Lyrebird Hill (25 page)

I got up and skirted the house, making my way around to the barn. Pete’s battered ute sat in front of the open doorway, speckled with shade. A pair of jeans-clad legs poked out from underneath it, and Old Boy sat nearby, chewing fleas out of his tail. Bardo had flopped in the doorway, and as I hurried past, her tail lifted and thumped the ground, as if in greeting.

At the back of the barn among Esther’s tools, I found a spade. Carrying it back down the hill to the walnut tree, I began to dig. The soil was ropy with roots, a nightmare to excavate.
Sweat soon prickled my ribcage, and I had almost convinced my myself I was chasing a wild goose – when the spade struck something oddly yielding.

Clearing the loose earth, I crouched to examine what I’d found. A mouldy tarpaulin. My hopes deflated, and I almost filled the hole back in. Only the memory of my mother’s tears made me reach down and lift a half-rotten corner. The inner layers of burlap were black with mould, riddled with cockroaches and worms. When the sunlight hit them, they detonated in all directions, black fragments of insect-shrapnel dissolving back into the earth.

Inside the rotted material was a large rectangular tin.

It was an old Arnott’s biscuit tin, with a rosella on the lid. When I shook it, something slithered inside. Re-burying the tarpaulin, I filled the hole and carried the tin back to my spot on the verandah, bursting to know what it contained.

A bundle of letters, tied with black ribbon.

They were only slightly damaged by damp; the envelopes rippled where moisture had infiltrated the tin and absorbed into the thick paper, but they had somehow escaped the ravages of mould and were, for the most part, in good condition. Something of a miracle, considering they were dated between 1898 and 1899.

There were about thirty envelopes. One stood out from the others, so I started with that. It was addressed to Master James Whitby, at Brayer House, via Wynyard, Tasmania. It caught my eye because James Whitby had been my grandfather. He died when I was six, the same year I lost my father. My memories of Grampy James were fleeting: he’d been confined to bed when I’d known him, a thin man with a sallow face and a soft, almost whispery voice.

I took out four pages. Each page was decorated with wide margins of exquisite watercolour drawings – gum nuts and
seedpods, blue daisies and bright crimson-capped mushrooms, birds and spiders and butterflies. In among the botanical studies danced tiny figures with wings: imps and fairies, a lizard in a bowler hat, and a beautiful lyrebird inside a cage, its long tail feathers sweeping through the bars. As I shuffled through the pages, the luminous images came alive in the sunlight.

Going back to the first page, I scanned the beautiful copperplate handwriting, an artwork in itself, its swirling script tugging my eye across the page. But as I began to read, my pleasure turned to puzzlement.

18 June 1899

My darling little James,

By the time you are old enough to read this, you will have forgotten our few precious days together. You were such a tiny thing when we parted, your eyes unfocused, your little hands like starfish, your hair a dark fuzz on your head.

I want you to know that you once had a mother who loved you with all her heart, and that if fate had been kinder, she would never, ever have let you go. Sadly, I did let you go, but not by choice. I hope that one day, with your aunt’s help, you will understand and forgive the events that caused our separation.

Your Aunty Adele is my dearest friend. Be good for her, and listen hard. I know she loves you as much as I do, because she has promised to look after you and raise you as her own. One day, she will tell you my story, and the story of your father – and how proud he would have been of his little man, had he lived to know you.

My dearest boy, you will always be in my heart. Never be afraid, my darling, for I shall watch over you from heaven, and my love will keep you safe always and forever.

Your loving Mama

I sat back heavily.
Aunty
Adele? My grandfather’s mother had been Adele Whitby – but if she wasn’t truly my great-grandmother, then why hadn’t Mum ever told me?

I shuffled through the other envelopes. About half were addressed to Miss A. Whitby at Brayer House, while the others simply bore the name B. Whitby, and a number, care of Launceston Gaol. I opened one of the numbered envelopes, and scanned the rumpled page within.

9 July 1899

My dearest Brenna,

You will be comforted to know I have arranged to visit you in the next several days. My only regret with this arrangement is that I cannot bring James with me. He grows sweeter every day, a picture of his beautiful mama in miniature. However, I have resolved to bring an item of his clothing for you to cherish in your lonely days.

Brenna, my heart goes out to you, but it also sings that we were blessed by friendship. My life would have been grim indeed had I not known you. I can only pray that I have in some small way enriched yours, too.

All our love is with you now, mine and your son’s.

Do not give up hope. There will be no void for you, my Brenna – only everlasting peace.

Always yours, Adele

For a long time I sat staring across the verandah, letting the tangled knot of my thoughts unravel. Brenna Whitby – and not Adele – had been my great-grandmother. A stranger, a woman whose name I had never heard before. Meanwhile the kindly woman my mother had called Nanna Adele was merely a great aunt, and possibly only related by marriage.

A strange hollowness settled over me. Mum had once shown me a photograph of Nanna Adele. She had dark eyes and pure white hair, and her weather-beaten face was a maze of wrinkles. Most striking of all was the sense of deep sadness that radiated from her. I couldn’t help wondering if her sorrow had stemmed from the loss of her friend, Brenna . . . or perhaps from the scar left on her conscience by Brenna’s crimes.

Adele’s other letters were all in a similar vein: gentle, and full of reassurance for her friend. I sorted through the other letters, determined to find out more about Brenna and why she was in prison.

Her tone was dark and full of despair, and as I read my way through her correspondence, I grew increasingly chilled.

18 November 1898

Every night I wake in a cold sweat, crying out. This cell is like a tomb, the stone walls are dank, wintry to the touch. I have learned that a child grows in me. Once it is born, they will take it away – that is, the chaplain assures me, the only Christian thing to do. I feel nothing for this new life, how can I? For a creature born in the shadow of a murderer, I have nothing but pity.

10 February 1899

It is summertime, yet the walls of my cell are like ice. There is no window. Sometimes I hold my hand an inch from my face and stare at it, but I may as well be blind. I am an eyeless creature underground, no different to the little one growing inside me. What will become of my baby, Adele? I know you have promised to step into my shoes as mother, but I fear that my child’s soul will now be tainted by the same darkness that taints my own.

3 May 1899

Oh Adele, my baby is a healthy boy. I have named him James, which was my father’s middle name. The labour was twenty hours, and mercifully a woman came from the town to oversee it. I had been dreading the arrival of a child into such a dreary, forsaken place . . . but now that he is in my arms, he has brought the light back into my heart. I long for you to meet him, Adele. How soon can you visit?

21 June 1899

I am not sorry for what I have done, Adele. If given the choice, I would pull that trigger again, a thousand times, if I had to. I worry only that my crime will ripple outwards to engulf you and baby James. He is so precious, my friend, such a brave little soul, deserving of a good life. Which is why you must take him far away, go to Lyrebird Hill, start afresh. The air there is clear and dry, and you will both benefit. It is a good place, a healing place. I beg you, find a measure of happiness, and do your best to forget me.

6 July 1899

Shadows are crawling across the cell walls as I write. They have moved me to a new cell; this one has a window with a view down into the courtyard. I don’t dare look. They have begun to build something, and although I know it cannot be a scaffold, my imagination seems untenable. The clang of hammers sends tremors through my heart. My mind is full of death. The wardens shuffle along the corridors, and I constantly fear they are coming to drag me to the gallows. If that time ever came, I would pray for the courage to step across the threshold of this life and into the next, but how could I ever say goodbye with a brave heart, knowing I will plunge into a cold void for my sins and be lost?

Goodbye, sweet Adele. Pray for me once in a while, and remember me to James with love.

Folding the letters carefully, I placed them back in their envelopes. Then I looked down the hill at the walnut tree, taking one deep breath after another until finally my trembling ceased.

My great-grandmother Brenna Whitby had committed murder, and been imprisoned for her crime. In light of that, Mum’s long-ago interrogation of me in the kitchen that day seemed full of foreboding. I had always sensed that she held me responsible for my sister’s death; after all, I’d been with Jamie that day, and apparently witnessed her accident – no one could blame my mother for wondering why I hadn’t raised the alarm sooner.

Only, it hadn’t been an accident, and Mum had known this all along. Someone had killed my sister, and according to the forensic report, I had been the only other person present. It seemed crazy to entertain the idea that I might have inherited some kind of violent tendency from my great-grandmother – but that was clearly the connection Mum had made.

My child’s soul will now be tainted by the same darkness that taints my own . . .

I looked down at the river, letting my gaze travel westward. The outcrop of rocks where my sister died was not visible from here, but I could see it clearly in my mind’s eye: an outcrop of boulders jutting over the water, shadowed between by deep crevices, dotted with lichens that grew slippery in the wet. A dangerous place, my mother had always warned; yet it had been our secret place, a place filled with fascination and excitement for a pair of adventurous sisters.

Hugging my knees to my chest, I shut my eyes. Until now, my fear of what I might have done that day had been nebulous, a shadowy thing that lurked ghostlike in the furthest reaches of my mind.

All of a sudden, it was very, very real.

Brenna, May 1898

T
he cold woke me. The wind that blew from the strait seemed to find its way into my bedroom through gaps in the window frames and walls. I felt it first on my face, then its icy tentacles infiltrated my bed covers, creeping the length of me and drawing goosebumps from my sleep-warmed skin.

I reached for my shawl and dragged it around my shoulders. Sliding from the bed, cramming my feet into my felt slippers, I dashed to the window. The outside world was grey, the sun not yet up. In the garden below my window, wet footprints cut along the brick pathway. I studied the tracks, trying to distinguish if one set might belong to Adele’s slippered feet, and the other to Lucien’s rough work boots.

Ever since my meeting with Lucien in the glade the week before, a feeling of urgency had possessed me. Each morning I rose early and plunged into my work. The wolfsbane study he had so admired was complete, but immediately I had deemed it imperfect and begun again, this time from memory. I was not used to working from memory, and my first attempts were awkward and stiff. Then, just yesterday, I had managed to capture the nodding blue flower heads to my satisfaction . . . and, I secretly hoped, to Lucien’s, too.

Hauling my trunk from under the bed, I took out my paintbox and brushes and few remaining leaves of paper. The touch of my painting tools thrilled me. I breathed them in – the familiar odours of bitter pigment and oily guar gum and rabbit-skin glue were delicious to me. First I arranged the tiny blocks of paint on their ceramic tray, then unwrapped my brushes from their cotton cloth and laid them in a row. Tucking my favourite drafting sable behind my ear, I uncorked the water jar and got up to fetch the ewer, only to find it empty.

I glanced at the door; Quinn would be pounding out her bread dough, stoking the oven and dusting her trays, probably eager for a nice long chat. But if I bypassed the kitchen, I could slip along the hall and through the double doors into the garden, fill my jar at the pump, then be back in my room without anyone being the wiser.

Dressing hurriedly, I crept silently along the hall and down the stairs, but when I got to the landing I paused to look through the window. From here I had an unhindered view of the distant hills that jutted along the horizon like purple elbows, tinged with an aura of gold from the rising sun.

The sight reminded me of my home. I wondered if Carsten had seen my father yet, and perhaps pocketed a note for me.

I longed to see Fa Fa, to know how he was faring after losing, in quick succession, first, his dear sister Ida, and then me. I hadn’t realised, until my talk with him in his study that night, how deeply and desperately he struggled with his private sorrows. What must it have been like for him to love my mother Yungara with such great passion, only to lose her so tragically? Exposure of her killers might bring my father little comfort after two decades – but it would ease the pain in my own heart, and I prayed that Carsten had taken it upon himself to enquire.