Matilda's Last Waltz (43 page)

Ethan glared up at her from his wheelchair. ‘Congratulations,' he barked. ‘Beginner's luck of course. We'll have that trophy back next year.'

She took the ornate figure of the bucking horse and turned to Brett. He was scowling ferociously as he stepped away from Lorraine. ‘Congratulations,' she said coldly, and turned her head in time to avoid the kiss he was about to plant on her cheek.

‘Jenny,' he said softly into her hair. ‘It isn't how it looks.'

She looked into his eyes, saw something there that made her pulse race, then caught sight of Lorraine's possessive hand on his arm, and knew she had to be mistaken. ‘I'll see you back at Churinga, Mr Wilson.'

As she turned back to Diane and Charlie, she heard the soft snigger of Lorraine's laugh and had to force herself to make polite conversation and drink champagne as though nothing was wrong. And yet it was – it was. What game was Brett playing? And why did his eyes send messages that belied his actions?

The rest of the day petered out as the picnic hampers were put away for the last time and the fairground booths were dismantled. Jenny made her excuses to Charlie and the others, made arrangements for one of the drovers to take her utility home, and climbed into the garishly painted camper with Diane.

‘Welcome to Trevor,' she said as she switched on the ignition. ‘All mod cons, even got air conditioning.'

Jenny looked into the back. A makeshift bed had been spread over the floor, sarongs from Bali had been strung from the roof, and sketchbooks and easels were stacked in the side compartments next to spare tyres and water canisters.

‘Reminds me of something,' she said with a smile.

Diane laughed. ‘Too right. Trevor could be Allan's twin.'

Jenny sat back and watched the passing scenery. Allan had been their camper all those years ago in Europe. Bought in Earls Court, he was painted blue, with a tube of high surf on one side, a sun and moon and stars on the other. He'd had the Australian flag painted on his roof, and the back doors had been decorated with very yellow sunflowers. Trevor had orange flames licking at his sides, with death's head skulls on his doors and ban the bomb symbols emblazoned on his roof. A different generation, perhaps, but the messages were the same. ‘I wonder what happened to poor old Allan?'

Diane negotiated the rough road as she followed the Squires' cars. ‘Probably still going,' she said wistfully. ‘He was a good old bus.'

They fell into companionable silence as the miles passed, and when they'd finally pulled up in front of Kurrajong, Jenny smiled at Diane's reaction. ‘A gin palace. How wonderful,' she breathed.

‘Wait until you see inside,' she said wryly.

Helen greeted them in the hall. ‘I hope you don't mind sharing? It's just that the house is full.'

Jenny and Diane grinned at one another. ‘It'll be like old times, Helen. No worries.'

Jenny led the way upstairs and stood back so her friend could get a proper impression of their room.

‘Bloody hell. You are moving with the rich and famous. I've never seen anything like it.' Diane gathered up an excited Ripper and moved around the room, picking up ornaments and perfume bottles and peeking into cupboards and drawers. When she stepped into the bathroom, she let out a shriek.

‘Whoever did that needs shooting,' she laughed. ‘Have you ever seen such a terrible sculpture? Poor old Venus.'

Jenny laughed with her. ‘She does look horribly smug. But then so would you if you had nothing better to do than sit in here all day.'

Diane threw herself on the bed and stretched like a cat in the last few rays of the sun. ‘Bit different from when we shared as kids, eh? I keep expecting Sister Michael to walk in.'

Jenny shuddered. ‘Don't remind me. If I ever see that woman or place again, it will be too soon.'

Diane rested on one elbow, her expression suddenly sombre. ‘It was better than some of the places we were fostered to.'

Jenny didn't want to remember the nightmare of her first foster home. Didn't want to remember how her foster father crept into her room at night or the terrible row when she'd screamed and run to his wife. She hadn't been believed, told she was a lying, vindictive, evil little girl, and sent back to Dajarra.

Reverend Mother had listened and been kind, but Sister Michael's snide whispers told her she should have kept quiet and stayed put – regardless of what could have happened to her. She'd had to wait another year before she'd been taken to the refuge of Waluna.

Jenny fixed on a bright, determined smile. ‘Want to take the first bath? We have three hours until the barn dance.'

*   *   *

Jenny had taken her time to dress and was just finishing her make-up when Diane came back from the bathroom. She was dressed in a deep purple shift that was threaded with silver and showed a great deal of cleavage and long, tanned legs. Her dark hair was piled high, fastened with silver combs, ringlets framing her face. Amethysts sparkled in her ears and at her throat. ‘A going away present from Rufus,' she giggled. ‘Rather nice, aren't they?'

Jenny noticed and looked ruefully at her own simple hoops and locket. ‘You make me feel under dressed,' she said wearily.

‘Rubbish. That dress is drop-dead gorgeous – all you need is my jade earrings to set it off and a decent pair of shoes.' Diane began to rummage in her over-sized holdall and emerged triumphant with the earrings.

Jenny was looking with pleasure at the way the green and silver set off the dress when there was a knock on the door and Helen came into the room.

‘Are we late?' Jenny took in the elegant black gown that showed pale, slender shoulders, the discreet pearl studs and choker that had probably cost a fortune.

The older woman smiled. ‘Not at all. I just wanted the chance to have a chat and make sure you have everything you need.' She eyed them both with unaffected pleasure. ‘What pretty girls you are,' she sighed. ‘You'll have all the men asking you to dance.'

Jenny felt absurdly gauche before this elegant, sophisticated woman, and glanced nervously across at Diane. ‘You don't think we've overdone it a bit, do you?'

Helen laughed. ‘Of course not. When else can you dress up and have fun in this place?' She reached out and touched the sea green dress. ‘This is beautiful. The colour does something to your eyes.' She sighed. ‘I could never wear that colour without it making me look washed out. I hate being so fair.'

Jenny eyed the silky swirl of platinum hair that had been coiled so intricately into the nape of her porcelain neck. ‘I could never hope to look as cool and elegant. I've always envied blondes.'

Helen's hand was soft on her arm. ‘We do seem to have formed a mutual admiration society, don't we?' She gave a girlish giggle. ‘But would you be offended if I give you a little advice?'

Jenny swallowed and glanced across at Diane. What had she done wrong? What taboo had she broken?

‘It's the shoes, darling. Much too informal. Wait here and I'll fetch a pair of mine.'

Jenny and Diane exchanged glances as the door closed behind Helen. ‘What about my toe?' she said in an urgent whisper. ‘I'll never get into her shoes if they're too narrow.'

‘Don't ask me,' said Diane. ‘Let's just hope they're not too old-fashioned, because come hell or high water, you're going to have to wear them if they do fit.'

Helen returned minutes later with a shoe box that had an impressive label. ‘I reckon we're about the same size. Try them on.'

They were made of the palest, most delicate lace, and fitted as if made for her. The tapering heel was stiletto thin, the toes long and encrusted with seed pearls. Jenny heard Diane gasp, and looked up at Helen.

‘They're beautiful,' she breathed. ‘But I don't know if I dare wear them.'

‘Nonsense,' she replied firmly. ‘You keep them. The dress I had to match is hopelessly out of date, and I'm probably far too old to wear such things any more. Now come on. As the hostess I have to be early, and as you're both ready, you might as well come with me.'

The great barn was almost two miles away from the homestead, and to protect their finery the family drove there. The barn still smelled of hay but had been scrubbed clean for the occasion. Bales had been placed around the room for seating and a bar had been set up by the door. A group of men dressed in American cowboy outfits were tuning their instruments on a make-shift stage, and the rafters had been hung with flags and balloons.

‘This all looks familiar,' said Diane. She nodded towards a cluster of young girls sitting eagerly in the corner. ‘And so does that. Do you remember how awful it was waiting to be asked to dance?'

Jenny nodded. The memory was all too vivid but in truth she could never remember Diane being a wall flower. They took the glasses of champagne Andrew served and watched the flood of arrivals. ‘He isn't here yet,' murmured Diane. ‘But then neither is she.'

Jenny didn't need to be told who her friend was talking about but managed to avoid replying in the applause that greeted James and Helen as they took to the floor to get things under way. There was no time to wonder where Brett was as Charlie grabbed her and twirled her enthusiastically into a polka.

The barn was soon filled with energetic dancing. Jenny was swept away by men she'd never seen before, gripped tightly by youths with hot hands and beer-laden breath who whirled her round and round until she was giddy. Promenaded by grizzled drovers who trod on her feet and looked down her cleavage. She was sweating and exhausted when finally she managed to escape the chaos and collapse on a straw bale to catch her breath.

The attentive Charles was nowhere to be seen and Diane was still careering around the room in the arms of the very handsome drover who'd been the first to ask her to dance. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. Jenny envied her her energy but it was pleasant just sitting here watching the colour and movement of the room.

She was about to take a drink when the glass was plucked from her hand and she was pulled to her feet. ‘Charlie, I can't.' Her protest died as Brett drew her into his arms.

‘It's a slow one, but I can't guarantee not to step on your toes,' he yelled above the noise.

Jenny moved into his arms as if in a trance. She could feel the heat of him through his shirt, feel the palm of his hand, hot and steady, on her back. Somehow it enhanced the excitement of the moment – made Charlie's expert but clinical approach to dancing a distant memory. For despite all her denials, this was what she'd been waiting for. She relaxed into his arms and closed her eyes.

The band was very good and had begun a medley of country and western favourites. Broken dreams, broken hearts, broken promises – the lyrics might have been sad, but as she danced within his embrace, she realised she hadn't felt this happy in a long while.

‘You look real nice, Jenny,' he said into her hair.

She looked up into his grey eyes and knew he meant the compliment. ‘Thanks. And well done for winning King of the Hill.'

‘Fourth year running,' he said proudly.' But I reckon this is better.'

‘Do you?'

He nodded. ‘I told you earlier – things weren't as they seemed. Lorraine and I are finished.'

She eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, decided not to let doubts spoil the evening, and let him sweep her into the fast polka that followed the waltz. Finally she had to plead with him to stop. ‘I'm too hot and my feet hurt,' she said with a rueful laugh. ‘Can we sit this one out?'

He took her back to the hay bale. ‘I reckon we could both do with a drink,' he yelled above the noise. ‘Promise you won't go away?'

Jenny felt childishly pleased that he wanted to be with her, and nodded. Then she watched him manoeuvre through the dancing couples to the bar and felt suddenly very alone.

‘Reckon you must be the belle of the ball, Mrs Sanders.'

Jenny hadn't heard him approach but then his wheelchair was silent on the wooden floor. They eyed each other in silence – an oasis of mutual dislike and curiosity in a sea of colour and noise.

‘Matilda was too grand for this sort of thing. Hid herself away with her black fellers and refused all invitations.'

‘Perhaps she had more on her mind than country dances,' replied Jenny coolly. She had a sharp image of Matilda at her one and only dance, and shuddered. People could be so cruel.

Ethan leaned forward in his wheelchair, bony fingers gripping her wrist. ‘Charlie wanted her to marry him, you know. But I didn't reckon she was good enough for him. What do you think of that?'

‘Perhaps she was relieved. He probably wasn't in love with her anyway.'

He let her go and grimaced disdainfully. ‘Love,' he spat. ‘That's all you stupid women think about. It's the land that's king here, Mrs Sanders. It rules us all.'

‘It seems to have made you very bitter, Mr Squires. Why is that, I wonder?'

The hooded eyes slid away as he pretended he hadn't heard. When he looked back, his face was as composed and shuttered as a house in a dust storm. ‘You thinking of staying on at Churinga?' he asked abruptly.

She was cool as she looked back at him. ‘I don't know. Why?'

‘I'll give you a fair price for it. Kurrajong's expanding into the horse breeding business. Churinga would make a good stud farm.'

Brett had arrived with their drinks and Jenny stood up, glad of the excuse to be rid of the old man's company. ‘Andrew has already approached me with an offer. I turned him down. Perhaps if you tell me the real reason it's so important for you to have Churinga, I might reconsider.'

He remained silent, eyes boring into hers for endless seconds before he turned away.

‘You didn't mean that did you – about reconsidering?' Brett's smile had disappeared and there was a frown between his brows.