Lyrebird Hill (27 page)

I gazed across the trees, remembering my resolve to endure; not just for the sake of my father and Lyrebird Hill, but for my own peace of mind. The moon had risen higher, drenching the garden in silver light. Camellias glowed like pearly beacons, and the sea whispered in the bay.

A blur of white appeared on the path below.

Adele. She was not asleep, after all, but down there in the garden, barefoot, wearing only a nightdress. Her dark hair hung around her shoulders, and as she hurried along the path in the direction of the stables, her hands reached ahead of her, her fingers clenching and flexing as if trying to snatch something from the darkness.

Then Lucien stepped from the shadows and quickly approached. He took Adele’s arm, but she wrenched away from him and continued along the dark path. Lucien followed, and as he turned his back to me I saw the frayed ponytail that hung between his shoulder blades; wild in the moonlight, but bleached of its true dark copper-red.

I frowned. Where was Adele going? And why was Lucien trying to stop her?

Pulling my coat about my shoulders, I rushed from the room and silently descended the staircase. The house was tomblike
at this hour. Grey light flooded through the library windows, but under the furniture and in the corners of the room lurked the blackest shadows. Pushing through the French doors, I ran along the path towards the rear of the building.

There was no sign of Adele or Lucien, so I hurried in the direction of the stables. From somewhere nearby came a cry, then a frantic babble of words that could only be Adele. I raced towards the sound, stones bruising my feet, the lapels of my coat flapping around me like wings.

I found them huddled on a garden bench. Adele’s face was a death mask in the gloom. Lucien sat close beside her, his body bent protectively, Adele’s hands clasped in his own.

Momentarily, my heart sank into my stomach as my suspicions flared; had I had stumbled upon Adele and her lover in a secret tryst? Then I saw that her cheeks were wet with tears. Her face turned towards me, but I saw no sign of recognition in her eyes. Tearing her hands from Lucien’s grasp, she began to clench her fingers in front of her in that odd way. This was no tryst.

I rushed to my friend and kneeled at her feet. ‘Adele, what is it?’ I cried softly. ‘What’s happened?’

She blinked. More tears splashed her cheeks. ‘I want to see him,’ she said. ‘He’s weeping, I want gather him up. There—’ She twisted her head as if startled by a distant noise. ‘Can you hear him?’

I looked at Lucien, and my mouth must have fallen agape, because he shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

‘Miss Adele,’ he said softly. ‘Your sister is here now. She’s going to help you back to the house.’

‘I don’t want to go back to the house. I dreamed he died. My poor little boy, alone in the earth, so cold and afraid. I must go to him.’ She began to cry. Then, a cough broke from her, one of her deep, chest-rattling barks that shuddered through her slight frame. Dragging off my coat, I settled it around her shoulders.

‘Come with me, Adele,’ I said. ‘You can sleep in my bed tonight, it’s nice and warm. I’ll read to you a while, if you like?’

She seemed to regain herself a little. Her convulsing fingers relaxed. ‘Read to me? Yes, read me a story. That will calm me. I had a dream, you see. I wanted . . . I only wanted—’ Again, that racking cough, and a fresh spill of tears.

‘It’s all right, Adele.’ I gently grasped her fingers. ‘Come on now, let’s get back to the house where it’s warm. I’ll brew you some chamomile flowers to help you sleep.’

She sat forward on the bench, and I helped her to her feet. She was shaky, but she gripped my forearm with surprising force. Lucien took her other arm and we walked a couple of steps across the damp grass. Then Adele stopped.

‘Lucien,’ she said in a voice more her own, ‘it happened again, didn’t it?’

‘Yes, Miss Adele, but there’s no harm done. You’ll be toasty warm in a moment, and we don’t ever need to mention it again.’

‘You won’t tell Carsten?’

‘No, miss. There’s no need to trouble your brother.’

She appeared calmer, and allowed us to lead her back to the house. Lucien helped me navigate the dark stairs, and then along the passageway to my room. He removed my coat from Adele’s shoulders and hung it behind the door, while I settled Adele beneath the coverlet on my bed. For a moment, she clung to my hand.

‘Promise you won’t tell Carsten.’

‘Not a word.’

She smiled, and her pale beautiful face was as trusting as a child’s. Then she closed her eyes and burrowed into the pillow. Soon her breathing slowed and she did not stir.

I crossed the room to where Lucien lingered in the doorway. ‘What happened tonight?’ I asked softly, although I was beginning to guess. ‘Where was she going?’

Lucien looked at the bed, then beckoned me into the hall. We stood in the darkness, illuminated by candlelight.

‘She was sleepwalking, Mrs Whitby.’

I let out a breath, remembering the other nights I’d glimpsed Adele running through the garden in her nightgown. I looked across at her and she seemed small under the great weight of the covers. My heart swelled with pity.

‘She mentioned a little boy. Is he the child buried in the graveyard beyond the garden?’

‘Yes, Mrs Whitby.’

My throat clenched, and tears pricked the backs of my eyes. ‘Oh, Adele.’

‘He was a sickly wee boy,’ Lucien said kindly. ‘Never made it to his fourth birthday. Soon after he was buried, I found Miss Adele one stormy night on his grave, face down in the mud, trying to shelter him from the rain. She was sick after. We thought she might die. It weakened her lungs. She won’t speak of her illness, but since then—’ He gestured at the doorway. ‘She can’t seem to find any peace, Mrs Whitby.’

I shivered, gripping my elbows, feeling bruised by what I had just learned. Of all people, Adele Whitby did not deserve the burden of sorrow; I wanted to go to her, hold her near me and reassure her – but I sensed that the subject of her son must, for now, remain unspoken.

I looked up at Lucien. ‘Carsten doesn’t know about the sleepwalking, does he?’

‘No, miss.’

I should have wished him goodnight then and shut the door, but I hesitated, letting my attention linger. In the gloom, it was easy to overlook the scar that had ruined his face; I saw him as he would have been without it. Dark-eyed, with sharp cheekbones and a regal nose, a jaw that hinted at stubbornness, and a mouth that made me wonder how it might feel to touch my lips there.

I realised I’d been staring, and my gaze flew back to his eyes. He was staring, too; not in a guarded way, but openly, almost
intimately. I tried to unlock my gaze from his, but something in those dark green depths held me captive. Was he letting me glimpse behind the mask of his face, to the true nature that dwelled beneath? And was he, in turn, seeing behind mine? I felt naked, wide open, exposed; but rather than disturb me as it should have, that brief recognition between us sent a spear of fierce joy into the core of my soul. My pulse flew, crashing so violently through my veins that surely it was loud enough to wake Adele.

Reaching for the doorframe, I gripped it tightly, aware that I wore only a thin nightgown. An unnatural heat was blossoming through me, and I feared that Lucien might see the flush in my face and guess my thoughts.

‘Goodnight, Mr Fells,’ I said more abruptly than I had intended.

Bowing his head, Lucien retreated silently into the dark hallway and quickly vanished in the gloom, his footsteps eerie and dislocated as he trod quietly along the floorboards. A moment later, he reappeared at the top of the stairs. Moonlight caught him again as he descended, a slender young man with a shock of wild hair and a scarred but heartbreakingly beautiful face.

‘Goodnight, Lucien,’ I whispered into the darkness, then hurriedly shut the door.

Scars remind us of our suffering and pain; they are also evidence of our body’s greatest gift – the miracle of healing.

– ROB THISTLETON,
LET GO AND LIVE

Ruby, May 2013

W
e were sitting in Mum’s kitchen at the back of her house, on opposite sides of an enormous dining table. The sun streamed in colourful ribbons through a nearby leadlight window, highlighting the gold details on Mum’s good teapot.

Mum sat stiffly in her chair, a frown carving her normally smooth brow as she gazed at the pile of letters in front of her.

‘I can’t believe you remembered me burying them.’

I hesitated. ‘Bits and pieces are coming back.’

Mum folded the letters and began tucking them back into their envelopes. ‘Do you think it’s because you’re staying out at Lyrebird Hill?’

I shifted on the wooden chair, knotting my fingers on the table. I had spent the morning with Pete, organising a tow truck to collect my car from the roadside and take it to the wreckers in Armidale, then Pete had dropped me here at Mum’s. She seemed
unfazed by my revelation about the letters, but she was pale and red blotches flamed on her cheeks.

‘Actually,’ I said warily, ‘the memories started filtering back when I saw your paintings.’

Mum looked up, clearly surprised. ‘I hope it wasn’t too horrible, Ruby. I’m sorry, I had no idea they would have that effect—’

‘No, no,’ I said hastily. ‘It was okay.’

‘You were upset about your sister that night.’ A vague tone of accusation clung to her words, and I could see by the tightness around her mouth that she thought I was blaming her.

I slumped, wondering if we were heading for another Jamie fight. I chose my next words carefully, but they still sounded wooden. ‘It was a shock to find out that Jamie didn’t die from a fall. I understand why you kept it from me, but . . .’ My words dwindled off, and I swallowed, tried again. ‘I guess I was hurt.’

Mum pushed the letters into the centre of the table. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ruby. It just seemed easier to pretend that it was an accident. They never found . . . well, you know all that now.’ She reached for the teapot, then hesitated and withdrew her hand.

‘What else are you remembering?’

‘Nothing too exciting.’ I thought about her wringing the neck of my favourite chicken, and cutting my hair – but decided to keep it light. I wasn’t here to start flinging grievances; what I really wanted was answers.

‘What made you bury the letters, Mum?’

Finally she poured the tea, and as she pushed my cup across the expanse of table, her fingers trembled. ‘I was upset to find out that Nanna Adele wasn’t actually my grandmother. And then to learn that my
real
grandmother had been convicted for murder.’ She sighed. ‘We’d already been through so much. Our family was shadowed by more than its fair share of death. Discovering this new drama seemed unbelievable at first, but
then a few dots began to join. I couldn’t stop myself wondering if all the deaths in our family were somehow connected.’

It took me a moment to understand what she was saying. ‘You mean, like a curse?’

Her eyes widened, and in the afternoon light they were somehow wet and vulnerable. ‘Nothing so dramatic, Ruby. Although the notion of bad genes had crossed my mind. I was heartsick, finding those letters. They made me question myself and everyone around me. I started thinking about your father’s death, and all the old guilt bubbled up. And then when we lost Jamie—’

She stood up and went to the window. In the harsh light from outside, I caught a glimpse of strain around her mouth and eyes, and a few threads of grey in her auburn hair.

I couldn’t help asking. ‘Was Brenna executed?’

Mum shook her head. ‘I looked on the internet – the last female execution in Tasmania happened in the 1860s. Brenna must have died of natural causes. She’d recently given birth, and I imagine prison conditions were harsh.’

‘So, she gave up her baby – our Grampy James – to her sister-in-law Adele Whitby?’

Mum nodded. ‘And Nanna Adele raised James as her own son.’

‘Those letters are family history, Mum. Why didn’t you just tuck them away somewhere, out of sight?’

‘I thought about it, but I knew you were always nosing around where you shouldn’t. I didn’t want you to find them, but I couldn’t bear to destroy them, either. The drawings decorating their pages were so beautiful . . . and so sad.’

‘Why didn’t you want me to find them?’

She hesitated, then said in an almost-whisper, ‘I had my reasons.’

‘Mum, you’re doing my head in.’

She sighed. ‘You went through a lot, after Jamie died. There were so many questions. So much poking and prodding and
trying to get you to remember. Detectives, and social workers, and child behavioural analysts. I was probably being paranoid, but at the time I thought it best that the letters not fall into the wrong hands.’

That threw me. ‘Wrong hands?’

‘The media, I suppose. Or the police. We were in the midst of an inquiry. One of my daughters died, and the other one was seriously injured. And after your father . . . well, I was under suspicion, as were you. Can you imagine what a meal the media would have made out of a bundle of old letters disclosing that my grandmother was a murderer?’

I could hardly believe what she was saying.

‘Mum, the letters were already antique when I was a kid. Why would anyone care about a crime that some poor woman committed in 1898?’

‘Ruby, she wasn’t just “some poor woman”. She was your great-grandmother. I just felt it would have reflected badly on us.’ She touched the tips of her long fingers under her eyes, as if patting away invisible tears. For a while she sat still and tense, then finally got to her feet.

‘I’m sorry, Ruby.’ She glanced at the wall clock. ‘I’ve got to run. The gallery has a buyer for some earlier works of mine, and they’ve asked me to be there. I hate kicking you out, but I can’t be late.’

She walked me along the hallway to the door, then turned back and looked at me, her face in silhouette, the sunlight streaming through the flywire drenching her in golden light.

‘I’m pleased you came to see me, Ruby. Don’t leave it so long next time, okay?’