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
