Matilda's Last Waltz (7 page)

Her breath was ragged. Her heartbeat a hammer against her ribs as the chestnut gelding came up beside her. Sweat foamed its flanks, the great bellows of its lungs rasped as it came to a skittering halt in front of her.

Matilda twisted away.

The horse followed.

She ducked away from the trampling, stamping legs and weaved through the grass.

The horse closed in, the booted foot left the stirrup and kicked up.

The blow to the side of her head sent her stumbling, arms flailing, trying to catch hold of the harness to keep her balance. Then she was falling. Down, down, down she went – the earth rushing to meet her, embracing her in a cloud of dust and cruel stones, punching air from her lungs.

Mervyn's bulk blotted out the remains of the sun as he loomed over her. ‘Just how far did you think you were gonna get?'

Matilda glanced through the grass at the silent, deserted homestead. If she hadn't taken time to rest she'd have made it.

His grasp on her arm was brutal as he yanked her to her feet. A gleam of sadistic relish was in his eyes as he tugged her hair and forced her to look up at him. Matilda knew he wanted her to cry out, to plead with him not to hurt her, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction – no matter how much he was hurting her.

His breath was foul, his mouth inches from her face. His voice a low, menacing rasp. ‘What happens on Churinga's no one else's business. Understood? You shoot through again, and I'll kill you.'

Matilda knew this was no idle threat. She lowered her gaze and tried not to flinch as his fingers increased their hold in her hair.

‘Look at me,' he growled.

She dredged the last of her courage and stared back at him.

‘There ain't no one going to believe you. I'm a hero, see, and I've got a medal to prove it.'

Matilda looked into his eyes and thought she saw something else behind the threat – could it be fear? Impossible. For his words held the ring of truth and in those few seconds she knew she was truly alone.

Chapter One

Sydney sweltered, and the graceful white sails of the new Opera House gleamed against the dark iron struts of the harbour bridge. Circular Quay was a kaleidoscope of colour with its crush of people, and the water busy with craft of every size and shape. Australia was celebrating as only she knew how, the narrow streets of the burgeoning capital full of noise and bustle. Jenny had gone to see the Queen open the Opera House out of curiosity, and to help fill the hours of another long day. Yet the great swarm of people who joined her on the sun-drenched quayside did nothing to alleviate the feeling of isolation, and she'd returned home to her house in the northern suburb of Palm Beach as soon as the ceremony was over.

Now she stood on the balcony and gripped the railing with the same desperation as she'd clung to the debris of her life during the past six months of mourning. The death of her husband and baby hadn't come softly, with time to prepare, to say the words of parting that should have been spoken – but with an obscene swiftness that had swept everything else aside and left her stranded. The house seemed too big, too empty, too silent. And every room held a reminder of how it had once been. Yet there could be no turning back, no remission. They were gone.

The Pacific Ocean glittered in the sun, its reflection mirrored in the windows of the elegant villas on the hillside overlooking the shore, and the bright, purple heads of the bougainvillaea nodded against the white stucco walls of the house. Peter had planted them because they were the same colour as her eyes. Now she could hardly bear to look at them. Yet it was the sight of the children splashing at the water's edge that most reinforced her loss. Two-year-old Ben had loved the water.

‘Thought I'd find you here. Why did you run off like that? You scared me, Jen.'

She turned at the sound of Diane's soft voice to find her friend standing in the doorway. She was dressed as usual in a caftan, her dark curls anchored by a silk bandanna. ‘Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you, but after six months of shutting myself away, the noise and the crowds in the city were too much. I had to get away.'

‘You should have said you wanted to leave. I'd have come with you.'

Jenny shook her head. ‘I needed to be on my own for a while, Diane. Needed to make sure…'

She couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't put into words the awful hope she carried each time she left the house. For she knew the truth, had seen the coffins lowered into the ground. ‘It was a mistake. I know that now.'

‘Not a mistake, Jen. Just confirmation of your worst fears. But it will get better, I promise.'

Jenny eyed her friend with affection. The exotic clothes, garish jewellery and heavy makeup hid a softness she would have denied vehemently. But Jenny had known Diane for too long to be fooled. ‘How come you know so much?'

There was a flicker of sadness in Diane's brown eyes. ‘Twenty-four years of experience,' she said dryly. ‘Life's a bitch, but you and I've survived this long, so don't you dare give up on me now.'

The kaleidoscope of their lives flashed through Jenny's mind as they embraced. They had met in the orphanage at Dajarra, two small girls clinging to the hope of finding their parents – and when that dream was shattered they'd built another. Then another.

‘Remember when we first came down to Sydney? We had so many plans. How come it all went wrong?'

Diane gently pulled away from the embrace, her silver bracelets jangling as she smoothed Jenny's long brown hair away from her face. ‘Nothing was ever guaranteed, Jen. There's no point in lingering over what fate dished out for us.'

‘But it's not fair,' she exploded, anger finally rising above the misery.

Diane's expression was enigmatic. ‘I agree, but unfortunately there's nothing we can do about it.' She gripped Jenny's arms in strong fingers. ‘Let it go, Jen. Get angry – cry – yell at the world and everything in it if it makes you feel better. Because you aren't doing yourself any favours by letting it eat away at you.'

Jenny waged an inner war as she turned away from that all-penetrating honesty and stared out over the bay. It would have been easy to rage, to give into tears and recriminations, but there had to be some part of her life still within her control and this enforced calm was all she had left.

*   *   *

Diane swept back her long sleeves, lit a cigarette and watched the inner battle reflected on Jenny's face. I wish I could do or say something to break down that great wall of resistance she always puts up when she's hurt, she thought. But, knowing Jenny, she'll come round to it when she's good and ready. It had been the same all their lives, and Diane could see no reason why she should change now.

Her thoughts drifted back to the orphanage and the silent, solitary little girl who'd rarely cried no matter how much she was hurting. Of the two of them, Jenny had always appeared to be the stronger. Not for her the tantrums and tears, the raging at what life had thrown at them – but Diane knew that beneath the facade of strength lay a soft, frightened core which was no stranger to pain. For how else could Jenny have sustained Diane through the hell of being told she couldn't have children? How else could Jenny have understood the agony when David had stood her friend up at the altar for a fertile tart he'd met at the office?

Diane stubbed out her cigarette as the old anger resurfaced. Two years and a lot of hard work in the studio had taken the sting off that rage, but a great many tears had been shed. They had been an intrinsic part of Diane's healing process, something Jenny too must accept if she was to have any kind of future.

Frustration at not being able to reach her friend made her restless. She ought to be at the gallery they both owned, helping Andy display her sculptures for the forthcoming exhibition, but she didn't like to leave without making sure Jenny was all right.

Jenny turned from the balcony railing, her violet eyes fathomless in her pale face. ‘I expect you want those paintings?' Her voice was toneless, her emotions tightly reined.

‘The exhibition's not for a month yet, and I know how I want to display them. They'll keep for a while.' How the hell can she be so calm? thought Diane. If my husband had just dropped dead and taken my baby with him, I'd be climbing the bloody walls, not thinking about art exhibitions.

‘I've already packed the canvases. They're in the studio.' Jenny flicked a glance at her watch. ‘I have to go.'

Diane was startled. ‘Go? Go where? Everything's closed for the day.'

‘Solicitor's office. John Wainwright wants to discuss certain aspects of Pete's will more fully.'

‘But probate was granted almost six months ago. What the hell's left to discuss?'

Jenny shrugged. ‘He wouldn't tell me over the phone but it's got something to do with me being twenty-five yesterday.'

‘I'll come with you.' Diane's alarm at her friend's unnatural calm made her voice rather sharp.

‘There's no need, love. But do me a favour, take the paintings with you. I can't face Andy or the gallery at the moment.'

Diane had a sharp, mental image of their gallery manager. The limp-wristed Andy was inclined to go off the deep end if the slightest thing went wrong, but tantrums aside he was indispensable. For he saw to the day-to-day running of the gallery, leaving Jenny and Diane free to be creative. ‘He's a big boy now, Jen. He'll just have to cope,' she said firmly.

Jenny shook her head, her glossy hair swinging over her shoulders. ‘I'd prefer to do this alone, Diane. Please try and understand.'

She picked up her tote bag. It was pointless to argue when Jenny was like this. ‘I wish you'd let me help more,' she muttered.

Jenny's hand was cold against her arm, nails bitten, fingers stained with oil paint. ‘I know, darling, and you have. But like Andy, I'm all grown up, and it's time I stood on my own two feet.'

*   *   *

Jenny drove the battered Holden down the steep hill and out on to the main road. Palm Beach lay on the central coast of the northern fringes of the great urban sprawl of Sydney, but despite being only an hour away from the harbour bridge it was another world to the hustle and bright lights of the city. Quiet inlets were home to sailing boats; tree-lined streets housed expensive boutiques and quaint little restaurants. Gardens were a riot of colour and leafy shade, and the houses that overlooked the bays had that understated elegance only money could bring. Despite her mood, she couldn't help but feel a certain peace here. She usually loved the buzz of the city, but the relaxed, seaside aura of the northern suburb had become her saviour.

Windsor lay somnolent in the heat of the Hawkesbury Valley, thirty-five miles north of Sydney. The houses were mainly clapboard and tiled with terracotta slates, shaded by great red gum trees. It was a pioneer town, settled in the days of Governor Macquarie, and its heritage was evident in the convict architecture of the Courthouse and St Matthew's Church.

Jenny parked up on the edge of the town and sat for a long moment, staring out of the window. Yet she saw nothing for she needed time to gather her thoughts before facing John Wainwright again.

The original reading of the will had passed without her registering how much it would affect her. Her loss had been too fresh, too sudden, and she'd lived from day to day in a protective vacuum where nothing could touch her. She had learned things about her dead husband she didn't want to acknowledge and had pushed them aside, hoping that somehow they could be faced if left long enough.

Now presumably she would have to face them. Have to question the things he'd done, and set them clear in her mind so she could deal with them.

Her emergence from that trance-like state made it hard to accept life had gone on despite the tragedy. Peter had been the rock on which she'd built the foundation of her adult life. He'd been clever and resourceful, believing in her talent and encouraging her to exhibit her paintings. Yet his own dreams of returning to the land had never been fulfilled. He'd been too busy working in the bank and providing a home for his family to have time for dreams.

And yet his will had revealed another side to him. A side that was alien to the man she'd known and loved.

Jenny sighed. She wished they'd not been so certain time was on their side. Wished Peter had been honest with her and told her about the vast amount of money he'd tucked away – and had used to fulfil those dreams they'd shared. For what was the use of a fortune if they couldn't spend it together?

She stared off into the distance. Diane knew nothing of the will. Perhaps it would have been better to discuss it with her, to find out if her friend had seen Peter in a different light and had some inkling of what he was up to? But then, how could she? Jenny admitted silently. All marriages were conducted behind closed doors, and if living with Peter hadn't revealed the true man to her then how could she expect Diane to know any different?

Jenny checked her watch and climbed out of the car. It was time to go.

The offices of Wainwright, Dobbs and Steel were located in a solid Victorian building that had the dirt of years ingrained in its stone. She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. Control was everything. Without it, her world would crumble and she'd be lost.

Taking the short flight of steps at a steady pace, she pushed through the heavy doors. The building was gloomy, despite the heavy chandeliers, the light of the Australian summer deflected by the surrounding buildings. Yet the marble floor and stone pillars gave it a delicious coolness that was welcome after the heat of the park.

‘Jennifer?'

John Wainwright was a short, round, prematurely balding Englishman, with rimless spectacles perched halfway down his long nose. The hand he offered was soft, like a woman's, fingers ringless and tapered, nails perfectly manicured. He'd been Peter's family solicitor for years but Jenny had never really taken to him.