Lyrebird Hill (26 page)

So lost was I in my thoughts that I did not hear the man bounding up the stairs towards me. In the dawn glow of the enclosed stairwell, Lucien loomed taller than he had in the
open spaces of the glade. Though he stood on the step beneath me, which brought our faces eye-to-eye, he seemed expansive, as if the stuffy indoors were inadequate to contain him.

‘You’re about early, Mrs Whitby.’

I was so astonished to see him in the house, I did not reply.

‘It’s a fine cold day outside,’ he went on, apparently unbothered by my silence. ‘Will you be going out sketching?’

I collected my voice. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I have something for you, Mrs Whitby. A small gift. It’s nothing much,’ he added quickly, seeing my frown, ‘just a token.’ Drawing a flat parcel from his coat pocket, he held it out to me. ‘I was going to leave it by your door this morning, but I must say I’m glad we met in person.’

I hesitated. Exchanging banter in the glade was one thing, but accepting a gift? It seemed too intimate, too personal, and I had to glance away.

Beyond the window, the sun had capped the hills. The stockmen were emerging from their quarters, walking trails through the wet grass, their voices ringing sharply in the air.

I looked back to find Lucien watching me. I lifted my hand, intending to smooth my unbrushed hair, but instead dislodged the paintbrush tucked behind my ear.

It clattered onto the step at Lucien’s feet.

He swooped to retrieve it, and as he passed it back he slid his parcel into my hands at the same time.

‘Please take it,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s such a small thing. I thought you might be glad of it.’

As I accepted the package, his rough fingers grazed mine. I was surprised at the warmth of his skin despite the cold and the early hour of the day. Surprised too, by the thrill of nerves that shot through me at his touch.

I looked down, and a breath of shock escaped.

Covering his fingers and knuckles was a cross-hatching of scars that rendered the already pallid skin into a kind of
lacework. Some of the scars gouged deep into the flesh, leaving shiny dips of pink tissue; others were raised and knotted like twists of fine silk. I felt suddenly ill, and my eyes went back to his face before I had time to conceal my horror and pity.

He seemed to shrink into himself, pull away from me as though our proximity threatened him. Hastily he bowed, then turned on his heel and thudded back down the stairs, vanishing a moment later in the gloom.

I looked down at the parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper and secured with string, which I hastily untied. Twenty sheets of fine, smooth rag paper lay inside the humble packaging. It might have cost him a week’s pay, and certainly a trip to Launceston – for where, in the tiny town of Wynyard, would he have found such a costly and unusual commodity?

And why had he given
me
a gift, when I had imagined that it was Adele who occupied his secret affections? Was the parcel of paper merely a ploy, in case he was caught creeping to Adele’s room at this early hour? It seemed a lot of trouble and expense to go to for a distraction. Could it be that my husband’s groomsman had feelings for
me
?

I shivered, suddenly cold. But the chill didn’t come from the icy air drifting into the stairwell from outside. It didn’t come from the draught leaking through the gaps around the windowpane to freeze my skin and redden my nose and bite my fingertips.

The lonely, pervading chill I felt at that moment on the stairs came from deep inside me, blowing up from a dark, desolate place that until now I had not known existed.

Later that morning, after breakfast and then rushing through my few household duties, I took my paints to the garden. In a secluded spot, I unfolded my seat and arranged my colour blocks, brushes and vial of water. Then I opened the package of paper Lucien had given me.

After much thought about my predicament, I had decided to paint a portrait of my husband as a peace offering. A week had passed since Carsten’s departure. The bruises had faded from my skin, and the abrasions seemingly healed; but each tiny injury had settled inwards, scarring my soul, causing a festering resentment. Today, I decided, I would put that resentment behind me and try to see my marriage through more pragmatic eyes.

I did not love Carsten, and the rough liberties he had taken with my body repulsed me. But we had made an agreement. And for the sake of my father, and for the land I loved, I would find a way to endure.

I sketched quickly, finding my husband’s likeness in my memory. Features began to emerge on the paper, the charcoal lines almost too faint to see at first, like marks made by the random fluttering of dusty moth wings. As my thoughts drifted, the press of my charcoal stick gained force and a face began to emerge on the paper’s smooth surface.

Lucien’s face.

I shivered. His beauty might have been sublime had it not been for the whiplash mark carving his cheek. If he had been spared the defect, would he have been quite so intriguing to me? Didn’t imperfection lend a depth to beauty that took the gaze deeper? Suffering and humility, my father always said, were qualities that made the man. I hadn’t really known what he’d meant – until now.

Alone with Lucien in the glade, I’d seen another side to him. Gone was the gruff servant who hid his face in shadows; he had spoken openly, revealing his private views, and showing interest in mine. I had never before conversed with anyone in that manner, not even my father. And as we returned to the house along the shady path, I had never before felt so alive.

Warmth settled over me, banishing my shivers. I had been dazzled by Carsten’s wealth and poise; blinded by his fine
clothes and beguiling eyes, easily believing he was a man of honour. But strip away the outer, and what was exposed? A man who rarely smiled, who lacked sensitivity to other people’s feelings; a man with a brutal streak.

Lucien’s outer might have been scarred and unkempt, strange to the eye of genteel society, but I sensed, after our few brief moments alone, that behind his rough facade was a gentle boy whose heart shone pure and strong.

A heart that, I suspected, beat a little faster when I was near.

Sitting back, I studied my drawing. The paper was now a dark mass of charcoal markings and smudges, and gazing back at me from those turbulent lines was a face that intrigued me.

But it was not my husband’s face.

I should destroy the drawing, smear my hand across the charcoal lines and blur the face out of recognition; perhaps even burn the paper so no prying eye might guess the subject I had rendered with such passion, but something stayed me.

Reaching for my paintbox, I wet my brush and began to add colour to my sketch. I worked feverishly, with a resolve I’d never before experienced. Soon the familiar features came to life on the page – his pale skin, his straight nose, his stubborn jaw, his full lips and intense green eyes. And all about that striking face, in a halo of wild snakelike tangles, his hair gleamed deep alizarin red.

Adele sat at her dressing table, watching me in the mirror. I had loosely braided her hair and was winding it up onto her crown, ready to secure with hairpins.

I had been unsettled since Carsten’s departure, and our encounter was still fresh in my mind.
You are nothing like her
, he had said, confirming my suspicions that he harboured secret affections for another; the woman, I guessed, whose portrait he carried in his locket.

I fumbled the pin container and dropped it on the floor. Hairpins sprayed over the carpet, and I kneeled to retrieve them. I had not intended to ask the question aloud, but found myself saying, ‘Why is it, Adele, that your brother has never married before now?’

Adele’s smile fell away and a look of bleakness came over her. She turned back to the mirror.

‘There was a woman my brother once loved. Many years ago. They were sweethearts, and Carsten wanted to marry her. However, by the time he gathered the courage to ask, she had received another offer – an offer so favourable to the girl’s parents that they influenced her to accept. Carsten was destroyed. He vowed never to give his heart to another woman as long as he lived.’

I thought of Carsten with his fine dark eyes and unsmiling mouth, and the trust I had placed in him by agreeing to become his wife and leaving my home to dwell in his; I thought of the way he had used me so roughly that last night, and of his refusal to take me with him so I could visit my father – and I felt a pinch of gladness that he had suffered.

You are nothing like her.

‘That locket he carries: it’s a portrait of
her
, isn’t it?’

Adele regarded me warily. ‘I must confess I don’t know. There is much I don’t know about him. My brother is a private man, as you must be coming to understand. Some would even call him secretive. But he means no harm, it is just his way.’

‘He looks at it often.’

She regarded her reflection thoughtfully, then twisted in her seat and reached for my hand, her smile full of reassurance. ‘You mustn’t let it bother you, Brenna. There was a time when he hated her, when the hurt she’d caused him was all he thought about. He became bitter, and fell into a dark despair that lasted many years. One night, when we were still living at Hillgrove, he came home reeking of drink, his clothes bloodied and torn.
He said he’d been waylaid by thieves, but the incident left him moody and wretched. Soon after, he bought Brayer House and moved here. In time, his despair lifted, and I suppose he forgave her. But I am certain of one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘She haunts him. Perhaps she always will. Which is why,’ she added, taking the container of hairpins from my fingers and peering into my face, ‘you must make him forget her by giving him a son.’

The clock struck eleven. Moonlight drifted through my bedroom window, and a blustery squall rattled the panes. I shivered and drew my wrap more tightly around my shoulders, gazing across the grey landscape of the garden.

From the far end of the hall, drifted the intermittent hack-hack of Adele’s coughing.

For the most part, Adele was rosy-cheeked and full of good humour. But several times a week, her eyes became dull, her hair lacklustre, her skin sallow. On those days, she retired to her bed, and for many hours the sound of her rattling cough echoed through the house. Quinn tiptoed along the hall, her broad face rumpled in concern as she supplied Adele with bowls of hot broth and laudanum mixture. By morning, Adele would be recovered, and brush off my enquiries as to her health.

The clock downstairs chimed the half-hour. Adele’s hacking finally stopped.

The roof beams creaked, and the wintry breeze knocked softly against the windowpane. I nestled into my shawl, relieved that Adele had fallen asleep.

Meanwhile, I remained wide-eyed awake.

In a few days, Carsten would arrive home, and just the thought of seeing him slicked my sides with anxious sweat. In his absence, the household had come alive. Most evenings
after dinner, Adele played the piano and sang, and sometimes Quinn read poetry – not the insipid rhymes I’d learned at school in Armidale, but rousing stories of adventure and romance and danger. Once, Quinn had bellowed out a Scottish rebel song and declared – to the amazed delight of her audience – that since her rebel father’s blood ran in her veins, she was a rebel, too. Even I had been enticed to perform. Standing nervously before the others, I found myself singing a song Jindera had taught me in her language. Encouraged by the eager applause, I had then launched into a description of how the clan built fish traps in the river shallows, and rolled their catch in mud for baking over hot coals.