Lyrebird Hill (47 page)

Lucien gripped my arms and held me at length, examining my face. ‘And he married you? Why?’

I dragged in a breath. ‘I have spent the last weeks trying to understand. Our marriage was an arrangement to benefit both Carsten and my father; Fa Fa needed to save his farm, and Carsten wanted a son. But I have come to believe that his motivation was darker than that.’

Lucien nodded. ‘He wanted to take you from your father, just as your father took your mother from him.’

I shut my eyes, wanting desperately to be away from this place, to be at home where I could find a way to repair the shattered fragments of my life.

‘I’m returning to Lyrebird Hill,’ I told Lucien. ‘Will you come with me?’

Lucien’s smile was slow, but when it arrived it lit him like a beacon. The moon’s shifting light toyed with his features; one moment he was a man, his angular features as fierce as any bird of prey; the next he was a wide-eyed boy, his brows pulled in, his mouth aquiver.

‘I would go to the end of the earth for you,’ he whispered. ‘I would go to the brink of death and back again, just for a glimpse of your sweet face. Is it true, then? Do you really want me to return with you?’

‘Yes. But first there’s something I need to do.’

Lucien frowned then, his gaze sharpening on my face. ‘If I were in your shoes, I would seek to destroy any man who killed my family. I can see it in your eyes, Brenna. You’re planning something, aren’t you?’

I couldn’t speak. My loathing for my husband was a bushfire raging out of control in my heart. My despair over what he’d done to my family was intolerable; the pain of it had set me alight and was relentlessly burning me, consuming me. How could Lucien ever understand? He had sought and found forgiveness in himself for the man who had scarred him so terribly as a boy. How could I ever expect him to comprehend my darkness, when his own heart was only full of light?

Turning away, I started along the track towards the house. I’d barely walked two paces when Lucien was at my side. He took my hand, drew me to a stop.

‘Brenna, wait.’ Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he smoothed his thumb across my cheek. ‘I’m sorry about your family.’ He frowned at the dark track that led back to the house, then returned his gaze to me. ‘But I want you to promise me something.’

‘What?’

He tightened his lips against his teeth, the way my father used to. ‘Promise that when we walk away from Brayer House, we truly leave it behind us. When we forge a new life together, we will find a way to forgive what has happened.’

I flinched. ‘Forgive?’

‘You must. If you don’t let go of your hatred, it will fester and grow in your heart. It will destroy you. Eventually, it will destroy us both.’

How could I tell him that it had already festered, already grown beyond what I was capable of containing? My hatred had become a living, breathing entity within me – a second, more powerful self; a master whose bidding I had no choice but to carry out. But Lucien was watching me with his stormy eyes, and somehow – at least in that moment – I was swayed. I did not want my hatred to poison my heart. I saw clearly then that my plan to avenge what Carsten had done to my family would not heal my pain. Rather, it would only add another blight upon the burden I already carried.

Lifting my hand, I cupped Lucien’s damaged cheek. ‘For you, love . . . I will find a way to leave it behind.’

His face filled with longing. Grasping my hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed my palm, my fingers, my inner wrist. Love shone from him like lantern light, and it made him beautiful. It beamed out of him and bathed me in its warm glow, dissolving the shadow that had eclipsed my heart and finally, fiercely and compellingly, setting me free.

The grass was soft and moist beneath us. Lucien made a bed of our clothes and we lay on them in the darkness. The night air was cold, but Lucien’s skin was hot. It kept me warm as I cradled him, as I wound myself around him, caressed him with all the tenderness I’d kept hidden from him for so long. He moaned softly as my fingers found his scars, as I memorised their location with my touch so my lips would know where to find them.

Afterwards we lay curled together, using my cloak as a blanket. Lucien whispered in my ear, his voice lulling me. He spoke of our future together at Lyrebird Hill, the beautiful garden of roses he would build for me, the milking goats and dogs and possums, and eventually the children who would share our happy home.

He fell silent, nestling against me. I knew it was time to leave. There may have only been a few hours left before dawn, but I sensed that Lucien was as reluctant as I was to break the spell of our lovemaking, to pollute the memory of it just yet with the ordinary necessities of travel.

Soon, the cold settled upon us.

We dressed hurriedly, I re-pinned my hair while Lucien shook the leaves from his. As we set off along the track back to the house, Lucien took my hand.

‘Wait for me in the stables. I’ll collect your belongings and we can be away before the rest of the household wakes.’

‘Make sure you get my brushes and paints, my paper and drawings. They’re all in my trunk under the bed. And Lucien . . .’ I stopped walking and drew him to me, forcing him to pay me careful attention. ‘There is a false lid in the trunk. If you prise it away, you will find my father’s firearm hidden there.’

If Lucien was surprised at my disclosure, he didn’t show it. He nodded, and lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ll bring everything that’s precious to you.’

We reached a fork in the path. One branch led back to the house while the other would take me to the stables.

Lucien pulled me back against him. ‘Soon we’ll be on our way,’ he whispered into my hair. We kissed quickly, then he hurried into the darkness and out of sight.

I slipped my hand into my pocket, touched the pouch of desiccated wolfsbane flowers. When I heard the scullery door click shut, I knew Lucien was inside. I paused, imagining him climbing the stairs, moving along the upstairs hallway in the dark, treading on silent cat feet to my room.

Deceiving him sat uneasily with me, but I knew there was no other way for us to escape. Carsten would never let me go. Nor would his pride allow Lucien to follow me. And if he came after us, found us – worse, found us together – his rage would know no bounds.

My fingers tightened around my pouch of herbs. A grain would slow a man’s heart, a larger measure might send him into an uneasy sleep; a pinch, and he would never wake.

Doubling back along the path, I unlatched the French doors and went in. The air was cold inside, far colder than it had been in the garden. Moonlight washed through the tall windows, puddling on the marble floor and splashing shadows into the corners. I had come to despise this dank house; it would be a relief to escape its dreary confines forever.

When I reached the library, I slipped quietly through the heavy oak door and shut it behind me. Only then did I dare to light a candle.

The decanter of sweet sherry sat on the sideboard, a quarter full, the sickly wine glinting red like blood in the candlelight. I removed the crystal stopper. The scent oozed out, making my stomach roll and twist. I raged inside to think of the nights I had shared with Carsten; the man who had murdered my mother, and whose actions had eventually led to the destruction of my family.

I tipped a measure of Wolfsbane into the sherry, swirling the liquor until the powdery grounds dispersed. Then I settled the decanter back on the tray, wiping up a sticky droplet from the stopper with my sleeve. Adjusting the empty glass, I turned back to examine the room.

Everything was in order. It was time to go—

Footsteps approached along the hall.

I blew out the candle, realising I had lingered too long. The footsteps paused. Then the door swung open. A tall figure
crossed the threshold. His shadow leaped violently in the light of the lantern he held aloft.

Carsten’s face twisted when he saw me.

‘I knew you’d be back. What are you doing here in the dark?’

I retreated behind the desk. Carsten followed, but I made a move towards the open door. Carsten reached into his waistcoat and drew a revolver. Pulling back the hammer, he took aim at my head.

I unclasped the locket from around my neck, and held it in the light. ‘Look what I have found,’ I said, unable to stop the violent shaking in my fingers.

Carsten flinched, and the weapon wavered. ‘Hand it over.’

‘Not until you tell me how it came to be by the riverside, at Lyrebird Hill. Near the destroyed Aboriginal encampment.’

He took a lurching step towards me, and tried to swipe the locket from my grasp, but I darted out of his reach. A dark light came into his eyes.

‘Your father stole Florence from me. I wanted to strike a blow against him that he’d never recover from.’

‘By marrying me? By killing the people he loved?’

Carsten’s mouth worked, as if his words had left a sour taste. ‘I blamed Michael for Florence’s death. The last time I saw her, she was hollow-cheeked, her beautiful hair lank, her spirits low. She was about to be married and should have been flushed with happiness, but I knew Michael was sneaking off to the encampment, crawling into that savage’s hut, when he should have been on his knees, thanking Florence that she had agreed to be his bride. Michael had what I wanted, but cared nothing for it. It made me sick. Sick to my stomach, and sick at heart.’

‘You were there in seventy-nine,’ I said harshly. ‘And a month ago, you returned. You helped murder innocent people.’

Carsten’s lips were raw and the reflected lantern light blazed wildly in his eyes. He gripped his revolver and adjusted his aim, taking an unsteady step towards me.

‘When I saw Michael last month, I couldn’t forget what you had told me. My old resentments resurfaced. That night I went to the tavern and sat with a group of acquaintances who shared my hatred of the blacks. We got talking, and the drink fired us up. We agreed that something had to be done, and all of a sudden we were the men to do it. It was an hour’s ride to Lyrebird Hill, and we reached the encampment by midnight. The savages were asleep, but their dogs began to bay at the sound of our horses. Within moments, several males burst from their huts bearing spears, and rushed at us.’

The blood froze in my veins. My hands went hot, and my heart began to race unsteadily. ‘There were women,’ I said, my voice thick with grief. ‘And little ones—’

Carsten went to the decanter and poured a glass of sherry, drained it in a gulp. Almost instantly, his gaze sharpened on me. His hand went to his mouth. He looked at the glass in his hand. I could see the question dawn in his eyes – suspicion at first, as his tongue darted along his lips, suddenly aware of the unfamiliar burning, tingling, of the sensitive skin. Then dark realisation, a blink of fear.

He dashed the glass to the floor, and swept the decanter after it. Sherry splashed around him, pooling on the wooden boards before seeping quickly between the cracks.

‘What have you done?’ His voice was ragged, as if the poison had already begun to etch away his vocal cords. ‘What in God’s name have you done to me?’

I backed away from him. ‘You killed my mother and her people. You destroyed my family. Did you really think you would get away with what you did?’

Carsten stumbled towards me, taking aim.

I lunged to the door and wrenched it open. Before I could slip through, Carsten fired. Splinters exploded from the floorboards at my feet and I staggered back, hitting the wall. Blinded by the gunpowder flash, I covered my face, expecting the next shot to rip into my body.

Carsten let out a wretched, broken sound. Shadows carved lines in his face, scooped the flesh under his eyes, making him gaunt. To my flash-blind eyes he looked thinner, diminished; a knife-edge of a man, lost in a wilderness of his own making.

I stood tall. ‘If you can’t shoot me, then let me go.’

Carsten wiped a sleeve across his face and seemed to gather himself. His gaze burned into me, and he shook his head.

‘I’ll drag you with me into the grave rather than let you walk away.’ His cheeks glistened, his hands trembled, as he pulled back the hammer a second time and fingered the trigger. Slowly, as though moving through the quicksand of a dream, he raised the weapon again and lined me in his sights.

The door burst wide. Lucien stood in the threshold. Snug in his hand was my aunt’s revolver, aimed unwaveringly at my husband’s head.

‘Drop your weapon, Mr Whitby.’

My heart caught. Lucien was no killer; despite his flogging, he still respected Carsten, and would stay his fire in the hope of a peaceable outcome. I rushed at him, shrieking his name, meaning to shield him with my body—

A shot rang out. Then another. And another.

Starbursts of gunpowder-flash blinded me. For a moment I wouldn’t allow myself to accept what I was seeing.

Lucien fell to his knees. My aunt’s revolver, loaded and cocked but unfired, clattered to the floor beside him. He swayed. His gaze found me in the lantern light. Then he crumpled.

I flung myself at him, gathering him into my arms, touching his face, his throat, his chest. My fingers turned red with his blood. More blood bloomed on my skirt, my white blouse, splashed my sleeves. Shadows fractured and broke apart. A void opened up and I felt its dark energy drag me towards its brink. It was easy to let myself slide, frighteningly easy. I released Lucien and groped on the floor, blindly seeking the weapon he’d dropped.