all retreat and he could have the private lunch he craved, or…
Or maybe he was no longer fussed about a private lunch. Maybe these two had him intrigued.
Danger. One hint of interest, he told himself, and Maud would be away on her favourite pastime. Even his grandfather’s death hadn’t deflected her. These were two young women. Young. Women. Once upon a time Maudie had been fussy about who she threw at him. Now she was growing desperate. Young and women were the only two descriptors she needed, and the fact that Amy danced…
He needed, very carefully, to be uninterested. He needed to shut up and let Maudie do the talking—if Amy and Rachel would let her.
And it seemed they’d relented. Amy’s smile returned, not on full beam, as it had been when welcoming an elderly lady to join her, but neutrally friendly now, treating his grandmother as an equal.
‘I’m a bit touchy,’ she admitted. ‘And I’m sorry. I’ve been retired for three months now—you’d think I’d be over it. But your husband’s death…’ This time it was she who touched Maudie’s hand. ‘Sixty years of marriage to a man such as Sir James… You and your husband have done so much for our world. You can’t imagine how grateful we’ve been, and you can’t imagine how much he’s missed.’
She smiled, then, a smile that was neither ingratiating nor patronising to the old. It was, Hugo thought, just right. ‘I guess we all have to learn to cope with loss,’ she said. She glanced fleetingly at her sister and an expression passed between them Hugo didn’t have a hope of understanding. ‘It never stops being gut-wrenching, but maybe we need to give the occasional rock and camel a chance.’
She glanced out of the window and suddenly her smile returned in full. ‘And speaking of camels… Look!’
And out of the window four wild camels were loping along, keeping pace with the train.
Camels had been brought to Australia in the nineteenth century. Made unnecessary now by modern transport, they’d run wild and thrived in places where no other animal could survive.
‘They’re amazing,’ Amy breathed as she watched the wild young camels race.
‘Fantastic,’ Maudie agreed, finally caught by the camels she’d scorned.
‘They have camel races at Alice Springs,’ Amy said regretfully. ‘But there are no races while we’re there. Rachel says we’ll look at rocks instead.’
This was said with such a tone of martyrdom that Maudie laughed, and Rachel laughed—and even Hugo found himself smiling.
And then he thought: a ballet dancer who made them all smile. Uh oh.
Ballet was Maudie’s passion. At six feet in her rather substantial bare feet, Maudie could never, ever, have been a ballet dancer, but she adored it and she had a permanent booking for most major Australian performances.
As a kid, in the many times his father had offloaded him onto Maudie, she’d often taken Hugo with her.
He glanced across at Amy now and he thought: had this woman been one of those sylphlike figures whose movements on the stage were pure grace and beauty?
The last ballet he’d been to was when he’d been about sixteen. He’d been traumatised by the latest of his father’s public scandals. His grandparents were the centre of media attention and, in typical teenage fashion, he’d decided every eye in the theatre was on him. He’d watched, sullen and uncooperative, but, despite himself, he’d found himself caught. He’d thought then, fleetingly, he knew why his grandmother loved it.
But, after that, he’d never been back. Real men didn’t go to the ballet, especially men headed for the army, for the powerful SWAT team, for action in Iraq, Afghanistan, so many of the world’s trouble spots.
Now, at thirty-seven, he was seeing a faint echo of a world he’d last seen twenty years ago.
Amy was talking to his grandmother as if she was already a friend. She’d figured just the right note. They shared sadness, yet both were moving on.
The sister—Rachel?—seemed a shadow on the periphery, polite but looking as if she’d love to retreat to her stones.
The impression of illness intensified.
He’d like to know these women’s stories.
No. No, he wouldn’t. He wanted to get this journey over with, get his grandmother cheered up and get back to his unit. His grandmother was doing everything she could to draw him into her world, and he would not be drawn.
Except the appalling woman they’d met at lunch had been right. Maybe he had no choice.
The camels won. They upped the pace, swept forward until they were a carriage ahead and then veered away, triumphant.
‘I’m guessing they race every train,’ Amy said, and she suddenly sounded wistful. ‘Don’t they look wonderful? Don’t they look free?’
‘They’re young,’ Maudie said, and the wistfulness was in her voice as well. ‘They’ll get aching legs soon enough.’
‘Yep, any minute now they’ll be taking anti-inflammatories and heating wheat bags to take to bed at night,’ Amy said, and Maudie chuckled—and Hugo glanced at Amy and thought: there’s pain behind those words. Pain and courage.
He did not want to be interested in a woman on a train.
Rachel was back in her book.
Amy was slipping steak into her purse.
Amy was what?
He must have imagined it.
He hadn’t imagined it. She’d sliced a sliver, then dropped her hand below the table to where her purse lay on her knee. When she’d raised her fork the steak was gone.
She cut another sliver and ate it, just like normal.
The waiter appeared to take Maudie and Hugo’s order. They were a course behind the girls. They could watch.
Rachel read. Amy and Maudie chatted.
A steak sliver raised to Amy’s lips. Another.
Another went below the table and disappeared.
Hugo was trained to notice small details. Suspicions. Anything out of the ordinary could mean trouble. As tiny a detail as a robe worn slightly askew, or a guy smiling more widely than appropriate meant immediate caution.
He wasn’t in a war zone now. He could hardly drag Amy’s hand up with the offending steak and say, Explain yourself.
Another sliver dropped purse-wards. She glanced up and met his gaze. Their eyes locked.
She knew he’d seen.
She didn’t say a word but there was a message in those clear brown eyes…
Please don’t say anything. This is important. Please…
Curiouser
