Lyrebird Hill (36 page)

I hesitated, choosing my next words with care. ‘My husband’s groomsman is badly scarred. He seems a gentle sort of man, not prone to fights or violent behaviour.’
Unlike his master
, I added privately to myself, then said, ‘He told me he was beaten by his previous employer. Do you know much else about him?’

Adele set aside her knitting and shifted in her chair to face me. Glancing to the open doorway, she said in a low voice, ‘Carsten arrived home with him about eight years ago; Lucien must have been eleven or twelve. As you said, he had been flogged brutally and left to die. If it hadn’t been for Quinn’s vigil at his bedside, and her expertise with a needle and thread and comfrey poultices, Lucien would most certainly have died.

‘He didn’t speak to anyone for nearly a year. He wouldn’t even look at me or Quinn for ever so long. When he finally found it in himself to trust us enough, he declared that his name was Lucien Fells, and that he would like to live in the stables and look after the horses. And since that day, that’s exactly what he’s done.’

‘Do you know of his family?’

‘I’m not entirely certain there ever
was
a family, Brenna. If you’d seen the state of the boy when he arrived – not just the horrific injuries he sustained from the flogging, but his hair and eyes, his fingernails, his feet – you’d think he’d spent his young life in a pen with the pigs. Or, out there in the bush with the wild dogs and wallabies.’

I picked up my knitting, but my fingers were clumsy. Adele’s account had shaken me. I did not pity Lucien for the rough life he had endured; rather, I felt my admiration for him deepen. Despite his hardships, I was certain he did not bear any malice for the man who had mistreated him. Lucien was blessed by a quality of peacefulness; he loved the simplicity of his life among the horses, and he loved the hard physical work of a life spent mostly outdoors. Instead of surrendering to bitterness, as so many would have done in his circumstances, he continued to believe in kindness, and truth, and love.

Most of all, love.

Adele drifted to another topic, and as I sat in the quiet room, struggling with my needles and wool, smiling and nodding and engaging in conversation, my secret heart flew through the window, growing wings in the cool air, speeding through the trees to the warm haven of the stables . . . and to the man who had suffered so much, and yet still believed in love.

At the end of the following week, I rapped softly on the stable door. It opened immediately, as though Lucien had been expecting me, which of course he had. Our wagers had become – at least while Carsten was away – a delicious habit that, with the chime of midnight passing, always drew me to the candlelit barn.

‘I found these,’ Lucien said by way of a greeting, dipping into his shirt pocket, drawing forth a crushed bouquet of green leaves. ‘They’re not in flower yet, but they smell good. They were
growing near your little glade. When I saw them, I immediately thought of you, which, I confess, is not unusual these days.’

‘Yellow-buttons,’ I said wonderingly, taking the leaves from his fingers and holding them against my nose, eagerly drinking their perfume. ‘How did you know?’

Lucien looked puzzled. ‘Know what?’

‘That they grow at Lyrebird Hill. And that after the rain, or on a cold starry night, the air gets this wonderful scent about it, you just want to keep breathing deeper and deeper. Then the scent fades and you forget about it, but some time later when you least expect it, your nostrils flare and there it is again, all at once sweet and sharp and spicy and you breathe and breathe and wish with all your heart that it would never end. And now here it is . . . so far from home.’

Lucien was gazing at me with such tenderness that my breath caught. He captured my fingers and crushed them against his lips.

‘I’d like to see your home one day,’ he said quietly.

A look passed between us. He had spoken forbidden words, but my heart thrilled to hear them; I knew our secret meetings were wrong, but how could I deny the way I felt? Reaching up, I twined my fingers around a lock of Lucien’s fire-gold hair, and drew him to me. Our kiss was strong and sweet, and binding; and it made me ache for what I knew I could never truly have.

One evening a week later, we sat on the floor in Adele’s room by candlelight in front of a carved oak dressing table, our skirts billowing around us. Adele opened the deep bottom drawer, in which piles of infants clothes were neatly folded. Her usually pale face was flushed pink, and the infusion of colour made her eyes gleam. She leaned nearer, as if to impart a secret.

‘Carsten insisted I get rid of them, but I couldn’t.’ She glanced at me warily, but I smiled encouragement. Carefully,
she lifted out a tiny crocheted bonnet and matching dress. ‘Aren’t they precious?’

I took the delicate items from her fingers and examined the intricate lacework. ‘They’re lovely, Adele.’

‘Quinn made them for me, the clever old thing. She made this, too.’ She passed me a baby’s knitted blanket of lacy, pale blue wool. ‘You must think me sentimental for hanging on to them for so long, and I wouldn’t blame you.’

‘I think no such thing, Adele. It would have been a crime to throw out such exquisite little treasures. Besides, they are your link to happier times. It must have been hard for you when your fiancé died. Did you never have the opportunity to remarry?’

Adele smiled sadly. ‘Malcolm was such a kind-hearted man, he would have made a wonderful husband and father. When he was taken from me – just a few weeks before our wedding day – I resolved never to love again.’ She pulled more tiny garments and comforters from the drawer. ‘My brother is very good to me, you know. Whatever trinket or bauble takes my fancy, whatever treasure or luxury my heart desires, I can send Quinn to acquire for me in Wynyard or Launceston, or order in from overseas. Fine soap, kid gloves, satin slippers, silk dresses, damask underthings. Face paint and powder, Irish linen for my bed, lace shawls from Europe.’ She hung her head and smiled down at her hands. ‘Anything I want is mine for the asking, Brenna, except the one thing I truly wish for.’

‘What?’ I barely whispered. ‘What is it you wish for?’

‘A child of my own. A little son or daughter to reach their chubby arms around my neck and kiss my cheek with their cherub lips. Alas, for me that day will never come. But it will for you, Brenna, dear. Which is why I want you to have these little clothes. When you have your own baby, you’ll be glad of them. They’re a wee bit outdated, but they’re warm and clean and so very pretty.’

I grabbed her hand, unable to stop my eyes welling. ‘Oh, Adele, they are simply lovely. I’d be honoured to have them, but only if you can bear to part with them?’

She nodded and quickly began pulling out more dainty clothes until the drawer was bare. When I noticed the tremble in her fingers, I reached for her hands and grasped them gently in mine.

‘He wore them, didn’t he? Your little boy.’

Adele searched my face, a worried frown wrinkling her forehead. ‘You found the grave.’

‘I didn’t mean to pry, Adele. I only wanted to know where you went, those nights you walked in your sleep. You seemed so sad, and I thought there might be some way for me to help.’

Adele bit her lip, regarding me solemnly. ‘Do you hate me, Brenna? Do you think me wicked?’

Impulsively, I brought her hand to my lips and kissed her knuckles. ‘Of course not, silly. When I understood why you were so troubled, and what it was that drew you from the house and into the garden on your restless nights, I couldn’t help but love you more. If you can bear to speak of him, Adele, I will gladly listen. There is no judgement between friends.’

Tears spilled over her lashes, glistening diamonds on her perfect skin. She squeezed my hands, then drew a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. Tucking it away again, she began to fold the little outfits into a neat pile.

‘Soon after Malcolm died, I found myself pregnant. Carsten and Mrs Quinn were the only ones who knew. My little boy lived for three and a half wonderful years. Then, one frosty morning in July, I went into the nursery and found the window wide open. The room was icy. Quinn swore that the window had been shut when she’d looked in upon him the night before. The only explanation I could think of was that I had wandered into the nursery in my sleep, and flung it open myself. My poor little
Thomas. I gathered him up and held him against my warmth, but he was cold and unmoving. A few days later, he was sleeping in the ground.’

‘Oh, Adele.’

We sat in the stillness, adding our collective silence to the room’s tomblike quietude. Then, somewhere downstairs a door slammed. Boots echoed on the floor below, then thudded up the stairs and along the hall towards Adele’s bedroom.

‘Brenna!’ a man bellowed.

Adele jumped to her feet, scattering a snowfall of small garments about her. ‘It’s Carsten,’ she whispered, grabbing up the knitted blanket we had been admiring and cramming it into the drawer. ‘He’s back early. Quickly, he mustn’t see them.’

Hurriedly we collected the baby’s clothes and shoved them into the drawer, jamming it shut just as the door burst open.

Carsten stood in the doorway, glowering. He pointed at me and yelled, ‘Where is it? I want it back.’

I stared, dumbfounded.

Lucien appeared in the hall behind Carsten; his face was white, the scar stark in the flickering candlelight. Had he broken our pact of silence? Had he confessed to Carsten about our midnight chess games – or worse, our stolen kisses? Lucien must have anticipated my thoughts, because he shook his head.

‘Well?’ Carsten strode into the room and gripped me by the arm, shaking me so hard my teeth clattered. ‘Where is it?’

‘Where’s
what
?’

Adele was beside me. ‘Let her go, Carsten.’

‘Stay out of this, Adele.’

‘Please, Carsten, there’s no need to shout. Whatever you think she’s done, for heaven’s sake hold your temper and speak like an adult.’

Carsten growled in fury. ‘I’ll speak to my thieving wife however I please.’ Elbowing Adele aside, he dragged me through the door and along the hall to my room. Quinn had joined us,
alerted by the fracas; her face was stiff with shock and her eyes kept darting protectively to Adele.

Again I tried to tear free of Carsten’s grasp, but I only succeeded in bruising my wrist, and earning myself another severe shaking.

‘I want her room searched,’ Carsten told Lucien. Looking back at me, he snarled. ‘And if I find it in your possession, God help me, Brenna, I’ll have you horsewhipped.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said. ‘Let me go, you’re hurting me.’

‘Consider it a taste of what’s to come, you treacherous bitch.’

Adele grabbed her brother’s free arm and tried to hinder his progress down the hall. ‘What have you lost, Carsten?’

Shaking her off, he barged into my bedroom. Thrusting me ahead of him, he towered over me, his face twisting, his eyes – the same intense eyes I’d once sighed over – fixed on me. I felt his hatred blaze out of him like fire.

‘I’ve lost the only thing that matters,’ he said rasped. ‘You stole it away because you couldn’t bear the truth of what it contained. But you’ll be sorry. More sorry than you’ve ever been in your life.’

Carsten then turned and instructed Lucien to search my belongings.

‘A silver locket on a fob chain,’ he explained. ‘Embossed on the face with a lyrebird tail. It’s one of a kind, and of great personal value.’

Adele stood back and frowned at her brother. ‘Could you have lost it on your travels, Carsten? That makes the most sense. You probably took it off and left it somewhere.’

Carsten glared at me. ‘Brenna took it before I left. I saw her eyeing it, and one night I caught her trying to steal it. No indeed, my wife took it to spite me, I have no doubt of it.’

I glared back at him, my nerves alight with loathing. How could I forget that night? I’d been intrigued by the one object my husband appeared to treasure above all others, and had
merely wanted to observe it at close range. But Carsten’s vicious response to my prying had left me sore and bruised, and I had come to hate the sight of the locket – not only for being a reminder of that night, but because I knew it contained the portrait of my husband’s lost love.