Melbourne – Ruyton Girls’ School
It was an unseasonably cold day, even for mid-December, yet the wind and rain could not penetrate Luke’s new woollen coat. He straightened the strangling collar of his fine linen shirt. Luke still felt like a worthless outsider. Like any moment now, the world would see through his expensively tailored disguise. He half-expected to be given short shrift when he mounted the imposing stone steps and rang the school’s brass bell. But apparently Shakespeare wasn’t wrong when he said clothes maketh the man. A prim lady, wearing a beribboned cap too large for her head, gave him an approving glance and beckoned him inside.
Luke gave the little speech he’d prepared. He was a distant relative, with some confidential news for Mrs Alice Tyler regarding a deceased estate. ‘I believe she’s a housekeeper here at Ruyton.’
‘She is indeed, and a most wonderful find. We don’t know what we’d do without her.’ She smiled through uneven teeth. ‘Sir, if you would remain here in the parlour, I shall send Mrs Tyler to you. Let me take your coat.’
Luke put down his valise and ran a finger down the crease of his trousers, his heart hammering against his ribs. Would Mama know him after all this time? He’d gone to prison a boy and returned a man. It would be a terrible shock, him turning up alive, without any warning, but this was the only way he could think of to contact her safely. A letter falling into the wrong hands could doom them both.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked away, yet time stood still. Surreal, to think that any second he would be face-to-face with his mother. Luke strained to hear footsteps in the hall. There, a brisk trip-trap, growing louder. Was this her? He stiffened as the doorknob turned, held his breath, fighting an urge to hide and leap forward at the same time. Alice opened the door.
Luke had tried to prepare himself for the flood of emotion when he saw her. But he hadn’t prepared for the instant flash of recognition and astonishment on his mother’s face. Her hand flew to her mouth as she spun to shut the door. On turning around, she wore an expression so tender, so full of love, it almost brought Luke to his knees.
‘A miracle,’ Alice said. ‘God has brought me a miracle.’
Luke held her oh-so-familiar hands, drank in her sweet smell, closed his eyes – and he was a little boy again. Creeping into bed beside her warm, soft body on a freezing winter’s morning. Snacking on apple slices while she cut them up for pie. Collecting eggs together, and Mama’s musical laughter at the discovery of a newly hatched clutch of chicks. The warmth of her hug. The kindness of her smile. A rush of memories so vivid, so precious, that he dared not open his eyes in case she would be gone.
Alice stroked his cheek as she used to when he was small. ‘You’re real. You’re my Luke.’
She made his name sound like a prayer. He was suddenly ashamed for having so often abandoned it.
Luke ventured a closer look at her. She didn’t seem any older, though it had been six years. Sheer joy had stripped time and worry away, leaving her girlish. Papa had always called her a beauty. Luke saw what his father must have seen – no weary, careworn drudge in a housekeeper’s apron, but a vibrant woman.
His parents had been very romantic, very affectionate. Holding hands on High Street like young lovers, kissing in the kitchen. Luke used to tease them about it, but what had a foolish child known about love? Now he understood how a pulse could pound with desire, how a heart could dance with passion, how a soul could ache with wanting, and break with loss. He knew what it must have cost her when Father died. Because of him. The knowing moved him to tears. That surprised him. He thought he’d used up his lifetime supply.
Luke turned away, unable to face her. ‘I know about Papa . . . Can you ever forgive me?’
His mother wrapped him in a crushing embrace and whispered in his ear. ‘What should I forgive you for, my brave, brave son? Defending your sister? Sacrificing yourself to protect her reputation? Papa died in an accident that could have happened at any time, on any road, on any day. If there’s blame, it lies with Henry Abbott, fair and square.’ She took his shoulders and spun him round. ‘Look at me, Luke.’ Her eyes filled with a fierce pride. ‘To Becky, to me – you’re a hero. And now this miracle?’ Her eyes smiled and cried all at once. A sun shower. ‘Come, my darling . . . sit with me. Explain how God has returned you to us.’
The sun was going down on the best day of Luke’s life. Becky flicked a switch on the wall and twin wall lamps flickered briefly, then glowed with a steady warmth. ‘We have electricity. The whole school does.’
Luke gave an admiring nod, stifling a burp. Mama’s trifle was fit for a king, and he’d had two serves. He tried to clear away the dessert dishes, but Becky wouldn’t let him. She wouldn’t let him do much of anything, other than eat and drink and tell stories. When he stood to stretch his legs, she stood with her back to the door, as if he might try to escape. No chance. He could cheerfully spend the rest of his life in this place, basking in the glow of his family’s affections.
Becky and Alice lived in two downstairs rooms at the rear of the main house, with views of the kitchen garden. Their tiny bedroom opened onto a pretty parlour with an overflowing bookcase, writing bureau and small dining table. Potted palms lined the wide windowsills. A pair of wingback armchairs flanked the fireplace. Mama seemed to have the run of the school kitchen, where she cooked a tasty mutton stew and brought it back to their rooms for dinner. Its rich aroma conjured up yet more childhood memories.
A toilet and laundry lay a little way along the timber verandah, but Alice had provided Luke with a jug and basin for washing – and a chamber pot. He had strict instructions to remain inside. A man staying the night at Ruyton was against the rules, and his appearance would cause a scandal.
Luke watched his mother take the kettle from a hook over the fire and make a pot of tea. Her cheeks must be tired from smiling. Becky came to sit beside him at the table, taking his rough hands in hers. How proud he was of his sister. She’d changed so, grown into a tall, graceful young woman with dark, glossy ringlets and a keen, intelligent gaze. However some things hadn’t changed; she was still a chatterbox.
‘We couldn’t believe it when we heard Sir Henry was dead, could we, Mama? I’m glad, of course. Does that make me a terrible person? Tell me again about how you found the treasure.’
‘Who told you about Abbott?’
Alice gave him a cup of tea and sat down. ‘Mr Campbell wrote us a letter.’
‘He thinks you’re dead,’ said Becky. ‘Everybody does, even Belle . . .’
Alice’s lips pursed and she shook her head a fraction. ‘Dear, would you put some biscuits on a plate, please?’
Becky hesitated for a moment, before going to the fireplace and taking a tin down from the mantelpiece.
Luke hadn’t told them about his love for Belle, or about their child, or his plan to one day have a life with her. One shock at a time. So why had Belle’s name even come up? He glanced enquiringly at his mother and saw a tinge of concern behind her smile. What was he missing?
Becky offered him a biscuit.
‘Thank you. I have something for you too.’ Luke pulled his valise from under the table and took out a jewellery box. ‘You always said how you loved opals.’
Becky opened the box. Inside lay a star-pendant gold necklace set with fire opals.
Her face lit up. ‘I’ve never seen anything so lovely!’
‘Put it on.’
Becky laughed and lifted her hair while he fastened the chain. She ran to the mantle mirror, turning this way and that, admiring how the brilliant stones flashed against her skin.
‘And for you, Mama.’
Alice opened the box he gave her. ‘My God, Luke. How much did this cost?’
He pinned the ruby and diamond brooch to her dress. It was shaped like a butterfly. ‘We passed a jewellers in Hobart once, Mama, remember? You pointed to a brooch like this one and said how much you loved it.’
Alice shook her head in disbelief. ‘You couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. And that brooch was paste. Is this a real diamond?’
His mother’s delight made Luke’s heart burst with pleasure. But the brooch was nothing compared to the ring he’d bought for Belle. The blinding rose-cut diamond set in a platinum band had cost him a fair slice of his fortune.
‘There’s so much I want to do for you both.’ He took his wallet from the case and counted out two hundred pounds. ‘Here, Mama. Plenty more where that came from. Gold, too. I’m a rich man, with money in the bank.’
The eager manager had barely glanced at his forged birth certificate when he opened the Collins Street Colonial Bank account. It had been Luke’s first sweet taste of money opening doors.
Alice picked up the cash and spread it playfully out like a fan. There was that girlish grin again. It made his heart sing.
‘Almost enough for one of those cottages outside the school grounds,’ she said. ‘Imagine having a kitchen, and a garden, and chooks. You’d have your own room, Beck. No putting up with me snoring. If we save hard enough . . .’
‘I’ll buy you a cottage for Christmas,’ said Luke. ‘Who do I need to see?’
It was past midnight when Alice and Becky smothered Luke in goodnight kisses and retired to their bedroom. They’d moved the table back against the wall, and made up a makeshift bed on the carpet. Charming, how his mother fussed about, worrying if he was warm enough and comfortable enough. Stoking up the fire. Adding last-minute layers of cushions. How horrified she’d have been at the prison camp’s lice-ridden bunks or the old hut’s bracken bed on the ground.
Lying restless on the floor, staring into the flames, inevitably brought back memories. Waiting for Bear to return from the nightly hunt. Wishing he was with his family. Wishing he was with Belle. Life was cruel, giving with one hand and taking with another.
His family could never be intact again, not without Papa. Yet reconnecting with his mother and sister, receiving their forgiveness, being in a position to support them financially? That was a blessing he hadn’t expected. He’d never see brave Bear again, a heartache his newfound wealth could not cure, but he would have Belle. Somehow he would retrieve her from her loveless marriage, atone for his selfishness, and together they’d build a life for their child.
He threw off the blankets and got up. No point trying to sleep with his mind abuzz. He turned on the lamp, poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, and wandered around the cosy room.
Daniel had done the right thing by Alice and Becky. Finding his mother this live-in housekeeping job and his sister work as a teaching assistant. Poor widows and their children could easily find themselves in far more dire circumstances. Becky was such a clever girl. How she must love working at a school, surrounded by books. He longed to thank Daniel for his kindness. One day he would. One day, when he and Belle were reunited.
Perhaps reading would calm his racing thoughts. Luke took a novel from the shelf and sat by the fire, but he couldn’t concentrate on the story. All he could think of was Belle, and how she thought him dead, and how he should get word to her. But it wasn’t fair to burden her with the secret of his existence when there was no way to fix things. No way to be together.
Luke tossed his book aside. What an appalling situation he’d left Belle in. How was she coping? What was she feeling? His mind drew pictures. Belle, red-eyed from weeping, sick with grief. Edward, helpless to comfort her. Or was she putting on a brave show, swallowing her sadness, only giving into sorrow at night when she was alone?
Luke hurled a log on the fire with such force that it erupted in burning embers. Was Belle alone at night? She’d be married by now. Would Edward do the honourable thing? Respect the fact that his marriage was a sham? A deplorable but necessary pretence? Luke groaned and marched around the small parlour. Not knowing was killing him.
What about the letter? Mama said Daniel had written to say Abbott was dead, and Luke too. He refused to think of her heartbreak on reading it. What else was in that letter? Had it mentioned Belle? He went to the corner bureau, opened the top drawer and rummaged around. Nothing. In the bottom drawer he found it in an envelope addressed to his mother.
Luke sat down in one of the armchairs to read. The rawness of Daniel’s grief dripped from the page. He apologised to Alice for having kept Luke’s whereabouts from her. I believed that keeping the secret would protect us all. Instead it has led to tragedy. He told of his despair at having to convey such terrible news to a mother, his rage at Henry Abbott, his grief at failing to shield Luke from harm. And, most moving of all, considering how Luke had so compromised his daughter, he wrote of the depth of his affection for a young man that I loved like a son. Nothing about Belle, though. Not a word. Luke’s disappointment was palpable.
He idly flicked through the drawer. Some invoices and receipts. An invitation to a music recital. Some more letters. Luke’s heart stopped. He pulled one out and held it up to the lamp. No mistake. His mother’s address was written on the envelope in Belle’s flourishing script. With trembling fingers he unfolded the letter contained within.
My dear Mrs Tyler,
Please accept my deepest condolences on the tragic death of Luke, your only son. I cannot imagine your pain. Please also extend my sympathy to Rebecca. He loved you both very much, and often told me so. I hope your belief in heaven brings you some comfort, because that is where Luke is, sitting at the right hand of God, the brightest star in the sky.
I have a confession to make. I also loved Luke. We wanted to marry, but circumstances conspired against us. I trust this news does not come as too much of a shock, because there is more. I am carrying Luke’s child. You are to become a grandmother.
Please do not worry, Mrs Tyler, because I am recently married to a dear childhood friend of mine, Edward Abbott. He is a good man who swears he will cherish this child as his own. Edward will never replace your son in my heart, but I confess I am learning to love him. He is kind and makes me happy, and there is no doubt he will be an excellent father. We are both so excited about the upcoming birth, as I hope are you. Edward and I plan to raise this baby, your grandchild, in a house filled with joy and love.
You and Rebecca will always be welcome guests in our home. However, I do ask that you keep the contents of this letter private. It must never be revealed that Luke is the father of my child. Such a scandal would tear our fledgling family apart, and my dearest wish is for the baby to grow up in a loving, stable home. Please understand this is no reflection on the affection I bore your son, nor the depth of my sadness at his death. I pray it is a comfort knowing your grandchild’s future is secure.
Most affectionately yours,
Isabelle Abbott
Luke’s hand trembled as he re-read the letter once, twice, three times. A slow tear fell on the paper. Certain phrases stood out: He is kind and makes me happy, and there is no doubt he will be an excellent father . . . We are both so excited about the upcoming birth and I confess I am learning to love him. And the one that burned most deeply: It must never be revealed that Luke is the father of my child.
His eyes brimmed over. When would he ever learn? Belle wasn’t broken-hearted and pining over him, crying herself to sleep. That wasn’t who she was. She was embracing her new life, excited about the baby, planning a future with Edward. She was happy. His dreams of sweeping back into her life after the child was born were just that – dreams.
Luke felt a touch on his shoulder. His mother.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘All day, Mama? All this day you’ve known about me and Belle and the baby. Yet you said nothing.’
‘I wanted you to tell me yourself, when you were ready.’
Luke waved the letter in her face. ‘She’s happy, Mama. She’s happy with Edward. Happy with Henry Abbott’s son.’
He gave an anguished cry, like the howl of a stricken animal. Alice hugged his shoulders and kissed him. ‘Belle still loves you, my darling. I don’t doubt it for a second. It shows in each line, in her shaky hand. In the fact that she cared enough to write me that letter at all, confessing a truth that could bring her undone. But Belle thinks you’re gone, Luke. She’s making the best of things, and bravely too.’
Luke bowed his head ‘What does Becky know?’
‘She’s read the letter.’
‘I haven’t abandoned Belle, Mama. I’m going back for her. Once the child is born, once I establish a new identity . . .’
‘No,’ said Alice, her voice low and urgent. ‘You’ll be recognised. Not only will you expose the shameful truth about who fathered her child, but you’ll hang for Abbott’s murder. That won’t help Belle. That will destroy her.’
‘I have money now. We’ll go away.’
Alice put a hand on his arm. ‘And tear that sweet girl from everything she knows? A young woman with a first baby needs her family round her, not to be isolated and on the run.’
‘I’ll be her family.’
‘You’ll be a poor substitute for Belle’s mother when the child has colic, or her breasts throb and swell.’
Luke shrugged his mother aside and paced round the room, but Alice would not be silenced. ‘This cannot be, Luke. If you love Belle, as I know you do, you’ll let her go. Let her get on with her life, as you must get on with yours.’
It could just as easily have been Mrs Campbell speaking. Mrs Campbell at the killing gallows, imploring him to leave for Belle’s sake. Luke stopped pacing and re-read the letter one last time. Then he hurled it into the flames. ‘All right, Mama. Nobody will learn the truth from me.’
Alice breathed a big sigh. ‘You could come and live with Becky and me in our cottage. Use your money to set up as a carpenter like your father. It’s a good, honest trade, Luke, and you were always handy with a hammer.’
‘I can’t stay here in Melbourne, knowing that Belle and my child are living just across Bass Strait. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘My poor darling Luke. What will you do?’
‘I’ll spend Christmas here, Mama, see you and Becky right. After that, in the new year, I’m going as far away from Tasmania as I possibly can.’