Matilda's Last Waltz (40 page)

As she held it up against herself and eyed her reflection in the mirror, she realised there was just one more thing to do and the outfit would be perfect. Minutes later she tied the green ribbon of silk round her neck. The roses were now dusted with gold paint, stitched firmly to the choker and settled between the curve of her neck and shoulder.

Jenny stared at her reflection, amazed at the transformation. Then she giggled. ‘Well, Cinderella. You really are going to the ball. And how!'

*   *   *

Jenny was awake and on the move before the sun came up. She had showered and washed her hair, and was dressed in cotton strides and a broderie anglaise shirt as she painted her nails. Her jewellery was necessarily sparse – just silver hoops in her ears and the locket Peter had given her and which she never travelled without. She eyed her reflection critically and with a faint nervousness. It had been years since she'd been to a country party and she wasn't at all sure she was fully prepared – but it was too late now. It would have to do.

Ripper had trailed her mournfully as she packed her rucksack and tidied the bedroom. Following her out to the utility, he sat hopefully at her feet as she draped the cloth-covered dress over the passenger seat. He knew something was happening and suspected he wasn't going to be a part of it.

She picked him up for a last cuddle. He would be going back to the kennels for the weekend and she would miss him. Yet she couldn't resist the sorrowful brown eyes that looked so appealingly up at her and after a moment's hesitation gave in.

‘Come on then, you little bludger. Get in while no one's looking.' She tipped him into the utility and pointed at him sternly. ‘But I'm warning you: one bark and I leave you behind.'

Ripper's tail wagged the rest of him but he seemed to understand the order of silence. Jenny climbed in after him and switched on the engine. She'd seen Brett on the other side of the yard, a string of horses milling around him from leading reins.

‘Get on the floor, Ripper,' she murmured. ‘We'll both be in trouble if he catches you.'

The calvacade of horses and utilities was waved off by the two men who would stay on Churinga. As Jenny joined it through the first gate she realised it wouldn't be easy going. The route to Kurrajong was littered with potholes and the dust from the other vehicles was already billowing in a great cloud that stuck to her perspiring skin and made her feel uncomfortable. It had been a mistake to set out in clean clothes.

For five hours she ate their dust and watched the men in the flatbed of the utility in front. They were getting more boisterous by the mile. The beer was already flowing and judging by the erratic movement of all three vehicles the drivers were getting their fair share.

The main entrance leading to Kurrajong was a pair of freshly painted wrought-iron gates beneath an archway that had the evergreen emblem at its zenith. It was an imposing introduction that was nothing compared to her first sight of the house.

The colonial verandah and balcony against the warm honey of the bricks, the pillars intertwined with bougainvillaea and frangipani, gave it style and beauty. Its lush gardens and quiet grandeur whispered of wealth and power – and confidence in its own importance. It was as Matilda had described and for a moment Jenny experienced the same unease. Then she remembered Matilda's spirited defence of her own place in this vast land and knew she had nothing to feel uneasy about. What had happened was in the past. This was a new era – a time for things to settle down – a chance for the people of Churinga and Kurrajong to make peace.

‘Impressed?' Brett leaned down from his horse.

‘Probably not as much as I'm expected to be,' laughed Jenny. ‘But it is spectacular.'

‘You go on up to the house. I've got to see to the horses.'

‘Aren't you coming too?' The thought of facing all those strangers on her own was quite daunting.

He shook his head and grinned. ‘I'm just a hired hand. It's the bungalow for me. I'll catch up with you later.' He caught sight of Ripper who'd squirmed out of his hiding place at the sound of Brett's voice. ‘I thought I told you to leave him behind?'

Jenny pulled the puppy on to her lap. ‘He'll be right. He can sleep in the ute. I couldn't bear to leave him behind.'

Brett snorted. ‘Women,' he muttered before leading the horses towards the paddock.

There was no time for any retort. Andrew Squires was coming down the wide steps of the verandah to greet her. He was handsome, Jenny acknowledged, and supremely confident. But he was a liar and a cheat, and she wasn't looking forward to his company.

His smile was bright, his handshake warm and firm. ‘Good morning, Mrs Sanders. Such a pleasure to meet you again.'

Jenny smiled back. She was hot, dirty and in need of a drink – and his perfection annoyed her. How could anyone remain so clean in all this dust? ‘You have a lovely place here,' she said politely.

‘I'm glad you like it,' he said, collecting her bags and dress from the utility. ‘You must let me show you around sometime.' His blue eyes held hers for a moment then shifted back to the utility as Ripper emerged from his hiding place. ‘Hello. We seem to have a stowaway.'

The tension broke and Jenny laughed. ‘He insisted upon coming. But he can sleep in here and I promise he won't get in the way.'

Ripper wagged his tail hopefully as Andrew patted his head. ‘No worries. So long as he's house-trained, he's welcome.'

Jenny felt a shift in her opinion of Andrew. He couldn't be all bad if he liked Ripper. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as daunting as she'd first thought. She followed him up the steps and through the elegant front door into the hall.

It was as though she'd stepped into another world. The floors were covered in Persian rugs, the walls adorned with gilt-framed pictures and mirrors. There were flowers in crystal vases on the highly polished tables and antique porcelain jostled for position amongst silver trophies. She stood beneath the magnificent chandelier, her innate sense of beauty piqued by the way its crystal droplets splashed rainbows on the walls and ceiling.

‘My grandfather brought that back from his grand tour of Venice many years ago. It's something of an heirloom,' said Andrew proudly.

‘I wouldn't like the job of cleaning it,' Jenny replied dismissively.

‘We have servants to do that,' Andrew replied shortly. ‘Come, I'll take you up to your room.'

‘Don't you have servants to do that as well?' Her tone was mildly sarcastic, the bite of her words veiled in a smile.

He looked at her solemnly. ‘Yes, we do. But as this is your first visit to Kurrajong, I thought you would appreciate a more personal introduction.'

Jenny looked away, ashamed of her own waspishness, and followed him up the sweeping staircase.

‘A maid will unpack for you,' said Andrew as he put her bag and dress on the bed. The bathroom is in there. When you're ready, come down to the drawing room and meet the rest of the family and the other guests. I don't need to tell you they're curious about the new owner of Churinga.'

His smile was warm and enhanced his good looks – if she hadn't witnessed his other side, she might have been fooled into thinking he would make pleasant company. She thanked him and waited for him to leave the room before bending down and stroking Ripper. ‘Bit different from what we're used to, eh, boy?'

Jenny eyed the cream brocade at the window and around the four-poster bed. A thick pale carpet was spread over the polished floor, a perfect foil for the rich lustre of the Victorian furniture. She crossed the room to the dressing table and examined the row of crystal perfume bottles and the tiny rosebud soaps that had been left in a Wedgwood bowl. Balmain, Chanel, Dior. Her hosts liked to display their generosity, but she couldn't help wondering if there was a hidden agenda behind this sumptuous welcome.

The thought of Churinga with its rough floors and simple furnishings made all this grandeur seem overblown and for the first time Jenny felt homesick for that lovely familiar place. For home was what it had become, she realised with a jolt. The house in Sydney seemed light years away. She yearned to be back amongst the rustic simplicity of her inheritance.

A discreet tap on the door interrupted her thoughts and Jenny turned to find herself being scrutinised by soulful black eyes. The girl was dark-skinned and wore a blue and white cotton dress beneath the starched apron. Her feet were bare, her smile friendly.

‘I alonga you, missus. Unpack bags, eh?'

Jenny smiled. ‘I'll do it later.'

The girl's smile vanished and she shuffled her broad feet as she looked at Jenny through her lashes. ‘Boss tell me, eh?'

Jenny saw her discomfort and gave in. There was no point in trying to buck the system but getting a maid to unpack a rucksack was taking things a bit far.

She bustled around putting underwear in drawers and hanging up the dress then pointed to Jenny's travel-stained clothes. ‘Wash good, eh?'

Jenny grimaced. ‘No time. I'm expected downstairs soon.'

The girl shook her head impatiently. ‘Plenty time. Clean 'im good, eh?'

Jenny shrugged in capitulation and stripped to her underwear. ‘What's your name?'

‘Jasmine, missus.' The clothes were already bundled in her arms and she was halfway out of the door.

Jenny sighed and strolled into the bathroom. With nothing else to wear, she might just have time for a soak before she faced the Squires and their guests.

She stood in the doorway and gasped with horrified amusement. It was so opulent it wouldn't have gone amiss in a bawdy house. The taps were gold dolphins, the tiles hand-painted and Italian. An alabaster Venus de Milo stood in a corner niche surrounded by bottles of bath salts. Thick fluffy towels were draped over a warm rail, and crystal lamps made the silk dressing gown shimmer on the back of the reproduction Louis XVI boudoir chair. Obviously the people of Kurrajong weren't expected to bathe in sludge.

With water lapping around her ears, Jenny closed her eyes and rested back on the thoughtfully placed cushion. This was definitely more like it – and even if it was way over the top, she was determined to enjoy this chance to pamper herself.

She had no idea how long she'd been in the bath but when she next opened her eyes she found the water had grown tepid. With deep reluctance, Jenny climbed out and swathed herself in a warm towel before giving a hasty glance at the bottles of cold cream and skin preparations that were lined up beneath the obsequious Venus. There wasn't time to experiment, she was already late.

Jasmine had worked a miracle. The strides had been brushed and pressed, the blouse laundered. How on earth she'd managed to get it all done so quickly was a mystery but one Jenny didn't have time to contemplate, she realised in horror as she looked at her watch. An hour had slipped by without her noticing.

As she hastily dressed and applied mascara and lipstick, she heard cars pull into the driveway and the murmur and bustle of people greeting one another. Her nerve faltered. She was a stranger – an object of curiosity and speculation. This called for a hefty dose of courage.

She eyed her reflection and remembered how it had been at her first exhibition. The butterflies had been fluttering that day too but she'd been able to hide behind the persona of an artist, acted out the part until she felt more at ease. Today would be the same – but instead of an artist, she was a squatter. The new, very wealthy widow from the city who was used to the social round. She took a deep breath.

‘If I pull off this one,' she muttered, ‘then I'll seriously think about taking to the bloody stage.'

Ripper whined and cocked his head as she headed for the door. ‘Stay put,' she ordered. ‘I'll take you out later.'

As Jenny reached the top of the stairs, she realised she only had to follow the voices to find the drawing room. Her heart was hammering and she wished Brett was beside her. With a deep intake of breath, she squared her shoulders and began the long descent. The curtain was up. Time for the first act to begin.

A handsome, smiling man of about sixty came through the open doors and waited at the bottom of the stairs. His admiring glance ran over her as he held out his hand, and she knew instantly that this was another of Squires' sons. ‘Nice to meet you at last, Mrs Sanders. Charlie's the name. Can I call you Jenny?'

She warmed to him immediately. No wonder Matilda had liked him – she could see why. ‘Jenny'll be right. Pleased to meet you, Charlie.'

He took her hand and tucked it under his arm. ‘Now for the lions' den. Better get it over with quick then we can settle somewhere quiet with a bottle of bubbly. Are you ready to meet my father?'

She smiled. ‘Only if you promise not to leave me in the arena.'

He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘Far too tasty to leave anywhere,' he teased. ‘I think you and me will get along just fine, Jenny.'

She allowed him to propel her through the throng. Although she was aware of the watching eyes and excited murmurs as they passed, her attention was fixed on the old man in the wheelchair.

Ethan's skin was the colour of putty, his nose hooked, eyes almost colourless beneath hooded lids. Gnarled and heavily veined hands lay lifeless on the plaid blanket which covered his knees. The gaze that swept over her was sharp, intelligent and knowing.

‘You remind me of Matilda,' he said loudly into the expectant hush. ‘I wonder if you're as fiery.'

‘Only when roused, Mr Squires,' she retorted, exchanging look for look, tone for tone. The actress in her disguised her shock at his pronouncement with a veil of hauteur.

Ethan snorted and looked at Charlie. ‘Wanna watch this one, son. If she's anything like her predecessor, she'll run you off Churinga with a bullet up your backside.' His laughter was scornful, interrupted by a fit of coughing.