 
### BREAKFAST AT MIDNIGHT

A novel by Fiona MacFarlane

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Fiona MacFarlane

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### CHAPTER ONE

This Fragile Life

There was no warning of what was about to happen; no dark clouds gathered overhead to herald the coming storm. For those destined to live another day in Hobart, Tasmania, 3rd of December 1894, life carried on with humdrum normality. Mr Wood put an advertisement in the local paper offering a reward of two pounds for the return of his lost silver snuff box, the intemperate John Slater appeared in the City Police Court, charged with using obscene language in public, Mrs Marshall's bunch of turnips won her third prize in the vegetable section of the Hobart Horticultural Society's Spring Show, and the thermometer outside in the shade stood at 88 degrees.

Yet amidst this ordinariness of life, something profound took place, an event that reminded everyone involved just how fragile and capricious human existence could be. A young girl, on the eve of her tenth birthday, died unexpectedly, and while the child's suffering had been brief, it was of no consolation to her family and friends. A beautiful life had inexplicably been taken away, and their lives would never be the same again.

These were the thoughts that occupied Frances Norwood's mind as she stood in the foreground of an open balcony door, breathing in restorative breaths of air. It was Frances's first night at her Aunt Wentworth's house, on the outskirts of Bellerive, and as three shimmering candles on a mantelpiece suffused the bed-chamber with a gentle hue of yellow, she briefly contemplated her own mortality. In another moment, however, she discerned the sound of brisk, approaching footsteps, and the rustle of a gown behind her.

'There you are!' a voice suddenly declared.

A startled Frances stepped back hurriedly from the door, just as an older woman bustled forward and wrenched the balcony door shut. 'I do beg your pardon, Aunt Wentworth,' Frances ventured. 'I was in need of some fresh air.'

'Never mind about that, my dear,' Louisa Wentworth replied, forcefully drawing together the curtains, 'I am here to discuss another matter with you. Minnie Gibbs. You informed me of her death just after you arrived here.' Frances nodded but said nothing. 'How singular. I was led to believe that she had the constitution of an ox. Evidently not.' She paused momentarily. 'So, how did this seemingly robust child meet her end?'

Frances noted a gleam of excitement in her aunt's bilious brown eyes. 'I'm afraid that I can furnish you with none of the particulars,' she replied.

'No, no, that will not do in the slightest, Frances. You must do better than that.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I really can't satisfy your wishes in this matter. The household, not surprisingly, was in disarray when I arrived at the house. I spoke only with the parlour maid—'

'And what did the servant say? Did she describe the event itself? Will there be a coronial inquest? Did she seem much affected by what had happened?'

Frances sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. 'I confess I was too much out of countenance to pay heed to the finer details of our 'conversation,' if you could call it that. I'd just discovered that the girl I was to have taught had succumbed to a short illness, only hours before I arrived, the result being that I'm now without a situation.'

A brief silence ensued between the two women. 'Dear, oh dear! How dreadful this all is!' Louisa eventually exclaimed. 'Of course it reminds me of your Uncle Harold. He was only forty when he left me. One minute he was berating the gardener for over fertilising the roses, and in the next instant, his spirit took flight and he passed through the gates of death. Just like that.' She clicked her fingers to further emphasise the last word. She then drew out a handkerchief and dabbed it at her nose. 'Such a death! Poor Harold, and poor Minnie Gibbs! Still,' she said, tossing her proud head, 'there is no point going on about it. It is all too late for her, most assuredly. The girl is dead, and now our lives are in chaos.'

'Well I hardly—' Frances began.

'Now, my dear,' Louisa interrupted, 'enough of this idle chatter. We have a great deal to discuss.' She moved away from the balcony window, and subsided with a satisfied sigh onto Frances's bed. 'So,' she resumed, smoothing out imaginary creases in her gauzy black gown, 'what are your plans?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Your long term plans, Frances!' an increasingly irritated Louisa cried. 'The Gibbs girl is no more of this world. It seems as though you have come all this way for nothing.'

Frances reluctantly sat beside her aunt on the foot of the bed. The bed sagged under the weight of the two women. 'I don't think so,' she replied casually.

'How can you not think so? You can hardly work as a governess without a pupil. Surely there is no reason to stay here in Hobart.'

'In spite of today's unfortunate business, I intend to remain in Hobart for as long as I can. To be honest, I have no intention of ever returning to Melbourne.'

Louisa raised her eyebrows. 'Not return home?' she echoed. 'Why ever not?'

'Melbourne is not my home, Aunt Wentworth. It never has been. I was born here, and it's here where I wish to remain. As for my situation, I'm confident that I can find another one. The Gibbs family has given me a sum of money to compensate me for my sudden loss of employment, and it's enough to make me financially self-sufficient for the present time.'

'And what does your mother say to all this?' Louisa asked, eyeing her niece suspiciously. 'Surely she does not condone this?'

'Well,' Frances began, 'I haven't exactly told her yet. I always meant to, of course, but somehow that conversation never took place. I'll cable her in the morning.'

The bed-chamber was now filled with the un-nerving sound of a distant clock, breaking the silence with a solitary tick, tick, tick. Louisa, meanwhile, had risen from the bed and was pacing up and down the room. She was a tall, large-boned woman, with a ramrod straight back and a protuberant chest, which was thrust out in front of her, like a shield. At close range, she was an impressive and even formidable looking woman.

'This is most vexing,' Louisa was saying, 'most vexing indeed. I am very put out.'

'I'm sorry, Aunt Wentworth, but—'

'Mercy, Frances! Please do not interrupt me!' She resumed her pacing. 'And where do you intend to stay while you look for another situation?' Her lip curled perceptibly as she uttered these last words.

'Well, naturally I would look for another place of accommodation. I would in no way want to trespass on your hospitality for more than a few days.'

'Stuff and nonsense,' Louisa returned. 'I would not dream of allowing a young woman of twenty-five to live somewhere on her own. It is most unseemly.'

Frances smiled. 'I travelled here by myself, and no harm came to me.'

Louisa ignored this remark and looked up at a portrait hanging above her on the floral wallpaper. It was a painting of her late husband, Harold Wentworth, in a gilded frame. For several moments she studied his noble face.

'It alarms me the way you were brought up, Frances,' Louisa declared sententiously. 'If your dear father had lived, I know he would not have raised you the way your mother has. Knowing my brother as I did, I know he would never have consented to you travelling unchaperoned on a ship. My other two brothers were exactly the same. They were all very protective of their womenfolk, for which I was exceedingly grateful.' Frances refrained from answering. 'Still, what is past is past. I cannot undo what has been done.' She straightened her already erect posture. 'You are in my house now, and while you are in my care, you shall abide by my rules.'

Frances clenched her jaw in annoyance. 'Please, Aunt, there's no need for you to be concerned. I'll stay somewhere in town.'

'Oh, hush now. You will do nothing of the kind. I want you to remain here with me at Wintersleigh, where I can keep an eye on you. It is about time you had some parental supervision.'

Frances stiffened. 'Thank you for your offer,' she began coolly, 'but I couldn't—'

'And as for a room, do not worry yourself on that score. This room is yours for as long as you need it. I should also add that it is exceedingly comfortable, and will suit your needs tolerably.'

Frances was quickly losing patience. 'But I—'

'I will brook no opposition to this, Frances. Your cousins are away in England at present, and I am in need of some company. This arrangement, I dare say, will suit us both very well.' She attempted a smile. 'I will also need an additional pair of hands during the New Year. I am not sure whether your mother told you this, but your cousin Agnes has made a very fine match with a local man. She is to be married in February.'

Frances was taken aback by this news. In the past her mother had always kept her abreast of developments in the family, and she wondered why this important piece of information had not been shared with her. Given that her mother was infatuated with a 'gentleman friend,' however, Frances wasn't in the least surprised at not being told. Her mother's preoccupation with this wealthy divorcee was one of the main reasons why Frances had left Melbourne. After all, it was true what they said: 'Two's company, three's a crowd.'

'So, my dear,' Louisa resumed with expectant eyes, 'what is your answer? Will you stay?'

Frances sighed and looked up at her aunt. It was no use trying to argue with her, she decided. She would only lose. Besides, she thought, she needed somewhere to stay, and this option would cost her nothing, other than her patience, perhaps.

'Thank you, Aunt Wentworth,' Frances said in a voice that belied her despondency, 'I'd very much like to stay.' She regretted the words almost as soon as she had uttered them.

'Oh, splendid!' Louisa cried, clapping her hands together exultantly. 'I knew you would come to your senses.' She gave Frances an expressive look.

Frances instinctively glanced up at the small portrait of her late Uncle Harold, the one time school master, turned successful business man. From all accounts, he had made his vast fortune by presiding over no fewer than ten grocer's stores (most of which were located in Sydney and Melbourne) and by underpaying his overworked employees. Frances thought it strange that his portrait should be hanging in a spare bedroom, but she said nothing to her aunt about it. Without really wanting to, she continued to study her uncle's likeness. The mere sight of his stern face, immaculately trimmed beard, and censorious slate coloured eyes made her grimace, and she quickly looked away. She transferred her gaze to the majestic figure of her aunt, who was gliding towards the door like a black swan. As soon as Louisa was gone and the door was closed behind her, Frances removed the portrait of her uncle from the wall, and without one pang of guilt, shoved it behind the chest of drawers, where her aunt was least likely to find it. A victorious smile settled upon Frances's lips, but unfortunately for Frances this triumph was short-lived. Looking up at the wall, to where she had removed the frame, she noticed a large unsightly tear in the wallpaper. For a brief moment, Frances felt a shiver of apprehension. She began to wonder whether she had made the right decision after all.

### CHAPTER TWO

An Adventure

It took Frances just three days to repent her decision to live with her aunt. She soon discovered that life at Wintersleigh, without her cousins, was dull beyond belief. Nothing ever seemed to happen. Her aunt, for instance, spent her days like a true old English lady, and did as little as she could possibly manage. To Frances's mind, the only movement that occurred at Wintersleigh was the crawl of the hands around the clock. A typical day involved alternating between the dining room for formal meals, and the gas-lit drawing room for reading or sewing. Apart from the gas flaring noisily in the background and the ticking of the clock, the evenings were silent. Frances was not used to such lengthy periods of stillness. Before her move to Hobart, she had lived in a terrace house in East Melbourne, and over the years her ears had grown accustomed to the noises associated with living on a busy suburban thoroughfare. Whether it was a carriage rattling past, or the hum of people's voices as they streamed up and down the pavements, Frances accepted, and even embraced these sounds. Their comforting familiarity reminded her that there was an exciting world beyond her window, a world she would one day explore.

On the fourth day of her monotonous visit, Frances was taking luncheon with her aunt in the dining room. Louisa was sitting in state at the head of the table, and as usual was dominating the conversation.

'Remind me to make some arrangements about your clothes, Frances,' Louisa was saying in between mouthfuls of sandwich. 'Your mother may have approved of your attire, but I do not. And before you ask me why, my dear, I will explain. Your skirt is too short, for a start. I have also noticed that you are not wearing a corset.'

'Aunt Wentworth!'

'Now pray do not take that tone with me, young lady. You need not look quite so offended. It gives me no pleasure discussing such an indelicate subject, but something must be said.'

'Very well, then. Your observations are quite correct. My skirt has been altered to allow me more freedom of movement, and as for the corset, I can proudly say that I don't even own one. Mother is the same. She says that over a period of time, tight lacing can deform a woman's body.'

Louisa stared. 'Stuff and nonsense! What has your mother been reading? Don't tell me she is one of those ghastly suffragists! A cigar-smoking, bicycle-riding radical, no doubt. What do they call them now? A New Woman?'

'Mother does ride a bicycle, yes, as do I.'

'Mercy!' Louisa gasped. 'Your mother has much to answer for!'

'Please don't alarm yourself, Aunt. Bicycle riding is very common in Melbourne.'

'Yes, and so is pick-pocketing, but no-one condones that.'

Frances ignored her aunt's words, and went ahead in the same vain. 'If it's any comfort to you, we don't ride in skirts. We prefer to wear a bifurcated costume.'

'Oh, it is worse than I thought!' Louisa wailed.

'In fact I was discussing this very subject with a young lady on the boat coming over here. I told her that I brought my bicycle with me, and she warned me that female cyclists weren't common in Tasmania. She had, in fact, never seen one, and urged me to be cautious, lest I should offend anyone.'

'You brought your, your (she could not bring herself to say the word 'bicycle') vile machine with you?' Louisa asked in a faltering voice. 'Why was I not informed of this?'

Once again Frances ignored her aunt. 'I really can't understand why some people are so vehemently opposed to the bicycle. I personally—'

'Oh, hush, Frances! I cannot bear to discuss a subject that is so repugnant to me. While you are staying with me you will not be permitted to ride your, your new fangled apparatus. God invented the carriage for a reason, and that is so people can travel with dignity, without having to exert themselves. Only the vulgar classes are permitted to sweat.'

Frances's heart sank. It was clear that her aunt would not change her mind on this subject, and it was therefore a subject not worth pursuing.

'And while I am laying down the rules, Frances, I am warning you to be mindful of my neighbours. We are a small tight-knit community down here, and everything a person does and says is subject to some kind of scrutiny. Whilst I am exceedingly grateful that you are not wearing your bifurcated outfit, the clothes you are now wearing will provoke comment from people, and consequently that will reflect on me.' She waved a finger vaguely at Frances. 'As you know, I used to be a Norwood before I married into the Wentworth family. Both the Norwood and Wentworth families have proud traditions to maintain. I simply cannot have you dressing so singularly.'

Frances almost choked on her tea, but regained her composure enough to survey her aunt's drab clothes. Louisa, as usual, was dressed in a black satin gown, a dress, Frances surmised, her aunt had worn every day for the last ten years. For as long as Frances had known her, she had never seen Louisa regaled in any other colour but funereal black. As for Louisa's hair, which these days was more grey than black, it was parted austerely in the middle of her head, and was drawn into a meticulously arranged bundle that rested on the nape of her neck. Not one straggling wisp of hair was to be seen. Endeavouring to suppress a grin, Frances leant over the table and helped herself to a chicken sandwich.

'Must you take another one?' Louisa asked, fixing her eyes on Frances with solemn reproach. 'You do not need to put on any more weight.' Frances's hand lingered over the plate. 'Being well-rounded is one thing, but being fat is another. Dear, oh dear! If you continue the way you are going,' Louisa resumed, 'you will end up like your poor mother. She used to be such a pretty thing,' she lamented, 'and now look at her. She is scarcely recognisable.'

Frances felt a fleeting surge of hatred for her aunt pulse through her veins. She was used to her relative's hurtful remarks and insults, but when they were directed at her mother, it always struck a raw nerve. Being too infuriated to reply, Frances defiantly claimed the sandwich, before cramming it into her mouth.

Louisa puckered her brows, and was just about to voice her disapproval, when a maid entered the room and presented Louisa with a gleaming silver salver.

'If you please, Ma'am,' the servant said a little tremulously, 'the mail has just come.'

Louisa made no acknowledgment of the maid, and demurely took the mail from the tray. To her surprise, there was only one letter, and after a cursory inspection of the flowing handwriting on the envelope, she dismissed the servant and held the letter up for Frances to see.

'It is for you, my dear. It is from your mother.' She scrutinised the letter more carefully before she proceeded. 'It looks as though this was forwarded on from Minnie Gibbs's mother. Poor creature.' She shook her head sadly. 'As soon as you get a chance, Frances, you had better cable your mother and let her know your change of circumstances and address.'

Frances was too overjoyed at the prospect of her mother's letter to acknowledge her aunt's comments. Not surprisingly, she pounced on the envelope with alacrity, and was on the verge of tearing it open, when Louisa spoke:

'Must you read that now? I am of the opinion that reading at the dining table is abominably rude, not to mention exceedingly ill-mannered. A letter,' she went on haughtily, 'ought to be read in private, unless, of course, it is a letter for general consumption.'

Frances seized upon her aunt's words. 'Well in that case, Aunt,' she said, pushing her chair back from the table, 'may I please leave the table?' She watched her aunt expectantly.

'And what about luncheon?' Louisa's attitude soon softened. 'Oh, very well. Leave if you must. I confess I am most anxious to hear about your dear mother. She has not written to me for quite some time...'

Frances didn't wait for her aunt to finish before she rose from the table. Receiving a letter from her mother was by far the most important event of her visit so far, and Frances was determined that nothing, not even her aunt, would spoil the pleasure it would no doubt bring. Once she was out of Louisa's sight, Frances fled down the long, portrait-lined hallway, and out the back door. The tepid summer air was a refreshing change from her aunt's company, and as she looked around the vast grounds for a place of repose, she caught herself almost smiling. She eventually found herself an arbour near the rose garden, and as she fumbled excitedly with the envelope, she breathed in the heavily scented air. Without wasting another second, she extracted the folded paper from the envelope and began to read. The letter from her mother Lucy was uncharacteristically short, and from the date, Frances could see that it was written shortly after Frances's departure from Melbourne.

Dearest Franny —It seems as though you have been gone for years, but I keep having to remind myself that you only left yesterday! Needless to say, your dear old mother misses you terribly, and hopes you're settling in well with your new position. I still can't completely understand why you wanted to work in Tasmania, but knowing your sweet and most generous nature, I can only suppose that you wanted to give Herbert and me some room, and some time to get to know each other. In that regard, my dear, I can never thank you enough. Now Franny, I have some rather important news to impart to you. I will endeavour to keep the details to a minimum, which may astound you, given that brevity was never one of my strong points. I hardly know where to begin, but before I go into the particulars, I want to assure you that I'm very well, so you have no need to worry yourself on that score. Now this news might come as a surprise to you, dear girl, so it might be best to sit down and compose yourself. Mr Fairbrother, or 'Herbie' as I affectionately call him, has just proposed to me, and I've accepted him. What do you think of that, Franny? Your dear old mother agreeing to marry a man who is ten years her junior! Not bad for a woman of my advanced years!

Frances let the letter fall from her hand. Positioning herself under a nearby canopy of rustling leaves, she stared vacantly beyond the sloping velvet lawns and pyramidal trees to Wintersleigh. Through the dazzling sunlight, the lofty white house, with its sweeping verandahs and large windows, seemed to shimmer like a mirage. Frances blinked through the fragrant afternoon haze, and by the time she re-opened her eyes, the mirage had vanished. The sun had dipped behind a passing cloud, and the house, a shade darker, loomed in the foreground, shadowed and imposing. Frances blinked again, but the mirage did not return. Tears filled her eyes, and before she could stop their flow, she was crying.

Louisa, in the meantime, had just finished luncheon and was about to drift through another torporific afternoon, when an unexpected visitor was shown into the vestibule. It was an old friend of Louisa's, and while the two friends receded into the sumptuous realm of the drawing room, a servant girl was instructed to fetch Frances from the grounds, and accompany her back to the house.

In spite of Frances's sobs and sniffles she still heard the servant calling her name, and having no desire to return to the house, she looked about her for somewhere to hide. She decided to take refuge in one of the estate's outhouses, and had just snuck inside when she almost tripped over her beloved bicycle, which was resting up against the wall. Its mere presence was enough to cheer her flagging spirits, and without giving her next course of action much thought, she wheeled her bicycle out of the building, mounted the seat and cycled away as fast as she could. Her surroundings soon became a confused blur, except for the image of the servant girl who was clearly visible on the garden path.

'I won't be long!' Frances declared, saying the first thing that came into her head. 'I just need to stretch my legs!'

Fortunately for Frances she saw no-one else on her journey to the Wintersleigh front gates. The gardener was pruning on the other side of the estate, and none of the servants inside the house saw her fleeing figure recede into the distance. Having passed through the wrought iron gates into the outside world, she was aware that she was breathless, and that her skirt had ridden up above her knees. After repositioning her skirt to a more modest position, she inhaled deeply, letting the air fill her nostrils and lungs. She was feeling calmer already, and as her wheels crunched over the road, she looked about her. Scrubby bushland and towering eucalypts dotted the landscape, punctuated by the occasional farm and homestead. She soon discerned farm labourers in the field, and despite the fast pace at which she was travelling, she could feel their eyes upon her as she rode past them. This unwelcome attention reminded her of the conversation she had had with the woman on the ship coming over to Tasmania, and feelings of exhilaration were soon replaced by anxiety, and a creeping sense of self-consciousness. To further complicate matters, her once neatly dressed hair had spontaneously released itself from the combs and pins that were holding the composition together, and now a thick long plait of golden hair hung conspicuously over her shoulder. Any doubts about the gender of the lone cyclist were now at an end, and the further she traversed down the road, the more attention she seemed to be attracting. It wasn't long before she was aware that she was being pursued.

Frances had, in the past, read newspaper articles about women cyclists being harangued, and even assaulted by male onlookers, but she had never personally experienced any abuse. A derogatory whistle was about as much as she had received, but in the end it was all harmless and no-one got hurt. Having said that, she often cycled with other people, and she was not accustomed to riding alone. She certainly had no experience of riding down an unfamiliar country road, with a stranger in pursuit.

In her anxiety, Frances quickened her pace, but to her dismay, the person behind her on horseback hastened after her. As fit and strong as she was, she knew she was no match for a horse. Not knowing what else to do, she tightened her grip on the bicycle's cross-bar and kept her eyes focussed on the road ahead. No matter how hard she tried to ignore the clip-clopping sound of the horse's hooves directly behind her, the noise grew louder in her ears. In the next moment, the horse and its young male rider were beside her.

'Hullo there!' Frances called out to him, in a voice that belied her trepidation. She secretly hoped that her pre-emptive greeting might create a good impression with the stranger. 'A beautiful day, isn't it?'

Evidently the rider didn't share Frances's sentiments. He regarded her with a quizzical look, as if he were studying some rare and exotic animal at the zoo. After a moment or two of bemused observation, he burst out laughing, and without saying a word, bolted off down the road, kicking up a trail of dust behind him. Unless Frances's ears deceived her, she could have sworn she heard his hoots of laughter well into the distance.

While Frances was relieved that her fears hasn't been realised, she was nonetheless still shaken by what had taken place. Without a moment of delay she pulled over to the side of the road and dismounted her bicycle. By now her whole body was aquiver with nerves, and it took her some time before she could control her breathing. Indignant tears began to blind her eyes, and after wheeling her beloved bicycle over the ditch at the side of the road, she hid it amongst a dense profusion of native lilac. While it grieved her to abandon her 'freedom machine,' as she fondly labelled it, she had to remind herself that it was only for a short time. As soon as she was able to, she would return to this very spot, and rescue her bicycle.

In the meantime, Frances continued her unplanned journey by foot. By this stage her tears had increased in intensity, and a combination of strong emotion, brought about by her mother's letter, and lethargy, caused by her earlier exertions on the bicycle, made her uncharacteristically reckless. For the next few hours she traipsed about the countryside, giving no thought as to her intended destination. The truth was that she cared little about where the roads were taking her.

That was until heavy dollops of rain started to fall from the sky. The abrupt change of weather brought home to her how vulnerable she now was, and in a moment of desperation, she fervently wished that she was back with her aunt at Wintersleigh, comfortably ensconced in a drawing room chair, and drinking a hot cup of tea. The further Frances walked, however, the likelihood of this last scenario eventuating, seemed ever more distant.

### CHAPTER THREE

Wine and Prison Escapees

The cracking sound of a gun-shot woke Michael Brearly from his drunken slumber.

'Good God!' he exclaimed, sitting upright in the armchair on which he was sprawled.

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of his unbuttoned shirt, and looked about his study in some consternation. Hearing a second and closer shot, he rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered over to his bedroom window to take a look outside. In his haste to get to the window, he knocked over the empty bottle of wine he had been drinking from earlier in the afternoon. He had just bent down to pick up the bottle from the floor, when a servant burst into the room.

'I'm sorry to intrude, sir,' the servant began breathlessly, 'but—'

'But what, Dobson?' an irritated Michael questioned. He hid the incriminating evidence of the bottle behind a picture frame on a nearby shelf, and stood up straight. 'This had better be good,' he slurred. 'I don't appreciate people interrupting me when I'm working.'

'I'm sorry, sir, but it's plenty important.'

'Nothing short of a death or the prospect of easy money will rouse my interest at this point,' Michael replied, unsteadily returning to his chair. 'So, which is it? Death or money?'

'Neither, sir. There's another trespasser in the fields. MacMillan's in the fields now with 'is rifle.'

'Well, what do you expect me to do about it? It sounds as though MacMillan has everything under control.'

'But, sir,' Dobson protested.

'I don't want to hear about it, Dobson. I have no intention of involving myself in this matter, and that is final.'

'But what about the reward money?'

Michael pricked up his ears. 'What are you talking about?' he said, eyeing his servant shrewdly.

'There's a reward out for that Wilson prisoner that escaped last week. If me memory serves me right, it were quite a tidy sum.'

A combination of greed and a feeling of bravado, both brought about by excess drinking, made Michael hasten towards the door. 'Well come on then. Don't just stand there like a scarecrow. We have a villain to catch.'

Without waiting for Dobson, he rushed out of his room towards the landing. By the time he was half way down the stairs, his servant handed him his coat and boots. He changed his clothing at the foot of the stairs, and supporting his throbbing head with an unsteady hand, he migrated to the back door. Dobson joined him there, and together they stepped out into the night.

As soon as they left the house, however, Michael's nerves began to fail him. He had never been overly fond of the dark, and coupled with the prospect of encountering a prison escapee, he was beginning to feel rather unwell. The lure of the reward money soon diverted his anxious thoughts, and feigning confidence, he strode out into the darkness. Without a lamp he had no idea where he was going, and it wasn't long before he began tripping over invisible objects in his path.

'Are ya sure ya don't wanna lamp, sir?' Dobson whispered.

'Don't be impudent. He'll see us coming from a mile away!'

Dobson's shoulders slumped despondently. He was not used to his master treating him with such rudeness, and not wishing to excite any more of the young man's drunken ill-will, he bit his lip and made no rejoinder. In the meantime, he followed Michael at a disrespectful distance.

'But what if MacMillan shoots us by mistake?' Dobson eventually inquired.

'Providing I'm the one who doesn't get shot, I'll dismiss the 'paragon of ineptitude' from my employ. Are you satisfied?'

Dobson was anything but satisfied. 'Very comforting,' he lied.

'Now, never mind about MacMillan. Where did you say this trespasser was?'

'Near the fence, but if I was 'im, I would of cleared off when I 'eard the gun shots.'

'Fascinating,' Michael replied. 'When next I require your opinion, I'll be sure to ask you for it.' Dobson said nothing to this, but his moustache twitched agitatedly. 'So,' Michael added conversationally, unaware that he had insulted his servant, 'what's this Wilson fellow in gaol for anyway? Forgery was it? Or robbery perhaps?' As he waited for a reply to his question, he felt the cool breeze nudge his neck and face.

'Murder,' Dobson remarked casually.

'Oh, I see,' Michael began, 'I was just going to say...' Suddenly the reality of Dobson's words struck him. He stopped walking and caught his breath. 'Did you just say murder?' He then grew strangely quiet, and his eyes began to dart fearfully about him.

'Yep, murder. Killed 'is victim with 'is bare hands. Was due to be hung next week.'

'Good God!' Michael exclaimed, feeling shivers of terror ripple up his spine. 'I, I think I've heard more than enough for one evening.' He instinctively sidled up to his servant.

'You aint frightened are ya, sir?'

'Frightened?' Michael echoed. 'No,' he lied. 'What makes you think I'm chicken-hearted? I was just going to say how late it was, that's all. There's no sense in gadding about like this. Best if we went back.'

'Wait,' Dobson said, grabbing a sudden hold of his master's arm. 'Did ya hear that?' The only sound in Michael's ears was the thudding of his heartbeat. 'It's comin' from over there,' Dobson added, setting off towards several lichen covered rocks that were stacked up alongside the fence.

'God in heaven,' Michael murmured under his breath, sensing that the last moments of his life were swiftly approaching.

Dobson stoically stood his ground. 'Is that you, MacMillan?' he asked in a raised voice. 'If you're there, MacMillan, don't bloody shoot us.' There was no answer. 'I know someone's there,' Dobson persisted. 'Show us your face now, or me companion will blast you in 'alf with his gun.'

'What gun?' Michael whispered. 'What are you talking about?'

'They don't call my friend, 'Bullseye Brearly' for nothin,' Dobson declared loudly to whom-ever might be listening. 'Best shot this side of the river.' In the next moment, Dobson's ears detected movement, and he swung around to face the opposite direction. 'Get 'im, sir!' he cried out without warning. 'Over there!' He then dashed forward with great urgency.

While Dobson lurched through the dark obscurity towards the trespasser, Michael remained rooted to the spot. He was too confused to speak, let alone follow his servant's instructions. He soon perceived the sounds of a scuffle, followed by a rip of fabric.

'Don't shoot me!' a desperate voice cried out. 'Please don't shoot!'

To the surprise of both men, it was a woman's voice. Dobson quickly let go of his captive, and a young, out of breath woman emerged before them.

'Please, I beg you,' she pleaded, holding up her hands, as if in surrender. 'Don't hurt me. I've done nothing wrong. I'm lost. I'm Frances,' she said breathlessly. 'Frances Norwood. Louisa Wentworth's niece.'

### CHAPTER FOUR

A Time to Explain

An hour later, in the warmth and relative safety of Rosewood House's drawing room, Michael Brearly and his new acquaintance were deep in conversation.

'What can I say, Miss Norwood?' Michael was trying to explain, 'I've already apologised a score of times for what happened.'

'I thought you were going to kill me,' Frances said, her voice shaking with emotion.

'What with? I wasn't even carrying a gun.'

'No, you weren't, but that other man was. He fired two shots in my direction. I was so scared I didn't know which way to run!'

'MacMillan was just doing his job, for once. You can't blame a man for doing that.'

'That may be the case, but when your other servant saw me, he encouraged you to shoot me. I distinctly heard him refer to you as Bullseye Brearly.'

'I wouldn't worry about him,' Michael assured. 'I intend to dismiss that impudent wretch later this evening. As for me, I've never shot anything in my life. Well, not intentionally anyway.' Michael rubbed his aching temples. 'And while we're apportioning blame, Miss Norwood, I'd like to know why you were gadding around in the dark. Were you aware that you were trespassing on private property?'

'No I was not, and in answer to your first question, I was lost.' She made no mention of her bicycling escapades. 'When I saw the light from your house, I thought I'd be safe. Obviously I was wrong.'

Michael's patience was exhausted. 'And how did you come to be lost, Miss Norwood? Were you taking a walk? If that were the case, I'm surprised Louisa Wentworth allowed you to go rambling about on your own.'

Frances faltered. 'Without wishing to go into specifics, I didn't exactly obtain her permission.'

'I see,' he answered. 'Well, all is well that ends well, as they say. As for my servants, they did their best, under the circumstances. They thought you were a prison escapee.'

In spite of her anger, Frances smiled. 'A prison escapee?'

'Yes. That murderer. Wilson I think his name is. Escaped from gaol.'

'You don't mean Oliver Wilson? Aunt Wentworth's old gardener?'

'I don't know. You'd have to ask Dobson. He can tell you all about him.' He crossed the room and rang the tinkling service bell. Dobson appeared almost at once. He had, in fact, been eavesdropping outside the door, along with two other servants.

'Yes, sir?' Dobson answered as he made his cautious entrance. 'Ya called me?'

Michael surveyed Dobson with evident suspicion. 'You're very efficient this evening, Dobson. I've only just sent for you. Very prompt indeed.'

'Thank ya, sir. I do me best.'

'Yes, I'm sure you do, although you're working very diligently for someone who is no longer employed in this household.'

Dobson's eyes widened. 'Are ya givin' me the boot, sir?'

Michael hesitated for words. The combination of wine and fatigue had clouded his judgement, and he realised that he was in no fit state to give serious consideration to anything. 'Get me some muffins for later and I'll think about it.'

'Yes, sir,' Dobson replied, solemnly making his way towards the door.

'Oh, and Dobson?' Michael said, before his servant had reached the doorway. 'What was Wilson really in gaol for?'

Dobson managed a grin. 'Seems he likes stealing pigs.'

'Hmm,' Michael replied. 'I thought so. Very well, Dobson. That will be all.' Just before an exultant Dobson withdrew from the room, Michael called his name again. Once more Dobson turned around. 'I don't advise you to skulk outside that door for too long,' Michael advised. 'Despite the fact that you have other more important duties to attend to, it's very draughty in that corridor. I wouldn't want you to catch cold.'

A dumbfounded Dobson just stared. 'Yes, sir,' he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He then hurriedly took his leave.

'I can see that nothing escapes your attention,' Frances remarked, once the door had been closed and they were alone again. She was too busy laughing to notice that she was now the object of the young man's attention.

Michael Brearly was not in the habit of staring at strangers, particularly young ladies, but somehow tonight was different, and he couldn't seem to help behaving uncharacteristically. He appraised her for several more moments, considering how enchanting she looked in the firelight, wearing one of his shirts, an old pair of his trousers, and his large black frock coat wrapped around her shoulders. She was not what some would call beautiful, but there was a natural dignity and refinement in all her features. She was in her mid-twenties, he surmised, and from her slender, well proportioned limbs, her considerable height, which must dwarf many of her fellow sex, to her glossy sepia coloured hair of excessive fineness, she seemed to be the living embodiment of health and wholesome youth.

Frances, meanwhile, was acutely aware of being observed, and could feel the blood rush to her cheeks. Her discomfort, however, only made her dusky eyes more dazzling to Michael, and he was so captivated by the depth of candour and intelligence in them, that he didn't initially hear her speak.

'I, I think it best if I returned home now,' Frances repeated in a louder voice. 'My aunt must be frantic.' In her state of self-consciousness, she let her eyes wander over to a little oil painting in a gold frame that echoed some coastal scene.

These words finally brought Michael back to his senses, and he could see straight away that his lack of manners had made his companion uncomfortable. 'Please forgive me,' he hastened to say. 'It seems my mind was elsewhere.' He anxiously cleared his throat.

Despite his best efforts to avoid looking at Frances, he felt his eyes being drawn to her firm mouth. In fact, her face at that moment seemed so welcoming, so inviting, that it seemed almost perverse to him that etiquette disallowed him from admiring it. The only way he could break the woman's spell was to move further away from her, and turning his back to her, he made his way over to the window. He felt more composed already.

'I regret to tell you, Miss Norwood that it is impossible for me to return you to Wintersleigh tonight. I have a very important visit to make, and I will be using my carriage for that purpose.'

Frances began to feel uneasy. 'And can I not accompany you?'

'I'm sorry, but no. My travels take me to the other side of Rokeby. Wintersleigh is in completely the opposite direction.'

'But what am I to do about my aunt? You told me earlier that you are her close friend. Surely you must know what she's like. You can imagine, perhaps, how worried she is...'

'I can imagine, yes, but there is no need to concern yourself on that score. A message has already been sent to her, and I daresay she'll have you brought home before bedtime. In the interim, your clothes will be dried and mended, a meal will be prepared for you, and if you need to occupy yourself, I have a well-stocked library.'

'Thank you. You are very kind.'

'Not at all,' he said, glancing up at a clock on the mantelpiece. 'And now I must go. I have a most pressing engagement.'

'Might I ask how long you are likely to be?'

'One can never be sure about such things, but I suspect you'll be well and truly at home at Wintersleigh by the time I return. If that is the case, I bid you adieu!' Michael then walked over to the drawing room doorway and paused. 'Given that we are now neighbours, Miss Norwood, I imagine our paths will cross again. I just hope our future meetings won't be so eventful.'

Before Frances had a chance to reply to this light-hearted comment, Michael Brearly left the room, shutting the door gently behind him.

### CHAPTER FIVE

An Unpleasant Discovery

Several hours had now elapsed since Michael's departure from Rosewood House, and still he had not returned. In his absence, Frances had eaten dinner, changed back into her own clothes and had spent the evening drifting down corridors, through book-lined rooms and up and down the stairs, searching for anything to interest or amuse her. She found little to this purpose, except for the library, which as Michael Brearly had promised her, contained an extensive and fascinating collection of books, and to her surprise, medical journals and papers. She spent at least an hour sifting through the assortment of books until at last, having selected something to read, she closed the door and made her way downstairs.

A small fire, just re-kindled by a servant, awaited her in the drawing room, and under the light from the gasoliers, she sank gratefully into a Chippendale chair beside the fireplace. She had hardly reached the third page of her book of poetry, when a loud meow, emanating from beside the chair, commanded her attention. She peered curiously over the arm rest to see a rather rotund cat, with a smug, aristocratic face, looking up at her. She had seen this cat earlier in her travels, but she had only caught fleeting glimpses of his cloudy ginger fur and a mass of white whiskers. She had called out to him on several occasions, but to her frustration he ignored her. From the way he pompously presided over his domain, it was clear to Frances that he had more important things to do with his time—until now—now that there was a fire glowing in the grate, and an empty lap in front of him.

Frances smiled and patted her lap. This time the cat jumped up and landed heavily on Frances's legs. She had not counted on him being so heavy, and moving her legs slightly to accommodate his substantial weight, she accidentally knocked the poetry book off the chair. It landed on the floor with a dull thud. Clutching the animal with one hand, she reached over and claimed the book with the other. As she was retrieving it, a small piece of note paper slipped from its musty pages and fluttered to her lap. Before the cat collapsed on top of it she picked the note up and studied it. Despite her first impressions, it was not just a piece of paper. It was a photograph of a remarkably beautiful young woman—a woman whom Frances knew very well.

Frances stared down glumly at the picture of her eldest cousin, Agnes Wentworth. At twenty-five years of age, the same age as Frances, Agnes was Louisa Wentworth's favourite and most admired daughter. Over the years, Frances had heard detailed accounts of Agnes's life, mainly through a procession of letters written by Louisa to Frances's mother. According to these letters, Agnes had blossomed into a very fine young woman, was accomplished in every respect, was admired by all those who knew her, and would no doubt make a very prudent marriage. Every facet of Agnes's life, it seemed, had been documented, to the delight of her adoring mother, and to the collective groans of despair from the letters' recipients (Frances and her mother included).

While Louisa sang the praises of her eldest daughter in the loudest of voices, Charlotte, her younger daughter, was seldom mentioned. Charlotte was the plainer of the two, had, according to her mother, no finesse or savoir-faire, and was too quiet and insular. To make matters worse, the twenty year-old had married a local church minister, Cyril Beckett, a man who was almost twice Charlotte's age. Louisa believed this to be an imprudent marriage, and could never quite reconcile herself to Charlotte's choice (little did she know that Charlotte had married Cyril primarily to get away from Louisa!). Another concern for Louisa was that Charlotte had married before her elder sister, something Louisa considered unseemly. In most respects, it seemed Charlotte was a weed in the Wentworth family's rose garden.

Frances fixed her eyes on Agnes's face and was immediately filled with loathing. Her aversion to Agnes had begun in childhood when the ten year old Agnes haughtily, and with much conviction, informed Frances that she wasn't good enough to play with her. Frances wasn't from a wealthy family, didn't have Agnes's advantages in life, and in short, was considered to be beneath her rich and pretty cousin. Frances assumed that Agnes's opinion of her would change when Agnes got older, but it never did. So long as Agnes maintained her rigid views about class and privilege, the division between the two cousins remained.

As quickly as she could, Frances shoved Agnes's photograph back into the recesses of the closed book, where it belonged. She then sighed and sank back further into her chair. Across the room she caught an unsatisfactory reflection of her face in the mantelpiece mirror. Her mind returned to the photograph of Agnes in the poetry book, and she began to wonder what it was doing there. Had it been deliberately discarded, or had someone lost it? Perhaps it was Agnes's book, and she had let Michael Brearly borrow it. But why would she put a photograph of herself in a book? It didn't make sense.

Frances closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Up until this moment she had been feeling quite calm about the situation she now found herself in. Her harrowing day was almost over, she was miles away from her officious aunt, and she was beginning to enjoy her rare piece of solitude, as it gave her time to contemplate her future.

Her future. The words stuck in her throat like a fish bone. She was reminded of her mother's letter, and while she tried to recall her mother's exact words, she unconsciously began stroking the cat's velveteen fur. While the cat's contented purring became the prevailing sound in the room, Frances wondered how she could possibly respond to her mother's announcement. She could wilfully ignore the letter (a course of action that would serve little purpose), she could write a congratulatory (yet dishonest) letter, or she could write her mother an honest account of the distress she had felt since hearing of the engagement. Each option seemed equally disagreeable to Frances, and at a loss for what to do, she looked down at her feline companion and began scratching him under the chin. The cat's purring grew louder, and soon lulled her into a dreamy state of sleepiness.

### CHAPTER SIX

Getting Acquainted

When Michael returned to Rosewood House just after eleven-thirty that night, Dobson informed him that Miss Norwood was fast asleep on an armchair in the drawing room. The fire in the grate had long since died to cold white ash, and without the light from the gasoliers, the room was swathed in a seemingly impenetrable darkness. Michael cut through the silent blackness with his candle, and approached his sleeping guest, who at that stage was recumbent in the chair. Her head had rolled back onto the headrest and was lolling to one side. A heavy woollen blanket, once positioned over her legs, was now lying abandoned at her feet on the floor, and Henry, Michael's beloved cat, was happily entrenched between her and the armrest.

Michael smiled, and leaning over as quietly as he could, attempted to reclaim the fallen blanket. Unfortunately for Michael, stealth was never one of his strong points, and not only did he rouse Henry from his sleep, but he lost his balance at a crucial moment, dropping the candle onto the rug beneath his feet. Within seconds, the peaceful scene was destroyed.

Frances awoke from her slumber with an abrupt start. 'Wha...what is it?' she cried. 'What has happened?'

Michael, meanwhile, was on his haunches on the floor, scrabbling about to retrieve the candle before it scorched his late mother's favourite Oriental rug. Henry had long since fled out the door. 'It's all right, Miss Norwood,' Michael said in his most re-assuring voice. 'I very nearly set fire to the house, but apart from that, everything is under control.'

'Well, you certainly know how to capture someone's attention,' Frances said, her voice suggestive of sleep. 'This is the second time you've tried to kill me in one night.'

Michael grinned, and now having the candle in his possession, he collapsed into an easy chair beside the sofa, and set down the candle on a nearby table. 'Strange,' Michael said, 'a lot of my patients tell me the same thing. Please don't take it personally. I don't discriminate.'

The flare of light soon illuminated the cover page of the poetry book that Frances had been reading earlier, and he instinctively picked it up.

'You're a doctor?'

'Unfortunately, yes,' Michael replied, casually flicking through the pages of the volume.

Frances sat up in her chair and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. 'I was wondering why your library was filled with medical journals. Now it's all beginning to make sense.' She watched him earnestly. 'Don't you like being a doctor?'

Michael's face clouded over. The wine he had drunk earlier in the day was beginning to make his head pound. 'Not especially.' He would have said more on the subject had he not then discovered the portrait photograph of Agnes Wentworth, tucked in between the pages. His brows furrowed with curiosity. 'I wonder what this is doing in here,' he remarked, studying it by the shadowy light of the candle. 'This should be in a frame.' In spite of his words, he slammed the book shut without another thought and deposited it on the table.

'Is that Agnes's book?' Frances asked. 'Would you like me to return it to Wintersleigh?'

A perturbed Michael looked about the room. 'No, no,' he replied hurriedly. 'That will not be necessary. That book belongs to me.' He got to his feet. 'Speaking of Wintersleigh, Miss Norwood, I thought you would have been there by now. Has Louisa not responded to my message?'

Frances hesitated. 'Oh yes. I received a message some time ago. I will spare you the deprecating remarks she made about my earlier conduct. I feel they were unwarranted and unjust. Suffice to say that she's too angry at present to receive me. She feels that if she sees me in her current mood, she'll say something to me that she will not regret.' A short interval passed. 'Without wishing to impose on your kindness and hospitality, Doctor Brearly, she wishes me remain here tonight. She hopes to see you tomorrow morning, when she comes to collect me.'

Michael's tense features relaxed into a smile. 'Of course, you can stay. Quite frankly, I will be glad of some company.' His rumbling stomach reminded him that he had not yet eaten dinner. 'Are you hungry, Miss Norwood?' he asked rather abruptly. 'Would you like some breakfast?'

'Breakfast?' Frances cried in amazement. 'But it's nearly midnight, the witching hour when graveyards yawn.'

'Yes I know, but it's a Brearly tradition. Comes from having doctors in the family. Our hours are so irregular that we must eat when we can.' He watched Frances yawn. 'But perhaps you are still tired and wish to sleep some more. You must be weary from your earlier brush with death.'

Frances considered the offer. While she was very fatigued and in need of more rest, the prospect of lying in a strange bed, with nothing but unpleasant thoughts of her mother's engagement to keep her company, compelled her to accept Doctor Brearly's offer of food.

Breakfast comprised bacon sandwiches and a cup of steaming cocoa, and was consumed in the breakfast room, in the glow of a recently lit fire. Despite being strangers, thrown together under rather exceptional circumstances, there was never a shortage of things to say. They soon discovered, for instance, that they enjoyed the noble sport of cricket, and nearly an hour was spent discussing the attributes of their favourite players. Before they realised it, seven hours had gone by, and in that time they had scarcely paused to draw breath. The sunlight was now streaming in and cast its abundant rays onto the buttercup yellow walls and onto the vigorous looking parlour palms that adorned each corner of the room. The welcoming light cheered their already high spirits, and they would have continued chatting for another seven hours had they not been disturbed by the sound of Louisa Wentworth's rapidly approaching footsteps. In the next moment a breathless Louisa was standing just inside the breakfast room doorway.

'Hurry!' she commanded, without one word of greeting to either Michael or Frances. 'He is heading down the drive, towards the front door. I just overtook him in the carriage.' Her chest was heaving with the unaccustomed exertion of doing physical exercise. 'Oh, Michael, what are we going to do?'

Michael was speechless with bewilderment. 'I, who, what?' He nervously adjusted his spectacles. 'What is going on?'

'How can you not hear his voice? He is squalling like a fish hawker. If you leave now by the back door,' Louisa was saying, 'I could tell him that you are not at home. He would be none the wiser.'

While this exchange was taking place, Frances wondered whether her Aunt's unusual behaviour was a result of Frances's escapade the day before. She tried to apologise.

'Not now, Frances,' Louisa replied, barely giving her a second of her attention.

Despite her aunt's warning, Frances chose, rather injudiciously, to proceed with her explanation. 'I had just finished reading a most troubling letter from my mother—'

'Hush!' Louisa snapped. 'We have far more pressing concerns on our minds than your mother.'

In the background, a young man's booming voice began to echo throughout the house. 'I know you're at home, Michael, so there's no point in trying to avoid me.'

An evident shudder of recognition coursed through Michael, and for the first time amidst the uproarious scene, he looked genuinely concerned. The muscles on his handsome face tightened. 'I wonder how he knew I was here,' he whispered to Louisa and Frances. 'Perhaps Dobson told him where I was.'

'And before you ask, Michael,' the man's voice continued to bellow, 'I saw the silhouette of your fat head through the window.'

Michael exhaled a disconsolate sigh. 'It's just as I feared. There's no escaping him now.'

'Who is it?' Frances asked Louisa.

'No-one worth knowing,' Louisa replied. 'Now, hold your tongue.' She determinedly positioned herself in front of Frances, as though she was shielding her niece from a horde of marauding barbarians. 'If you stay still and do not speak, he might not even realise you are here.'

Frances's face dropped. 'Humphh,' she muttered under her breath. 'So much for Tasmanian hospitality.'

### CHAPTER SEVEN

An Unwelcome Arrival

Archibald George Brearly, or 'George,' as he preferred to be called, stood defiantly in the door-way of Rosewood House's breakfast room, with a large brown carpetbag in one hand, and a felt hat in the other. As he surveyed the mute occupants of the room before him, his lips parted into a smile.

'Michael!' he eventually exclaimed. 'It's me! Your favourite brother!'

'What are you talking about, George?' Michael retorted. 'How can you be my favourite brother when you're the only one I have?'

'Because the odds are in my favour,' George replied, before carelessly dropping his hat and bag on the floor beside him. 'Now, enough of this sparkling repartee. Come here and give me a hug!'

Michael's face was still rigid with displeasure, and far from embracing his brother, he stood unmoved on the spot. Both hands remained defiantly in his pockets.

'Will you not even shake my hand?' George asked, presumedly impervious to the frosty reception he was receiving. 'Oh well. I can only imagine that you're too overcome with the joy of seeing me to respond to my conciliatory gesture.' He calmly redirected his attention to Louisa. 'And how are you, Louey?' George inquired irreverently. 'I can see you're looking as provocatively fetching as ever.'

'George,' Louisa began, compressing her lips, 'what an agreeable surprise this is.' The cold look in her eyes, however, declared the opposite. 'I trust you are tolerably well?'

'As well as can be expected, considering that I had to walk here from the ferry terminal. Two miles over muddied terrain, although with this luggage it felt like five. I'm as stiff as an old horse. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'm not the sort of person to cry, 'Woe is me! Woe is me!' It wasn't all bad. I saw some very choice scenery on the way, and had an awfully interesting encounter with Mr Periman's dog from down the road. See these rips?' he said, pointing to several jagged tears in his trousers, 'evidence of my close encounter with death. I was actually hoping for some cheap sympathy,' George added, after no-one answered him, 'but I suppose...'

'George,' Michael interrupted, 'what, may I ask, are you doing here?'

A bemused George looked from Michael to Louisa, then from Louisa to Michael. 'Well I thought that was fairly apparent, you duffer. I've come to atone for my sins. I therefore prostrate myself before you, and offer you my humblest apologies for missing your wedding.'

'What are you talking about, George?' Michael growled. 'I do wish you would talk some sense.'

Before George could reply to this, Frances emerged from behind her aunt. Her curiosity had finally got the better of her, and she felt it beneath her dignity to be hidden from view, whether it was in her best interests or not.

'Ah,' George breathed, 'this must be the unlucky lady.' He stepped forward, and in a most gentlemanly and chivalrous manner, bowed to her. 'George Brearly, at your service,' he smiled. 'I heartily welcome you to the Brearly tribe.' He then playfully saluted her, before turning towards Michael. 'For shame,' he said, regarding his brother with a rather dark look, 'you didn't tell me that your bride was this beautiful.'

'George,' Michael said sharply, 'what in heaven's name are you talking about? As usual you've got everything wrong. I daresay you're talking about the wedding. This young lady is not my wife, and I'm not getting married until the middle of February. What month is this? It's December.'

'Do not waste your breath, Michael,' Louisa ventured. 'It will not make any difference to him.'

George looked at Michael with some perplexity. 'By Jove!' he cried. 'I could have sworn the wedding was last week. Are you quite sure about the date? Perhaps you should consult your diary.'

'I beg your pardon,' Michael interposed, 'but I think I know the date of my own wedding. It's not something I'm likely to forget in a hurry is it?'

'Oh you'd be surprised,' George replied. 'It happened to a friend of mine last year. He went away for a few days and forgot that he was marrying his lady-love on the Saturday. He was the object of ridicule for months, although as I seem to recall, he never was too overbright.'

'George,' Michael cut in impatiently, 'must you always be talking?'

'Well, not as a general rule, but it's something to do, isn't it?'

George caught sight of Frances again, and faltered under her intense scrutiny. For ten seconds at least he was lost for words, something of a record for George Brearly. He ran a hand through his hair then instinctively attempted to loosen his necktie. His necktie, however, was in one of his pockets (having been discarded during his gruelling walk to his brother's residence) and having nothing now to adjust, he undid the top button on his shirt instead. While he was doing this, he smilingly evaluated his pretty new acquaintance. He noted with exultation that the young woman was reciprocating his gesture.

Frances had every reason to smile. Ever since she had set eyes on the handsome George Brearly, her heart had been aflutter with silent admiration. Like his older brother, George Brearly was blessed with a slender statuesque physique and distinguished face, but that was where the brotherly similarities ended. George's hair was a lighter shade of brown, he had darker, more expressive eyes, was clean shaven, and at a glance, was more fashionably dressed. His mouth was somewhat larger and fuller than Michael's, and Frances suspected that the creases around George's mouth had been gently forged by years of smiles and merriment. It was an immensely likeable face and Frances could have admired it for hours.

'So this isn't your wife then?' George asked.

'No,' Michael declared brusquely.

Michael had witnessed the mutual attraction between Frances and George, and it alarmed him considerably. He knew he was powerless to prevent their meeting, but he was not powerless from keeping them together. He decided at once to make the introductions, and have his brother removed as soon as possible.

'George,' he began coolly, 'allow me to introduce you to Miss Frances Norwood. Miss Norwood is Louisa's niece. Miss Norwood, this here is George, my younger brother.' His lip curled as he uttered George's name.

'I am four years younger, I confess,' George acknowledged to Frances in a confiding tone, 'but just between you and me, what I lack in years, I make up for in intelligence, an awfully good sense of humour, devastating good looks and twenty eight years of maturity.'

'And modesty,' Frances added.

George chortled. 'Well said, Miss Norwood. Well said indeed.' He gave her an audacious wink.

Michael cast Louisa a significant look, then turned towards his brother. 'Well, don't you want to know who I'm marrying?' he asked.

'I suppose so,' George conceded, 'but whom-ever she is I pity her greatly.'

'Oh hush, George,' Louisa warned.

'I'm marrying Agnes Wentworth. I assume you remember her.'

The light quickly extinguished from George's eyes and he stopped laughing. 'Of course I remember Agnes,' he admitted a little awkwardly. 'I grew up with her. I think I even teased her if I remember correctly. I made her life a misery.'

'Yes, you did,' Michael replied. 'She hasn't forgotten it either.'

An indignant George made no comment.

At this point, Louisa, sensing the impending unpleasantness, took a firm hold of Frances's arm and led her to the door. 'I think it best if we removed ourselves to the drawing room,' Louisa declared to Frances in an undertone.

Frances thought her aunt's plan was a very prudent one, and allowed herself to be escorted out of the room.

As soon as the door had been closed, the battle between the two brothers began in earnest...

### CHAPTER EIGHT

Compromises

In the privacy of the breakfast room, Michael and George were immersed in conversation.

'What can I say, Michael?' George began. 'I'm sorry.'

'Sorry!' Michael repeated. 'Huh! Well, that just takes the cake!'

'All right then, I'm awfully sorry,' George added with a devious grin. 'I've been a very naughty boy.' He threw his brother a playful look, but Michael was not amused. He was too busy giving George a stony stare. 'All right,' George said more soberly, 'I am a dim-witted individual who has made a very grave error.' He tried to think of something sensible to say. He could not manage it. 'Would you like me to kiss your feet for you?'

'That won't be necessary,' Michael muttered irritably.

'Then what can I do to make you forgive me?'

'You can stop simpering for one thing. And secondly, you can answer my question. When did you arrive in Hobart?'

'A few days ago. I was staying at some seedy establishment in town. Their walls were painted tomato red. It offended my very delicate sensibilities.'

'No sympathy, George. You know where I live. It wouldn't have killed you to let me know that you'd arrived.'

'I tried to call you at the Telephone Bureau Office, but evidently you're not registered, which seems rather curious to me.' He pulled out a crumpled handkerchief from one of his pockets. 'I thought that a telephone would be an essential thing for a doctor to have.' He violently blew his nose. Ignoring his brother's censorious looks, he began to wipe his reddened nose with vim. 'Ah, that's better,' he professed, thrusting the now sodden handkerchief back into his pocket. 'I can now officially breathe.' To prove the point, George inhaled deeply. 'Of course, now I can't hear anything,' he added, 'but—'

'Do you have any idea how much a private line costs?' Michael interrupted. 'I recently made some inquiries about installing a telephone and I was told that it would cost three pounds for the first quarter mile, then an additional fifteen shillings for any extra quarter of a mile.' An interval passed. 'I'm not made of money you know, despite what you may think. 'Anyhow, there's not much point in installing a line. I daresay most of my patients can't afford one.'

'Does Louisa have a telephone?'

'No. She thinks they make too much noise.'

The brothers exchanged looks, before subsiding into laughter. Naturally, George was overjoyed to see Michael's transformation, and in the mistaken belief that Michael had forgiven him for his earlier blunder, he resumed talking as though nothing had happened.

'So,' he began in his naturally bullish voice, 'now that we're friends again, which bedroom can I take? My old room, or one of the guest rooms?'

Michael listened to his brother in disbelief. 'Now just you wait one moment. When did I invite you to stay at Rosewood?' He watched George with a frown. 'I didn't.'

'Well, no you didn't, but may I remind you of our father's dying words? He wanted me to treat this house as if it were still the family home, despite the fact that you now own it.'

'Yes, Papa did say that, but as I recall, you deserted Rosewood at the first opportunity you had. I'm the one who stayed here to look after it for all those years. Now, in my books, that should count for something.'

'Well, I agree, but I'm not asking you for the deeds of the house, or anything like that. Really, Michael! I just want a room for a few little months.'

'A few months!'

'Exactly so. You just told me that the wedding isn't until February. I can't possibly return to Melbourne now. I'd have to come back to Hobart in the New Year. By Jove, man, think of the expense!'

Michael reflected. George was right. The additional expense was unwarranted, particularly when Rosewood House could provide adequate long-term accommodation for George until February.

'And what about your studies?'

'They've finished for the year,' George replied.

Michael breathed a sigh that was almost a groan, and made his way over to the breakfast table. He then pulled out a chair from the table and slumped wearily into it. His sleepless night was rapidly taking its toll.

George shambled after Michael, and following his brother's example, sat himself down at the table. 'So, big brother, inspiration of my life, can I stay?'

'I suppose so.'

'You bee-uwty!' George cheered, jumping up and knocking over the chair he had been sitting on. It hit the floor with a loud clatter.

'I wouldn't look so idiotically delighted, if I were you,' Michael warned, watching George return the chair to the upright position. 'I haven't told you about the ground rules you are to follow, if you are to stay here.'

George's attention was diverted. 'Rules?' he repeated.

'Yes. Otherwise we'll end up strangling each other. Now, if you'll sit down for a minute, I'll tell you what they are.'

George seated himself on the chair. 'All right then, out with it.'

'Firstly, and most importantly, you will give me a small contribution weekly.'

'Contribution? As in a monetary contribution?'

'Yes, George. For food. Admit it,' Michael added, 'you eat like there's no tomorrow.'

'I admit I have a healthy appetite, but I'm no different from any other man. In fact, I have this friend in Melbourne who eats twice as much as I do. You should see...'

'Yes, thank you!' Michael interrupted. 'I myself am getting hungry, and I have much to organise. If you'll kindly hold your tongue, I'll tell you what the second ground rule is.'

'Fair enough,' George said, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

'In addition to the weekly monetary contribution, I want you to keep your eyes off Miss Frances Norwood.'

'I beg your pardon?' George retorted, almost choking on the words.

'You know what I'm talking about,' Michael said, fixing his eyes sternly on his brother. 'I saw the way you were looking at her earlier.'

'Why, you lying hound!' George laughingly protested.

'Don't deny it. I saw you.'

'All right, all right, I'll admit it. I was looking at her. But can you blame me? She's a damned fine filly.'

'Steady on, George. All I'm asking you to do is tread lightly. I know how you treat women, and it worries me. I realise that it's not always intentional, but you go gadding about with their feelings, and you end up breaking someone's heart.'

'I thought you said you were engaged to Agnes,' George asserted, watching Michael suspiciously.

'I am.'

'Then why this sudden concern for Miss Norwood?'

Michael's colour deepened. 'Miss Norwood and I met yesterday, and we seem to have a lot in common. I think we could grow to become good friends. I would, therefore, appreciate it if you could behave yourself.'

'Behave myself? Why are you always harping on that string? You speak to me as though you don't trust me.' He started fumbling about in a pocket for his silver cigarette case and a match-box.

'George, please understand this. I don't trust you, because for most of the time, you don't deserve to be trusted. Take for instance that infatuation you had with Mrs Eva Davis.'

George flinched at the sound of the young woman's name, but to his credit he was able to retain his equanimity. 'Oh come on, Michael. You know very well that was just an unfortunate misunderstanding.'

'A misunderstanding? Is that what you call it? What utter nonsense! As I recall, you were embroiled in a scandalous affair. You single-handedly brought Mrs Davis to her knees.'

George was beginning to look uncharacteristically solemn. 'How was I to know that chit was married? Besides, it wasn't quite as serious as everyone made out. It was nothing more than a bit of flirtation and some stolen kisses in the shrubbery.'

Michael rose from his chair. 'I've heard all this before, and your arguments are as unconvincing now as they were back then. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go.' He walked over to the door. 'And don't even think about smoking those infernal cigarettes in this house. The stench of them endures for an eternity. As for your luggage, I will of course find someone to carry it upstairs for you.'

'No, Michael,' a disgruntled George replied, 'you shall not.' He rose to his feet and strode over to the door. 'My personality may be fundamentally flawed, but I think I'm more than capable of taking my own bag upstairs.' There was a dead pause, in which time George assumed a sightly theatrical attitude. 'By the bye, I think it perfectly low of you to remind me about Eva Davis. You know as well as I do that I've already squared myself with the little lady.'

Before Michael could reply to this, George ripped open the door and stormed down the corridor, in the direction of Rosewood's main staircase.

### CHAPTER NINE

Troubled Waters

Luncheon was served in the Rosewood dining room several hours later, and Frances sat at the dining table, absently toying with the food on her plate. As she prodded her egg and bacon pie with her fork, she reflected on the scene that she had witnessed earlier involving Michael and his newly arrived brother. Until George Brearly's unexpected appearance she had sensed a growing connection between herself and Michael, a bond she felt would only strengthen over time. The revelation, therefore, that he was to marry her cousin Agnes, effectively severed this bond, and left her with nothing but a sense of emptiness and disappointment.

Michael, meanwhile, was informing everyone at the table of George's plans to remain at Rosewood House until the wedding. Frances was too engrossed in her own thoughts to pay heed to Michael's words, and was only conscious of her aunt drawing in a sharp breath. Uppermost in Frances's mind was Michael Brearly's engagement to her cousin. She had discovered from her aunt that they had been engaged for over a year, and that it was common knowledge throughout the neighbourhood. Frances thought it odd that Michael had neglected to tell her of it, especially after Frances had discovered Agnes's photograph in one of his books. To Frances's mind, this would have been the perfect opportunity for him to tell her about it. Unconsciously, Frances began mashing her pie up with her knife. In the background, Louisa was speaking.

'So, George,' she was saying haughtily, 'I imagine you will be here for Christmas then.'

'You bet I will,' George replied, beginning to carve up his pie with a violence that made the dining table shake. 'By Jove! There's enough food here on this plate for me to graze on for weeks!'

'George,' Michael said, 'would you please stop shaking the table. It is most inconsiderate.'

George's hands faltered, and sure enough, the table stopped wobbling. 'I consider myself sufficiently chastened,' he said smirking. 'I shan't do it again.'

'It really does baffle me to see you cut your food like that,' Michael continued. 'I hope you do not intend to operate on your patients with such vigour.' An amused George promptly burst out laughing. 'It is no joke,' Michael added over the top of George's laughter. 'You are to be a physician, not a butcher.'

Before George could reply to his brother's quip, Louisa intervened. 'And when are you to finish your studies, George? Is it next year or the following year?'

'Next year,' George enumerated, spearing a tiny shred of lettuce with alarming accuracy.

Louisa turned towards Frances. 'George is studying Medicine at the University of Melbourne.'

Frances directed an admiring gaze to the younger brother, and in return, George met her glance with another one of his dazzling smiles.

'George is following in his brother's footsteps,' Louisa explained, 'although as I understand it, George, you will not be practising in Hobart.'

'Definitely not,' George declared, this time stabbing a large piece of tomato. 'Hobart is dull. Awfully dull. Nothing ever happens here, except unemployment rallies.' He crammed the tomato into his mouth, and ignoring Louisa's looks of disapproval, kept talking with his mouth full. 'Melbourne, then again, is where everything happens.'

'You do not need to convince Frances of that,' Louisa came back with. 'Frances has spent many years living in Melbourne.'

'Have you really?' George cried, sitting upright in his chair. 'How wonderful. Tell me, Miss Norwood, what is your opinion of Melbourne? Whereabouts were you living? What did you spend your time doing?'

Frances nibbled her lip thoughtfully. She didn't know which question to answer first, but before she could answer any of the questions, Louisa cut in.

'Frances, I am afraid to say, rode a bicycle and was a governess.'

'And what's wrong with that?' George retaliated.

'I do not want to go into details,' Louisa said disdainfully, 'suffice to say that I do not agree with women riding bicycles, or working. It is not seemly. A woman's place is in the home, most assuredly.'

Frances was stung by these words and she looked away. How many times had she heard this rhetoric from her aunt? It was becoming so wearisome!

'It is no wonder there are so many unemployed men rallying on the streets, when women are forcing their way into the workplace,' Louisa observed. 'Oh, I should die of shame if my daughters ever decided to work.' She pronounced the last word contemptuously.

'Yes, well I don't have the luxury of living off inheritance money, like some people do,' a red-faced Frances retorted, referring to her aunt. 'If I don't work, I don't get paid. What's more, I'm of the opinion that working is preferable to being a lady of leisure. I'm not cut out for a life of drawing, sewing and entertaining friends.'

'Well said, Miss Norwood,' George declared, thumping his fist on his lap. 'Well said!'

'If you think that is all married women do all day,' Louisa explained, 'then you are exceedingly mistaken. They work tirelessly to support their husbands and nurture their children. Unlike these supposed modern women, with idle bones in their body, they do not just think of themselves.'

An exasperated Frances set down her knife and fork onto her plate. How she hated her aunt sometimes! As she stared stonily at her aunt, she secretly wondered what she had done to deserve a public dressing down. If only she could defend herself, and tell Louisa what she really thought of her! Not wishing to traverse such dangerous territory, Frances found her safety in silence.

'Ah, don't you just love family meals,' George remarked, trying to dispel the awkward silence.

'George,' Michael warned, 'don't.'

'All right, all right,' George said laughingly. 'I was just trying to lighten the mood with an ice-breaker.' He began drumming his fingers on the table. 'So, Miss Norwood,' he persevered in the same light-hearted tone, 'you must love children, then, if you're a governess.'

'No, not at all, Mr Brearly,' Frances confessed. 'I don't have a maternal bone in my body.'

George erupted into laughter. 'Oh, Miss Norwood!' he cried. 'What an odd creature you are! You're a governess who doesn't even like children. How awfully ironic!'

'Oh, hush, Frances!' Louisa commanded, 'how can you say such things?' She cast Frances a censorious look. 'Do not believe a word of what she is saying. Frances likes to say controversial things. Speaking of being controversial,' she went on, 'where is that ghastly bicycle of yours? The one you fled my house on? As long as you live under my roof you shall not ride it.'

Frances was then reminded of her beloved bike, lying unprotected along the roadside. She vowed to rescue it as soon as possible.

'And will you work here, Miss Norwood?' George asked, ignoring Louisa's comments.

'Not if I have anything to do with it,' Louisa griped. 'If Frances does decide to stay in Hobart, I will have to support her at Wintersleigh. Unless she marries, of course.'

Frances looked miserably down at her plate of mashed pie. While her aunt's words reverberated painfully in her ears, she wondered how she had ever got herself into such a situation. Having little money of her own, Louisa's offer of financial assistance seemed generous, but in essence it was a trap designed to ensnare her. Dependency on Louisa's money chained her to Wintersleigh until she married (if she ever married) and condemned her to a life akin to her aunt's life of conservatism and domesticity. As Frances's spirit rebelled against that prospect, she silently resolved to seek employment as a governess, and leave Wintersleigh as soon as she could. She had the renewed will to leave; all that remained now was the opportunity.

### CHAPTER TEN

And Two Makes Six

Thanks to George Brearly's entertaining stories of his time at the University of Melbourne, the rest of lunch went by smoothly. Frances, in fact, was so engrossed by his colourful and often gruesome tales, that by the time she left the table, she had quite forgotten about the earlier altercation with her aunt. Not only were her spirits improved, but without realising it at the time, she was completely smitten with the charismatic George Brearly.

In such a state of light-heartedness, Frances followed the party out the front entrance of Rosewood House to a large expanse of gravel drive, where Louisa's carriage stood waiting to return the two women home to Wintersleigh. In spite of her memorable adventure at Rosewood House, Frances's energy was waning, and she was looking forward to catching up on her sleep. While she waited for Louisa and Michael to end their quietly animated conversation, Frances glanced curiously about her. Having stumbled upon Rosewood House in the middle of the night, she hadn't had the opportunity to view any part of the estate. As she now surveyed the building and gardens before her, she realised how beautiful they both were.

Rosewood House, or 'Rosewood,' as Michael preferred to call it, wasn't as large or imposing as her aunt's house, nor were its grounds as vast, but it was still an impressive looking Georgian building. It was constructed from sandstone and was festooned with a combination of ivy and rambling rose that crept languidly around the north-facing windows. The flowers were now in blossom, and it seemed to Frances that the facade of the house was bathed in a profusion of pink blooms. Frances breathed in the sweet perfume of rose that lingered in the air, before taking in every detail of the rest of the idyllic garden. English lavender, she noticed, was a prominent feature in the garden, and not only did it border the gravel drive, but it adorned the area near the path and front door. It too was in flower, and as Frances bent over one of the bushes to sniff the redolent, purple flowers, the sound of crunching gravel diverted her attention. She hastily straightened up and squinted through the glare of summer sunlight, just in time to see George Brearly approaching her. Her heart skipped a beat under the gentle scrutiny of his gaze.

'I see you're admiring the ol' paddock,' George said, bending down and sniffing some lavender. He wrinkled his nose up in disapproval.

'It's hard not to, Mr Brearly,' Frances said, looking up once more at the luxurious carpet of roses. 'It's one of most beautiful gardens I've ever seen.'

'Do you think so? Humph. I'm not one for gardens myself. Too much work involved. I'm more of a gravel man. Put it everywhere, I say. It doesn't need watering or pruning. Listen,' he added, looking about him furtively, 'if you want some of those purple things, I can get you some.'

'The lavender, you mean? Oh, would you? I'd like that.'

'Consider it done,' George declared gallantly.

Frances smiled as her new acquaintance tried pulling off pieces with his bare hands. He soon discovered though that lavender stems were not so easy to snap, and in his growing frustration, he practically began wrestling with the disobliging bush. He was so engrossed with his efforts that he didn't hear Michael approach him from behind.

'George,' Michael said, hands on hips, 'what in heaven's name are you doing?'

George was unperturbed by his brother's demanding voice and menacing stance, and as a result, the battle between man and plant carried on regardless. 'I'm getting Miss Norwood here some lavender,' he said in muffled tones. 'What does it look like I'm doing?'

'Destroying my garden. Now if you're that keen to get Miss Norwood some flowers, by all means go inside and get some scissors.'

To Frances's astonishment, a compliant George gave Michael a playful salute, before darting inside. His departure left Frances and the doctor alone in awkward silence.

'It seems as though you have found yourself an admirer,' Michael said at length.

Frances anxiously looked about her. 'Where's my aunt? I could have sworn I saw her a minute ago.'

'She's taking some cuttings. She pretty nearly does it every time she comes here. I daresay I won't have anything left by the time she's finished.'

He attempted a smile, but Frances did not return it. It was hard to explain, but at that moment she resented Michael, mainly because he had not informed her about his impending marriage to her cousin. She looked behind her, secretly hoping for George's return, but he was nowhere to be seen.

'I can only imagine what you must be thinking about me,' Michael began abruptly, 'but please don't think I did it on purpose. I should have told you about the wedding, but I didn't know what to say, or how to say it.'

'Please, Doctor Brearly,' Frances assured him, 'you don't owe me any sort of explanation. Your engagement to my cousin has absolutely nothing to do with me.'

'Allow me to disagree with that, Miss Norwood,' Michael broke in. 'I should have informed you.' He gave Frances a half-smile. 'Although you and I have only been acquainted for a short period of time, I feel...' He paused to remove his hands from his pockets. 'Forgive the presumption, but I feel as though we have become friends.' Frances smiled, and taking this as a sign of agreement, he tried to finish his explanation. 'This being the case, I should have been more open with you, and told you about Agnes. I tried to tell you on several occasions, but for some reason...'

His sentence was interrupted by the sound of a carriage rumbling its way along the gravel drive towards the house. Both Frances and Michael looked in the direction of the approaching conveyance, and saw it materialise from beneath a billowing cloud of dust.

'That's odd,' Michael said, knitting his eyebrows together in consternation. 'I'm not expecting any visitors or patients this afternoon, especially in that carriage. I wonder who it is.'

Frances was equally curious to know who the visitor was, but unlike Michael, who was setting off towards the now stationary vehicle, Frances hovered near Rosewood's front entrance. The door of the carriage suddenly burst open, and while the occupants alighted from the vehicle, a stunned Frances caught her breath. By this stage George Brearly had emerged from the house brandishing a pair of scissors. He was just about to savage the lavender bush again, when the sight of the two female visitors stopped him in his tracks.

'By Jove!' he declared, dropping the scissors to the ground. 'Damn and botheration.'

Frances turned towards George and noticed with bemusement that his mouth was wide open and that his face was mottled with emotion. As she studied the look of shock on his handsome face, she realised that she had never seen him looking so serious before.

'When the blazes did she get here?' he asked in a barely audible voice.

'About a minute ago.'

'Did you know she was coming?' George continued in the same faint voice.

'No I didn't,' Frances replied. 'If I'd been forewarned, I wouldn't still be standing here. I would have escaped out the back door.'

'Sounds awfully good to me. What do you say? Shall we make a dash for it now?' He turned to her with entreating eyes. 'Or better still, we could peddle away on your bicycle. If we go now, no-one will ever know we were here.' He offered her his arm.

'It's a tempting offer, Mr Brearly, but I think it's too late for that.' She had just made eye contact with one of the visitors. 'What's more,' she added in a confiding tone, 'my bicycle is lying beside the roadside somewhere on the main road. I won't bore you with the details of how that happened. As for our guests, I imagine that fleeing from them wouldn't be considered socially acceptable.'

'No, I suppose not,' George admitted. 'As for the bicycle, fear not for its welfare. We'll get it.'

Louisa, meanwhile, had heard the sound of the approaching carriage, and beset with her own curiosity, had emerged from around the corner of the house to see who had just arrived. Having caught sight of the two black-haired women, one of whom was now being enveloped in Michael's arms, Louisa darted forward with uncharacteristic alacrity, dropping her fuchsia cutting and nearly trampling a shrub in the process. Once she had reached the place where the women were gathered, she clumsily grabbed the young woman who was standing aloof from the hugging couple, and almost knocked her over.

'Well come on, Frances!' Louisa cried out over her shoulder, 'your cousins have just returned from England. Aren't you going to say something?'

Frances exchanged a meaningful glance with George. 'I know what I'd like to say,' she muttered under her breath.

'Yes, Miss Norwood,' George affirmed with a grin, 'but I imagine that wouldn't be very socially acceptable either.'

Frances returned George's encouraging smile, and she grudgingly set off to where her cousins Agnes and Charlotte were now standing.

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

A Divided Reunion

Once the unenthusiastic hugs were distributed, the party made its way into the house. Frances lagged behind the rest of the group, and as she stood behind her cousin Agnes, near the entrance to the drawing room, she noticed that George was dallying just inside the doorway. George's positioning struck Frances as being rather odd, and she grew even more curious when she saw George and Agnes talking, two people she understood were enemies from years back. Frances was standing too far back to hear their exchange, but she noticed that Agnes was hanging on his every word. In the next moment, however, Agnes's face changed, and without saying another word to George, she imperiously walked away. In the background, Louisa was talking effusively about her daughters' unexpected arrival.

'Oh, what a splendid surprise this is!' she declared, settling herself into an armchair near the mahogany tea table. 'Both my girls home for Christmas! I wasn't expecting either of you until next year. Has something happened? Is something wrong?'

'No, of course not,' Agnes said. 'We thought we'd give you an early Christmas present, that's all.' Agnes sat herself beside Michael on the sofa, before looking about the room with an air of preoccupied indifference.

'And how did you know where I was? Oh, never mind. It doesn't matter!' Louisa cried, clasping her hands. 'This is the best present I have ever had!'

'Well I don't know about that, Louisa,' George remarked, 'the embroidered handkerchief I bought you for Christmas a few years ago was awfully fetching.'

While Frances stifled a laugh with her hand, Louisa sniffed resentfully and looked away. Frances did not wish to join the circle about the tea table, and stole across to a vacant chair in front of the French windows. Her cousin Charlotte, being equally reticent in social gatherings, followed Frances's example and took a seat beside her. Frances was, and had always been, rather fond of Charlotte, and she gave her a friendly smile.

'So,' Michael ventured rather abruptly, 'when did you ladies last see each other? It must be several years at least.'

Despite his attempt to lighten the mood in the room, Michael himself looked ill at ease. Frances noticed that he was sitting awkwardly beside Agnes on the sofa, darting anxious looks about the room and fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt.

'At least,' Agnes replied.

'Three years, I think,' Frances suggested.

'Has it been that long?' Louisa cried, looking at Frances in exaggerated surprise.

'I think so,' Frances confirmed.

George smothered a loud yawn of encroaching boredom and listlessness, and was met with stony stares from Louisa and Michael. Frances too was already growing tired of the proceedings, and drawing back the summer curtains, peered outside to admire the warm tints of the garden. Above the wilderness of the vast grounds, the blue sky was smudged with an assortment of white clouds. Frances sighed wistfully. What she would give to be outside in the sunshine! She unwillingly let go of the flimsy drapes and returned her attention to the Rosewood party.

'And hasn't so much happened?' Louisa exclaimed after a considerable lull. 'Dear, oh dear, it's enough to make my mind spin!'

No-one made an immediate answer to this comment, and in the silence that followed, Louisa smiled and abandoned herself to the recollection of those lost years.

In the background, the antique clock on the mantelpiece announced the procession of dying seconds and minutes. Frances's fingers began to tap impatiently on the armrest of her chair. George was unusually silent.

'Aren't we a quiet lot this afternoon?' Louisa reflected out loud. 'I expect it's all the excitement.' A deeper stillness began to possess the room. 'Well, now that we are all together,' Louisa added after a prolonged pause, 'I'd very much like to hear about England. Agnes? Charlotte? What have you to say about it? I want to hear everything.'

Agnes exhaled loudly. 'Oh Mama,' she protested, 'must I discuss it now? I'm beastly tired, and am in no fit state to discuss such a lengthy subject.'

'Of course, dear,' Louisa said, looking wounded by her daughter's assertion. 'I wonder you came here then if you were so tired. Perhaps you should have rested at home first. Either way, I'm very eager to hear about the family in Derbyshire, that's all. Another time, perhaps.'

The arrival of afternoon tea at that moment provided a welcome diversion for the party, and while the tea and Swiss roll were dispensed to each individual, Frances divided her attention between the two brothers and the Wentworth sisters. Until this moment she had been under the impression that the two families were close. Louisa, in particular, had been keen to create that impression, but as Frances accepted a cup of tea from her aunt, she was struck by the almost palpable undercurrents of antipathy in the room. Frances considered with interest the expression on each person's face: Louisa's clouded brow; Agnes staring sullenly at the plate of scones; a brooding George gazing far away into vacancy and Michael maintaining a cautious, watchful vigil of all three.

Charlotte, it seemed, was the only member of the party who was composed and in a good mood. Unbeknownst to Frances, Charlotte had suffered badly from homesickness in England, and was secretly relieved to be back in Hobart, just thirty minutes away from her husband's house in South Hobart. As Charlotte gratefully subsided in her chair, she sipped delicately from her cup of tea.

Frances stole a look at her silent young cousin. As she studied Charlotte's serene face, framed by a dark mass of dense fringe and uncontrollably thick curls, Frances wondered whether she too was attune to the ripples of discontent in the room. She had a strong suspicion that she did, but Charlotte was not, to say the least, a demonstrative young woman. Frances knew that any emotion her cousin felt was hidden behind her mask, the ostensibly impervious mask that had been inspired and sculpted by years of her mother's inattention and neglect.

Unfortunately for Frances, the rest of the afternoon's conversation drifted on as aimlessly as the clouds above them. Like Charlotte, Frances kept a silent vigil from her position near the window, and while she struggled to keep her weary eyes from closing of their own accord, she began to wonder what reception awaited her at Wintersleigh. She knew her cousin Agnes despised her—for reasons not entirely obvious to her—and coupled with the earlier altercation with her aunt, she anticipated a very frosty carriage ride home with the two women. Then there was the future to think of. Would it be possible for the two young cousins to co-exist under the same roof?

Michael's house call necessitated his hasty departure at four o'clock. Before he left, however, Frances thanked him for the hospitality he had shown her the night before. The truth was, she had been pacified by his earlier apology and was keen to re-establish their friendship. He received her gratitude with genuine friendliness, and by the time he left Rosewood, they were on amicable terms once more.

Some time later Frances, George and the Wentworth women congregated around the carriage, discussing arrangements for the following day. A game of lawn tennis was soon agreed upon, as well as a family meeting where they could plan Christmas and New Year festivities. It was at this point that Frances decided to tempt fate and speak with Agnes. They had not exchanged a word all afternoon, and Frances wanted to know Agnes's thoughts about Frances staying at Wintersleigh. Moving away from George's side—he had been unswervingly devoted to her all afternoon—she approached Agnes.

Agnes Wentworth was an intimidating presence at the best of times, but on this day she seemed particularly daunting to Frances. Agnes, as usual, was clad elegantly in the latest fashions from London, and on this day she was wearing a two piece sage green travelling costume, replete with a tightly fitted bodice and full leg of mutton sleeves. To complement her outfit, her hands were tightly enclosed in a pair of suede gloves, adorned with gleaming brass buttons, and her hair was rather formally drawn together into a bun and covered with a net. The overall effect was so bold and splendid that Frances was almost awe-struck.

'Welcome home, Agnes,' Frances forced herself to say. 'You must be very weary.'

Agnes surveyed Frances from under her thick, black lashes. 'Quite,' she replied, as colourlessly as the pallor of her cheek.

Frances could see that the conversation was threatening to become as starched as her cousin's travelling apparel, and she sought to get to the point of the conversation. 'In case you aren't aware, Agnes, your mother has invited me to stay at Wintersleigh. With this in mind, I hope that we can put the past behind us and start again.' She extended a hand to her cousin.

Agnes raised a contemptuous, manicured eyebrow at the proffered hand, and her coal coloured eyes seemed unnaturally dark with displeasure. 'I already have my friends,' she replied with a sneer, 'and speaking of welcomes, Frances, I have it on good authority that you've already outstayed yours.' She then turned gracefully on her heel, and glided towards her mother, the susurration of her skirt the only sound she made.

Louisa welcomed her daughter's approach with a smile, and draping an arm about Agnes's shoulder, led her over to the carriage.

Having received answers to all her questions, Frances now knew where she stood in the equation. An intense feeling of emptiness began to creep over her, and while Frances watched her aunt assist Agnes into the conveyance, she wished with all her heart that she had never uttered a word.

### CHAPTER TWELVE

Unsolicited Advice

That night Michael Brearly spent another restless night in his bed. His anxiety about his coming marriage to Agnes Wentworth kept him awake all night, and into the early hours of the morning. By three o'clock he had abandoned any efforts to sleep, and stole downstairs to get himself a bacon sandwich and a drink. For an hour or more he pondered his fate, until he eventually fell asleep at the breakfast table. Several hours later he was roused from his slumber by the sound of his brother's voice.

'Well, well, well,' George began in a playfully accusing tone, 'what do we have here?' He picked up the bottle of whisky that was on the table, along with a plate of crumbs and an upturned glass. 'I don't know about you, but this looks suspiciously like a bottle of whisky to me. Drinking it straight are you? Not even diluting it with soda water? Mmm? Well, my boozy man, what do you have to say for yourself?'

Michael groaned and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. 'God in heaven! What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be asleep?'

George chuckled to himself. 'By Jove, you must have had a rough night of it! You're completely disorientated. It's morning, sleepy head. Time to rise and shine, unless you're still fuddled, in which case I recommend you go back to bed.'

Michael propped his aching head up with both hands. 'What rot! I had one glass. One small glass only.'

'I believe you, big brother, but thousands wouldn't. Anyway,' George said more seriously, 'what are you doing here?'

'I couldn't sleep.'

'Is that so?' George queried, seating himself on the breakfast table. 'Why couldn't you sleep?' Michael made no reply. 'In a stew are we? Although if you're worried about Agnes, I completely understand.' He began picking at something between his teeth. 'I bet you were surprised to see her yesterday,' George said, removing his finger from his mouth.

'No, not at all. I knew she was coming home earlier, but she hadn't informed me of the date.'

'Well I wished I had been forewarned. I nearly had multiple seizures when I saw her. It was insufferable.'

Michael lifted himself up from the table. 'George,' he warned. 'Don't start this now.'

'Start what? I didn't say anything.'

'Now look here. I know the two of you don't exactly get along, but I trust you'll make every effort to be civil to her while she's here.' Met by an un-nerving silence, Michael gave George a probing look. 'George?'

'It's not too late you know. You don't have to go ahead with this if you don't want to.'

'I can't believe you're saying this to me,' Michael said, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Good God! What right do you have?'

'She's not the right woman for you,' George declared with unusual solemnity. 'You're making an awfully grave mistake.'

Michael's face began to colour with anger, but despite the intensity of his emotion, he remained admirably calm. 'Whether you like it or not, I will marry Agnes Wentworth in February, next year. Nothing you say or do will ever change my mind.'

'I don't believe you. I'll keep trying.'

'Oh, no you won't,' Michael said, rising to his feet. 'I won't let you ruin my chance at happiness. God, anyone would think that you're trying to sabotage my wedding.'

'What an outrageous thing to say! I wouldn't dream of doing that. Although if the truth be told—'

'Look,' said Michael, returning his chair noisily to the table, 'I'm just not in the mood for this sort of conversation at this time in the morning. I appreciate your concerns, but I don't understand you. I also think it's rather sad that after all this time you should still harbour ill feelings towards Agnes, when, to the best of my knowledge, she has done nothing to you.' His voice began to modulate. 'You haven't even seen her in years. How do you know that she hasn't changed since then? People change, George.'

As Michael reflected on these words, he became aware that his brother was dressed in full tennis costume. It made him conscious of the time. 'Good God,' he said, looking frantically about the room for a clock. He soon discovered that it was nine o'clock. 'B-loody hell!' he cried. 'Look at the time! They'll be here any minute now and nothing's been prepared.'

George remained unmoved at the table. 'It's all right, Michael. There's no need to be quite so fractious. I took the liberty of organising things when you were in your drunken slumber. Everything has been done, except for your clothes of course. You'd better hurry up and get dressed. As fetching as you look in those pyjamas, they don't show you to your best advantage.'

Michael looked at George in a state of pleasant disbelief. 'Thank you,' he said sincerely.

'Oh stop it. You're making me blush.'

Michael returned his brother's smile and darted upstairs to his room to get changed. Finding an outfit to wear for tennis was easy enough, but finding appropriate shoes was less so. After a few minutes of searching, he settled for his everyday boots. He felt sure nobody would notice. Once he was dressed he raced downstairs to the dining room, where his recently arrived guests had assembled. After the greetings had been exchanged the party sat themselves down at the table. As they were unravelling their table napkins George abruptly opened the conversation.

'Well, I must say,' he began cheerily, 'that everyone is looking awfully healthy this morning. And I'm pleased to see that everyone is wearing white for our tennis match.' Looking about the table, however, he noticed that Michael was dressed in a navy blue double-breasted reefer jacket and Charlotte was wearing a dowdy, heliotrope coloured tea gown. 'Well, nearly everybody,' he added. 'Why the reefer, Michael? We're playing tennis, not going yachting. And as for you, Charlotte, why are you wearing that purple get up? Breaking with tradition are you? Are you keen to start a new trend?'

'No indeed, Mr Brearly. I'm not playing.'

'Not playing?' George repeated with a scowl. 'Oh, I see. And what may I ask will you be doing while we're playing? Scoring? Retrieving the balls perhaps? I know they're not very glamorous duties, but it would be awfully appreciated.'

'Certainly not,' Charlotte replied, looking very put out. 'I shall be sitting the game out, like Mama.'

For some time only the sounds of tinkling cutlery and people eating punctuated the strained silence. Having an aversion to peace and quiet, George looked desperately to each person at the table and tried to think of something to say. He firstly looked towards Frances, but given that her mouth was filled with toast, he simply smiled at her instead. Once she returned his smile he transferred his gaze to Agnes. She was sipping tea from her cup and was doing her best it, seemed, to ignore him. George sighed and looked towards his brother. Michael had just dropped his napkin on the floor, and as he pulled his chair out to retrieve it, George noticed his brother's boots.

'By Jove, Michael!' he exclaimed, 'what's up with those shoes?'

'Not a lot,' Michael answered, returning the napkin to his lap.

'You're not going to wear those are you?' When Michael nodded, George added, 'but they're not very sporty are they? Or should I say very fashionable.'

'Oh, I am sorry, George,' Michael responded, 'I thought we were going to play a game of tennis, not model the latest fashions.' He began lathering butter onto his bread. 'I am wearing these shoes during the game, and if that shocks or disgusts you, well so be it.'

An irritated George leant over the table and greedily helped himself to three pieces of toast. 'So,' George resumed, with a mouthful of bread, 'who will be the tennis champion amongst us this morning?' He was greeted with a resounding silence. 'Agnes? Will it be you?' George watched Agnes with evident amusement.

'No,' she responded coldly. 'I don't think so.' She raised her cup of tea once more to her delicate red lips. 'I don't play tennis to win,' she declared over the rim of her cup. 'I play for the pleasure of it.'

George simply stared. 'Of course you do,' he muttered. 'Of course you do.' He sat further back in his chair and arrogantly placed his hands behind his head. From the corner of his eyes he noticed that Frances was smirking. 'And what about you, Miss Norwood? Do you play tennis for the pleasure of it, or do you play to win?' He looked at her hopefully.

'I play to win,' Frances answered.

'That's the attitude to have!' George replied, thumping his fist down on the table, an action that caused the cutlery to jump, and some of Louisa's tea to splash onto the tablecloth.

'George!' Louisa cried. 'Look what you have done!' She dabbed her napkin furiously at the tablecloth.

'At last, someone who shares my philosophy on sport,' George said, completely ignoring Louisa. 'Sport isn't sport unless there is some degree of aggression, risk and competitiveness in it.'

'And what about sportsmanship?' Agnes asked.

'Sportsmanship?' George echoed. 'Oh, no! I think it's awfully over-rated.'

Agnes looked displeased. 'Are you saying that on a sporting arena, whether it's tennis or cricket, that aggression should take precedence over fair play and gentlemanly conduct?'

'Yep,' he acknowledged in an equable voice. 'That sounds pretty much the case.'

'And what do you think about this, Michael?' Agnes inquired, watching her fiancé shrewdly. 'Do you think that one should always play by the rules?'

'Always,' Michael avowed. 'I couldn't live with myself otherwise.'

'Aw, what nonsense!' George retaliated. 'How can you accept the concepts of wrong and right so unquestioningly? If everyone played by the rules all the time, what a miserable existence it would be. We would all know where we stood, but we'd all be miserable just the same.'

Michael narrowed his eyes at his brother. Why did he get the feeling that this conversation was about something other than tennis?

'Regardless of how we choose to play the game,' Michael cut in quickly, 'tennis will begin after breakfast. Hopefully we can discuss the Christmas arrangements after the match.'

But no-one answered him. The tension from the last conversation was still palpable, and not trusting themselves to speak amidst such an atmosphere, they silently finished their breakfast.

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Tennis Match

It was a delightful Wednesday morning, exactly one week before Christmas, and Rosewood House was bathed in a festive mood. Under a blue sky, birds were singing nearby in the trees, and the small field of lavender was being caressed by the playful air. Under one of the estate's giant rustling trees lay a small and shaded expanse of green lawn, with its recently erected tennis net flapping about gently in the breeze. The harmonious scene was set. The conditions were perfect for a game of tennis, and all that was now missing from the picture, were the players themselves.

Just as Mother Nature was smiling upon the glorious prospect below her, George Brearly's warlike cry of, 'Let the battle commence!' bludgeoned the fragile tranquillity of the moment, echoing the words throughout the countryside, alarming his fellow participants and causing a scattering of birds in all directions.

'George,' his brother warned, 'I know you're dressed for a championship final, but this is going to be a leisurely game of tennis. There's no need to be quite so belligerent.' He followed his younger brother out to the makeshift tennis court. 'And do the ladies the courtesy of disposing of that cigarette. You don't know how vulgar you look with that infernal thing hanging out of your mouth.'

George ignored Michael's remarks, and clutching his beloved racquet and several balls, he took a running jump and dexterously bounded over the net, with all the lightness and grace of a gazelle.

As his brother had indicated, George was smartly dressed in his tennis costume, comprising a striped blazer, tennis-shoes, white flannel trousers and a peaked cap. Needless to say, George Brearly took his tennis seriously, perhaps a little too seriously. In this impetuous and rather agitated state, he had no patience for his fellow players, who were strolling towards him, chattering amongst themselves.

'Well, come along!' he cried churlishly. 'Time is ticking away, you know!'

'Why the hurry, Mr Brearly?' asked Frances, sweeping her plait off her shoulder and securing a straw hat to her head. 'Do you think the net will blow away if we don't get to the court in time?'

The tennis party laughed, including George, who always appreciated good humour.

'Very well, I'll be patient,' he said. He drew his cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply.

'Good!' Michael remarked. 'Now that George has done the unthinkable, and agreed to be patient, it's time to find ourselves a partner.'

Frances instinctively looked towards the doctor, hoping that he would choose her as an acknowledging gesture of their new friendship, but to her dismay, she found him singling out Agnes. Frances glared at them as they crossed the lawn and took up their positions on the other side of the court. She then caught sight of her aunt and cousin Charlotte, who were happily ensconced in their wicker chairs some distance away. For a fleeting moment Frances wished she was with them.

George, however, had bounded over to Frances's side, and whilst bouncing a ball off his racquet, he addressed her. 'Well, Miss Norwood,' he began jauntily, 'isn't this an awfully fortunate arrangement? I was afraid I would be lumbered with Agnes. Have you ever played tennis with her? She is an absolutely frightful player. Still, we can't all be as gifted as myself.'

'Perhaps your tennis skills compensate for your other personal deficiencies,' Frances suggested.

George chuckled. 'Quite possibly. Now, enough about my talent, which I hasten to add, is considerable. We need to discuss tactics. Should we formulate a plan of attack?' Without waiting for an answer, he went on. 'Going on past experience I find it useful to ascertain each player's weakness, which in Agnes's case shouldn't be too challenging. Once we know what their vulnerabilities are, we exploit them! What do you say?' Again Frances did not answer. She was too busy looking daggers at the doctor and Agnes to reply. 'Now,' George was saying in hushed tones of secrecy, 'I'm just trying to remember the details of Michael's game. It's been years since we last played together, but as I recall, he was rather weak at the net. Or was it his serving? All I know is he plays tennis much better than he plays cricket.'

'Perhaps, Mr Brearly,' Frances eventually replied, 'we should wait until we actually start playing. Then we can ascertain our opposition's faults, and make a plan based on the new information. I think it would also be beneficial to us if you extinguished your cigarette, not that I'm telling you what to do. It's merely a suggestion. If we're going to win, we need to focus all our attention on the task at hand.'

'Quite right!' George said, reflecting on her proposal. 'Well said! Yes, we'll do that.' He flung the stump of his cigarette to the ground and trampled on it, without giving it a second thought.

He then hurried over to the net and suggested to his brother that they have a pre-match practice session. Michael agreed with him, and as soon as George finished an elaborate series of muscle stretches, all four players started to play. After a short-lived flurry of sweeping racquets and erratically flying balls, the real game got under way, and it wasn't long before George's real temper on the court was exposed. Off the court he was a sanguine, charming young man, but on the court he was transformed into a particularly undesirable character. He was an exacting and pedantic player who was intolerant of the defects in the other players. Every point was played with such concentration and forcefulness that he soon became a formidable opponent and partner, disconcerting even Frances with his torrid and irrational outbursts.

As the game progressed, however, Frances began to suspect her partner of cheating. She kept these suspicions to herself and watched with increasing amusement as George's line calls became more and more outrageous. During one particular point, Michael's serve came dangerously close to the line, but being under the impression that his serve was good, he adjusted his glasses and began his next serve. The sound of George's voice soon brought him to a standstill.

'And what the blazes do you think you're doing?' George demanded. 'Even a dead dog could see that that ball was clearly out!'

'What absurdity!' Michael retorted. 'It was in by the length of my foot.'

'Your foot? You lying hound! I saw it with my own eyes, or should I say, we saw it with our own eyes. It was clearly out, wasn't it, Miss Norwood?'

All eyes were drawn to Frances. Given that she had not witnessed the serve, she was not the best person to ask for an opinion, but unfortunately for Michael, Frances was still smarting over being rejected as Michael's tennis partner, and without hesitation she made her reply.

'Yes, Doctor Brearly,' she declared, 'it was definitely out. A most appalling shot.'

George guffawed. 'There, I told you!'

'Well of course she's going to say that,' Agnes sneered. 'She's on his team. And as for your remark, cousin, it was not an appalling shot. To my mind, Michael positioned it very skilfully.'

'What would you know?' George retaliated. 'You can't even hold your racquet properly. And for your edification, Miss Wentworth, if one's serve goes beyond the line, then it is out. As for your benighted partner, tell him to get himself a pair of new spectacles!'

Muttering a derogatory comment under his breath, George returned to his position on the base line. In the background a disgruntled Agnes and her partner were deep in discussion. To keep the peace, Agnes ruled that the previous point was to be replayed and rewarded fairly, but she was powerless to do anything about the ill-feeling and swelling resentment that both sides harboured for one another. Despite Agnes's earlier outburst, she was now the only one who was in good spirits. As she had previously asserted, she played sport for the fun of it, and whether she won or lost was of little consequence to her.

Frances, in direct contrast, had had just about as much as she could take of her cousin's behaviour. Her calmness had bordered on apathy, and on many occasions, when Frances's shots seemed too difficult to hit, Agnes simply let them go through. Like George, Frances was an advocate of good, competitive tennis, and her cousin's lack of effort seemed to fly in the face of all Frances's exertions. She tried directing her shots to Michael, but being the gentleman he was, he persistently moved out of the line of the ball and encouraged Agnes to hit it instead. Again and again, Agnes left the ball well alone.

Finally, Frances's patience came to an end. She was still dwelling on her cousin's insulting remark from the day before, and resolving to get her revenge, she pounced on Michael's next serve. She directed the ball at Agnes with all the strength she could muster, and before her cousin could take evasive action, the ball struck the left side of her face with a sickening thud.

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Accusations

Agnes immediately let go of the racquet, and with an anguished cry, she drew both hands protectively to her left cheekbone. In the next moment, she lost her balance and toppled over, landing heavily onto the cushiony grass beneath her. It was rather an undignified exit for an elegant young lady like Agnes Wentworth, and to the amusement of her enemies, particularly George Brearly, she slumped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Frances ignored her partner's chuckling, and stared panic-stricken at her injured cousin. 'Oh heavens,' she cried, turning towards George, 'I, I think I might have injured her, or worse.' She made a move forward towards Agnes, but George's restraining hand on her arm stopped her.

'She's all right, Miss Norwood,' George reassured her. 'She's not dead. Well not yet, anyway. One generally doesn't die from being hit in the face with a ball. Agnes is a bit bruised, that's all. You never know, you might have actually knocked some sense into her.' He watched the distant proceedings with evident amusement. 'Oh look, big brother the doctor has joined her. She's definitely in good hands now.'

Sure enough, Michael had just reached Agnes's side, and was kneeling down beside her, examining the reddened cheek. By the time Frances and George crossed over to the other side of the court to see how Agnes was, a tearful Agnes lay cradled in Michael's arms. By this stage, Louisa and Charlotte too had sensed that something was wrong on the court, and abandoning their wicker chairs, had hurried over to where Agnes was.

'What happened?' Louisa gasped. 'Whatever has happened?' She cast Michael a sideways glance. 'Shall I fetch my bottle of smelling salts?'

George snorted a laugh and was rewarded for his efforts with a hateful look from Michael. 'Now, now,' George ventured, 'don't look at me like that. It was only an accident. Agnes was clearly not fast enough on her feet.'

'Oh dear,' Louisa added, 'why has my darling got a red mark on her face?'

'An accident?' Michael cried, ignoring Louisa and seizing upon George's words. 'What a load of rot and poppycock! Anyone could see that Miss Norwood hit her deliberately.' Having said this, he shot Frances a heartfelt look of disgust.

'Is this true?' Louisa whispered accusingly. 'Did you strike your cousin?' She too watched Frances with cold, censorious eyes.

Frances grimaced. 'I'm afraid I did, Aunt Wentworth,' she admitted. 'But I didn't do it intentionally! I, I was aiming for something else!'

'Come on, Nessie,' Michael was saying in a loud voice. 'Let's get you back inside, where you're safe.' He helped her to her feet and began brushing away grass blades from his fiancée's grass-stained gown. 'And as for you, Miss Norwood,' he said, wheeling around to face Frances, 'I'd make myself very scarce if I were you.' He then turned his back on her, and with Louisa and Charlotte in hot pursuit, proceeded to guide Agnes unceremoniously back into the house.

As soon as Frances and George were alone together, George spoke. 'Well I must say, Miss Norwood, that that shot of yours was a beauty. Not only were the timing and speed perfect, but the application and execution were superb. I don't think I could have done better myself. In fact, Miss Norwood, it has been quite a pleasure to have been your partner today.'

Frances stared at her tennis partner with incredulity. She was already smarting from the doctor's accusation, and George's comment did nothing to improve her spirits. 'Mr Brearly,' she began tersely, 'I hope you're not suggesting that I meant to hit my cousin. If you are, then you are mistaken.'

'Oh come now, Miss Norwood, there's no need to deny it.' He gave her a look of particular meaning. 'I saw that malicious glint in your eye before you hit that ball.' An indignant Frances remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. 'You had all the time in the world to hit that ball, and all the court in which to hit it into, and yet you hit it directly at her. In my book, it was unmistakably intentional.'

By this stage Frances was beginning to get quite angry. It was true that she had wanted to get revenge on Agnes, but her plan was never to injure her physically. She therefore did not appreciate George's inferences. 'Now look here, Mr Brearly—'

'Call me George,' George said smilingly.

'Very well, George. You should have been watching the ball, not me. As for my alleged tennis skills, please do not suppose that I have enough mastery of the game to be able to direct my shots where I wish them.'

'Frances,' he said with a laugh, 'you have exceptional talent on the tennis court, and I strongly doubt your last assertion. You hit that ball, like most of your other shots, with control and with the full face of your racquet. In fact I don't think I've seen a more energetic player than you. You were a delight to watch. I'm sure that my brother shared my admiration. Before you hit Agnes, that is.'

A servant, bearing two glasses of freshly made raspberry vinegar, interrupted the conversation at this point and handed them both a glass. As the girl retreated, George slurped down most of his drink and sighed happily.

'What an awfully good morning this has turned out to be,' he declared, using his sleeve to wipe away the perspiration from his forehead. 'Good, competitive, hard-hitting tennis, with a few suspicious line calls, a bit of cheating, and best of all, an injury and public humiliation thrown in for good measure. Oh, Frances, did you see that look Agnes gave when that ball impacted with her face? It was a look of horror, mingled with surprise. I can never thank you enough for that moment.'

As Frances listened to these uncharitable comments, her curiosity began to grow. She wondered what George had against Agnes and wondered why he spoke of her with such disrespect and disdain. She was on the verge of asking him these questions, but checked herself at the last moment, realising that the question she was about to ask him might be considered impertinent.

George noted her silence and sought to explain himself. 'I know what you're thinking, Frances,' he ventured quickly. 'You're thinking that I am an awfully cruel and callous man for wishing Agnes to be humiliated.' He looked towards her, earnestly awaiting her answer. She made him none. 'I'll take your silence as a 'yes' then. Let me explain to you why I despise Agnes Wentworth.' He faltered and began nibbling his bottom lip nervously. 'Agnes is a woman of contradictions. On the one hand, she can be charming, witty and generous—' For a moment he seemed to have difficulty in choosing his words and he looked away. 'But, on the other hand, she is one of the weakest people I have ever known, particularly when it comes to her mother. I can appreciate that they have a close relationship, but don't you think that Agnes is old enough to make her own decisions?'

Frances could no longer remain quiet. 'And is that the only reason you don't like her?'

'No,' he said quickly, swallowing the remains of his raspberry cordial. 'There's another reason.' He could not bring himself to look at her. 'Agnes Wentworth is the wrong woman for my brother. It's as simple as that.' Once his awkwardness abated, he addressed her again. 'Actually, Frances, I should very much like to hear your opinion of her. Are you fond of your cousin, or have you always had the desire to hit her in the face with a tennis ball?'

Frances stared. She found the question insulting, and while she took a sip from her glass, she thought about what she was going to say. It would not do to speak ill of Agnes at this point, particularly to someone like George. With him there would be no assurances of his discretion.

'I'm afraid I cannot answer that,' she eventually replied. 'I have not seen enough of Agnes to form an opinion.'

George acknowledged her lie with a smile. 'Ah, that will not do, Frances. You obviously do not trust me, otherwise you would have told me your real feelings.'

'Trust has nothing to do with it, now, if you'll kindly excuse me, I must go inside and make inquiries about my cousin's welfare.'

'I wouldn't recommend it. You heard what Michael said earlier. Do yourself a favour and stay out here with me. We'll have a single's match and then we'll return to the house in time for morning tea. By then, hopefully, Michael will have regained his composure.'

Frances considered his proposition. George was right. It was better to wait outside until everyone had sufficiently calmed down. 'Very well then, George. But I'm warning you. No cheating, otherwise I'll use you as target practice.'

George smiled. 'How dare you accuse me of cheating. I am most awfully offended.'

Frances returned his smile, and without saying another word, the young couple separated and made their way in thoughtful silence to opposite ends of the court.

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mounting Tensions

Michael Brearly stood silently by the conservatory window, looking in the direction of the tennis court, to where his brother and new friend were laughingly battling out the second set of their single's match. The sight of their frivolity, in the aftermath of Agnes's injury, struck a raw nerve with Michael, and while he debated within himself what to do about it, the sound of his cat Henry's meows diverted his attention. He instinctively moved away from the window, stooped to pick up his furry friend and planted a large kiss on the cat's forehead. For several minutes he stroked and cuddled Henry, until the sounds of approaching footsteps aroused his attention. He quickly looked up and discovered with surprise that a breathless Frances was standing in the room before him.

Michael's brow clouded. 'Oh,' he murmured, after an initial period of silence, 'it's you.'

Frances blushed and attempted to even her ruffled and disorderly hair. She did not reply immediately. 'Yes, quite,' she eventually said. She began looking awkwardly around the room. 'I, I've come to see how Agnes is. I trust she is a little better?'

Michael stared. 'I wonder that you are even asking, Miss Norwood,' he retorted. 'It's quite evident that you have little regard for your cousin's feelings.' He began to stroke Henry with more agitation. 'I didn't expect any better from my brother, but you, of all people. I would never have believed it.'

In the background, Dobson the servant had just snuck into the conservatory, and with a folded table cloth in one hand and a wad of table napkins in the other, he stealthily made his way to the table and chairs, where morning tea was to be served. As he bent over to set the table, he strained his ears to hear the conversation that was going on around him.

'I can appreciate your anger,' Frances was saying heatedly, 'but I can assure you that no malice was intended.'

Michael fixed his flashing eyes upon her. 'Perhaps, perhaps not. Only you and George know the answer to that one.' He placed Henry gently on the floor.

'I hope you're not suggesting that your brother and I conspired to humiliate Agnes. Good grief, Agnes was the last thing on my mind. To be perfectly candid, I was far more concerned about your brother's cheating.'

Dobson, meanwhile, had just betrayed himself by emitting a low chuckle. All eyes were now upon him, and before Michael had time to chastise the grinning culprit, Dobson hurried from the room, but not before clipping his head on one of the many hanging baskets that hung down from the ornamental stands they were attached to.

Michael dropped his voice. 'Oh yes, you must have been very concerned indeed. So concerned in fact, that you decided to play a single's match with him.'

Before Frances could retaliate, the mercurial George, with his irrepressible smile, bounded into the room. He ignored Michael and promptly set off towards Frances. 'So there you are,' he cried out triumphantly, 'my number one tennis partner!' To his surprise, however, Frances made no reply. She was looking awkwardly around the room. 'Hmmm,' he continued a little more cautiously, 'what's going on? I'm sensing some hostility here.' He thrust his hands into his pockets and glanced at Michael. 'Out with it, big brother. What has happened?'

'Mind your own business,' Michael fired back.

George pulled a face. 'Well, that wasn't very friendly, was it? I only wanted to help.'

'Help?' Michael repeated. 'You don't know the meaning of the word. Your middle name is hindrance.'

'Yes, well it's infinitely better than Percival.' He leant closer to Frances. 'That's Michael's middle name, by the way. Isn't it awful? Makes him sound like an old fogey.'

'Did you enjoy your single's match?' Michael angrily interrupted. 'I was watching you both from the window and it seemed as though you were having fun. I'm sure it would console Agnes no end to know that while she was in pain upstairs, you two were frolicking on the court.'

Both George and Frances were saved from making a reply by the abrupt entry of Charlotte, Louisa and Agnes into the room. Agnes was looking slightly pale, and was holding onto Louisa's arm for support. As soon as Agnes saw Michael she let go of her mother's arm and made her way over to him.

Michael greeted his fiancée with a sympathetic smile. 'And how's my Nessie?' he asked, gently taking up her hand. 'Are you feeling better yet?'

'A little,' she answered. 'I think it was more the shock than anything else.'

'Yes, of course it was dear,' Louisa agreed, watching Frances with an unfriendly stare. 'How were you to know that your cousin would play with such forcefulness?'

In view of the unwelcome attention she was receiving from the whole room, Frances felt the need to make a reply. 'I, I really am very sorry, Agnes,' she lied. 'I didn't mean it.'

Agnes pursed her petulant lips but was reluctant to say anything, as Dobson had made his return and was finishing off setting the table. Yet again he tried to eavesdrop, but when he realised that no-one was prepared to speak while he was in the room, he dejectedly made his departure.

'Well, I must say, Agnes,' George broke in, 'that you're looking very much recovered. Fit enough, in fact, to play the final game in the set. How about we finish the game after morning tea?'

Agnes simply stared. 'Certainly not! Nothing could ever induce me to play tennis again with either you or my cousin.'

Michael checked his laugh. 'Nessie,' he began, 'ignore George's raillery. He wasn't serious.' He then darted George a meaningful look. 'I trust you were just pulling our leg?'

George rolled his eyes. 'Well, of course I wasn't serious. Huh! What do you take me for? I may be many things, Agnes, but I would never persuade you to do something you didn't want to do. Besides, there was no point in continuing with the match. Frances and I won by a mile.'

'Oh really?' Michael queried. 'And how did you work that out?'

'Very easily, Michael. You just can't accept that you were eclipsed by pure talent.'

'By cheating you mean,' Agnes retorted.

George met Agnes's eyes freely. 'A means to an end, Agnes. It doesn't matter how you get there, so long as you win in the end.'

'Even if it means injuring members of the opposite team?' Agnes asked.

'It's certainly not an aim,' George resumed conversationally, 'but if it gets you the prize in the end, what does it all matter? Now don't look at me like that, Agnes,' he added, noticing the look of displeasure on her face, 'I'm only telling you what everyone here was already thinking. You have no-one to blame for your injury but yourself. If you had kept your eyes on the ball, instead of fretting about your hair or about the chance of breaking a fingernail, your mishap would never have happened.'

'George Brearly!' Louisa exclaimed. 'Watch what you are saying!'

'It's true,' George asserted laughingly. 'Face it, Agnes. You're not the most nimble tennis player in the world. I've seen snails move faster than you.'

'Right, that is it,' Louisa fumed. 'I do not want to hear one more word from you, George!' She pointed a menacing finger at him. 'You and your partner have done enough damage for one morning, most assuredly. Frances has already experienced the brunt of my wrath this week, following her exceedingly foolish escapade the other day. Don't let yourself be next.' She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself down. 'Now enough of all that. We have come here today to discuss Christmas arrangements, and I am not leaving until we have.'

Having said this, she haughtily migrated to the table where they were to take their morning tea, and sat down. Agnes and Charlotte followed suit, and a short time later, everyone had taken their places at the table. Not surprisingly, the ostracised Frances and George sat at a distance from the group, and while Louisa burbled on about the necessity of having a formal Christmas, George proceeded to dismember the leaf of a pot plant that was tickling the back of his neck.

'Is it just me,' George suddenly interrupted over the top of Louisa's voice, 'but does this room smell like dirt?'

Michael sighed. 'We're in a conservatory, George, and the room is filled with pot plants. What's it supposed to smell like?'

'I don't know,' George acknowledged. 'I was just making conversation.'

'Fascinating,' Michael replied drolly. 'Thank you for sharing that with us. Now, is there anything else you would like to contribute, or can Louisa finish what she was saying before you rudely interrupted her?'

George pretended to give Michael's question some thought. 'No, I think that pretty much covers it, although now that I have the centre stage, I just want to say that if Christmas this year is going to be a starchy, turkey eating, carol singing affair, I'm not coming.'

'What a pity,' Michael lied. 'How could we possibly cope without you?'

'However,' George went on, smiling at his brother's sarcastic remark, 'I have some ideas that I'd like to share with everyone.'

'If this is about that Christmas Day cruise on the Derwent River, George,' Michael said, 'then forget it. No-one's bothered.'

George looked rather put out and turned to Frances for some immediate assistance. 'And what are your thoughts on this, Frances? Do you like my idea?'

George's use of Frances's first name did not escape Louisa's attention and she was not pleased. 'Do not be so impertinent, young man,' Louisa said, directing her comment to George. 'You will address my niece as Miss Norwood.'

'To tell you the truth, Mr Brearly,' Frances ventured crisply, 'I don't care a fig about Christmas this year. I would be quite content to not celebrate it at all.'

Her comment had its desired effect, for within seconds the room was alive with the sounds of gasps of surprise.

'Not celebrate Christmas!' cried Louisa. 'Stuff and nonsense!'

'Miss Norwood,' Michael added earnestly, 'are you quite serious?'

Agnes folded her arms over her chest and stared menacingly at Frances. 'I think my cousin is just trying to be controversial, as usual,' she said in a withering voice. 'Just ignore her.' As she tossed her head, her fine sable coloured hair gleamed in the light.

In this instance Frances was trying to be controversial. She had always enjoyed Christmas, but at that moment her mood was too volatile to be placated. 'Excuse me, Agnes, I'll have you know that—'

'Ladies, ladies!' George butted in. 'Please! We're discussing Christmas arrangements here, not war. This is supposed to be enjoyable.'

Agnes opened her mouth to speak, but before she was able to reply, the sound of a loud meow startled her. She looked down and spotted Henry at her feet. 'Oh, it's that beastly cat!' she declared, moving her legs away from where Henry was sitting. She looked apprehensively at Michael. 'Michael, can you please get that thing away from me. I think it wants to attack me.'

'He's just being sociable,' Michael said. 'And anyhow, Henry doesn't attack people.'

'I don't care, Michael. You know how much I hate cats.'

By this time, Henry had jumped up onto Frances's lap and settled himself down. Frances smiled and looked over to Michael. For the first time since the tennis match, his face softened. Agnes intercepted this look and her face darkened. She quickly allowed the subject of Henry to drop.

An hour later the party gathered outside on the gravel drive, in front of Louisa's carriage. The Christmas arrangements had finally been settled and Louisa, as was to be expected, had got her way. Christmas was to be a traditional affair, with all the formal trimmings, and it was not without some degree of triumph that Louisa retired to her conveyance.

A disgruntled George, meanwhile, refused to accept defeat gracefully, and lapsed into a sulky silence. Frances was the only person he was prepared to speak to, and while he impatiently waited for the other women to finish saying their goodbyes, he pulled Frances aside.

'Well, Frances,' he began, reverting once more to Frances's given name, 'the day didn't turn out as I had hoped. And it had got off to such a promising start.' He let out a loud, theatrical sigh.

'Never mind,' Frances replied. 'We can't expect to get our way all the time.'

'No, I suppose not,' George lamented. 'Still I had a victory of sorts. The Boxing Day excursion to Port Arthur was my idea.'

'And what about the Wintersleigh Ball on New Year's Eve?'

George winced. 'Louisa organises that wretched thing every year.'

Frances heard Louisa call out her name, and realised that Louisa was ordering her to hurry up and get inside the carriage. She moved forward, and was just about to put her foot on the step when George offered her his hand. She took it willingly, but instead of him assisting her into vehicle, he pulled her closer to him and murmured in her ear.

'Before you go, Frances,' he said hurriedly, 'there's something I need to ask you. Agnes and the tennis match. Was it an accident, or did you hit her deliberately?'

'What do you think?'

George grinned. 'I thought so.'

'And as for your cheating,' Frances continued in a confiding tone, 'that line call we were disputing in the third game. It was in, wasn't it?'

'You bet. It was one of the best serves I've ever seen.'

This reply prompted laughter from both parties, and by the time the carriage trundled off for Wintersleigh a few minutes later, Frances was still chortling to herself.

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

An Unexpected Proposition

Frances, however, was to pay a price for her actions on the tennis court. For the next few days Louisa treated her with cold civility, and Agnes, who was still sporting an unsightly looking bruise on her face, ignored her completely. It was a lonely time for Frances, and in between avoiding Agnes, contemplating how to reply to her mother's letter, and scanning the local papers for a new situation, she was forced to endure Louisa's incessant chatter about the Christmas and Boxing Day arrangements, the New Year's Ball at Wintersleigh and Agnes's overseas sojourn. Frances was seldom included in such conversations, and while her deliberate exclusion from the Wentworth family's affairs embittered her, she was secretly convinced that she wouldn't be at Wintersleigh for much longer. With that in mind, she resolved to ignore her relatives' rudeness.

But it was the Brearly brothers' prolonged absence that concerned Frances the most. Since the Rosewood tennis match they had not visited Wintersleigh. Not even George Brearly, with his initial devotion to Frances, had come to see her. Frances knew that Agnes had been invited to Rosewood almost every day since her arrival in Hobart, and while Frances knew she had no right to expect such invitations herself, she nonetheless wanted to be included.

It was a sultry Friday afternoon, four days before Christmas, and Frances was sitting beside her aunt on the ferry, Silver Crown, en route to a garden party in New Town. The event had been organised by Mrs Edwina Ballard, one of Louisa's oldest acquaintances. Agnes, originally had been invited to accompany her mother to the party, but having been forewarned about it, and anticipating soul destroying boredom, she had prudently made arrangements to spend the afternoon with her friends at the Cascade Gardens in South Hobart. Frances was therefore asked to fill her cousin's place, and not knowing quite what to expect from the party, she cautiously accepted her aunt's invitation. Some of her uncertainty though, dissolved during the short journey across the river, and by the time she and her aunt arrived at 'Riverview,' Edwina Ballard's house, Frances was in good spirits and genuinely eager to enjoy herself.

The garden party at Riverview was an assembly attended by some of the richest and most successful people in the town. It was therefore an exciting affair, and the Ballards had spared no expense to make the occasion delightful in every way. When Louisa Wentworth and her niece finally arrived at Riverview, the house was awash with flowers, servants, jollity and conversation. In every room there was a flutter of activity, and a profusion of fashionably dressed women, resplendent in their smiles, voluminous gowns and colourful hats festooned with flowers, plumes and ribbons. Frances and Louisa's entrance seemed to cause no visible attention or disturbance to the other guests, despite the fact that Louisa was the only guest attired completely in funereal black. Even her diminutive bonnet, which was decorated with coils of chenille, was entirely black. As inconspicuously as they could, the two women retired to an empty corner of the room.

By this stage, Louisa was in a better frame of mind, and for the first time since Frances's escapade and the tennis match incident, she treated her niece kindly, something that had not escaped Frances's attention. Frances was pleased to note that they had talked non-stop during the ferry trip, and by the time they arrived at Riverview, Louisa was affectionately clutching onto one of Frances's arms.

A servant soon spotted the empty-handed women and offered them some chilled lemonade in a heavy crystal glass. Frances was thirsty and was just about to help herself to this appetising refreshment, when Louisa declined the maid's offer and rudely dismissed her. Frances spoke as soon as the indignant servant had withdrawn.

'But what about the lemonade, Aunt Wentworth?' she whispered in annoyance. 'I very much wanted some.'

'Edwina's lemonade is renowned for its acidity,' Louisa stated, without making any effort to lower her voice. 'I don't know what her servants do to it, but it certainly does not taste as good as the lemonade at Wintersleigh.' Frances smiled in silence. 'And furthermore, my dear,' Louisa said, fixing her gaze to the grandfather clock across the room, 'we have not got time for drinks.'

Frances looked inquiringly at her aunt. 'But if we're staying...'

'Staying?' Louisa echoed. 'Oh heaven's no. I have no intention of doing that.'

'But I don't understand. Why have we come all this way then?

'Civility, my dear. Keeping up appearances. Edwina was kind enough to extend us this invitation, and it would be most unseemly not to attend. So, here we are. We shall mingle for a while, get our faces seen, and then leave. I want to get home before afternoon tea.'

Frances was confused. 'That seems rather an odd thing to do. Leave just after we have arrived. Very impolitic.'

'No, Frances. Not impolitic. A necessity. I am afraid I cannot abide Edwina's company. She drives me to distraction with her chatter.'

'Am I given to understand that she's talkative?'

'Well not in the sense that she is garrulous, but it is what she talks of. She always seems to go on about her children and her grandchildren,' said Louisa with a sniff of disdain. 'It does vex me so, particularly when she constantly reminds everyone of how talented they all are.'

Frances was mystified. 'But I thought you were friends with Mrs Ballard. I thought you had known each other for years.'

'I have known her for years, but it doesn't necessarily follow that we are friends.'

Frances looked blank for her aunt's words puzzled her deeply. She remained silent, with her eyes resting curiously on her aunt's face. She was soon roused from her musing by the stately rustle of a gown in front of her. Following her aunt's glance she noticed that a tall and impressive looking middle-aged woman, dressed in rich folds of lustrous blue satin, was standing before them. It was none other than the mistress of the house, and as Louisa made all the necessary introductions, Frances continued to observe and admire her new acquaintance.

'Miss Norwood,' Edwina Ballard began kindly. 'At last we meet. I have heard so much about you. I understand that you have only been in Hobart for a short time.'

'Yes, that is correct, Mrs Ballard.'

'And how do you like it here, Miss Norwood? Does it not seem rather dull compared with Melbourne?'

Frances smiled engagingly. 'No. Not at all.'

'Oh,' said Edwina, returning her smile, 'I thought that the young people of today preferred lives of constant entertainment and frivolity.'

'Not for me, I'm afraid. I can say without hesitation that I prefer a quiet life.'

'Do you indeed?' Edwina asked, evidently intrigued. 'Well I must say that you have chosen a perfect location for a quiet life. You can't get much quieter than Hobart. Except Launceston, perhaps.' She sighed and glanced vacantly out the window. 'Still, you are in good company,' she resumed. 'My husband Wilfred is exactly the same. He has a great aversion to social gatherings. That is why he is not here today, I grant you. He told me he had business to attend to in New Norfolk, but I am not fooled for a moment.' She exchanged a friendly look with Frances. 'Now, Miss Norwood, bearing in mind your aversion to social parties, I hope you do not feel inclined to leave this party early?'

Louisa observed Frances's questioning glance and was compelled to make an immediate answer. 'I am afraid that Frances and I cannot stay for very long, which seems a pity, considering all the effort you have gone to. The house looks quite splendid. But really, with all your other friends around you, I am sure that you will not miss us.'

Edwina was not pleased. 'Oh, you have other plans then?'

'Frances and I have our Christmas shopping to do in town this afternoon. Having my niece and daughters arrive at Wintersleigh unexpectedly, I am sad to say that Christmas has been the last thing on my mind. I have bought no presents, or decorations. I feel exceedingly ashamed of myself.'

Edwina examined Louisa critically. 'Oh,' she murmured. 'Quite.'

'And we have an engagement later this afternoon,' Frances lied. 'My aunt and I are visiting a friend on the way home.'

Edwina was quickly mollified. 'Oh, well why didn't you say so before? There are not too many people in Hobart who prefer Christmas shopping to one of my garden parties.' Having said this, she gave Louisa a disparaging look. 'So, when will you be leaving, Louisa? It is just that I need a word in private with Miss Norwood here.'

'Oh?' Louisa queried. 'Well, in that case I suppose I can spare Frances for a few minutes.'

'Excellent!' Edwina replied, and without saying another word, she led the bemused Frances away through the throngs of women in the drawing room, down the hallway and into a smaller, book-lined room near the central staircase. Once the door was closed behind them and both women were seated, Edwina resumed speaking.

'Now I won't keep you detained for very long, Miss Norwood,' she began, 'because I know you want to leave shortly, but I just wanted to ask you a few questions pertaining to your work experience. I understand that you have been working recently.'

'Yes, Mrs Ballard, that's correct. I was a governess in Melbourne.'

'Excellent! Very interesting indeed.' Her friendly blue eyes twinkled. 'You must like children a great deal then.'

'Children?' Frances echoed. 'I, I...'

'It is quite all right, Miss Norwood,' Edwina assured, leaning closer to Frances, 'I can see that I am alarming you. Please do not be concerned.' Her smile grew increasingly intimate, and after a brief pause, she sat back in her chair. 'The truth is, my thirteen year-old grandson, Crispin, needs someone to help him with his studies. I wanted to know whether you would be interested in the position.'

Frances was confounded. 'Me?' she cried impulsively.

'Yes, why not? You are more than qualified for the position.'

'Well, yes I am qualified, Mrs Ballard, but, but how did you know I was looking for a situation? I feel sure my aunt wouldn't have mentioned it to you. She doesn't believe in women working.'

'Yes, I know what Louisa thinks about the New Woman. Incidentally, I do not share her old-fashioned views. No, a friend informed me of your situation. This friend also told me about your previous pupil. I understand the poor girl died before you arrived?'

'Yes, that's correct.'

'Most unfortunate,' Edwina remarked, folding her gloved hands onto the delicate folds of her gown. 'I imagine it has put you in a difficult position. Still, I am offering you the employment you seek. All I can do is give you the details, and let you make up your mind.'

Edwina Ballard then proceeded to describe her grandson in detail, adding in a confiding tone that Crispin was a refractory child at times, and that he needed the occasional firm hand, and someone to instil a sense of discipline in him. She then casually discussed the conditions of employment, one of them being that the governess would be expected to live at Riverview. When everything had been said, she looked at Frances expectantly.

'I know my offer has been rather sudden, but I wanted to arrange something as soon as possible. Well, Miss Norwood? What do you say? Will you at least consider it?'

Frances wavered. She was tempted to tell Edwina that she disliked children, particularly 'difficult' ones, but her desire to work at that moment over-rode any temptation to make that confession. 'Yes I'll consider it,' she said. 'It's a most generous offer. I don't know how to thank you.'

Edwina rose hastily from her chair. 'Please do not mention it.' She consulted her watch. 'Oh my! It is getting late. My guests will wonder where I have disappeared to.' She moved towards the door, with Frances close behind her, but just inside the doorway Edwina faltered. 'You know, when I was your age, I wanted to earn my own living and be financially independent. Unfortunately, my father was opposed to such plans. He thought it inappropriate for a young woman to be working. I had very few opportunities. But you, Miss Norwood, you have an opportunity before you. Whether you decide to take it or not, is another matter.'

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Death in the Family

By the time Frances rejoined her aunt, her mind was in a state of turmoil. Edwina Ballard's offer had come as a complete surprise to her, and as she stood beside Louisa she could think of nothing else. Louisa was understandably eager to hear all the details of Frances's 'tête-à-tête' with the mistress of Riverview, but Frances didn't quite know what to say. She could scarcely understand it herself. She eventually assured Louisa that the meeting had been of no importance.

'Stuff and nonsense!' Louisa declared. 'For Edwina Ballard to pay you, a stranger, such attentions, it must have been exceedingly important.'

Frances was saved from making a reply by Edwina Ballard herself, who announced to the guests that an assortment of edible delicacies was being served outside. The crowds of women around them began to disperse, and while they were making their way towards the drawing room door, Louisa grabbed tightly onto Frances's arm.

'This is the perfect moment,' Louisa whispered loudly. 'Come on, Frances. Start making your way to the front door.' She began shunting Frances in that direction. 'If we go now, no-one will see us.'

Frances freed herself from her aunt's grip and swung around to face her. 'Leave? Now? But Aunt Wentworth, we've only just arrived. We haven't even been here thirty minutes.' She cast Louisa a reproachful look.

Louisa frowned. 'Yes, my dear, and as far as I am concerned, it has been thirty minutes too long. The sooner we leave the better.' She was suddenly filled with suspicion. 'And why are you so keen to remain here all of a sudden? What could possibly entice you to stay?'

'I just wanted to explore the house a little more,' Frances lied.

The truth was that she was keen to learn more about Edwina Ballard. She could not possibly accept Edwina's offer without knowing anything about her and her family. She was therefore determined to remain at Riverview for as long as possible. The only problem she had now was trying to convince her aunt to stay. While she searched her mind for a plausible excuse, Louisa spoke.

'Explore the house? Mercy, Frances, what for? Once you have seen one house, you have seen them all.' She then leant over a nearby parlour palm and ran a gloved finger along one of the leaves. It was coated in dust, and Louisa inspected her dirty finger with disgust. 'Huh!' she said, blowing the dust away. 'That would not happen at Wintersleigh, most assuredly.' She looked critically about the room. 'Riverview has so little to recommend it, except perhaps for its short distance to town. Must be very convenient. If I lived so close to the shops, I imagine I would have bought all my Christmas presents by now, and I would not be in my current predicament.'

Frances doubted her aunt's sentiments, particularly her comments about Riverview. From what she had already witnessed, it was an impressive house with an abundance of rooms, all tastefully furnished and decorated. Every inch of the house, it seemed, spoke of wealth and refinement: from the elegant floral papers, antique furniture and crystal chandeliers, to the gilded frames in the hallway.

'Now come on, my dear,' Louisa resumed. 'I want to leave now.'

'Can't we just have something to eat and drink before we go?' Frances suggested. 'If I don't take some refreshments now I'll have no energy to go shopping with you. You'll have to carry all the bags by yourself.'

Louisa was in two minds. 'How vexing,' she said, 'still, I do not think a few minutes would hurt. Just mind what you eat. I do not want Edwina's friends thinking that I do not feed you enough.'

Frances assured her aunt that she would show restraint with the food, and exulting over her victory with her aunt, she exited the drawing room and followed some straggling women down the echoing hallway. Along the way she passed several young and middle- aged gentlemen who were loitering near the doorway to the billiards room. They were wealthy looking men, dressed smartly in an array of sports and tweed suits, straight stiff collars, frock coats and gloves, and as Frances walked by them, they appraised her tall figure with admiration. One gentleman, whose moustache was gleaming with Pomade Hongroise, even studied her through his monocle. Frances, of course, had little notion of her own attractiveness, and was oblivious to the attention she was receiving.

After stepping into the brilliance of the afternoon sun, Frances opened her parasol and made her way across the sun-dappled lawn, in search of Edwina Ballard. An initial search for the hostess, however, proved fruitless, and for some time she held herself aloof from the nearby throng. While she waited for Edwina to re-appear, Frances was content to stand beneath the shade of her spotted muslin parasol and protect her complexion. Louisa was soon at her side, and followed suit with her sunshade.

'Frances, my dear, just look at those gowns,' Louisa remarked. 'And those sleeves! My, they are getting exceedingly large aren't they? How would you be able to walk through an open doorway with those? I imagine you would need to walk through sideways. Very singular, not to mention impractical.' Louisa paused briefly to accept a glass of ginger beer from a passing servant. 'I know what you are thinking, my dear,' she said, answering Frances's curious gaze, 'but I have no intentions of drinking it. I just do not want to stand out in this crowd. Everyone seems to have a glass of something in their hands. When no-one is looking, I will fling it onto that garden bed over there.' She indicated a small bed not far from where they were standing. 'Looks as though it hasn't been watered in years.'

Frances, by this stage, was getting the impression that Louisa was jealous of Edwina Ballard and she secretly wondered what had caused the rift between them. Although she knew nothing about the particulars of their apparent falling out, Frances was inclined to blame her aunt for it. Frances's smiled at the conclusion she had drawn, and while she scanned the crowd for Edwina Ballard's elusive face, fragments of nearby conversations claimed her attention.

'Allow me to introduce you to Mrs Douglas Richards,' a woman's voice declared beside her. 'Mrs Richards's husband has just been appointed to the Hospital Board.' In the next moment another woman was announcing to her party that her husband was acquainted with the Governor, Viscount Gormanston, a declaration that was received by nods of the head and murmurs of approval.

Frances sighed and rested her back against an expanse of trellis that was smothered with thornless climbing roses. From her vantage point she appraised the bevy of women around her. As she studied them from afar, she wondered why these women, most of them well-heeled and educated, were content to be introduced under their husbands' names, and to let their husbands' achievements overshadow their own.

All at once Frances began to feel weary, and after hiding her face under the shade of her parasol, she closed her eyes. For ten blissful minutes her aunt was no-where to be found. When Louisa eventually materialised Frances opened a languid eye and studied her aunt's face. She noticed almost at once that Louisa was looking rather sheepish.

'Ah, there you are,' Frances murmured sleepily, 'I thought you had abandoned me.'

'To these people? Mercy, no! No, Edwina's friends are quite vexing. They are wealthy, but from what I have observed, they have exceedingly little taste. No, my dear,' she said irritably, stepping closer to Frances, 'I have just been down the side garden, taking some cuttings.'

'Oh, Aunt, you weren't!'

'I certainly was. I discovered a very singular variety of lavender. One I have never seen before. Now do not look so black at me, Frances. There was plenty of it, and I am sure that Edwina will not even notice. It is inconceivable that she should have something in her garden that I do not have.'

'And did anyone see you?'

'No of course not, and I made no endeavour to publicise it. But enough of this idle chatter. We must leave now. I want to visit Rosewood after our shopping.' She began to move towards the back door. 'When I was taking the cuttings I was fortunate enough to overhear a conversation between the Andrews sisters. Beatrice, in particular, has always shown an unhealthy interest in Michael Brearly, and she was saying to Henrietta that there has been a death in the Brearly family.' Frances gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. 'Now pray do not be alarmed, my dear. Michael and George are both fine, by all accounts. From the way the Andrews sisters were talking, I got the impression that it was no-one we knew.' She walked through the back door and entered the cool and shadowy hallway.

'Perhaps we should go to Rosewood first,' Frances suggested as she trailed after Louisa.

'Not until I have done my shopping.'

Just before the front door, however, Edwina Ballard made an unexpected appearance. 'Ah, I see you are leaving now. I hope your short stay was tolerable.'

'Very much so,' Frances said smilingly.

'Yes, indeed,' Louisa echoed.

'And what do you think of the garden, Louisa?' Edwina inquired. 'Has it not changed a great deal since your last visit?'

Louisa cast Frances a sideways glance. 'Yes, most assuredly.'

'And what about the new garden bed along the west wing of the house, Louisa? One of my guests informed me that you were particularly drawn to my new lavender bush.'

Louisa instinctively tightened her grip on her embroidered purse, where the spoils of her plundering were safely hidden. 'Yes,' she said faintly, a wave of hauteur beginning to wash over her features, 'I confess I was admiring it.'

'Well, I wish you all the best with your cuttings, Louisa,' Edwina said with a grin, 'although I must warn you that that variety of lavender is very difficult to strike, particularly when the pieces are snapped off, and not cut cleanly. You should have asked my gardener for a pair of secateurs. He would have been more than happy to oblige you.'

Louisa glanced longingly towards the door. 'You are too kind,' she said, without looking at Edwina.

'Not at all,' Edwina remarked genially. 'And now I must get back to my other guests. My parlour maid will escort you to the front door.' The maid was then summoned, and when she obediently emerged from the nearby drawing room, Edwina began to take a few steps backwards. 'All the best with your shopping,' she said, as she made her withdrawal. 'Oh, and Miss Norwood," she added, 'I look forward to hearing from you soon.' She exchanged a meaningful glance with her, and without saying another word, she turned on her heel and swept regally down the hallway to her awaiting guests.

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

George's Confession

Louisa, not surprisingly, was in an excitable mood by the time she left Riverview, and from the New Town tram-stop to the shops in the town centre, she talked scathingly of Edwina and of her 'vexing' guests. The shopping expedition only marginally improved her spirits, (although she wished she had brought a servant with her to carry her purchases) and by the time Frances and Louisa arrived at Rosewood, laden with innumerable parcel and bags, Louisa was sullen and unresponsive. George Brearly's appearance at the front door did nothing to improve Louisa's disposition, and after he assailed her with derogatory remarks about shopping and shoppers in general, Louisa was even more irritable.

'So, Louey,' George persevered, 'what delightful presents have you bought me for Christmas? Clothes? Cigarettes? Something to match my new lounge suit?' He cocked his head as though he was trying to read Louisa's thoughts. 'It better not be socks again, Louisa. You know how I feel about socks.'

Louisa subsided miserably into her chair by the drawing room window. 'I will give you prior warning, George,' she said, waving a finger at him, 'I am in no countenance this afternoon for your childish bantering. We understand that there has been a death in the family. We have therefore come specifically to visit Michael, not you. Now kindly fetch him for us, before I lose my patience.'

George simply stared. 'Well, you sure know how to make a man feel wanted,' he said, pretending to be offended by her assertion. 'Don't beat about the bush. Just tell me how you really feel.' He winked at Frances and propelled himself into a chair beside her. 'By Jove,' he whispered, leaning closer towards Frances, 'what's up your aunt's blouse?'

'She was caught stealing some lavender cuttings,' Frances explained.

George sniggered. 'Serves her right,' he muttered. 'Dotty old bat.'

Frances smiled. Unlike her aunt, she was in good humour, buoyed by Edwina Ballard's offer of employment, amused by the lavender incident, and strengthened by George's presence.

'Well, George,' Louisa ventured. 'Is Michael here or not?'

'I thank you for your polite inquiry, Louey, but I'm afraid he's indisposed at the moment.'

'Indisposed? And what exactly is that supposed to mean?'

'He's burying his cat out in the lavender garden.'

Frances gasped. 'Oh poor Henry!' she exclaimed. 'What happened?'

'I suppose you're bound to hear about it sooner or later,' George said. 'I am the culprit responsible for cutting short Henry's promising little life. I...er, flattened him with Michael's carriage.'

Frances let out a cry. 'Oh, how horrible!'

'Yes, it was,' George admitted. 'Awfully messy indeed. Still haven't cleaned the remains off the wheels. Doubt I ever will.' In the background Louisa was shaking her head in silent disapproval.

'And how did you manage that?' Frances asked. 'Cats are frightened of loud noises.'

'That's what I thought too. Apparently Henry is, rather was deaf in one ear.' He began nibbling his fingernails. 'I tried to explain to Michael that Henry had a noble end, but Michael wouldn't listen to me. He thought it was perfectly ignoble. Still, what can you do? I tried apologising, but he wouldn't hear of that either. He hasn't spoken to me since last night. That's when it happened.'

'I am not surprised,' Louisa remarked ill-naturedly. 'You are such a thoughtless boy.'

George's smile belied his inner annoyance. 'Well I can see that your respect for me is forever increasing, but honestly, Louey, you should learn to control your feelings. I know I'm irresistible, but I must tell you now that my heart belongs to someone else.' He glanced earnestly towards Frances. 'I proposed to your niece a few days ago, and she accepted me.'

Frances cast him a sharp glance. 'No you didn't!' she cried. 'And even if you did propose to me, I would undoubtedly reject you.'

'You would?' George said, looking rather baffled.

'I'm not ready to marry,' Frances explained, 'and what's more, I'd defy any man to put up with me.'

'I could put up with you,' George said, watching her with undisguised admiration.

Frances tingled with pleasure. 'It should also be said, Mr Brearly, that I have too much taste and sense to succumb to your charms.'

Louisa, meanwhile, had observed the entirety of this playful repartee, and was growing more uneasy by the second. She was well acquainted with George's disgraceful past associations with women, and feared that Frances was about to become his latest object. The last thing Louisa wanted was for someone like George Brearly to have designs on her niece. As chaperone, it was her duty to protect Frances from unwelcome and assiduous attentions.

'Mercy, George,' Louisa thundered. 'Leave Frances alone!'

'By Jove, keep your hair on!' George said, trying not to laugh. 'I was only having a bit of a lark.'

'You are not amusing when you trifle with people's feelings, George,' Louisa explained. 'Particularly a woman's,' she added, delivering him a meaningful look.

'I'm afraid to say,' George said, turning towards Frances, 'that there are some people in this world who are completely destitute of a sense of humour. Your aunt is one of those people.'

'And some people,' a man's voice interrupted, 'are completely devoid of manners.'

The drawing room occupants looked towards the doorway and discovered Michael Brearly leaning against the open door. His thin, summer shirt, slightly open at the neck, was smeared with dirt.

'George,' Michael continued, 'have you offered our guests refreshments yet?'

George rolled his eyes. 'No.'

Michael went across the room impatiently, rang for a servant then installed himself into a chair on the other side of Frances. As he sat down, he smiled tentatively at her. He was clearly pleased to see her.

'I'm so sorry to hear about Henry,' she whispered to him.

He smiled appreciatively. 'I'm glad somebody is.'

For the next fifteen minutes or so a desultory conversation ensued. Michael, for obvious reasons, said very little, as did Frances, who was still considering Edwina Ballard's offer. The afternoon tea was brought in, and as each member of the party helped themselves to tea and muffins, a distinct tapping sound was heard coming from the French windows. An inquisitive Louisa, sitting closest to the window, edged forward in her chair and peered out curiously through the glass. Suddenly, a face appeared through the window, and for some seconds she was staring into the eyes of another person. A startled Louisa recoiled from the sight of the stranger, and moved back so quickly from the window that she spilt the entire contents of her cup of tea down her gown. She let out a cry of pain, and in the next moment, the entire room was in uproar. Voices were raised, furniture was moved and handkerchiefs were used to soak up the tea stains.

In the ensuing minutes of confusion, George Brearly made a hasty departure, and when he returned to the room, he was accompanied by the blonde-headed Jack Maycroft, the muddy-faced miscreant, aged all of six years and three months.

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

' _Uncle Mike'_

'Uncle Mike!' the little boy promptly cried. 'I found a big fat worm under a rock!' He held out the squirming specimen for Michael to inspect. 'Do you want me to get you one?'

Michael groaned, before making his way over to where Jack was standing. He then put a firm hand on the boy's shoulder and escorted him over to Frances and Louisa. Louisa was still ruefully dabbing at her stained gown and seemed reluctant to look at the culprit. Eventually she fixed Jack with an ill-natured stare. Frances, meanwhile, was staring with amusement at the contorted worm in one of the boy's grubby hands, and was trying in vain to suppress a grin.

'Louisa, Miss Norwood,' Michael began, 'allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Jack Maycroft. This is my late sister's son,' he added, looking directly at Frances. 'Jack,' he went on, 'this is Mrs Wentworth, and this young lady here is Miss Norwood.' When Jack made no response to this introduction, Michael looked down at him with a scowl. 'Come on Jack, what do you say?'

'Would you like a worm?' Jack hazarded. 'I found this one under a rock, but I know where to get bigger ones.'

Frances began to laugh and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. 'No, thank you, Jack,' she said, trying to sound more serious, 'I don't like worms, but I'm sure your Uncle George would like one. He has an affinity with them.' Beside her, Louisa betrayed a thin veneer of a smile.

'Oh touché, Miss Norwood,' George said, impressed by Frances's riposte.

'Jack,' Michael interposed, 'nobody wants a worm. They're dirty and they belong in the ground. Moreover, I was trying to introduce you to some of my friends. I don't know whether your father told you this, but when you meet people, it's polite to greet them.'

'Huh?' Jack replied.

Michael sighed. 'And don't say the word, 'huh,' Jack, it's rude. If you didn't hear what someone said, it's better to say, I beg your pardon.'

'Oh,' Jack said indifferently. He began to scratch the side of his nose.

By this time, Louisa had managed to compose herself, and she had long since forgiven Jack for his earlier behaviour. 'How do you do, Jack?' she asked good-naturedly.

'Good!' he said, rubbing his eyes with a fist. He then tried to move away, but feeling his uncle's firm grip on his shoulder, he thought better of it.

'What a good-looking little boy he is, Michael,' Louisa observed, admiring Jack's pink lips, lively blue eyes and effeminately long and curled eyelashes. 'I do not think I have seen him since he was a baby. When did he arrive?'

'Yesterday,' Michael said, lowering his voice. 'Jack and his father caught the morning train from Launceston. It was a last minute arrangement.'

'And what about his father?' Louisa resumed. 'Where is he?'

'Daddy's asleep,' Jack happily declared.

'I've had to mind Jack all day,' whispered Michael.

'Correction, Michael,' added George, 'we've had to mind him all day.'

Michael ignored his brother. 'Aren't you going to apologise to Mrs Wentworth, Jack?' he said, trying to change the topic.

'Why?' Jack asked.

'Why?' Michael echoed, 'because you frightened her when you peered through the window. What did I tell you about looking through windows, Jack? I told you it was very naughty. Now come on, what do you say?'

'Sorry,' Jack said rather unwillingly. He then began to look around the room. 'Uncle Mike,' he resumed more cheerfully, 'where is your pussy cat? Daddy told me you had a pussy cat.'

Michael stared. A surge of grief rose up within him, and for several seconds he could say nothing.

Jack, however, took Michael's silence to be confirmation that there was a cat at Rosewood. 'Can I feed him, Uncle Mike?' he asked, lifting his entreating eyes to Michael. 'Can I feed your pussy cat?'

'There is no pussy cat here, Jack,' Frances gently declared.

Michael smiled gratefully at her, but said nothing.

'But Daddy told me—'

'I'm sorry, Jack,' Michael said huffily, 'but as Miss Norwood has just told you, there is no cat here. If you don't believe me, ask your Uncle George.'

Having said this, all eyes in the room turned coldly towards George. George, however, was picking lint off one of his trouser legs, and was completely unaware that he was the centre of attention.

Michael was desirous to change the subject, and dropping to his knees, he pulled Jack closer towards him. 'Now, what's going on here?' he asked, surveying his nephew's muddy attire with concern. 'We can't have your father seeing you like this, can we? I daresay he'll think we let you run positively wild.' He plucked some dried leaves off the boy's shoe laces. 'Why are you so muddy?'

'I tripped over a big rock when Uncle George was chasing me,' Jack explained solemnly, 'and I fell in some dirty mud.'

Michael looked reproachfully at George, but did not speak. He then extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing his nephew's face with it, trying to clean away some of the dirt. 'Did you hurt yourself?' Michael asked, looking at the boy with more tenderness.

'Yes,' said Jack triumphantly, throwing out his hands for inspection. 'I hurt my hands.'

'Where?' Michael inquired. He gently gathered Jack's hands together, and trying to ignore the worm that was now curled up and assuming a half-dead pose, Michael discovered that his nephew's hands were badly grazed. One hand was even bleeding slightly. 'George,' Michael said in a raised voice, 'have you seen Jack's hands? They're bleeding.'

George was now avidly biting his fingernails. 'Oh that?' he replied in a cavalier manner, 'that's nothing. They're just battle scars. Aren't they, Jack?' He winked playfully at his nephew.

'Yep!' cried Jack.

'How can you say that?' Michael declared hotly. 'Your nephew is bleeding. How could you be so careless? He could get an infection.'

'By Jove, Michael, there's no need to be so dramatic,' George said, beginning to nibble the fingernails on his other hand. 'It's not that serious. It just needs a little wash. Jack's a big boy and he can take care of himself. Can't you, Jack?'

'Yep! I'm a big boy now. I'm six.'

'Yes, well I doubt your father will see it that way,' Michael huffily replied. After getting to his feet, he swept Jack off the floor and positioned him on his shoulders. 'Come on, Jack,' he said, moving towards the drawing room door, 'let's go and get you cleaned up.'

'Can I bring my worm, Uncle Mike?' Jack asked excitedly.

Michael tightened his grip on his nephew's legs. 'On one condition,' he replied.

'What's that, Uncle Mike?'

'Don't call me, Uncle Mike,' he said through clenched teeth.

Louisa spoke as soon as man, boy and worm had left the drawing room. 'Oh Frances,' she began, her face beaming with delight, 'did you see how splendid Michael was with his nephew? Oh, what a father he will make!' Seeing George before her, however, the smile instantly froze on her lips. 'Which is more than I can say about you,' she said, ill naturedly. 'You should be ashamed of yourself.'

'Why be ashamed of myself, when you can be ashamed for me?' George replied with a grin. 'And anyway,' he said more seriously, 'what makes you think that Michael will be a good father? He doesn't even like children. Ask Miss Norwood.'

'Stuff and nonsense, George,' Louisa objected. 'What would you know?'

'Obviously a lot more than you,' George uttered.

'And what do you mean by that?'

'You Wentworth women are all the same,' George explained. 'You only see what you want to see. You have a romantic notion about my brother that is completely false. He doesn't want to be a father, and just between the three of us, he doesn't even enjoy being a doctor.'

Louisa was astounded. 'And did he tell you that?'

'He didn't have to,' George said, rising to his feet. 'I know dissatisfaction when I see it. He ought to be more truthful, not just to everyone else, but firstly to himself.' He headed for the door. 'I'm going out for a while,' he declared a little peevishly. 'I'd better finish cleaning the blood and fur off the carriage wheels.'

George slipped both hands disconsolately into his pockets and shuffled over to the door. In the doorway, though, he faltered and glanced over his shoulder at Frances, who was sitting quietly and reflectively beside her aunt. 'And as to your earlier remark, Miss Norwood,' he said smilingly, 'I don't at all have an affinity with worms. I'm not blind and I don't at all like being kept in the dark.' With that parting remark, his smile vanished, and he shut the door loudly behind him.

### CHAPTER TWENTY

' _Twas the Night Before Christmas'_

The week before Christmas passed slowly, as if time itself was dragging its broken feet. During this period, Hobart homes were filled with the delicious aromas of festive season cooking, evocative of childhood days, houses and Christmas trees were adorned, and Christmas cards, in all their abundance or scarcity, were being carefully arranged on mantelpieces, or in Louisa Wentworth's case, anywhere where they were likely to be seen.

On the day before Christmas, when expectations were running high, the spare rooms at Wintersleigh were fitted up for the guests, and as family tradition dictated, Christmas presents were wrapped, the house was decorated with colourful wreaths of flowers, and last, but not least, the Wentworth family Christmas tree was erected in the drawing room. Thanks to Frances, Louisa and Agnes, the tree was soon draped with rope garlands of tinsel, iridescent glass beads, gossamers, gelatine candy ornaments, silver and gilt paper stars and leaves, coloured candles attached with spring clips, and a myriad collection of coloured diaphanous ornaments. As a final touch, and at Agnes's insistence, pieces of cotton were placed along the tree limbs, to simulate snow. By the time the guests arrived at Wintersleigh on Christmas Eve, the house was glowing with light from the gasoliers in each room, and from the candlelight on the Christmas tree, playing gently about the ornaments.

Outside Wintersleigh's entrance, servants were unloading the luggage and parcels from the Brearly's carriage, and were going back and forth into the house like pendulums in a clock shop. As the guests made their way inside, they were hospitably greeted by Louisa who, having discarded her usual black attire for the festive occasion, was dressed in an evening gown of silver grey silk, with low set balloon sleeves. Her hair was dressed the way she always wore it.

To the hum of conversation and blithe cries of, 'Merry Christmas!' Louisa and Agnes led the Brearly brothers, a sailor suit clad Jack, and his immaculately, almost clinically dressed father, Thomas Maycroft, into the drawing room. Agnes, on this night, was attired elegantly in daffodil satin, with long matching gloves, and while the colour tended to drain the colour from her face, no-one, particularly the gentlemen, seemed to notice it. They were too busy showering her with compliments.

To his own mind, however, George had his eyes more pleasingly engaged on the tall figure of Miss Norwood, who was wearing a unique and very becoming velvet gown, accompanied by a long flowing caftan of beige-coloured cloth. Unbeknownst to him, she was wearing a Liberty tea gown, which was all the rage amongst some women in Melbourne's artistic circles. Frances's mass of golden hair was also beautifully dressed, and was bundled at the nape of her neck with several dainty clips, except for several strands of curly hair that were allowed to hang down the sides of her face.

'Well, well,' George cried, transferring his gaze to the others around him, 'don't we all look fetching this evening?' Nobody answered. 'Yes, very fetching indeed!' He returned his attention to Frances. 'We should have Christmas more often, don't you think, Miss Norwood?'

'Not at all, Mr Brearly,' she replied cordially, 'once a year is more than enough.'

George grinned and turned towards his diminutive nephew. 'And what about you, Jack, my little whipper snapper?' he probed. 'You're looking awfully grand in that sailor suit.'

'Daddy doesn't like it,' Jack whined.

'What?' George cried. 'What rubbish!' He leaned over and began tickling Jack under the arms. 'You're the best looking guest here tonight,' he declared, 'except for me, of course.' He stopped tickling the giggling Jack, and looked up at the tall and distinctive figure of his brother-in-law, Thomas Maycroft. 'What's the matter, Tommy?' George queried. 'Don't like the sailor suit?'

Thomas adjusted his spectacles and glanced derisively at George through them. 'Not especially, no.' He then plunged his hands into his trousers and looked away.

George sensed the undercurrents of hostility from Thomas, and he decided to remain silent. He had never much liked his haughty, scholarly brother-in-law, and as he studied Thomas's oiled hair, manicured moustache and gleaming shoes, he prudently decided to change the subject.

'Let's go and sit down next to Miss Norwood,' he suggested to Jack, and sweeping his blonde-headed nephew up into his arms, he carried him over to where a smiling Frances was now sitting.

'But why?' Jack cried.

'Because Miss Norwood is sitting all by herself near the window, and she looks as though she could do with some company.'

'But I don't want to sit over there,' Jack declared sullenly.

'Where do you want to sit then?'

'I want to go home.'

'You're going home soon, Jack,' George explained, easing himself into a nearby armchair. He then placed Jack on his lap. 'Until then, I'm afraid you're just going to have to put up with us.'

'I'm hungry!' Jack then protested. 'When are we having dinner?'

'You had better ask your Auntie Louisa,' George said, with a sigh of exasperation.

'When can I eat?' Jack called out rudely.

Louisa had just settled herself by the drawing room window, and looked up at Jack in surprise. 'You have only just got here, Jack,' she said reprovingly. 'Dinner will not be served for some time yet.'

'But I'm hungry,' Jack whined, rubbing his eyes, 'I'm hungry and I want to eat now!'

For some time no-one in the room knew what to do. Thomas, it appeared, seemed little concerned with his son's deteriorating behaviour, and was content to sit back in his chair and stroke his moustache. Frances, whose patience had already come to an end, was tempted to remove the child from the room, but it wasn't her child, thankfully, and she decided not to interfere.

It was Agnes, however, who eventually came to everyone's rescue. She promptly removed Jack from George's lap, and held him lovingly in her arms. She then suggested to him that they go and hunt for the chocolates she had hidden throughout the house. Jack's eyes instantly lit up, and in the next moment, he was jumping up and down with irrepressible elation—Agnes hadn't really hidden chocolates around Wintersleigh, but she vowed to reward him for his searching.

'Well, I'll be in that!' George proclaimed, rising quickly to his feet. 'Anything's got to be better than sitting around here and making polite conversation.'

Agnes glowered. 'Oh, no you won't, George. You had your chance. Jack is coming with me.'

George placed both hands on his hips. 'And what's that supposed to mean?'

'I don't know,' Agnes snarled, 'you're allegedly intelligent. Work it out for yourself.'

'There's no supposing about it,' George heatedly retaliated, 'I am intelligent.'

'Well if that's so,' Agnes quipped, 'explain to me then why you abandoned your university studies.'

George looked desperately towards Michael. 'I, I can explain!'

'I'm leaving now,' Agnes announced. 'This is no place for a child.' She stared stonily at George as she accentuated this last word. She then kissed Jack lovingly on the forehead, and swept triumphantly out of the drawing room.

When Agnes closed the door behind her, the room was immersed in a seemingly impenetrable silence. In addition to this, each occupant in the room was regarding George with censorious stares. To hide his discomfiture, George lowered himself onto the sofa.

'Is this true?' Michael finally asked. 'You're no longer studying?'

George began to squirm about in his chair. 'I, I think I might attempt a hasty escape at this point.'

'Stay where you are, George,' Louisa warned. 'Your brother wants an explanation, as we all do. Are you, or are you not, studying?'

George began chewing nervously on his fingernails. 'Let's just say that there won't be two Doctor Brearlys in the family,' he eventually declared.

'Oh, George!' Louisa cried, falling back in her chair with a disenchanted air. Beside her, Michael raised a hand to his head.

'Not that it's anyone else's business,' George added in a louder and more defensive tone. 'What I do is a matter for me and for me only. I have, and will always act, in a way that contributes to my own happiness. To be frank with you, I couldn't give a fig about anyone else.'

'Then why tell falsehoods?' Michael demanded, unexpectedly springing to life. 'Why didn't you say something when you arrived? When we asked you about your studies, you said they were going well. You even told us some of your university anecdotes.'

Despite the tenseness of the situation, George smiled. 'I'd only just arrived. I didn't want to rock the boat, so to speak. Besides, I gave up my studies an age ago. In fact, if I remember correctly, I only attended classes for a few weeks. Nearly fainted away during one of my anatomy lectures. It was too gruesome for my liking. When you really think about it, the human body is awfully revolting.'

Frances attempted a laugh, but admonishing glances from Michael and Louisa, soon wiped the smile from her face. Feeling fleetingly remorseful, she decided to ask a serious question. 'And what are you doing now, Mr Brearly?' she asked politely.

'Never mind that, Miss Norwood,' Michael cut in, 'do you mean to tell me, George, that you abandoned your studies three years ago?'

George reflected. 'Mmm, yes that sounds about right.'

'And what are you doing now?' Thomas asked, offering one of his rare pieces of conversation. Again, he condescendingly scrutinised George through his spectacles.

George looked about him expectantly. 'I have my own column in a well-known Melbourne newspaper.' He seemed impressed by his assertion and crossed his arms proudly over his chest.

'Are you saying that you are a journalist?' Louisa gasped.

'You bet I am. 'Barnacle Brearly' they call me. Once I set my sights on a good story, I just never let go.' He chortled to himself.

'And why does that not surprise me?' Thomas murmured under his breath.

'Yes, well I dare say my situation is more interesting than yours, Tommy,' George retorted. 'It's common knowledge that you scholars live in your own little sphere. It must be all that rarefied air. Just look at you. You're prime evidence that there is a place in the world where time stands still.'

'George Brearly!' Louisa cautioned. 'There is no need to resort to personal insults. We are all trying to come to terms with what you have just told us.'

Frances deliberated. Given her cousin's aversion to George, Frances wondered how it was that Agnes knew about his decision to abandon medicine in favour of journalism. She also wanted to know how long Agnes had known about it. She intended to ask her cousin these questions when Agnes returned to the room.

'And how is it that Agnes knows about your change in occupation?' Michael queried, as if reading Frances's mind.

George's eyes widened. 'I believe that Agnes, found out purely by accident,' he replied with hurried defensiveness. 'I, I can't remember the exact details, or when it happened exactly, but it seems as though a friend of hers read one of my articles. She then mentioned it to Agnes.'

'Then why didn't she tell me?' a nettled Michael asked.

'Well how should I know?' George shot back.

'And what does your employer think about you spending all this time in Hobart?' Michael inquired. 'Shouldn't you be working?'

'I am working, of sorts. I'm writing as a freelance, which means I get to scribble out a few stories here and there. I've already written three articles since I've been here.' He then studied the faces of each occupant in the room. 'You all pity me, don't you?' he suddenly demanded of the group. 'You pity me for being a lowly journalist, but at least I'm following my convictions and doing something I've always wanted to do, instead of doing what I am supposed to do. And do you know something,' he added, in a voice that was under better control, 'I'm the happiest I've ever been in my life. That's more than anyone else in this room can say about themselves. No offence intended, Miss Norwood,' he added hurriedly.

'None taken, Mr Brearly,' Frances assured him.

George drew in a long, deep breath. He then exhaled loudly as though he was purging himself of all his earlier frustration. 'Well, I don't know about anyone else here, but I certainly feel better. I've unburdened myself at last and I feel like a new man.'

'Good for you, Mr Brearly!' Frances exclaimed.

George's face brightened. 'Why thank you,' he said, rewarding Frances with a famous George Brearly smile, 'I appreciate your support.'

No-one else in the room, be that as it may, shared Frances's sentiments or voiced their encouragement for George. To their collective relief, the dinner bell finally rang, and the group was invited into the dining room for Christmas Eve dinner. They did not need to be summoned twice.

### CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

' _Tis the Season to be Jolly'_

George's unwilling confession did nothing to improve everyone's spirits on Christmas Eve, although, that being said, it in no way affected the quality of the dinner. Jack was unusually quiet, no raised voices or heated arguments were heard, and a combination of delicious food and meaningless conversation were all the ingredients necessary to make it a successful, but dull dinner. Following the meal, the party withdrew to the drawing room for an interminable evening of cards and music. 'Whist' was the first card game played, with George and Frances pitted against Michael and Louisa. Agnes had an aversion to card games of any description, and confined herself to the piano, where she played Schumann contentedly all evening. Thomas, too, was averse to cards, and preferred to sit in the background, reading a laborious book on theology.

'Look at him,' George said, directing Frances's attention to his brother-in-law. 'He likes pontificating about social behaviour, and yet he has absolutely no social skills.' He broke off laughing.

'Perhaps he just doesn't like what he sees,' an amused Frances suggested.

'How can he be so critical of us?' George resumed more soberly. 'We're fine specimens of humanity. Particularly in the get up we're wearing tonight. Don't we all look fetching this evening?' he queried out loud.

'Yes thank you, George,' Michael said, placing a card tersely down on the card-table. 'You've already made that observation once this evening.'

'Did I? Well so I did. Still, it's a fact worth repeating. Particularly Miss Norwood,' he went on. 'What do you think, Michael?' he said, fixing a rapt eye on his card partner. 'Don't you think Miss Norwood outshines everyone tonight?'

Michael lowered his cards onto the table and rested his gaze on Frances, who was sitting directly across from him at the table. The look deepened in his eyes as he appraised her, but he said nothing. Frances reddened under his gentle scrutiny.

'Humph!' George said. 'Don't mind his silence. I still think you surpass everyone with your beauty.'

'Oh do stop it, Mr Brearly,' Frances replied. 'Flattery does not suit you in the slightest.' Her grin widened. 'If you don't stop it, I shall hit you over the head with one of my slippers.'

George laughed outright. 'Well, well, isn't that charming! You compliment a woman on her choice of frock, and she threatens violence! Ah, these modern Colonial women. What is the world coming to?'

'Your world will be coming to an abrupt end, if you don't hold your peace,' Michael muttered.

'Just stop talking, George, and concentrate,' Louisa added. 'You have just knocked your cards onto the floor, by the way.'

Louisa then exchanged a look of exasperation with Michael. While George retrieved his cards from the floor, Jack, accompanied by a rather lax servant, was roaming around the room, prodding things he shouldn't, including clocks, ornaments, books, gilt framed photographs, and anything else that he could reach. On more than one occasion Louisa warned him to keep his hands to himself, but despite these remonstrances, he continued to explore, and much to her dismay, continued to touch.

'Don't you find card games rather tiresome?' George remarked to Frances a few minutes later.

'But Mr Brearly,' Frances whispered, 'we've only been playing for twenty minutes.'

'Humph. Well I wish we could do something more amusing.'

'What did you have in mind?' Frances asked.

'Pin the tail on the donkey, perhaps,' he suggested. 'Forfeits? I know! What about Musical Chairs?'

Frances beamed. 'Musical Chairs? You can't be serious!'

'I'm completely serious, Miss Norwood. Anything would be better than this. This is a waste of a good evening.'

'George!' Louisa warned again. 'Are you playing or talking?'

'Talking,' he answered.

'I can see that,' she replied tersely. 'We, however, are trying to play. So if you don't mind, we would prefer it if you kept quiet.'

George ignored Louisa and turned to Frances with a smile. 'I know what I'll do. I'll give you a rendition of a famous Shakespearean soliloquy. I'll recite the line, and you have to name the play it came from.'

'Go on then.'

Before George gave the beginnings of the famous speech, however, Louisa's raised voice echoed around the room. 'Jack!' she chided, 'please do not touch that!'

George snickered. When he had managed to compose himself, he looked in Louisa's direction and declared in a deliberately affected voice: 'Frailty thy name is woman...'

'Right, that is it!' Louisa pronounced with a flash of anger. 'I have had enough of this.' She rose to her feet and placed her hands on her hips.

Louisa's sudden outburst had the desired effect, for Agnes's nimble fingers instantly faltered at the piano, one of Jack's little hands froze on Louisa's favourite vase, and even Thomas Maycroft, who by this stage was in a transient doze, looked up to see what was going on. All eyes anxiously turned to the mistress of Wintersleigh.

'Ever since we started this game,' Louisa said coldly, 'you two have done nothing but talk.' She gave George and Frances a thorny look. 'It is exceedingly discourteous, and I for one refuse to play another minute with people who seem so disinclined to play seriously. We therefore shall play no more.'

Michael too, rose to his feet, and after trying in vain to dissuade Louisa from her resolution, diplomatically suggested that it was time for some music, for, as he reasoned, who could have any serious objection to music? As it so happened, George did, but after the treatment he had just received from Louisa Wentworth, he thought it in his best interests to keep quiet.

After some purely instrumental pieces, singers were called upon. For the rest of the evening, solos and duets were sung much to Louisa's delight, whose spirits had improved slowly throughout the night. Everyone except Jack and Frances sang. Jack, by this stage, was fast asleep in his father's arms, and was spread out like a little star fish. Frances, on the other hand, was conscious of her own musical ignorance and lack of talent, and thought it best not to torment her aunt's guests. Overall, Michael Brearly was by far the most competent singer, and despite George's taunts that he sounded like a fog horn, was able to complete two songs and receive rapturous applause for his efforts.

Following his successful performance, Michael settled himself on an easy chair beside the Christmas tree. His musical exertions had wearied him more than he initially realised, and he closed his eyes, hoping to get at least ten minutes of respite. Not even one minute later the sounds of women's screams woke him from his nap and forced him to get to his feet.

'What is it?' he cried. 'What's the matter?'

'There's a spider, Michael,' Agnes said tremulously, from her position by the piano.

'And a big furry one at that,' George added. 'Look at it,' he said, pointing to the giant huntsman on the floral summer curtains, 'you could get a fur coat out of that one.'

Michael simply stared. 'Is that all? Good God, I thought someone was being murdered.' He huffily returned to his seat.

'Well don't just sit there, Michael,' Louisa said. 'Something must be done about it, most assuredly.'

Michael groaned. 'And what am I supposed to do, Louisa? It's not doing anyone any harm.'

'Not physical harm, perhaps,' Agnes retorted, 'but what about our peace of mind?'

Michael was growing more exasperated by the moment. 'If it worries you so much, Agnes,' he said tersely, 'get a servant to take care of it.'

'For pity's sake,' George interrupted, 'let me sort it out. I'm not afraid of being outsmarted by a mere spider.' He promptly removed one of his shoes, and holding it in his hands, approached the spider menacingly.

'No!' Louisa shrieked. 'Not my curtains! They are probably worth more than your yearly salary.'

At that moment the spider jumped from the curtains onto the floor, and began scuttling towards Agnes near the piano. Her screams woke Jack from his sleep, and as he too was terrified of spiders, promptly burst into tears. Thomas meanwhile, watched the proceedings with stony faced bemusement.

'Whoa, there he goes!' George clamoured. 'Right towards Miss Wentworth!'

Agnes screamed again. 'Oh I hate you, George Brearly. I honestly do. You herded that thing in my direction.' She then darted away from the piano, and stood beside her mother.

At last, Michael could take no more, and rising from his chair, walked over to the door. 'I'm off,' he declared to anyone who would listen to him. 'I've got a house call to make.'

The party, however, was too engrossed with the spider's movements to take heed of Michael's words, and they certainly didn't notice him when he withdrew from the room. He encountered no-one on his way out of the house, and as he made his escape out the front door he could hear the background sounds of the drawing room commotion echoing loudly down the hallway. Once he was outside, he sat wearily on one of Wintersleigh's front steps and drew both hands to his head. His mind was fraught with Henry's death, George's confession, and the fact that both George and Agnes had failed to inform him of George's change of occupation. Jack's deteriorating behaviour was also a concern. Yesterday Michael had caught him smearing muddy handprints on the downstairs windows, and this morning Jack had placed dead worms in Michael's favourite pair of shoes.

Michael heaved a sigh. If this was a sign of what was to come, he did not relish the future.

### CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Christmas Day

To the universal satisfaction of Hobartians, Christmas morning greeted Hobart with sun, blue skies and chirping birds. Little Jack Maycroft took a special delight in this, and since dawn of that morning he had been tarrying near the window, in an attempt to catch the elusive Santa Claus flying across the brilliant morning sky. In vain the pyjama-clad boy had waited, and by the time George Brearly discovered him later that morning by the fireplace, he was looking particularly glum.

'Jack,' George said, falling onto his knees before the child, 'why are you so sad, my little whipper snapper?'

'Santa didn't come, Uncle George,' the child declared mournfully. 'Daddy said that Santa would come down the chimney, but I've been waiting here forever, and he didn't come!' He began sniffling.

'Do you know how many chimneys there are at Wintersleigh, Jack? Perhaps he came down another one this year.'

'No!' cried the distraught boy. 'Daddy said he'd come down this chimney!' Tears began to course down his cheeks. 'He forgot about me, Uncle George!' Jack exclaimed. 'How could he forget me? I wrote him a letter, and everything!' The last part of his sentence was muffled by a sob. 'I told him not to visit me at Daddy's house, 'coz I'd be here.'

'I see,' was all George could say. For the first time in his life, it seemed, George Brearly was lost for words. He looked helplessly into his nephew's pleading eyes. 'Santa moves in mysterious ways, Jack,' he said at last.

Jack was clearly disappointed by this assertion, but just before he burst into a fresh round of tears, the shrill voice of Louisa Wentworth roused him from his miseries. He looked up hopefully and saw Louisa standing near the drawing room door.

'Jack!' she cried with an unusual display of enthusiasm, 'have you seen what is on the end of your bed? Have you seen what Santa has brought you?'

Again Jack was confused, but when the penny finally dropped, he let out a squeal of joy and darted upstairs to his room, which he shared with his father. Minutes later, he raced downstairs with his beloved, yet modest present in his arms. He proudly showed it to George and Louisa.

'Well, who is a lucky boy, then?' Louisa asked, secretly mystified by the meagreness of Jack's gift: a tiny wooden rocking horse.

Jack said nothing. He had just spotted the other presents under the Christmas tree, and he was eager to get his hands on them. 'When do I get to open the other presents?' he asked, quickly casting his father's present aside on a nearby table.

'Now, now, my little man,' George remonstrated, 'don't be too greedy.'

'When can I have the other presents?' Jack repeated, ignoring his uncle and looking up expectantly at Louisa.

'Not until everyone else has risen from bed and has had their breakfast.'

Armed with this new knowledge, Jack dashed towards the staircase. Climbing the stairs as fast as his little legs could carry him, he burst into the rooms of each sleeping occupant, and attempted to rouse them with the cries of, 'Wake up or I won't get my presents!'

Not surprisingly, this blatant type of persuasion had little or no effect on the people he was trying to drag out of bed. His father, for one, took no interest in his son's impetuous behaviour. 'You're breathing in my ear,' he murmured through an abundance of sheets, 'now get out!'

Frances, however, had a more creative way to combat Jack's behaviour. She feigned sleep throughout the duration of the onslaught, and to her relief, Jack quickly lost interest with her.

Jack was in no way discouraged by his unsuccessful encounter with Frances and scampered jauntily along the corridor until he reached the next room. Unwittingly, he entered the doctor's bed-chamber. If he had been expecting any form of cooperation from the normally placid Doctor Brearly at seven o'clock in the morning, little Jack Maycroft was to be sadly mistaken. In what was now a well-rehearsed performance, Jack catapulted himself onto Michael's bed, and began to shake the bed's occupant.

Michael woke quickly from his slumber, and spotting Jack through his sleepy eyes, he groaned and rolled over to the other side of the bed. Jack, however, was not at all perturbed by his uncle's indifference. He continued shaking him.

'Wake up, Uncle Mike!' Jack shouted. 'Get up now or I won't get my...'

In the blink of an eye, Michael sat up in his bed and grabbed a firm hold of Jack's pyjama collar. 'Now listen to me, you little terror,' he began, 'my name is Uncle Michael, not Uncle Mike.'

'But Uncle George told me to call you Uncle Mike,' Jack explained.

After a moment of consideration Michael loosened his grip slightly on his nephew's collar. 'I don't care what your Uncle George said. I know what my name is, and that's all that matters.'

At this point, Jack caught sight of Michael's ruffled hair. It was standing on end as though it had been buffeted by cyclonic winds. Jack broke down into a fit of giggles. 'You look like a rooster, Uncle Mike!' he squalled excitedly.

Michael again tightened his grip on Jack's collar. 'Call me Uncle Mike again,' Michael warned, 'and I swear to God, Jack, I'll rip your arm off and hit you with it! Now leave me in peace!'

Jack stared. 'You wait 'til I tell Daddy about you,' he said, his lip quivering with emotion.

'Please yourself,' Michael retorted, 'and while you're at it, give my regards to your father.'

Jack burst into tears. 'I hate you!' he screamed, and without looking back, fled from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

'God, I hate Christmas!' Michael muttered, and with a loud sigh, he fell back onto his pillows.

### CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Agnes speaks her mind

As Agnes Wentworth gazed out of the drawing room window, a sullen Jack Maycroft sat cross-legged on the floor under the Christmas tree, nibbling on a mince pie and prodding one of the colourfully wrapped Christmas presents with a careless and inquisitive finger. George Brearly sat on the floor next to Jack and watched his nephew. For several minutes nothing was said. But when Jack started to shake one of the presents violently, George was compelled to speak.

'Don't do that, Jack,' he said reproachfully. 'You're irritating me.'

'But the presents, Uncle George. I want to find out what's in 'em.'

George smiled. 'Well, why didn't you say so, you little duffer?' he said, sidling up to his nephew. 'If you want to know what's inside the package, you don't do that. Watch me and take advice from a seasoned professional.' He dropped a small present onto his own lap. 'Now, before I show you the tricks of the trade I'll...' The entrance of his brother, smartly attired in morning dress, caused him to falter. 'Merry Christmas, big brother!' George cried, as Michael crossed the room towards Agnes.

'Is it?' Michael muttered over his shoulder.

George grinned and looked down at his nephew. 'Well, well, it's not hard to see who didn't get any presents on the foot of their bed,' he whispered. 'Someone's clearly in a stew.'

Jack giggled and stared malevolently at his bully of an uncle.

Agnes, meanwhile, had noticed Michael's approach, and had swung around to face him. Her face was stern and unwelcoming. 'I want to talk with you,' she said with unusual solemnity.

'Can't it wait?' he said, a little too carelessly. 'I want to get my breakfast.'

'No, it cannot wait.'

'I see,' Michael said, growing a little curious. 'Is anything wrong?'

'Could you two please leave the room?' she asked, addressing Jack and George. 'I want to talk to Michael, alone.'

George pulled a face. 'Leave the room, just so that you can talk with Michael? Not on your life, Agnes. If you want to talk with my brother, I suggest you speak to him elsewhere.'

'George,' she said coldly, 'will you get off your high horse for just one moment. Please?'

'Certainly not,' George objected, 'especially now that you've dragged my high horse into it. And anyway, I was here first, Agnes Wentworth. I know my rights.'

'George,' Michael urged gently. 'Please leave us alone.'

George was still reluctant to leave, but didn't want to test Agnes's fragile patience. Besides, he thought, as he was making his departure, he could always eavesdrop from outside the door! 'Come on, Jack,' he said, encircling his nephew with his arms, 'we know when we're not wanted.' They then withdrew from the room.

Once the door was shut, Agnes spoke. 'I've just had a little talk with Jack,' she began.

'Oh yes,' said Michael, anxiously adjusting his necktie.

'A very interesting talk, actually. He was telling me that you threatened to smack him. He said, and these were his words, Michael, that you'd rip off his head and then hit him. Did you say that?' Michael was speechless. 'It's an easy question to answer. Either you did, or you didn't threaten him.'

'What rot!'

Agnes looked relieved. 'So you didn't say that then?'

'No, I did not. What I did say to him was that if he kept calling me Uncle Mike, I'd rip off his arm and hit him with it. There's a distinct difference.'

'Oh, Michael! How could you be so beastly to him?'

'Good God, Agnes. I was only bluffing. You know I would never strike a child, and I think that under the circumstances, I was perfectly entitled to say what I did. Did you see what he was up to this morning? He climbed over my bed, literally climbed over my bed. As it is, I'm only getting about three hours of sleep a night, and the last thing I wanted was for some child to wake me up, for no good reason. In all sincerity, his behaviour was disgraceful. I can't believe that Thomas didn't put a stop to it.'

'Michael, we're not talking about Thomas,' Agnes responded heatedly. 'We're talking about you. Is that how you normally treat children?'

'Yes, if they are as badly behaved as him. And as for Jack, I don't regret what I said to him. It's about time someone showed him a bit of discipline.'

'Do you call that discipline? For heaven's sake, you threatened to hurt a child! No wonder he came to me in tears. I am absolutely appalled by your behaviour.'

Michael stared. 'Appalled with me? But why? What have I done? I wasn't the one crawling over people's beds at seven o'clock in the morning and maliciously waking them up.'

'He's a little boy, Michael, and it's Christmas morning. He was excited. You, however, don't have that excuse.'

'What are you talking about?'

'This isn't just about Jack. Ever since I came home from England, you've been avoiding me.'

'Oh, here we go. You're really determined to pick a fight with me this morning, aren't you? On Christmas Day, of all days.'

'I do not want to pick a fight with you. I'm just stating facts. Apart from that hideous tennis match, you haven't invited me to Rosewood once. Mama and Frances don't know that of course. They think I've been seeing you every day, when I have, in fact, been visiting my other friends.'

'I've been very busy,' Michael returned pointedly.

'I imagine you've seen Frances more than you've seen me.'

Michael rolled his eyes. 'You know that's not true.'

'I know about that night she stayed at Rosewood, Michael. Mama told me all about it.'

'And where in heaven's name was she supposed to stay? I couldn't take her back to Wintersleigh. I had an urgent house call to make.'

Agnes pouted. 'I notice you get on well with her, apart from that business with the tennis match. You seem to have become friends, of sorts.'

'I've had enough of this conversation. I'm tired and hungry, and I'm in no fit state to discuss something so absurd. If we must talk about this at all, let's do it later.'

'Later? When? You know that we're going for a walk with Mama after breakfast.'

'Well, I don't know then. It will be some time today.'

'No it won't,' she said with emphasis. 'I know you too well. You like avoiding disagreeable issues.' Michael remained silent. 'Why can't we talk about this now? We're alone. We have this room to ourselves, with no fear of intrusion. This is the perfect time to talk to each other.'

'There'll be plenty of time,' Michael said hastily over the top of the breakfast bell. 'I promise you, but not now.' He began walking towards the door.

'Whatever is the matter with you?' Agnes demanded.

Michael faltered at the door. 'What do you mean?' he said a little too quickly.

'Ever since my return from England, you've been behaving differently. Take last night, for instance. When I asked you to catch that spider for me, you did nothing. Absolutely nothing. A year ago, you would have disposed of it without thinking twice.'

'If I understand you correctly,' Michael began slowly, 'you are judging my constancy of character, purely on my willingness to catch a spider.'

Agnes stared. 'Don't mock me,' she retorted. 'I was just giving you one example. If you want more evidence, I'll oblige you by giving it.' Michael's reluctant nod impelled her to continue. 'I don't quite know where to begin. Your temperament, to begin with, has changed. You're not as tolerant and understanding as you've been in the past, and I cannot account for your fluctuating moods. Putting this simply, I'm worried about you, and I want to know what is wrong.'

Michael looked away. 'Nothing,' he replied rather evasively. 'Nothing's the matter.'

'Last night, Michael, when you thought nobody was watching you, I began studying your face, trying to read your thoughts. Most of the time you were just staring into space, but occasionally I saw your brows furrowed, as though your thoughts were disturbed.'

'That was probably just my reaction to George's singing,' Michael said, trying to lighten the mood.

'And then that spider appeared, and instead of coming to my aid, you just looked at me as though I was being hysterical and foolish. You then left the room.' She intensified her appraisal of him. 'If your love for me has cooled, Michael,' she whispered, 'then you must tell me at once.'

Michael shook his head resolutely. 'What rot and absurdity! Of course it hasn't.'

'Then what is it? What else has changed?'

'Nothing has changed, Agnes,' he reaffirmed. He smiled reassuringly, despite the confusion and doubt now surging within him. 'Now I must go. I shall see you at breakfast.'

Agnes continued to stare at the door long after Michael had closed it. His hasty retreat had greatly disconcerted her, as did the suspicion that he had not truthfully answered her last question.

### CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Dashed hopes

Following breakfast the party made their way to church. Instead of taking the main road they took a quicker, more secluded route, walking beneath gigantic gum trees, around blossoming heath shrubs and along an uneven path fringed with tea tree and native mint. During this scenic walk, George had steadfastly remained by Frances's side, and as he lit a fresh cigarette, he unexpectedly addressed her.

'Have you heard the latest about Agnes and Michael?' he asked, making no attempt to lower his voice. 'They've had a falling out.'

Frances looked startled. 'And how do you know that?' she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

'Didn't you notice the way Michael was spearing his pork pie at breakfast?' Turning his head to the side, he exhaled a breath of smoke into the air. 'Not that he ate it, mind you. He didn't eat a morsel.'

'And is that the only evidence you have? I'm afraid I don't consider your logic very sound.'

'All right then. I'll lay my cards on the table. I know that they argued, because I was eavesdropping outside the door,' he smilingly conceded.

'You didn't!'

'I most certainly did. I know this statement wouldn't stand up in a court of law, but as Michael's younger and 'favourite' brother, I felt it was my prerogative to listen in, shall we say.'

Frances sighed and looked about her. While Agnes and Louisa walked side by side up the now widening track, Doctor Brearly was lagging well behind the rest of the group. From the look of his slumped shoulders and shuffling feet, it wasn't difficult to tell that his mind was unsettled about something.

'Well, don't you want to know what it was about?' George repeated in a louder voice.

'No, I most certainly do not!' Frances said, adjusting her hat. 'That's their business, not mine.'

'It was awfully interesting.'

'I'm sure that it was, but there's no point in you provoking me. I am not tempted in the least, and if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you changed the subject.'

'Oo, you're a tough woman, Frances,' George said, discarding his spent cigarette onto the ground and extinguishing it with his right foot. 'By the way, I can call you Frances, can't I?'

'Only out of my aunt's earshot.'

'All right, Frances, you're so tough that I wouldn't want to meet you in a dark alley.'

Frances grinned. Despite being awoken abruptly that morning, she was in a relatively good mood. She was on friendly terms with Michael once more, her aunt, buoyed by the festive season, was almost affable and easier to manage, and best of all, she had received a thoughtful Christmas present from her mother, and dare she say it, her soon-to-be step-father.

'So, Frances,' George abruptly resumed, 'I suppose you're pleased with your present? Why am I asking you? Of course you are. You haven't stopped smiling since we set off.'

Frances picked off the head of a wildflower and toyed with it while she walked. 'Let's just say that getting a manual on bicycle maintenance was preferable to Louisa's present.'

'Why, what did she give you? I got some ridiculous looking ornament. Do I look like the sort of person to appreciate ornaments? No. It's just something else to polish.'

'What are you talking about?' Frances laughed. 'I got a book on rare birds.'

'Ah, what can I say, Frances? You now have everything a 'New Woman of the Nineties' could possibly ever want.'

The smile faltered on Frances's lips. She was reminded of her situation in life, and realised with dismay that she did not have everything she wanted. The two things she wanted most still eluded her: a complete reconciliation with her mother, and independence from Louisa and Wintersleigh. Both issues were equally as problematic, and while George proceeded to criticise every present he had received that morning, Frances thoughtfully considered both matters. The problems associated with her mother's impending marriage were too deep and complex to be solved immediately, or by the receipt of generous Christmas presents, but the subject of Frances's independence could be more easily dealt with. This was, after all, not the first time she had considered Edwina Ballard's offer of employment. It was something that was never far away from her thoughts, but before she could accept or decline the position, she needed to know more about Edwina. There was no denying that the woman was affluent, apparently respectable, and generally held in high esteem, but what of her family? Of them, she knew nothing, and as for Crispin Ballard, she was equally ignorant.

'George,' Frances began, 'may I ask you a question?'

'No, I will not marry you, Frances. I'm afraid I'm already accounted for.'

'Good,' Frances instinctively replied, 'you can't imagine how relieved that makes me feel.' George burst out laughing. 'What do you know of Mrs Edwina Ballard and her family?' she inquired over the top of George's voice.

'Edwina?' he echoed, looking a little more serious. 'I must admit that I don't know her very well, but I gather from other folk that she's a good egg. Why do you ask?'

'I'm just curious, that's all. I met her for the first time last week and I liked her very much. She seems very devoted to her family, particularly to her grandson Crispin.'

'Crispin Ballard?' cried George with a derisive snort. 'Humph!'

Frances watched him apprehensively. 'You know of her grandson?'

'Of course. I may not be a medical student any more but I still have my finger on the pulse, so to speak. From what I can gather, he is universally despised where ever he goes.'

'Mrs Ballard told me that he's a bit of a handful.'

George stooped over to tie up an undone bootlace. 'No, Frances. He is not a handful. He's a terror on two legs, and coming from me that says something.'

'Oh, I see,' Frances replied, quickly looking away. 'I didn't realise. Someone told me that he was unwieldy at times, but after hearing this—'

'Why are you so interested in the Ballard boy?' George asked, watching her shrewdly.

'I'm not,' she lied, avoiding his gaze. 'I heard somewhere that he was coming to Hobart to live.'

'Yes, I heard that too. I also heard that Edwina wants to get him a governess.' George pulled out another cigarette, and placing it between his parted lips, began fossicking in his pockets for a match. 'Given that Crispin has been expelled from every school he has ever attended,' George said in tones subdued by the cigarette in his mouth, 'only a fool would take a position like that. An absolute fool.'

Frances was now in despair. Edwina Ballard's offer had seemed like the perfect solution to all her problems, but after talking with George she realised that her chance at freedom was further away than she thought.

### CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Just Desserts

Following the Christmas church service, the walking party returned to Wintersleigh for a well-earned luncheon. While some members of the party were content and spiritually enlightened, others were still preoccupied with their own miseries and problems. As they sat at the table they could not but help notice the effort Louisa had gone to in decorating the table for the Christmas lunch. On top of the snow white tablecloth of the finest damask sat stunning arrays of flowers, ferns and mosses, along with a beautiful collection of china, polished plates and gleaming glasses. To those who sat at the table, gazing at this finery, it was hard not to be impressed.

Michael Brearly, however, was oblivious to such an exhibition. Like Agnes and Frances, he was in no frame of mind to appreciate the finer details of the Christmas arrangements, nor did he feel like celebrating. During the walk to the church service, he twice attempted to talk to Agnes, but she refused to speak to him on both occasions. She felt that the time for talking had been before breakfast, and not on the way to church, where anyone could overhear them.

As Michael sat at the table, with only his inner turmoil to keep him company, it seemed that his only consolation was the glass of elderberry wine in front of him. Despite a quiet warning from Louisa, he repeatedly refilled his glass from a nearby crystal decanter and consumed it in large gulps, much to everyone's unanimous disapproval. Michael, in fact, continued to seek solace from his drink, until a censorious glare from Frances, a minute later, prompted him to discard his wine and call for some water.

Jack Maycroft, in the interim, was talking incessantly of insects, and George was continuously, and blatantly, doing his best to break nearly every rule of etiquette at a dinner table. Having wiped his nose on his table napkin, he then proceeded to pick his teeth with his fork. He did this all with a calm unconcern, in spite of the fact that both Louisa and Agnes were regarding him with looks of disapproval.

Through bountiful servings of vegetables, turkey and various cold meats including duck and ham, desultory conversation dawdled on. Until this point, luncheon had been progressing quite smoothly. That was until the dessert was brought in and distributed to each person at the table. As was customary in the Wentworth family, plum pudding, a British institution in itself, was served first, accompanied by serving bowls of custard, plain cream and brandied cream, positioned in the centre of the dining table. Despite the choice of sweet dishes on offer, Michael chose the custard to put on his pudding, and asked Jack to pass him the bowl. Jack was unusually happy to oblige his uncle, but instead of doing what was asked of him, he leaned over the table, scooped out a spoonful of custard, and using the spoon like a slingshot, maliciously fired a shot of custard towards Michael's face. Unfortunately for Michael, the gluggy projectile dessert found its target, splattering noiselessly against Michael's nose, with peripheral globules lodging themselves in Michael's eyelashes.

The gathering at the table drew in a universal gasp, except for Jack, for whom there was no element of surprise. He clearly revelled in this victory over his uncle, and made no effort to curb his joy. George too, was tittering behind his hand.

Without making any attempt to clean himself up, Michael addressed his nephew. 'Why you horrid little child,' he declared, through trembling lips.

'Michael,' Agnes remonstrated, 'don't speak to him like that!'

'And why ever not? Did you see what that child just did to me?'

'How could we fail to notice it, Michael,' George said, drowning in mirth. 'It was one of the funniest things I've ever seen.'

'I wasn't talking to you,' Michael rejoined, 'so stay out of it.' He quickly transferred his attention to his brother-in-law. 'And as for you,' he added, 'you should be ashamed of yourself. You call yourself a parent, and yet you let Jack run positively wild. You don't know the first thing about discipline.'

Thomas Maycroft, as usual, looked unperturbed. 'Given your vast wealth of parental knowledge,' he replied mockingly, 'what would you have me do?'

Michael clenched his jaw in anger. 'Make Jack apologise to me. It's the least he can do.'

'It was only custard, Michael,' Thomas said, taking a casual sip from his glass of wine, 'but if it worries you that much.' He turned towards his son. 'Say sorry to your uncle, Jack.'

'No!' Jack shouted. 'I won't say sorry! Uncle Mike deserved it.'

Thomas shrugged his shoulders and ate his dessert as though nothing had happened.

'You're not going to make him apologise to me?' Michael asked, staring at Thomas with incredulity and anger. 'Are you just going to let him get away with it?'

'Michael!' George cried. 'Stop being so petty. Just clean yourself up and forget about it. Besides, how can anyone take you seriously when you have custard dripping off your nose?'

'Mind your own business, George,' Michael commanded.

Frances, in the intervening time, was growing increasingly alarmed by the doctor's rising anger, and she stared down awkwardly at her dinner plate.

'Thomas,' Michael resumed coldly. 'This isn't the first time this sort of thing has happened. Did you see what your son was doing this morning?'

'Michael,' Agnes implored, 'please don't do this on Christmas Day. You're ruining it for everybody.'

'I'm ruining it?' Michael reiterated. 'How can you say that in all seriousness? I wasn't the one being disruptive this morning, and I certainly wasn't the one who flung custard at a relative.'

'Yes, but Michael,' George interrupted, 'you have to admit it was an awfully good shot. The precision was perfect.' He turned towards his nephew. 'Have you ever thought about playing cricket?'

At last the doctor could take no more. 'Just leave it alone, George!' he shouted. He rose abruptly from his chair, and continued speaking to his brother-in-law. 'I can't believe how self-absorbed you are. Ever since you arrived here, you've done nothing but please yourself. At Rosewood, you let Jack roam around the estate doing whatever he pleases, when he pleases. Here at Wintersleigh is no exception. That child needs discipline, Thomas, and if you can't or won't give it to him, then I will.' He then caught sight of Agnes, who was wiping her tear-streaked eyes with a handkerchief. 'I think I've had too much to drink,' he said, to no-one in particular. 'For that I apologise. For everything else, I won't. In the mean time, I think it best if I go.'

'But what about your pudding?' Louisa cried.

'I think that's the least of our concerns,' George whispered to Frances.

'I'm sorry, Louisa,' Michael resumed more calmly, 'but nothing could induce me to sit at the same table with that child.' He gave Jack Maycroft one last baleful look. 'Please excuse me.' He then quit the room.

In the general silence that ensued his departure, Louisa spoke. 'Well, I have never seen that before. I think Michael might have been intoxicated.'

'Drunk?' George repeated. 'No, I don't think so. Michael never drinks to excess. By the looks of him today, I'd say he was just over excited. Perhaps he didn't like his Christmas presents.'

'Whether he was drunk or not, is completely irrelevant,' Agnes asserted. 'It doesn't alter the fact that he has just thoroughly ruined my Christmas. Now if you'll excuse me, I have no appetite left for plum pudding.'

She then apologised to her mother, rose unsteadily to her feet, and hurried out of the room, without even bothering to close the door. After another unsettling period of silence, many of the guests lost their appetite and all interest for conversation, except for George Brearly, who mischievously asked whether anyone wanted some custard.

On that note, the Christmas lunch concluded. The remainder of Christmas Day went by without serious incident or disturbance, except perhaps for Jack, who over indulged on chocolates, mince pies and shortbread and spent the remainder of the afternoon curled up in bed with a stomach ache. Frances and George chatted with each other until dinner, Thomas kept reading his book, and Louisa, still reeling from the disastrous Christmas luncheon, spent her time quietly in the drawing room, dwelling upon the rift in her daughter's relationship with the doctor. As for Agnes and Michael themselves, they avoided each other for the rest of the day, preferring to spend their afternoon as far away from each other as possible. By dinner, however, they were reconciled, and soon the unpleasantness of the day seemed to them, and to everyone else, a mile away. It may have been put behind them, but to those involved, it was not likely to be forgotten in a hurry, or in some cases forgiven...

### CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

' _All Aboard!'_

The Wintersleigh party rose early the next day to prepare for the long and hopefully enjoyable day ahead of them. With a combination of fine weather, improved spirits and good health, circumstances, in general, were all in their favour.

The mood, though, was somewhat dampened at breakfast by the discovery that Doctor Brearly was not among the gathering at Wintersleigh. He had been called away on urgent medical business during the early hours of the morning, and was yet to return. This development threw everyone into a state of confusion, and for some time there was debate as to whether the outing to the Port Arthur penal settlement should be cancelled. George pointed out that it was unfair to cancel their arrangements just because one person was absent, and Agnes, still out of spirits, argued that the day trip without her fiancé would offer her little pleasure. Louisa was loathe to agree with anything George Brearly said, but she had set her heart on the excursion for weeks and wanted nothing, not even the doctor's absence, to interfere with her plans. The pleasure trip was therefore to go ahead, and no time was wasted preparing for it.

At eight-thirty, Frances was leaning against the railings of the s.s. Oonah, the boat her party would be travelling on to Port Arthur. The steamer wasn't due to leave until a quarter-to-nine, but the deck was filling fast. George Brearly was by her side, an arrangement that was becoming more than just habit, and while he chattered to her about everything and nothing, Frances scanned the faces of the crowd down on the Argyle Street pier, searching in vain for Michael Brearly. She grew more restless and despondent with every passing minute. These feelings came almost as a surprise to Frances. Since knowing both the Brearly brothers she had convinced herself that she preferred George. He was better looking after all, younger and more affable than Michael, but something in her subconscious was attracted to the older brother. They had more in common for a start, but she was curiously drawn to his darker side and his passionate nature, and she was also sympathetic (given her own current turmoil) to his increasingly evident inner conflicts, without knowing exactly what had caused them. George's constant flirting and puppy-like exuberance pleased Frances in small amounts, but his unremitting volubility, at times, suggested a general immaturity, rather than a genuine sanguineness. To Frances, George's behaviour lacked Michael's depth of feeling.

Louisa, who was standing a short distance away from her, was growing increasingly apprehensive, and soon interrupted Frances's thoughts with her loud, doleful voice.

'Dear, oh dear,' she lamented, 'where are they? I feel certain I told Charlotte and Cyril to meet us at a quarter-past-eight. And where is Michael?' In her hands she held a white lace handkerchief, and with every minute without a sighting of the missing members, she wrung it harder and harder.

To the party's collective dismay, the shrill sounding of the Oonah's whistle at a quarter-to-nine announced to the passengers that the boat was at last ready to depart. The gangway was soon taken up, and once the ropes were loosened the vessel began to pull away from the wharf. Louisa didn't waste any time in assembling the Wintersleigh party and informing them that Charlotte, Cyril and Michael had failed to arrive. In her usual manner, she expressed her bitter disappointment and her many misgivings in an effusive monologue, which did nothing to raise the spirits of her companions.

As Frances listened to her aunt drone on and on, she felt an encroaching sense of emptiness, a void she realised that would not be filled by George Brearly's company alone. Above her in the sky, a mass of squawking seagulls was taking flight.

At that moment, the distinctive cry of 'Mama!' caught Frances's attention and she looked up. To her astonishment, Charlotte and her husband Cyril Beckett were standing before her, as well as a tired, but relieved looking Doctor Brearly. Frances's heart leapt at the sight of him, but apart from a slight reddening of her cheeks, she was able to remain admirably calm.

'Oh, my dears!' Louisa cried, surging towards them with her fluttering handkerchief. As she moved, her new bonnet, decorated with black chiffon wings and flowers quaked. 'You have no idea how worried I have been!' She took up one of Michael's hands and squeezed it affectionately. She made no effort, however, to touch her daughter or son-in-law, or show them any sign of affection. In fact, she ignored Cyril Beckett completely. 'My dear Michael, I thought you had missed the boat! Where did you get to? No, no, I do not want to know. You are here with us now, and that is all that matters.' She raised her handkerchief to her nose, and began dabbing it affectedly.

Agnes, by this stage, had manoeuvred her way to the front of the group, and was standing by Michael's side. 'Oh, these wretched crowds,' she was saying crossly, 'I've lost count of the number of times I have been jostled this morning!' She brushed down her dress with a daintily gloved hand. 'I shall be most surprised if my gown isn't torn to shreds by the time we get home.'

'Yes, you are right there, my dear,' Louisa complained, 'it is most vexing the way these people behave. Anyone would think that they had never been on a boat before.'

'That's why we were late, Mama,' Charlotte began timidly. 'It has taken us all this time just to make our way up onto the deck.' Being a little overweight, she was still panting from the exertion of climbing the stairs. 'I've, I've never seen so many people before. It was positively a crush.'

'Well, what do you expect?' George ventured, as he pushed his way forward through the crowd to shake the Reverend Cyril Beckett's hand. 'Good to see you again, Cyril,' he said without enthusiasm. 'Oh, I love your hat by the way. Very formal. Very you.' He paused momentarily. 'But I digress. We were discussing the crowds of people. I'm not surprised in the least by how busy it is. It's Boxing Day. The weather is good, for a change, and besides, what else is there to do in Hobart? Nothing!'

'Nothing?' Louisa retorted. 'What are you talking about, George Brearly? There is always an abundance of things to do and see in Hobart.'

'For your generation perhaps, Louey,' George said. He gave Frances a mischievous smile. 'But not for young people, such as myself. It's like living out in the backwoods.' Having extracted a cigarette from his cigarette case, he rummaged around in his pocket for a box of matches.

'George!' Louisa exclaimed peevishly. 'Must you always be so difficult?' She then turned on her heel and stormed off to seek Michael, who had, during the course of the exchange, strangely disappeared, along with Agnes.

'By Jove,' George muttered, 'she'll get brain fever the way she's going. Either that, or she'll self-combust.' Griping under his breath, he lit his cigarette, before wandering off into the crowd.

In George's absence, Charlotte Beckett approached Frances and introduced her husband Cyril to her. Frances was genuinely pleased to meet him, not because she particularly wished to make his acquaintance, but because she liked Charlotte, and any one dear to her must be worthy of her own civility. Once the introductions were completed, Frances was at leisure to stand and talk with him, but to her amazement he did not volunteer a single word in the conversation that she had initiated. Instead of talking, he stood by his wife, and nodding his head, agreed with everything Frances said. After an observation of some fifteen minutes, Frances soon came to the conclusion that her new acquaintance was as mysterious as his wife was laconic. He was a curious looking man in the region of forty years of age, with dull eyes, a sweaty forehead, bushy eyebrows, moustache and beard, and in general, had an excess of facial hair that seemed to permeate every patch of skin on his face. As a result, it was very difficult to see whether he had any facial features, such as ears, a nose or even a mouth. All Frances knew was that his beard tendrils wound around his face with all the tenacity and profusion of ivy.

Frances felt a tug at her elbow, and looking around her, discovered an impatient looking George Brearly by her side. He had just returned from his explorations and was making a concerted effort to detach Frances from her present company. Frances was not all together reluctant to leave, and she soon bade the Becketts a polite farewell.

'What is it?' she inquired, once she was alone with George. 'What ever is the matter?'

'Nothing much,' he murmured, flicking his spent cigarette overboard.

'George,' she said, half laughingly, 'I don't know whether this escaped your attention, but I was actually talking to those people.'

'Were you?' replied a smiling George. 'It didn't look like that to me. It looked as though you were engrossed by Cyril Beckett's facial hair.'

'Oh dear, was I that obvious?' George nodded. 'Poor Mr Beckett. He must think that I am terribly rude.'

'No need to get in a twitter about it. I'm sure he's quite used to it. So what do you think of him?'

Frances reflected. 'Well,' she began, uncertain of what to say, 'a number of adjectives readily comes to mind.'

'And would 'hairy' be one of those adjectives?' Frances smiled but said nothing. 'Cyril Beckett,' George kept on in a confiding voice, 'I'm sorry to say, is one of the hairiest men I know. I sometimes wonder why an intelligent girl like Charlotte married a man who has hair sprouting out of his ears.'

'George Brearly, you are too cruel!'

'Yes, I am, aren't I? Oh well, when it comes to people like Cyril Beckett, I just can't help myself. He's such an interesting looking man. Pity he has very little personality. It's almost as though his moustache has sucked out all the life in him. He's the dullest man I know, and that's saying something, coming from a man who has had to live with a brother like Michael.' Frances smiled, in spite of George's irreverent comment, but held her tongue. 'Please don't get me wrong. It's not that I find Cyril Beckett particularly repellent in manner, but it's all that hair. It un-nerves me excessively.'

George Brearly would perhaps have continued talking on the matter indefinitely, if Agnes Wentworth had not approached the pair, and put an abrupt end to their conversation.

### CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

A Word of Advice

'Well, well,' George began impulsively, 'if it isn't Agnes Wentworth, Hobart's champion tennis player!' He stood before her, his hands in the pockets of his belted Norfolk jacket, and his broad chest thrust forward. 'And to what do we owe this rare honour?'

Agnes stiffened perceptibly at his allusion to the Rosewood tennis match, but was able to check the first leap of anger. 'Actually, George,' she began in a carefully genteel voice, 'my business is with my cousin, not with you.' Seeing the look of suspicion on Frances's face, she sought to explain herself. 'Now don't look like that, Frances,' she drawled. 'Is it so unusual for two cousins to talk to one another?' She offered her cousin a rare smile.

'No,' Frances answered. 'I'm only wondering why you're making the effort now. Up until this point, you've avoided me at all costs.'

Agnes kept smiling, despite the fact that her blood was tingling with anger. 'George,' she said between clenched teeth, 'could you please leave my cousin and me alone for a moment.'

'And miss out on what promises to be an entertaining scene? I think not!'

'George!' Agnes pleaded. 'Please, just go!'

'Don't mind me, Agnes Wentworth,' he said demurely. 'Please, continue.' He smiled. 'Oh, and by the way, you have a strand of hair out of place. It might excite comment aboard the ship. Best fix it now.'

Agnes flamed with anger and resentment. 'Frances,' she said, looking at her cousin imploringly, 'you seem to have all the influence with Mr Brearly these days. Would you kindly tell him to leave?'

'I'm sorry, Agnes, but George is a grown man. He makes his own decisions. I therefore cannot tell him what to do.'

'That is quite so, Miss Frances,' George replied, 'but I'll make you an exception to the rule. I'm completely and utterly at your disposal. Tell me to leave, and I will.'

Frances reflected. 'Well if I'd known that before,' she said smilingly, 'I could have gotten rid of you much earlier.'

'I take it you want me to go then,' he said, watching Frances in admiration.

'I think it would be best, all round,' Frances admitted.

George sighed playfully, and grinning from ear to ear, wandered off amongst the colourful throng, only to disappear seconds later. In his absence, the two young women were briefly silent.

'So, Frances,' Agnes eventually began, 'I trust you are enjoying yourself?'

Frances regarded her cousin with more looks of suspicion. 'Very much. And you?'

Agnes faltered. 'I'm enjoying it more now that Michael has come.' Frances nodded her head but said nothing. 'Actually, Frances,' she said cautiously, 'the reason I'm here is that I, I want to talk to you about George.'

'George?' Frances returned, regarding Agnes with bewilderment.

'Yes, George.' Agnes's face had grown tense and she appeared to be groping for words. 'I, I don't know how to say this, and really it's not my place to say anything at all, but please understand that my reasons for telling you are only motivated by the genuine desire to be helpful.'

She broke off briefly, as a man behind her accidentally bumped into her. He apologised for his carelessness, but Agnes, roiled by the untimely interruption to her explanation, made no acknowledgment of the man's words of contrition, and positioned herself closer to the boat's railing.

'It has not escaped my attention that you and George have been spending time together. In short, I am aware that you have formed an attachment with him.'

Frances's face clouded. 'You're right,' she retorted coolly, 'it's not your place to say anything. What's more, we hardly have an attachment. We take delight in ridiculing each other. That's as far as it goes.'

Agnes pursed her lips. 'I fear for you, Frances. I honestly do. George Brearly is notoriously predatory when it comes to women. I daresay when he has grown tired of you, he'll move onto someone else. Someone less suspecting.'

Frances bore this assertion as well as she could, and forcing a smile, she looked out across the undulating river towards Mount Wellington. It seemed to lie in the background of the town like some giant slumbering beast. She then glanced in the direction of the Exhibition-buildings, which had been purposely built for the Hobart International Exhibition. The main structure was an imposing structure of the Italian Renaissance style of architecture, and the remaining buildings were shaped into a rough triangular complex. To Frances's mind, this vast, sprawling structure, which dominated the western bank of the Derwent River, looked completely out of place with the rest of Hobart. As the steamer picked up speed and rounded the Iron-pot lighthouse, the Exhibition-buildings seem to dwarf into the distance.

'Is that what he did to you?' Frances asked distractedly.

Before Agnes could answer this question, George himself was suddenly disgorged from the crowd, and emerged looking as bright and carefree as usual. 'So,' he began, taking his place beside Frances, 'what have you ladies been gossiping about? Not about me, I hope.'

Agnes and Frances exchanged looks. 'Don't flatter yourself,' Agnes mumbled.

'Really, George,' Frances said condescendingly, 'why is it that men talk and women only gossip? Aren't we capable of conducting an erudite conversation?'

'I'm saying nothing that will incriminate me.'

'Do you think that the subject of men is the only thing women discuss?'

'I do indeed. We only talk about women.'

'Oh come now, George,' Frances playfully retaliated, 'I am not fooled in the least. I daresay you talk about yourselves, your work and your horses. I'm sure the topic of women never once enters your mind.'

George smiled. 'You'd be surprised. Very surprised indeed. Now, enough of this sparkling repartee. What were you really talking about? I was watching you from across the way. You were both looking awfully engrossed.'

'Mind your own business,' Agnes warned with angry, flashing eyes.

'It is my business if you were talking about me.'

'And what makes you think we were talking about you?' Agnes snapped. 'Believe me, George, we have far better things to do with our time.'

'I know you were,' George persisted, 'so don't deny it. I must hasten to inform you that I am an awfully good reader of lips. It's an important skill to have as a newspaper man. I get some of my best stories from lip reading.' He paused to brush a loose strand of hair off his face. 'For instance, at one point, you said something about Frances and I being mismatched.'

'Stop it, George,' Agnes threatened, 'I mean it, stop it now.' Her chest was beginning to heave.

'And then you said that I was pre-eminent among men. Or something like that.'

At last, Agnes could take no more. 'George Brearly!' she cried, 'will you ever learn to keep your mouth shut! You are the most immature, obnoxious person I have ever met!' She then speared him savagely in the foot with her parasol.

George let out a loud yelp of pain, a cry so loud, that the groups of ladies closest to him ceased talking, and fastened their eyes on him disapprovingly. They soon began whispering excitedly amongst themselves. George, nonetheless, was oblivious to the attention he had just commanded, and was kneeling down on the deck to inspect the damage Agnes had inflicted upon him.

'Look what you've done, woman!' he blustered. 'You could have crippled me for life!' He ruefully began rubbing his newly acquired bruise.

'You deserved it,' Agnes retorted, her voice heavy with emotion. 'I'm tired of the way you treat me, George Brearly, do you hear me? I've had enough!' She raised her trembling hand to her head, and pushing her way blindly through the spectators, soon disappeared from sight.

A startled Frances, standing isolated in the middle of the surrounding bystanders, attempted to escape the embarrassing scene. She had only taken two steps, however, when the distinctive voice of George Brearly stopped her in her tracks.

'Frances,' he cried, jumping quickly to his feet, 'what was it? What did I say?'

Frances smiled in spite of her awkwardness. 'Let's just say, George, that you've got a very promising career as a newspaper reporter.' Without saying another word, she turned on her heel and filtered into the murmuring assembly.

### CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

A Question of Upbringing

Under the welcoming shade of a majestic old English oak, a ravenous George Brearly hurled himself onto the freshly spread picnic rug, almost hitting Agnes with his legs in the process. He then proceeded to crawl across the rug, until he was able to settle himself between Frances, Charlotte, and, more conveniently, near the picnic basket.

'A rose between two thorns,' he audaciously proclaimed, and while the young women laughed at his joke, he leant over the picnic basket and attempted to unfasten it.

'George,' Michael ventured loudly, 'what do you think you are doing?'

'Well, what does it look like I'm doing, Michael? I'm about to raid the basket for some decent food.'

'Oh, no you don't, George,' Louisa interposed ill-naturedly.

'What?' George cried. 'And why not? The food they served on board had all the flavour of sawdust. Suffice to say, I'm still hungry.'

'You're always hungry,' Michael muttered.

'I have good reason to be. That boat trip was tedious. It was three hours of unmitigated boredom, and the longest three hours of my life. Yes indeed, it was boredom in capital letters.'

'Yes, thank you, George,' Michael cut in quickly, 'I think we comprehend your meaning.'

'And did you hear the City Band playing?' George went on regardless. 'Their music was enough to make my stomach turn.'

'I think you'll find that that was mal de mer,' Frances smilingly suggested.

'Mal-der what-ee?' George echoed. 'Who's he when he's at home?'

'Speaking of that boat trip,' Louisa said, lowering her voice to a confiding tone, 'I heard that there was a nasty altercation on board, between a young lady and a gentleman.'

Michael stared. 'We'll I'll be bound!'

Louisa sighed. 'Apparently, the young lady, if you can indeed call her that, inflicted the man with some sort of injury.' She paused briefly, and while some members of the party drew in a sharp breath of censure, she brushed off some grass blades from her skirt. 'I confess I did not hear all the particulars, and frankly, I did not want to hear the end of the story.'

'I don't blame you,' Michael murmured. 'Fancy behaving like that in public.'

'As I understand it,' Thomas Maycroft broke in tumidly, 'the young woman struck the man with her parasol.'

The Wintersleigh party turned instinctively towards Thomas, waiting to hear what else he had to say. Thomas, however, could elaborate no further on the topic, and all attention was promptly returned to Louisa.

'Oh no!' Louisa breathed. 'Have some people no shame? Cyril,' she said, turning abruptly to her mute son-in-law, 'you are a man of the cloth. What do you think of a young couple behaving like that in public?' Before Cyril could answer, Louisa cut in. 'Makes you question their upbringing, does it not?'

George, Agnes and Frances, meanwhile, were silent onlookers to this exchange, and while they contributed nothing themselves to the conversation, their downcast eyes, and in George's case, a broad smile, alerted the intuitive Louisa to the fact that they were concealing something.

'I don't suppose you saw anything, George?' Louisa probed. 'You were up on deck at the time.' She scrutinised him suspiciously through narrowing eyes.

George pretended to consider her question. 'No, I can't say that I did see anything, although I must add that I'm disappointed to have missed such a spectacle. It sounded, in the least, awfully entertaining.'

Frances smirked and attempted to hide her face under the shade of her parasol. She was not fast enough for her aunt, however, and in the next moment Louisa began to question her.

'I see that you are also smiling, Frances,' Louisa observed. 'Do you think this is amusing?' Frances refrained from answering. 'I suppose you think it is acceptable for people to behave like that?' Frances remained silent. 'I cannot account for your upbringing, Frances, but in the Wentworth family such behaviour is most definitely unacceptable.' She sniffed resolutely. 'Oh, I should die of shame if my daughters ever behaved like that.'

Without warning, Frances and George exploded into irreverent laughter, and despite everyone's questioning glances and Louisa's stern rebuke, they continued to laugh uncontrollably. Even half-an-hour later, when the picnic had ended, and the party set off to explore the convict ruins, George and Frances had difficulty in suppressing their amusement. They could hardly exchange a look or word, before one or both of them succumbed to a seething fit of giggles.

The first stop was the old convict church, which was located quite a distance away from the main ruins. Bushfires in 1884 and in 1890 had taken their toll on the building, but fortunately large sections of the facade still remained intact. Despite the irreparable damage to the church, it was still an imposing looking structure, with its uniquely shaped windows and its distinctive dramatic spires.

As the party of nine meandered its way around the convict building, Thomas Maycroft's voice was heard in the distance. 'What an impressive place this is,' he commented to anyone who would listen. 'Such remarkable architecture. Look at those individual pick marks in the stone.' He leant forward to stroke the indentations. 'The markings were essentially decorative, and many convicts had their own unique design. I suppose they were like signatures.'

'I'll give him pick marks,' George muttered under his breath. 'Or better still,' he added, directing his comments to his brother, 'I'll impale him with his own walking stick.'

'Don't be so impatient, George,' Michael chided. 'I'm sure Thomas has pretty nearly finished.'

In the background, however, Thomas Maycroft's orotund voice was echoing around the structure. 'Convict transportation to Van Diemen's Land, or Tasmania, as it is now known, began in 1804 when the vessel Calcutta brought out...'

'Damn and botheration,' George sighed, 'he's going back to the beginning of settlement.' He yawned and began scraping his fingernails on a ponderous slab of stone. 'Come on, Tommy, old son,' he shouted out. 'Get to the point! We haven't got all day you know!'

Thomas cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. 'Whilst male and female convicts were sent out to Van Diemen's Land, only male convicts were sent to Port Arthur. This facility was established in 1830 and was named after Lieutenant George Arthur, a keen disciplinarian. It was a prison for the very worst criminals. Convict boys lived nearby at a place called Point Puer, and as I understand it, it was the first juvenile prison established in the British Empire.'

'By Jove, Jack,' George said, looking down at his diminutive nephew, 'you had better behave yourself or your Papa will send you...'

Thomas raised his voice to drown out the sound of his brother-in-law's attempt at humour. 'In the 1840's incorrigible criminals could be sent either to Port Arthur or Norfolk Island. In Marcus Clarke's novel, For the Term of his Natural Life...'

'Then transportation ceased in 1853,' an exasperated George interrupted, 'and all remaining prisoners were transferred to the Hobart Gaol. The settlement eventually closed down in 1877 and the township of Port Arthur was thereafter known as Carnarvon. History in a nut-shell. There's a lot to be said for it. Here endeth the lecture.' Seeing the looks of astonishment around him, he sought to explain himself. 'Don't look at me like that. I'm not as idiotic as I look.'

'It's just as well,' Frances quipped.

George smiled. 'Why thank you. Well said. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a complete philistine. I do have some grey matter between my ears. Now, let's get on with the tour. Thanks to old Tommy, I feel as though I have spent the term of my natural life in here. I'm fast losing the will to live.'

As a result of George's words, the tour of the church did not last much longer, and once the party had withdrawn from the church, they set off in search of the infamous Penitentiary, and accompanying watchman's quarters that overlooked Mason's Cove.

### CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Influence

En route to the Penitentiary, Louisa pulled Michael aside. She had something of great importance to discuss with him, and while they spoke she constantly looked about her, making sure that no-one was listening.

'I think it is time you had words with George,' Louisa was saying. 'His friendship with Frances is most ruinous to her.'

'And what am I supposed to say to him, Louisa?' Michael replied heatedly. 'I warned him to stay away from Miss Norwood on the first day he arrived here, but he hasn't taken any notice of me. He never has. He's not likely to start now.'

'He is an appalling influence, Michael,' Louisa went on in a hushed voice. 'Have you seen how altered Frances is when she is around him? Her behaviour at the tennis match for instance, or during Christmas Eve. Even at the picnic luncheon today! She is usually so well behaved, and now look at her! How many times must I say this? Your brother, most assuredly, is corrupting my niece right under our very noses.'

'Miss Norwood is an intelligent young woman, Louisa. I feel sure she knows what she's doing.'

'I wish I could agree with you, but I am afraid I cannot. From all accounts, Frances has had very little experience with members of the opposite sex, particularly with undeserving men like your brother. How is a young maiden, like Frances, supposed to protect herself from the likes of him?'

Michael wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief, and after removing the boater from his head, began to fan his face with it. Behind him, the sun, set amid a cloudless sky, was beating down upon his back.

'I don't think it's all that bad, Louisa. From what I've witnessed, George genuinely likes Miss Norwood.'

'Oh, I have no doubt of that. Agnes informs me that George freely addresses Frances by her Christian name, and vice versa. Even after my objections! What do they say about familiarity breeding contempt? Oh, how will it end, if at all?'

'Yes, well that brings us back to the original dilemma. What are we going to do?'

'I appreciate what you say about George and his unwillingness to listen to you. The problem I have is that Frances does not listen to me either.' A gust of wind, sweeping in from Mason's Cove, nearly blew Louisa's parasol out of her hands. 'I saw you talking with Frances on the boat earlier today,' she said, as she grappled with her parasol, 'and forgive me for saying this, my dear, but you two seem very comfortable together. It is very obvious to me that she likes you, and that she sees you as her friend. Could you not speak with her?' She soon managed to regain control of her parasol, and repositioned it over her head. 'She respects you. I know she will listen to you.'

'I care for Miss Norwood a great deal myself, Louisa,' Michael explained impatiently, 'but when it comes down to it, I hardly know her!'

'And what is more important? The risk of offending a friend, or of Frances losing her innocence, and having her reputation irrevocably destroyed?'

Michael's face darkened, and for a moment, he was silent. In the distance he could see Frances walking side by side with her cousin Charlotte. They had just reached the rectangular, four-storey high edifice of the Penitentiary, and Frances was peering inside one of many tiny cell windows to the gloomy interior of a prison cell. As she looked through the shattered window pane to the rusty iron bars, rotting floor boards and crumbling stone walls, he noticed that her parasol, bordered by lace, was tilted at a becoming angle and that her summery gown, light and feminine, was fluttering at her legs. The distant sight of her, in the foreground of the sinister structure, stirred some emotion deep within him, and he was obliged to speak.

'I'll do everything I can for her,' he solemnly declared, and without waiting for Louisa's answer, he quickened his pace towards Frances.

He had only taken a few steps, however, when Agnes unexpectedly intercepted him. She had been watching him closely from afar, and only approached him when her mother had left his side. In view of the important task Michael needed to perform, Agnes's presence at that moment was unwelcome. He greeted her, nevertheless, with a loving squeeze of her hand. Whilst Agnes smiled and reciprocated this gesture, Michael could tell almost at once that she was distracted and out of spirits. No sooner had the smile faded from her lips, than she launched into unbridled criticism of Frances.

'She was the only person who had objections to coming to Port Arthur,' she complained, 'but I'll tell you this, it didn't take her long to make herself at home. You should see the way she ingratiates herself with people. Look at the way she's monopolising Charlotte, for instance.' She indicated Frances and Charlotte with a vague sweep of her hand.

'It's not a crime to be friendly, Agnes,' Michael observed.

Agnes was momentarily silent. 'Did you hear her earlier conversation with Mama? Mama was arguing, and quite rightly too, that this site, compared with other historical sites around the world, wasn't that old, and therefore wasn't that historically significant. Frances then turned around and tried to argue, that in terms of this colony's history, it was most significant. Someone should remind her that she is merely a governess, not a university lecturer.'

Michael listened to Agnes's criticisms in silence. It pained him to hear of Agnes speaking ill of anyone, let alone Frances. He expeditiously changed the subject by declaring to her how pretty the environs of Port Arthur were. His comment had the desired effect, for Agnes readily entered into the new conversation.

'Yes, it is, isn't it? The willows and the elm trees remind me so much of the English countryside. Quite beautiful.' Her words were accompanied by a wistful sigh.

'You're very fond of England, aren't you?' he said, watching her earnestly. 'You don't speak about it a great deal, but when you do, your whole face becomes enlivened. It's quite a transformation.'

A smile played about Agnes's lips. 'Yes, I suppose it is, although it's not surprising. I'm so much looking forward to going back there.'

'Yes, well I don't see that happening in the near future. It may, in fact, be several years before we can get there together.'

Agnes blinked in disbelief. 'Several years?'

'Yes, I'd say so,' Michael said, swiping away a fly from his face. 'One can't just nip off on an overseas holiday at the drop of a hat. These sorts of things require planning and time, not to mention the financial considerations.' He turned to Agnes and noticed that she was looking rather put out. 'But I don't see why we couldn't start planning a trip in a year or so,' he said gently.

'A trip?' she exclaimed. 'But I don't want to go to England for a holiday, Michael! I want to live there permanently.'

Michael stopped walking and stared. A sudden and insidious paralysis of shock began to creep over him, numbing every sensation in his body. He remained in that state for some time until he was able to recollect himself.

'Live there?' he cried feebly. 'God in heaven!'

Agnes seemed oblivious to his anguish. 'Yes, why not? We could settle down in some quiet little town, start a family...'

Blood began to drain from his face. 'A family? In England? I can't believe what you're proposing. I know you're fond of the country, but isn't this going just a bit too far?'

'No, not at all.'

'It's just that this is all so sudden,' he said with a look of despair.

'It's not all that sudden, Michael. I often expressed my love for England in my letters to you, and your written replies suggested that you would not be averse to living there. Or did you only write those things because you were missing me?' Then there was a pause. 'Why do you look so mystified?'

'Good God!' he broke out with unexpected vehemence. 'Writing letters is one thing, but wanting to live there? That's something else entirely!'

'Should I presume then, that you were just humouring me?'

'No. Not at all. I was just trying to share your enthusiasm. You have obviously misunderstood my letters.' In his anxiety, he looked about him. The Wintersleigh party was now a little ahead of him and Agnes, and wishing to catch up with them, he quickened his pace. 'And what does your mother say to all this?'

Agnes paused for a short interval. 'I vowed to say nothing to her until I had spoken with you first. I wanted to hear your reaction.'

'My reaction? Well, I, I don't know what to think. I don't understand why you have this sudden compulsion to move. What does England have that Hobart hasn't?'

'It has everything, Michael!' Agnes said with great avidity. 'England is where everything is happening. It's the land of opportunity.'

'Absurdity!'

'It's preferable to living in Hobart!' Agnes cried, her voice shaking with emotion. 'Anywhere is preferable to Hobart.'

'Yes, well that is your opinion, Agnes. I quite like it here.'

'But, Michael,' she protested, 'there's nothing here in Hobart but picturesque scenery and unemployment.'

'Now wait just one moment.'

'Where is your ambition?' Agnes persevered. 'Don't you want to make something of yourself?'

'I am something, Agnes,' Michael said indignantly, 'I'm a doctor.'

Agnes's jaw clenched. 'Yes. You're a doctor in a country town, with no prospects to speak of.'

'How can you say that? Of course I have prospects.'

'Oh? And what are they? You might get a position on the hospital board one day, if you're lucky.'

'Yes. Isn't that something to aspire to?'

'Yes, I suppose so. But imagine working in England! Think of the opportunities!'

'Agnes, please!' he entreated, holding his hand up in front of her. 'Please stop. I can't bear to hear you talk like this!'

'Why?' she said, catching his eye. 'Is it because I'm right?' Michael brooded in silence. 'I'm right aren't I?' Agnes went on, feeling more confident. 'You know what you're capable of, but you're too frightened to make that change.'

'What rot and poppycock! Fear has nothing to do with it.'

'It does, and I appreciate that, but I'll be by your side. We'll make this change together.'

Michael stood in silence and looked about him. From a nearby building, small whirlpools of smoke rose from the chimney, soiling the country air, and filling Michael's nostrils with its acrid fumes. He tentatively resumed walking, but this time his steps were unhurried. As he walked, he stole a quick glance at the convict ruins. Glancing through a Penitentiary window, his eyes were drawn to a menacing set of iron bars. Behind these bars lay a dank, empty prison cell. He felt its desolation.

'I'd rather we not discuss this any more.'

Agnes perceived his irritability. 'Are you cross with me?' she asked. Without waiting for a reply she tried to take hold of his hand. He pulled away from her. 'Michael, please don't be angry with me. I don't say these things to hurt or torment you. I say them because I care about you. You're a talented young doctor, and I don't want to see you languishing here, when you could be flourishing elsewhere.'

'I'm not languishing,' he said, attempting to recollect himself. 'I happen to be quite content here, and you, Agnes, you were the same.'

'Yes, well that was before I went away. It has completely changed my view of the world. I see where all the opportunities are, and they're not here. If I had to remain in Hobart, I'd be living in a perpetual state of restlessness, knowing what I could have in England.'

For some reason, a re-emerging image of an empty cell filled Michael's mind, and he felt light-headed. 'I thought you were happy.'

'Well I'm not,' Agnes confessed. 'But I could be, if we moved. Think about it,' she urged. 'You don't have to give me a decision right away.' She then hurriedly took her leave.

In her absence, Michael came to a standstill. The rest of the Wintersleigh party was, by this stage, making their way towards the watchman's quarters, and as they passed over the lawn into the distance, Michael looked out after them with unseeing eyes. By the time he came to his senses, he realised that he had been left alone, with nothing but the chimney fumes and the crumbling structure around him.

### CHAPTER THIRTY

Inmates

Michael eventually rejoined the group at the watchman's quarters, the building where the overseers used to reside, but his enthusiasm for the outing had long since evaporated. Agnes's words resonated uncomfortably in his ears, and while the rest of the party visited the Commandant's house, the guard tower, convict hospital, the old prisoner barracks and the officials' offices and quarters—some of which had been converted into private residences—he trailed after them, seeing little and hearing just as much. He had regained some of his spirits by the time he reached the asylum, and even allowed himself the luxury of a smile when George did an entertaining impression of a lunatic. Apart from this, though, Michael remained aloof and deep in thought.

While a reflective Michael kept to himself, Thomas Maycroft continued to provide the group with a detailed, yet rather desultory commentary on all the different buildings, including the Model Prison, which they had just reached. Unfortunately for Thomas, everyone had long since lost interest in his observations, and they were more concerned with the brief disappearance of George and Jack, who had gone missing whilst looking for a lavatory. George soon regained his bearings, and was able to find his way back to the prison entrance, where the Wintersleigh party was now congregating.

'Thank goodness you've arrived,' Frances remarked to George. 'Mr Maycroft has scarcely drawn breath since you left.'

George rolled his eyes. 'What's the saying, Frances? You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family. Wait a minute,' he added more seriously, 'why are we standing around in this stupid fashion?' He transferred his gaze to the group around him, who was standing absently by the door to the Model Prison. 'What are we waiting for?' He darted forward. 'Last one in is a rotten egg!' he declared over his shoulder, and would have been the first inside, had his brother's voice not stopped him in mid flight.

'There's an entrance fee of one shilling.'

George was not amused and made no secret of it. 'One shilling!' he exploded. 'But that's daylight robbery! We already had to pay four shillings for that infernal boat trip! By Jove! Well, you can count me out.' He turned his back on the party and began to walk away from the entrance.

'Where are you going, George?' Michael inquired tersely. 'Aren't you coming in?'

'No I certainly am not. I refuse to pay good money to see inside the crusty remains of a prison.' He folded his arms defiantly over his chest.

'George,' Louisa said reproachfully, 'we all go in together, or we do not go in at all.'

'Well it's settled then,' he declared, beginning to move off.

'How can you be so selfish, George Brearly?' Agnes asked with a sneer. 'We would all like to go in, and I'm not changing my plans just because you are too self-centred to—'

'Now wait just one moment, Agnes Wentworth,' George retaliated, 'I'll have you know that I'm not made of money. I'm just a sad, lowly writer, crushed by poverty.'

'I'll crush you if you keep going on about it,' Michael interrupted. 'For heaven's sake, George, if money is the only consideration here, I'll pay for you to go in.'

'Are you sure?' George replied with a disarming smile. 'Well that's awfully generous of you. I wouldn't want to take money from my big brother, but since you offered...'

'I did offer, now let me through so that I can pay for the two of us.'

'Good man,' George said moving forward. 'I knew my poor, lowly writer story would do the trick.' He heartily, and rather affectionately, slapped Michael on the back.

The rest of the Wintersleigh party then paid their entrance fees, and they all entered the prison together. They were later to discover from Thomas that these proceeds were to go to a Church of England clergyman, Rev. J.B. Woollnough, who, having bought the Model Prison, intended fitting it up for his own private residence. Once the group was inside, they were immediately greeted by an all-pervading stench of dirt and dampness.

'Mercy!' Louisa cried, hastily raising her lace edged handkerchief to her nose. 'It smells like a tomb in here!'

'Or my shoes,' George added with a chuckle.

The other women, by this stage, had also covered their delicate noses with their handkerchiefs, and while they adjusted their eyes to the shadowy dimness of the corridor, they began to edge their way along it. They stopped occasionally to inspect the insides of the prison cells that were lined on either side.

'Imagine living in a room this size,' Louisa said, peering tentatively over her handkerchief into the dank confines of one of the cells. 'Why, my wardrobe is larger than this!' She shook her head in silent wonderment.

In the background, not far from the prison entrance, Frances and Jack had fallen victim to Thomas Maycroft, and were enduring one of his irksome lectures. 'Isn't this a fascinating building?' Thomas was saying with a disturbing cheerfulness. 'Evocative of bygone years of cruelty and oppression.'

'Oh yes,' Frances murmured, 'delightful.'

'Still,' Thomas resumed, 'it's all rather interesting, isn't it? One could easily imagine what it would have been like to live here.' He leant into his walking stick. 'As I understand it, there were guards mounted strategically around this area, mainly in the central hall, further up ahead. They were instructed to shoot, without hesitation, any prisoner who was tempted to break bounds.'

A thrill of alarm caused Frances's heart to miss a beat. 'Oh dear,' was all she could manage to say.

'I don't like it in here, Daddy!' Jack wailed all of a sudden. 'I want to go home!'

Thomas ignored his son's distress, and continued speaking. 'Another form of punishment in this gaol was silence. Prisoners were required to be silent at all times.'

'I see,' Frances muttered under her breath, 'well you wouldn't have lasted very long then.'

Thomas was too busy inspecting the quality of the stone masonry to hear her remark, and taking advantage of his distracted state, Frances hurried away from him to rejoin the rest of the party. By the time she joined them, Jack was in tears, and was being comforted by his Uncle George.

'Come on, my little whipper snapper,' George was saying gently, 'why are you crying?'

'I want to go home,' Jack spluttered.

'Go home? But don't you want to see all the skeletons?'

'Skellingtons?' Jack repeated ineptly. He was suddenly divided between smiles and tears. 'Where are they? Where?'

'Oh, George,' Agnes moaned, 'how can you say such things to him? He's only a child. He doesn't know any better.'

'Where are the skellingtons, Uncle George?' Jack persisted. 'I want to see them. Now!'

'Not now, Jack,' George emphasised. 'I'll be with you presently.' He returned his attention to Agnes. 'Now, Miss Wentworth,' he said condescendingly, 'what is it you wanted to say?'

'You have no right promising a child something you cannot give him,' Agnes berated. 'It only leads to disappointment.'

'Humph! And since when were you an expert on children?' George scoffed. 'You're barely past childhood yourself.'

'How dare you!' Agnes hissed. Her dark eyes seemed to burn unnaturally bright in the dimness. 'You're the one who never grew up!'

George was just about to launch into a fresh round of derogatory remarks, when he noticed that Jack was no longer by his side. His pulse quickened, and turning hastily away from his adversary, he began to look about him. The corridor further ahead was scattered with the odd tourist, but there was no sign of a child resembling Jack amongst them. On the other side, only Thomas and the ensnared Louisa were making their way towards them.

'And if you notice the size of the rooms,' Thomas was saying, with an accompaniment of sweeping hand gestures, 'in direct proportion to the ceiling, you'll find that...'

'Agnes,' George heard himself blurt out, 'Jack's gone.' He regretted the words as soon as he had uttered them.

'What do you mean?' Agnes asked. 'He was with you a minute ago. He was standing right beside you.'

'Yes, thank you for pointing that out. I was aware of the fact. The point is that he is no longer with me. He must have run off when I had my back turned. He did look fairly on the rush. Damn and botheration.'

'Well don't just stand there, you beastly man,' she whispered ferociously. 'You're the one who lost him. Go and look for him, before the others find out!'

This heated conversation continued in a similar vein for a little while longer, until eventually Agnes and George excused themselves from the party, and began, in separate directions, to search for Jack Maycroft in the dim and sinister recesses of the Model Prison...

### CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Close Encounters

Agnes Wentworth stood trembling near the barred open door of a solitary confinement cell. She had been afraid of the dark since her childhood, and her fear at this moment was compounded by the fact that she was alone in an unfamiliar environment. With trepidation she peered inside the chamber. Clutching her hat and parasol with white knuckles, she spoke.

'Jack? Where are you?' She was met with no response, but that of the moaning wind outside. She shivered and stepped back silently over the stone floor. 'Jack?' she said again in a tremulous voice. 'I know you're in here. I can hear you breathing!' Again, there was no reply. Not knowing what else to do, she slipped fearfully into the cell. The suffocating blackness soon enveloped her. 'Jack?' she resumed, trying in vain to explore the small, musty confines of the space. 'Are you in here?'

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her, and before she had a chance to scream or move, she felt a strong arm encircling her waist, and a hungry mouth pressing up against hers. In another second, she felt herself being thrust up against the wall. In the ensuing tussle with her invisible attacker, she dropped her parasol, and in another moment, her hair clip broke, causing steady streams of her hair to cascade over her shoulders and back. She tried to cry out, but it was stifled by her assailant's mouth. The onslaught was tantalisingly brief, and by the time the man backed away from her, her lips were burning from the kiss, and her heart was violently aflutter.

'Michael,' she finally managed to gasp, 'what was that for?'

'That, Agnes Wentworth,' replied a husky voice, 'was for stabbing me in the foot with your parasol.' And with that defiant announcement, George Brearly ripped open the door, and departed as silently as he had entered it.

In the oppressive murkiness of the cell, Agnes stood rigid in disbelief. She felt faint, and leaning back onto the wall for support, fought for composure. She failed miserably, and heard a whimper emanate from her lips. Agnes soon discerned the echoing steps of approaching feet, but in her state of confusion and comfortable numbness, she could do nothing but listen to her own pounding heart. She stared out into the black nothingness before her. It was only the sound of her fiancé's voice, a short time later that woke her from her state of paralysis. She hurriedly moved away from the wall, and while she fumbled on the stone floor for her parasol, the heavy door was thrown open, and Michael appeared in the doorway.

'Agnes?' he asked, peering ineffectually into the pitch-black chamber. 'Are you in here?'

For a moment Agnes said nothing. It was only when he repeated the question that she finally answered him. 'Yes, Michael, I'm in here.'

'What for?' he asked, tentatively stepping inside the room.

'I, I was curious,' she stammered, moving towards him. 'It's quite fascinating in here.'

'Fascinating? How can you tell? It's like a rat-hole. I can't see a thing. '

Agnes faltered. 'Ah, yes, well it is a bit difficult.' She frantically tried to rearrange her dishevelled hair.

'That's the under-statement of the year. Where are you? I can't even see you.'

'It's all right, Michael. I'm coming out now.'

They soon met in the corridor, and it didn't take Michael long to notice Agnes's ruffled clothing and disordered hair. 'God in heaven!' he exclaimed. 'What happened to you?'

'There's no need to be so dramatic, Michael. I, I was looking for Jack, but I stumbled into the wall. I'm all right, but I broke my hair clip.'

'Well that's not important. Just so long as you're not hurt.'

'No, I'm not hurt, but has Jack been found? Is he all right?'

'Yes, he's fine. He's with Charlotte. No, it's not him I'm worried about. It's George. I don't know where he is. I saw him a few minutes ago looking rather agitated, but when I called out to him, he ignored me and stormed off. I daresay he's gone outside. You haven't seen him have you?'

'No,' Agnes replied rather too quickly. 'What makes you ask that?'

'Oh, no reason,' he said, watching Louisa and Thomas approach. 'I just...'

'And this,' interrupted Thomas, pointing to the door that Agnes had just closed, 'this, the owner has just told me, is the door to the solitary confinement cell. This room was used for prisoners who were particularly obstreperous or non co-operative. Depending on the severity of their offence, a prisoner could be imprisoned for...'

'Oh wonderful,' Michael muttered, 'this is all I need.'

'And Michael, Agnes,' said Thomas, turning to them unexpectedly, 'you might be interested to learn that this building down here,' he continued, walking ahead of them into the main hall, 'is the old convict chapel.' Michael and Agnes quickened their pace, and grudgingly followed him. They accompanied him up some wooden steps, and eventually arrived at an open door. 'As I understand it,' Thomas carried on with the same pomposity, 'the owner has recently dismantled this chapel, and is planning to convert it into his own private ball room.'

'Oh, how exceedingly singular!' Louisa declared. 'It is enough to make one shudder!'

'Yes, and how comforting it is to know that our money is going to such a worthy cause,' Michael said sarcastically to Agnes. 'Don't you think so?'

But Agnes didn't answer. Her mind was engaged in more serious matters than that of ballrooms or money ill-spent. Her vacant eyes were fixed on the altar, but her mind was feverishly recalling every detail of George's passionate kiss. Her cheeks reddened and she turned away from Michael.

'Forgive me, dear God,' she whispered, and without another word, she hurried down the stairs and out of sight.

### CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

A Request

Several days had elapsed since the Boxing Day excursion, and Michael Brearly sat despondently on the end of his bed, deep in reflection. His thoughts often wandered back to that day in Port Arthur, yet when he recalled the day in detail, he found that his memories were more painful than pleasurable. Since the outing he had noticed a perceptible change in Agnes's behaviour, and it made him wonder whether their disagreement about moving to England had left a more permanent impression on her. She was withdrawn and aloof, scarcely spoke, and when she did, she seemed thoughtfully preoccupied.

George too, it seemed, was in a similar state. Unlike the George of old, he ate very little, remained unusually quiet and appeared to be perpetually agitated.

Michael was naturally troubled by these behavioural changes, but to disguise his real underlying concerns for Agnes and George, he deceived himself into thinking that the matter was trivial. He also convinced himself that the up and coming New Year's Eve Ball at Wintersleigh would cheer everybody up, and make them forget their worries. But so far, it had not. As the ball had drawn closer, both Agnes and George had remained sullen and reserved.

And so Michael sat, deep in thought. It was the day before the grand event, and he had a few things to organise, including what he was going to wear for the occasion. He was just about to rise from his bed, when the sound of scratching caught his attention. He wheeled around and noticed that one of his new kittens was sharpening its claws on his bedroom rug. He shouted at it to stop, but it seemed oblivious to his voice. Michael then jumped up from his bed, and rushed towards the kitten, attempting to scare it. In playful terror, the animal fled, and took refuge under his bed.

This nameless kitten, which was currently terrorising him, had been one of two kittens given to him on Christmas Eve. He had found the animals in a box on the front door step at Rosewood, and thinking that they were intended for him, took them inside. No-one claimed responsibility for the gesture, but he suspected that George might have been involved. Perhaps the present was George's way of expressing remorse for having caused Henry's death, but strangely enough, George refused to take credit for the present, asserting that he had absolutely no knowledge of it. Knowing his brother as he did, Michael did not believe him.

The doctor received the kittens with mixed feelings. Part of him rejoiced at the prospect of having more cats at Rosewood, but, on the other hand, he felt guilty at having replaced Henry so soon after his tragic death. And there was yet another consideration. Agnes. Michael knew how much she disliked cats, and he felt certain that she would persuade him to give them away. After much deliberation on the subject, Michael decided to adopt the lively kittens, rather than to abandon them—something he knew in his heart he could never do. And so the kittens remained at Rosewood. They soon wearied the doctor with their boundless energy, but despite their childish playfulness and mischievous antics, they never gave him cause to repent his decision; even now, while one of them was hanging precariously from Michael's bedroom curtains.

Michael hurried over to the window, and tried to wrench the fluffy villain from the summer curtains. Unfortunately for him, the kitten retaliated by entrenching its claws more firmly into the fabric, and after minutes of struggling, it soon became obvious that no amount of effort would free the animal from its hold, without tearing the curtains.

Suddenly, there was a loud rap at the door, and without waiting for permission to enter, Thomas Maycroft opened the door to Michael's bedroom and entered. Michael hastily relinquished his hold on the kitten, and turned to face his brother-in-law. Thomas, he noticed, was formally attired, something that struck Michael as being rather odd. It immediately put him on the defensive.

'Thomas,' he began, clearing his throat nervously, 'hullo there. I wasn't expecting to see you. What can I do for you?'

'I wanted to ask you for a favour. I'm going out to town in a few minutes, and I wanted you to look after Jack for me.'

'Sorry, Thomas, but I'm heading out later this morning. I promised a patient that I would call in and see him. It's not a house call as such, more of a friendly visit.'

'Perhaps you could take Jack with you?'

'No, I don't think so,' said Michael, feeling increasingly riled. 'I'm sure my patient wouldn't appreciate it.' He undid the top button of his pyjamas. 'I know you think I'm being unreasonable about this, Thomas but it is very inconvenient for me today. Have you asked George? I daresay he wouldn't mind looking after Jack. He's very fond of the boy.'

'He's out. He left about an hour ago. I don't know where he went.'

'Oh, wonderful!' Michael muttered sarcastically. He hesitated. 'I know this is none of my business, but why go into town today? It's Sunday. Apart from the churches, nothing will be open.'

'I have a business meeting with an old accountant friend of mine,' Thomas explained. 'I'm meeting him at his house in West Hobart.'

'Nothing wrong I hope?'

'No, why do you ask?'

'Oh, no reason. I just haven't had a chance to ask you about your bookshop. How is business doing these days?'

Thomas seemed reluctant to answer. 'Has Jack said something?'

'Jack? Oh no, I was just wondering that's all. It must be difficult for you to juggle your responsibilities as a parent, with that of your business, particularly in these trying times.'

'Everything is going well,' Thomas came back with. 'Now, if you don't mind, could you please give me a final answer about Jack?'

Michael detected the antagonism in his brother-in-law's voice and he raised his eyebrows. 'Well then, I'm afraid the answer is 'no.' As I explained to you earlier, I have already made other arrangements. If you'd given me more notice about your plans, I might have been able to help you.'

'Never mind,' Thomas answered ill-naturedly, 'and don't bother to explain.'

Michael was quick to reply. 'Please, Thomas, there's no need to be like that. Despite what you may think, I'm not trying to shirk my responsibilities as an uncle.'

'And what responsibilities would they be? Your duty to question my parenting, or labelling my only son an impudent boy?'

Michael straightened himself a little. 'Ah, I knew it wouldn't be long before you reminded me of that incident,' he said slowly. 'It makes me cringe just to think of it.' He was silent for a time. 'There's no easy way for me to say this. After much deliberation on the matter, I want to apologise for the way I spoke to Jack on Christmas Day, and for what I said. I still maintain that Jack's behaviour was unacceptable, but I had no right to call him 'impudent,' and to interfere in something that was clearly your responsibility.'

'So you are questioning my parenting.'

Michael considered his brother-in-law's words. 'I suppose I am, yes. Not out of spite, of course, but because I care about his upbringing. He's my sister's only child, after all. I can't help but feel involved somehow.'

'How would you fare, Michael, if you had to raise a child on your own?' Thomas demanded. 'How would you cope?'

Michael hesitated, and returned his attention to his kitten. It had just released its grip from the curtains, and once it had dropped to the floor, promptly fled out the door. 'Very badly, I daresay,' Michael eventually replied. 'I don't know the first thing about children, except medically, of course. They're so foreign to me, ostensibly irrational and unpredictable. I'm more used to cats. When they are troublesome or make too much noise, I simply put them outside.' He attempted a smile.

Thomas stood strangely still, and did not return Michael's gesture. 'I appreciate your words, Michael, and your frankness regarding parenting, but until you have a child of your own, you have no right to discuss your concerns about Jack's upbringing with me. As for Jack, he's the one you need to apologise to, not me.' He then turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

### CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Temptation

'Oh, Mercy! I am sure I have forgotten something!' Louisa Wentworth declared, as she stood by the drawing room window on the evening of the New Year's Ball. 'If only I knew what it was!'

'You've forgotten nothing, Mama,' Agnes reassured. 'Everything is perfect.'

'Oh! If only that were true, my dear,' Louisa responded, patting her daughter affectionately on the shoulder. 'If only that were true.' She sighed, then turned towards the window, looking through the glass to the darkening world outside. 'They will all be here soon,' she said, staring fixedly at the entrance drive. She was soon startled by a voice behind her.

'Only me!' announced George Brearly, sidling up beside them. His presence provoked no response from either woman. 'By Jove,' he said, feeling rather unpopular, 'that wasn't exactly the response I was looking for, but...'

'Oh, where is everyone?' Louisa bewailed over the top of George's voice. 'They should be here by now. It is most vexing.'

'Mama,' Agnes ventured, 'please do not distress yourself unnecessarily.'

'Unnecessarily?' Louisa repeated. 'After all the effort I have put into this ball, I think I have every right to be worried about it.'

'Of course you do, Mama, but you say this every year.' From the corner of her eye, Agnes felt George's eyes upon her and she decided to say nothing more.

As she had suspected, George Brearly was observing her, and quite intently too. His eyes, in particular, were drawn to her tall, tightly corseted figure, shown to best advantage by her new ball gown, (a pale primrose-yellow spotted muslin, with printed patterns of irises in pink, green and yellow) and her white, elbow length gloves. Her jet coloured hair was gathered fashionably behind her neck, and was tastefully decorated with ornamental combs. An elaborate toque, trimmed with sprigs of wattle and sweet scented boronia, rested delicately on top of her head, and her other accessories included several pieces of jewellery, including a brooch at her breast, a gleaming pearl necklace at her throat, and matching pearl earrings.

'Well, I must say, Agnes Wentworth,' George began, still studying her figure with admiration, 'that you are looking particularly fetching this evening.'

'Oh hush, George!' Louisa growled. 'Not now! Your taunting words are most harassing to my nerves.'

'I wasn't taunting. I was just making an observation.'

'Could you please fasten my comb, Agnes?' Louisa asked, interrupting again. 'I can feel it slipping out.' Agnes quickly went to her mother's aid. 'By the way, George,' Louisa added over her shoulder, 'what have you done with your hair? It looks positively wild. When was the last time you brushed it?'

George fell into thought. 'Don't know and I don't care. I'm not the one who has to look at it all day.'

'Yes, well we do, and so will my guests when they arrive. Why don't you go upstairs and run a comb through it?'

George clenched his jaw in annoyance, before glancing in Agnes's direction. She had affected an air of indifference towards him, and seemed to be serenely unaware of his existence. George felt her rudeness, and turned away. Without another word, he slipped disconsolately out of the room.

Agnes noticed his departure, but said nothing to her mother. Her heart was beating so quickly that she could hardly breathe, let alone make an intelligible comment. The arrival of Cyril, Thomas, Jack and her fiancé soon aroused her from her thoughts.

'Oh, splendid! You're all here at last!' Louisa gushed, hurrying towards the group with sudden energy. In her anxiety, she failed to notice that Frances and Charlotte were both absent.

'Yes, Louisa,' Michael said, stepping forward to take her hand. 'We're here. And might I say, Louisa that the house looks exquisite.' He squeezed her hand gently, yet reassuringly.

'Does it? Oh, I hope so. The guests will be here in a minute, and knowing the Watsons, they will be first at the door. They are always so punctual.'

'Well of course they are, Mama,' Agnes laughed. 'They only live down the road.'

Louisa cast her daughter a look of reproach, but said nothing. She released Michael's hand and glided across the room again to the window. She then peeled back the curtains and stole a cursory look outside. Seeing no new arrivals, she looked back towards the group. It was at that point she realised that several members of the party were missing.

'Where are the others?' she queried.

'They're still upstairs,' Cyril mumbled. 'Getting dressed.'

'Getting dressed?' Louisa exclaimed. 'Surely they must know what time it is. Oh dear, this is all too vexing!' She let the curtains fall, and set off with determination across the room. Just before she reached the door, however, Michael's words caused her to falter.

'Louisa, please don't work yourself up into a state. It isn't worth the worry, or the energy.'

'Well, what am I to do, Michael? How would it look if the guests arrived, and they were no where to be seen?'

'I'll go and see what's going on,' Agnes suggested.

'No,' Michael said firmly. 'If you don't mind, Agnes, I'll go. I have to go upstairs anyway to get something.'

'Thank you, my dear,' Louisa said, watching her future son-in-law dutifully leave the room. 'Do tell them to hurry!'

In another moment, Michael had taken his leave and was making his way up the stairs. By the time he reached Frances's room, he was a little breathless from anxiety, and taking deep breaths to steady himself, he knocked diffidently at the door. When there was no response, he knocked with more vigour.

'Miss Norwood? Are you in there?'

The door opened, and through the small gap, a fretful looking Charlotte appeared. Her face relaxed when she saw Michael, and she even allowed herself a smile. 'It's all right, Franny!' she said, addressing her cousin from over her shoulder. 'It's not Mama. It's Doctor Brearly!'

Michael didn't hear the response, but presumed that Frances too was relieved. 'Is everything all right, Charlotte?' he asked in a low voice. 'It's just that your mother is none too pleased, and wants you to come downstairs immediately.'

'Bother,' Charlotte said, nibbling her lip. 'That sounds ominous.' Again, she looked over her shoulder to check Frances's progress. 'Please hurry, Fran,' she urged. 'Mama is getting cross.'

'Is something the matter?' Michael asked again, growing more curious.

Charlotte turned back to face him. 'Well yes, there is a slight problem. Wait one moment.' She then disappeared back into the room, shutting the door behind her. Through the door of the bedroom, he heard muffled conversation.

'Are you sure you can't see it?' a troubled voice cried.

'I'm certain. The rest of your hair is covering it.'

He then heard some sort of activity from within the room, and before he had time to step back from the door, it opened, and both Charlotte and Frances emerged. While the two women stood before him, he was only vaguely conscious of Charlotte's existence. Frances was all he saw, and the more he gazed upon her, resplendent in her ivory and gold ball gown, the more captivated he became.

'Miss Norwood,' he murmured, silently admiring the creamy whiteness of skin above the low-cut bodice, 'you look, er, remarkably well. Beautiful, if I might be permitted to say so.' Frances smiled and nervously adjusted the gold ribbon that adorned the upper part of her throat. In an instant Michael realised his blunder and sought to correct it. 'You both look quite beautiful,' he added, for Charlotte's benefit.

Charlotte coloured a little and didn't quite know where to look. She evidently wasn't used to receiving compliments and wasn't sure whether to offer her thanks, or whether to say nothing at all. She opted for the latter.

Frances, however, was in no doubt how to respond. 'And you look vaguely acceptable too,' she answered coyly.

Michael smiled and looked down at his clothes. On this particular evening he was dressed suavely in a full dress suit, comprising double-breasted waistcoat with matching coat and trousers. His high standing white collar had clearly been starched for the ball, and around the collar he wore an Ascot tie and pin.

'What? This old thing?' he cheerfully remarked.

Both Frances and Charlotte laughed and for the time being nothing more was said. The group of three then moved away from the bedroom door, and began heading down the hallway. They had not taken five steps when Charlotte realised that she had left her fan in the room. She said as much to Frances and Michael.

'Oh, I am sorry!' Charlotte declared. 'Do go off without me,' and with that, she darted off down the hall, in the direction of her old bedroom.

In Charlotte's absence Frances and Michael did as they were bid, and slowly walked down the hall towards the staircase. When the staircase came into sight, Frances faltered and turned towards the doctor.

'I hope my aunt isn't too annoyed with us,' she said, looking apprehensively downstairs.

'Well,' he ventured with a smile, 'let's just say that I've seen her in better moods.'

'Oh, dear. That sounds a bit grim.'

'No, no, not at all. She was just worried about you both. I daresay she thought you were having some problems.'

'Yes, well we did. Rather I had some problems.' She lowered her voice to a confiding tone. 'Charlotte burnt a small patch of my hair with the curling tongs,' she explained. 'She assures me that it is not visible, but I am a pessimist at heart, and of course I am yet to be appeased.'

'Poor Charlotte. Do you think you can ever forgive her?'

'One day perhaps.'

'Let me see,' he said, leaning over slightly to have a look. 'I can't see anything.'

In spite of her awkwardness, Frances allowed herself a smile. 'That, Doctor Brearly, is because you're looking in the wrong area.' She looked at him with playful severity. 'It's further along,' she added, indicating the burnt patch with her gloved finger.

Without thinking, Michael stepped closer to her, and following the direction of her finger, gently peeled back several long strands of hair on her neck to inspect the damage. It was clearly visible, but out of kindness to her he pretended that he couldn't see it. At that moment, he smelt a faint hint of her perfume, and without knowing what he was doing, he felt his hand falter on her neck. Their eyes soon met, and to Michael's relief Frances's eyes were not rebuking. She seemed to regard him with more timidity than censure.

The shrill, yet distant sound of Louisa's voice, soon caught their attention, and Frances instinctively pulled away. In the background, Louisa's voice continued to be heard.

'The Watsons have just arrived, Frances!' Louisa was saying. 'I think you had better come down this instant!'

Frances assumed a theatrical expression of exasperation, before hurrying down the stairs to her awaiting aunt.

As soon as Frances disappeared from view, Michael sighed and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He then took hold of the banister to steady himself.

### CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Wintersleigh Ball

The house was soon engulfed with people, and to Louisa's relief, her guests were in good spirits. As each visitor was promptly ushered into the cloakroom, the Wintersleigh servants were waiting to attend to their needs. Coats and hats were removed, gowns or ties were adjusted, and hair was fussed over. After their last minute toilettes, the guests were then shown into the ballroom, which was located down the far end of the downstairs hall.

The ballroom itself was a stately looking room of extensive proportions. In comparison with other great houses in Tasmania, the Wintersleigh ball chamber was rather insignificant, but to a small, rural community, it was very grand indeed. With its high ceiling and enormous window, it was Louisa's favourite room in the house, and as a result, she took great pains to ensure that it looked its very finest. On this particular occasion the chamber was lined with a green wilderness of giant parlour palms, vases of fern and flower arrangements and a row of chairs, for those individuals who were not inclined to dance, and who preferred to watch the proceedings from the comfort of their own chair. In the far corner of the room a small group of musicians was assembled, and their respective instruments gleamed under the light from the gasoliers.

Frances had never been overly fond of large formal gatherings, primarily because they bored her, and the Wintersleigh Ball was no exception. No sooner had she entered the room, she secreted herself behind one of the densest looking palms, hoping the plant's foliage would be sufficient enough to hide her from view. For several minutes, at least, she was safe from the colourful heaving of life around her, and had just exhaled a breath of relief, when George Brearly unexpectedly appeared beside her.

'Frances!' he cried. 'Well met! Just the woman I was looking for.'

Frances instinctively tightened her grip on her fan. 'And what can I do for you, George?' she answered, scarcely paying him any attention. Her expectant eyes began to scan the ballroom for the doctor, but he was nowhere to be seen.

'By Jove! I should have thought that was obvious,' George responded laughingly. 'Fancy taking a whirl about the room with me? We have several hours of dancing before us, and a room full of people to impress.'

Frances opened her fan and began to flutter it nervously about her face. Before she had had a chance to decline his offer by way of some witty excuse, she felt George take one of her hands and drag her away from her verdant hiding place, and out onto the dance floor. Frances was less than impressed by George's improper and un-gentlemanly conduct, and as he carelessly manoeuvred them around clusters of people, she was soon lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

'George,' Frances ventured over the din of music, talking and merriment, 'I think you're being a bit over hasty. I don't recall ever agreeing to your proposal. If you will allow me the use of your pencil for just a moment, I shall add your name to my dance card, for a later dance.' She opened the card, which was delicately attached to the side of her gown with a thin braided cord. 'It seems that I am not engaged for the first Quadrille after the Intermission—'

'Oh, hang the Quadrille!' George retorted.

Frances frowned and looked edgily about her. To her dismay, her aunt was standing just a short distance away from the dance floor, and was chatting with a rather bird-like woman, whose head was surmounted by a preposterous looking feathered headpiece. As mistress of the proceedings, Louisa was keenly attune to her surroundings, and like a chameleon, whose eyes work independently from one another, she had the uncanny ability of being able to watch two things at once, in opposing directions. While her attention was seemingly fixed on her elderly companion, she was also aware of George and Frances's movements as they took a few preliminary turns about the room. From the glowering look in Louisa's eyes and the tautness of her clenched jaw, Frances could tell that her aunt was not amused.

George's words soon resounded loudly in Frances's ears. 'Well, well, Frances, I must say that you're an awfully good dancer.'

'Yes, I know.'

George chuckled. 'It goes without saying that you're a much better dancer than Agnes. I fear that her ineptitude on the tennis court also extends to the dance floor. Not that I'm a particularly brilliant dancer, mind you, but let's just say that I've never been accused of having two left feet.'

Frances made no reply. She had just caught sight of Agnes and the doctor, standing together near the ballroom door. From Frances's vantage-point, she saw the couple exchange a few words, before Michael extended his hand to her, as though he was inviting her to dance. Agnes, however, met this gesture unsmilingly, and seemed resolved to remain where she was. After exchanging a few more words, the doctor let his hand fall. In the next moment, both Agnes and Michael directed their attention towards Frances and George. Frances suddenly longed to return to her parlour palm.

'So, Frances,' George resumed, now aware that he was becoming the centre of attention, 'do you have any New Year's resolutions?' Unbeknownst to Frances, he was watching Agnes and his brother from the corner of his eyes.

'None that I will be able to keep, I'm afraid.'

'Well said!' George replied, and tightening his grip around Frances's waist, began edging her towards the ballroom door, where Agnes and Michael were still awkwardly standing. He greeted them both with an irreverent salute. 'Well, here are a couple of stuffed dolls!' he called out playfully. He then snatched the fan out of Frances's hand, and flung it in Agnes's direction. Agnes's reflexes, of course, weren't quick enough to discern the approaching fan, and it landed on the floor before her with a clatter. 'Good catch!' George declared in a tone of amused sarcasm, and before Agnes could respond to his audacious comment, he skilfully swept Frances back into the centre of the dance floor.

'That was awfully obliging of Agnes to look after your fan for you,' George remarked, once they were a safe distance away from the affianced couple.

Frances winced in embarrassment, and wished with all her heart that the 'larger than life' George would simply disappear. 'I see you've maintained your healthy respect for one another,' she ventured, peering over George's shoulder, in Agnes's direction.

George's normally fluid dancing motion faltered, as though he had erred in his timing. 'As always,' he said smirking, 'as always.'

Agnes, meanwhile, had withdrawn from the room, and was conspicuous by her absence. Frances couldn't help but comment to George on this fact.

'Don't you worry your head about Agnes Wentworth. One can only imagine that she's running to her dear mother for a good whine.'

As much as Frances disliked her cousin Agnes, George's words still seemed uncharitable and unnecessary. She could feel resentment rising up within her. 'Forgive me for saying this, George, but I'm beginning to see why so many people have warned me about you.' George raised his eyebrows but made no rejoinder. 'First it was my aunt, then Agnes, Charlotte, and lastly Michael. They've all said the most scandalous things about you. I scarcely know who, or what to believe.'

'Then take my advice and believe every word they tell you. I am a free spirit, Frances. I always have been, and I will remain so until I curl up my toes. I live my life the way I want to live it, and I make no apologies for doing so.'

Frances smiled sardonically. 'I've never heard so many 'I's' in one sentence before. Anyone would think that you're the sun and the people in your life are just the planets.'

All at once George was very still. 'Are you accusing me of being self-centred? Do you think that everything revolves around me?'

'I'm accusing you of nothing. You misinterpreted what I said.'

George loosened his grip on her. 'No, Frances,' he whispered, 'I don't think so.'

Frances watched him intently for a moment, waiting for him to smile or say something more, but he did neither. A look of seriousness had spread itself over his handsome features, and for the remainder of their dance, he didn't say a word. It was a great relief to both parties, therefore, when the dance finally ended and they went their own separate ways.

### CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Shared Moments

After her bothersome encounter with George Brearly, Frances was content to sit the next dance out. Her dance card was not quite full, despite Louisa's attempts to find partners for her, and she needed time to catch her breath and clear her mind. As she sat beside her aunt, her cousin Charlotte, Cyril and Thomas Maycroft, she reflected on what she had said to George. She presumed that George would take the comment in his stride, and accept it with his usual good grace. If she had known that her words would jeopardise their friendship, she would have kept her thoughts to herself. While she considered her next course of action with George, the small party she was sitting with was soon enlarged to include Agnes and the two Brearly brothers. At the sight of Michael, Frances's heart gave a spasmodic bound.

Louisa, in the mean time, had noticed the arrival of her daughter and the Brearlys, and was not impressed. 'Mercy! What is this?' she broke in, snapping her fan shut. 'What is wrong with everybody tonight? Why are you not dancing?'

'I'm awfully fagged,' George professed, as he threw himself into a nearby chair, 'and I'm not in the mood.' In his face, Frances still saw conflict and disquietude.

'Nor am I,' added Charlotte, sitting morosely beside her mother.

'What do you mean, not in the mood?' Louisa retaliated. 'Agnes, Michael, why are you not dancing?' With downcast eyes, Agnes said nothing. Michael too remained silent. 'Charlotte, Cyril? What about you two?'

'Cyril thinks it is improper for a Christian minister to dance, Mama,' Charlotte explained.

'Stuff and nonsense!' a captious Louisa retorted. 'I cannot believe this,' she remarked, scowling at each member of the party. 'I have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to arrange this ball tonight, and now no-one wants to dance. I am most exceedingly disappointed.'

By this stage dancers for the next waltz were being summoned. Frances, as far as she could remember, was not engaged for the next dance, and instead of checking her dance card for confirmation of this, she sighed and slumped back further in her chair. To her surprise, however, Michael Brearly unexpectedly appeared before her.

'Come on, Miss Norwood,' he said, smiling at her hesitatingly, 'you promised me this next dance.'

Frances simply stared. 'Did I?' she replied, looking a little bemused.

'You did indeed. It was written down on your card.'

Frances was now the centre of attention within her party, and she did not relish it in the slightest. Under the censorious scrutiny of Agnes and her aunt, Frances quickly got to her feet.

'Dance with Frances?' Louisa asked testily. 'But Michael, what about Agnes?'

'Agnes has already declined an invitation to dance with me,' he explained coolly, 'and that is the end of the story. Please excuse us.'

Despite Louisa's gasps of astonishment, and Agnes's mouth set in grim acquiescence, nothing further was said on the subject, and to the background hum of movement and conversation, Michael and Frances hurried away to the centre of the dance floor.

'I know this sounds strange,' Frances said, as she took her position opposite Michael, 'but I really don't remember you asking me to dance earlier. Shall I check my card, just to be certain?'

'No need to do that,' Michael replied, removing his spectacles and polishing them rigorously with the cuff of his sleeve. 'Your memory is not at fault.' He returned the spectacles to his face. 'I'm afraid I lured you out here under false pretences. I need to talk with you.'

The memory of the earlier scene on the staircase inexplicably came flooding back to Frances, and she started slightly at the recollection. 'Ah, so you didn't want to dance with me after all,' she stated, challenging him with her eyes.

By this stage the music had begun, and Michael stepped closer to Frances. 'Nothing could be further from the truth,' he whispered, before tenderly taking her right hand. In the next moment he placed his other hand about her waist.

Their increasing closeness did nothing to dispel Frances's awkwardness, and as her face tinged with a blush, she draped her left arm about Michael's shoulder. They began to take their first tentative turns about the crowded room.

'What did you want to talk about?' Frances asked, averting her eyes to the colourful sea of dancers around her. A hint of her partner's cologne wafted under her nostrils, and she smiled uneasily. 'I, I hope it's not another discussion about George.'

Michael stumbled at the mere mention of his brother's name, and almost collected a huge flower arrangement, perched on a mahogany corner stand. 'Please, don't mention George, Miss Norwood,' he said, between gritted teeth. 'He occupies my thoughts more than you would care to know.'

Frances returned her eyes to her partner's face, and for a moment their eyes met. She read the meaning in his glance, and again she looked away. For some time after this, she was aware of nothing but her slippers gliding over the polished floorboards.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I only mentioned him because we've had a slight falling out, shall we say. In the process of conveying a word of advice to him, I inadvertently insulted him.'

'Is that so? Well, if you don't mind me asking, what did you say to him?'

'The details are a bit vague now,' she admitted, passing by the violinist, 'but I quite possibly accused him of being self-centred.'

'And what did he say to that?'

'He took exception to the comment, and he hasn't spoken to me since.'

'That's very unlike George. He doesn't usually take offence that easily. Still, I'm not surprised. He's been behaving very strangely recently. So has Agnes, come to think of it, ever since that infernal excursion to Port Arthur. I've puzzled my brain over the whole affair, but to no avail. I can't account for their behaviour.' He studied her closely. 'I don't suppose you know what's going on?'

'Not at all. Agnes tells me nothing. For some reason, known only to her, we are not on speaking terms. Looking back on it all, I suppose you could say that we have never been in tune with one another.'

'That is indeed a shame, and I am sorry for it.'

Frances's face softened, and she acknowledged Michael's kind words with a smile. 'So am I. I would have liked to have been her friend, not just her cousin, but looking at it philosophically, some relationships just aren't meant to be.'

'And some are,' Michael replied, with an emphasis, meaningful only to himself.

Frances received these words with equanimity, and while she secretly contemplated his assertion, she found herself occupying a space close to the seated Wintersleigh party. Apart from a friendly wave from Charlotte, the rest of the gathering looked clearly out of humour, and were following her progress on the dance floor with angry eyes, and an undisguised air of resentment. George's attitude too was cold and aloof, and when Frances smiled at him, he did not return it. Frances was in no way offended by his rebuff, and instead, found herself tightening her grip on her partner, a gesture that Michael promptly returned. They were soon looking into one another's eyes, and after a long lingering gaze, Frances was compelled to speak.

'What did you want to discuss?' she murmured dreamily.

'I don't know,' he said, gazing admiringly into her dusky eyes, 'it doesn't seem to matter now.'

### CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Accusations

Agnes Wentworth stifled a cry with a white gloved hand, and sank back indecorously into her chair. With the other hand, she opened up her ornate lace fan, and without her usual aplomb, began to flap it agitatedly about her face.

These open signs of restlessness did not escape the attention of her mother, who was sitting beside her, and Louisa quickly leaned over and supportively took hold of Agnes's hand. 'What is it, my dear?' Louisa asked in a caring, maternal tone. 'You look much affrighted.'

The fan faltered in Agnes's hand, and in the next moment she was sitting as pale and dormant as a tombstone. Her glazed eyes, however, could not be stilled, and as her cousin and fiancé waltzed gracefully about the ballroom, her eyes followed their every move.

'Now don't you go troubling yourself about those two,' Louisa said. 'I daresay Michael is only dancing with your cousin because you refused him earlier.'

Agnes pulled her hand away from her mother. 'You may think that if you wish, but I do not.'

'Mercy, Agnes! What do you mean by that?'

'Frances pretended to look surprised when Michael asked her to dance, but I wasn't fooled for a moment. She has had this dance with Michael planned for days.'

'How could they have planned it? Frances has not been anywhere near Michael. She's been here at Wintersleigh all the time.'

'Port Arthur, Mama. They arranged it on the boat coming home. I am certain of it. Didn't you see them talking and laughing together? They were inseparable for the entire three hours.' She snapped shut her fan, and began adjusting her long, white gloves.

'Well, if that is all you are fretting about then, allow me to set your mind at ease. Really, my dear, there is nothing for you to worry about on that score.' Louisa patted Agnes's hand, as though she were soothing a tearful child. 'The truth is, my dear, I asked Michael to have a word with your cousin.'

'But what for, Mama?'

'I was concerned about the amount of time that George was spending with Frances, and I wanted to put a stop to it. I knew that Frances would take no heed of my warnings, so I enlisted Michael's support. I feel certain that that is what they were discussing on the boat.'

'For three hours?'

Louisa's brow clouded with doubt. 'Yes, yes, I see your point entirely, but please, my dear, do keep your voice down. Every time you speak louder, that wretched George Brearly glances in your direction.' She sniffed loudly.

'Where is he?'

'He is standing beside Charles Green in the doorway. Now, please do not look at him,' Louisa urged, trying to draw Agnes's attention back to her. 'Turn around. He is only trying to provoke you.'

Agnes did as she was bid, and settled back into her chair. 'I must confess, Mama,' Agnes said mincingly, 'that George Brearly is the last thing on my mind. It's Frances who troubles me the most.'

'Well I cannot see why, Agnes. Frances, I grant you, is lonely. That is all. Try and look at it from her perspective. As you know, her father died when she was very little, she has no brothers or sisters, and her mother, whom she loves most in the world, is still living in Melbourne. She never discusses her mother with me, which seems rather odd, but she obviously misses her.'

Agnes looked out across the dance floor. The waltz had only just ended and Michael and Frances were standing on the opposite side of the room, talking. 'I am fatherless too, Mama. Besides, why should I feel sorry for her, when she is the one trying to ruin my happiness?'

'And how is she doing that?'

'Isn't it obvious? She's trying to destroy my relationship with Michael.'

'How can you say that, my dear? Frances has only been here a few weeks.'

'Then she has made good use of her time.'

'Now, now, Agnes, I think you are being a little unreasonable. You are seeing something that clearly does not exist.'

'But it is there, Mama!' Agnes rebelled. 'It does exist! Haven't you seen how altered Michael is? He has changed so much!'

Louisa smiled tenderly. 'Yes, my dear, but so have you.'

Agnes shook her dark head miserably. 'No, not as much as he has. I can only put it down to Frances's influence.'

'My poor Aggie,' Louisa crooned, 'you are feeling uptight about the wedding, and you are over-reacting to the smallest things. It is natural and perfectly understandable.' Again she took hold of Agnes's hand. 'Michael and Frances are friends, nothing more. Michael loves you. He wants to marry you, most assuredly.'

'It's not true. I don't believe a word of it.'

'Agnes,' Louisa said, growing increasingly concerned, 'how can you doubt that? How can you doubt that he loves you?'

'There!' Agnes retorted, aggressively pointing her fan in Frances and Michael's direction. 'What further proof do you require?' Her hand began to tremble so much that the fan nearly fell from her grasp.

'Oh my poor Agnes! I don't know what to say. Tell me how I can comfort you.'

'I don't want your comfort, Mama,' Agnes said resolutely under her breath. 'All I want is for Frances to be put back in her place.'

Agnes then got to her feet, and stalked away, leaving the air behind her suffused with the sweet scent of rose water and echoes of tinkling bracelets on her gloved wrists. She was, in fact, so determined to leave the ball-room that she momentarily forgot about the now solitary figure of George Brearly, positioned in the doorway. The unpleasant discovery made the colour drain away from her face, but to her credit, she was able to keep her eyes averted and her head held high. Unfortunately for her, George had no intention of letting her pass, and thrusting his arm out across the doorway, he prevented her exit.

'Get out of the way, George Brearly,' she commanded.

'Having a good evening are we?' he replied, pretending to ignore her acerbic tone.

Agnes tucked a fallen ringlet behind her ear, and taking a deep breath, she bravely transferred her gaze to his. 'I'm having the time of my life,' she lied, 'now let me pass.'

'Liar. Now, what's the magic word?'

'Imbecile, now move aside.'

'A pleasing effort,' George came back with, 'but I'm afraid it's not the right word. Would you care to try again?'

'The only thing I care about, at this point in time, is getting away from you.'

The taunting smile on George's lips began to melt away. 'Now, now, Miss Wentworth. There's no need to be so disagreeable.' Agnes faltered and George soon pounced on her silence. 'Let's change the subject, before you unleash your magnificent temper on me. Let's talk about your mother and the heated discussion you were just having with her.'

'Please, George, just let me through.'

'I see. Another less delicate subject, perhaps.' He inclined his head, as if he was deep in thought. 'I know, how about I tell you all about the eventful evening I've had tonight.' When Agnes made no word of protest, he went on. 'Firstly, your bewitching cousin insulted me while we were dancing, then my brother made a spectacle of himself by dancing with his fiancée's cousin and not his fiancée, and last of all, my dear nephew Jack got into some scrape with one of the neighbour's children. He stole her piece of chocolate cake, or some such nonsense. It was quite tense there at one point, until I gave Jack some suggestions on how to handle members of the opposite sex.' There was a flicker of amusement about his lips.

'And what makes you think that you're qualified to teach him such things? If you ask me for my opinion, you're the last person in the world to be giving advice about women. You are the most childish, insensitive person I have ever had the misfortune to meet.'

'Yes, yes, I've heard all this before.'

'And what is more, George Brearly, you have absolutely no understanding of women.'

'I beg your pardon,' he retorted indignantly. 'That is simply not true. I consider myself to be an expert in women's feelings.' He ignored the sound of Agnes's scoffing and continued to glare at her with penetrating eyes. 'I know only too well the true nature of womankind. I have been witness to the games they play. I see their impetuosity, their deviousness, their fickleness and, most importantly, I have witnessed first hand, woman's innate ability to torment men.'

Agnes gasped in disbelief. 'We torment men?' she repeated. 'George Brearly, how can you say such things? And yet you say it so unreservedly! I am quite appalled!' She shook her head in incredulity. 'How wrong you are! I should say that it is the other way around. Men torment women—Now, I won't ask you again. Get out of the way.'

George reluctantly let his arm drop, but no sooner had Agnes moved forward, he caught hold of one of her hands, and drew her nearer to him. 'I'll let you go this once, Agnes Wentworth,' George murmured into her ear, 'but never again.'

Agnes's bottom lip dropped open in amazement, and it was some time before she was able to regain her composure. Once her breathing had settled into its habitual regularity, she looked up into his eyes and read the message that he wanted her alone to read. He made no attempt to disguise his meaning. The only thing now that was unclear was the ambiguity of her own feelings.

### CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Taken by Surprise

To the distant serenade of trilling insects and whispering leaves, Frances stood on the ground floor back verandah at Wintersleigh, staring out vaguely into the humid summer night. In the room behind her about a dozen ball guests were helping themselves to a late night supper, George Brearly being the most conspicuous amongst the small crowd. By Frances's reckoning, he had already consumed two plates' worth of food, and was embarking on filling up his third. Frances couldn't help but notice the look of concentration on his face, as his hands, replete with serving tongs, delved into the platters of assorted cold meats and seafood. During a rare moment of indecision, he even denuded a salver of its garnish (a large sprig of parsley) and despite disapproving looks from his fellow diners, munched on it unconcernedly.

In the meantime, the year 1894 was swiftly drawing to a close. Only fifteen minutes remained, and while the Wintersleigh clocks counted down the final minutes and seconds of the year, Frances began thinking about her future, something that was never that far from her mind. On the face of it, her immediate prospects were not bright. She was yet to find work in Hobart, her adored mother had just sent Frances confirmation of the wedding date, and she was living in a house with the haughty Agnes Wentworth, a young woman who took every opportunity of avoiding her. When Frances recalled the long list of her cousin's offences against her, she wondered how a man like Michael Brearly could possibly love her. Was there a lighter side to Agnes that Frances had not yet seen?

Frances rested her elbows on the railing, and covered her face with her gloved hands. Behind her closed lids an image of the doctor rose up before her. It wasn't exactly a memory, more of a daydream, and in the fleeting few minutes that the fantasy lasted, Michael was dancing with her once more, in an empty ballroom, with both arms about her waist.

The sound of creaking verandah floorboards beside her heralded the arrival of another person, and Frances woke from her dream with a guilty start. To her surprise, the visitor was George Brearly, holding a plate of scallops in one hand, and two champagne glasses in the other.

'Well, well,' he cried, with no small degree of triumph, 'I have found you at last! Miss Frances Norwood, standing out here, all alone in the dark.'

Frances quickly stepped back from the verandah. 'I just needed some peace and quiet,' she explained, 'and a little time to clear my head.'

'How odd you are, Frances! Quite the duffer! While everyone else is enjoying themselves in the supper room, me included, you are standing here all alone, enjoying the company of the night air.' His eyes began dancing with amusement. 'Still, here you are. Rather, here we are.' He winked provocatively at her. 'Have a glass of champagne,' he announced, thrusting one of the glasses into Frances's hand. 'You look as though you could do with something.' As he leaned over, however, he upset the contents of his plate, causing a scallop to slip off the plate and onto the verandah. 'Damn and botheration! There goes another one!'

Frances smiled and accepted the glass gratefully. 'So,' she began hesitantly, 'you've finally forgiven me. I thought at one point that you were going to avoid me for the rest of the evening.'

'Come, come,' George replied smilingly, 'what was there for me to forgive? You were only speaking your mind. That's what I like about you, Frances. You say what has to be said.' He took a loud slurp from his glass. 'Besides,' he resumed more seriously, 'I wanted to dance with you later on, but you seemed to be constantly engaged.'

'Oh yes, well you can blame my aunt for that. I don't know what got into her this evening, but she seemed doubly determined to throw me into the path of every bachelor in the room. At one point she literally grabbed hold of my arm, and pushed me in front of one of her unattached neighbours. It was mortifying.'

'Perhaps so, but you didn't need much persuasion dancing with my brother, did you? You consented to him very readily.'

Frances was jarred by the tone of George's voice. 'He asked me to dance, George. What was I supposed to do? Refuse the hand of a gentleman? Anyway,' Frances added more calmly, 'I was discussing my aunt, not your brother.'

'Fair enough.'

'Why do married women pity single women?' Frances suddenly asked. 'What makes them think that we deserve sympathy? They must think that a woman can only be happy if she is married. Then they take it upon themselves to match-make. It infuriates me.'

'Perhaps your aunt thinks that you are lonely.'

'Everyone gets lonely at some point, even married women. In fact, now that I come to think about it, some of the loneliest people I know are married.'

'Well said. Well said indeed, but tell me this, Frances,' he said, stepping dangerously close to her, 'have you ever been in love?'

The question, not surprisingly, caught Frances off guard, and she almost dropped her glass of champagne. 'I beg your pardon, George,' she began indignantly, 'I don't think, rather, I think it very improper of you to ask me such a question. You cannot possibly expect me to answer.'

'Not at all,' George whispered. 'Your eyes have just told me everything I needed to know.'

Frances was struck dumb. 'I, I think I should leave now. I, I think it best all round.'

She turned to leave, but before she could move, she felt George's lips pressing up against hers. The sensation of kissing was new to Frances, and having suppressed her initial feelings of repulsion, she closed her eyes with a determination to enjoy the experience while it lasted. But she could not. Her body was frozen with fear and shame, and no amount of George's hungry kisses could melt her cold and unresponsive lips. Before she could distance herself from George's touch, a familiar voice stopped them both in their tracks.

### CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

An Ultimatum

'And what do we have here?' Agnes Wentworth drawled. 'George Brearly with my infamous cousin.' She smiled as Frances hurriedly pulled away from George. 'Oh please, Frances, don't let me stop you.' She gave them a monitory look.

A red-faced Frances guiltily covered her lips with a hand. 'I, I think I have had too much to drink,' she stammered. 'I, I think I should go.' She made a move to leave, but Agnes prevented her escape by standing in her way. 'Excuse me, Agnes,' Frances said, 'but I really should be going. My aunt will be wondering where I am.'

'Oh, you're not going anywhere,' Agnes smilingly declared. 'We need to talk, and I'm not letting you out of my sight until we have.' She leant elegantly against the verandah railing, and while the gentle breeze tickled her fringe, she carefully began removing her gloves.

'Agnes,' George interposed, 'leave her alone. We were only having a bit of fun.'

Agnes looked up from her gloves, and raised one of her neatly manicured eyebrows. 'Fun? Hmm, I wonder whether my mother would share your opinion on that. What do you think she would say if I told her about your, shall we say, interlude.'

'You wouldn't,' George challenged her. 'You wouldn't dare.'

Agnes's dark eyes flashed triumphantly. 'I wouldn't hesitate for one second, George Brearly. I don't owe you anything. And as for you,' Agnes said, turning abruptly to Frances, 'nothing would give me more pleasure than informing my mother of your attachment with Mr Brearly. She would be so displeased with you, that I daresay she would pack your bags for you.'

Frances's uneasiness began to mount. 'I, I've already explained this to you, Agnes. I had too much to drink, that is all. The moment got the better of me.'

'What are you saying, Frances?' George grumbled. 'You haven't touched a drop all night.'

For a fleeting moment Frances wondered who her real enemy was, and looking down at the glass of champagne she was still holding onto, she noticed that her hand was visibly shaking. 'The countdown to the New Year begins shortly, Agnes, so I won't detain you. Perhaps we can have this discussion at another time, when we don't have an audience, and when you're more in control of your temper.'

'Don't you lecture me about my behaviour, Frances Norwood,' Agnes snarled. 'I'm not the one who was caught cavorting with a young man, and I wasn't the one who danced all night with her cousin's fiancé. Speaking of my fiancé, I wonder what he would say about your burgeoning relationship with his brother.' Frances froze, but said nothing. 'In view of the warning he gave you about George, I suspect the news would not be altogether welcome to him.'

'Agnes,' George interrupted, 'don't make mischief. Besides, what would Louisa and Michael think if I told them that you were spying on people in the middle of the night?' He took a sip of champagne and smiled at Agnes from over the rim of his glass. 'By Jove! What is wrong with you?' he quipped. 'Don't you have a life of your own?'

'Don't bring me into this. I'm not the one at fault.'

'Yes, yes,' he returned, 'you're still harping on the same string. If you continue at this rate, we won't be able to see in the New Year.'

'Well go on then!' Agnes spat. 'Leave, if you feel you must! I'm not asking you to stay!'

George exhaled a long, disconsolate sigh, and with a loud 'clink,' placed his champagne glass on the verandah railing. He then announced his intention of staying by resting his back against the railing, and preoccupying himself with the sleeve of his coat.

'Make it quick, Agnes,' George muttered. 'If we miss the countdown, we'll arouse suspicion. Someone will come looking for us.'

'Good!' Agnes said derisively. 'The sooner everyone knows about this, the better.'

Frances read the meaning in her cousin's words, and realised that, for Agnes, the word 'everyone' meant 'Michael Brearly.' For a moment she couldn't decide what was worse: having her cousin witness to her imprudence, or Michael finding out about it. Either way, her future rested precariously in Agnes's hands.

'What do you want?' Frances eventually asked. 'What is it that you want from me?'

Agnes's smile broadened. 'I should have thought that was obvious.'

The distant sound of hilarity caught Frances's attention, and she anxiously glanced towards the back door. 'Tell me, Agnes,' she demanded. 'What must I do to keep you silent on this matter?'

'Leave Wintersleigh.'

'What?' Frances gasped.

'Agnes,' George interposed, 'what the blazes are you talking about?'

'That's all you have to do, Frances,' Agnes replied, stepping menacingly towards her cousin. 'Leave Wintersleigh and I'll completely forget about what happened here tonight. Michael and mother will be none the wiser, your precious little reputation will be intact, and without you to interfere in our lives, I daresay we'll all live happily ever after.'

'What you're asking is impossible,' Frances breathed.

'Come on, Agnes,' George whispered urgently, 'think about what you're saying here. What would Frances do? Where would she live?'

'Frances is an enterprising young woman. I'm sure she will land on her feet, somewhere or with someone. Either way, it's no matter to me.'

As the jubilant sounds of celebration grew ever louder, Frances realised with dismay that the guests were assembling in the ballroom for the countdown. It would only be a matter of time before a search group was sent to look for the missing members of the party: a group that would almost certainly include Michael Brearly. Frances returned her attention to her cousin's imperious face, and for a transient moment, a surge of hatred pulsed through her.

'How can I trust you, after the way you have already treated me?' Frances asked Agnes. 'How do I know you will keep your word?'

'Quite frankly,' Agnes resumed coldly, 'I would do anything to be rid of you. If that means withholding information from the people who are most dear to me, to preserve their good opinion of you, then yes, I'm prepared to do it. I give you my word. On Michael's life.'

This last comment stung Frances into an initial silence. 'Very well,' she said, 'I will consider your proposal. You shall have my answer tomorrow morning. Now, if you'll both excuse me,' she said in a quavering voice, 'I'm going back inside.' She thrust the champagne glass back into George's hands, and without waiting for his response, set off towards the back door. She had not taken three paces when George's voice reached her ears.

'Frances!' he called out to her. 'What about your champagne? What about the countdown?'

Frances ignored his questions, and hurried her steps across the verandah. She was so ashamed of what had just taken place that nothing could induce her to remain for the festivities. Before she knew it, she had entered the house, and her ears were quickly filled with the buzz of conversation and jollity. From the voices around her, she gathered the countdown was about to begin, and by the time she pushed her way through the blurred throngs of unfamiliar people to get to the foot of the steps, the countdown had begun in earnest. Never before had Frances felt so alone and vulnerable, and as she clambered blindly up the staircase, she became aware that the colours around her were becoming garish and threatening, and that the downstairs noise, particularly the laughter, was growing increasingly louder. For a brief moment she was inclined to believe that everyone was laughing at her, and placing her hands over her ears, she hurried down the hallway towards her bedroom. She entered her room and was just about to close the door when the distant and resounding cries of: 'HAPPY NEW YEAR!' reached her ears. Frances grimaced, slammed the door and pitched herself onto her bed. Having convinced herself that the New Year ahead would be the worst ever, she promptly burst into a violent round of tears.

### CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

An Announcement

Frances did not return downstairs for the rest of the New Year's celebrations; a fact that did not escape the collective attention of the Wintersleigh party. Her noticeable absence, had in fact, set the tongues of the party wagging, and no sooner had the ball guests left Wintersleigh, than they began speculating on Frances's whereabouts, and, more importantly, on why she had left. George and Agnes, of course, were the only ones privy to the answers, but they were both determined to keep quiet.

Frances was discovered by a servant, a short time later, soundly asleep on top of her bed, still dressed in her ball gown. Her slippers and jewellery were strewn carelessly about the floor, and even her tiny nosegay, once pinned to her gown, was now lying discarded amid its own broken petals on a nearby mantelpiece. This forlorn sight heightened the party's curiosity, but it was late, or rather early in the morning, and everyone agreed that the question of Frances's absence could wait until later in the morning. It was time for bed, and it was to their beds that they gratefully went.

Frances did not appear at breakfast that morning, nor was she seen at morning tea. According to the servants, she had gone out for a ramble with her cousin Charlotte, and both women weren't expected back until luncheon. Louisa seemed unconcerned by the length of Frances's absence, and explained to Michael that it was not uncommon for Frances to go for long walks and rides by herself. In spite of Louisa's explanation, Michael did not sway in his opinion. He sensed Frances's unwillingness to be with the party, and vowed to speak with her as soon as she returned home.

Unfortunately for Michael, he was summoned to one of his patients just before luncheon, and shortly after his departure from Wintersleigh, Frances returned from her walk. Michael's patient, meanwhile, had taken a turn for the worst, which necessitated Michael's attendance for the rest of New Year's Day. It was only once he was safely back home at Rosewood, that he realised he hadn't had an opportunity to speak with Frances. Again, he undertook to do this, as soon as he was able.

When Frances woke the following morning she discovered a letter waiting for her on her bedside table. She knew exactly who this note was from, and as soon as her eyes had adjusted themselves to the morning light, she snatched the envelope, and tore it open with resolute fingers. In another moment she had greedily devoured the contents of the hand written message.

This reply to her earlier letter was everything Frances had hoped for, yet everything she had ever feared. For some time after reading it she was divided between smiles and tears, but after a great deal of thought, she decided that the news was more favourable than unfavourable. Her only concern now was the effect this letter would have upon her aunt. She decided to break the news to Louisa immediately.

Frances rose from her bed, dressed, then made her way down stairs. She soon discovered Louisa alone in the drawing room. After greeting her, Frances tentatively made her announcement. As she had expected, Louisa bore the news badly.

'Leaving?' Louisa shrieked. 'What do you mean you are leaving Wintersleigh this morning?'

'I think it's time for me to move on.'

'Move on?' repeated her aunt, who at this point was beginning to look unsteady on her feet. 'This is your home now, Frances. Why would you want to leave?'

'I've given this a great deal of thought, Aunt Wentworth. As much as you've tried to make me feel welcome, I don't belong here. I'm painfully aware of it.'

'Stuff and nonsense! Family is family, and you are part of it, whether you like it or not.'

'I know, Aunt and I realise it. I'm very grateful for what this family has done for me.'

'Is that so?' Louisa retaliated. 'And is this how you show your gratitude? By leaving me?'

'Well, yes. I suppose it is. By leaving Wintersleigh, I'm making everyone's life easier.'

'And what makes you think that?'

'Well for a start, Agnes's wedding is next month. I'm sure I would only be in the way.'

'An absurd assumption.'

'And second,' Frances went on, 'by leaving you now, I would be causing you no further embarrassment.' She hesitated. 'I am, of course, referring to that episode at Rosewood, and the tennis match. Naturally these things were done unintentionally, but nevertheless, I've shamed you.'

Louisa's face darkened. 'And what do you think you will be doing when you leave? What will everyone think when they discover that you have left?' Her voice echoed around the room. 'They will blame me for it, Frances! They will think that I drove you from the house!'

'Then I'll tell them it's not so.'

'I will never be able to live this down,' Louisa remarked, paying no heed to Frances's words. 'Why could you not have discussed this with me first?'

'Because I knew you'd disapprove.'

'This is your revenge, isn't it?' Louisa asked after a pause. She continued to watch Frances with incisive eyes. 'This is your revenge for the way I used to treat your mother.'

'No,' Frances said, rather too quickly. 'It's not revenge. I assure you that that is not my intention. By quitting Wintersleigh, I had hoped to lessen your embarrassment, not occasion it.'

Louisa scoffed at this remark. 'Since when have you had considerations for my feelings? You are a most self-centred, ungenerous and unfeeling girl, and I am wholeheartedly ashamed of you. My beloved Agnes would never do such a thing to me. Unlike you, she is an exceedingly dutiful and respectful daughter.'

'But—'

'Do not interrupt me, Frances!' Louisa barked. A long pause then ensued, in which time Louisa found herself a chair and collapsed into it. Closing her eyes, she drew one hand to her breast and the other to her head. 'And where do you intend going?' she asked, without opening her eyes. 'Are you returning to your mother?'

'No, I'm not. Mrs Edwina Ballard has offered me a situation at Riverview, and I've accepted it. The arrangements have just been finalised.'

'Edwina!' Louisa clamoured. She rose shakily to her feet. 'No, this will not do! I will not permit it. I will not allow you to enter such a household!'

Frances was taken aback by the intensity of hatred in her aunt's voice, but she made her reply regardless. 'It's too late for that, Aunt Wentworth,' she interjected boldly. 'I'm leaving now, this very minute in fact. That way, we won't say other things that we'll later regret.'

'I have said nothing so far which I regret,' said Louisa, turning away coldly. 'And one more thing, Frances,' Louisa added with slow deliberation, 'if you walk out of that door now, I will see to it that you are never admitted into this house again.'

Frances recoiled. She had not anticipated such resolve from her aunt, and she found herself utterly unprepared for the eventuality of being permanently expelled from Wintersleigh. She momentarily lost her courage. While she faltered, she heard her aunt's voice in the background.

'It is your choice,' Louisa was saying. 'Riverview or Wintersleigh.'

'Why are you doing this to me?' Frances asked, without referring to her aunt's proposition. 'I thought I was doing you a favour by leaving. Obviously I was wrong.'

'Yes, Frances. You were wrong. I am, nonetheless, a forgiving woman, and I will give you a chance to redeem yourself. If you apologise to me now, and agree to remain here with me, I will endeavour to forget this morning's little episode.'

Frances smiled scornfully, but made no immediate reply. In her mind, her decision had already been made, but still she wavered between hostility and civility. She opted for civility. 'I'm sorry that it has come to this, Aunt Wentworth,' she said coolly. 'I had no intention of offending you. As for your ultimatum, I must tell you that my plans remain unchanged. After the way you have spoken to me just now, how could I possibly change my mind? After your insults, nothing could entice me to stay here.' She made a move to leave the room, but half-way across it she was stopped in her tracks by her aunt's words.

'Very well,' Louisa retorted in a strangled voice. 'Leave by all means. But mark my words, Frances, you are never to step foot in this household again.' Her eyes shone defiantly. 'Do you hear me?' she demanded with sudden ferocity. 'Never again!' She turned her back on her niece and gazed away into vacancy.

Frances sensed the finality in her aunt's words, and knew that there was nothing more she could possibly say on the subject. She hastily left the room.

### CHAPTER FORTY

A New Beginning

Upstairs in her old bedroom, a tearful Frances gathered together her few treasured possessions and clothes, and bundled them into a small case. After passing Agnes's bedroom, she descended the stairs. At the foot of the stairs, however, she paused briefly, and took one final look around Wintersleigh, the house she had called 'home' for the last few weeks. For the sake of her own fragile emotions, she did not allow herself to remain behind, and after placing her straw hat on her head, she exited the house, setting forth on her long walk to the ferry terminal.

As Frances traipsed down Wintersleigh's entrance drive, lined with overshadowing eucalypt trees, her mind began to drift, and her ears began echoing with her aunt's cruel and insulting words. These words served only to heighten her resolve, and she tightened her grip on the handle of her case. In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached the junction to the Bellerive bound road; a brief stretch of road shaded by a luscious green canopy of leaves. In the cool shade of the trees, Frances set her case down and looked about her. Around her, the languid summer air, perfumed with the scent of grass, soon imbued her with a strange feeling of calm. Soon, all thoughts of her aunt and Wintersleigh swiftly dissolved.

Almost an hour later, and with only a short distance left to walk, Frances spotted a pony carriage juddering up ahead on the road, coming towards her with great celerity. As she had done all morning, she migrated to the side of the road to let the vehicle pass, but this time it did not. If anything, it was slowing down. Memories of her earlier bicycling escapade returned to haunt her, and for one unpleasant moment she thought the man she had encountered several weeks back, had returned to ridicule her. She then reminded herself that her bicycle was safely lodged at Wintersleigh, and unless someone took offence to her walking alone, no-one could have just cause to insult her.

Frances strained her eyes through the diffused glare of the sun to see what was happening, but at that moment the horse and carriage were momentarily enshrouded in a plume of dirt and dust. In the next second, a tempestuous gust of wind lifted her hat from her head, and hurled it carelessly into the roadside ditch. Without thinking, she leapt forward to retrieve it, but a shout of warning from the male driver, made her think twice, and she prudently took a step backwards. Suddenly, through the swirling roadside dust, the statuesque figure of Doctor Michael Brearly emerged. In one hand he was holding the reins of his horse, and in the other he held her battered hat.

'God in heaven!' he exclaimed. 'What are you doing here?'

Frances was equally astounded to see the doctor, and for some moments the right words eluded her. 'I'm leaving,' she announced. She then leant forward to reclaim her hat. She could not bring herself to look at him, and dropping her case at her feet, busied herself with fastening her hat back onto her head.

The portmanteau beside Frances's feet caught Michael's attention, and he studied it with a look of consternation. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, Miss Norwood, but that looks like a travelling case.'

'You're perfectly correct in your observation, Doctor Brearly,' Frances replied, 'and it contains all my worldly possessions. I, I have just left Wintersleigh, you see. For the last time, it would appear.'

Michael's mouth dropped. 'Surely you're not serious?'

'I'm afraid I am. My aunt and I have just had a dreadful quarrel. Consequently, she has banished me from the house.'

Michael listened composedly, but said nothing. He simply watched her in a silent state of disbelief. At one point Frances thought she glimpsed a new expression pass across his face, but it was so disguised and so fleeting, that she did not have time to read it. It wasn't quite the reaction she had expected, and unable to bear the uncomfortable silence for another moment, Frances bade him a curt farewell, and set off once more down the road. She had only managed to take three steps before she heard the doctor call out her name. She faltered, but she dared not turn around.

'Miss Norwood,' Michael repeated with more urgency. 'Please, wait.' He stepped closer to her. Still, she did not turn around. 'I, I don't understand,' he stammered. 'I just don't understand.'

Frances could feel him by her side. She turned to face him and their eyes met. This time there was no mistaking the expression in his eyes. They were filled with pain and confusion.

'What happened? Why did you quarrel?'

Frances vacillated. 'I made a decision that my aunt didn't agree with. She begged me to change my mind, and when I didn't, she asked me to leave the house.'

'Louisa, as you know, has a very quick temper,' Michael explained, 'and often speaks before she thinks. Perhaps you should wait for a day or so until she has calmed down. I daresay that by the end of two days everything will be as it was.'

'I wish I could share your optimism, but I don't. Even if she did offer to take me back, I would refuse her without hesitation. She offended me deeply, and as far as I can see, I did nothing to warrant such abuse.'

Michael nibbled his lip thoughtfully. Beside him, his horse began to neigh in impatience. 'May I ask you the cause of this argument? You said that it stemmed from a decision you had made.'

'Yes, that's right. Just before we quarrelled, I informed her of my intention to leave Wintersleigh. I had already finalised my preparations to move out.'

'I don't understand any of this,' Michael groaned, before running his hand through his hair. 'Why leave Wintersleigh? I thought that things had improved. I thought you were happier there.'

'Yes, well I wasn't.'

Michael studied her carefully. 'I hope,' he began, 'rather I...that I.' He tried speaking for a second time. 'What I'm trying to say is that I hope I haven't contributed in some way to your decision to leave.' He noticed the reddening of Frances's cheeks, and he lowered his voice. 'Something happened to you on New Year's Eve, didn't it? Something that upset you. I couldn't find you before the countdown, and then when I asked Agnes and George where you were, they told me they hadn't seen you since supper. I kept waiting for you to return to the ball-room, but you never did. Then you disappeared the next day. I thought it all very odd.'

Frances hurriedly stooped down to pick up her case. 'I can see how odd it looks, Doctor Brearly, but there is a simple explanation. I was listless that evening. Nothing more.' She tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. 'As I seem to recall, I was too tired even to crawl under my bed sheets.' She feigned a smile. 'There is nothing for you to be alarmed about. The decision to leave was mine to make, and mine alone. Now please, I beg you, do not ask me any more questions. I have a ferry to catch at Bellerive, and at this rate, I will miss it.'

Michael watched her for a moment then turned away. 'All right, I shall let you be. But please, just answer me this one last question. Where are you going?'

'I, I can't tell you,' Frances replied, beginning to walk off.

'Why?' Michael cried. He abandoned the horse and buggy to follow her. 'Why can't you tell me? I thought we were friends.'

'We are friends,' Frances assured him, 'but sometimes there are things one ought not to know.' Michael kept a polite silence, but inside his mind, he doubted such sentiments. 'All I will say is that I have decided to make a new life for myself.'

'So you're leaving Hobart?'

'No, not at all. I intend to remain here.'

'Then, will I get to see you?' he asked, abruptly taking hold of her arm.

Frances stopped walking. She looked up at the doctor, and noticed that his face looked tense. His breathing seemed irregular, and there was agitation in his eyes. 'I don't know,' she lied. 'Possibly.' She turned away from Michael's shrewd glance. 'I must go,' Frances said, feeling a rising anguish. 'Goodbye, Doctor Brearly, and take care.'

'No, wait! Please wait. At least let me drive you to the terminal.'

Not wanting to miss her ferry, Frances willingly accepted his offer. The journey to Bellerive was a silent and rather awkward one, and grew increasingly so, when, at the terminal, Michael insisted on escorting Frances on the ferry to Hobart. Again she reluctantly let herself be persuaded, and once the doctor's conveyance was secured in nearby stables, they made their way to the ferry.

By the time the ferry reached the wharf in Hobart, Mount Wellington, and much of the town, was shrouded by grey, low-lying clouds. The gloomy weather did nothing to improve Frances's spirits, and as she walked up Elizabeth Street, into the heart of town, she felt her trepidation increase. Riverview was getting closer with every second, as was her new life without Michael Brearly.

Frances turned tentatively towards the doctor. It had just started to rain and he was trying to open his umbrella. Frances smiled at the look of determination on his handsome face as he grappled with the recalcitrant device, and for some moments she doubted whether she could leave him. The umbrella, however, eventually decided to behave itself, and Michael placed it over Frances's head, to shield her from the elements. Despite Frances's second thoughts, she allowed Michael to walk her to the tram stop, which was positioned at the corner of Elizabeth and Macquarie Streets. There was no-one else at the stopping-place when they reached it, and for several awkward moments they were forced to stand together in virtual silence. Above them, the rain plashed down on top of Michael's umbrella, and in the distance, a street echoed with the sound of horses' hooves.

'Well,' the doctor began at length, 'I suppose this is it.'

Frances stared miserably at the New Town-bound tram, as it snaked its way slowly towards her. 'Yes,' she whispered, fixing her eyes to the approaching vehicle. 'I suppose it is.'

The doctor emitted a nervous cough. 'And I don't even know why.'

Frances noticed his voice was tinged with anger, and she cast him a quick, sidelong glance. 'I know this is of no comfort to you now, Doctor Brearly, but I will tell you one day.'

'But not just now,' he broke in rather peevishly. He tightened his grip on the umbrella handle. 'You obviously don't think I deserve such explanations.'

Frances was intrigued by the sudden intensity of his emotion, and again she turned to face him. This time their eyes met. 'I hardly think that's fair. How can you honestly believe that? Do you think our friendship means nothing to me?'

Michael turned away from Frances's scrutiny, and stepped back as the double-decker electric tram came to a grinding halt in front of them. 'I'm sorry,' he cut in, 'but I have to leave now.' He looked about him impatiently. 'If I don't go now, you'll miss your tram.'

'But, I,' Frances stammered. 'Don't...'

'Here,' he said, thrusting his umbrella into her hands, 'take this.' Frances refused his offer by a shake of the head. 'No, please,' he insisted. 'Have it. I don't want you to get wet.'

'But what about you?'

'Don't you worry about me, Miss Norwood,' he said sadly, 'I'll get by.'

Frances unwillingly took the umbrella, and smiled gratefully as Michael assisted her onto the tram. In the next moment, and before she could bid him a final farewell, he was gone. By the time she spotted him, he was half running down the street, with nothing but a hand over his head to protect him from the onslaught of the rain. He did not look back.

### CHAPTER FORTY ONE

A Notable Absence

Breakfast at Wintersleigh was an interesting affair for those who attended it one Tuesday morning in mid January. The usual party was there, with, of course, one notable exception. Frances's place was conspicuously left vacant, and no attempt was made to disguise the fact that she had once claimed that place at the table. As each member of the silent group tried desperately not to look at the empty seat before them, a little bird, perched outside on the breakfast room window sill, began twittering. George Brearly was the first to hear it, and to the delight of his nephew Jack, and the disapproval of the other members at the table, he started to mimic the bird's tweeting.

'George,' Louisa said, without averting her eyes from her breakfast, 'would you kindly stop that. It is exceedingly irritating, as is your reading the newspaper at the table.'

George fell momentarily silent, then threw his nephew a cheeky grin, a grin that sent Jack into hysterics. Buoyed by such encouragement, George put down his paper and resumed his bird impressions.

'For heaven's sake, George!' Michael upbraided. 'Do us all a favour and be quiet!'

'By Jove!' George cried, holding his hands up in mock surrender. 'Someone's in a foul little mood today. A right little stew.'

'Yes, well if you don't keep your mouth shut, George,' a disgruntled Michael warned, 'you'll have more to worry about than my foul little mood.'

'Whoo! There's no need to resort to threats.'

Michael scowled at George, but said nothing. While he distractedly chewed on his devilled kidneys, George snatched up his newspaper from the table, and turned the page as noisily as he could.

'Still pining for Miss Frances Norwood are we, Michael?' George inquired, surveying his brother over the top of the paper. He couldn't help noticing Michael's wistful stares towards Frances's vacant seat.

Down the other end of the table, Agnes Wentworth gasped and dropped her knife onto her plate. The sharp sound reverberated around the room, and in an instant, every eye was turned upon her. A self-conscious Agnes retrieved her knife, and began buttering her bread agitatedly.

'Well I don't know about you,' George went on, 'but I certainly am.'

Again Agnes's hand faltered over her bread. This time, however, she tightened her grip on the butter knife, and kept a dignified silence.

'I know she was only here for a short time,' George resumed with a cheery determination, 'but I liked her awfully. She didn't have the pluck that I thought she had, but, I suppose, when it comes down to it, we all have our faults.'

'Yes, we do have our faults, George,' Michael ventured. 'Yours, for instance, is a nauseating propensity to never stop talking.'

'Well it's preferable to being a big bore like you, Michael,' George retaliated.

'Yes thank you, gentlemen,' Louisa said quickly, casting the two brothers a censuring look. 'I think you have both said enough for the time being, don't you?' No-one answered. 'Good, now perhaps we can change the subject. Agnes dear,' she said regarding her daughter with expectant eyes, 'I have been giving the wedding an exceeding amount of thought over the past few days. Have you thought any more about the floral arrangements? I know that you want yellow roses, but I am still inclined to think that orange blossom is more appropriate. It is the traditional flower. Charlotte agrees with me, don't you, dear?' Charlotte ignored her mother, and continued murmuring to her taciturn husband, who was sitting beside her.

Agnes wiped her petite red lips with a crisp table napkin then turned towards her mother. 'Well to tell you the truth, Mama,' she replied rather petulantly, 'I haven't given it much consideration.'

'I wonder what that intrepid governess is doing right now,' George interrupted rather too loudly.

'Who cares?' Agnes suddenly declared in a voice too large for the room. 'After the way she abandoned Mama, who cares?' She then picked up a fork and began puncturing her boiled egg with a solitary fork prong. Once she had sufficiently disfigured her breakfast, she looked up at her mother.

'Yes,' Louisa conceded, smiling gratefully at Agnes, 'she abandoned me most cruelly.'

'I wonder where she is though,' George murmured, folding the newspaper up and setting it down on the table.

'Well from all reports,' Charlotte ventured timidly, 'she has settled into her new home tolerably well, and seems in good spirits.'

'Yes, but where is she?' George persisted.

'I, I confess, I don't know,' Charlotte responded. 'I saw her last week in Hobart, but she refused to tell me where she was staying.'

'Did she look well?' Michael heard himself say.

'Yes. She looked very well indeed. I have no doubt of her well-being.'

'Thank you, Charlotte,' Louisa cut in crisply. 'I think we have heard enough about Frances to satisfy our curiosity. That is if there was any to...'

'She's probably desolate without us,' George volunteered, seemingly oblivious to the conversation going on around him. 'Absolutely desolate.'

'George!' Louisa cried with a sudden burst of displeasure. 'Would you stop interrupting us! That is twice you have done it in as many minutes. You really are a very disrespectful boy.'

'A boy?' George repeated, pulling a face. He clutched at his chest jokingly, as if he had been shot in the heart. 'Oh, I'm wounded.'

'I beg your pardon?' Louisa asked, watching him with apprehension.

'Oh never mind,' George muttered. 'My humour is always wasted on you. Your niece, however, would have appreciated that joke. We share a similar witty sense of humour.'

'Right, that is it,' Louisa interjected, rising angrily to her feet. 'I will take no more of this. How many times do I have to tell you? There is to be no more talk of Frances Norwood in this house. Is that understood?' The Wintersleigh party stopped eating, and looked up at Louisa with astonishment.

'Oh how tiresome,' said George, shaking off pastry crumbs from his napkin. 'What an absurd thing to say. She's your niece! Your brother's only child.'

'So?' Louisa fired back. 'What difference does that make?'

'She's family. You can't just forget about a family member like that.'

'Mind your own business, George,' Agnes cut in. 'We are a close and proud family, and no-one treats us the way that beastly Frances did.'

'What a ninny you are, Agnes,' George asserted, beginning to regard her with penetrating eyes. 'You're speaking of her as though she's a criminal.' Agnes bit her lip and said nothing. 'What did she do that was so bad? Did she run away with one of the servants? Did she steal the Wentworth family's silver? No. She left Wintersleigh to seek greener pastures. That is all. Why it should constitute a serious breach in the family is beyond my powers of reasoning.'

'George,' Michael warned, 'Agnes is right. This is none of your business, so keep your sticky little beak out of it.'

'No,' George answered, 'I think it is my business.'

'Oh?' Louisa asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity, 'how so?'

George turned towards the dowager mistress of Wintersleigh. 'This family,' he began after a long and uncomfortable pause, 'may indeed be very proud, but by the same token, they're also incredibly unforgiving. Take that trifling incident all those years ago. You've never forgiven me for that, have you?'

'Trifling incident?' Louisa reiterated. 'And which one would that be? If my memory serves me correctly, there were always incidents when you were around. I will never forget the time you set fire to the Wintersleigh stables. I think you were fifteen years old at the time.'

George half-smiled. 'What can I say, Louisa? I was an adventurous youth.'

'You were, and still are, a trouble maker, George Brearly,' Louisa declared, as she sank back into her chair, 'and because of you, half the stables were razed to the ground.'

'And for that I sincerely apologise, but it was ten years ago, By Jove! You still haven't forgiven me for it.' Louisa sniffed resolutely and turned away. 'You're incredible,' he said, shaking his head in disbelief. 'And you consider yourself part of a Christian family.'

'We are a Christian family!' Agnes broke in with a sudden fury. 'How dare you question it!'

'Christians are supposed to forgive, Agnes Wentworth,' George observed, folding up his napkin in great agitation. 'This family, however, does not.'

With that final retort, he rose from his chair and began moving toward the door. Half-way across the room though, he faltered, and turning back towards the breakfast table, caught a glimpse of his half-eaten breakfast. In the next moment he returned to the table, and in one skilful swoop, reclaimed his pork pie. Before Louisa could protest, he had disappeared into the distant realms of the house.

'And where does he think he is going with that?' Louisa asked, just as the door slammed.

'Leave him, Louisa,' Michael said, loosening his necktie.

'He will scatter crumbs everywhere,' she said tearfully. 'And I have just had the floor cleaned.'

After reassurances from the remainder of the party, Louisa was at last silenced, but in no way was she appeased. George Brearly had insulted her family yet again, and that was not an indignity to be borne lightly. This, she decided, was an offence that could never be forgiven, and it was now impossible for George Brearly to ever reassert his position in her good opinion. Trembling with rage, she rose unsteadily from the table. She apologised for her bad manners, before hastily leaving the room. After her abrupt departure, the remaining party gloomily dispersed into the safety of the drawing room.

'Why does everyone always fight, Daddy?' Jack asked, as his father carried him on his shoulders out of the dining room. 'Everyone's always fighting.'

Jack had indeed voiced what everyone was thinking. It was true. The families were always arguing.

Later that afternoon, once the animosity between the families had lessened, the Wintersleigh party removed themselves to Rosewood, where they were to have an enjoyable, and relatively incident free afternoon tea, followed by a casual stroll throughout the grounds of Rosewood. After wiling away the afternoon, the party headed back to the house. Thomas Maycroft was the straggler amongst the group, and by the time he reached the back door, everyone else had gone, except for Michael. Up until now the sight of his brother-in-law had never aroused Michael's interest, but as he watched the lone figure of Thomas shuffle his way to the house, he was suddenly struck by Thomas's odd appearance. His shoulders were slumped forward, his hands were uncharacteristically thrust into his pockets, and in the fading light Michael noticed the enormous rings under Thomas's eyes. From where Michael was standing, Thomas looked positively old and haggard.

Michael waited for his brother-in-law to join him, and once they were together, Michael addressed him. 'Are you well, Thomas?' he asked gently. 'It's just that you have been rather subdued of late.'

'You've asked me this before. I am perfectly all right.'

'Have you been sleeping well? I'm afraid you look tired.'

'No matter,' Thomas replied rather tersely. 'I'll have plenty of time for sleeping, later on.'

Michael raised his eyebrows inquiringly. He didn't pretend to understand what Thomas meant by that remark, but continued on regardless. 'I eventually apologised to Jack,' he ventured. 'In fact I had a few words with him last week.' Thomas made no comment on this. 'I'm making every conceivable effort to be more patient and tolerant with him. We're on better terms already. I haven't found one dismembered creature in my bed since that time.' He attempted a smile, but Thomas did not return it. 'Very well, I will leave you to it. You clearly have other things on your mind.' He made a move to turn away, but for some reason changed his mind. 'Look, Thomas,' he added, 'if there's anything you want to discuss with me, I'd be happy to listen. I know we haven't been on the best of terms recently, but I'd like to think that you could talk to me if there was a problem. If you're not comfortable talking to me, I can thoroughly recommend Charlotte. She is a wonderful listener.'

Again Thomas made no answer. Mistaking this for mere surliness, Michael shrugged his shoulders and entered the house. A short time later, when Thomas was no-where to be seen, Michael caught sight of his brother-in-law through the window. To his concern, Thomas was standing motionlessly, exactly where Michael had left him outside. His hands were still in his pockets, and he was looking steadfastly down at the ground.

### CHAPTER FORTY TWO

An 'Unpromising Boy'

The news of Thomas Maycroft's death, a week later at Rosewood House, was received by those who knew him, with a universal feeling of deep shock and regret. That he died by his own hand, naturally made matters worse for his immediate family and acquaintances, and did nothing to quell the endless curiosities aroused by such a quick and tragic end. While funeral arrangements were hastily being organised, local gossip flourished, along with a stream of objectionable questions, which no-one apparently could answer with any certainty. How he died, it seemed, was the most asked question, and although rumour mongers claimed that Mr Maycroft had drowned himself, other people more closely associated with the Wentworth family, declared that the poor man had taken a lethal combination of alcohol and sleeping draught.

Amid such indelicate speculation, the newly orphaned Jack Maycroft bore the news of his father's death with an unusual degree of cheerfulness. Fearing that the child did not understand his father's sad predicament, Agnes and Louisa tried in vain to explain what 'death' meant, but despite such efforts, Jack persisted in asking the same dreaded question, 'Where is Daddy?' As to Jack's welfare and future in Hobart, it was unanimously decided that Jack should remain at Rosewood, until the reading of the will had taken place. This arrangement pleased Jack considerably, as it gave him the opportunity to spend more time with his favourite uncle, George, and Michael's two kittens, Clawed and Furgus.

Just prior to the funeral, new and more distasteful information began to surface about the late Thomas Maycroft, including the unfortunate details of his recent bankruptcy, in which the bank had taken possession of both his house and business. Prior to his Rosewood visit in December, it transpired that he and Jack had been living at the back of Thomas's ailing bookshop.

Following this final and disgraceful revelation, the two families involved swiftly devised a way of concealing the unfortunate affair from the broader community, however, the verdict from the Coronial Inquest, held at the General Hospital, declared that Thomas Maycroft had committed suicide, whilst 'suffering from a fit of temporary insanity.'

If this ruling wasn't bad enough for Louisa and her dignity, one of the local newspapers, The Mercury, reported the suicide death in their latest edition. The half-column article appeared on page three, under the dramatic heading, 'Suicide at Rosewood House.' The article detailed the last year of Thomas's life, and included information about his family, his melancholy state, due to his financial embarrassment, and the details of his suicide. In spite of this, the newspaper piece was sympathetic to the widower's plight, and labelled him, 'the most recent victim of the economic depression.' Regardless of how Thomas was depicted in the article, Louisa was overwrought and inconsolable for the next two weeks.

Frances Norwood, in the interim, was still living at Riverview in New Town, and was oblivious to all the grief and commotion that her friends and family were experiencing on the other side of the river. Since her posting with the Ballard family, Frances had had little time to read the newspapers, and taking no heed of servants' gossip, she knew nothing at all about Thomas's death.

One balmy afternoon towards the end of January, Frances stood by the deep-seated mullioned window in Riverview's makeshift classroom, staring down into the extensive garden below. With arms folded casually across her chest, she leant against the floral summer curtains and continued to survey the garden with admiration. Outside, the vast expanse of succulent grass was gleaming after a recent rain shower, and from the ornamental stream, nestled behind a distant thicket of trees and shrubs, came the sounds of hiccupping frogs and buzzing insects. A nearby voice, however, quickly broke the tranquillity of the moment.

'You don't like me very much, do you?' the childish voice demanded.

It was none other than the infamous and enigmatic Crispin Ballard, sitting at his desk behind her. His hands were folded delicately on top of the table, and his eyes, looking out through foggy spectacles, regarded her with a questioning look. As he waited for her to answer, he began cleansing the nib of his broad nibbed pen on a piece of blotting paper.

'No,' Frances replied without looking at him. 'I don't like you.'

'I thought so. Well, if the truth be known, Frances, I don't like you either.'

'My name to you is Miss Norwood, not Frances.'

'But you call me Crispin. Why can't I call you Frances?'

Frances sighed. She was too tired to argue, and besides, she would only be wasting her breath on an unruly boy like Crispin Ballard.

'Why don't you like me?' Crispin persisted in his habitually whining tone.

Frances ignored his question and kept looking outside. It had just started raining again, and as she watched it fall, she was reminded of her last encounter with Michael Brearly, when he had left her at the tram stop. A recurrent image Frances had, was of him running across the road, and not looking back in her direction. The memory of it was still painful.

'Upon my word,' Crispin was saying in the background, 'you're no company whatsoever. I'd get more amusement from a glass of milk.' He idly began scratching out words on his foolscap sheet of paper with his pen.

'Contrary to what you may think, Crispin, I am not here for your personal entertainment. I am here to help you with your studies.'

'Yes, well you're not doing a very good job,' he remarked sullenly, flinging down his pen.

'That is your opinion. Your grandmother, from all accounts, is satisfied with my work.'

'Of course she is. She was desperate. She needed someone. No one else would do it.'

'Yes, I know,' Frances acknowledged through clenched teeth. 'I also know about your scandalous expulsion from your school in Sydney.'

'I wouldn't quite call it scandalous,' Crispin retaliated, tossing his curly red hair. 'I like to think that I was providing a service for my fellow students.'

'Humbug, Crispin. You were doing their homework for them, and then demanding money for it. Now, keep quiet and attend to your work! If you don't finish what I've given you, I won't take you to the cricket tomorrow or to the International Exhibition next week.'

Crispin was staggered. 'You can't do that. You can't threaten me!'

'I most certainly can. So keep your mouth shut and your eyes down.'

'That's an abuse of your power,' he muttered, unenthusiastically picking up a pencil.

'No,' Frances smilingly corrected, 'it's a use of my power.'

'You wait until Grandmother hears about this. She would not approve of such methods.'

'But I do,' Frances said, walking over to her desk in front of him. 'And as far as I'm concerned, that is all that matters.'

For a moment Crispin made no reply. 'I was going to tell you something important, but after that last comment, I don't think I will.'

Frances sank into her chair and yawned nonchalantly. She then opened up a book and began reading it. 'Please yourself, Crispin,' she eventually said, without looking up.

'This information I was going to tell you is a frightfully exciting secret. Only a handful of people know the facts.' He began tapping his pencil impatiently against an ink bottle.

'And yet I am unmoved.'

'The secret involves the people you used to live with at Wintersleigh.'

This comment had the desired effect, for Frances gave an obvious start. 'I'm not in the habit of listening to malicious lies, Crispin.'

'They're not lies,' Crispin objected, his lip beginning to curl with haughtiness. 'I blackmailed the scullery maid for the details, and I got the whole story.'

'You did what?'

'She deserved it. She was getting up to mischief with our head gardener. I caught them at it yesterday.'

'Crispin Ballard! Have you no shame?'

'All right, all right. The fact is that I have information you want.'

'No I don't,' Frances said defensively. 'I don't want to hear information obtained by such deceitful and despicable methods.'

'Deceitful? I thought my methods were rather clever.'

'It is not clever to inveigle people.'

'But you do it!' Crispin returned. He slumped back despondently into his chair.

'I'm an adult, and you're still a child. Being older has to have some advantages.'

'I'll make a deal with you then.'

'A deal?' a dumbfounded Frances repeated. 'You are in no position to make deals with me.'

'Oh yes I am,' he corrected, placing his spectacles back on his heavily freckled face. 'When one has such information as I have, I can make deals.'

'I'm not interested,' Frances said, getting angrily to her feet. 'It's time for history revision.'

'If I tell you the secret, you have to let me go to the cricket tomorrow and, in addition, I get no homework.' He watched her with expectant green eyes.

'How dare you! I have a good mind to tell your grandmother about this! And when she hears about it...'

'Someone at Rosewood House took their own life,' Crispin announced without warning. Frances perceptibly faltered but said nothing. 'Ah,' Crispin resumed, 'I see that you are interested. What do you say then? Do we have an arrangement?'

Frances bit her lip in anger. She deeply resented Crispin's demands, but she also realised that she was in no position to argue. She reluctantly asked him to elaborate on the suicide.

Crispin was delighted, and began to rub his hands together in glee. 'Well, isn't this jolly exciting?' he remarked laughingly. 'Where does one start?' Seeing Frances's scowls, he prudently decided to continue. 'All right, all right,' he said, adjusting his ill-fitting glasses, 'this is what I know. Some man called, oh, I forget his name...'

'What do you mean you forget his name?' Frances broke in with sudden desperation. 'I thought you said your information was detailed.'

'Thomas!' he quickly added. 'Thomas somebody.'

'Thomas Maycroft?'

'Yes, that's him. Thomas Maycroft. I've personally never heard of him, but listen to this. According to my source, he slashed his wrists and ankles with a razor, and died in a crimson pool of his own blood.'

Frances gasped in horror. 'Go on,' she said.

'When he didn't come down for breakfast, Doctor Brearly went up to see what he was doing. The door to Thomas's bedroom was locked, and when the doctor called out to him to open the door, there was no answer. The doctor must have had some suspicions, because in the next instant, he kicked the door down.'

'He did what?'

'Isn't that the most frightfully exciting thing you've ever heard?' Crispin cried. 'I personally can't see the doctor being that heroic. Whenever I think of that man, all I am reminded of is when he tripped over the rug at my Aunt Stella's house a while back. God, that was jolly amusing!' He burst into a childish peel of laughter. 'The doctor had just shaken hands with Uncle James, then he fell over! He spilt his drink everywhere!'

Frances was silent and motionless, but underneath her calm exterior, her heart was pounding so fast that she thought she would faint. She propped her head up with a wobbling hand. 'You're mistaken,' she breathed. 'You must be mistaken.'

'No I'm not,' Crispin replied indignantly. 'His ginger beer went everywhere.'

'I'm not talking about that, Crispin! I'm talking about, about Mr Maycroft. He can't be dead!'

'I'm afraid he is,' announced a woman's voice from behind her.

Frances swung around in her chair and beheld the imposing sight of the mistress of the house, Mrs Edwina Ballard. As usual, she was dressed in an abundant combination of silk, lace and velvet. Her jewellery was shimmering from the light coming through the window, and above her enormous sleeves, her grey hair was held in place with elaborate combs and pins. As she moved forward, the large sweep of her billowing skirt rustled impressively.

'I have been meaning to tell you about it,' Edwina said, casting her grandson a censuring look, 'but I have been rather pre-occupied lately, especially now that my daughter Vivian is expecting.' She paused and allowed herself the luxury of a self-satisfied smile. 'The truth is, Miss Norwood, that I didn't want you to get involved in such indelicate and unsavoury proceedings. It was no place for a young woman with such impeccable morals.'

'Oh, bosh,' Crispin muttered under his breath, 'you just didn't want Miss Norwood's name associated with a suicide.'

'Yes, thank you, Crispin!' Edwina berated. 'If you continue to speak in such a manner I will send you to your room.' She returned her attention to Frances. 'It was a dreadful affair, Miss Norwood. The poor widower took an overdose of sleeping draught and whisky.'

Frances shot Crispin a questioning look.

Crispin looked much put out. 'I knew I shouldn't have trusted that servant. She was obviously only telling me what I wanted to hear. Died in a pool of blood indeed.'

'Right, that's it,' Edwina barked. 'Go to your room!'

Crispin didn't need to be told twice. His shoulders slumped forward, and he sullenly began collecting his books and stationery. 'Everyone around here is so frightfully boring,' he remarked, as he made a move towards the door. 'I have better conversations talking to myself.' And with that final declaration, he made his shuffling departure out of the room.

The women breathed a collective sigh of relief at his departure.

'Oh he is perverse,' Edwina bemoaned, once Crispin shut the door behind him. 'A most unpromising boy.'

Suddenly the door reopened and Crispin stuck his head through the gap. 'Are we still going to the cricket tomorrow, Miss Norwood?' he asked, watching Frances hopefully. Frances nodded her head, and after a whoop of delight, he slammed the door behind him with a burst of energy.

'An unpromising boy,' Edwina repeated sadly. 'Still, there is time for him to change. God knows we are all praying for it to happen.' She resumed her original train of thought. 'I will be praying for Thomas Maycroft too, while I'm at it.'

### CHAPTER FORTY THREE

A Spot of Cricket

To the delight of all cricket lovers, the opening day of the inter-colonial cricket match between the Victoria Seconds and Tasmania, on Saturday 26th of January 1895, provided fine weather and ideal conditions for the players. The Southern Tasmanian Cricket Association ground on which the game was to be played, was filled to capacity by the commencement of play at noon, and as Frances and her companions claimed their seats, they listened to the strains of the City Band's music fill the Queen's Domain.

To Frances's relief, Wilfred Ballard speedily detached himself from their party, and joined a large group of his cigar-smoking gentlemen friends, leaving Frances with Crispin, Edwina Ballard, her daughter-in-law, Alice, and an impressive array of both the women's friends. Being the only servant amongst such wealthy and illustrious women, Frances couldn't help but feel rather insignificant, but as she glanced at their unfamiliar faces, she decided that fashionable female company was preferable to that of Wilfred Ballard. In the short time that Frances had been at Riverview, she had learnt that Mr Ballard was someone to be avoided at all costs, which was difficult, given his seemingly ubiquitous presence. Wilfred Ballard was a man who loved to talk, or rather pontificate, and Frances had spent many afternoons in the cluttered Riverview drawing room, enduring one of his homilies about his noble ancestors, and about his untainted pedigree.

Despite Mr Ballard's early departure, Frances's day did not improve. If anything, it deteriorated rapidly. As soon as the game got under way, Frances realised with dismay that her companions knew little, if not nothing, about the majestic sport of cricket. Edwina Ballard, it seemed, was there purely to socialise, drink lemonade, and not to watch the game. In the first half-hour of the game, for instance, Edwina and her friends had not so much as even glanced at the cricket.

While the conversation around her developed into the critique of spotted muslin and matching parasols, Frances suddenly wished she was sitting next to another cricket connoisseur—Michael Brearly perhaps. She sighed and sank further back in her seat. Beside her, Crispin had just woken from a boredom-induced sleep, and was stifling a violent yawn.

'This is so dreary,' he muttered in between yawns. 'What a waste of a shilling.'

'How can you say that?' Frances retaliated. 'Eady's playing splendidly. If he keeps going on like this, he might get selected for the next Test Match.'

'Who's Eady?'

Frances shot her companion a look of exasperation. 'Charlie Eady, Crispin. He's one of the opening batsmen. He's been out there for an hour at least. How could you have missed him?'

'I must confess I haven't been watching. I find cricket frightfully boring, particularly when there's no competitive opposition.'

'Boring?' Frances repeated. 'But you were so keen to come here today!'

Crispin had no desire to answer this question, and cunningly steered his way around the subject. 'I just want to know why our Tasmanian boys are playing a seconds team from Victoria. I think it's an insult not to send us their best players. Don't you, Miss Norwood?' Frances adjusted her hat, but said nothing. 'I also like injuries. That always gets my attention. There's nothing like a good solid knock to the head to liven things up.'

'Crispin! That's not a very nice thing to say.'

Crispin let out a low chuckle. 'But it's true! I knew this boy at school who was hit in the head by a cricket ball, and because the force of the ball was so great, he literally had the shape of the ball imprinted onto his forehead. Can you believe that?'

Frances was reminded of the infamous tennis match at Rosewood, and of Agnes's injury. With a faint smile she returned her attention to the game, just as Eady's batting partner, Gatehouse, hit the ball over the chains for five. Frances, along with the crowd around her, began clapping appreciatively. The remainder of the over was uneventful, but the first ball of the new over brought a Gatehouse mis-hit, which sent the ball hurtling towards a Victorian player in the outfield. The prospect of losing a Tasmanian batsman caused Frances to draw in a sharp breath, but her concern was short-lived. In the next moment, the ball slipped gracelessly through the fingers of the hapless fieldsmen, and onto the ground. The dropped catch sent the jubilant spectators to their feet, Frances included, and throwing feminine decorum aside, she let out a hearty cheer.

Suddenly, amidst the cheers and clapping, Frances heard the distinctive sound of a man's voice behind her. 'Ow, what!' she heard the man shout, 'how could you have missed that!? A blind man could have caught that one!'

Several spectators beside Frances erupted into laughter, but Frances, having recognised the familiar voice, stiffened, and without saying a word, sank despondently into her seat. Crispin noticed her sudden pallor, and asked her what the matter was.

'Lemonade,' Frances heard herself gasp, 'I, I need something to drink.'

Before Crispin could reply, Frances rose to her feet again, and grabbing hold of Crispin's arm, literally wrenched him out of his seat. 'Come on, Crispin,' she commanded, 'we're leaving. NOW.' She tightened her grip on the boy's arm, and blindly dragged him towards the aisle.

'Ow,' Crispin was moaning, 'you're hurting me!'

Frances ignored his protests and inquiring looks from nearby spectators, and hastened towards the entrance of the stand. She then fled outside, and into the safety of the crowds, that were congregating behind the scoreboard. She faltered and relinquished her hold on Crispin's arm. While Crispin lifted up his shirt-sleeve to inspect the damage his governess had done to his bony arm, Frances pulled out her purse and began to count its contents.

'You wait until Grandmother hears about this,' Crispin was muttering beside her. 'I've got your fingerprints all up my arm!'

'Well if that's all you have to worry about, you're a very lucky boy.' Having said this, she shot an anxious glance towards the stand, where Edwina and her friends were seated. They were still deep in conversation and appeared not to have seen Frances and Crispin flee.

'Lucky?' Crispin retaliated, 'you almost cut off the blood supply to my arm.'

Frances extracted several coins from her purse, and thrust them into Crispin's hand. 'Here,' she said, in her most authoritative tone, 'take this money and go and get two glasses of lemonade.'

'Huh! You hurt me, and then you ask me for a favour!' He sniffed resentfully.

'No arguing. If you go now, you can keep the change.'

Crispin seemed irresolute. 'Do you promise?'

'I give you my word. Now go before I have second thoughts.'

Even before Frances had uttered the last word of her sentence, Crispin had disappeared into the colourful throng of the crowd, leaving Frances alone and vulnerable amongst a few hundred strangers.

All of a sudden, she heard her name called, and turning around, found herself confronted by the very person she had been trying to avoid. Her astonishment at seeing George Brearly was great, and coupled with the humiliating recollection of their New Year's Eve intimacy, she coloured, stepped back blindly, and momentarily loosened her grip on her purse. It slipped through her trembling fingers onto the carpet of green grass, opened up and disgorged her meagre collection of coins.

Frances dropped instantly to her knees and began gathering up her money, as did George, and Michael Brearly, who had only just joined them. Frances's awkwardness was doubled by the doctor's unexpected appearance, and for a brief moment their eyes met. The sight of his tender gaze upon her heightened Frances's blush, and she hurriedly got to her feet. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to disappear into thin air, but the reality was that she was now the centre of attention.

### CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

A Betrayal

'What did I tell you, Michael?' George began by saying, 'I told you I saw Miss Norwood loitering about.' He turned to Frances and smiled. 'Michael doubted me, but as usual, I was right.'

'And modest, as always,' Frances responded, depositing the retrieved coins into her purse.

George made no immediate answer to this, but the broadening smile on his lips seemed to answer for him. 'So, what have you been doing with your time, other than making a spectacle of yourself at the cricket? You can always throw some money my way, if you're that desperate to get rid of it. I am, after all, a struggling journalist.'

'And I am a struggling governess.'

'Ah yes,' George said, dividing his attention between her and the cricket, 'you look as though you're suffering awfully. Edwina Ballard is obviously working you to the bone.'

'As is your newspaper,' Frances eventually retaliated. 'Tell me, George, do you intend writing an article about today's play, or are you here purely for your own amusement?'

The smile on George's mouth began to retract. 'Come now, Miss Norwood (not 'Frances' as he habitually addressed her), I thought you knew me better than that. Amusement is my middle name. My whole life is motivated by it. Speaking of amusement,' George resumed in a confidential tone, 'I was highly entertained by your hasty escape, just now. Michael and I literally had to chase after you and the Ballard boy.'

Frances cast the silent Michael a sidelong glance. 'I wasn't avoiding you. I was more concerned that certain female company was with you.'

'Louisa isn't here, Miss Norwood,' Michael eventually replied. His first words of the conversation were spoken quietly, but gently.

'Nor is Agnes,' George added. 'Jack and the ladies are spending the afternoon at the International Exhibition,' he added derisively. 'They thought it would be more entertaining than the cricket. I suppose it depends on your definition of entertainment.'

'You haven't been then?' Frances asked.

'That white elephant? Humph! I don't think so. I'm highly suspicious of anything that is sponsored by the Tasmanian Government. They're inevitably wearisome affairs. For instance, what was in the exhibition program the other day? Cookery lectures, needlework displays, musical arrangements, agricultural and engineering exhibits, and something about gooseberries.' He fell into thought. 'Oh that's right, an exhibit of twelve varieties of gooseberries. Not two varieties, mind you. That would have been sensible, but twelve. Have you ever heard of anything more ridiculous?'

'George,' Michael broke in with a touch of impatience, 'must you go on about it?'

George thrust both hands into his pockets. 'No, I suppose not. Still I'm glad I got it off my chest. I feel better already. Much calmer.'

Despite this declaration, Frances decided he looked anything but calm. In the awkward silence that followed, George nibbled his lip, and began the annoying habit of rocking back on the balls of his feet. He appeared to have difficulty meeting Frances's eyes. It was not an easy meeting for Frances either, but at least she wasn't boring people with desultory conversation and prosaic observations.

'I say, Miss Norwood,' George started up again, 'are you going to the regatta on Wednesday? I tried to get a ride on a friend's boat for the whaling boat race, but missed out by the skin of my teeth. Ebenezer Watts, the mean old dog, pipped me at the post.'

'Oh,' Frances murmured, 'I'm sorry to hear it.'

Frances then stepped back to allow several young women to pass. They were dressed fashionably in the latest garish colours from Melbourne, and as they walked by, the breeze ruffled their enormous sleeves. In the background, Charlie Eady had sent another ball over the chains, and the parochial crowd had just rewarded his fine stroke with a hearty round of applause.

George Brearly, however, seemed oblivious to the commotion around him, and was wondering what to say. 'Did you hear about the bushfires at Port Arthur?' he asked at last. 'I read it in the paper this morning. Can't say I'm surprised. The weather yesterday was blinking horrible. Hot as Hades and blowing a fierce gale. It's just a pity it didn't happen a month earlier. Then we would have been spared that awful trip there.' Having said this, he set his feet back firmly on the ground, and drawing out a handkerchief from his pocket, began dabbing his forehead.

Frances, in the intervening time, was scanning the crowds around her for Crispin. He still had not returned from the lemonade stand, and his absence was prolonging this uncomfortable encounter with the Brearly brothers.

'Crispin not back yet?' Michael asked, reading her thoughts.

'No,' Frances smilingly answered. 'I gave him some money for lemonade, and I haven't seen him since. Knowing him, he's probably taken my money, and run away with it.'

'And how is the Ballard boy?' Michael resumed conversationally. 'I trust he has been behaving himself?'

Frances reflected. 'Come, come, Doctor Brearly, this is Crispin Ballard we're talking about. The only time he's behaving himself, is when he's asleep. I may have only been with him for a month, but he has already given me grey hairs.'

Before Michael could answer this, Crispin himself made an appearance. To the concern of the three adults, he was breathless, smiling, and instead of carrying two glasses of lemonade in his hands, he was strangely in possession of a cricket ball. This concern was heightened when they discovered that there had been a suspension in play. There was a murmur around the ground.

'Crispin!' Frances exclaimed, turning upon him sharply, 'where did you get that ball from?'

Crispin tossed the ball up in to the air and looked up at the adults with an audacious smile. 'Wouldn't you like to know?'

'Yes I would, as it happens. And what have you done with my money? Where is the lemonade?'

'I drank it.'

'Why you little devil,' Frances said, in a tone of anger. 'You wait until I tell your grandmother about what you've done!' She stepped menacingly towards him, but fortunately for Crispin, Michael's restraining hand on her arm stopped her from proceeding.

Michael glowered at Crispin. 'Miss Norwood is too much of a lady to strike you, but if I were in her shoes, I'd give you a good clip around the ear.'

'Not to mention a boot up the backside,' George added.

'Now do as you're told,' Michael ordered, 'and hand that ball back.'

'Give it back?' Crispin repeated, amazed. 'And why would I want to do that? This ball's a collector's item! It could be worth a fortune in years to come. It could become the next Ballard family heirloom.'

'It's theft, Crispin!' Frances fired back.

'Only if you get caught it is,' Crispin laughed, and then darted off through the crowd, to a timely freedom.

'Gosh, he's just like I was at that age!' George mused. 'What are you going to do about him? Do you want me to follow him?'

Frances looked out towards the pitch. Another ball had been procured in the meantime, and the game was about to recommence. 'Just leave him,' she sighed miserably. 'With any luck I may get some peace and quiet. I might even get to watch some of the match.' A surge of emotion began rising up in her. She took a deep breath and returned her attention to the pitch. She stared fixedly at the batsmen.

Michael noticed her discomfit, and turned towards his brother. 'Get Miss Norwood some lemonade, George,' he whispered. 'And don't drink it before you return.' He threw George a rare, affectionate smile.

George nodded and dutifully did as he was bid. In the next moment, Frances and Michael were left to themselves. After a minute or two of companionable silence, Frances spoke.

'I was so sorry to hear about Thomas,' she began hesitantly. 'I only heard about it yesterday, otherwise, I would have come to visit. I would have offered my condolences.'

Michael's anxious eyes began to roam the outfield. 'I won't pretend that the last few weeks haven't been difficult. It was an ordeal for everyone, particularly for Jack. He's an orphan now, not that he understands what that means. He thinks Thomas has gone back up to Launceston, and keeps asking us when his Daddy is coming home. No amount of explaining helps. My only hope is that he works it out for himself one day, hopefully sooner rather than later. Thomas's will stipulates that in the event of his death, Jack is to live with Agnes. Thomas has no family of his own, incidentally. Still, that's beside the point.' He tried to fortify himself. 'When I look back on the whole sorry saga, there was only one thing that I was grateful for.'

'And what was that?'

'That you were spared the horror of it all.' He turned towards her and their eyes met. Their gaze lingered for some seconds before he reluctantly averted his eyes. 'Speaking of your departure from Wintersleigh,' he resumed in a faltering voice, 'I finally found out why you left so suddenly. Agnes told me the other evening.'

Frances was momentarily silenced. Around her, the summer breeze lapped at her skirt, and tussled the fallen strands of hair around her cheeks. In spite of this cool, comforting sweep of air, she felt less than comforted. 'And what exactly did she tell you?' she forced herself to say.

'I don't want to go into the exact details,' Michael said hurriedly. 'I have no intention of embarrassing you. What I will say is this. After what occurred between you and my brother on New Year's Eve, I admire you wholeheartedly for leaving Wintersleigh when you did, as does Louisa. She believes it was very right of you to nip it in the bud.'

Frances was taken aback. 'Aunt Louisa knows about this too?'

'Yes, she was there when Agnes told me.'

'And why did Agnes feel it necessary to divulge such delicate information? She promised me she would say nothing, provided I left Wintersleigh.' She faltered. 'Was it her intention to make mischief for me?'

Michael considered her question thoughtfully. 'Looking back on it, yes, I think there was some element of malice in it, but instead of her information upsetting your aunt, it had the reverse effect. Louisa's feelings towards you were softened, not hardened. As you may have known, your aunt has long been concerned with the amount of attention George has shown you. She feared that he would seduce you, destroy your reputation, then abandon you without a second thought, as he has done to so many other women. I feared it too.'

'Yes. You told me as much on our return trip from Port Arthur.'

'But now, our fears are allayed. Louisa thinks you acted nobly by leaving when you did, and having said that, I expect she will seek reconciliation with you any day now. She might even ask you to return to Wintersleigh.'

'I hope she doesn't, otherwise I'll have to refuse her offer.'

Michael looked confused. 'What impediment to your return would there be? George will be returning to Melbourne straight after the wedding, and Agnes will be living with me as my wife.'

Frances turned away from the doctor. She secretly longed to tell him that he was the reason she had left Wintersleigh, and that she had acted in his best interests. Of course she didn't have the courage to tell him these things, and so she said nothing instead.

Frances looked in the direction of the stand. In the distance she could see that Crispin had returned to his grandmother, and was triumphantly showing Edwina Ballard and her friends the cricket ball he had taken from the game. Frances turned away before her employer could beckon to her, and fixing her eyes vacantly on a nearby fieldsman, she began to reflect on her cousin's cruel betrayal. Agnes had promised not to tell a soul about Frances's interlude with George Brearly on New Year's Eve, and yet, not even four weeks later, she had broken that assurance. The depth of the deception struck Frances more painfully than a blow, and as her mounting hatred for Agnes pulsed through her veins, she vowed at that moment, never to trust her cousin again.

### CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Breakfast at Midnight

It was three days before Michael Brearly and Agnes Wentworth's wedding, and whilst the bride-to-be was sleeping soundly in her bed chamber at Wintersleigh, the prospective groom, sleepless with pre-marital jitters, was sitting outside on Rosewood's back verandah. As was often the case when he couldn't sleep, Michael ordered a bacon sandwich for breakfast, and while he distractedly bit into the bread, he stared out into the midnight darkness. It seemed inconceivable to him, at that moment, that at the same time next week he would be a married man, with a small child to support. Thomas Maycroft's Last Will and Testament stipulated that Jack was to come under Agnes's care in the event of Thomas's death, and given that Agnes was to marry Michael, he would inadvertently become a parent on his wedding day. The thought of being a father figure to little Jack Maycroft filled him with dread but, as he reflected, he was grateful that Thomas hadn't left Jack to George. Under George's bad influence, there would be no telling just how Jack would turn out.

After swallowing the last mouthful of his sandwich, he stood up to stretch his cramped legs. Beneath him, the wooden verandah boards groaned under his weight. Oblivious to the noise he was making, he picked up his glass of port, and began to pace the full length of the verandah. By the time he had slurped out the contents of the glass, he realised that George had joined him.

'I say, old chap,' George began, 'is this a private party, or can anyone join in?'

'I suppose that depends on who's asking,' Michael replied, setting the empty glass down on the railing.

George let out a hearty yawn. 'So, what are you doing up? You look a little down in the dumps. Not worrying about the wedding are we?'

'No,' Michael lied, 'I'm just...'

'Lying hound,' George remarked with a knowing smile. 'It's just as I thought. You're going soft!'

'What absurdity! It's all in your imagination.'

'No, it's not,' George insisted, watching Michael with penetrating eyes. 'I know exactly what you're thinking. You're having second thoughts. The wedding is in three days, and you're having second thoughts about going through with it. It's a common enough phenomenon.' He then casually pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches from his pyjama pocket. As he lit his cigarette, his handsome and youthful features were briefly illuminated.

'And what about you?' Michael asked. 'What are you doing up?'

'Just chewing the cud, so to speak,' said George, in between puffs of smoke. After a brief interval he began to laugh. 'This may surprise you, Michael, but I do think. Well, sometimes.' Michael smiled weakly but maintained his silence. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. 'Anyway, I've been thinking about you and your awfully good fortune.'

'My good fortune?' Michael cried, astounded. 'And what is so fortunate about my predicament?'

'You great duffer! Not only are you about to marry an awfully fetching woman, but you're set to adopt an equally wonderful child!' He took another puff from his cigarette.

'I thought you didn't like Agnes,' said Michael, ignoring the latter part of his brother's observation, 'you said you despised her.'

'I don't like her, and I do despise her, but that's not the point here. By marrying Agnes next week, you immediately acquire what some men can only dream about. A beautiful wife, and a son.'

'I thought you despised Agnes,' repeated Michael with suspicious eyes.

'I do,' said George with a sudden exasperation. 'By Jove, Michael,' must you keep harping on about it? Just because a man finds a woman attractive, it doesn't necessarily mean that he likes her.'

'Whatever you say, George,' Michael said, turning away ill-humouredly, 'but as I understand it, such reasoning has never stopped you before.'

'And what is that supposed to mean? What are you suggesting?'

'I'm not suggesting anything,' Michael explained. 'Look,' he went on, 'enough is enough. This is only degenerating into an argument. I have enough worries on my mind, without adding you to the list.'

'Huh! You're a nice one!' George proclaimed, with sneering emphasis. 'I was just trying to offer some brotherly consolation. Trying to convince you how darn good your life is.'

'Nothing could possibly convince me of that, now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed.'

'Aw come on, Michael. Don't take the sulks with me. I only just got here. Stay longer, and we can have a good ol' chat.'

'No,' said Michael, watching his brother through the warm glow of the cigarette, 'it's pointless talking to you. You'll only end up ridiculing me.'

'I won't, big brother. I promise I won't.' Seeing the look of doubt on Michael's face, he persevered. 'There's something urgent I need to tell you, before it's too late.' He let his neglected cigarette dangle down from his fingers.

Michael raised an eyebrow. 'If this is about your romantic encounter with Miss Norwood on New Year's Eve, then don't waste your breath. Agnes has already told me everything.'

George stared. 'Oh she did, did she? Humph! What exactly did she say about it all? I suppose she accused me of instigating it.'

'No. On the contrary. Agnes seemed to think that Miss Norwood was a very willing participant in the proceedings.'

George slumped against the verandah railing. 'Oh, if only,' he heaved a wistful sigh. 'If only that were true.' He took several meditative puffs from his cigarette. 'I'm afraid to say this, Michael, but Agnes has misled you in her description of the New Year's Eve events. I am wholly to blame for what happened that night, not Miss Norwood. I hunted that poor girl down like an animal, and when I saw her alone and vulnerable on that verandah, I moved in for the kill. Despite all my efforts of seduction, however, which I hasten to add, were considerable, only her lips would yield to me. I am yet to conquer her mind and her heart, a feat I feel is next to impossible.' The look of his brother's darkening face made him laugh. 'Now don't look at me like that,' he said, smiling disarmingly. 'I'm not a murderer or anything. I was tempted by a pretty face that's all, and as a red-blooded male, I felt it was my prerogative to pursue her. I must remain consistent to my reputation, although my resounding failure with Frances Norwood has somewhat shaken my confidence. I think in future I'll set my sights a little lower.'

'And what about an apology?' Michael demanded. 'Does that feature at all in your calculations?'

George reflected. 'Well yes, I suppose it does. An apology is well in order, but to be truthful with you, I don't think I'm up to making one at the moment. It wouldn't do much for my credibility. Besides, apologies are just so damned embarrassing. Makes one stutter, and say awfully silly things one doesn't mean. Best do it when the dust settles. What do you think?'

'Miss Norwood was right about you, you know,' Michael replied after a long pause. 'You are selfish. Your entire life revolves around you and you alone. Everything is always on your terms.'

George snorted. 'I'm twenty-eight, for God's sake! I'm young, I'm free, and what's more, I'm at perfect liberty to make the most of opportunities that come my way.'

'There is nothing admirable in the pursuit of one's own pleasure, particularly when it is at the expense of other people.'

'Other people? Frances Norwood, you mean. That's definitely a sore point with you, isn't it? You don't like to think of her as being used.'

'I'm not talking about specific individuals, George, I'm speaking in general terms. You're selfish, you use people, and you have absolutely no concept of the words sacrifice and commitment.'

'Aha!' George declared triumphantly. 'So that's what this is all about! This isn't about me at all, is it? It's about you! You're about to commit yourself and it terrifies you!' He cocked his head arrogantly. 'You're also jealous of me because I don't commit myself to anyone and I don't care a button about what people think of me. You're jealous of my freedom, and the fact that I can play the field with young women like Miss Norwood.'

'That's not true.'

'Oh no, Michael, it seems perfectly clear to me. Next week, your freedom vanishes. Suddenly, you have a wife and child to support, and the thought chills you to the bone. Your life will be filled with endless responsibilities and commitments.'

'Well at least I'm prepared to make that sacrifice!' Michael hissed.

'No-one forced you into an engagement with Agnes,' replied George, with as much venom as his brother. 'You've practically been engaged to her since childhood.'

'Mother and Louisa always wished it. You know that as well as I.'

'Perhaps so, but why object to it now? After all, you've had years to get used to the idea.'

'I, I don't want to disappoint anybody,' Michael responded, rather feebly.

'And who exactly would you be disappointing? Mother is gone, as is our sister and father, and as for Agnes and Louisa, who cares a fig what they think? By Jove, Michael, if you don't make up your mind now, the only person you'll disappoint in the long run is yourself. Think about it.'

'I have to go inside,' Michael ventured after a pause of some duration.

'Fine. Go in, if you feel you must. I didn't get a chance to tell you what I wanted to say, but I suppose it doesn't matter any more. You had better get some rest. You're clearly overwrought.' He leant forward to pat Michael's arm, but Michael drew away before he could touch him. 'Please think this thing through, Michael. You can either be the sword or the wound. It's entirely up to you.'

'I don't want to be either,' Michael murmured.

'Well, I'm sorry to say this, but I think it's too late for that.'

Michael's hand froze on the door handle to the back door. For once in his life, his brother was right. It was too late.

### CHAPTER FORTY SIX

Worse for Wear

If this realisation wasn't painful enough for Michael, an accident later that day rendered him completely incapacitated, and in a great deal more pain. He had been so distracted by George's wise words that he had accidentally tripped over one of his kittens on the staircase, and tumbled down the full flight of stairs. The unceremonious descent cost him a broken rib, a dislocated shoulder, severe abdominal bruising, not to mention irreparable damage to his pride and credibility (the kitten was thankfully unharmed).

Not surprisingly, the accident caused the wedding to be delayed for two weeks, and while the Wentworth women were sympathetic to his misfortune, they were secretly resentful at having to change the wedding arrangements, arrangements that they had only just finalised down to the last detail. As Agnes re-booked the church, her mother hurried about town, re-rescheduling the wedding photographer and florists, and informing a long stream of guests that the wedding had been postponed. Due to the last minute change in date, several guests declared their inability to attend, and by the time Louisa finished rearranging everything, the number of guests was reduced by a quarter.

While the Wentworth women were bemoaning the depleted guest list over a cup of tea in the cluttered Rosewood drawing room, Michael was recuperating on an easy chair in the downstairs sitting room. Due to its small size, it was one of the least used rooms in the house, but once Michael had established himself in there, he found that the room was quite comfortable. It was never more so than when the French windows were open, and a cool breeze was streaming in, as it was now. From this room he received his friends and family visitors, not to mention many of his patients, who came to offer him their good wishes, bunches of home-grown flowers, and bottles of home-made relishes and jams.

Miss Frances Norwood was the last of his visitors that day, and while she brought neither flowers nor tomato relish, she brought him things which were infinitely more welcome: her company, her smiling face, her conversation and a plate of raspberry muffins from Riverview.

'Edwina Ballard sends you her regards,' Frances began by saying, 'and wishes you a swift recovery, as do I,' she added with a smile. She was promptly invited to take a seat, and did so, choosing to sit in an armchair near the French windows. After setting the plate of muffins on a nearby coffee table, she removed her gloves and placed them on her lap.

Michael was pleased. 'Forgive me for not standing to receive you, Miss Norwood, but I'm not particularly nimble at the moment.' With a grimace, he sat further back in his chair.

Frances smiled and the subject of Michael's injury was allowed to drop. For the next thirty minutes or so, she directed the conversation to more pleasant issues, such as the cricket, Riverview, the International Exhibition, the Regatta, and lastly to Michael's kittens, both of whom had just scampered into the room, and were chasing each other over the furniture. Afternoon tea was promptly served, along with Frances's muffins, and while Frances and Michael ate and drank in companionable silence, they watched the kittens frolicking.

'Haven't they grown?' Frances observed. 'The last time I saw them they were smaller than my foot.' She looked down on them fondly.

Michael swallowed the remains of his second muffin, and cast his companion a questioning glance. 'What do you mean?' he asked, wiping the crumbs away from his mouth. 'As far as I can remember, you've never met Clawed and Furgus.'

Frances faltered. 'I have met them, actually,' she said, nervously rearranging her skirt.

'When? How was that possible? Was I here with you at the time?'

Frances kept her eyes steadfastly on the kittens. 'No, you weren't with me at the time,' she answered gently. 'I waited until you were out on your rounds, and then I left them in a box on your front doorstep.'

'That was you?'

'I didn't have much time, so I got one of your servants to keep an eye on them for me, until either you or George returned home.' Having made her confession, Frances started fidgeting with her gloves.

Michael's heart softened as he watched her. 'I don't know what to say,' he murmured. 'Those kittens mean everything to me. They don't exactly fill the void that Henry left, but, but,' he stammered, 'well, you know what I mean.'

'I suppose you would have found out sooner or later,' Frances said, rising abruptly to her feet. 'Anyway, best be off now. Edwina Ballard was kind enough to allow me some time off to visit people. I don't want to abuse her generosity.' She then bent over and picked up one of the kittens. With loving hands she stroked its back and head, and scratched it firmly behind the ears.

'Must you go now, Miss Norwood? You haven't been here that long.'

'I've been here almost an hour,' Frances remarked, looking up at the mantelpiece clock. 'What's more, my aunt has invited me for dinner. Thanks to Charlotte, my aunt and I are back on speaking terms. She arranged an 'accidental' meeting at the International Exhibition, a few days ago. Aunt Wentworth and I stumbled into each other, just outside the gooseberry exhibit.'

'Ah, those good old gooseberries,' Michael laughed.

'It was rather awkward to begin with,' Frances resumed, 'but gradually it got easier. She ended the encounter by inviting me to dinner tonight. Apparently there will be many of Agnes's friends there, including Lettie Hollins, supposedly the queen of all match-makers, and a self-proclaimed expert in all matters matrimonial. She told Charlotte that she'll have me married by the end of the year. Isn't that an irksome thought?' She grinned. 'If that's her intention towards me, I'll endeavour to avoid her attentions at all costs. Still, I'm not going to my aunt's house purely for Lettie Hollins' company. I'm going there to discuss the wedding plans. Apparently there is still much to arrange.' Having said this, she planted a light kiss on the bridge of the kitten's nose, and returned it to the floor. She began putting her gloves on.

At the mention of the word 'wedding,' Michael shuddered. By the time he regained his senses, Frances was waiting politely for him to give her leave. The sight of her imminent departure struck him with a sudden fear, and in his mind he groped for the right words. When he eventually spoke, it was heartfelt, but not what he had planned to say.

'Don't go,' he heard himself say, 'please. Stay just a little longer. There's something important I need to tell you.'

The urgency of Michael's words intrigued Frances, but she was running late, and at that moment nothing else seemed to matter. 'Can't it wait? Aunt will be very cross if I'm late.'

'It can wait, yes, but if I don't say this now, I'll never forgive myself.'

Frances glanced uneasily towards the clock. She had just fifteen minutes to get to Wintersleigh. It was impossible. She sighed and gave her full attention to the doctor, who at that moment was looking tense and fidgety. 'Very well,' she said, concerned by his discomposure, 'I'm all ears.' Having said that, she moved her chair closer to Michael, and sat down for his explanation.

'You must forgive me for holding you up,' Michael began. 'I don't know what has got into me recently. My timing in most things has been decidedly bad.' He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket, and gingerly began to wipe newly formed beads of sweat from his brow. 'I suppose there is no easy way of saying this. God knows, I have enough difficulty justifying it to myself.' Frances smiled reassuringly, and he went on. 'The thing is, Miss Norwood, I don't think I can go through with the wedding.'

Frances was thrown off her guard. 'Oh,' she said, in a voice that belied her deep astonishment. 'I see.' Her agitated fingers began to pick at the armrest of her chair.

'I didn't mean to burden you with this,' Michael explained, 'but by the same token, I need to talk to someone about it. The earlier advice you gave me about Thomas and Jack was absolutely invaluable. Once I apologised for my Christmas Day conduct, things were better all round.'

'Have you spoken to George about this? Perhaps he is better able to help you with this than I.'

'No, he isn't. That is, George and I have already had this discussion. It didn't resolve anything, in fact it made things ten times worse.'

Frances wasn't exactly sure what to say. 'Don't you think this is a family matter, Doctor Brearly?' she asked gently. 'Is there not someone else who can advise you, someone you trust?'

'I trust no-one more than I trust you,' he stated categorically.

Frances was confused by this answer, and hardly knew how to address him. 'How can you say that, after the New Year's Eve episode? I know you said you respected me for leaving Wintersleigh when I did, but I wasn't entirely blameless during the incident itself. I did, after all, allow George to kiss me.'

'I think we both know that George was entirely to blame for that, not you. George confessed everything to me the other morning.' He averted his distracted attention to the nearby window.

Frances was troubled by the look in his eyes, and forced herself to speak. 'What is it, Doctor Brearly? What is it that troubles you?'

'Michael,' he replied, 'it's Michael to you, not Doctor Brearly. Only my patients and acquaintances call me that.' He looked up at her affectionately.

'Very well, Michael, what is it? Why can you not marry Agnes? And before you answer me, it's Frances to you, not Miss Norwood.'

Michael looked a picture of fidgety nervousness. 'There are many reasons, Frances, why I am not willing to marry Agnes, but only one of them concerns you.' Frances turned to him sharply, but said nothing. 'You see,' he hesitatingly continued, 'I am, rather you are, no wait, this is not right. I have never told you this, Frances,' he began again in a low voice, 'but I care a great deal about you.' Their eyes met. Frances swallowed heavily, but still could not bring herself to speak. 'You must have known,' he added, almost in a whisper.

'Yes,' she at last murmured. 'I knew.'

'Is that why you left Wintersleigh?'

Frances drew a hand to her head and closed her eyes. 'Partly,' she admitted. 'On New Year's Eve, Agnes discovered George and me out on the verandah. She threatened to tell you what your brother and I had been doing, unless I agreed to leave Wintersleigh.' She reopened her eyes and discovered that Michael had moved his chair closer to her. The discovery made her heart beat faster. 'I couldn't bear you thinking ill of me. In retrospect, I should have stood my ground and told you everything. Still, I was frightened. Agnes can be very persuasive when she wants to be.'

Michael took Frances's gloved hand and pressed it to his lips. 'And then you left,' he said.

'I had to,' Frances whispered. 'Don't you see I had no choice?'

'Why? Why did you have no choice?'

'Because you were going to marry someone else. If your feelings for me were as I supposed them to be, I was in a hopeless situation. I was so confused. There was, however, one thing I was certain of. I knew that my presence at Wintersleigh might destroy your relationship with Agnes. I didn't want to ruin your chance of happiness.'

'What happiness could you possibly ruin?'

'Agnes's happiness, Jack's and Aunt Wentworth's. Those are just a few to start with. The decision you make now has a direct bearing on all the people around you, the people who really care about you.'

'And what about you, Frances?' he asked, leaning closer towards her, 'where do you fit into this equation? Is your happiness at stake here too?' He gently began stroking Frances's hair.

Frances readily submitted to his touch. 'This isn't about me, Michael,' she murmured, 'I'm just one of those left over pieces that never fits into the puzzle. We're talking about you, and your duty to your family.'

'But what about us?' he questioned, looking down lovingly into her eyes.

'You don't understand,' Frances breathed. 'Why can't you see it? There is no us.' She gently pulled her hand from the doctor's grasp. 'There is no us, and there never will be. You're committed to someone who would sacrifice anything, including the love of a cousin, to keep you to herself.' Her voice began to crack. 'Life isn't a fairy tale, Michael. We can't all get what we want.' Having said that, she got up from her chair and hurried across the room to the sitting room door. She was just about to grab hold of the door handle, however, when Michael's words caused her to falter.

'Will you be there at the wedding?' he asked in a strangled voice.

'That goes without saying,' she replied. 'I'll be there, but, but that will be it as far as you and I are concerned. After the wedding, you won't see me again. I don't know what I'll do, or where I'll go, but I'll think of something. Goodbye.'

Before Michael could reply to this declaration, Frances disappeared out the door and into the corridor. Her words had left him too stunned to pursue her, and by the time he came to his senses, some five minutes later, it was all too late. Frances had set off to Wintersleigh in her aunt's carriage, and by the time a breathless Michael reached the front drive, he saw nothing but the receding vehicle in the distance, blurred by the blinding tears in his eyes.

### CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

The Best Man

'What do you mean the church is already being used?' Louisa shrieked, as she stood with the white-gloved wedding entourage in the foreground of St Mark's Anglican Church in Bellerive. 'My daughter is supposed to be getting married in there in less than half-an-hour! And pray where is Mr Hall? He is supposed to be conducting the service!'

The Reverend William Wilby looked indignant. 'My colleague has been indisposed since last month, and I've been filling his shoes. As for the other matter, it appears that there has been some sort of misunderstanding with the arrangements. Perhaps you are booked in at St Matthew's in Rokeby. The names are very familiar.'

'With all due respect, Mr Wilby,' Louisa resumed heatedly, 'the Wentworth family has been attending St Mark's for years. Mr Hall can testify to that, most assuredly.'

'But how can there be a misunderstanding?' Michael cut in impatiently. 'We confirmed these arrangements last week. What's more, my fiancée's sister was inside that church only yesterday, arranging all the flowers.'

'Yes, well as I understand it,' the clergyman said in a slow, deliberate voice, 'this wedding was rescheduled several weeks ago.'

'That is true,' Louisa admitted, turning towards Michael, 'Michael tripped...'

'I was involved in an accident,' Michael interrupted.

'Oh yes,' Mr Wilby replied, watching the local doctor with undisguised amusement in his eyes, 'I heard about that.' He seemed to be trying not to smile. 'Very unfortunate.'

Michael looked away. 'I knew I should have had this ceremony at Rosewood,' he muttered to Louisa. 'Mr Hall could have come to the house, and then we wouldn't have had to worry about re-booking the church.'

Louisa turned sharply upon her future son-in-law. 'I am not having my daughter married in some drawing room,' she said scornfully. 'Mercy! Nothing but the House of God is good enough for my Agnes.' As she spoke, the feathers on her white, voluminous hat quivered significantly. With a sniff of resentment she returned her attention to William Wilby. 'Why can we not go inside the church? What is going on in there?'

'The church is filled with mourners, I'm afraid,' Mr Wilby explained. 'I'm just about to conduct a memorial service for a young man lost at sea.'

The feathers on Louisa's hat stopped quaking. 'Oh,' she said, distributing looks of concern to the onlookers around her, 'that is most unfortunate. Was he a fisherman?'

The wiry minister looked down at Louisa through his spectacles. 'No, no, nothing like that. It was Tommy Fairweather, Frederick Fairweather's eldest son. Couldn't hold his drink. Took to the river in a small boat, which by all accounts was not seaworthy. Only one oar apparently. Was muttering something about circumnavigating Bruny Island. As I understand it, he didn't get beyond Bellerive Beach.'

Under normal circumstances either George or Frances would have sniggered over this remark, but this morning these two guests were strangely silent and aloof. Frances was standing at a disinterested distance from the proceedings, and a stony-faced George was leaning against one of the headstones in the small churchyard burial ground, nibbling his fingernails. He was so engrossed with his nails, in fact, that he did not seem to hear Louisa's voice as it resounded loudly across the churchyard.

'I somehow feel that we are getting away from the point,' she declared rather pettishly. 'The Wentworth and Brearly families are highly respectable families in this town, and we should be treated with the reverence we deserve. It is not acceptable to keep us standing here in this absurd fashion. Look at our guests,' she said, indicating the impatient gathering with a majestic sweep of her hand. 'You are not only insulting us, but you are also insulting our friends.'

At this point, the timorous Charlotte chose to intervene. 'Mama,' she exhorted, 'the longer you keep Mr Wilby waiting, the longer it will take for him to finish the memorial service.'

Louisa dabbed affectedly at her nose with a crisp, white handkerchief. 'Very well,' she said to the young clergyman, 'please continue with your service. I shall incommode you no longer.'

William Wilby straightened his back and again looked down at Louisa through his spectacles. 'Thank you, Mrs Wentworth. As soon as the service has concluded and the mourners have departed, I will come out here and call everyone in. I shall not keep you waiting any longer than you have to.'

'And what does that mean?' Louisa countered. 'How long do you think it will take?'

'Oh, no more than fifteen minutes,' he said decisively, 'or thirty minutes at most,' he continued, a little less confidently. 'I can't say with any certainty.' He turned his back on the Wentworth matriarch, and began walking haughtily back to the church.

'This is monstrous!' Louisa exploded, once the clergyman had disappeared into St Mark's and closed the door behind him. 'Agnes will be arriving here shortly and what am I to tell her? That she shall have to wait?' In the background, the wedding guests were impatiently consulting their watches. 'Oh, my poor Harold,' Louisa resumed sadly, 'he would turn in his grave if he could see what was happening. This is such an intolerable state of affairs.'

'Louisa,' Michael said, squeezing her arm reassuringly, 'please don't distress yourself over this. There is nothing to be done about it.'

'I have every right to be distressed! My daughter's wedding and breakfast are about to be ruined, and nobody seems to care three straws!' She looked at her guests accusingly, as though they were all mass conspirators in a plot to destroy Agnes's wedding. 'This is an omen. I know it is. You know what they say about March weddings.'

'Louisa, please,' Michael urged under his breath, 'try to remain calm. This is a minor inconvenience only.' He stepped closer to his future mother-in-law. 'Forgive me for saying this, Louisa, but you are making things ten times worse. There is nothing we can do. Moreover, what difference does thirty minutes make?'

Louisa pursed her lips resentfully. 'I just wanted everything to be perfect. Is that so wrong of me?'

'Not at all, Mama,' Charlotte said, taking one of her mother's hands in her own, 'but Michael is right. This delay is beyond our control. Why don't we return to the carriage? There is no point standing out here in the sun.'

Louisa nodded miserably, and having no more energy left to protest, she let Charlotte lead her to the conveyance. Other guests soon followed suit, and a short time later, groups of people were to be found in carriages, standing under parasols in the sun, or chatting beneath the shady canopy of the trees that bordered the churchyard. Michael and Frances were two such people who sought this welcome shade, and while they had not planned their meeting, their pairing was still conspicuous. They were therefore resolved to stand apart, and while they waited the fifteen minutes for Agnes to arrive, they focussed their attention on little Jack Maycroft, who had just started chasing a lizard along the white, picket fence-line. The longer Frances and Michael waited, however, the more uncomfortable they grew. By the time Agnes's carriage was spotted down the end of the road, Michael had loosened his necktie three times, wiped dirt from his patent leather buttoned boots, adjusted the flower on his frock coat lapel twice, and repeatedly smoothed down his striped gray cashmere trousers.

Frances was similarly agitated, and as the carriage made its way slowly towards St Mark's, she toyed with her gloves, bit her lip, and dropped her hat onto the grass beneath her, where it was retrieved a short time later by a roving George Brearly. She accepted the hat from George with a coldly courteous smile, but she could not bring herself to thank him. Memories of his behaviour on New Year's Eve came flooding back to her, and while she was tempted to abandon him where he stood, she checked her irritation, and reluctantly remained where she was.

'There you go again,' George said, with new-found cheerfulness, 'throwing your possessions away. If you continue at this rate, Miss Norwood, you'll have nothing left.' Frances made no reply to this, but glanced nervously in Michael's direction. George followed her gaze and rested his eyes on his brother. 'Well, well,' he said, in a confiding tone, 'Michael's looking awfully edgy this morning. If he was any more tense, he'd have rigor mortis.'

'Well, you've certainly changed your tune. Twenty minutes ago I saw you sulking near the headstones. Now that Agnes is arriving, you're almost happy.'

George's amusement quickly faded. 'You bet I'm happy, Miss Norwood. As soon as this tiresome day is over, I'm heading back to Melbourne. My editor is getting twitchy over my belated return.' He consulted his watch. 'Besides, I'll never have to see Agnes or your wretched aunt again.'

'I'm sure my aunt will be equally appreciative,' Frances muttered.

George glanced at his watch again. 'What the blazes is going on inside that church?'

'Oh? You have something else planned?'

George half-smiled. 'Not until a little later,' he replied. 'I have a surprise for Michael. A wedding present, you could say.' He glanced in Michael's direction.

Frances began picking at her hat with agitated fingers. 'Dare I ask what it is?'

George chuckled. 'Alas, no. I can't tell you. That would diminish the effect, somewhat. Suffice to say, that it will be completely original. No-one else can give him what I can.' He straightened up and thrust out his chest. 'I imagine he won't like it at first, in fact I'm certain he won't like it, but further down the track he'll see that the present I gave him was invaluable.'

Frances hesitated. 'Well it all sounds very intriguing. I look forward to seeing this mysterious gift, whatever it is.'

'Rest assured it will be truly memorable. But enough said on it. If I don't leave now I won't have time to make the finishing touches to my brother's present.' He smiled. 'Adieu, Miss Norwood,' he said, and with a cold, formal tip of his hat, he disappeared behind a clump of shrubs, and promptly out of sight.

### CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

' _Here Comes the Bride'_

'Ah, here she comes,' Charlotte said, looking in the direction of the approaching conveyance. 'For one minute I thought— Oh well, never mind what I thought,' she added after a moment's consideration.

Frances watched her cousin with probing eyes. 'What is it, Charlotte? What's wrong?'

'It doesn't matter, Franny, honestly,' Charlotte replied hurriedly. 'I had no right to say anything.' She kept her eyes fixed to the Wentworth family carriage. 'I say,' Charlotte said, hastily changing the subject, 'I thought it very odd that Agnes should not include you in the wedding ceremony. I felt sure that she would make you one of the bridesmaids.'

'Why would you think that? I'm the last person in the world Agnes would ever think to ask.'

'Perhaps she thought that you would upstage her.'

'Now we both know that is not true, but my dear Charlotte, it was good of you to say it.' She took one of her cousin's hands and squeezed it affectionately.

'I meant it,' Charlotte answered earnestly. 'You surpass Agnes with all your qualities and beauty. It was abominably rude of my sister to leave you out of the proceedings.'

'You speak about being a bridesmaid as though it was something important. Really, I have better things to do with my time than trailing after Agnes Wentworth. What's more, I'm just a humble servant in your family's eyes. Your mother, especially, keeps reminding me of it.'

'Don't say that,' Charlotte said solemnly. 'You're more than a servant, and you know it. You're a governess at a very respectable establishment.'

'The Ballards only took me because no-one would take the position. There is a difference.'

'Why do you always put yourself down, Frances? It pains me to hear you speak so. You have a respectable position, where you're doing something meaningful with your time. Best of all, you're financially independent. Surely that's something to be proud of.'

Frances was baffled. 'My dear cousin, since when have you valued financial independence? I thought you scorned it, like Agnes and your mother.'

'I admit I never used to, but since my marriage, I don't know. I somehow feel redundant. I sometimes sit there in the house and wonder whether there is something more I should be doing with my life. It all seems like such a waste.'

Frances tightened her grip on her cousin's hand. 'Then why don't you do something about it? I know. Why don't you come to university with me next year?'

Charlotte's eyes widened. 'You're going to university? But what will you do about Mrs Ballard? What about your work?'

'Do you think I would continue to work at Riverview if I had a choice? Not at all. That job is a means to an end. As soon as I have enough money saved up, I'll leave Riverview and enrol at the university.'

Charlotte shook her head in bemusement. 'Oh, Frances, where do you get your ideas? If Mama could hear you now!'

'Your mother already knows of my plans. I announced them to her last week when I was at dinner. She declared herself to be very upset, so upset in fact that she threatened to cable my mother in Melbourne.'

'And how is your dear mother? I trust everything is well with her? How is your soon-to-be step-father?'

Frances was taken aback. 'My step-father?' she cried. 'How did you know about that?'

'I sent your mother a Christmas card, as I usually do, and in reply I got a card signed by Aunt Lucy, and soon-to-be 'Uncle' Herbert. Oh Frances, why did you not tell anyone about him? Are you not happy with your mother's choice?'

'I'd rather not discuss this now, if you don't mind,' Frances returned rather pointedly. 'We have another more immediate wedding to concern ourselves with.'

Charlotte looked in the direction of the road. The carriage had just drawn to a halt, and Louisa and several Wentworth family friends were surging towards it, no doubt eager to catch a glimpse of the blushing bride.

'Oh heavens,' Frances breathed. 'It seems the moment has come.' She looked about the church-yard and spotted Michael leaning against a headstone. He too was glancing in the direction of the stationary carriage. Her heart lurched. 'I, I think we should join your mother,' she added. 'I don't want us to be accused of being apathetic.' She relinquished her grip on Charlotte's hand, and made a move to leave, but Charlotte, it appeared, hadn't finished talking with her, and she urged Frances to wait a moment longer.

'Please say nothing more about my mother, Charlotte. It is too painful to discuss. I will try and resolve matters in my own good time.'

'I've no doubt that you will, but we need to talk about Agnes.'

'If it's about this bridesmaid business, then don't worry. I'm not offended that she didn't ask me.'

All animation on Charlotte's face disappeared. 'Then you should be. She owes you something, some sort of favour after what you did for her.'

Frances studied her cousin's stern face with growing apprehension. 'What do you mean? What are you talking about?'

'I may not say a great deal, Frances, but what I lack in conversation, I make up for with my eyes.' She lowered her voice. 'I know what really happened on New Year's Eve. Don't ask me how I know, but I do.' She took Frances's hand again. 'I want to thank you for the sacrifice you made for my sister.' Before Frances could protest, Charlotte went ahead. 'I know your feelings for Michael Brearly, and I am well aware that by leaving Wintersleigh, you put my sister's happiness, and the wishes of my family, before your own. I can never thank you enough for it.'

Frances's eyes widened. 'Good heavens, Charlotte. Doctor Brearly and I are just good friends.' She quickly turned away. 'My goodness, how on earth could you come to such an absurd conclusion?'

Charlotte watched her cousin's discomposure with a knowing smile. 'Please forgive me for having the impertinence to meddle in your affairs. It certainly gives me no pleasure to do it, but really, there is no need to be quite so defensive. I know that you're in love with him.'

Frances gasped. 'I'm not!' she declared, rather impulsively. 'I'm not!' she said again, this time less convincingly.

Charlotte studied Frances's face closely, and noticed that tears were welling in her cousin's eyes. 'I thought so,' Charlotte whispered. She handed Frances a handkerchief, and watched her dab ineffectually at her eyes. 'I thought so.'

Frances bit her lip in annoyance. Her cousin's perceptiveness had indeed alarmed her, but not as much as the proceedings that followed soon after. Before Frances could reply to Charlotte's assertion, she heard her aunt calling out her name. The cousins exchanged looks of curiosity, and linking arms, they set off towards the foreground of the gleaming carriage, where Louisa Wentworth was standing. Around her, a crowd of women, shrouded by a motley assortment of parasols, was huddled together, deep in conversation. As the two cousins approached the conveyance, they knew that something was terribly wrong.

Louisa greeted the two young women with a grave face. 'Get in,' she instructed in a toneless voice. 'Get in the carriage now.'

'What is it, Mama?' Charlotte queried. 'What is the matter?'

'Just get inside and I will tell you everything.'

Frances and Charlotte instinctively peered in through the window of the carriage, expecting to see the bride-to-be and her bridesmaids enshrouded by mists of white satin, ferns and orange blossoms. To their surprise, however, there were just two occupants in the carriage: Reverend Cyril Beckett sitting stony-faced in the corner of the carriage, and Michael Brearly sitting opposite him, looking equally severe. An envelope sat conspicuously on Cyril's lap.

At the sight of him and the envelope, Charlotte gasped. 'Oh, Cyril, my love! Where is Agnes? Where are the bridesmaids?'

Cyril Beckett said nothing, but motioned his young wife to sit beside him. She promptly did as she was bid. Frances too, took a seat on the opposite side, near the door of the carriage, and in the next moment, the carriage door opened again to admit Louisa. The vehicle shuddered as Louisa moved about, but after sitting down beside her daughter, the conveyance became unusually still. For some time no-one spoke.

'Frances,' Louisa said at length, 'you were speaking to George earlier on, were you not?'

Frances looked anxiously about her. 'Yes I was, briefly.'

'And what did he say to you?'

'Nothing of any consequence.'

'I'm afraid you must be more explicit, Miss Norwood,' Cyril urged, 'for everyone's sake.'

Frances trembled under his scrutiny. 'Ah, um,' she began, 'he, he was talking about returning to Melbourne after the wedding—'

'And?' Louisa interjected, 'what else?'

'And something about a present, a wedding present for Doctor Brearly and Agnes.'

Michael seized upon her words. 'What sort of present?'

Frances smiled uncertainly. 'Well I can hardly tell you that, can I?' she said, turning slightly towards him. 'It will ruin his surprise.'

'Never mind about that, Frances,' Louisa barked, 'just tell us what the present is.'

Frances began picking at her gloves. 'Well to be honest with you, Aunt, I don't know. George said that his brother wouldn't like it at first, but he was convinced that the doctor would recognise its value later on.'

'Oh, you dreadful girl!' Louisa suddenly thundered. 'Why did you not tell us about this?'

Frances was confounded. 'What have I done now?'

'Nothing!' Louisa screeched. 'That is what you have done! If only you had told us about this earlier, we might have been able to stop them!' She rummaged around in her purse for a clean handkerchief. 'Dear, oh dear,' Louisa moaned, 'dear, oh dear!' She slumped back in her seat.

'How can this be my fault?' Frances retaliated. 'I don't even know what's happened.' She looked across the carriage to her cousin. Charlotte's eyes were downcast.

'Agnes is missing,' Cyril abruptly announced, 'as is George and the child.'

'Jack?' Frances cried. 'Jack Maycroft?'

Cyril nodded solemnly. 'They left a note for Michael in the carriage.'

'And what was in the note?' Frances probed.

'There's no easy way to put this, Miss Norwood,' he resumed in his most sermon-like tone, 'so I'll be blunt.' He paused briefly. 'Your cousin Agnes and George have taken the Maycroft boy from under our noses, and have run away together.'

### CHAPTER FORTY NINE

The Reception

Although this was not new information for Louisa, she nevertheless turned very white and burst into tears. 'Oh, that ghastly George!' she gasped in between sobs, 'I knew he would be the end of me.'

'Don't forget, Mama, that it takes two people to run away together,' Charlotte pointed out. 'Agnes is the other guilty party.'

Louisa momentarily stopped crying. 'And how did you come to that conclusion? George Brearly has had a long history of breaking young women's hearts. My poor Agnes is just another one of his innocent victims.'

Charlotte looked out the window towards St Mark's. The memorial service had just concluded, and streams of black-clothed mourners were making their way outside, into the dazzle of the hot sun. Some were crying, and others needed help just remaining upright. At that moment, it was difficult to tell just which party was more upset.

'You know that's not true, Mama,' Charlotte murmured.

Louisa fixed her angry eyes on her daughter. 'And what is that supposed to mean?'

'Agnes has never been innocent,' Charlotte claimed more confidently. 'She's been getting away with things for years.'

This time it was Michael's turn to speak. 'Ladies, please, this is hardly the time for bickering. What matters now is reclaiming Agnes before George takes her to Melbourne. If we get to the terminal now, I feel certain we can overtake them.' Despite the distraught look on his face, his voice was tinged with hope.

'And what if Agnes doesn't want to be reclaimed?' Charlotte rejoined. 'Knowing her as I do, I suspect that she doesn't wish to be found.'

Michael sat forward in his seat and looked earnestly towards Charlotte. 'What do you mean by that? Why would she not wish to be found? She doesn't even like George! Why would she want to stay with someone she dislikes?'

'Ask Mama,' Charlotte retorted. 'I'm sure she'll tell you about their past attachment.'

All eyes in the carriage swiftly turned upon Louisa. The unwelcome attention briefly silenced her, but after she had blown her nose and taken a deep breath, she spoke. 'I admit they shared an affection of sorts some years ago,' she began slowly, 'but Harold and I put an end to it as soon as we found out. George returned to Melbourne several days later. As far as I was concerned, it was all over.'

In the background, a disbelieving Michael buried his head in his hands. 'Agnes and George,' he was muttering, 'I, I don't understand.'

'But it wasn't the end, Mama,' Charlotte declared, 'it was just the beginning. I have never told anyone this before, but on the day George was banished from Hobart, he promised me that he would never let Agnes go. I scarcely believed him at the time. But, but then something happened, something recently, that made me change my mind.'

'Go on, Charlotte,' Cyril urged, 'tell them everything you know.'

Charlotte reluctantly began her explanation. 'When Agnes and I were in England, Derbyshire to be precise, George suddenly turned up, unannounced. Agnes assured me that his appearance was just a co-incidence, and that she would send him away. It took me several weeks to realise that she wouldn't. He accompanied us wherever we went.'

Michael groaned. 'This can't be. This isn't true.'

'They were inseparable most days, until we got to London. There they had a nasty quarrel, and George unexpectedly vanished. Agnes told me that she had finally sent him away, and that he had returned to Melbourne. She sulked for the next few weeks, and then insisted on cutting short our tour.'

'Mercy!' a distraught Louisa cried through stifled sobs. 'Oh, this is unbearable.' She dabbed at her swollen eyes with a now sodden handkerchief.

Meanwhile, a dazed Frances remained rooted to her seat. The morning's disgraceful revelations had had a heavy impact on her, and she was too stunned to say a word.

'I'm so sorry, Michael,' Charlotte said. 'I'm sorrier than you can imagine. I should have told you, but I couldn't betray Agnes's confidence.'

Michael lifted his tear-streaked face from his hands, and looked up at the assembled group before him. It was several moments before he could bring himself to speak. 'I had my own reservations about this marriage,' he conceded. 'I won't deny that I did. I verily believed that Agnes was too good for me, and that I wouldn't make her a good husband. But in spite of all this, I was still prepared to give up everything for that woman, everything I held dear.' At this remark, he looked directly at Frances. 'And for what? What did she leave me with? Nothing. Nothing at all. I have no wife, no brother, and as of now, I have no friends.' He ran a trembling hand through his hair. 'I trusted you all,' he added in a strangled voice, 'and you all betrayed me. At this moment, I don't know whose treachery was worse: those who were involved in the affair, those who concealed it from me, or those who persuaded me to go through with the wedding.' He met Frances's startled eyes. 'Don't follow me either,' he added, getting abruptly to his feet. 'I just want to be left alone.'

Before anyone could reply to this, he ripped open the carriage door, and jumped down onto the ground. After slamming the door behind him, he stalked away in the direction of the road. He had not taken two steps down the road, however, when William Wilby set upon him.

'Ah, there you are,' Mr Wilby said in a disturbingly jovial voice, for someone who had just conducted a memorial service, 'I've been looking for you everywhere. I am pleased to inform you that the church is now ready for your wedding.'

Michael kept walking at a brisk pace. He had just removed his necktie, and held it limply in his hands, along with his hat. 'There isn't going to be a wedding today, Mr Wilby,' he declared over his shoulder. 'It has been called off.' As if to re-iterate this statement, he tore off the rose from the lapel of his frock coat, and flung it onto the ground.

'Oh,' the clergyman replied, 'that is most unfortunate. I hope this isn't a result of the mix up in the arrangements?' Michael shook his head and kept walking. 'It's just that I've had time to consider the incident earlier this morning, and I now know why there was so much confusion with the booking. A young woman came to see me about two weeks ago. I was very busy at the time, but she insisted on speaking with me. She seemed distressed, so I invited her in for tea.'

A disconcerting thought crossed Michael's mind, and he stopped walking. 'What did she look like?'

'Very pretty, if I may be permitted to say so. Mid-twenties. Dark hair, refined face.' Mr Wilby adjusted his spectacles. 'She was wearing a very fine gold bracelet on her wrist, and I remember passing comment on its beauty. It had the letter 'A' engraved on it.'

Michael closed his eyes and drew a hand to his head. It was the bracelet Michael had given Agnes on her twenty-fifth birthday. When he eventually spoke, his voice was quavering with anger. 'And may I ask what the purpose of my fiancée's visit was? Why was she upset?'

'She told me that her future husband had been injured, and that consequently, the wedding had to be postponed. She thought the accident was a bad omen for her marriage, and she told me that she was having second thoughts about the union. After talking at length with her, I encouraged her to reschedule the ceremony, but she stressed that the date she had chosen was a tentative one only, and that she would confirm the arrangement closer to the day. It appears now that she never did. My clerk subsequently took the booking for the memorial service, and the rest is history, so to speak. I suppose you want to set another date?'

'Certainly not,' Michael replied in a biting tone. 'We will never marry.'

'Oh, I see. I'm sorry to hear it.' He allowed a few moments of respectful silence to pass. 'And your bride,' he added. 'Have you informed her that there will not be a wedding?'

'Oh yes,' Michael replied with a wry grin, 'she most certainly knows about this. In fact, it would appear that she knew about this long before I did.'

Michael's face was now mottled with anger, and without saying another word he shuffled off despondently, leaving the young man of the cloth speechless, his eyes wide open in astonishment.

### CHAPTER FIFTY

Bachelors and Spinsters

For the next few days, a cloud of almost funereal solemnity descended over both Rosewood and Wintersleigh, and during this time very little stirred within the confines of the walls. While the houses' occupants locked themselves away from public view, whispering servants stole tentatively around Wintersleigh, removing any reminders of the wedding that never was. Wedding presents, covered with a veil of elegant lace, were taken away and discreetly returned to their owners, the three-tiered wedding cake, surmounted by a decorative display of iced flowers, was hidden, and even the giant vases were emptied of their floral arrangements. In general, any item that displayed an inappropriate degree of colour or gaiety was removed with equal celerity.

And so ended the magnificent dream of a union between Miss Agnes Wentworth and Doctor Michael Brearly.

A union of some sorts did eventually take place between the two families, but the news of Agnes and George's wedding two weeks later in Melbourne was of no consolation to the families involved. If anything, the information heightened their anger and strengthened their resolve to never forgive Agnes and George's treacherous conduct.

Jack Maycroft's immediate welfare was also of major concern. George and Agnes had taken the child with them to Melbourne, just after Michael's ill-fated wedding, and given the dubious circumstances surrounding the child's disappearance, the families considered involving the police. After receiving legal advice, however, they changed their minds and decided to let the matter rest. Agnes Wentworth, now Agnes Brearly, had legal custody of the child, as stipulated in Thomas Maycroft's will, and no amount of police involvement could change that arrangement.

Louisa was so distressed by this last development that as soon as she could manage it, she hastened into town to alter her will, disinheriting her eldest daughter with a swift stroke of her pen. She then gathered together Agnes's few remaining possessions (whatever Agnes hadn't taken to Melbourne with her) and in less than an hour, her discarded belongings were distributed to either Charlotte or to manifold charities. But in spite of Louisa's suffering, she continued to live her life as though nothing had happened. She was at heart a proud woman, and she was desirous to show the world at large that nothing, not even the loss of her once favourite daughter, could induce her to change her lifestyle. After all, she had reasoned, Agnes had sinned, she had not. The doors to Wintersleigh were therefore thrown open to anyone who wanted to visit, and to Louisa's relief her acquaintances did not shun her. If anything, they rallied behind her, and lauded her courage and fortitude. Little did they know that Louisa cried herself to sleep every night.

As Louisa struggled to maintain her crumbling façade, a withdrawn Michael Brearly spent his days simply and quietly at Rosewood. For an entire fortnight after the aborted wedding, he read none of his mail, and refused to admit anyone into the house, including his patients and friends. All patients with booked appointments were referred to another local physician, and house calls were only made in emergencies. The doctor, it seemed, had become a recluse, and apart from his servants, no-one knew what he did and how he spent his time.

Frances was one of those people who were ignorant of his movements, though not through want of trying. She had attempted two visits to Rosewood House, but was turned away on both occasions, and the one letter she wrote to him a week after the wedding was never answered. While Frances understood the reasons behind the doctor's self-imposed exile, it in no way diminished the pain it caused her. In view of their burgeoning relationship, to be ignored and avoided in this manner was almost cruel.

It was now mid-April and almost a month had elapsed since the not-to-be wedding. Nothing much had changed in that time, except that autumn was running its course and the bronzed leaves had begun falling from the trees and piling up on the frosty ground. Louisa's façade was still in place, Frances was still residing at Riverview, and the relationship between Frances and Michael was almost as cool as the weather.

It was a bracing Wednesday morning and Frances had just endured a particularly trying session with Crispin Ballard in the schoolroom. He was restless and inattentive, and in no frame of mind to digest Frances's lesson on early French history. At one stage he inserted a pencil up his nose to see how far it would go, an action that almost required the services of a doctor. Once the pencil had been removed, an exasperated Frances called an end to the lesson, and sent him from the room. A short time later, from her vantage-point at the schoolroom window, Frances watched the happily liberated student and his grandfather drive away in one of the Ballard family's many carriages.

In Crispin's absence Frances wandered miserably downstairs, before eventually making her way into the shrubbery, a secluded spot where she was sure to find some peace and quiet. Despite the fact that it was cold outside and the ground was wet underfoot, she was content to rest on the garden seat, amidst a scattering of pastel coloured leaves. It was only when she sat down that she realised how tired she actually was, and leaning forward she drew her hands to her head and closed her eyes.

This period of repose, however, was short-lived. It wasn't long before the sound of footsteps startled her, and looking up, she discerned the figure of a woman occupying the path up ahead. It was Edwina Ballard, cradling a large basket of freshly picked flowers in her arms, a composition that included roses, daisies, sweet peas and foliage in various shades of green. Her multi-coloured spoils were in stark contrast to Edwina's drab gardening attire, a dowdy brown gown and a rather worn looking shawl that was draped inelegantly about her shoulders. Gardening, it seemed, was when Edwina was the happiest, and at this moment, she looked the picture of contentment. Her wrinkled cheeks were aglow from her morning exercise, and several strands of her wispy grey hair were hanging about her face. It was a far cry from the Edwina Ballard who swept regally about her house regaled in voluminous gowns and shimmering jewels. Frances preferred this mellow side to her employer, and she greeted Edwina with an engaging smile.

'My dear girl,' Edwina said, seating herself beside Frances, 'you look positively worn down. Has Crispin been misbehaving again?'

Frances toyed with a leaf that had just fluttered down upon her. 'No more than usual, Mrs Ballard.'

Edwina set her basket of flowers down on the ground and sighed. 'Oh dear,' she said, 'I thought as much.' She folded her hands on her lap and for some time said nothing. 'I do feel for you, Frances,' she eventually declared, 'I really do. Crispin is a dreadful boy and I don't know how you put up with him.' She turned her eyes upon Frances. 'I would understand perfectly if you wanted to leave me.'

Frances shrank back. 'What makes you think that I want to leave Riverview?'

Edwina met Frances's gaze freely. 'You are not happy here, Frances, I can see it in your face. I have seen it for quite some time now. You have been restless ever since that wedding nonsense in March.'

'I'm very grateful for this position, Mrs Ballard,' Frances tried to explain, 'and I—'

'It's not about gratitude,' Edwina interrupted rather briskly. 'I know the level of your appreciation. What is it, Frances?' she asked. 'What is the matter?'

Frances looked blank. 'I wish I knew,' she said, breaking pieces off the dried leaf.

Edwina sat further back on the seat. 'Perhaps you are worried about your aunt and how she is coping without Agnes. I have heard it from several sources that she is still struggling to come to terms with her daughter's absence. I considered visiting her yesterday, but after everything that has happened between us, I thought it best not to.'

Frances placed the remains of the leaf on the seat and cast Edwina Ballard a sideways glance. In the three months that she had spent living at Riverview she had never discovered the reason for the rift between the two women, and the prospect of finding out now heightened Frances's curiosity.

'I have never told anyone this before, Frances,' Edwina began slowly, 'but I feel certain that I can trust you. I am, after all, an old acquaintance of your mother's.' She gave Frances a friendly smile. 'You may perhaps be wondering why my relationship with your aunt is, at best, strained. Naturally, you are too polite to say so.' Frances said nothing. 'The fact is that we have barely spoken since an incident that occurred many years ago. Put simply, Harold Wentworth abandoned me at the altar, in favour of your aunt, Louisa Norwood. Louisa and I were best friends at the time.'

France gasped. 'Harold Wentworth!'

'Yes, the very man.' She rearranged the shawl about her shoulders. 'I will not go into details, but you must know the part that your dear father William played in the episode. Whilst he was courting a very pretty young lady by the name of Lucy Emerson, your mother of course, he discovered Harold's attachment with Louisa and tried to get Harold to leave her. Despite your father's best intentions, his actions did not result in a successful outcome. On the very morning of my wedding, Harold and Louisa ran away together and eloped. Just like your good friend Michael Brearly, I was the last to find out. Needless to say, that is when I ended my friendship with your aunt.'

'But she never told me! My aunt never said a word about it!'

'Well of course she didn't say anything, Frances. It is not something she would like to advertise to the world.' Frances fell into a reflective and troubled silence. 'Speaking of the doctor,' Edwina resumed, 'how is the poor man?'

Frances fixed her eyes to a recalcitrant bunch of sweet peas that were threatening to spill out over the sides of the basket. 'I don't know,' she replied coolly. 'He receives no visitors and he has answered none of my letters.'

'Do you blame him? In the space of a few months he has lost his brother, his fiancée, his nephew and his brother-in-law.'

'I realise the extent of his suffering, Mrs Ballard, but he wasn't the only one to be cruelly used.' The remembrance of George's behaviour on New Year's Eve returned to her, and she felt a warm flood of resentment surge through her veins. 'George Brearly treated me very badly, but I never once considered retreating into myself, and shunning the people I care about most.'

In the background meanwhile, the parlour maid had just led two visitors into the shrubbery, and while the guests waited for a pause in Frances and Edwina's conversation, to acknowledge their presence, they stood patiently behind Frances. Edwina spotted the visitors right away and rose to her feet to greet them, but Frances was still oblivious to the newcomers' existence, and continued talking. Not even Edwina's whispered warnings were enough to get Frances's attention.

'I have gone out of my way to accommodate Michael,' Frances explained, 'but enough is enough. There is only so much I can do. If he doesn't wish to communicate with me, then so be it. I only wish he would be man enough to see me face-to-face, to tell me as much.'

Frances would have continued speaking had Edwina not tapped her on the arm and alerted her to the fact that they had visitors. 'Look, Frances,' Edwina was saying in an uncharacteristically loud voice, 'look who has come to visit you.' She accompanied her words with expressive eye movements.

Frances followed the direction of her employer's eyes and slowly turned around. To her surprise, Louisa and Michael were standing there before her.

### CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

Love Thy Neighbour

Before Frances could greet her newly arrived guests, a tearful Louisa lurched towards her with open arms. 'Oh, Frances!' she ventured, encircling Frances with firm, yet loving arms, 'I cannot tell you how exceedingly good it is to see you again!'

Frances surrendered to her aunt's embrace, but over Louisa's shoulder she gave Edwina and Michael puzzled looks. 'Likewise, Aunt Wentworth,' she answered in a voice muffled by her aunt's hair.

Louisa soon relinquished her hold on Frances and stepped back several paces to where Michael was standing. 'My dear girl,' she resumed, 'my dear, dear niece.' She extracted a handkerchief from one of the sleeves in her gown and began to dab at her eyes.

Despite Frances's growing confusion, she was able to make an answer. 'What's wrong, Aunt? Is something the matter?'

'The matter? No, my dear, not at all.' She sniffed loudly and turned obliquely to Michael. He smiled at her reassuringly and she continued. 'It seems that I owe you both an apology, and heartfelt gratitude.'

Frances was curious. 'You do? What for?'

'I do not want to go into specifics, Frances. Heaven knows I have spent the last few months or so dredging up the past. It doesn't help in the least. Suffice to say that Charlotte has told me everything. I now know the real reason why you left Wintersleigh, and why you couldn't explain your actions to me. Agnes had told me earlier that you left because you were trying to get away from George Brearly. I believed her of course and didn't give it a second thought. Now I realise that you were acting in Michael and Agnes's best interests. By putting everyone's interests before your own, you acted nobly and selflessly. For that I sincerely thank you.'

Frances resisted the temptation to grin. 'It was nothing, Aunt. Really, there's no need for you to thank me.'

'Stuff and nonsense,' Louisa retorted. 'Now,' she added, turning to face Edwina Ballard, 'while I am in the process of making apologies, no easy thing for me to do these days, I want to offer you an apology, Edwina.'

Edwina, who until this moment had been mute in the background, diffidently stepped forward. 'Yes, Louisa?' she said, tightening her grip on her basket of flowers.

To Frances's surprise, Louisa's proud face reddened, and she had difficulty meeting Edwina's eyes. 'There is no easy way for me to say this, Edwina, so, so I will just come out with it. This whole episode with Agnes, whilst it has been heartbreaking for Doctor Brearly and me, has served as a painful reminder of what Harold and I did to you all those years ago.' Tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes. 'Until recently, I never really understood all the pain and suffering I caused you. I am exceedingly ashamed of what I did.' She retrieved her handkerchief again and blew her nose loudly. 'We were friends until that point, and in one foul swoop, I ruined it. I ruined everything. In gaining a husband, I lost the best friend I ever had. I am so sorry, Edwina. So very, very sorry.' At this point she burst into tears.

Frances had not seen her aunt cry before and she was momentarily unsure of how she should react or behave. For a fleeting moment she rejoiced at seeing her aunt exposed and vulnerable, but spitefulness was not in Frances's nature, and the sensation vanished as quickly as it had surfaced. A new and more powerful feeling rose up from within Frances, and she realised with no small degree of surprise, that she loved her aunt, in spite of all her weaknesses. This new awareness compelled Frances to act, but before she could take one step towards her aunt, Edwina Ballard herself surged forward, dropped the basket of flowers at her feet and gathered Louisa in her arms.

'Oh, Louisa,' she murmured, 'please do not cry.' She was also overcome with emotion, and for a brief moment, it seemed that she too would burst into tears. 'I forgive you,' she gasped through quivering lips. 'How could I not? I forgave you years ago.'

Louisa slowly lifted up her head and regarded Edwina with a questioning look. 'You did?'

'Of course I did.'

Louisa subsided into her friend's arms with an overwhelming sense of relief. Edwina tightened her grip on Louisa, and for some time they clung to each other. Gradually, they grew aware of their surroundings, and realised with some embarrassment that they had onlookers. After relinquishing their hold of one another, they turned to face Frances and Michael, who, in turn, were watching them. Louisa and Edwina exchanged glances, and they both erupted into laughter.

'Oh, my dears,' Louisa cried, 'don't you mind us. We are just two silly old women.'

'Speaking of silliness,' Edwina replied, 'why are we standing outside in the cold? Let us go inside and get a hot cup of tea. I might even have some scones, if you are lucky. That is if Crispin has not eaten them all.'

Frances smiled her reply to Edwina Ballard's suggestion, but the scowl on Michael's face proclaimed to all and sundry that he wished to remain where he was.

'Come on, Edwina,' Louisa said. 'You and I will organise the tea, and Frances and Michael can come in later when they are ready.' She threw Edwina an expressive look.

Edwina retrieved her basket of flowers. 'That sounds like a very good idea, Louisa. It will also give me an opportunity to fix myself up. I feel positively frightful in these clothes.' She transferred her gaze to Michael and Frances. 'Now, you two, mind you do not stay outside for too long. I do not like the look of those clouds over there.' She then linked arms with Louisa and the two women receded down the garden path.

Once the women's figures grew indistinct, Michael spoke. 'Was that your aunt,' he asked good- humouredly, 'or a woman in disguise?'

'Why do you ask?'

'I've never seen that side to Louisa before. It suited her immensely.'

Frances hesitated. 'I'm sorry for what I said before, Michael,' she suddenly blurted out. 'I got a little bit carried away. I had no right to say what I said.'

Michael turned sharply towards her. 'Are you genuinely sorry for what you said, or are you sorry that I overheard you?'

'Both.'

A strange light came into Michael's eyes. 'I don't blame you in the least for what you said earlier. After all, it was the truth. I wasn't the only one George treated badly. You were also right about me shunning the people I care about most.' He met her eyes. 'I just couldn't face seeing you. Not then, anyway.'

'And now you're here. What has changed?'

'Everything, Frances. My whole life.' All at once his face softened. 'I have so much to tell you, I don't know where to start.'

'Let's take a walk then and you can tell me all about it.'

Michael agreed, and without saying another word, they set off together down the path that led to the fernery. It was only a short walk, but by the time they reached the misty green folds of fern, their cheeks were red and they were breathing out little clouds of vapour. They came to a standstill at the edge of a stream, and in companionable silence they sat themselves down on one of the large fern borders. Around them the wind jostled the canopy of leaves, and the flowing water near their feet burbled away over pebbles and moss covered rocks. It was several minutes at least before either of them spoke.

'It's so beautiful here,' Michael murmured. 'It's like another world.' He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep, steady breath.

'I come here to get away from Crispin, so as you can perhaps appreciate, I know every conceivable detail of this place.'

Michael chuckled. 'I could get used to this. Spending time with you, I mean.' He turned towards her and looked lovingly into her eyes.

Frances snuggled closer to him. 'I suppose I could put up with it too, if I had to.'

Michael nudged her playfully, but said nothing immediately. 'I hate to spoil this moment, Frances, but I'm aware that we don't have much time left. I have these dreadful images of Louisa ploughing her way through these ferns, just to tell us that the scones are ready.'

'Well, what are you waiting for then?' Frances asked cheekily. 'You'd better get on with it.'

Michael took another deep breath. 'To tell you the truth, I'm not sure where to begin. I feel certain that I am about to shock you, whatever I say.' Frances remained silent, but urged him to continue with her eyes. 'After a great deal of consideration, Frances, I have decided to give up practising medicine.'

'Good heavens!' she cried. 'Are you in earnest?' She studied him with penetrating eyes.

'I most certainly am. It has taken me years to come to this realisation, but I now know that I entered the profession for all the wrong reasons, namely to impress my late father. I've never enjoyed what I do, and quite frankly, I'm tired of being around sick people. I've spent six years putting my patients' welfare first, often at my own expense, but enough is enough. I can't do it anymore.' He crossed his arms over his chest. 'I have made all the necessary preparations for my retirement.'

'But what about your work? What will you do as a career?'

'I have no idea,' Michael said. 'Isn't that novel? I have no idea at all. I might return to university, but then again, I might not. I just don't know.'

A perplexed Frances continued to stare at him. 'And that doesn't worry you?'

'No. Why would it? When my parents died some years ago I inherited Rosewood. By the time I was twenty-six I had my own home and career and my expenses were minimal. I've saved a great deal over the years, enough for me to be self-sufficient for the present. Actually, speaking of Rosewood,' he added slowly, 'that leads me to my next point.'

The caution in Michael's voice made Frances stiffen. 'What about Rosewood?' she asked.

'I've just put Rosewood on the market and I'm looking to buy a smaller house closer to town.'

'But why, Michael, why? Rosewood is such a dear old house. What on earth would compel you to leave it?'

'Bad memories, I suppose you could say. I want to make a clean start as soon as possible.'

Frances considered his words. 'I can see your point, but it all seems quite sudden. I scarcely know what to think.'

'Then why don't you consider helping me find another house,' Michael suddenly suggested.

'Me? Oh heavens no, I know nothing about all of that. Why don't you ask my aunt? She's very experienced with all that sort of thing.'

'But I don't want to ask Louisa,' Michael said, lowering his voice, 'I want you to be there when the decision is made.'

'Why?'

Michael paused, then gathered up Frances's hands in his. 'Because I want to marry you, Frances.'

Frances almost fell from the fern edging she was sitting on. 'Marry you?' she repeated mechanically. 'Oh dear.' She looked confusedly about her. 'You cannot be serious.' She pulled her hand away from Michael's, and seeing the look of earnestness in his face, she rose hastily to her feet. The abruptness of his declaration had taken her so much by surprise, that if she hadn't clutched a nearby tree trunk when she did, she felt sure she would have fainted away.

'Of course I'm serious,' Michael replied, getting to his feet and standing beside her. 'I've never been more serious in my life. Why do you always question my resolve?'

'Because, because this is all so sudden,' she said, fumbling for words. 'Not that long ago you were on the verge of marrying Agnes. Now you have abandoned medicine, relinquished Rosewood and are about to compound the mistake by asking me to be your wife.'

'I love you, Frances,' Michael declared, almost in a whisper. 'How can that be a mistake?' He paused for an answer, but she made him none. 'It can only be a mistake if you do not return my love.' He looked desperately into her eyes, as if searching for an answer in them. Frances said nothing. 'Say something,' he urged. 'Please say something, anything.'

'I, I can't,' was all Frances could manage.

'What do you mean by that? Do you mean that you can't say something, or that you can't marry me?'

To Frances, the prospect of marrying Michael Brearly had always been intangible, like a ghost or a dream; a possibility, but nothing more. With that in mind, she had never seriously entertained the idea, and had certainly never prepared herself for the eventuality of a marriage proposal. Now that the dream had become reality, Frances was emotionally unprepared, not to mention frightened and overwhelmed.

'I can't,' she heard herself whisper, and before Michael could grab hold of her, she fled from the garden into the safety of the house, passing the astounded Edwina and Louisa on the way.

Michael remained beside the creek for another few minutes, but when Frances failed to return, he found himself returning miserably to the house. Louisa and Edwina soon accosted him at the door and when they asked him what was wrong with Frances, and whether she would be coming down for tea and scones, he found that he could barely speak through his grief.

'Please don't ask me about Frances's intentions,' he croaked. 'As for myself, I'm afraid that I must leave at once.'

'Oh my poor dear,' Louisa lamented, 'what is it? What has happened?'

'I wish I could tell you, Louisa, but I can't. In fact, to be perfectly candid, I think I've said too much already.'

### CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

Some sound advice

A week had elapsed since the ill-fated wedding proposal, and in that time the couple had not met again, nor had the matter of the proposal been resolved. On several occasions Frances tried to visit Michael to offer him an explanation of her conduct on that morning, but every time she attempted the visit, a last minute loss of courage sent her homeward. The longer Frances left the explanation, the more difficult it became for her. She was painfully aware that it was her turn to make the next step, but at the same time she did not trust herself to do it.

On the eighth day of deliberation, Frances resolved to pay Michael a visit at Charlotte and Cyril's modest house in South Hobart. Michael had offered to assist Cyril in the redecoration of the upstairs apartments, and for convenience sake had occupied one of the spare rooms for the past few days. Michael's presence at the Beckett's house struck Frances as being particularly advantageous, for if Frances lost her nerve at the last minute and couldn't face Michael, she could always pretend that she had gone there expressly to visit her cousin Charlotte.

The next morning, after a sleepless night, Frances climbed onto her bicycle and set off towards her cousin's house. Since moving to Riverview, she had cycled frequently around New Town and through adjoining areas, and apart from receiving the occasional strange look, she had not encountered further abuse. Female cyclists were still a rare sight in Hobart, but Frances revelled in being different from the crowd, and secretly hoped that other women would follow her example.

As Frances cycled past the drawing room window she inadvertently caught a glimpse of Edwina Ballard and her Aunt Wentworth standing together by the French window, drinking tea. Both women acknowledged her presence with a hearty wave. Frances was thrilled to see the old friends reunited, and fervently wished that time would restore their friendship to the degree of intimacy they had shared before Harold Wentworth had come between them. Fortunately for Frances the two older women didn't seem to notice that she was wearing a skirt modified for cycling. Frances had made the adjustments herself, and not only was the skirt shorter than usual, but it had a flat bon pleat at the back, with an arrangement of cords that enabled Frances to close the skirt after she had mounted the bicycle. The outfit wasn't as comfortable or as safe as the bifurcated garments she wore in Melbourne, but it was less conspicuous than bloomers.

Frances reached Charlotte's house just before morning tea, and discovered her cousin almost immediately, doing some weeding in the front garden. Charlotte's face lit up when she saw Frances, and dropping her trowel and bucket of weeds, hurried forward to meet her. By this time Frances had dismounted her bike, and had rested it against a nearby trellis which was covered with climbing roses. After hugging each other, the two young women entered the house.

'Oh, Frances,' Charlotte began, once they were inside, 'it's so wonderful to see you again, even if you are wearing that queer looking skirt. What does Mrs Ballard say when she sees you wearing it? I'm surprised she doesn't give you a lecture on femininity. But enough about that. I have something very particular to tell you.' She smiled, and after untying her gardening apron, placed it on a table beside them. 'Let's go into the drawing room and I can tell you all about it.'

Frances was in two minds. 'Forgive me if this sounds rude, Charlotte, but will there be anyone else in the drawing room?' She looked about the room. 'Cyril for instance. Where is he?'

'No, no. Cyril is in his room, writing his sermon. We will be all alone.'

Frances's face relaxed into a smile, and without replying she followed her cousin down the potpourri scented corridor, and into the drawing room, where they sat together on the sofa. 'So, what is this news?' Frances asked conversationally. 'It sounds exciting, whatever it is. You haven't decided to become a university student, like me?' She watched her cousin hopefully.

Charlotte shook her head sadly. 'I'm afraid not, no. From what the doctor has just told me, it seems that you will have to go by yourself.'

'The doctor?' Frances echoed. 'My dear cousin. What is it? Are you ill?'

'On the contrary,' Charlotte replied, her face beaming with joy. 'I'm expecting.' To emphasise her words, she placed a hand on her stomach.

'Oh, Charlotte!' Frances breathed. 'Congratulations! What wonderful news!' She gathered up Charlotte's hands and pressed them to her lips. 'What does Cyril say to all this? Is he pleased?'

Charlotte hesitated. 'I haven't told him yet. I'm waiting until he has finished composing his latest sermon. Ironically, it's about the value of families.' She lowered her voice. 'Needless to say that he has been influenced by Agnes's and George's actions in March. He also fears that Jack's new parents will soon tire of him, and that they will send him back to Hobart, for someone else to look after. Unlike Cyril, I have no worries on that score. I know that Jack will be loved and well provided for. Agnes and George genuinely love that child, and I know that they wouldn't relinquish him for the world.'

'Oh that is a pity about Cyril,' Frances ventured, not willing to discuss the treacherous George and Agnes. 'Still, I'm sure you'll have ample opportunity to tell him later.' Frances regarded her cousin with increasing affection. 'So, when did you find out about all of this, and who else knows about it? What did my Aunt Wentworth say when she heard the news? When is the little one due?'

'Oh, Frances!' Charlotte laughed. 'So many questions! I hardly know where to begin.' She paused briefly and rearranged her skirts that fell around her on the floor. 'If all goes well, and I'm praying that it will, the child will be born in October. As for the other question, you're the only person who knows about this, except for Doctor Brearly, rather Michael Brearly. I keep forgetting that he has dispensed with his title.'

The unexpected mention of Michael's name made Frances freeze, and without knowing it, she tightened her grip on her cousin's hands. 'Michael knows about this?' she asked. No sooner had she asked this question, she began to look fretfully about her.

'It's all right, Frances, Michael's not here. He has been out all morning looking at houses, and I'm not expecting him to return until after lunch.'

For a few moments Frances didn't quite know where to look. 'Oh, of course,' she said, transferring her distracted gaze around the room, 'I should have known that he'd be out looking for somewhere else to live.' She let her eyes linger on the nearby mantelpiece that was cluttered with innumerable religious figures. The austerity and oppressiveness of the room suddenly struck her, and she quickly got to her feet. She then walked over to a window that framed an impressive, yet distant view of the Derwent River. 'What a lovely view you have,' she heard herself say. 'If I were you, I'd spend all my days in front of this window.'

'Oh, Frances,' Charlotte said. 'How good you are at changing the subject! One second we were discussing Michael Brearly, and in the next moment you started discussing the view. How transparent you are!'

Frances looked stupefied. 'What do you mean? What are you saying?'

Charlotte smiled, and getting to her feet, joined Frances at the window. Her face was soon chased with light. 'I know this is none of my business, but since we're alone together, I must say something.' She faltered for a brief moment. 'Michael told me about the wedding proposal, and I must say that I'm disappointed you rejected him.'

Frances's mouth dropped open in astonishment. 'He told you?'

'He didn't want to,' Charlotte explained consolingly, 'but I forced it out of him at any rate. Ever since that debacle in March, I vowed never again to stand back and watch everything unfold before me. If only you knew how plagued with guilt I feel! I knew that George and Agnes's attachment was strong, and I should have said something about it to Michael and Mama. Perhaps if I had spoken out earlier, the whole wedding disaster could have been averted.'

'My dear Charlotte,' Frances cut in, 'you cannot blame yourself for what happened. Agnes entrusted you to keep her secret, and that is exactly what you did. You have nothing to reproach yourself for. Agnes and George are entirely to blame for what happened. They should never have put you in such a difficult position.'

'I appreciate what you're saying,' Charlotte hastened to reply, 'but I should have said something. How tired I am of secrecy and falseness.' Charlotte straightened her back resolutely, and rested both her hands on the window sill. 'That is why I encouraged Michael's confession. I simply refuse to stand by and watch two people I care about, make a terrible mistake.'

'I don't know exactly what Michael told you,' Frances began defensively, 'but I didn't refuse his hand in marriage.'

'Oh, that is good news!'

'But, by the same token, I didn't accept him either.'

'I see. What happened then?'

Frances deliberated. 'It's hard to say. One minute we were talking outside in the shrubbery, and in the next minute I was in tears, running blindly back to the house. I haven't been able to think straight since that morning. I can't sleep. I can't eat. Even Crispin asked me the other day what I had been doing to myself. He said I looked perfectly horrid.'

'Then talk to Michael.'

'But what am I supposed to say to him?'

Charlotte smiled sadly. 'That is all up to you. I'm afraid I can't help you there. 'Fancy!' Charlotte exclaimed, 'I've just had a thought!' She hurriedly crossed the room to a nearby coffee table, and picked up a piece of paper that was on it. 'This here is the list of properties that Michael is inspecting this morning and later this afternoon. He wrote them down in case Cyril and I needed to look for him. According to this list, all the properties are located this side of the river, and the one he's inspecting at noon is only a few blocks away. Why don't you ride over to the house and visit him? If the time is right to say something, say it. If not, you can say nothing about the proposal, and just offer him advice about the house. Either way, he'll know that you care. What do you say?'

Frances began chewing her lip thoughtfully. 'It's a tempting plan.'

'Go on,' Charlotte coaxed, thrusting the list of properties into her cousin's hands. 'Help Michael find a house, before Cyril's brain begins to turn!'

Frances tried in vain to check a smile. 'Am I to understand that Michael has already outstayed his welcome?'

'I'm saying nothing that will incriminate him.'

'Point taken, Charlotte. It seems that I must pay your lodger an immediate visit. For Cyril's sake, I shall encourage Michael to buy the first house he sees.'

Charlotte chuckled. 'Oh really, Frances, there's no need for you to be quite so obliging. I will be just as satisfied to hear that the two of you have had an opportunity to talk. Explain to him why you have reservations about marrying him. I will respect you whatever you decide to do,' she added affectionately.

Frances sighed loudly. 'Yes,' she murmured, 'you will respect me regardless of the decision I make, but will I?'

### CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

Hill Street

Charlotte was right. The property that Michael was due to inspect at noon was only a few blocks away from Charlotte and Cyril's house, but while the distance to the house was short, the terrain was rather steep, and by the time Frances arrived at her destination, her face was scarlet from over exertion, and she was breathing sporadically in hard gasps.

Michael, meanwhile, was dressed formally in his best clothes and was standing on the front steps of the house, shaking the real estate agent's hand. Michael didn't see Frances straight away, but once he saw her dismounting her bicycle, his face dropped, and he hurried over to her.

'Good heavens, Frances!' he cried, evidently startled by her almost wild appearance, 'what is it? What is wrong?' He took hold of the bicycle and wheeled it up the path to where the bemused agent was now standing.

'It's nothing, Michael,' Frances assured him, 'nothing at all.' She began self-consciously smoothing down her crumpled bicycle skirt. 'I've just had an interesting experience cycling up this street. Not only was it steep, but several bystanders made some nasty comments about my attire.'

Michael grinned. 'Well, that will serve you right for being a radical, and for not making use of Charlotte's carriage.'

Frances narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. 'How did you know I was at Charlotte's?'

Michael made no reply, but his beaming face seemed to answer for him. 'Mr Rogers,' he said, turning towards the middle-aged agent from Rogers and Son's Real Estate, 'please forgive me for detaining you. I know how precious your time is. Allow me to introduce Miss Frances Norwood to you. Frances is my, my...' He paused and looked questioningly at Frances.

'Cousin,' Frances professed. 'I'm Michael's cousin.'

Michael smiled his approval, before introducing Frances to the agent. Once the formality of the introductions was over, Frances began to appraise Michael's potential new house. Her first impression was that the garden was in a state of disarray, but not beyond help, and the cobbled path leading to the front door was damaged, and would eventually need replacing. As for the building itself, it was a double-storey sandstone house with sweeping cast-iron verandahs on both levels, an ivy covered portico that arched impressively over the front door, and two nondescript chimneys protruding from the roof. The house was at least half the size of Rosewood, Frances considered, but it struck Frances at that moment how similar the two houses were in appearance.

'I can see why you like this house,' Frances murmured to Michael, as she accompanied the two men into the house. 'It looks remarkably like Rosewood.'

'Does it?' Michael replied. 'It never once crossed my mind.' He started laughing.

Frances turned towards Michael and realised with surprise that she had never seen him so happy before. She was tempted to remark on it, but she didn't want to spoil the moment, and ended up saying nothing at all.

'And this here is the drawing room,' Mr Rogers was saying haughtily in the background. 'You may notice that this room has recently been re-decorated. The floral wallpaper was ordered from London.'

Frances drew Michael towards her. 'It's hideous,' she whispered. 'What do you think?'

'My sentiments exactly. It'll definitely have to go.'

Despite Mr Rogers' age, his hearing was still sound, and the young couple's comments did not amuse him. 'Shall I continue,' he asked rather petulantly, 'or would you prefer to look around the house by yourselves?' Michael chose the latter option. 'Very well then,' the agent replied, 'I shall be waiting outside if you need to ask me any questions.' He withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.

'Oh thank heavens for that,' Michael remarked. 'Mr Rogers was beginning to sound like Thomas Maycroft at Port Arthur. Rest his soul.'

After exchanging meaningful smiles, Frances and Michael meandered through every ground floor room, discussing almost every feature of the vacant rooms as they went. Eventually they reached the staircase, and as they climbed the stairs together, they lapsed into a comfortable, yet short-lived silence.

'I don't think Mr Rogers believed that story of yours about us being cousins, do you?' Michael asked.

'Not for a second. Still, it was amusing just the same.'

'Yes, it was amusing, but in all seriousness, Frances, how am I to introduce you in the future? Do I simply introduce you as my friend?' Michael faltered briefly at the top of the steps to catch his breath.

'Ah, yes, I was wondering when you would bring that topic up.'

'I assume that's why you came here.'

'Of course. I owe you an explanation for my conduct.'

'It's all right,' Michael assured her, 'there's no need to explain.' He walked down the corridor towards the first open door on the left. 'You don't want to marry me,' he said, poking his head through the open doorway and inspecting the well proportioned room. 'End of story. I understand perfectly.'

'It's not that,' Frances said, following his lead and surveying the Etruscan red walls within. 'I never said that I didn't want to marry you. As I recall, I said that I couldn't. There's a material difference, you know.'

Michael glanced up at the ceiling and noticed that there were several cracks in the decorative cornice. He then turned his head towards Frances. 'And why can't you marry me?'

'I consider myself a very independent woman.'

'You are indeed,' Michael acknowledged with an admiring gaze.

'Well how can I be married and be independent at the same time?'

'I suppose that depends on what you want to do. I understand that you want to study next year.'

'Most definitely.'

'Well, that's all right. I wouldn't prevent you from going to university. In fact, if anything, I'd encourage it.'

Frances stood transfixed just inside the doorway. 'You would?'

'Of course. I think it's a capital idea. As it happens, I'm thinking of studying next year too. Just think, Frances, we could study together.' His voice echoed as he receded further into the depths of the room. 'You could carry my books around for me.'

'Then if that's the case, my cartage fees are very competitive.'

Michael exploded into laughter. 'Forgive me for making sport of you. I feel so ridiculously happy at present that I can take nothing seriously.' His voice appeared to be getting further away. 'So,' he shouted out, 'what else is on your mind? What are your other reservations?'

'I don't want to ruin our friendship.'

After a pause of some duration, Michael moved towards Frances. In another moment he was standing before her. 'I think you already know the answer to that question.' He sighed. 'What is this really all about?' he asked her earnestly. 'What are you afraid of?'

'Everything.'

'And that's perfectly understandable. I feel the same.'

'All right then,' Frances replied, exhaling her feelings of frustration, 'this one relates to my aunt and disparaging comments that I have made to her regarding the institution of marriage.'

'I think I know where you're going with this line of thought,' Michael ventured. 'You think your aunt will label you a hypocrite if you decide to marry me.' Frances nodded. 'Do you know something, Frances,' Michael began to explain, 'I've realised over the past few months that I've spent my entire life worrying about what people thought of me, and in particular, what they expected from me. I realise now that it was a waste of time. Provided it doesn't hurt anyone else, do what makes you happy.'

Frances was yet again reminded of her mother's pre- Christmas engagement. It was now the last week of April and she still hadn't forgiven her mother for deciding to re-marry. 'It would seem that my mother shares your new philosophy. She became engaged not long after I left Melbourne.'

'Well I'll be bound! What joyous news!' Michael soon hesitated after seeing Frances's expressionless face through the rich gloom of the chamber. 'It is good news, isn't it?' he added with less confidence.

'For her I suppose, but not for me. I don't think much of the man she is about to marry. He's a young divorcee.'

Michael considered Frances's words carefully before replying. 'I can see why that would be upsetting to you, but you're not the one who is marrying him.' He deliberated. 'Does this man make your mother happy?' Frances nodded. 'And do you want her to be happy?'

'Of course.'

'Then where is the problem?'

Frances fixed her eyes on an ornate fireplace that was nestled into the wall on the other side of the room. 'I, I don't know,' she stammered. 'It's awkward. I haven't had the courage to write to my mother in months.'

'Forgive me for being frank, but I must speak my mind. Cherish your mother while she's still alive, because one day she might not be there. If I were you I'd make peace with her as soon as you can. If that means telling her how you feel, then do it. But tread lightly. Don't be too harsh on her for what she did. If you ask me, I think she was brave for taking such steps to secure her happiness. If she stood around waiting for people's permission, she probably would never have received it.'

'Well, at least not from me.'

'My point entirely.'

For the first time in the conversation Frances smiled. She hated to admit it, but Michael was right. In the whole scheme of things, what did it really matter if her mother remarried? Her new step-father wasn't abusive, mean-spirited or selfish, and it was obvious to all who knew him that he was quite besotted with her mother, a feeling clearly reciprocated.

'I assume from that look on your face that you agree with me.'

'I'm still thinking about it,' she lied. In her mind, however, she was already drafting the contents of an apology letter to her mother. She could barely wait to put pen to paper.

'Very well. I'll say no more. As for our earlier conversation, you were explaining to me why you couldn't marry me.'

Frances sighed. 'I can hardly remember what I said now, although I've always been worried about having to submit to my husband.'

'Submit?' Michael repeated. 'Do you really think that marriage is about submission?' Frances nodded. 'It's true that one has to make sacrifices and allowances for each other in marriage,' he said, trying to choose his words carefully, 'but I'd hardly use the word submission.' Michael looked thoughtful for a moment. 'We'd both have to give up certain freedoms. It wouldn't be just you.' He began to appear out of spirits. 'I didn't realise that your perception of married life was such a negative one. You obviously see it as some sort of prison. As for me, I see marriage as a partnership that provides love, companionship and support throughout the course of a lifetime. I see nothing negative in that.'

Despite the gravity of the conversation they were having, Michael and Frances moved away together towards the large gleaming window that was bordered by a translucent stained glass motif. As Frances stood in the foreground of the window, admiring the distant river view, she was comfortably drenched in Autumnal light.

'Oh, look at this view!' she cried, gazing dreamily at the world beyond the glass confines.

Michael regarded her with a smile. 'You are an odd one,' he said, following her example and inspecting the view. 'Still, I'm rather fond of you, all the same,' he added, his eyes twinkling with affection.

'And I'm quite fond of you too. In fact, if I were really honest with myself, Michael, I love you. Not that you deserve my affection,' Frances added hurriedly. She sat herself down on the window seat that was built into the recess of the window. 'You've treated me badly over the past month, and I can't help feeling that you only proposed to me because it didn't work out with Agnes.'

Michael followed suit and sat down. 'If you think that you're some sort of consolation prize, Frances, then you're absolutely wrong. I've known for a long time that Agnes and I were ill-suited. Like two left shoes, I suppose.'

Frances took up Michael's hand and squeezed it. 'It's all right, Michael,' she said, 'I was only teasing you.' She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it lovingly. With Michael's hand still in hers she then rested her head against the window and watched the progress of a boat as it coasted along the sun-dappled river. 'How beautiful this room is! If I owned this house, I would undoubtedly make this my bedroom or my study.'

'Well then,' Michael said, tightening his grip on Frances's hand, 'it's a pity that you shan't be living here with me, isn't it?'

Frances watched Michael with increasing tenderness. 'All right, all right. I can see I'm going to have to give in. But before you get too excited, I want you to promise me three things.'

The glimmer of hope in Michael's heart began to shine with more intensity. He could barely contain his elation. 'All right then,' he began, 'I promise I'll never ask you to carry my books for me.'

'That's a good start, but not quite what I had in mind. My thoughts were more directed towards cats. I'd like at least two more.'

'Done. The more the merrier.'

'Also, I don't want to marry just yet. I need more time to myself.'

'Good. I have a distinct aversion to churches at the moment.'

Frances grinned. 'And last of all, I would like to use this room as my personal study.' She looked at Michael expectantly.

'Ooh you strike a hard bargain,' he said, in a playfully severe voice, 'but I suppose I must give in. I don't want our relationship to end over this room.' Having said this, he leant towards Frances and tucked a golden coil of hair behind her ear. His hand then faltered, and at that moment their eyes met. 'I love you, Frances Norwood,' he murmured tenderly. 'I love you.'

Frances said nothing, but her eyes, full of love, seemed to answer for her. This look gave Michael all the encouragement he needed, and he took Frances's face between his hands and gently drew her towards him. As their lips touched, Frances closed her eyes. The feeling of Michael's warm mouth on hers soon filled Frances with strange new sensations, sensations she had never felt with George, and she moved closer to him.

It was only when Mr Rogers cleared his throat from the doorway that the couple realised they were not alone. They hastily drew back from each other and looked up at their intruder with guilty, yet self-satisfied, smiles.

'Forgive me for disturbing you and your cousin, Mr Brearly,' Mr Rogers ventured, looking a little startled, 'but another gentleman has just arrived and would like to inspect the property. What shall I tell him?'

Michael and Frances exchanged quick glances.

'Tell him,' Michael began, 'tell him that he is too late.'

The agent raised both eyebrows. 'You wish to take the house?'

Michael turned towards Frances, and seeing her nod of approval, returned his attention to the agent. 'No,' Michael answered. 'My fiancée and I will take it.' He turned to Frances and smiled.

The agent looked considerably relieved. 'That is very good news indeed. And now that the decision has been made, would you both like to join me downstairs? I will need this decision in writing.'

'Of course,' Michael said eagerly. 'The sooner this is finalised, the better.' He followed the agent to the door, but faltered when he realised that Frances hadn't moved. 'What is it, Frances? Are you not coming?'

'Not right away, no. I just want a few moments to myself, that's all.' She smiled reassuringly. 'Don't let me stop you though. I'll be down soon.'

Michael nodded and almost bounded out of the room, leaving Frances alone in the peaceful solitude of the room. After a slight tussle with the window, Frances managed to get it opened, and the light breeze, imbued with sea salt, filled her nostrils. She sighed contentedly. It was now late April and nearly five months had passed since she had arrived in Hobart. The recollection of those months brought a bittersweet smile to her lips, particularly the memory of her first night at Wintersleigh, when she had stared into the black vacuum of night from the open balcony door of her bed-chamber. Back then her future had been uncertain, but five months on, she had found her direction. As she looked out the window towards the river and distant verdure of the eastern shore, she realised with excitement that there was no limit to what her eyes could now see.

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