Chapter Seven
The stables complex was a short distance from the house. It was huge, with a traditional timber barn that took pride of place. The massive doors at one end of the structure were fixed back in place. Flanking the doors were brassbound wooden planters filled with verdant lemon trees, the golden citrus fruit out of season. The courtyard for mounting and walking the horses was equally impressive.
It was only midmorning, yet the sun was blazing from a cloudless blue sky. Isabelle was wearing plenty of sunblock, a silk scarf to protect her nape and a long-sleeved white shirt to protect her arms, though she had rolled the sleeves back some way. Bruno, with his Mediterranean skin, was wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt with his jeans, but he had tied a protective red bandana around his neck. He looked enormously dashing but totally unconcerned with his appearance.
“Can’t see anyone about,” Isabelle said, her voice uneasy. She felt thoroughly unnerved by the events of the morning. Life was becoming way too complicated. Hilary, for all her intimidating aura, wasn’t in the same league as Mrs. Saunders when that lady got underway. Mrs. Saunders, aka Orani, was a genuinely frightening woman, shaming Erik Hartmann, who had stood mute and staring until a fierce denial had been forced out of him.
“Bound to be someone,” Bruno said, striding ahead. “I’ll take a look.”
He reappeared a moment later accompanied by an aboriginal boy, around sixteen. “Mani here will help us,” Bruno said. He had an arm clapped around the boy’s shoulders while the boy was looking up at him with a kind of wonder on his face. Fascination, Isabelle thought. Bruno had the capacity to fascinate men and women alike. It was a quality beyond physical beauty. It had life, movement, vibrancy.
“Mornin’, miss.” Mani gave Isabelle a jaunty smile. He waved them both inside the barn. “Come in, please. Take yah pick.”
“Thank you.”
Most of the stalls were empty. Mani led them along the wide passageway. At their approach to the right, a gleaming dark bay threw up its handsome head, nostrils flaring. “Now there’s a beauty!” Isabelle said, not sure she could handle such an obviously spirited horse.
“Not for you, miss,” Mani said with a note of warning, “Rega is a one-woman horse. He belong to Orani. Mrs. Saunders,” he corrected himself quickly.
“She’s an accomplished rider, then?” Bruno caught Isabelle’s eye. Another piece of unexpected news.
“Bin ridin’ since she was a kid. Like me. Can ride anything. I reckon a brumby. Best woman rider I ever seen. Rega would be dangerous in the wrong hands. Not for you, miss. You need be safe. What about Honeysuckle? Honey for short. She’s as sweet-natured as they come and a lovely ride.”
Isabelle approached the chestnut mare, putting out an upturned hand as her English friend, Emma, had taught her to do. She hoped Honeysuckle would lick her palm. The mare did.
“Honey will be fine,” Isabelle said, her spirits picking up. It was a long time since she had been in the saddle. She would probably be a bit sore afterwards, but she loved riding. With the right horse, she was sure she could acquit herself well enough.
Bruno pronounced himself happy with a big gelding called Rommel, which begged a question. Field Marshall Rommel, the Desert Fox, had been a greatly respected German general during WWII forced to commit suicide for being implicated in a plot to assassinate Hitler that had sadly misfired.
It was a simple matter to saddle up. Mani handed them both a hard hat from a collection hanging on one wall. It was apparent to them both that he took his duties seriously, holding himself responsible for the safety of guests.
“We’re off! Let’s make the best of it.” Bruno reined in beside Isabelle. He looked wonderful mounted, tall figure upright, back straight, easily controlling Rommel. The gelding looked keen for a gallop. Isabelle already knew the mare would be no match for the powerful gelding, but the mare was giving off signals she too was ready to fly across the desert sands.
* * *
Budgerigar exploded in their thousands, emerald and gold as they were in the wild, turquoise beaks, fine black stripes on their backs. Crimson chats and little zebra finches fed on the ground, taking no notice at all of the predatory hawks until one made a leisurely swoop, picking up a bright little victim.
“Oh!” said Isabelle, feeling a pang of pity for the little zebra finch.
“Wedge-tailed eagle!” Bruno pointed out the country’s largest bird of prey with a wing span of seven feet. It sat resting on a thermal cushion high above them, ready in an instant to dive with lightning speed. “That’s one effective killing machine. Believe it or not, they can take a fair-size kangaroo.”
“As long as they can’t take a fair-size woman.” Isabelle shivered. “It’s kill or be killed, isn’t it?”
“Rule of the wild. Man is the only animal that kills for pleasure. The animal world kills to survive.”
“We’re what? Twenty minutes out from the home compound, and we’re in the wilds. This is as far remote from our lush eastern seaboard as the far side of Mars. I didn’t know soil could be baked furnace red until I’d come face-to-face with it.”
“This is the oldest continent on earth, Bella.”
“And it looks it. Still, to our amazement, it blooms.”
“That’s the wonder of it all.”
Ahead of them, the legendary mirage was abroad. It created silvery waterholes where none had existed since prehistoric times. “Easy to see how the early explorers were tricked into thinking they had found deliverance and lifesaving water,” Bruno remarked. “From the air it’s a flat landscape, but it doesn’t appear that way on the ground.”
Isabelle agreed. All around them were stands of acacias and scrubby-looking mulga trees that supported many squawking families of pink and pearl grey galahs. From a distance, the birds looked like huge, fantastic flowers. To their west lay a long unbroken chain of low-lying hills, ancient ranges eroded down to what the family called the Hill County.
Seams of opal matrix had been found there, so they had been told. The sand plains, the sand hills and the ranges were thickly sown with the most extensive vegetation type in the continent, the spinifex. The “abomination,” as one explorer had called it.
“Watch the needles,” Bruno called to her. “Get too close and they’ll scrape the mare’s legs.”
“Difficult not to,” she called back. “The bushes are everywhere. It’s almost like a wheat field.” The burnt gold of the spinifex plains stretched away to the far horizons.
“You’ll handle it,” Bruno told her, confident she could do so. He had known that from the moment she had without assistance swung up into the saddle, gathering the reins. “The mare will help you. There’s a Big Red over there wanting to say hello.”
“Where?” Her eyes swept around. “Oh, yes, I’ve spotted him,” she lilted, genuinely entranced. She had never seen a kangaroo in the wild. “Isn’t he just beautiful! Our boxing kangaroo.” Semicamouflaged by a great spray of olive-coloured leaves, a Big Red was standing upright on its powerful long legs, tail acting as a balance, calmly surveying the intruders into his world.
“Herds of them ahead,” Bruno said. “The kangaroos and emus on our coat of arms are indigenous animals; camels were brought in from Pakistan and India by the British with Afghan handlers. They used camels in the early days as beasts of burden in the Outback and for exploration. Burke and Wills used them. They’ve thrived here to the extent they’ve become a real menace. Basically, they destroy everything in their path. We’re bound to see a few, considering there are well over a million in the wild heart. The largest population in the world. They love it here. We even export them back to the Middle East, where they’re superior to the homegrown beasts.”
“Any tips on snakes, goannas?” Isabelle asked. “I need to be prepared. I’ve never in my life been on wild terrain, on foot or on horseback.”
“There’s a slight possibility a five-foot log will suddenly morph into a sand goanna,” Bruno only half-joked. “When confronted by riders, they usually take off at high speed.”
“Thanks for telling me that.”
“A need to know.” He laughed.
The land was in far better condition than they had expected. Mani had told them vast areas of the Outback had received much-needed rain some months before, as well as floodwaters coming down into the Three Great Rivers system of the Inland from the tropical North that had been lashed by not one but two cyclones. Vegetation was, as a consequence, abundant.
One area they rode through was still covered in thousands of white paper daisies with yellow centres. They illuminated the red soil. In another area, the pink para-keelya reigned, a succulent the cattle could feed on. Further off in the distance, a huge area of desert hibiscus, a beautiful flower that favoured the spinifex country.
“This lovely display will soon disappear under the heat of the sun,” Bruno told her with regret. “The millions of dormant seeds will regenerate with the next good rains.”
“‘All the flowers of all the tomorrows are in the seeds of today,’” Isabelle said. “An old Indian proverb.”
“I really like the way you come up with these things,” Bruno said. “The Inland goes in cycles. Drought. Drought. Drought. Then, a floral wonderland. What we’re looking at now is the end of the display. The flowers are fading, as you can see. At their peak the flowering annuals create the most amazing desert gardens. They go on and on, right away to the horizon. Saltbush, cottonbush, hopbush, carpet of snow, fan flowers, poppies, spider lilies, green or lilac pussy tails waving in the wind. I came out this way once with a couple of friends, one a well-known botanist, the other equally celebrated as a wildlife photographer. The desert and the desert fringe is their hunting ground.”
“I can see why.” Isabelle looked around, enchanted. “It seems like a miracle such exquisite blooms can not only adapt but thrive in this harsh environment. One would expect the millions of wildflowers around us would wither away in the fierce heat of the sun, yet they continue to hang on to delight the eye. I’m so glad we came, a lovely memory to store up.”
“We’ll come back.” Bruno spoke with perfect certainty. “I’ll bring you when the flowering is at its height.”
“Really? That sounds wonderful.”
“I mean it.”
“So I’m going to stay in your life?” she asked, not looking at him but straight ahead.
“Yes,” he said.
“What if you’re married? What if Madame Lubrinski finds you the perfect bride?”
He laughed. “Marta has no real idea of the sort of woman I want.”
“Better tell her that,” said Isabelle. Madame Lubrinski had not looked on her favourably.
* * *
A little while later, through a screen of trees, they could see an outfit of stockmen driving a sizeable lowing herd of cattle across a gully with diamond needle points of light flashing off the brackish waters. “Probably to a holding yard,” Bruno made the comment. “What do you say we take a break at the next billabong?” There was a constant glitter of water now. Swamps, waterholes, deep and shallow pools, curving billabongs with verdant banks, shaded by the ubiquitous coolabah trees.
“That’s a great idea!” Isabelle was feeling a little sore, with sets of muscles brought into play for the first time after quite a while. “We have water, I hope.”
He clicked his tongue, his brilliant dark gaze brushing over her. “Bella, one can’t go anywhere in the Outback without water. I have a full canteen.”
“My hero!” she said.
The horses were easily led, grateful, like their riders, for the blissful shade. They tethered them loosely to some low-lying coolabah limbs and then walking a short distance down the slope sown with constellations of tiny lilac into purple wildflowers.
“The air is so sweet!” Isabelle slowly drew in a breath. She had the feeling of never having been so happy in her life.
“It’s a bit like lavender,” Bruno said, inhaling the fragrance. “Would you just look at those waterlilies?”
“Glorious, aren’t they? A handful would cost a fortune at a city florist. I know I’ve bought them, but here there are masses and masses of them, white through to creamy yellow.” A thick canopy of waterlilies adorned the still-deep waters at the far end of the lagoon. Tiny long-legged birds were skipping from one green pad to another.
“Like kids playing hopscotch,” Bruno remarked with a laugh.
Flights of birds were circling the tops of the trees, flying in and out, up and down, playing their own games. Their calls, ringing, trilling, echoed all over the wilderness.
“There are always birds and birdsong even when you can’t see them,” Isabelle said. “This is just beautiful, isn’t it? Everything turns on nature, its beauty, its majesty, its awesome power.”
“I agree.” Bruno quickly rid himself of his hard hat, running a quick hand over his tousled dark hair. “No aches and pains?” he asked, watching her every movement with a deep running pleasure. Their journey out had been wonderfully companionable, lifting all the dark shadows of the morning. He bent to pluck a purple flower.
“I’m fine,” Isabelle said. “I’ll be a bit stiff tomorrow, but it’s worth it.” Hands at her waist, she began swaying her willowy body in a limber up.
“You’re a good rider, a natural.” Bruno walked over to her. Every nerve in his body was jumping with a kind of fierce exhilaration. He pushed the short stalk of the wildflower into her red-gold hair, positioning it. Their faces were mere inches apart.
She flushed, making a business of finding a hair pin to fasten the little flower. “Thank you for the flower and the compliment. My friend, Emma, used to tell me I was a natural too. She was a good teacher. Who taught you, or did you simply jump on a horse and ride?”
“I tried and landed on my backside.” He gave a remembering grin. “If you must know, I learned at Phil Faraday’s Blue Mountains estate. Phil has a very serious love of horses. He has a string of winning racehorses and lives to win the Melbourne Cup. He’s a fine rider himself, only he’s allowing himself to put on too much weight. He’s a great host. Actually, it was an old guy over seventy, Terry Bailey, who taught me the ropes. Irish. A fine jockey in his heyday. He used to ride for Phil’s late father. Phil kept him on. Phil has good qualities as well as a couple of dodgy ones.”
“Terry taught you well.” Isabelle sat herself down on the carpet of springy little wildflowers so prolific hundreds of tiny blooms were crushed beneath the leaves. Bruno stayed on his feet, pouring her water from the canteen.
“Don’t spill it. Each drop is precious.”
“I’m well aware of that, thank you.”
Isabelle took the beaker from him, tilting her head to take a long draught. “That was good!” she pronounced. “There’s nothing better than cold, clean water.” Running down her throat, it had been wonderfully refreshing. She handed the container back, watching him pour himself water before putting his lips to where hers had been.
Isabelle had to shake herself to break the little spell. “I don’t think I can go back and face those people,” she said, pulling the remaining pins out of her hair and dropping them safely inside her hard hat. That done, she shook her glistening copper and gold hair free, enjoying the light breeze on her nape. “Miss Marple would have her work cut out, finding the culprit with that lot. They just kept on coming. Abigail Hartmann, born and bred in the Outback, probably sat her first pony at three. Living out here, she would have known how to handle a gun. Probably a crack shot. The mysterious Piers Osbourne we’ve never heard of, alleged lover of Myra, Helena’s piano teacher and part-time tutor. He would have been no more than nine or ten years older. Very handsome. A cultured young man. Then there’s Mrs. Saunders, who has to be one of the scariest women on the planet; Erik’s longtime mistress, who might—I emphasize might—be his half sister. Can you believe these people? And to think we’ve gone eyeball-to-eyeball with Orani. She could easily be a close relative of a Kadaitcha Man.”
“You believe in that stuff?” Bruno asked. “There are more things in heaven and earth, etc.?” He sat down beside her, stretching his long legs.
“Outback cops believe in that stuff,” Isabelle said. “I swear, I’ve never seen a face so full of hate as on Eaglehawk’s housekeeper.”
“And lust,” Bruno added.
“Lust, yes,” Isabelle agreed. “Sex is very dangerous,” she said solemnly. “People get murdered all the time over sex gone woefully wrong.”
“Is that going to stop you?” Bruno glanced sidelong at her. He had an idea Isabella was still a virgin. He knew she was a very fastidious and serious-minded young woman.
“It hasn’t stopped you,” she retorted. “I was very surprised young Mani called Mrs. Saunders by her aboriginal name.”
“Orani.”
“Shouldn’t he have been more respectful? After all, she is Eaglehawk’s longtime housekeeper.”
“How do we know they’re not related?”
Isabelle shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Am I the one ordained to set a match to the Hartmann bonfire?” she asked. “If we hadn’t turned up, Mrs. Saunders might have taken her secret to the grave. You could see how thrilled the family would be to take her into the fold. Even in this day and age it would create a scandal.”
“They’re scandal prone, Bella,” Bruno said. “The old guy, Konrad, charmed my dad completely. Dad thought him a fine man, a gentleman.”
“Having sex with a consenting adult isn’t a crime. It doesn’t make you a villain. It might have been in-between wives.”
“I suppose nothing passes all understanding. It’s not as though would-be mistresses are thick on the ground out here.”
“I’ve never actually believed in people like the Hartmanns, which is pretty naïve. Well, not here in the down-to-earth Outback. More like Transylvania. Twenty years ago, someone had plenty to worry about. They’ve got plenty to worry about now. One of them is an A-list villain.”
Bruno nodded. “I won’t argue with that. Our first task is to collect samples for DNA testing. You included.”
“Of course. Do you think the family is going to enter into the spirit of it?” Isabelle asked with real worry.
“We could turn our findings over to the Australian Federal Police.”
“Meaning?”
“The National Missing Persons Coordination Centre. A lot has happened in the past twenty years. DNA samples now confirm relationships where all else fail. We’re sure of Stefan and probably Mrs. Saunders. It doesn’t really matter about the rest. You wouldn’t have any cotton tips with you?”
“Not with me, but there’s an unopened packet of them in the bathroom cabinet. I suppose you could use unopened small plastic bags as containers. I don’t mind telling you, I want to take my leave of this family. They’re the classic definition of weird.” She waved an expansive arm. “Yet Eaglehawk is such an extraordinary place.”
“As beautiful as it’s savage.”
“I only wish the Hartmann family members were ordinary, hard-working station owners, but there’s nothing vaguely ordinary about them. I admit at the beginning I felt a surge of elation that we might be on track to find Helena. Now I want to beat it out of here just like her. She might have formed the terrifying idea someone was trying to kill her.”
“More likely that someone had killed her mother. Christian’s premature death might have been an accident. Maybe Dad had found out something and decided to check it out.”
“Only he too was put out of the picture.”
Bruno stared at her, highly responsive to what she was saying. “Dad’s briefcase full of papers was never found.”
“So no one knew what was in it.”
“No.”
“You carry a heavy burden.”
“It hasn’t been easy, I admit. I had quite a few nightmares after it happened.”
“I bet. It must be the worst kind of pain for the families of victims, not being able to find out the truth. No little grace notes like closure.”
“DNA is solving a lot of cold cases thirty and more years on.”
“And that’s where we’re heading.”
“Yes.” Bruno stared across at her. Her face and hair was caught in a filtered shaft of golden sunlight. He had never seen such bright, beautiful hair. He had never even dated a redhead. It was becoming increasingly difficult being alone with her. Cracks were appearing in his armour. He could almost hear them.
“Questions, questions, questions and no answers,” Isabelle was saying. “Let’s go back.” She began twirling her long hair into a roll and securing it with pins. “Under different circumstances, our trip could have been an adventure, but now? My every thought is of mayhem. How do we know we won’t get targeted?”
“One would have to be a lunatic to try,” said Bruno, diamond glints in his eyes. He sprang to his feet in one lithe movement, extending a helping hand. “This was a dead-end case for my dad. It’s open again. I’m here with you, Bella. I’ll keep you safe.”
“That’s a promise?” She looked up at him, wanting to suspend the moment in her memory.
“With my life.” He struck a fist to his breast.
She smiled at his gesture, putting out a hand to rub the exact spot. “I welcome that and your presence. What sort of riding accident was it that killed Myra?” she asked. “I haven’t seen anything obvious, like crumbling walls here and there. Lots of fallen branches blocking trails. On the other hand, someone could have jumped out from behind a tree, startling Myra and spooking her horse to the extent it reared and then threw her heavily.”
Bruno’s answer was grim. “Breaking her neck.”
“God, what a thud! What were the circumstances leading up to it? I wonder. The Kadaitcha Man was available to do the dirty work.”
Bruno’s handsome mouth compressed. “The police checked all avenues. There was no one near her when she died.”
“Sez who? Myra had enemies. A few people would have been happy to see her gone. Helena grew up knowing all this. No wonder she cleared out,” Isabelle said.
“To head for England? Hilary knows so much, only it will have to be dragged out of her. Still, the lies are all over. It’s coming up Judgement Day.”
Isabelle slowly exhaled. “It’s taken years and years.”
“Sadly many, many cases do that,” Bruno reminded her.
* * *
On the opposite bank came such a rush of spectacular wings, the air echoed with the sound. “Brolgas!” Bruno cried, his eyes fixed there. “Is this a good omen or what?”
“The day has turned magical!” Isabelle moved down farther towards the emerald waters.
A pair of silver-grey cranes with bright red heads alighted at a skipping run on the golden sand of the opposite bank.
“Do you think they’ll dance for us?” She turned to Bruno excitedly.
“We’ll be privileged if they do. They can just as easily take off again.”
“Let’s wait and see. We could easily have missed this, Bruno.”
“Maybe it was meant for us,” he said.
The elegant waterbirds, the most treasured in all the land, were famous for their legendary dancing.
“Not even the aboriginal people know the secret of their dance,” Bruno said, joining her. “Long ago, in the Dreamtime, there was a beautiful young girl called Brolga. Brolga’s dancing was so graceful, so elegant the swooshing of her arms, tribes from near and far would come to see her dance. She always chose the banks of billabongs where her favourite tree, the coolabah, grew.”
“Like here.” Isabelle reached out to take his hand, locking her fingers through his. “Sit by me, Bruno. They’re going to dance. I’m sure of it.” Fascination was in her voice.
Neither spoke again. They were the audience. The brolgas bowed low to each other, the introduction to their famous pas de deux. Upright, their two-metre wingspan outstretched, the brolgas went slowly into their polished performance. Their movements were extraordinarily balletic. Their long, dark-grey legs lifted into the air in splendid jetés. Bruno and Isabelle watched almost without breathing. The cranes continued their dance, back and forth, back and forth, up and down, up and down without lull, until finally they bowed once again to each other, signalling the end of the dance. The performance ended as it began, with a deep bow, thought to be a symbol of their love and lifetime commitment.
Almost three silent minutes passed.
Isabelle found her voice. “I’ll never forget that. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so close to nature.”
“My first time as well.” Bruno too felt they were honoured.
“A precious memory.”
They were adding up with Bella. “Brolgas mate for life,” he said as they watched the cranes use the long, dry, sandy bank as an airstrip. A short run-up and then they gained lift-off, rising into the air, clearing the treetops, with legions of birds applauding their flight. “Maybe their dancing together confirms their lifelong bond. Who knows?”
“My thoughts exactly. Don’t we all want a lifelong bond?” she asked. “A truly meaningful lasting relationship. That’s what I want.”
“I hope that’s what you get, Isabella,” he said in a deep, sincere voice. “To be loved. Utterly loved. To feel love.”
“Is that what you want?” she asked.
He answered quietly. “What one wants and what one gets are most often two different things. I know what happens when love turns cruel.”
“Your mother’s leaving you and your father left a very deep wound.”
“Okay, you’ve solved it, but you haven’t solved me. Dad took the brunt of it. He adored her. There was a divorce of course. He never thought to remarry.”
“So you cling to your bachelorhood?”
“So I do. Above and beyond that, I’ve never met the woman I can’t live without. I’ve fallen a little in love from time to time, but at some point, for whatever reason, communication breaks down.”
“Making you afraid of taking the plunge?”
He turned his night-dark eyes on her. “I suppose I’m like you.”
She blushed. “What, pray, does that mean?”
“You give it time. Unless I’m very wrong and you’ve had a hectic love life?”
“That would have interfered with my studies, Bruno. I’m twenty-two. I’m in no kind of hurry.”
“Look before you leap?” he asked.
“You could say I’ve taken a leaf out of your book.” She hesitated a moment. “Want to know what I really think?”
“Nothing I’d like more,” he said, his eyes on her lovely profile.
“I’d say we’re a couple of incurable romantics, Bruno.”
He laughed. “Then I’d have to ask what proof have you got?” He met her green eyes with the challenge.
“I know we’d be heart-broken if our love was betrayed.”
She was coming too close to the truth. “I’d like to know how at twenty-two you’ve acquired so much understanding.”
“It’s just a question of observation, Bruno, and reading about the lives of others. Take the often tragic lives of the great composers. The sublime emotions they were still able to pour into their works despite everything that had gone terribly wrong in their lives. Beethoven’s Ninth says it all.”
“It just so happens I know it,” he said with a thankful smile. He had to keep up with Bella.
“Not many people realize Beethoven wasn’t just the brooding genius of his most famous painting.”
“The one with the bold red scarf?” Bruno asked. He was familiar with that one. He supposed every music lover was.
“That’s the one. Painted around 1820 by Joseph Karl Stieler. A Jewish family, the Hinrichsens eventually came to own and treasure it. It was just one of the many paintings the Nazis stole. Henri Hinrichsen died in Auschwitz, but the family managed to get it back after the war, which was the rightful outcome. Anyway, from letters we know Beethoven was a witty man with a great sense of humour. He was said to have had a beautiful smile and exceptionally good teeth.”
“That would have been a plus in that day and age. Beethoven expressed the whole range of human emotions in his music, so he may just have had a sense of humour as well as his profoundly serious side. Marta undertook my classical music education. She gave me whole collections of classical CDs. I’ve worked through A to C. I haven’t had a chance to get to D. Remember Debussy?”
“I do.” She would never forget that night. “That was nice of her. I believe we get to know who we are through music.”
“The universal language?”
“Can I say something else?” Isabelle asked, almost haltingly.
“Sure. You can tell me anything, everything you like, Bella. I’m your friend. I will never betray you.”
“Do you know I believe you, Bruno.” She gave him a lovely smile. “I’ve never had a sexual partner, Bruno. I’m pretty sure you’ve guessed. I had plenty of male friends as a student. My life could have been very different of course. I could have taken sex as lightly as some others, but I don’t think that’s possible. Not for me anyway. I had to console a few of my girlfriends, in floods of tears, who thought they could embrace that lifestyle with no ill effects. Someone has to suffer and it’s usually the girl. I don’t believe a woman should give her body lightly.”
“So why don’t women practise that?” he shot back.
“Maybe your lot got brainwashed?” Isabelle suggested.
“I beg your pardon!”
“Oh, come off it, Bruno. Arguably you’re the most-chased bachelor in town.”
“What, women galore trying to entice me into their bed?”
“Something like that.”
He grimaced. “Bella, I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You’re a dying breed. A lot put their exploits on Twitter.”
“I hesitate to ask this, but are you a man hater?”
She laughed. “It’s proving difficult not to be. I don’t hate you, Bruno.”
“I needed to hear that.” He gave a mocking sigh. “As it happens, I do believe a woman should be approached with a certain reverence.” His dark eyes had turned serious, thoughtful, focused on her and what she was saying.
“That would win you a lot of approval, Bruno. It’s my belief there should be a preparation.”
“A courtship?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I know it’s considered old-fashioned.”
“The woman sets the parameters,” Bruno said from experience. “The man conducts himself accordingly.”
“Hard when women throw themselves at you.”
He was trying very hard to preserve his calm objectivity, though it was rapidly escaping him. “That’s what I love about you, Bella. You don’t. You’re absolutely right to take your time. You’re at the beginning of everything.”
“We’re good pals?” she asked, her radiant head to one side.
His feelings were way too fierce for palship. “We are, Isabella.”
“That’s lovely. I trust you, Bruno. It’s not every man who gives a woman a feeling of safety. You do. The gods have been kind to us. We’ve witnessed a spectacular bush sight together. One, as a city dweller, I never thought to see. That’s further bonding, surely?” On a little wave of euphoria she leaned sideways, lightly kissed his cheek. “My whole being is filled with healing blessings. What about you?”
“You give your heart and soul to things, don’t you?” He felt unnerved by her trust in him. A trust he could never break.
“I suppose I do,” Isabelle admitted.
“That makes you an optimist.” He knew her kissing his cheek was a perfectly innocent, spontaneous gesture, yet it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms, knot his fingers through her hair and tilt back her head so he could see the lovely line of her throat. He felt like crushing her to him, his hands tracing the length of her, the imprint of her small, tender nipples against his chest. If he weakened and kissed her, the whole world would be lost. It was as simple as that. He knew all he had to do to arouse her desire. Isabella was a creature of passion, of strong feelings, revealed in her playing. He could not test her vulnerability. He didn’t through pure force of will. He craved her. Only his duty was clear.
It was his job to follow protocol.
At the same time, her idea of preparation for a love affair struck him as a beautiful concept. But how to keep someone like Isabella at arm’s length?
* * *
Back in the saddle. All around them thousands and thousands of square miles of raw bushland. No sign of the grazing cattle. No sign of human life. Only the phenomenal birdlife and marauding hawks and falcons. Sand and spinifex. Silence. Infinity. It would be all too easy to get lost, especially near the lignum swamps, where the pelicans made their nests.
“The budgies are leading us out of here,” she said, her eyes following their path. Her heart was beating way too fast. Despite all her talk, which she did truly believe in, she felt herself open to powerful sensations she had never before experienced. As for Bruno’s experience in sexual matters? He had plenty. How many women had he kissed? How many women had he taken into his bed? She had registered the tension in him. The silence that lay between them was like a forerunner to something . . . unstoppable? If that happened, Bruno knew she would surrender, for all her talk of holding off. His decision had been not to allow that to happen. That took matters out of her hands.
The sunlight after the golden-green oasis was blinding. Isabelle shaded her eyes to look up at the great flock of budgerigar flying in their natural V formation. A trickle of sweat was running down between her breasts. Heat was getting to her. Inside and out.
She had to confront the fact she wasn’t just falling in love with Bruno. She had been insane enough to fall in love with him on sight. Nothing he had done or said had diminished that. She was the virgin who wanted to be taken. To be his. Her heart was in his hands. Like many a woman before her, she could be in for a hard fall. If that happened, it wouldn’t be easy to get up again. The wisest thing would be to listen to one’s head not one’s heart, yet wisdom was so often abandoned for what was sometimes termed madness.
Bruno, the object of her desire, rode up alongside her. “We won’t get lost, Bella,” he said, noting her unusually tense expression. “I’ve got a good sense of direction. Better yet, I have a compass.”
“God bless you.” The best thing she could do was settle back into their normal easy banter. “Those tall seed stems on the spinifex look a bit like aboriginal spears, don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer.
Isabelle glanced at him sharply. There wasn’t even a flicker of a smile on his face. “Bruno?”
“Sit your horse. Keep still,” he ordered beneath his breath.
She stared at him in astonishment. “I hate to ask, but what for?”
Again he kept silent, causing her to visualize an aboriginal man staring out at them from behind the screen of mulga. He would be wearing the Kadaitcha shoes woven of feathers and human hair, stuck together with blood. Orani had sent him. Nothing seemed impossible in this ancient wilderness. She couldn’t rule out attack.
“Not a witch doctor, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, reading her mind. “It’s a bit hard to make out, but there’s a lone camel, a dromedary, keeping a close eye on us. His dirty, dusty ginger coat acts as a good camouflage. He’s standing well back in the clump of acacias at two o’clock.”
She turned her head very slowly to the two o’clock position, keeping a tight hold on the reins. “Dear Lord! We’re being staked out. I don’t believe it! It’s huge! Six feet or more. Just look at the hump!”
“It may well mean us no harm,” said Bruno.
Her answer held dismay and incredulity rolled into one. “Are we going to ask it? Hey, camel, please explain. What are your intentions?”
“I said keep quiet.” Bruno’s attitude was totally serious.
“I’m whispering, in case you haven’t noticed. All wild animals are dangerous, aren’t they? Don’t camels bite?”
“I’ve heard they resort to it from time to time. It could see us as a threat, but we don’t want it to think we’re intimidated. We sit tight. Apply universal bush rules. Don’t panic. We are not moving on, Bella. We sit quietly, not annoying it in any way.”
“As if I’m likely to do that.” Her voice quaked. “I’m certain I’ve read somewhere camels can do grievous bodily harm. How fast can they run?”
“I haven’t actually clocked one, but I believe around forty miles per hour.”
“So Honey and I couldn’t outrun it.” She was so outraged, she almost shouted. “The gelding probably could.”
“The gelding isn’t a racehorse, Bella. I’m not going to leave you. We sit tight and wait for it—”
“To charge?”
“In that case, we split to the left. Worst-case scenario: you kick your feet out of the stirrups and gather yourself. I’ll pull you over onto the gelding. The mare can find its own way home.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you can do that?” Her voice rose in panic.
“I’m damn sure I can,” he said tersely. “Have a little faith. But it’s not going to end that way, Bella.” He was speaking with remarkable calm. “There, what did I tell you?” He creased his dark eyes against the blazing light. “It’s turning away.”
“So it is!” Isabelle crossed herself. “Boy, do I have a heap of dinner-party stories to tell.” She took a deep breath watching the camel move off laconically on its huge feet. “I expect you’ve been on big-game hunting trips in Africa with your friend Lubrinski?” There was a note of accusation in her voice.
“I’d be too scared. No, Bella, I’m very much against big-game hunting, though I have been to South Africa and visited a lion park. I can’t understand why intelligent people are lulled into believing wild animals won’t attack. You have to be there to understand how tourists let down their guard. It’s not unlike the way tourists elect to take a dip in our crocodile-infested waters. Even our own people get taken.”
“That won’t be my story.”
“Nor mine. Destroying beautiful endangered animals is not my scene either. It’s a sin.”
“All the same, I wouldn’t come out here without a shotgun,” Isabelle said, staring around her. Six-foot goannas had been known to attack horses and riders.
“Someone was messing around with a gun when Christian was killed,” Bruno pointed out. “We can move on now.” He turned his handsome, dynamic face towards her. “Come along now. We have a full program before we leave. I’d like to see that portrait of Helena. It’s in the East Wing, where Stefan had it hung.”
“I don’t know that I want to go there,” she said, showing signs of rebellion.
“You can wait outside.”
“Shut up, Bruno.” It was enormously important to sound normal.
He only laughed. “See that ghost gum right ahead?” He lifted a hand to point out a beautiful eucalypt that stood in splendid isolation. The most beautiful tree in the desert, its pristine white bole and branches were in sharp contrast to the intense blue of the sky and a rust-red pile of boulders. “Race you there,” he said.
She didn’t ask for a start. She gave Honey’s sides an encouraging little kick with her heels. “You’re on!”
* * *
Stefan Hartmann was waiting for them at the house, still wearing his dust-spattered clothing, his face drawn. “I’ll have one of the girls fix us coffee and sandwiches,” he said. “I don’t want that woman anywhere in my sight. I know evil when I see it. I’ve never liked her. I’ve never wanted her in the house. Now I loathe her. I’m horrified to think she could have Hartmann blood.”
Bruno took pity on him. “We don’t yet know, sir, if she does. She could be making it all up. Why don’t we wait on the truth?”
“She could be mad,” Stefan said, clinging grimly to hope. “She wouldn’t be the first to make false claims. Maybe she even believes them. Maybe she’s delusional? She’s Tom Saunders’s daughter. Hell, she even looks like him at certain times. Her mad mother poisoned her mind. She turned her own crazy dreams into an actual reality. Orani Saunders has been poisoning the air for years, though I have to say she’s run the household well. My uncle has retired to his rooms. He’s in a shocking mess. I’ve never in my life seen him like that. Whether her story is true or not, there’ll be hell to pay.” He broke off, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “How was the ride?” he asked, making a piteous attempt to be normal.
“Very memorable,” Isabelle told him gently. “We had the privilege of seeing a pair of brolgas dance, which was amazing. Then a lone camel had us under close observation.”
“I hope you stayed in place, returned its stare?”
“We did.”
“Good. They’re an absolute bloody menace. Occasionally, we get a real rogue that only a bullet will stop. They’re belligerent beggars. They will charge if you appear in any way to threaten them. Now, you’ll want to wash up. Don’t let me keep you. We’ll eat in the breakfast room, say in an hour? Kurt is devastated. He just can’t get his head around anything. I’ve allowed Erik far too much influence over my boy. The thing is, running the station requires massive effort and long hours. In many ways, I’ve been an absentee father. I plan to send him off to his mother.”
“Does he want to go?” Isabelle asked.
Stefan nodded. “Yes, thank God. His mother can care for him until we get these other matters straightened out.”
* * *
Upstairs, Isabelle showered, shampooed her hair and changed her clothes, choosing a cool cotton dress in a shade of leaf green. Fantastic as the Chinese Room was, she wanted to move out as soon as possible. She saw the room as distinctly museumish, not somewhere to sleep.
Even now, she was astounded by the cruelty of Mrs. Saunders’s actions. It was unbelievable really. Orani could well be cast as a witch, for the housekeeper enjoyed frightening people. Possibly she was clinging to the belief she shared Hartmann blood without any proof except the stories she had been told by her mother.
Wasn’t she a case in point? She had believed all her life she was Isabelle Martin and Hilary and Norville Martin were her parents. Things had progressed at a frantic pace. If progress was what it was. All that remained was DNA testing. If it was proved she had Hartmann blood, the next step was to establish how Hilary had come to get custody of her and rear her as her own. She couldn’t bear to think Helena might have arranged to hand her over. She wasn’t finished with Hilary. She had never had occasion to go to the police, but she needed Hilary to believe she would do so if Hilary didn’t reveal the true story. Hilary would never wave away her and her questions again.
* * *
Kurt joined them for lunch looking so vulnerable he was almost childlike. Clearly, his opinion of his greatly admired great-uncle had taken a nose dive. His father’s devotion to the station had come at a price. Stefan had nearly alienated his son. Kurt had taken a certain position, proven a mistake. His father, not Erik, ran Eaglehawk Station. His father was an honest, honourable man. His great-uncle was an egoist lounging around the house all day, reading, writing the family memoirs, telling Kurt, his captive audience, lies or at the very least falsehoods. As for a sexual relationship with the housekeeper . . . That was too horrible to bear contemplation.
The same sweet-faced aboriginal girl, Nele, served them a light lunch, the choice of open sandwiches of marinated lamb and English spinach and/or smoked salmon with shaved fennel, cucumber and zucchini. There was cold tomato juice in a tall glass container and tiny round cheesecakes to go with the coffee.
Somehow they all kept to the decision to put painful matters temporarily aside. Afterwards, Stefan consented to show them the portrait of Helena that had once hung in the drawing room but had caused so much upset after her disappearance, Erik had ordered it be taken down. At that point, Stefan had stepped in with no intention of banishing the portrait of his beautiful cousin to the attic.
Kurt didn’t move off as Isabelle expected he might. He came with them, as though he needed the comfort of his father’s presence. The East Wing was huge. They entered it through an ornate stained-glass door. Inside, in the open hallway that served as a place to read or write, they found an entire wall covered in leather-bound books. Sunlight fell through the series of tall windows with matching pointed arches into a vaguely melancholy atmosphere. The furnishings were Victorian, comfortable in style, with none of the grandeur of the central core of the homestead. All was quiet, tidy, ordered. It was rather like a gentleman’s club.
In the adjoining room, which was undoubtedly the most decorated in the wing, there was a gleaming polished timber floor, huge Persian rug, lighter-in-style furnishings, pictures, ornaments, rather grand curtains and walls a delicate yellow. A large portrait of Helena dominated the end wall. The light glanced off the carved and gilded frame. In silence, they all walked towards it, stopping in front of it, a saddened group.
“It’s a wonderful painting!” Bruno said after a while, taking a step forward to note the signature of a famous artist.
“Helena was a beautiful little girl, a beautiful young woman,” Stefan said, real grief in his voice. “She was extraordinarily sensitive. She suffered from not having a mother. She suffered from having a mother who dazzled. Helena, had she ever found an antidote to all her troubles, would have been even lovelier. The most remarkable part is that this could be a portrait of you.” Stefan turned his head to study the silent Isabelle.
Isabelle slanted him a poignant smile. She didn’t altogether agree despite the remarkable similarities.
“In many ways, yes,” Bruno was murmuring absently. “But there’s a recognisable difference. One can see it in the expression. Isabella is a confident young woman, sure of her abilities. She knows she has a great deal to offer. Helena looks much frailer in character. She looks like she was at a stage in her life when she felt she was floundering. Her expression is one of appeal.”
“There were reasons,” Stefan said bleakly. “If it’s to be believed, that witch of a woman terrorized her. Claims she kept it up for years. I don’t accept that. Helena could have told me. I would have checked it out without hesitation.”
“Probably you wouldn’t have found anything,” Bruno said. “If it were the didgeridoo, one could count on Mrs. Saunders hiding it away.”
“She wouldn’t have found it hard to come by one,” Kurt interjected, a look of strong condemnation in his voice. “They’re all frightened of her, the aboriginal stockmen, aren’t they, Dad? They reckon she’s a sorceress.”
“She damned well isn’t,” Stefan only said coldly. “I don’t want her on the station. She has to go into exile. Move on.”
“Uncle Erik won’t allow it, Dad.” Kurt was visibly torn.
“Your great-uncle has lost control,” his father returned firmly. “Things are going to change around here, Kurt.” He turned to Bruno. “Now, there’s the matter of DNA samples. My uncle wants no part of it. I want this matter cleared up. I suppose you will have to approach Saunders?”
“One way to shut her up, Dad,” Kurt cried in a fury of intention.
Stefan looked down on Isabelle. “Your mother—the woman who has always claimed to be your biological mother—obviously had contact with Helena. Was there something between them? Of what did Helena die? If she did die. If Helena bore a child, perhaps the father didn’t want the child or even abandoned Helena. But she had friends. She had to have had. Someone helped her flee the country. That fellow Osbourne perhaps? It’s a wonder your father didn’t follow up that lead?” He turned back to Bruno.
“For whatever reason, a lot of information was kept from my father,” Bruno said. “What I do know was that my father never gave up on the case. He had a good number of files on it. Instead of being given the full picture, it now appears important details were withheld by your family. The family wasn’t united. That’s very clear to us all these years later. Abigail Hartmann, your mother, was judged to have known nothing about Helena’s disappearance. She was never suspected of being involved, yet might she have taken pity on Helena and helped her get away?”
“You can’t go bothering my mother,” Stefan said with a vigorous shake of his head. “My mother is a woman of honour. She would have lost no time telling us she had helped Helena and why. The woman you should really be talking to is the one who claims to be your mother, Isabelle. I’m much struck by the fact that if the two of you hadn’t met, and there hadn’t been the McKendrick connection, we would have gone on mourning Helena behind closed doors.”
“Only Fate has stepped in. Once we have the DNA samples, we need to get a flight out of here.” Bruno fixed his eyes on Stefan. “I can arrange a private flight, but I’d like your permission to land here.”
“God help us, you don’t have to do that!” Stefan protested. “I can organise a private flight into Brisbane, where you can hook up with a flight to Sydney. Would that suit? I’d take you myself only there’s too much work to do.”
“I can help you, Dad,” Kurt jumped in.
His father put a warm hand on his shoulder. “Fine, son. Tomorrow morning, say eight o’clock?” he asked Bruno. “The sooner we deal with this, the better.”