Александр Суворов. Сергей Тимофеевич Григорьев
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air of exotic lushness in the semi-desert. As they neared the impressive gold-tipped black wrought-iron gate, flanked by huge date palms, it suddenly parted in the middle, and each half slowly pulled back to the side as Jeff operated the controls.
They were inside the Trevelyan desert fortress at last!
It was a fantasy land of its kind, Genevieve thought. So isolated. If one wanted to leave one couldn’t simply jump in a car and drive off in a big hurry. By air was really the only way out. In the past, tourists not sufficiently respectful of the dangers of this desert heartland had come to grief—some dying, others mercifully saved by land or aerial surveillance.
Genevieve looked about her with intense concentration, storing up everything for the future. That was what made her a writer. She had studied various photographs of Djangala Station in large coffee table books featuring many of the country’s finest properties. The photographs didn’t do the homestead justice. Nor could the photographs convey how utterly bizarre it was to come upon such a mansion set in the middle of nowhere. But then she remembered the homestead had had as much importance to early settlers as the castle to an English lord. A homestead was any rural dwelling, but Djangala was the homestead of the “landed aristocracy”—the great pioneering families who, regardless of where they settled to make their fortunes, built houses of long-term permanence to proclaim their success.
Djangala wasn’t the traditional kind of Georgian house “gentleman squatters” in Tasmania, New South Wales, and Victoria had built in memory of the Old Country, the place of their birth. Djangala homestead, a twenty-room mansion, had a decidedly Spanish look. How intriguing! Maybe Richard Trevelyan, who had built it, had taken the Grand Tour of Europe and retained an image of the sort of house he wanted to build? Whatever its architecture, the mansion, constructed of finely cut sandstone, had a wonderfully romantic appeal. A two-storey central section with an arched colonnade was flanked on either side by tall rectangular wings. The upper floor, probably bedrooms, was decorated with little curved balconies that overlooked the landscaped grounds. Four chimneys sat atop the terracotta-tiled roof. She knew from past trips to the Red Centre that desert sands cooled down amazingly at night.
This definitely was not a humble abode. Genevieve wondered if Catherine had found her first sight of Djangala homestead as thrilling as she did. Had Catherine felt the same buzz of excitement? Only what had started for Catherine as a welcome invitation to visit a historic station had ended in a terrifying experience and death. Life could be destroyed in a second. Accident or not? That was what she was here to determine. She could almost see Catherine out of the corner of her eye. Catherine of the long blonde hair and radiant blue eyes. Catherine, forever young.
Her thoughts sobered. Many things weren’t as they seemed. No one really knew what had happened. Catherine had been alone at the time.
Or had she?
Had the policeman in charge of the investigation checked out alibis, or were the Trevelyans too highly esteemed to have to account for themselves?
Trevelyan, standing a little distance off, was struck by the demeanour of the young woman Hester had chosen to ghostwrite the family history. At the moment she appeared caught in a reverie he thought oddly melancholic, as though she was trying to silence some mournful voice in her head. Maybe she was struggling with personal hurt or disappointment? He supposed it would come out sooner or later.
It was he who had allowed this to happen, by giving Hester the go-ahead. It had been in the nature of giving her something to fill her time and her active mind, but he was fully prepared to self-publish—if the book was ever finished, that was. It had started out as a simple exercise in humouring Hester, but the downside was that he was becoming increasingly wary of having many of the old stories raked up. On a historic station like Djangala there were lots of stories to be told.
One he preferred not to be exposed again to the light of day was the tragic death of his grandmother’s friend, Catherine Lytton. The verdict had been accidental death, but he had always had the uncomfortable feeling something wasn’t quite right. He had no proof. He’d been born well over twenty years later, and as far as he could establish there had been no hint of foul play—just this unspoken gut feeling. He knew his father had experienced it too. Catherine Lytton, over the years, had grown to be a taboo subject.
There were other things he preferred not to get into print too. His father’s accidental death at the hands of a visitor to the station unused to fire arms. The visitor had been devastated at the time, blaming himself terribly. Then there was the ugly break up of his parents’ marriage, and his mother’s defection with a family friend. Oddly, she had never married him after the divorce came through. The great rift had never been mended.
All in all there were many things he would prefer to remain private. God knew there was enough safe material.
Genevieve Grenville intrigued him. Instinct told him she was a woman in disguise: a young woman playing a role. The lenses in her bookish spectacles were clear glass—a dead giveaway. What was the reason behind that? Another thing: here was a beautiful woman going all out not to draw attention to herself. Again, why? Playing it safe? Was she in hiding for some reason? Or did she think she would make a better impression on Hester if she damped her looks way down? Perhaps that was it.
When he had the time he would check Ms Genevieve Grenville out—although she came with excellent references. Apparently she had taught for some years at a prestigious girls’ school—Grange Hall. Even he had heard of it. It was quite possible it was then she had begun to camouflage her very real beauty. Girls’ schools didn’t encourage fashion plates. Too much distraction for the students—especially the teenagers she had taught.
He hadn’t missed the glorious flame of her hair—full of body, however tightly she had tried to control it—or the fluid grace of movement, the radiant smile, the flawless skin and fine features. Her large almond eyes were an alluring sea-green. He imagined mermaids had eyes like that. Cool, iridescent green. He even had a mental picture of her sitting on a rock, combing out her long hair with a seashell fashioned into a comb. The image amused him. It would be interesting to get to know the woman beneath the disguise.
He asked Jeff to take Ms Grenville’s luggage into the house. Derryl had rushed ahead. It hadn’t dawned on Derryl that Ms Grenville was not as she seemed. He hadn’t bothered to take a close look at her. Derryl had a line-up of pretty girlfriends—all of them with big plans to land Derryl Trevelyan. They might well get more or less, depending on their viewpoint, than they bargained for. Derryl’s temperament up to date had manifested itself as selfish to the core. He had often considered whether the fact their mother had abandoned them had significantly affected his younger brother’s mindset. No one seemed to be able to meet his needs—although he had a clear conscience on that one.
For most of their lives Derryl had see-sawed between looking up to him as his big brother and detesting him, or his position as the first-born son, and then later his authority.
Worse, on a working cattle station, Derryl hated work of any kind. So much so that he would have to make some hard decisions soon. Derryl wasn’t carrying his weight. He knew the men were fed up with his brother’s lack of commitment. His trusted overseer Steve Cahill had told him on more than one occasion that he couldn’t rely on Derryl to carry out an order, when all other station hands jumped to as expected.
From time to time Derryl talked about heading off to one of the capital cities, but he never did. It seemed very much as if he had no real ambition outside of making life as easy as he possibly could. He had a long-running conflict with authority anyway: endless complaints and a whole catalogue of resentments towards their father, endless sibling rivalry with him. It had proved very stressful for the household.
“Ms Grenville?”
His resonant voice was a clarion call to the present. Genevieve spun quickly, coming out of her reverie. “Please—call me Genevieve,” she invited.
He gave her another of those half-smiles that to her consternation caused the sweetest pain to her heart. Apprehension set in. She wasn’t a free agent. She had to remember why she was here. Unwise attraction could