Chapter 23

 

Helen stood on the edge of the clearing, her horse’s reins looped over her arm, knowing that she should not have come. Like Suzanna, all those years before, she had passed the night in ‘a foment of indecision’, her head telling her one thing and her heart another. But as Suzanna would have observed, ruled by her heart, she had risen early and on the pretence of taking a ride before breakfast, had stepped onto the precipice.

Paul rose to his feet and they stood facing each other for a long moment without speaking.

“You came,” he said at last.

“I came,” she agreed, as she tied the reins of the Wellmore hunter to a tree.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “As you know my memory of that day in ‘17 is...has been...a little sketchy. I only remembered recently that before the attack, Charlie gave me this.”

He handed her an envelope. She gave an involuntary gasp as she recognized Charlie’s handwriting. She looked up at Paul.

“What does it say?”

He shook his head. “I’ve no idea. It’s not addressed to me. He gave it to me before he left on the sortie.”

Helen turned it over in her hand.

“I expect you would prefer to read it alone.” Paul gathered Hector’s reins.

She put a hand on his arm.

“No, I would like you to stay.”

He looked down at her hand and didn’t move.

Helen picked up a small twig and cut the envelope open, pulling out the single folded sheet.

The words of the short note, blurred on the page.

She took a breath as she read, My darling Helen. If you are reading this then I did not return from this sortie. If I had, I would have reclaimed this missive from Paul–that is if he were here to reclaim it from. I am so tired of this, Helen–tired of writing letters to grieving mothers and wives, tired of death. The only thing that sustains me is the memory of you, my beautiful girl, standing on the pier waving at me. How could I have left you? My last thought before I sleep is of you and the smell of the gums on the slopes of Mt. Buller and our plans to run cattle in the high country, but they are only dreams. I love you my darling girl, always, and whatever is in my power to keep you and the baby safe and well, I will do. Love always, Charlie.

Helen folded the paper. “Thank you, Paul,” she said. “Did you want to know what it says?”

He shook his head. “It is between you and Charlie.”

He regarded her for a long moment with those extraordinary green eyes. They made her feel as if he looked into her soul.

“I should get back,” she said, turning her face away from the intensity of his gaze.

“Before you go, Helen–” Paul drew a crumpled sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed them to her, “–I do have some more of the diary. That is, if you’re still interested?”

She took the papers. “I would like to know how the story ends. Have you finished it?”

He shook his head. “No and I doubt I will. I did these some time ago. I’m not sure they give you the answer you want but have a look over them anyway.”

Helen thanked him, put the folded papers into her jacket pocket and turned to go.

“Why are you marrying Tony?”

She stopped but did not turn to face him. “What business is it of yours?”

 “None,” he agreed. “I have no claim on you, beyond that of friendship but I know why he wants to marry you. I am just curious as to why you said yes. I don’t think you love him.”

She turned back to look at him and gave a wry smile. “Because he’s a kind man and he asked me.”

“That’s it?” Paul’s gaze was fixed intently on her and she could feel the green eyes burning into her soul, seeing her for the fraud she had become. “He’s kind and he asked you?”

“I’m not sure I even said yes.” She managed a faint smile. “I don’t expect you to understand but I’m twenty-eight years old, a widow with a child. Charlie left me eight years ago and–” she looked up at the overarching boughs of the trees, “–I’m lonely.” She broke off and turned away. “Forget it. I’m not explaining this very well.”

“I’m sorry, Helen,” he said. “I have no right to pry.”

She breathed in the tang of his shaving cream as he moved closer. She willed him to touch her, to kiss her, hold her and never let her go. Her body ached for his touch but as she turned back to face him he took a step back.

Helen wanted to rail at him, beat her fists against his chest. All it would take would be a word and he could have her forever, but once again, he had pulled away from her. She turned her face up to the arch of the trees above. Lonely souls, that’s all they had been to each other. Now she had the love of a good man in Tony Scarvell. If it couldn’t be her, maybe someone else could find happiness with Paul Morrow? She thought about Angela’s tears and brought her gaze down to meet his. “Paul, about Angela...”

He narrowed his eyes. “What about Angela?”

“She’s in love with you.”

He shook his head. “No, she’s in love with a memory.”

“You’re wrong. She’s no different from me, Paul.”

“Don’t tell me Angela is spinning you a ‘lonely widow’ story, Helen?” Paul stiffened. “Trust me, I know Angela better than you. She can have any man she wants but she prefers them to be unobtainable. She would be bored with me in a matter of months.”

He turned his back on her, gathered up Hector’s reins and swung himself into the saddle. “Go back to Tony with my blessing. He is one of the few honorable men I know. He will be good to you.”

Helen began untying the reins of her horse. “But will I be good to him?” she whispered, but she was talking only to the horse. Paul had gone.

Helen leaned her head against the warm neck of the animal and fought back the tears.

* * * *

Paul put his heels to Hector’s flanks and crouched down low over the horse’s neck, galloping blindly with no destination in mind. He took several difficult fences and only when the horse, lathered and blowing, reached the foot of Stoneman’s Hill did he ease back.

He straightened and patted Hector’s neck. “Sorry, old chap. I forget you’re not as young as you used to be.”

Hector snorted his disgust and Paul turned the horse up the narrow path to the standing stones. At this hour of the day, the clearing was deserted, although rubbish left by picnickers indicated that it had been a popular spot over the summer months.

He slid from the saddle and collected the papers and ginger beer bottles, stuffing the rubbish into a saddlebag and making a mental note that he either had to close off the walking track or put up some signs about removing rubbish. The curatorial task stopped him from thinking about Helen and only when he stood in the centre of the circle did the pain came back.

Physical pain he could bear–had borne. This crushing agony was new. He felt as if he had a band around his chest that drew tighter and tighter and he subsided on to the fallen giant with a groan.

“It shouldn’t be like this,” he said aloud. “I’ve done the right thing. I know I’ve done the right thing.”

Above him, the wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the alders and sycamores. Nearby, a dog barked and Hector’s ears pricked. He stamped his hoof, pulling on the reins Paul had tied to a tree. Paul looked up and for a fleeting second he thought he caught a glimpse of a black and white coat in the dappled shadows of the trees.