The Artist’s Secret Read online

  Martha Wright’s big blue eyes rolled. ‘You sound like you’re describing a horse.’

  ‘An educated horse?’

  Martha’s little dog, the runt from Robert’s own heeler’s litter, moved from one end of the clearing to the next, as happy to be outside as his mistress was. It wasn’t a breed designed to be a lap dog, and heelers were certainly thought to be too uncouth for a household as distinguished as the Wrights’.

  Elizabeth threw the dandelion stem aside and wished there was more she could say without giving herself away. She’d done enough hurting over men to last a while yet. Spinsterhood and a career as an artist sounded like an excellent plan for her future, just as long as Robert was happy to put up with the sight of her on Endmoor for a few more years. She’d have herself sorted out soon.

  She shifted her thoughts back towards the new, infuriating addition to Endmoor.

  ‘He likes numbers. It’s both baffling and wonderful. I was ready to burn all of Robert’s ledgers.’

  With John abroad she’d taken on a lot of the property’s less than enjoyable tasks. Unfortunately for her, she’d been good at them. Her brother, too amused about her predicament for his own good, had threatened to have her permanently assigned to the work.

  Well aware of the expectant expression on her friend’s face, Elizabeth considered what else to share. Even with Martha she wasn’t quite ready to talk about bollocks or sleepwalking or broad, strong shoulders.

  ‘His heritage isn’t entirely British.’

  ‘No? He’s not German, I suppose.’ They’d had Germans from the Rhineland out for a while, back when Robert and John were establishing the vineyards.

  ‘No, his colouring is darker than that.’

  The strong sun gleamed on Martha’s pale skin as she absorbed that piece of information. She really ought not to be without her hat, but Elizabeth knew better than to point it out.

  ‘Dark, you say? Perhaps he’s all the way from Italy, or Greece? Maybe Spain. Or even India?’

  ‘He’s not Italian. I think he’s Aboriginal, at least partly, but he hasn’t said and nobody has asked. My brother—’

  She paused, gauging Martha’s reaction. Nothing had come of her friend and Robert’s affection for each other during their youth, but she usually tried to avoid the topic of her brother altogether.

  ‘Well, anyway, Mr Rowe seems to be very good at his work, which is all that matters at the moment.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Martha replied, and bent to pat the dog, who’d just arrived at her feet.

  ‘It’s really no different with him there than before, the ledgers excluded.’ It was a fib, and the fact her friend didn’t reply was telling.

  The water bubbled and gurgled and sparkled, and the dog ambled off to investigate.

  ‘I think you like him,’ Martha finally said, sounding awfully smug about the situation. ‘And by like, I mean—’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean, and I won’t admit to that.’

  Her friend seemed far too pleased by that particular development. Not that there was a development, Elizabeth amended silently. Spinsters didn’t worry about men. They were too busy doing other, far more interesting things.

  One attempt at a grand romance was sufficient, and she’d already done that, with spectacular results—spectacularly bad results, that was. In fact, it had been a cautionary tale that men had wandering eyes, and it was one she was still ashamed to share, even now he was gone.

  Victoria Abraham: the name bounced around in her head sometimes, on quiet days when she hadn’t enough to occupy her mind. Victoria was an unfortunately common name—inescapable. Why hadn’t Edward’s other love been called something more obscure and forgettable?

  ‘Not all men are wicked,’ Martha began, voice careful and even.

  Elizabeth made sure to keep her attention on the slow, steady course of the river.

  ‘Oh, no, I know they’re not. Robert’s always been too good for—well—for his own good. I have my doubts about them as a group, though … Marriage is inevitable for most people. I consider myself fortunate to have avoided it so far.’

  Martha didn’t agree, Elizabeth knew. This was not a new debate.

  The dog completed his hundredth lap of the clearing and flopped down in the shade, and Martha stretched her hand out to run her fingers through his short fur.

  ‘What about John Stanford? He’s outrageous, but not wicked, I think. You’ve a lot in common, and you get on.’

  ‘John!’ Elizabeth tried to imagine it. A romance with the man who as a boy had convinced her to spend an entire afternoon upending buckets of water onto spitfire larvae in the garden? The man who had her believing the little insects would set Endmoor alight if she didn’t? The man who teased her better than her brother ever could?

  ‘It would be like marrying an especially maddening cousin.’

  They both turned sharply as a familiar barouche passed by, the vehicle tall enough they could see the top of it from their hiding place. Martha sighed.

  ‘My father will expect me back. It’s time to go upstairs and play the invalid again.’

  Two years earlier a robbery gone wrong had left Martha wounded, and her recovery had not been fast. It had given the older Wrights the excuse they needed to control their overly beautiful, extremely admired daughter more than ever before.

  Removing the hat had been a small rebellion, really, but Elizabeth’s friend truly wasn’t well.

  And suddenly Elizabeth was ashamed. Recently she’d devoted so much time to feeling sorry for herself. However she could go out and about as she pleased, and not only because she could manage it physically. Robert would find himself clobbered over the head if he refused her her freedom.

  The sounds of the vehicle’s wheels came to a stop and Martha sighed again and made her apologies to the dog. Neither one of them looked happy to be heading home.

  ‘I’ve a book,’ Elizabeth said as she stood and reached out a hand to yank her friend to her feet.

  ‘A book?’

  ‘You could try and sound a little bit excited. It’s not instructional. I’ve been reading it, and it’s definitely the type that would give your mother the vapours. Next time I’m in town I’ll bring it with me for you to borrow.’

  Interest flared in Martha’s eyes, but she was already shaking her head. ‘If it’s that sort of book, my mother will really get the vapours, and that’s never much fun. She’ll probably burn it, and then I’ll never be able to return it.’

  ‘I think it’s worth the risk. Why not hollow out a Bible and store it in there?’

  ‘Like Valeria Brinton?’ Martha now sounded interested. The Law and the Lady was the first sensational book either of them had ever read back when they were girls—and the first of many to be confiscated by Mrs Wright. They’d idolised the story’s heroine.

  ‘It could actually work. For all their preaching, nobody in my family actually cares much about church.’

  ***

  With Martha and her dog returned home without too much fanfare, Elizabeth walked back alongside the Murrumbidgee River, turning onto Monaro Street at the same time Robert and Mr Rowe emerged from the pub.

  ‘How is she?’ her brother asked when the three of them met at the bottom of the street.

  ‘All right. Better.’ It wasn’t entirely true, but she’d recently developed a habit of fibbing. Not all lies were bad. ‘Shall we head home?’

  ‘This was waiting for you in the post office,’ Mr Rowe said, clearing his throat and drawing her attention his way.

  Elizabeth thanked him and absently reached out for the small parcel he held out to her. She was constantly ordering some supply or another for her work, and received at least as much mail as Robert did.

  ‘I suppose we should probably—’ She broke off when she got a better look at what she held. It was not a delivery of art supplies.

  Later she’d have no recollection of what she thought they should probably do. Later, she’d not even remember
how she got from the centre of town to her home in the bush.

  The parcel was battered and oddly yellowed, as though it had been sitting in some dusty, sunny corner of an office for longer than it ought to have, forgotten all about. The initial address had been crossed out, and a new direction—to Barracks Flat—written in a messy and unfamiliar hand in its place.

  ‘For me?’ she asked stupidly, even as she saw her name scrawled across the paper.

  Robert peered over her shoulder. ‘Were you expecting anything?’

  ‘No.’ She turned it over. ‘Maybe a friend in Sydney has—’

  Cascade Street.

  Edward!

  The world whirled. Elizabeth reached out blindly as her head grew light, gripping her brother’s forearm as she fought off a wave of emotion so strong it all but engulfed her. A hand was at her back, the touch feeling a long way away, but it anchored her enough to keep her on her feet.

  Someone said her name once, and then again, but there was too much ringing in her ears for her to hear the rest.

  Edward. Edward Sumner.

  A man who was supposed to be dead.

  Chapter 6

  The journey back to Endmoor was a subdued one.

  After having the carriage brought down, the three of them—Peter, Farrer and Elizabeth—had set a steady pace directly for home.

  Peter tried to stay removed from the situation, whatever it was. It was clearly a private matter, and he was far from being family. There might have been more conversation between the siblings if he wasn’t in the confined space with them, but he didn’t think so. It was clear Robert Farrer didn’t have any more idea what had happened back in town than Peter did.

  He tried to give the two of them all the space he could, squashing himself into a corner and not shifting his position even when various parts of him began to cramp. It was not an especially successful way to hide.

  It was hard—impossible—to not keep sneaking glances Miss Farrer’s way, but each time he did, he was left more confounded than before. On other days he’d been entertained that he could dislodge her control with apparent ease, but it wouldn’t happen here. She’d regained her composure almost as soon as she’d lost it, and now sat as straight and silent as she could manage on the rough road. The distance she’d placed between herself and the rest of them wrapped around her in layer after layer, daring anybody to even attempt to converse with her.

  So far, neither man had been brave enough to try.

  His attention was captured once more as she adjusted her grip on the parcel in her lap, but she kept her focus on the trees through the open window. Peter and Farrer might not even have been there.

  The bush was never truly silent, he’d learnt over the past weeks, but there was usually a peace to it he’d come to appreciate. That afternoon was not one of those peaceful times. The rustling of leaves as the breeze picked up felt amplified to his ears. The pollen in the air made him want to sneeze again, and he fought it off with more determination than he’d ever applied to a task before. He concentrated hard on an insignificant eucalypt until it was out of sight, forcing his mind off his hay fever.

  The various screeches and squawks of birds grated. He glared at a bright white cockatoo that watched them trundle past. It seemed like the bloody creature was smirking at them.

  The bumps and ruts in the road worsened, but Miss Farrer sat as primly as she could, back defiantly straight. Every now and then there’d be a jolt too great and some of her poise was rocked, but her hands only tightened on the unopened parcel as she pressed her lips more tightly together.

  He hadn’t paid close attention to the thing when he’d collected it, nor at the park, and not in the pub afterwards. He’d not wanted to be intrusive, had been too absorbed in his own correspondence, and it really was such a small and insignificant-looking thing. Now he wished he had given it a closer inspection.

  Peter looked across at her again, noticed her brother doing the same, and accidentally met the other man’s eyes.

  An uncomfortable moment passed, and then both of them again looked away.

  They passed the couple of dirt tracks that led off to small huts and cottages, and then finally arrived at Endmoor’s gate.

  Robert himself hopped out to open it, and both Peter and Elizabeth watched the mundane activity with an intensity he was sure nobody had applied to the task before. They passed through, Farrer closed the gate behind them, the vehicle rocked as he climbed back in, and then they were off up the drive.

  Peter didn’t let out a full breath until they’d come to a stop in front of the homestead and signs of normalcy finally appeared around them.

  In looks, nothing drastic had changed since they’d left a few hours ago. The spring flowers had finally given up for the season, and petals lay scattered across the path, some of them dancing in the breeze. Peter heard the sounds of a broom being put to work further into the garden. A stockman he’d been introduced to on his second day offered them a casual greeting as he passed by, headed for the stables. Farrer’s heeler bounded their way, gleefully oblivious to the tension around him.

  Elizabeth hopped down from the carriage unassisted, parcel still clasped tightly in one hand, and disappeared into the house as though there wasn’t a single other person on the estate.

  ***

  She couldn’t open it.

  Elizabeth wasn’t one of those people who lived by superstitions. She never worried over supposed death omens as so many were inclined to do, and was quite sure a spirit could not get trapped in a mirror—no matter how many ghost stories she’d heard to the contrary. She liked to think she was a rational sort of person, which was why it shocked her so much she couldn’t find that rationality then.

  She had to open it. She had to know. The news it brought, whatever it was, wouldn’t go away simply because she ignored it.

  Oh, how she wished it would.

  She felt suspended between the past and the present, and that the parcel was surely the key to her moving in a new direction. Only, right then she wasn’t certain she wanted to move on. Some memories were too important to her to end.

  And yet … Edward had been far from perfect. Not all of her memories of him warranted dramatic displays of nostalgia.

  The package still sat there on the dresser in front of her, haunting her and taunting her, begging to be opened. It was originally addressed to her in Edward’s distinctively messy handwriting, but in the time since, someone had somehow found her out in the country and had it redirected.

  She was well aware she was behaving strangely, and more than aware that she would have to give the others an explanation for her behaviour in town—and her behaviour now. What she ought to have done was keep her emotions private, and make some general, casual conversation on the way back home, because she was fairly sure she hadn’t said a word the whole way. She should have hidden her shock until she could be on her own.

  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t any experience hiding such things in the past.

  Robert had noticed. Alice had been out working in the rose garden when they’d returned, but by now she too would know something was wrong, because Mrs Adamson had also noticed.

  And Mr Rowe had seen.

  Soon someone—probably Alice, but maybe the housekeeper—would come to check on her, and by then she had to have done two things: pulled herself together, and opened her accursed post.

  ‘It means nothing,’ she told the room at large. The still rational part of her mind was well aware of that fact.

  Things became mislaid all the time, and she knew it could easily happen with mail. She couldn’t and wouldn’t allow herself to start hoping a miracle had happened.

  The handwriting, though …

  Feeling too hot and too cold, she cracked the window open and then went to her dresser and shifted several books aside. Once again she took the old, battered box from the back, near the wall, and removed the letter from within it.

  As hiding places went, it was hardly
well concealed, but there’d never been anyone in the household who might snoop through her personal things. Robert was nothing if not honourable, and they got on better than most siblings, she thought. They always had.

  The box contained only a few things. There were a couple of diaries she’d kept as a girl. There were a few letters from her parents, chiefly from her mother. There was a note scribbled to her by a boy from some years earlier; it amused her now that she could hardly recall what he looked like, let alone why the handful of sentences he’d put on the paper had meant so much at the time. They had, though, and so she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away.

  But it was Edward’s letter, until now the only one she thought he’d ever written to her, that mattered the most. And for so long it had lived in that box alongside the now-old betrothal announcement that had changed everything. She hadn’t been able to throw that away, either.

  Ensuring her bedroom door was locked, she took Edward’s correspondence—old and new—across to the bed and laid them side by side on the mattress.

  The parcel’s wrapping seemed to yellow more with age with every minute that passed. It spoke of a moment frozen in time, never again to change. Gathering her courage, she began to unwrap it with careful, gentle fingers.

  The cord knotted about it snagged, and she had to find a pair of scissors to cut it free, snipping out the remnants of the first address as she did. Because it was written in Edward’s hand it felt like sacrilege to do so.

  The paper crumbled a little more and then all but disintegrated in her hands.

  ‘Old,’ she reminded herself. ‘It’s years old.’

  There was an envelope inside with her name scrawled across it in big, masculine lettering, and a small box bearing a jeweller’s name beneath it. She set the box aside and picked up the envelope with unsteady fingers, carefully opening it and drawing out the little card within.

  She couldn’t read it; she had to read it.

  Something clattered on the paving stones outside, and not too far away she heard the rise and fall of voices, the words indistinguishable to her from where she sat. A breeze drifted to her, playing with the tendrils of her hair. The real, living world surrounded her.