Rather than the fine chess pieces I’d been expecting, I found a book. It was old and tattered, the pages gaping away from their threadbare binding. It appeared to be a ledger of sorts, and when I bent to read a section, my suspicions were confirmed.

‘Why are you looking over a ledger?’ I asked. ‘It must be fifty years old. What use is it to you?’

Lucien cleared the book and began to set out his carved chess pieces.

‘I’ve got to read something.’

‘But a ledger?’

He shrugged. ‘Books are a rare commodity. At least, they are for me. Besides, the old ledgers have their own fascination. For instance, did you know that in 1835, the garden produced fourteen barrels of white turnips? And that in 1847 the housekeeper placed an order for ladies’ handkerchiefs from Launceston, but they never arrived? I often ponder who acquired those fine lawn hankies, and what became of them. Perhaps they were used to impress the wife of a lowly dockworker?’

My brow shot up. ‘Or perhaps a bushranger?’

Lucien did not quite smile, but I saw the beginnings of forgiveness in his sea-green eyes. The kettle whistled softly and he hurried over to make the tea.

I set my bundle of cake on the edge of the table and took my seat, revising the tactics I’d planned for tonight’s game. Since I had lost our previous game, I would use my apparent weakness to dupe my opponent; I would open with a folly, then strike hard and fast when he least expected.

My instinct proved correct; within the half-hour, I had cornered his king and declared a checkmate.

He looked at me. ‘What would you like to know?’

I sat back in my chair, savouring my win. A little of my old self trickled back, and I allowed myself to smile into my teacup. At last I would uncover the secret of my husband’s silver locket, and perhaps even learn the identity of the woman whose portrait I felt certain resided within.

But the question that sprang readily to my lips was very different to the one I had rehearsed, and it surprised us both.

‘Do you remember your mother?’

Lucien’s eyes went to saucers. I bit my tongue and winced. There, I’d done it again; allowed my recklessness to have the
upper hand and lead me straight into trouble.

Lucien sat back in his chair and looked at me. ‘You could ask anything, anything at all – and you want to know about my mother?’

I nodded.

Lucien scratched his head. ‘I haven’t thought of her in years.’

‘But you remember her?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

I sighed. ‘Our wager was that I could ask anything. I don’t know exactly why I asked. Perhaps because I’ve been thinking about my own mother a lot lately.’

Lucien swept his hand across the tabletop and collected the fallen chess players. Then, with slow deliberation, he began to position them on their squares.

‘Hair like polished copper.’ He nudged the rook into place. ‘Big square hands like a man, only a gentle touch.’ The bishop found its spot, then the knight. ‘A pair of threadbare slippers scuffing across the kitchen floor. Red lips clamped around a pipe stem. She always smelled of smoke and rum and sweat.’ The king took up residence on his central square, and then finally the queen beside him. ‘She taught me to read.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘I don’t know. I remember getting home in the dark, the house in shambles. She was gone. Everything she owned was still there, but my mother was gone.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I found employment with a man who bred horses.’

I hesitated, then asked, ‘Is he the one who scarred you?’

A startled pair of eyes lifted momentarily from the board to meet mine. Lucien nodded.

I barely dared to breathe, so when the word left me it was on a whisper. ‘Why?’

Lucien took a deep breath and shut his eyes. ‘One of the foals was born with a gammy leg. It always struggled to stand up, which riled the master. He took to it with a stick, and flogged it half to death. I grabbed the stick and gave him a taste of his own treatment. He saw that I got a few hundred lashes for my trouble, and promised that I would live to regret what I’d done to him. But he was wrong. That old horsewhip was my salvation. After it had done its job on me, Mr Whitby found me, and I came to live here. I get a feed and a warm bed, and best of all I get left alone.’

He rubbed the backs of his hands, as if only now seeing the crisscross of scars. Discomfort radiated from him, but he didn’t shrink away as he had before. Looking up suddenly, he asked, ‘Is your mama still alive?’

‘No.’

‘What do you remember of her?’

It was my turn to slump back in my chair. What
did
I remember? Sadly, too little. Yet I clung to those vague glimpses, and although they may have been more dream than memory, they were all I had. Wallaby fur, the tremble of warm bodies pressing close, the smell of smoke and the echo of screams. And my other mother in her bed, smelling of phosphorus tonic and unwashed hair.

‘Not much,’ I admitted with an ache in my heart, and it was the truth for both of my mothers. ‘I was young when she died.’

Silence set up camp between us, but it was no longer uncomfortable; rather, the silence seemed to draw us nearer to one another, as if to a warm blaze on a winter night.

‘Another game?’ Lucien suggested.

The board was set up, so I agreed. I felt moody and unable to concentrate, so when – fifteen minutes later – Lucien declared checkmate, I wasn’t surprised.

He reached for the cake I’d brought, but I got to my feet and rounded the table. Collecting a strand of Lucien’s hair between my fingers, I tugged it playfully.

‘The cake is payment for your last win,’ I told him. ‘This is tonight’s prize.’

Bending to him, I placed my mouth on his. His lips met mine with hesitation, but when I pressed nearer and slid my hand onto his chest so that I might lean with more force upon him and pin him beneath me, he moaned softly and lifted his scarred hand to my face, drawing me nearer still.

I had expected to thrill a little at the revenge I was exacting upon my husband, so I was unprepared for my response to Lucien’s touch. When his mouth began to move hungrily on mine, my nerve endings burst into flame, my body filled with light and longing. I seemed to fall from a great height, and then somehow I was in his lap, enclosed in his arms.

Breathless, I withdrew my lips but stayed close. We searched each other’s eyes. I felt transfixed by his storm-coloured gaze, and by the face that was no longer ruined by its terrible scar but, rather, all the more beautiful for it. The candle crackled, our breathing steadied. Then, the soft whinny of a horse in the adjoining stable broke the spell. I moved away and got to my feet, feeling the chill of his absence close around me.

‘Tomorrow night, then?’ I whispered.

Lucien simply nodded.

He saw me to the door. We mumbled hurried goodbyes, and I swept away along the moonlit path towards the house. When I reached the verandah, I looked back. I couldn’t see him, but there in the dark landscape of the garden, through the open stable doorway, I saw the faint fluttering candlelight and knew that he watched me still.

Adele had heavy eyes at breakfast. Her face was puffy and her cheeks blotched, but she chatted gaily about our plans for the day.

‘Why don’t we ask Quinn to pack us a picnic lunch and we could walk to the headland and spend the morning in the cove collecting shells?’

‘That sounds lovely.’

‘Or, if you’d prefer, we could take the carriage into Wynyard and watch the ships.’

‘That sounds good, too.’

‘Then again, Quinn mentioned there’s a chance of rain this afternoon. Perhaps we should barricade ourselves in the library and pore through those botanical books you love so much?’

‘Indeed, Adele, I shall be most content to spend the day with you regardless of our activity.’

She smiled at that, but then, as breakfast wore on, she began to wilt. She fell quiet and picked at her food, chasing the same crust around the plate with her fork.

‘Are you well?’ I asked at length, not wishing to pry but unable to ignore the lengthy bouts of ill health she seemed to be suffering.

‘You are so kind to me. I never thanked you for . . . well, for assisting me when I wandered out that night. I am grateful to you, and it pained me to ask that you not tell Carsten. I don’t like asking you to keep secrets from him.’

There were already many secrets I was keeping from my husband, dangerous secrets. Yet the one I should have kept closest to my chest – the truth of my link to Jindera’s clan – had been spilled. I looked at the kind, sweet woman sitting opposite. I would be more careful with her secrets. I thought of the graveyard and its sad lure for her. We had never spoken of her lost child, but her silence, and her sleepwalking, confirmed the depth of her pain.

‘Oh, Adele,’ I said gently. ‘You’re not
forcing
me. I’m sure my husband has enough to worry about, without adding your night-time forays to his list. Besides, Aunt Ida used to say that if a man can’t fix something, he’d rather not know about it.’

I had intended to lighten the mood between us, but Adele looked at me steadily.

‘Lucien has always been kind, too.’

I shoved my plate away, dipping my head to hide the sudden blush that warmed my cheeks. ‘I’ve got an idea about our day. Do you think Quinn has any knitting needles in her possession?’

Adele brightened, her eyes widening in curiosity. ‘Knitting needles? Of course, she has an entire trunk full of needles and hooks and wool scraps. Why do you ask?’

‘Winter is already upon us, but we still have time to knit ourselves a pair of decent shawls.’

Adele looked incredulous. ‘Knit?’

Scraping back my chair, I got to my feet and went to the kitchen door. Calling to Quinn, I explained what I wanted and she bustled away upstairs to oblige. Ten minutes later she was back with a large cloth-wrapped bundle, and her customary warning.

‘There you go, Mrs W. That should keep you and Miss Adele busy for the next fortnight or so. But if you knit yourselves into a corner, don’t expect me to come and dig you out.’

We retired to the library, and I bade Adele remove her lacy shawl so we could scrutinise its stitchery. The delicate snowflake pattern had been achieved with a lace hook and finely spun silk fibre; we would not get the same effect from scrap wool, but the attempt would certainly provide a distraction.

‘Brenna, dear?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why would I want to make my own shawl, when I can send Quinn into Launceston to buy one?’

‘Because it’s fun!’ I said, laughing, and settled myself beside her, digging in Quinn’s bag for the skeins of wool.

By early afternoon Adele had succeeded in crafting what looked like an elaborate knot. The soft red wool she’d chosen was fluffed and ragged from constant unpicking, and huge loose strands wavered delicately on the draught that ventured under the French doors. Adele tilted her head this way and that, then held up her handiwork, beaming.

‘You’re right, dear Brenna. This is certainly a pleasing way to spend the day. Now, tell me again about Aunt Ida’s tame cockatoo, and how she taught it to speak.’

‘Actually, Adele, I was hoping you might tell me something.’

‘Of course, what would you like to know?’

‘I fear it might be a bit indelicate of me to ask.’

She looked at me and smiled. ‘Please ask. We are friends, are we not? And sisters.’

I halted my knitting, and picked absently at a loose tail of wool. I was slowly coming to know Lucien, but rather than quench my curiosity about him, the glimpses he gave me of his private life only made me thirst for more. But the topic of his past clearly caused him discomfort, and I was loath to repeat the blunder I’d made that first night with him.