The Artist’s Secret Page 9

  Martha’s steps faltered when they broke free of the trees.

  ‘We’re going to picnic beside those old graves?’

  Elizabeth tugged her along. ‘It’s a lovely spot, and there’re no prying eyes. Are you afraid?’

  ‘No! I’m … sensibly cautious.’

  Alice kept walking on. ‘That sounds like a fancy term for scared.’

  The clearing was one of the few markers on the land an inexperienced person could navigate by, thanks to its misshapen pond and small graveyard. The graves were near the water and from decades earlier, from when bushrangers ran wild and only the brave—or stupid—travelled the roads beyond the biggest towns. The inscriptions on the headstones were largely overgrown with moss, and the remaining few that hadn’t yet slipped down the bank and into the water pointed crookedly in each and every direction.

  They took themselves around the pond and to a spot in the shade. The sounds of the river surrounded them, soothing. Elizabeth dug around in the basket and handed across Martha’s contraband: Lady Audley’s Secret.

  ‘It’s your turn. We’ve both finished it.’

  While the other two set out refreshments, Martha opened the cover carefully and skimmed through the first few pages. The angle of the sun changed, and Elizabeth tried to give the other woman her spot directly beneath the tree. The offer was politely refused.

  ‘I’m quite happy to be sitting with my back to those graves. The view this way is much less morbid.’

  Alice wasn’t convinced. ‘I think I’d rather see a poltergeist approach than have my back to it. Gives a person the chance to build up the energy for an appropriate scream.’

  Martha looked up from the page.

  ‘Poltergeists? I always imagined if I came out here often enough I’d find some handsome bushranger waiting to run off with me. Now the place seems more creepy than exciting.’

  ‘A handsome bushranger?’ Alice pulled a face. ‘Needle in a haystack, that’d be—the bushrangers I know of looked more like bearded goblins. But if anyone was to find a handsome one, I bet it’d have been you.’

  Elizabeth started at the statement and, for the briefest of moments, felt a stab of something dreadful: envy.

  What would Mr Rowe think of her dearest friend? What would he think if they were side by side? Elizabeth would fade into the background like dated wallpaper, she suspected. They’d been a pair for almost their whole lives, she and Martha, but only occasionally had looks mattered to her.

  Elizabeth was pretty, and Martha was the declared beauty. Elizabeth was the artist, and Martha was … Martha wasn’t allowed to be anything other than a beauty. At least not publicly, and certainly not since her illness.

  ‘I’m happy to not have to worry about an outlaw sweepin’ me off my feet. What d’you say, Elizabeth?’ Alice bit into a mince pie as she waited for a response, drawing back to give the thing an astonished look, and then nibbled more carefully.

  ‘I’d say I agree with you.’

  All the beauty in the world hadn’t changed the fact Martha had nearly died two years ago. And Edward was long gone.

  She pointed at Lady Audley. ‘I think you’d better read that before doing anything too mad. There are consequences for falling madly in love with a stranger.’

  Alice propped her chin on her knee and stared off into the distance.

  ‘Hard to imagine such a proper lady not bein’ scandalised by that book. I don’t mean offence, Miss Wright. I’d love to be more like you. Decent, with good, proper manners.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Martha said after a significant pause. She seemed outraged by the suggestion she was proper. ‘I’m going to do something horrendous just so I can no longer be accused of being good.’

  ‘Elizabeth?’ she heard Alice say, and only then realised her friends had fallen quiet.

  Reaching into the basket, she retrieved one of the mince pies, distractedly taking a big bite, and then gasping. Goodness. Mrs Adamson had not skimped on the brandy.

  She bit the little pie again and thought about fickle, superficial gentlemen as her eyes watered.

  ‘Strong, isn’t it? That was a big bite, Elizabeth. I’ve gotta say I’m impressed you haven’t spat it back out.’

  Elizabeth finished the pie in increments and listened to the other two debate the merits of the city over the country, a discussion that swiftly moved to the merits of marrying an outlaw rather than a businessman. Martha was still intrigued; Alice was mildly appalled.

  ‘There are a lot of women in the city,’ Elizabeth said into a lull in the debate, and she all but wished she could take the words back the moment they were out. Envy was a pointless emotion. What was Mr Rowe up to, she wondered.

  ‘There are a lot of gentlemen, too,’ Martha pointed out gently.

  A fly buzzed between them. Elizabeth watched until it moved away.

  ‘Lots of ladies, lots of gents,’ Alice told her then. ‘It evens out.’

  It was then that they heard the rustling in the bushes.

  All three women froze, eyes darting from the movement to each other and back.

  Martha lowered her voice.

  ‘Elizabeth Farrer, if that’s really a ghost coming, I’m never letting you abduct me again.’

  Chapter 10

  The ghost was Ada Hall. After a few frightful seconds, sense set in and Elizabeth realised the sound and shape of the person emerging from the shadows was too familiar to her to be an apparition.

  The three of them, Elizabeth, Alice and Martha, sat there, half-eaten brandy pies in hands, as the woman gradually emerged from the scrub. At first the newest arrival was just a hint of rust-coloured skirts and the occasional unintelligible word making its way through the bushes.

  ‘Utterly ridiculous,’ Elizabeth heard her exclaim before the words trailed off again.

  The branch of a banksia rustled. Elizabeth brushed at her skirts and wondered if offering the older woman assistance would cause great offence.

  ‘Should’ve brought a machete,’ the old lady said quite clearly.

  She came into the clearing backwards, small and old enough to be grandmother to the rest of them, a nondescript woman who’d likely always been that way, and one who couldn’t care less about silly superficialities.

  Once she was free of the final pesky wattle bush blocking her way, she spotted them across the grass and came to a halt, final words about that blasted miserly man trailing off. Elizabeth thought that particular insult could reasonably be applied to one of many people in the district.

  ‘It’s Miss Hall,’ Elizabeth told the others unnecessarily as Alice crumbled the rest of her pie and scattered it across the ground for the ants.

  ‘I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.’ Pink-cheeked, Martha dabbed at her forehead. She’d declined an offer to borrow either of the other women’s hats. In hindsight they should have wrestled her down and forced one on her.

  ‘Relieved,’ Elizabeth said immediately.

  ‘Disappointed,’ Alice said at the same time.

  The older woman’s bonnet looked more fossilised than the Queen herself, and it slipped forwards to cover her eyes twice before she got it under control. She held a wild bouquet in one hand, and had a little pail over her wrist with a cloth sticking out of it. Petite and hardy, she was largely unremarkable—until she got talking.

  Miss Hall came to a stop in front of the three of them, noting faces and not looking especially surprised to see them.

  ‘Well. It’s as crowded as Sunday morning at St John’s here today. This is a surprise I won’t whine about. Good afternoon, Misses and Mrs.’

  As return greetings were offered the woman inspected the flowers in her hand.

  ‘It’s too late in the season for good bottlebrush.’ She held the native flowers up to the light so their stems glowed a brighter red.

  ‘I don’t know why I bring them. They’ll be rotten brown by tomorrow.’ She shook the bouquet, revolted, and the flowers flopped more. A few skinny crim
son stems fell to the ground.

  Elizabeth got to her feet and went to the woman, gently removing the flowers from her grasp before they were ruined entirely.

  ‘It’s the thought that counts. I’m surprised they’ve survived this long into the season.’

  ‘Ben’s lucky I come out here to visit him at all. Those old flowers’ll do.’ She started off towards the headstones.

  ‘Miss Farrer?’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Would you like to come and give me a hand? I’ve a headstone to polish. While we’re at it you can tell me about this new Ngambri man I hear’s working for you. Half the town is talking about him in the streets, and I’ll bet the other half are doing the same behind closed doors.’

  It was a summons, not a request, and Elizabeth, still holding the bottlebrush, had no option but to follow the older woman as she ambled off towards the cloudy beige pond and the little old cemetery past it. She was not finished speaking, however, and raised her voice—Elizabeth thought deliberately—as she said the rest.

  ‘You can get me some water from that pond and arrange the flowers. And while you’re doing it, you can tell me about this rumour that you’re returning to England.’

  Shoulders tense as she continued onwards, Elizabeth felt two pairs of accusatory eyes boring into her back the whole way.

  ***

  Despite the scorching heat, the sort of weather that sapped a person’s will to do anything, everyone at Endmoor prepared for Christmas. They decorated and decorated. And decorated. Most of the ornaments been made in spare minutes and moments in the past weeks, but there were some delicate baubles imported from England, most of them miraculously surviving the long sea journey unscathed.

  The grapevines continued to thrive in absolute defiance of the weather, and the summer evening skies became increasingly spectacular, even as the ground underneath them dried and browned and threatened fire at the slightest provocation.

  When the holiday arrived, Mrs Adamson organised the Farrers and their guests a meal designed to make them forget their hunger for at least a week, before she would head off with her husband for their own family’s celebrations.

  The Farrers went to church, and they performed all the correct duties expected of one of the most respected families for many miles. And then it was time for the better, less public part of the occasion.

  Through it all, Endmoor continued to function.

  Occasionally one person or another disappeared in order to take care of some task, or some other task. The sheep, the cows, the chickens and the pets demanded as much attention as ever.

  Baby Duncan was spoilt and fussed over, though the child hadn’t much an idea of what was going on, and was at least as interested in the paper the presents came in as he was in anything else.

  Midway through the day Elizabeth devoted a good ten minutes to tossing and retrieving Duncan’s ball while he laughed uproariously and made no effort whatsoever to participate. It was, she supposed, decent and necessary exercise after she’d consumed more rich food than anybody ever required.

  In the afternoon, and in a complete departure from her usual work, Elizabeth chose new, human subjects and sketched a few festive family scenes. She might have been feeling a little giddy—from the heat, the occasion, or those mince pies—she couldn’t identify the exact cause.

  It was briefly entertaining, but after several hours of it she gave up on reality and drew her relations as caricatures. Robert laughed at his own exaggerated portrait, and even threatened to hang it in the sitting room. When John Stanford came by on Boxing Day and echoed the sentiment about his own portrait, Elizabeth confiscated the things when their backs were turned and tucked them safely away in the bottom of a drawer in her room.

  ‘Imagine what the guests would say,’ she told them when, a few hours later, they discovered the drawings gone and came at her with glasses of wine in their hands and forlorn expressions on their faces.

  They’d heard nothing from Sydney the days Mr Rowe was away. It was perfectly normal, and perfectly reasonable for a gentleman they’d known only a few months to not be wiring them news on the minutiae of his family reunion. But it didn’t make Elizabeth any less anxious for information.

  Despite Elizabeth’s enjoyment of the holiday, the restless part of her worried. She was not a girl anymore. As a woman in the middle of her twenties she ought to be beyond girlish foolishness and romantical worries. She was known as a rational sort of person—anybody would call her that, including those who knew her the best. People came to her for advice on all sorts of things, always expecting her to offer sense where others used emotion.

  What she needed, if she ever gave up on spinsterhood, was a man like Mr Evanson from Goulburn. Stable and supportive and encouraging of her art. He should also be unattractive if he could possibly manage it. Handsomeness was too much of a distraction.

  The biggest problem in Barracks Flat was finding such a fellow who was unmarried.

  Outside to take advantage of the cooler evening breeze, Elizabeth watched Duncan set aside the bright violet ribbon he’d extracted from the pile of gift packaging. It had diverted him in a way little else had that week, but then he reached for that little bat that had somehow, inexplicably, made it out onto the veranda when Elizabeth had left it securely stashed away.

  When it was in the child’s hands, upside down it went again, the toe up and the handle pointing towards the wooden boards—and that was terminology she’d not known a week before.

  Surely it was time for another of Mr Rowe’s lessons in batsmanship.

  ‘I’m not sure he has a future in the sport,’ she felt obliged to tell her brother as he paused to watch, but the man didn’t seem especially devastated by the news.

  ‘It’s all right, I suppose. As long as his talent for viticulture develops, I’ll be content.’

  Elizabeth decided, as she watched the baby watch them, huge eyes curious, a career in winemaking was an argument for a later date.

  ‘Robert, please don’t get carried away and start investing in trellises and wine presses for him yet.’

  As the holiday drew to an end John obediently polished off a glass of riesling before turning to his favoured red Château Margaux. Robert again argued politely that they should probably be drinking riesling, ‘For appearances.’ Alice spent more time running off to assist the housekeeper than any landowner’s wife had ever done before. And, to maintain her sanity, Elizabeth fussed over them all. It was tolerated with more indulgence than she thought she deserved.

  It was all so familiar it was wonderful. Elizabeth felt guilty for how little she’d appreciated such things in recent months, and guiltier still for not mentioning her thoughts of England until Miss Hall had blurted it out.

  The sun reached the worst of its power not long before it would retire for the night and everyone rose from their places on the veranda, moving their chairs to a slightly cooler spot around the side, where the view of the Range was far better. An increasingly tired Duncan alternated between whacking everything in sight with the bat and drawing the ribbon around the wooden boards he perched on, fascinated by its snakelike twists and curves.

  The brilliance of the sunset had almost faded away when they all heard the horse’s hooves.

  ‘Today? Guests today?’ Alice asked, and it was a completely reasonable question.

  Nothing more was said as everyone present—Farrers older and newer, along with one Stanford—rose to see who had the courage to disrupt a perfectly enjoyable evening.

  The mysterious guest came around the corner on foot, a silhouette in the face of the colourful December sky.

  Alice made a sound of utter relief when the man’s identity became clear.

  ‘Oh. All right, he’s welcome. Happy Christmas, Mr Rowe.’

  ‘Mrs Farrer,’ Peter said with the barest hint of a bow, and then looked around at the rest of them. His eyes might have lingered on Elizabeth longer than the others, or perhaps she merely imagined it.

  She moved
forwards on reasonably steady legs and beamed.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Rowe. Come and join us.’ She glanced back at the bottles and glasses on the veranda. ‘We’ve been doing some research.’

  ‘A lot of research,’ Alice amended as Elizabeth went into the house for another wineglass.

  Chapter 11

  Peter returned to the country feeling refreshed, despite the stuffy and long trip to the city and back. The railway passengers hadn’t quite been packed like cattle in a wagon on the journey back down south, but there wasn’t much to be said for being forced to spend several hours with very important people who fancied the sounds of their own voices far too much.

  When they rolled into town he’d stepped out onto the platform at Barracks Flat for a second time not with trepidation but with relief. He knew what to expect now—sort of. At least he’d an idea of the welcome to expect when he again set foot on Farrer land.

  On his third morning back in his cottage with its diamond-patterned wallpaper and decreasing stack of books, he finished a report from the Incorporated Institute of Accountants that was nearly too dull even for his analytical mind, and was about to take up a paper on the benefits of noble rot on riesling grapes when a woman’s voice drew him to his front door instead.

  With Christmas celebrations dealt with and festive cheer soon to be dispatched for another year, the property was a hive of activity. Several vehicles and even more horses crowded the drive, and when he spotted Elizabeth Farrer in amongst it all, dressed for an outing and presently laughing with that blasted John Stanford out by the family’s coach, Peter found his feet carrying him her way before his mind could order them to stop being so stupid.

  Elizabeth Farrer. Never Lizzie or Beth or any other name he’d known other Elizabeths to go by.

  She paused at his approach, but hardly seemed delirious to see him. That alone should have stopped his progress.

  It didn’t.

  ‘You’re going out?’ he asked her when one of the farmhands drew Stanford’s attention elsewhere. It was possibly the silliest thing he could have said, considering all the evidence that made the answer obvious.