The Cattleman

THE FLIGHT INSIDE the magnificent canyon, carved by countless centuries of floodwaters, was the ultimate thrill. Here below her was a verdant oasis in the middle of the desert. The colors in the cliff walls were astonishing. All the dry ochers were there, pinks, cream, yellow, orange, fiery cinnabar, purples, thick veins of brown and black and white. She felt a strong urge to try to paint them. Tier upon tier like some ancient pyramid was reflected perfectly in the mirrorlike surface of the lagoon. To either side lay broken chains of deep dark pools, but it was the main lagoon with its flotilla of pink water lilies that held the eye. It directly received the sparkling waterfall that cascaded from the plateau-like summit of the escarpment, littered with giant, orange-red boulders in themselves marvelously paintable.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Bannerman said, his voice betraying his pride in his Outback domain.

This was one lucky guy, Jessica thought. He appeared to have it all. Looks, intelligence, a vibrant physical presence, a rich if ruthless tycoon for a father, and one day all this would be his. Some three million glorious savage acres, and that was only Mokhani. She knew from her quick study of Broderick Bannerman’s affairs that several other stations made up the Bannerman pastoral empire. It had to be an extraordinary experience to have millions of acres for a backyard, let alone a spectacular natural wonder like the gorge. Both sides of the canyon were thickly wooded with paperbarks and river gums; the lagoon and water holes were bordered by clean white sand.

“Can you swim there?” She pointed downward.

He nodded. “I have all my life. The pool is very deep at the centre. Perhaps bottomless.”

A little frisson ran down Jessica’s arms.

FROM THE AIR, MOKHANI STATION was an extraordinary sight, a pioneering settlement in the wilds. Bannerman’s ancestors had carved this out, living with, rather than conquering, the land. Jessica, with her capacity for visualization, saw monstrous saltwater crocodiles inhabiting the paperbark swamps and lagoons that were spread across the vast primeval landscape. Not for the first time on this adventure did she consider the fate of Mokhani’s governess who had vanished without a trace all those years ago. It was, after all, a haunting tale that had never found closure.

The station was so large it sent a shock of awe through her; miles of open plain interspersed with large areas of dense scrub, through which she could see the sharp glitter of numerous creeks and lagoons. It would be terrifyingly easy to get lost in all that. The table-topped escarpment that towered over the canyon and dominated the landscape was another major hazard. Although she didn’t suffer from vertigo, Jessica was certain one could easily become dizzy if one ventured too near the lip of the precipice. It would be all too easy to topple over. Easier still to get pushed.

I’ve got an overactive imagination, she thought, a strange taste of copper in her mouth. Could it be that was what had happened? A young woman, too frantic to be afraid groping at thin air, skin ripped as she bounced off rock to rock. Did Moira go into the water alive? A body carried into the deep lagoon would make a succulent meal for a man-eating crocodile. Surely no one could say for sure that one didn’t lurk there….

She was rather ashamed of her lurid thoughts. There were always suspicions when no body had been found. But if she’d been pushed, it would have been murder.

She longed to question Cyrus Bannerman about the unsolved mystery, but sensed she would only anger him. Such tragedies, though never forgotten, would have resonated unhappily down the years. He could well have been the butt of a lot of taunts in his school days. Like most Outback children, he would have been sent away to boarding school at around age ten. Looking at him now, she felt, boy and man, he had coped.

They flew over a huge complex of holding yards where thousands and thousands of cattle were penned. Probably awaiting transport to market by the great road trains. Clusters of outbuildings surrounded the main compound like a satellite town. The silver hangar with MOKHANI emblazoned on the roof was enormous. It looked as if it could comfortably house a couple of domestic jets. Two bright yellow helicopters were on the ground a short distance from the hangar, as well as several station vehicles. Up ahead, across a silver ribbon of creek, she could see the original homestead, very large as even large houses go, and some distance away what appeared to be a great classical temple.

Broderick Bannerman wanted her to furnish that? Hatshepsut, queen of ancient Egypt, no mean hand at decorating, might have called in the professionals. Should she, Jessica, return to ancient Egypt for inspiration or settle for pre-Hellenic? Smack-bang in the middle of the wilderness, either option seemed a mite excessive, not to say bizarre. Obviously Broderick Bannerman, like the kings of old, had built his temple as a monument to himself. She wondered what role his son had played in it. There was an elegant austerity about Cyrus Bannerman that suggested none.

Another employee was on hand to drive her up to the house.

“I’m needed elsewhere, but Pete will look after you,” Cy said, his eyes resting on her with what seemed like challenge.

“Many thanks for such an exciting trip,” she responded, giving him her best smile. “I feel like I’m starting a new life.”

“And yet at the end of a few weeks, you’ll return to your old life.” He sketched a brief salute and went on his way.

THEY DROVE PAST THE MULTITUDE of outbuildings she had seen from the air, then topping a rise, she had her first view of Mokhani homestead. The original homestead that had withstood the fury of Cyclone Tracy, being miles from the epicenter. It was a most impressive sight, approached by an avenue of towering palms. Jessica wondered why Bannerman had wanted to build another. Two-storied, with a grand hip roof and broad verandas on three sides, the upper story featured beautiful decorative iron-lace balustrading. The extensive gardens surrounding the house no doubt fed by underground bores, were full of trees: banyan, fig, tamarind, rain trees, the magnificent Pride of India, flamboyant poincianas and several of the very curious boab trees with their fat, rather grotesque bottle-shaped trunks. Tropical shrubs also abounded. Oleanders and frangipani, which so delighted the senses, agapanthus, strelitzias, New Zealand flax plants with their dramatic stiff vertical leaves, giant tibouchinas and masses of the brilliant ixoras. The slender white pillars that supported the upper floor of the house were all but smothered by a prolifically flowering white bell flower.

She had arrived! It all seemed wonderfully exciting, dramatic really. And Cyrus Bannerman had had a considerable effect on her when she’d grown accustomed to distancing herself from any physical response to men, as it made her job easier.

As Pete collected her luggage, Jessica walked up the short flight of stone steps to the wide veranda. It was obviously a place of relaxation, she thought looking at the array of outdoor furniture. Low tables, comfortable chairs, Ali Baba–style pots spilling beautiful bougainvillea. A series of French doors with louvered shutters ran to either side of the double front doors, eight pairs in all. She hoped she looked okay, though she was well aware that her hair, which had started out beautifully smooth and straight, was now blowing out into the usual mad cloud of curls. She was wearing cool, low-waisted Dietrich-style pants in olive-green with a cream silk blouse, but no way could she put on the matching jacket. It was just too hot! Her intention had been to look businesslike, not like a poster girl for amazing hair.

Jessica hesitated before lifting the shining brass knocker with the lion’s head. Wasn’t anyone going to come to the door? They had to be expecting her. Just as she reached out her hand, one of the double doors with their splendid lead-light panels and fan lights suddenly opened. A tall, gaunt, ghost of a woman, with parchment skin, violet circles around her sunken eyes and as much hair as Jessica, only snow-white, stared back at her. The vision was dressed in the saffron robes of a Tibetan monk, an expression of dawning wonder on her face.

“It’s Moira, isn’t it? Moira? Where have you been, dear? We’ve been desperately worried.”

The extraordinary expression on the old lady’s face smote Jessica’s tender heart. She took the long trembling hand extended to her and gave it a little reassuring shake. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m not Moira,” she explained gently. “I’m Jessica Tennant, the interior designer. Mr. Bannerman is expecting me.”

“Jessica?” Recognition turned to frowning bemusement. “Absolutely not.”

“Lavinia, what are you doing there?” A young female voice intervened, so sharp and accusatory it appeared to rob Lavinia of speech. “Lavinia?”

Lavinia feigned deafness, though Jessica could see the little flare of anger in her eyes. She leaned forward, clutching Jessica’s hand to her thin chest and whispering into her face, “Always knew you’d come back.” She grinned as if they were a couple of coconspirators.

“Silly old bat! Take no notice of her.” An ultraslim, glamorous-looking young woman, with her glossy sable hair in a classic pageboy, and the long, dark brown eyes of an Egyptian queen, came into sight.

“Silly old bat, am I?” the old lady shouted. “You just leave me alone, Robyn. I’m the Bannerman, not you!”

The young woman cast Jessica a long-suffering look. “Excuse us. You forget, Lavinia, Dad adopted me. I’m as much a Bannerman as the rest of you. Perhaps you could do us all a favor and retire to your room. I know how much you like to read. What is it now? Let me guess. Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire?”

“Bitch!” the old lady muttered sotto voce.

“So nice to have met you, Miss Lavinia,” Jessica smiled into the troubled old face. What was it, Alzheimer’s, dementia? The bane of old age. So sad. Lavinia had to be well into her eighties, though she didn’t look in the least demented. More an eccentric living in the past.

Lavinia kept hold of Jessica’s hand as though unwilling to let her go. “You’ve not come near the house for years and years,” she said, looking as though she were about to weep.

“I expect I had to wait for an invitation,” Jessica whispered back.

“My dear, don’t you care that you put us through such an ordeal?” The sunken eyes filled with tears.

“I didn’t mean to,” Jessica found herself saying. Anything to calm the old woman.

“Livvy, that’s quite enough!” The young woman swooped like a falcon. Her long-fingered hand closed over Lavinia’s bony shoulder. “You’re embarrassing Ms. Tennant. I suggest you go to your room before Dad finds out.”

Lavinia threw off the hand with surprising strength and adjusted her robe. “It was Broderick who brought her here,” she said. “I’ve never liked you, Robyn, though I tried hard. You were a frightful child and you’re a frightful woman. She pinches me, you know.”

“Lavinia, dear.” Robyn Bannerman smiled tightly, obviously trying to retain her patience. “If I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry. Your skin is like tissue paper. Now, Ms. Tennant is here to see Dad. He’s not a man to be kept waiting.”

Lavinia nodded fiercely, setting her abundant hair in motion. “Dear me, no.”

Robyn Bannerman lifted beautifully manicured hands. “She’s quite gaga,” she told Jessica softly.

There was nothing wrong with Lavinia’s hearing. “Not gaga, Robyn. Ask me who the prime minister is. I’ll tell you. John Howard. I didn’t vote for him. Ask me about the war in Iraq. I guarantee I’m better than you at mental arithmetic, let alone music, the arts and great literature. I speak fluent French. I had to give up on Japanese. I’m not reading The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by the way. And it’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I’m reading My Early Life by Winston Churchill. Quite delightful!”

“I couldn’t imagine anything worse,” Robyn sighed. “Please go to your room, Livvy. You’ll be happier there.”

Looking quite rebellious, Lavinia spun to face Jessica who said in a soothing manner before the whole thing got out of hand, “I’m looking forward to seeing you later, Miss Lavinia. I hope I may address you that way?”

The old lady gave her a startlingly sweet smile. “You always did call me Miss Lavinia. I have trouble sleeping, you know. But you always come into my dreams. I’ve had no trouble remembering you. Until later, then, dear.”

Lavinia moved off serenely, while Robyn Bannerman stood, rather inelegantly biting the side of her mouth. “I’m sorry about that,” she said after Lavinia had disappeared. “Poor old dear has been senile for years. She usually stays upstairs in her room, rereading the entire library or listening to her infernal opera. Some of those sopranos know how to screech, or it could be Lavinia. She had a brief career on the stage. She only ventures down for dinner, thank God. I’m Robyn Bannerman, as you will have gathered. Come on in. My father is expecting you.” Robyn’s dark eyes swept Jessica’s face and figure. “I must say you look absurdly young for such a big project.”

Jessica frowned and was about to respond when Robyn continued, “What you want to do is enjoy yourself for a few days, then head back to Brisbane. My father rarely if ever makes mistakes, but there’s a first time for all of us. Though I must say, I’m dying to hear what you come up with.”

A lot better than this, I hope, Jessica thought, glancing around in surprised disappointment. Although opulent, the interior of the homestead did not so much impress as overwhelm. The furnishings were far too formal for the bush setting, the drapery, though hellishly expensive—Jessica knew the fabric—too elaborate. This was, after all, a country house. It didn’t look lived in. In fact nothing looked even touched. There were no books lying around, no flowers, not an object out of place.

The air-conditioning, however, was a huge plus, utterly blissful after the blazing heat outside. Jessica felt that given what she had seen so far, she wouldn’t be right for the job. Not if Broderick Bannerman wanted more of this. Brett wouldn’t be happy, either, unless Bannerman gave her carte blanche. The homestead had a vaguely haunted air about it, or so it seemed to her, but she could see how it could be brought back to life.

“I see you’re admiring the decor,” Robyn said, as though they were gazing at perfection. “I did it all a couple of years back. I hoped to do the new place, but I can’t be expected to do everything! I practically run the domestic side of things here and I have businesses in Darwin that have to be looked after. If I do say so myself, I’m a hard act to follow.”

Jessica managed a smile, but she couldn’t for the life of her act impressed. In fact, she could hear Brett’s voice saying, Dump the lot!

CHAPTER THREE

SHE WAS SHOWN INTO A LARGE, luxuriously appointed study. There was no one inside.

“That’s funny. Dad was here ten minutes ago. I’ll go find him,” Robyn said, giving Jessica another of her dubious looks. “Take a seat. Won’t be long. You’d like tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be fine. Black, no sugar.”

“Looking after your figure?” Robyn asked with a slightly sarcastic smile.

“I do, but I’ve grown to like coffee that way.”

Alone, Jessica stared around the room, thinking how one’s home environment reflected the person. It had to be the one place from which Robyn Bannerman’s decorating talents had been banned. It certainly looked lived in. Going by the faint film of gray on the wall of solid mahogany bookcases, Jessica doubted if anyone was game to go around with a feather duster. Behind the massive partner’s desk hung a splendid three-quarter portrait of an extraordinarily handsome man, not Broderick Bannerman, though the resemblance to Cyrus Bannerman was striking. He was painted in casual dress, a bright blue open-throated bush shirt the color of his eyes, a silver-buckled belt, just the top of his riding pants, the handsome head with crisp dark hair faintly ruffled by a breeze, set against a subdued darkish-green background. The eyes were extraordinary. Because of her own deep involvement with art, she stood up for a closer look, wanting to study the fluent brush strokes, which she had the strangest feeling she’d seen before.

“My father,” a man’s deep, cultured voice said from behind her. He startled her, as she felt sure he had meant to.

She turned quickly toward the voice, surprised he was standing so close to her. She hadn’t heard him come in. “It’s a wonderful painting,” she said. “I was just going to check on the name of the artist. I’ve a feeling I’ve seen his work before and—”

“You couldn’t have,” Broderick Bannerman cut her off, his appraisal of her intense, as though he wanted to examine every inch of her. “The artist was a nobody. Just a family friend.”

“He may have been a nobody, but he was a very good painter,” Jessica said, determined not to be intimidated by the great man. “Excellent technique.”

“Would you know?” His icy gray eyes beneath heavy black brows didn’t shift. Had he been a horse fancier, he might have asked to check her teeth.

“I think so. I have a fine-arts degree. I paint myself. I started with watercolors, which I love, but I’ve moved on to oils and acrylics.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve found the time,” he said. “You’re twenty-four?”

“Yes, but you already know that, Mr. Bannerman.” Jessica held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said, though aspects of the man had already started to worry her. His gaze was so piercing, she felt she needed protection.

Bannerman took the slender hand, thinking most people had to work hard at containing their awe of him, but this chit of a girl showed no such deference. He stared into her large green eyes. Memories speared through him, for a moment holding him in thrall. “Please, sit down,” he said after a moment, his voice harsher than he intended. On no account did he want to frighten her away. “Has Robyn organized some coffee?” With an impatient frown, he went around his desk, sitting in the black leather swivel chair.

“Yes, she has,” Jessica answered, thinking intimidation was something this man would do supremely well. He had been born to power. Clearly, he took it as his due. Broderick Bannerman had to be nearing sixty, but he looked at least ten years younger. He didn’t have his son’s amazing sapphire eyes, but his icy glance was remarkable enough. His hair was as thick and black as his son’s with distinguished wings of silver. All in all, Broderick Bannerman was a fine figure of a man with a formidable aura. Why in the world would a man like this choose her to handle such a big project? Brett would have been the obvious choice.

“Speaking of watercolors,” he said, “my aunt Lavinia loves them. She’s a very arty person, so you should get on well.”

“I had the pleasure of meeting her momentarily,” Jessica said, thinking it best to say. It would come out sooner or later.

“Really? When was this?” The frosted gaze locked on hers.

“She happened to be in the entrance hall when I arrived.”

“Good. I don’t want her to hide. Then you’ll know she’s somewhat eccentric?”

“I found her charming,” Jessica said.

“She can be a handful,” Bannerman said, with a welcome trace of humor. “Most people think she’s senile, but she’s not. She likes wearing weird costumes. She had a brief fling as an opera singer in her youth. Still daydreams about it. You’ll no doubt get to see the costumes. Tosca’s my favourite. She’s a Buddhist at the moment. She’s actually had an audience with the Dalai Lama. Regretfully she has arrived at the point where we can’t let her go out alone, though she managed to get to Sydney recently—but I’d sent along a minder for her and she stayed with relatives. Don’t be too worried by anything she says. Livvy never really knows what time frame she’s in.”

Wary of his reaction, Jessica didn’t tell him Lavinia had called her Moira.

Bannerman was still talking when a middle-aged woman in a zip-up pale blue uniform wheeled a laden trolley into the room without once lifting her head. Robyn was standing directly behind her, looking very much as if one false move and the tea lady would get a good rap on the knuckles.

“Thank you, Molly,” Bannerman said. “This is our housekeeper, Mrs. Patterson, Jessica. You’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.”

The two women exchanged a smile, Jessica saying a pleasant hello.

“I’ll pour, shall I?” Robyn asked.

Bannerman looked back at her coolly. “This is a private conversation, Robyn.”

Jessica felt mortified on Robyn’s account. Was this his normal behavior?

Robyn colored, as well she might. “I thought you might need a little help.”

“Thank you, no.”

Not the nicest man I’ve ever met, Jessica thought.

In the end, she poured the coffee, which turned out to be excellent. To her surprise, instead of getting down to business, Bannerman began to question her, albeit in a roundabout way, about her family, listening to her replies with every appearance of interest. One might have been forgiven for thinking before matters progressed any further she had to establish her family tree. Surely he didn’t talk to everyone this way, did he? Not everyone would expect to be quizzed about their ancestors, unless they were marrying into European royalty.

In the middle of it all, the phone rang. At least she was off the hook for a while, she thought wryly. Bannerman turned his intense pale gray stare on the phone as though willing it to stop. Finally he was forced to pick it up. “I thought I told you to hold the calls,” he boomed into the mouthpiece.

He certainly has a way with the staff, Jessica thought. That sort of voice would make anyone gulp, let alone damage the ears.

“All right, put him on.”

Jessica made to jump to her feet to give him privacy, but he waved her back into the seat, launching into a hot, hard attack on the poor unfortunate individual on the other end of the line. How people of wealth liked to make lesser mortals quake! Afterward, satisfied he had made himself clear and beaten one more employee into the turf, Bannerman centered Jessica with his lancing eyes. “Look, you haven’t had time to settle in and I have to attend to some fool matter. You have no idea the amount of nonsense I have to put up with. Some of my people can’t do anything on their own. What say we met up again at four? It will be cooler then. I can take you on tour of the new house.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Bannerman,” Jessica said. He might be shaping up to be an ogre, but no need to call home yet.

“You’re hired, by the way.” He flashed her an odd look, impossible to define.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to wait until I submit some designs or at least hear my ideas? They’d be off the top of my head, of course. Better, when I’ve had time—”

“No need,” he said dismissively. “You’ll do very well.”

It was the first time she’d been given a commission on the basis of her looks and ancestors.

UP IN HER BEDROOM, Robyn paced the perimeter of the Persian rug, as a lioness might pace the perimeter of her cage. She was utterly enraged. For B.B. to humiliate her in front of a complete stranger left her wanting to kill someone. Though she had done everything in her power to fit into this family, she fumed, she would never be regarded as a true daughter of the house. Like that old witch Lavinia, who smiled so lovingly on Cyrus, had said, Robyn wasn’t a true Bannerman. No unshakable bond of blood; the belonging was only on the surface. Scratch the surface and it was as clear today as it had been from the outset when she’d first come to Mokhani with her mother, she was an outsider. Her mother, not capable of getting both oars in the water, had nevertheless shoehorned herself in, always sweet and unassuming, dutiful and deferential to her rich and powerful husband.

Their marriage had been a big lie. B.B. had married her mother, an old school chum of the incomparable Deborah, only to beget more sons. But poor Sharon couldn’t rise to the challenge, though she had looked like “lust on legs,” as a guy she knew put it. The sad reality was that Sharon hadn’t been very fertile, and her marriage to B.B. seemed to render her completely barren. Her daughter, Robyn, her only child, was her sole achievement. Needless to say, B.B. was bitterly disappointed in her mother and had all but ignored her, unceremoniously bundling her out of the master suite and into a room on the other side of the house, causing Sharon to curl up and simply fade away. B.B. had wanted a long succession of heirs, not just Cy, the son of the only woman he had ever loved, that paragon Deborah who, for all the cups and ribbons she’d won, had gone hurtling over the neck of her horse.