Lyrebird Hill (20 page)

‘Esther would have wanted you here, Ruby. I expect the solicitor will arrange her funeral for some time mid-week. I don’t suppose you’d . . .’

‘I’d love to.’

Pete seemed pleased, but his eyes stayed sad and he glanced down the slope towards the river. ‘Poor old Esther,’ he said softly. ‘I wish she was here right now. You would have just made her day.’

Brenna, May 1898

S
ince my arrival at Brayer House three weeks earlier, I had seen Adele twice more escaping through the garden. And both times, Lucien had appeared on the path soon after and followed.

I did not know what to make of my new sister-in-law’s nocturnal activities. In the short time we had spent together, we had become amiable companions. We occupied ourselves in the library, or studied fashion catalogues that Adele ordered from England, or wandered among the flowerbeds cutting daphne and hydrangeas and sprigs of abelia for the table. I was reluctant to suspect her of illicit meetings with her brother’s manservant, but how else could I interpret what I’d seen?

I quickly settled into what was to become my routine as Carsten’s wife. Each morning I rose early, bathed, and dressed in one of my plain shirtwaists and a wool skirt, and buttoned boots.

Adele liked to help me pin my hair, which soon became an excuse for us to engage in conversation – at first about general topics, such as the establishment of a municipal police force, or the proposed electric lighting in Hobart, or the ongoing debate about Federation. I soon noticed that Adele never spoke of the son Carsten hoped I would bear for him; nor did she ever ask
how many children I wanted, or whether I was looking forward to the experience of motherhood. The topic of babies, I quickly understood, was taboo. And yet, her reserve was a relief to me; had she asked about my expectations regarding a child, I might not have known how to answer. Carsten rarely visited my room, and our intimate relations were still bafflingly non-existent.

An hour before breakfast, it became my habit to go downstairs to the kitchen and see if all was well with Quinn. The housekeeper routinely rose before dawn to bake the day’s bread and prepare breakfast. The kitchen was always warm and full of delicious aromas. Some days I sat over the household account ledger, which was more a custom than a necessity, because Quinn kept it in perfect order.

Brayer House enjoyed every luxury: oriental carpets, and high walls hung with paintings in gilt frames, lacquered furniture, carved chairs and lounges upholstered with exotic silks. And yet, in a flash, I would have given it all away to be back at Lyrebird Hill; to be sitting at the scarred oak table with Fa Fa, or wading in the river with Owen, or sitting with Millie in her lean-to nibbling fruit cake; or running along the track to the encampment, catching sight of Jindera’s smiling face, feeling the approval that radiated from her dark eyes, that were, with the benefit of hindsight, so similar to my own—

‘Brenna?’

Adele was watching me across the breakfast table. Shadows circled her eyes, and she had barely touched her porridge. This morning we were eating alone, because Carsten had left the house early to ride into Wynyard on business.

‘You’re lost in your thoughts,’ Adele chided. ‘I do believe you’re daydreaming about my brother.’

My cheeks burned. How could she know that my thoughts of Carsten were chaste, and that my daydreams more likely involved thoughts of her and Lucien, or my home at Lyrebird Hill? So I found myself spinning a tiny white lie.

‘I was simply wondering what book I’ll choose for us to read today.’

‘Oh, Brenna, didn’t I tell you?’ Adele shoved away her plate. She drew a large handkerchief from her skirt pocket and coughed delicately into it. She dabbed it against her lips, and then said, ‘I have an engagement in Launceston, I’m afraid I will be away for several days.’

My spirits deflated. Several days? I longed to ask why, but Adele was clearly reluctant to speak more of it. When she asked me to help her bathe and dress, I agreed with only half a heart. I sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen while Quinn drew a bath and helped Adele into it. Adele chatted almost nervously while Quinn sponged her arms, her back, her neck, and when she closed her eyes and let herself sink into the water, I found myself studying her. Without her fine clothes and jewelled necklets and elaborately pinned hair, she was even more beautiful. How lovely she must seem to a simple man like Lucien, as he follows her through the garden at midnight, perhaps to some secret trysting place.

Later, as the carriage rattled off down the driveway and through the gates onto the road, I told Quinn I was feeling poorly and stomped upstairs to my bed chamber. Seating myself at the window, I glared down into the garden. In daylight, it seemed empty. Without the darkness and shifting shadows, without the moonlight lacing the treetops with silver – without Adele – it was a dull and uninteresting place indeed.

Carsten spent little time at the house.

We had separate bedrooms, so my first glimpse of him every morning was at the breakfast table. At eight on the dot he would be there, Quinn fussing at his elbow, pouring the strong tea he loved, and filling his plate with bacon rashers and scrambled eggs and big chunks of toasted bread. After he had eaten, he
would go down to the stables and check his horses. He was in the habit of riding out most days with Lucien.

Although he employed several stockmen, he liked to check the fences and feed troughs and any possible storm damage himself; farming was not his financial mainstay, but I came to see that he enjoyed being out in the fresh air, and there were many days when he and Lucien were gone until dusk. He always returned from these excursions sweaty and flushed in the face, and usually in a good mood.

After dinner, he retired to the library, where he pored over his account books, then smoked a pipe and drank sherry until midnight. Once the grandfather clock struck the hour of twelve, Carsten climbed the stairs to bed.

On those rare occasions he visited my room, we seemed to simply re-enact our first night together. He would instruct me to lift my nightgown, then half-heartedly roll on top of me. His efforts were always unsuccessful, so he would lie beside me in grim silence until the clock struck the half hour, then rise and dress himself, and go out.

Tonight, I had attempted to cheer the room with a vase of rosemary, which I had placed upon the little desk. Its sharp scent perfumed the air. I lay under the covers in my nightdress, listening for footsteps along the hall, wondering, as I did each evening, whether tonight I would finally know how it felt to be loved, and if perhaps that love might thaw my husband’s frosty manner towards me.

There was a shuffle outside my door, then a quiet knock. Carsten entered the room. He checked his watch, as he habitually did, and placed it on the desk beside my jug of rosemary. He undressed and got into bed. For a long while he lay without moving. His body heat warmed me, and I began to doze.

‘I’ll be leaving for New South Wales in the morning,’ he said. ‘An offer has come for a farm of mine near Hillgrove, and I want to oversee the sale. I’ll be away for three weeks.’

I rose on my elbows, my pulse taking flight. ‘But Hillgrove is only a couple of hours from home.’

‘If I see Michael, I’ll give him your regards.’

I was trembling now; I could almost smell the wildflowers of home, and hear the soft sigh of the river. My longing gave me courage, and I dared to place my hand on my husband’s chest. The muscles tightened at my touch and I withdrew.

‘Carsten, please take me with you. I’d like to see my father.’

‘It’s business,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’d be in the way.’

‘I could stay with Fa Fa, and then take the coach to Hillgrove once your sale has gone through. I wouldn’t get in your way, you’d hardly know I was there.’

‘Out of the question.’

The weight of disappointment settled over me, but my thoughts continued to race. My husband was a wealthy man, a man of influence. His business took him to many places, and saw him in the company of a range of people. Until now I had believed that seeking justice for the murder of my mother, Yungara, would be a pointless exercise; any evidence would be long gone. But if anyone had the means to locate and expose her killers, it was Carsten.

‘Twenty years ago,’ I began cautiously, ‘there was a massacre at Lyrebird. An entire band of Aboriginal people were murdered.’ I paused, noticing that Carsten lay very still. I took a breath and went on. ‘Afterwards, my father was stricken down by grief, and I know the memory of it haunts him. It would bring him,’ and
me
, I added privately, ‘great relief to learn the identity of the men responsible. Carsten, you once promised to do all you could to make me happy.’

Carsten made a rough sound in his throat. ‘What are you asking?’

‘Someone must know who those men were. Perhaps you could broach the topic with your associates?’

He rolled away, punching flat his pillow. ‘I’m a busy man, Brenna. I haven’t time to chase your whims.’

I expected him to get out of bed and stalk from the room, but instead he settled beside me. Soon, his breathing slowed, became rhythmic. The clock downstairs struck the half-hour. I tried to sleep, but my eyes kept flying open, seeking Carsten’s dark shape. He hadn’t agreed to my request, yet nor had he outright refused. For the first time since I had learned about Yungara’s fate, justice seemed more than a distant dream.

A while later, I needed to use the chamber pot. Lighting the lantern, I rolled quietly off the mattress and padded across the icy floorboards to the privacy screen. I was about to duck behind it when I caught sight of Carsten’s fob watch sitting on the desk. It attracted my eye because of its odd shape. It was oval, and flatter than a watch ought to be. I went closer.

It was not a watch at all . . . but a lady’s locket.

I glanced at the bed. Carsten hadn’t moved.

As I crept closer to the writing desk, my pulse picked up. My breathing became shallow, and the rosemary that scented the air grew intensely sharp.

Bending closer to the object attached to Carsten’s watch chain, I saw that it was indeed a large silver locket. On its face was the embossed design of a lyrebird’s tail feathers. Perhaps Carsten had never registered the details of the design, for surely if he had, he’d have made a point of showing me.

Unless he had good reason not to?

In that instant I knew the locket must contain a portrait or curl of hair – why else would Carsten gaze at it with such fascination? Just before I reached for it, something made me look towards the bed.

Carsten stood naked beside it, watching me.

‘What are you doing?’ he said gruffly.

I tried to conceal my embarrassment at having been caught prying, and attempted a smile, gesturing behind me at the privacy screen. ‘I had to use the commode.’

Carsten crossed the room. His gaze roamed over me, taking in the flimsy nightdress, my dishevelled curls, my bare throat.
His attention kept returning to my mouth, and I touched it absently, nervously. He moved nearer, and then in a quick, fluid motion he slipped his hand under my hair and gripped the back of my neck. I winced in pain and tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened.

‘We have one rule in this house,’ he told me quietly. ‘What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is my own.’ Reaching past me, he collected the locket from the desktop and held it possessively in his palm, examining its ornate surface, as if fearing my scrutiny had done it harm. Then he tossed it onto the bed.

Turning back to me, his face softened.

‘You are nothing like her,’ he whispered, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a forced smile. ‘And yet you have your own rough charm.’

Like who?
I wanted to ask, but Carsten pulled me roughly against him, and kissed me with a violent ferocity, bruising my lips. His grip on my neck tightened, while his other hand slid down my back and took hold of my bottom, squeezing so hard the pain made me cry out.

‘Carsten, you’re hurting me.’

Grappling me around, he pushed me face down onto the desk. The jug of rosemary shattered on the floor, splashing water on my bare legs. He grabbed a handful of my hair, then wrenched up my nightgown. I tried to twist from his grasp, but his hold on me was too strong. Then, with a moan, he plunged himself into me.

A sob stuck in my throat. This was not how I envisaged our first time. Carsten was by nature a reserved man, and I had hoped for some gentleness, or at least some consideration for my inexperience.

Carsten began to move, crushing me beneath him as his thrusts grew more vigorous. The top of my head banged against the wall, my cheek rasped on the wooden desktop. I bit the side of my mouth and tasted blood.

Shadows swarmed. The smell of rosemary flooded my lungs, mingling with the sour odour of my husband’s sweat. I felt drawn in twenty directions, quartered by force, a silent scream raking the back of my throat.

Was this what my aunt had tried to warn me about? Would this be my fate from now on? I tried to escape into memory, wanting only to find a place where I was safe from Carsten’s assault. My mind flew to the steep granite hills of my home, down among the trees where the shadows swarmed between fallen logs and mossy outcrops. But even there, I found no sanctuary.