taken a series of mistresses—some nice, some ghastly—and the only shield between herself and them had been years at an exclusive boarding-school. Years of yearning for a normal family life until she’d grown a protective shell that was both brittle and bright and sometimes outrageous.
I know it, she thought. I know I can be impossible, and I suppose it’s really ironic that when I am impossible I emulate the very worst side of my father, who I basically despise, but that’s not all there is to me.
Still...she grimaced... I must have acquired more of a reputation for being a chip off the old block than I realised, and I certainly must have acquired more of a reputation for being a dilettante, not to mention glamorous but useless, than I realised if people buried in the wilds of Far North Queensland have heard about me.
Mind you, she countered to herself, I can’t be held responsible for the fact that the reason I came to be at Wirra got wildly distorted, and why should I care what one insufferably arrogant man thinks of me?
She returned to the breakfast table with the uncomfortable knowledge that she did care, even if she couldn’t understand why. Her hands stilled as she started to butter a piece of toast, and a gleam came to her blue eyes. Now, Chessie, don’t rush into this, she told herself, but a few moments later she reached for the phone to call Reception and advise them that she required a fax machine. Then she made several calls to Melbourne, her home town—only one of them being to do with the parts required for the malfunctioning Wirra helicopter.
An hour later the faxes started to roll in satisfactorily. Two hours later she dressed carefully in her most conservative clothes.
She chose cream linen trousers, a cream and green checked blouse and polished brown moccasins. She tied her rich hair back demurely with a green ribbon and she wore no jewellery other than her signet ring and a man’s plain watch with a leather band. She applied no make-up.
She folded her faxes carefully and tucked them into her shoulder bag. She then took the lift to the foyer where the head porter, with sweeping bows, procured a taxi for her and directed it to the offices of the Acme Employment Agency.
‘I believe,’ she said to the lady behind the desk at Acme, ‘that there is a governess position available at Bramble Downs—the Stevensen family. I happened to hear about it and, since I have teaching qualifications and I’m on a working holiday in this part of the world, I thought of applying for it.’
The woman, whose name-tag labelled her as Joyce Cotton, blinked, then smote her forehead. ‘Glory be! I was getting quite desperate! Poor Mrs Ellery has broken her wrist, and as if that isn’t bad enough she’s just rung me to say the cook’s gone walkabout. She really needs help urgently now, but they have very high standards and it’s just not that easy to find quality staff—or any kind of staff,’ she added honestly, ‘for these stations.
‘Then there are floods up there, I believe, so Raefe Stevensen—he’s the girl’s father—is going to be desperately busy and can’t be home. Mind you, I’ll have to check you out before I can—’
‘Of course,’ Francesca said, and just thinking of Raefe Stevensen and the way he’d kept her waiting with no sign of being desperately busy, let alone the way he’d kissed her, helped her to say without a twinge, ‘My name is Fran Moorehouse, and I’ve brought along copies of my references and so on. You’re welcome to check them out.’
Not that I’m really telling a lie, she mused, having been christened Francesca Moorehouse Valentine—Moorehouse was her mother’s maiden name. And Fran Moorehouse was a name she often used to escape notice.
To do Joyce Cotton credit, she diligently checked most of them by phone, then said, ‘Right, Fran, I think that will do. Now there’s only the problem of getting you up there. What a pity it’s not yesterday! Raefe had a plane land in Cairns, I believe, but anyway, I’ll get on to him straight away. You can—’
‘Joyce,’ Francesca interrupted, ‘where exactly is Bramble Downs? I’ll tell you why I’m asking: I have a four-wheel drive, and if it’s at all possible to drive myself up there I’d rather do that than have to find somewhere to leave it.’
Joyce Cotton frowned, then pulled out a large-scale map. ‘It’s at least a six-hour drive from here, Fran, on difficult roads. And then there are the floods—but they may not have reached... Look, I don’t know about this,’ she finished anxiously. ‘On the other hand, if it saved Raefe a trip...’
Francesca studied the map and noted that Bramble Downs was on the east coast of the peninsula and about two hundred miles south of the town and airstrip she’d flown from yesterday. ‘Could...?’ She paused and frowned. ‘Perhaps I could get a road report from the RACQ? They should have up-to-date information.’
Joyce brightened and reached for the phone. It transpired that Bramble Downs should be accessible until the following afternoon at least.
‘Well—’ Francesca smiled ‘—that solves that.’
‘And you have no qualms about driving up there on your own?’ Joyce enquired.
‘None,’ Francesca assured her.
‘You know,’ Joyce said warmly, ‘I think you’re just the practical, capable kind of person the Stevensens need!’
‘Thank you,’ Francesca responded, with what she hoped was hidden irony, and ten minutes later she stepped out into the bright sunshine.
She then applied herself to the task of acquiring a four-wheel-drive vehicle at extremely short notice, and also all she would require for a stay of unknown duration on Bramble Downs.
CHAPTER TWO
TEN days later Sarah Ellery, Raefe’s sister, who was in her late thirties, said, ‘Fran, I don’t know how on earth I coped without you! This wretched wrist.’ She waved the offending arm with its plaster. ‘You just don’t realise how difficult it is to manage one-handed. I can’t believe the good luck that brought you our way. Raefe will be so delighted when he gets home—which should be any day now.’
Francesca hid a grimace. The floods had subsided, and although Bramble had been cut off for several days they hadn’t received nearly the inundation that had affected areas further north. The same inundation that had kept Raefe Stevensen from home as Banyo Air was heavily involved not only in moving people about to escape the waters but also in mustering halfdrowned stock. All of which couldn’t have suited her plans better.
But Judgement Day had to come, and, while her resolve stood firm concerning the man, his family was becoming another matter.
She glanced across to where young Jess Stevensen was doing a jigsaw puzzle, with the tip of her little pink tongue sticking out as she concentrated fiercely. She was a fair, serious child, and at first she’d shown an almost adult reserve that had puzzled Francesca slightly. But the reserve was lessening day by day— in fact she was beginning to show flashes of sweetness and affection that were quite beguiling.
Then there was Sarah, thin and elegant, with her brother’s eyes, although darker hair, and a gold wedding ring on her finger but no sign or mention of a husband. Sarah, who’d also been reserved at the start, and had a hint of unexplained sadness about her—although she too had dropped her guard after a couple of days and shown that she possessed a delightful sense of humour as well as being cultured and artistic. She read avidly, painted lovely miniatures and
