The coarse male laughter gripped Caro’s insides with terror, but not for the world would she have shown it. She rested the tips of her fingers lightly on the bar to stop their trembling.

‘I’d like to see Mr Thwaites if he’s here, please,’ she said quietly enough, but as for the anticipatory hush in the room she may as well have shouted the words.

The bartender’s eyes travelled down assessingly and up insultingly. ‘’Fraid you can’t, lass.’

‘Is he here?’ she persisted, dreading the thought of having to brave the male barrage alone on her way out.

‘Maybe.’ He lifted his lips in something between a smirk and a sneer.

‘Then I’d like to see him, please.’

‘’Ere, me darlin’.’ A red-faced little man nudged her elbow as he fumbled with his trousers. ‘Why don’t you see me instead, eh?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she began blankly, wondering what conceivable interest the little man thought she would have in his belt. A second before his trousers dropped to his knees a tall body interposed itself between them.

‘I think, madam, you should leave.’

She looked up to an unshaven, weary face of indeterminate age.

‘I’m here to see Mr Thwaites,’ she said tersely, resenting the light pressure being exerted on her upper arm. She was not used to being manhandled.

‘Then I suggest another time, madam. In the morning, perhaps.’ He turned her around to face the door, raising his elbow as he did so and accidentally jabbing the throat of a man who was about to lunge at her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said politely as his victim staggered back with a yelp. ‘Very careless of me.’

There was a grumbled chorus of disappointment as she was marched to the door, but no one impeded their progress. Within seconds she was back out on the veranda, rigid with rage and the cold.

‘I’m not going to thank you, you know!’ she snapped.

‘I wouldn’t dream of presuming that you would, madam.’

‘I only went in there to see someone,’ she went on, cross with herself that she had to somehow justify what was now apparent as recklessness.

‘I think you were about to see quite a lot for a young lady,’ he said evenly. Despite her humiliation and anger his voice intrigued her, with its clipped perfect enunciation that she had only ever heard before in the Governor-General’s residence in New South Wales. Her mother would have been most impressed.

But not if she had seen him. His clothes were old and worn, his hair was unkempt and—Caro could not help but wrinkle her nose—he smelt, mostly of drink. I should feel sorry for him, she reminded herself, but that was impossible. Someone who looked like a tramp had no right to the irritating mannerism of sounding apologetic when he plainly was not. She met his gaze squarely and then rather wished she hadn’t. There was a deadness in his brown eyes that chilled her. She found herself wondering if he was really even seeing her.

‘Well, I suppose I should thank you,’ she began indifferently, but already he had turned on his heel and returned to the bar with only the most cursory of nods. Incensed by his rudeness, she thought for a moment about following him back in and telling him what she thought, before common sense prevailed. Drawing her shawl tightly against the cold, she turned back into the hotel.

The foyer was still dimly lit, but no longer deserted. Charlotte was there, talking in rapid, hushed tones to a tall, well-dressed man in his thirties who was leaning nonchalantly against the desk, apparently listening to her with only half his attention. His pale eyes swept over Caro with the appreciation of a connoisseur as she made her entrance in a flurry of snowflakes.

‘Well, well, well. Now, you must be the niece,’ he said softly as he straightened up. ‘There’s no mistaking the resemblance.’

‘Oh, Caroline, there you are!’ Her aunt seemed flustered, her fingers working nervously at the fine silk shawl clutched around her shoulders. ‘Come and meet Harold, darling.’

‘Miss Morgan,’ he murmured, extending his hand. ‘What an unexpected pleasure. Although I’d never expect Charlotte to have a niece who wasn’t utterly lovely.’ Caro was well used to flattery, and this man was obviously a close friend of her aunt’s, but still she hesitated before offering her hand to him. When he brought it to his lips she had to make a real effort not to flinch away. She wasn’t sure why she should react to him so—perhaps it was his boldness or air of absolute confidence. He seemed to mistake her unease for shyness and he held her hand for much too long, amusement lighting the etched lines of his face. The word ‘dissolute’ flashed into Caro’s mind.

‘Where have you been?’ Charlotte said to the man beside her with just a trace of reproach in her voice. ‘I couldn’t find you in your room when that dreadful Oliver was threatening me…’

‘Come now, Charlotte,’ Harold said in tolerant amusement. ‘He merely told you he was leaving your employment.’

‘But it was the manner in which he told me! He was so rude, Harold—you’ve no idea!’ She pouted prettily.

‘You should try paying your staff, my dear—then I can guarantee they won’t be rude to you.’

‘Oh, don’t preach so. You know I hate it.’ She looked up at him appealingly. ‘Now what shall I do? There’s only the cook and that silly chit of a girl left now—and goodness knows how long they’ll stay. I’ll have to shut the hotel down soon!’

He shrugged as if Charlotte’s problems were entirely trivial. ‘Let’s talk about it over dinner, shall we?’

‘I’m sure I could find something in the kitchen,’ Caro began uncertainly, but Harold and her aunt turned to her with looks of genuine surprise.

‘We’ll eat elsewhere, tonight,’ Harold said firmly. ‘We can’t have you cooking, Miss Morgan. That would never do.’ He held out an arm to each of them. ‘Come along, ladies.’

Charlotte snuggled into his side with alacrity, but Caro held back. That they should dine out elsewhere when her aunt owned this huge hotel and could not afford to even pay the staff seemed completely nonsensical. However, Harold remained where he was, arm outstretched, his smile not faltering, and it seemed churlish to refuse him.

‘I’ll just get my coat,’ she said hurriedly and ran upstairs so that she would not have to take his arm. In her room she stood for a moment, struggling to regain her composure. Encountering Mr Thwaites so soon after the unpleasant episode in the bar had left her head whirling. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t understand the relationship between him and her aunt. She thought for a moment about excusing herself from dinner, but a low growl from her stomach reminded her that her last meal had been well over twelve hours ago. At least if she went she would be fed. She changed into her stout boots, buttoned her coat up to the neck and went downstairs.

The snow was still falling thickly when they stepped outside and a bitter wind had sprung up, making visibility past a few yards impossible and piling the snow in drifts along the side of the road. The Castledene bar was doing a roaring trade judging from the raucous sounds coming from within. Despite herself, Caro edged a little closer to Harold as they passed.

Along an almost-deserted Princes Street he led them to another hotel, nowhere as near as grand as the Castledene, but where they were welcomed into a very pleasant dining room by a neatly uniformed maid.

‘Somewhere close to the fire, please,’ said Charlotte with a shiver in her voice. It was then that Caro realised that her aunt had not put on a coat, but was still wearing only the silk shawl over her evening dress. As they took their seats at a table close to the fireplace, Charlotte removed the by-now sodden shawl and Caro’s jaw dropped. Her aunt’s pale-blue satin gown was beautifully cut and obviously very expensive, but the sleeves were almost non-existent and Caro was sure that with one deep breath her aunt would reveal far more than could ever be deemed socially decent. The waiter, on his way over to them with the menu, collided into another diner’s chair in his stunned state.

‘Aunt Charlotte,’ she whispered urgently.

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Frozen rigid, darling. I need a drink!’

Harold chuckled and summoned the red-faced waiter with a flick of his wrist. ‘Your aunt always drinks champagne with dinner. What’s your preference, Miss Morgan? Or may I call you Caroline?’

‘I don’t drink, thank you,’ Caro said a little too tersely. She was aware that he was looking at her oddly, but she was still too shocked by her aunt’s appearance to care if he thought her over-prim. Mind you, she thought twenty minutes later, anyone would appear prim next to Aunt Charlotte. The first bottle of champagne was swiftly dispatched and the second took only a little longer as Aunt Charlotte, it seemed, had mastered the art of elegant gulping. By the time the soup dishes had been cleared and plates of steaming-hot ham and potatoes set before them, the third bottle of champagne had been opened. A pang of unease went through Caro as she realised that Harold drank only a little himself, and appeared to be quite happy to encourage Aunt Charlotte’s excesses.

She sipped the glass of water she had ordered for herself and looked around the dining room with critical eyes. It was comfortable, certainly, and warm. The service had been attentive enough—overly attentive, in fact, as the waiter had missed few opportunities to ogle down the front of her aunt’s dress—and the food was adequate. But if this was one of Dunedin’s best restaurants, then the Castledene, cleaned and polished, with the chandeliers dusted and lit, would be in a class of its own. When she had pestered her father to take her on one of his business trips to Sydney—which she frequently had—he had always treated her to lunch in one of the substantial hotels of the town. It was here that she had leaned to appreciate fine dining, surroundings and service. Why shouldn’t Dunedin have the same? After all, it was said that there were fortunes made daily in this town and the Castledene had plainly been built to take advantage of those fortunes.

It was just a matter of restoring the Castledene to its earlier glory. As she watched Aunt Charlotte push her untouched plate away and reach for her glass again, Caro began to understand why the hotel had fallen on hard times in the first place.

As if reading her thoughts, Aunt Charlotte looked archly over the top of her glass.

‘Not drinking, darling?’ Her voice, soft and musical as ever, was distinctly slurred.

‘I don’t like alcohol, Aunt Charlotte,’ Caro said carefully.

‘Hmph! Like your mother, are you? Emma didn’t like drinking. Not like your father. Ben used to like a drink.’ She gave a laugh and slumped back in her seat. One pink nipple popped up out of her dress and she gave no sign of noticing as Harold considerately tucked it back into her bodice. ‘Oh, yes,’ she went on, ‘your father could put it away, all right. Oh, the things I could tell you about your father—’

‘But you’re not going to, my dear, are you?’ Harold cut in smoothly, much to Caro’s relief. ‘Let me fill up your glass.’ He turned the full charm of his smile on to Caro. ‘Now, Miss Morgan. What do you think of Dunedin?’

Caro laid her knife and fork down precisely on her plate. ‘Apart from the cold, which is quite a novelty, I like what I’ve seen so far, Mr Thwaites.’

‘Good, good.’ He topped up Charlotte’s glass and looked askance at Caro. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like just a drop, Miss Morgan?’

‘Thank you, no,’ Caro said firmly. ‘But what I would like is to talk to you about the Castledene.’

He sighed dramatically. ‘What a dreary subject for a chill night, Miss Morgan. Surely we can find a more convivial subject on which to converse?’

‘It seems to me that it’s a subject we must discuss, and urgently, too.’ She looked pointedly at her aunt. ‘Don’t you agree, Aunt Charlotte?’

‘About what, darling?’ Her aunt smiled fuzzily at her and Harold leant over to speak in a stage-whisper in her ear.

‘Your niece wants to talk about business, Charlotte.’

‘Oh, do you? How tiresome,’ Charlotte pouted. ‘I don’t.’ She giggled and Harold propped her up carefully as she began to slide to one side.

Caro took a deep breath and began patiently, ‘Aunt Charlotte, the hotel has been forced to close down…’

‘No it hasn’t, silly,’ her aunt murmured into her glass.

‘Yes, it has,’ Caro corrected her. ‘You’ve lost staff, you can’t afford to pay the staff you have, there’s no money to stock the kitchen and feed the guests. You’re trading insolvently, Aunt Charlotte!’

Her aunt blinked at her. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.’

She plainly hadn’t. Caro turned her attention to Harold who, despite his languid pose, had in fact been watching her sharply. ‘Mr Thwaites, the bar seems to be doing very well. How much rent do you pay my aunt for it?’

‘That, my dear, is between your aunt and myself,’ he said courteously enough.

‘Well, whatever it is, it’s obviously not enough!’ Caro retorted. ‘That bar was full of men this evening, all buying considerable amounts of alcohol—’

‘Which is an expensive commodity in this country,’ he broke in. ‘Besides which, may I ask how you know how well the bar is patronised, Miss Morgan? You would never cross the threshold of such a place, surely?’ As she hesitated, she saw the gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘That was not wise, Miss Morgan. Anything could happen to you in a public bar. I’d advise you not to do anything so foolhardy in the future.’

He was probably right. For one disconcerting second she remembered the cold, dead eyes of the stranger in the bar. But far too much was at stake for her to be deterred by Harold’s veiled threats and she plunged on regardless.

‘Tomorrow I’d like to see the books for the hotel and I intend doing a thorough inventory.’ He shrugged, so she added provocatively, ‘And that includes the bar, too.’

His expression grew decidedly chilly. ‘The bar is run as a separate business, Miss Morgan. You’re not to set foot in it.’

‘Oh, stop it, stop it,’ Charlotte waved her hands at them helplessly. ‘Don’t argue. You know I hate people arguing…’

‘You’re quite right.’ Harold said soothingly, even while sending Caro a look of pure malice. ‘We don’t want to upset you, do we, Miss Morgan?’

Caro looked at her aunt and was instantly contrite. Under her makeup Charlotte was very pale, and the champagne glass was shaking in her hand. Caro helped her aunt to her feet and, when the waiter brought their coats, insisted on Charlotte wearing her own warm coat back to the Castledene. Charlotte protested briefly about how unbecoming the garment was to her, but was either too drunk or too unwell to complain for long. Caro felt her aunt’s feverish, bird-like frame as she buttoned up the coat for her and felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. Poor Aunt Charlotte, in appearance so much like Caro’s mother, but with none of the quiet contentedness that was part of Emma’s personality. And while Caro was firmly of the opinion that a woman should be able to look after her own interests, it was all too clear that Charlotte was relying far too much on the highly dubious goodwill of Mr Thwaites.

Resolving to tackle Harold again first thing in the morning, Caro followed his and her aunt’s unsteady progress back through the streets of Dunedin. It had stopped snowing, but the sidewalks were slippery with snowdrifts. On the corner of Castle Street Charlotte collapsed and Harold had to carry her the rest of the way. Caro followed him upstairs and into her aunt’s room, where she hurriedly lit the lamps while he deposited her aunt on the bed.

‘I’ll take care of her now,’ she said pointedly as he removed her aunt’s slippers, silly, frippery little things that they were. He stepped back with a sardonic smile.

‘As you wish. I’ll be in the bar if you need me. I take it you remember where that is, Miss Morgan?’

As he left Charlotte struggled to sit up, protesting that she was perfectly capable of seeing to herself. Calmly ignoring her, Caro set and lit the fire, and soon had the room in order and Charlotte tucked up warmly in bed with a bedpan.

‘Shall I see if there’s any milk in the kitchen?’ Caro asked, perching herself on the edge of the bed. Propped up against the pillows, her aunt wrinkled her nose in disgust.

‘Ugh! Yes, I remember Emma used to make me hot milk and honey before I went to bed at night to help me sleep.’ She held out a fine-boned hand to Caro. ‘I miss your mother, Caroline. She’s an angel…’

Caro fought back the pang of homesickness. ‘I miss her, too,’ she confessed.

Charlotte sighed and her eyes drooped. Her hand in Caro’s felt far too hot for comfort, despite her complaints of the cold. ‘Twenty years apart. Such a long time, and because of such a silly quarrel…’

She was asleep in seconds. Caro waited for a while, but her aunt seemed comfortable enough, so she tiptoed back to her own room. The meagre fire she had lit for herself had long since died out and when she pulled back the curtain the room was flooded with cold moonlight. She undressed swiftly without a lamp and pulled on the old, comfortable nightgown that always reminded her of home. Then, shivering, she slipped between the cold sheets, finding the still-warm bedpan with grateful toes.

She was so tired that she had expected to fall asleep immediately, but instead she lay staring blindly at the ceiling, missing the creaking of ship’s timbers beneath the wind and the waves. The silence here unnerved her, and although there was an occasional burst of noise from the bar below the sound was so muffled by the snow on the windowpanes as to be almost imperceptible. It was hours later when she heard the creaking of the stairs and the sound of quiet footsteps coming down the hall. Feeling suddenly very alone she sat up, pulling the blankets around her protectively. Too late she remembered that she hadn’t locked the door.

The footsteps stopped outside her room. Scarcely daring to breathe, she silently padded to the door and felt for the key. There wasn’t one. She gripped the doorhandle tightly, resisting the pressure as she felt it being turned on the other side.

‘Caroline?’ Mr Thwaites whispered hoarsely. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Not at this hour, I wouldn’t think, mate,’ snarled a familiar voice beside him.

‘Mr Matthews?’ Caro whispered incredulously.

‘Yes.’

She wrenched open the door and looked down at the little, whiskery, beloved face. Harold Thwaites seemed to have vanished silently into the shadows.

‘Oh, I’m so pleased to see you!’ She flung her arms around Mr Matthews and hugged him tight. He tolerated it for a full five seconds before pushing her away.

‘Enough of that!’ he said gruffly.

She drew him into the room and stared at him incredulously in the moonlight.

‘I can’t believe it! Oh, this is wonderful! When did you arrive in Dunedin?’

‘This evenin’. I shipped out from Sydney same day as you.’ He looked disparagingly around the room. ‘You ready to come home now?’

She sank down on the edge of her bed. ‘No,’ she said mulishly.

‘You’ve made your point, girl. Your ma’s beside herself, your pa wants you home safe again—’

‘But I can’t go home!’ she burst out. ‘Not now! Aunt Charlotte’s not well, and the hotel needs rescuing and Mr Thwaite’s cheating her, I just know it and—’

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ He held up a hand in protest. ‘Just slow down and tell me what you’re talking about.’

So she did, and he stood listening intently, nodding from time to time in what she hoped was agreement. His silence when she had finished, however, was ominous.

‘Well,’ she said after a moment. ‘You can understand why I can’t go home.’

He scratched his head. ‘I can understand why you won’t go home, girl. But why you should stay here beats me. You don’t owe your aunt nothing!’

‘But I do! She’s so sweet and helpless…’ She ignored Mr Matthew’s derisive snort and added, ‘I’m not leaving Dunedin until she’s out of trouble and that’s that. Now, do you have any money?’

‘What?’

‘Money. Did Father give you any before you left Sydney? I’m sure he would have.’

He looked shifty. ‘Can’t say that he did…’

‘Yes, he did. He would have given you enough to get us both home, if nothing else.’ She held out her hand. ‘That will at least pay some of the staff wages. It may even be enough to open the dining room again,’

Mr Matthews stepped back, his eyes widening in panic. ‘Your pa’d skin me alive if I gave your aunt so much as a penny! I’d never dare set foot in his house again!’

His consternation was so real that Caro uncharacteristically stopped arguing and lowered her hand. ‘Oh, this family feud is so ridiculous! Well, I’ll just have to think of something else.’ Somewhere in Dunedin a clock chimed three o’clock and she struggled to stifle a yawn.

‘Tomorrow,’ Mr Matthews said. ‘We’ll think of something tomorrow, girl. Now you get back into bed and keep warm.’

She couldn’t stop the next yawn. ‘I’ll find you a room along the hall…’ But he told her in no uncertain terms that he was perfectly capable of finding a room to ‘bunk down in’ and left her after several more admonitions that she return to bed directly. The bed was cold, and her feet felt like ice, but Caro was so happy she scarcely noticed. Mr Matthews was sleeping across the hallway and everything was right with the world. She fell asleep almost immediately with a smile on her face.

Chapter Three

‘A h, here it is!’ Caro hauled the heavy book up from under the registration desk, thumped it down triumphantly and blew the light layer of dust off the leather cover. The motes danced in the pale winter light pouring in through the long front windows of the Castledene Hotel.

Outside had dawned the loveliest imaginable spring day. The previous day’s snow still clung to the hilltops, but Caro had gone for an early-morning walk around the outskirts of Dunedin, with Mr Matthews puffing behind all the way, and she had returned with a clutch of bright daffodils. They sat now in a fine crystal vase on the registration desk, lending an air of cheerful welcome to the otherwise formal entry hall.

‘Oh, dear.’ She looked across to where Mr Matthews sat glowering at his feet. ‘Nothing has been entered in these books for over four months.’ Mr Matthews, who had a profound suspicion of anything on a page, merely shrugged. ‘I wonder who’s been keeping record of everything bought or sold since then?’ she murmured to the empty air. ‘I would have thought that would have been Oliver’s job.’

‘Or yer aunt’s,’ Mr Matthews said shortly.

Caro glanced up at her aunt’s door at the top of the stairs. She had looked in on her earlier, but Charlotte had been still sleeping restlessly and Caro hadn’t liked to disturb her.

‘She’s not well, Mr Matthews.’

He snorted rudely. ‘Never has been, that one. Never been sober, neither.’

‘Don’t be horrible!’ Caro said indignantly. ‘I meant, she’s not well physically. She’s not strong, and only recently widowed, and I don’t think she’s ever had to run a business before.’

‘Neither have you,’ he retorted. ‘What do you know ’bout books and figures and all that? Never noticed you paying any attention to your ’rithmetic lessons when your ma was trying to learn you.’

‘But the figures that relate to running a business make sense, don’t you see?’ Caro jabbed her finger at the offending blank space in the ledger book. ‘Without that information, I can’t tell how much it costs to run this establishment. And I’d really like to know how much Mr Thwaites is—or isn’t—paying for the lease on the bar.’

‘None of your bleedin’ business, I say.’

Caro closed the ledger book with a slap. ‘It is, Mr Matthews, because I’m my aunt’s closest relative in this town. Come on.’

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