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RAIN THUNDERED ON THE metal roof of the attic. Motionless, Thomas stared into the night; a towel tossed over bare shoulders and pants clinging to him, soaked through.
The storm was directly overhead and relentless lightning turned night into fractured day. In the centre of the attic were two easels, each with a canvas. One was blank; ready for the first strokes of a brush, but the other was a completed portrait of Martha sitting on the cliff top, surrounded by spring flowers, her eyes brimming with amusement.
The long bench held pots of paint, brushes and rags. The armchair beside the window was almost new, its fabric bright and a throw rug tossed carelessly over its back.
A shuddering rumble of thunder stirred Thomas and he moved away from the window to stand in front of the blank canvas. Contemplating it for a moment, he slipped his hand into a pocket and retrieved Martha’s engagement ring. It was cold between his fingers as he placed it on the edge of the easel.
Taking the towel off his shoulders, he dried his hair, his expression as empty as the canvas.
***
IN BOXER SHORTS, THOMAS made his way to his bedroom, the one on the right of the attic staircase. He dangled a whiskey-filled glass from one hand and carried an almost empty bottle in the other. The single bed was a mess with blankets and sheets thrown about and the pillows side by side. Two empty glasses perched on a bedside table.
Thomas pushed the other glasses aside to make room for his whiskey glass and the bottle. Straightening the blankets and sheets, he piled one pillow on top of the other, before dropping onto the side of the bed. Utter weariness descended on him and he ran his hands through his hair.
Lying back, Thomas stared at the ceiling as his mind replayed the events of the evening. Martha falling into the sea and his desperate swim to save her. Martha’s anger. Her sorrow and stubborn pride. Martha running into the night.
He reached out to pick up his glass and his arm touched something on the bed... a pendant. Not Martha’s, with their initials intertwined. This one was on a silver chain with the letter F as the pendant. Thomas picked it up, his knuckles turning white as he crushed the letter within his palm.
***
ALMOST A WEEK LATER Thomas had waited long enough for Martha to come to him. He’d gone to Palmerston House, prepared to accept the contempt of her mother, the anger of her sister, even the half drunken forgiveness of her father, if only to have one moment with Martha.
A moment would be enough. He would apologise for letting her believe for even a second there could ever be anyone other than her in his life. He would slip the ring back onto her finger and kiss her tears away. Stubborn or not, Thomas knew Martha loved him.
Nobody was at the sprawling, two level limestone and timber house. Deflated, he trudged back along the long driveway. As he reached the road, Patrick drove through the gate, winding down the window as he stopped the car.
“Give ye credit for trying, lad. Just too late.”
“Too late for what? Where’s Martha, sir?”
“Sworn to secrecy. Lilian made me promise I’d never tell ye.” Patrick watched Thomas closely, seeing the hope leave his eyes.
Thomas stood beside the car, his shoulders slumped and his expression defeated. Why had he expected Martha to be here? She had said she was leaving, so why had he waited?
Patrick liked Thomas and was disappointed in the break up. All this conspiracy to keep Martha’s whereabouts from the boy was ridiculous.
“Thank you, sir. Goodbye.” Thomas nodded to Patrick and turned to leave.
Patrick sighed. “Wait a bit. Here.” Pulling a pen and notebook from his coat pocket, he scribbled an address, tore the page out and held it out.
“She’s with her sister in the city. But ye need to know her mother’s staying there for a while, so maybe write her a note, don’t just show up. Ay?”
Thomas visibly brightened. “Yes, I mean, thank you. I’ll never tell you gave me the address.”
Patrick shrugged. “I’m always in trouble so it is of no matter. She does love ye, son.” Winding the window back up, he continued to the homestead.
Thomas put the page in his pocket. “And I love your daughter, sir. Very much.”
An hour later, Thomas posted his first letter to Martha.
***
CHRISTIE UNFOLDED THE letter. The paper was thin and fragile and had a masculine scent. It was a few lines long.
Dear Martha,
I know you are hurt and must feel disappointed in me. For that I am deeply, truly sorry. But sweetheart, being away will not make things better. Being home again, here, in my arms, will help heal your hurt feelings. I promise to explain everything when I see you. No more running and no more secrets. Please come home soon.
Love, Thomas
Christie folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. A lover’s quarrel with Martha running away upset. Running away to stay with Gran. What had Thomas Blake done to hurt her? No more secrets... what secrets?
Christie put the letter aside and opened the next.
Dear Martha,
I know only a few days have passed, but it feels like months to me. The other night – I was wrong to let you leave like that. I thought you would feel differently in a day or two. I will never go against my instincts again. Once we are married, you will not run away if we argue because I will deal with it differently. You will learn to listen to me instead of using your pride as a barrier. I hurt you, yes, but what you are doing now is hurting us both, so time to end this ridiculous separation and come home. If your mother and sister refuse to bring you home, phone me and I will be there in a few hours. No matter how difficult it might be for you to return, it will lead to our life together.
Love,
Thomas
Christie read the letter twice, trying to understand what Thomas meant. The tone of his words was different from the first, being more resolute than apologetic.
After putting this letter into its envelope, Christie picked up her glass and sipped the wine. The way Derek sometimes spoke to her was similar to the last letter. Listen to me. Do as I tell you. Somehow, it was different though. Thomas wrote with love and equity of blame. Derek just blamed Christie.
She sighed, realising the glass was empty. Well, she had no plans to drive anywhere tonight. Christie wandered barefoot to the kitchen, surprised at how warm the cottage had stayed after the sunny afternoon.
Taking the bottle of wine back to the bedroom, she changed into soft pyjamas and slid into the sheets to continue reading. The next letter was postmarked four days later. It was several pages long and in a different tone again.
My beautiful girl,
I went to the jetty at dawn, as I have done every morning since that night...
Thomas stood at the end of the jetty as the first flicker of dawn lightened the starry sky, gravely contemplating the calm water lapping against the pylons. All he could think about was the moment Martha slipped off the jetty and into the stormy sea. The hair on his skin rose as he recalled the heart stopping moment he thought he would never find her.
Either way, she was gone. Her absence left his heart empty and he longed to turn around and see her running down those stone steps, her face alight with happiness. How this happened was still something of a blur. He had been at fault, yet not at fault. Certainly, this had been none of Martha’s doing but her leaving was making this worse.
What mystified him was the lack of communication from Martha. She never stayed angry for long and yet not one reply to his letters. Even if she wanted time away, he would have thought it a safe bet she would have written back. She must be hurt to stay silent for so long and that cut at Thomas. To know he had been instrumental in damaging their relationship was incomprehensible. Time to fix things.
The sea glistened in front of Thomas as the morning rays touched it and he sat on the edge of the jetty. Removing his shoes, he dropped his feet into the warm water, as he and Martha had done together so often.
This jetty meant so much to them both. It was here they had first spoken. Thomas often came to sit on the jetty early in the day, before anyone was about. It cleared his head and let him paint pictures in his head before committing them to canvas. One spring morning two years ago, he walked halfway along the timber boards before seeing someone sitting on the end.
Irritated at the intrusion, he stopped. Before he could leave, Martha turned around and flashed a stunning smile his way. “How gorgeous is this view?”
For a while, they sat in silence and then began talking as if they were old friends. A month later, they kissed at the same place and became inseparable.
This jetty was where he proposed. On one knee, trying not to let the ring fall into the sea and having to contend with Martha bursting into laughter until she realised he was serious. Her expression turned to pure love and she had thrown her arms around him, nearly overbalancing them both. His heart overflowed from so much love and the beauty Martha brought into his life.
Thomas knew he had to remind Martha of their past and let her see into his heart.
...so you see, sweetheart, we are meant to be together. Our love is not ordinary. It defies time and will live forever. Let me come and bring you home where you belong, in my arms, where I can protect and cherish you for a lifetime.
I love you,
Thomas
Christie lowered the letter, blinking tears away. This was touching, so real and poignant. She could imagine the young lovers on the jetty, happy and planning toward their future together. What could have torn these two apart?
Had they reconciled? Surely, they must. Thomas seemed ready to go straight to Gran’s home and whisk his beloved Martha away. No doubt, Gran and her mother put up a fight and perhaps that was the reason for the two sisters parting ways.
Christie poured some more wine, wondering how long it had taken for Thomas and Martha to get back together. She reached for another letter.
Dear Martha,
I sold a painting! The one from our special place on the mountain, overlooking River’s End and out across the sea. George said it was a lady from the city, an art collector. Perhaps she will come back and buy another? Once you are home, we will take a picnic up to the lookout there and celebrate the sale with champagne.
You always believed in my art, even when I did not believe in it myself. Remember the first time you saw my paintings? You told me I should move to France and become a famous artist. I laughed at the notion, but you were serious, my darling. You said my eye for detail would be appreciated by the art set in Paris and my charm would sell the paintings.
I do not feel much charm now. Just sadness and loneliness without you by my side. We belong together. It is time to come home, Martha. Please come home now.
Love,
Thomas.
An artist? Perhaps the seascape was his. This would explain the bench upstairs with its paint-splattered surface.
She yawned. The wine was making her sleepy, probably along with the effects of such a long and difficult day. One more letter.
Dear Martha,
Another week has passed and not one word from you.
Today, I waited in the rain. All day, from dawn to nightfall and I am frozen to the bone. Today of all days, I could not risk being absent from the jetty should you have returned. It is a full year since you accepted my marriage proposal and I had hoped, with every fibre, you would come home today. It seemed fitting, yet I am still alone.
Why, Martha, why not return and let us work this out? I know you love me with every ounce of my being. You are too strong to allow Dorothy and Lilian to stop you, so where are you?
My heart is breaking. There. I have said it. My heart is breaking for you.
Thomas.
The letter slipped from Christie’s fingers. Asleep, her face wet with tears.
***
SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the uncurtained window, stirring Christie from a deep sleep. She took her time opening her eyes and stretched, loving the warmth of the sun. Her night had been free of any dreams she could remember and she had to think for a moment of where she was.
Sitting up, Christie glanced at the near-empty wine bottle. She was dehydrated but not hung over. Her watch told her she had slept close on twelve hours. The remnants of jet lag had disappeared at last.
As she swung her feet over the side of the bed, Christie noticed the last letter was on the floor, so scooped it up and returned it to its envelope.
Poor Thomas. Whatever did you do? The last thing she expected from these letters was the eloquent outpouring of love and loss an apparently young man in the sixties penned. How the pieces fitted together was beyond her.
The shower was refreshing but too short, as the hot water ran out after only a couple of moments. As she dried herself, Christie decided she needed more information about the cottage if she was to make an educated decision about its future. Starting with Daphne and John Jones.
***
RIVER’S END HAD TWO real estate agents, but only one with brightly flowering pot plants along its front. For some reason, Christie knew Daphne was responsible for this. Pushing the door open, she was right, with Daphne having a loud and happy conversation on the phone behind a dated laminate counter.
“Of course! Yes, Beth, I know exactly what you mean!” Daphne laughed then spotted Christie.
“Now, Beth... yes, yes, I agree, but Beth, I need to go now. Sorry darl, I’ve got an important client here so I’ll phone you back. Okie dokie!”
Daphne replaced the receiver with a sigh. “Oh that one, she can talk! How lovely to see you! I thought you were leaving yesterday, lovely?”
“It seemed a pity not to stay for a little while.” Christie leaned her arms on the counter. “It’s a rather... enchanting little property under the dust and neglect.”
“Indeed! And will be worth quite a bit if you were to sell. Would you like John to do an appraisal?”
“Oh, not at this point, but thanks. Could you refer me to someone who knows how to fix houses? I mean, it needs some electrical work and carpentry and painting. And gardening. Maybe a new fence?”
Daphne sniffed in disappointment as she reached for a notepad and pen. “Well, let us know when you’re ready and John will be most happy to give you some ideas. River’s End is about to boom so it will certainly be a seller’s market, mark my words.”
“I promise I’ll talk to John first, should I decide to sell.” Christie hid a smile.
“Now, this is the number for Barry who is a local builder. Have a bit of a chat to him and see what he can do.”
Daphne tore a page from the notepad and handed it to Christie. She stared at Christie’s engagement ring. “What a beauty! So, is your young man going to join you here?”
Christie did not know whether to be amused or annoyed by Daphne’s forwardness. She shrugged. “He’s away, so we’ll see once he’s back. Daphne, at the funeral you mentioned you knew my Gran? Did you happen to know her sister?”
Daphne’s eyes flew wide open. “Oh, no, I’m afraid Martha hasn’t been seen in these parts for many a year. Of course, there’s always been stories about her.”
“You mean idle gossip.” John walked out from an office behind the counter. “Hello again, Ms Ryan.” he nodded.
“Please, call me Christie.”
“But John,” Daphne pouted, “even if it’s gossip, there’s always truth in talk.”
“Not after all these years.” John dropped some paperwork on the desk beside Daphne. She sighed audibly, but winked at Christie as John went back to his office. The whole town might be a haven of secrets still living in the last century.
“The other thing is I have a painting that needs some attention. It has a small tear and is old and I know it’s a long shot, but is there a local gallery or the like?”
“Ah!” Daphne held her hand out for the piece of paper she gave Christie. When Christie handed it back, Daphne drew a map.
“That’s easy, lovely. Amongst other things, young Martin is a framer. You take your painting to him to fix.”
“Martin? The man at the graveyard?”
“Oh, you saw him at a bad time. He’ll do the right thing for you.”
Christie was far from reassured. Something about that man had shaken her emotions and sent warning signals to her brain.
“Thanks, Daphne, you’ve been such a help.” she said with a smile. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“No, my pleasure, lovely. You drop in anytime and come and have a coffee one day.”
She leaned forward and whispered. “There’s always truth in talk!”
Christie nodded at Daphne, but had no idea what she meant. Daphne was a pleasant woman if something of a gossip and hoped she might be able to talk to her away from John sometime. Even if it was gossip, anything at all about Martha was more than she had.
***
DRIVING BACK UP THE hill a few moments later, Christie glanced across at the graveyard. It was empty and Christie would have continued past, except a glint on top of a headstone caught her eye. Almost unconsciously, she found herself parking the car and wandering over to where the glint came from.
Something was on top of the headstone of the grave Martin had tended. It was a pendant, its fine gold chain draped over the top of the rounded headstone. Holding her breath, Christie picked it up, almost dropping it again when she saw the two letters entwined. T and M.
It must be pure coincidence the initials matched those of Thomas and Martha! Someone must have found it and left it on a random headstone for the owner to find. Almost holding her breath, Christie walked around the headstone to read the inscription.
Thomas Blake
Christie gasped and put her hand to her mouth. Thomas Blake, the man whose letters she had read, was dead. Buried here, overlooking the jetty where he had waited for his girl to come home.
Taking a long, shuddering breath, Christie knew she had to stay until she found some answers. Somehow, in a day, the secrets of the cottage had captured her imagination and drawn her into its world.