one could choose their parents, Bronte thought. Not that she didn’t cling to her love for her dead father. It ran like a river deep inside her. Her father couldn’t possibly have meant to end his own life as was rumoured. In doing so he would have left her, a defenceless little seven-year-old. Surely he would have thought of that? Ross McAllister, her dad. She just knew God was going to let her see her father again. She’d always been too sick at heart to allow herself to dwell on her mother’s relationship with Carl Brandt before their hasty marriage. Who in their right mind would want Carl Brandt for a lover let alone a husband?
Bronte threw back the single sheet, releasing yet another waft of delicious fragrance. Gilly was so clever, she should have been a celebrated parfumer—was there such a word?—capturing wonderful fragrances. Or at least a chemist, a botanist, a scientist.
Bronte pulled the mosquito net out from under the mattress then slid her feet to the cool polished floor. She felt like galloping bareback around the plantation but Gilly had been forced to sell Gypsy, her spirited and mischievous chestnut mare, and Diablo, the tall baby gelding, who was no devil at all, but sweet and even tempered. Gilly had always said Bronte and Gypsy were a perfect match, as it had to be if horse and rider were going to enjoy themselves. It was because of Gilly she was such a good rider. This had pleased Nathan. He liked the fact she was so knowledgeable about horses, especially at polo matches which he couldn’t really understand. But then she didn’t want thoughts of Nathan Saunders to sour her day. He was out of her life. The wonder was he was ever in it. She wouldn’t have even crossed his path had she lived a normal life instead of being Carl Brandt’s stepdaughter.
Bronte snatched up her silk kimono from the elaborate carved chest at the end of the bed, then padded across the hallway to the old-fashioned bathroom to take a quick shower. In her childhood big green frogs took up residence in the bath from time to time. Gilly hadn’t minded frogs any more than she minded snakes but Bronte hadn’t been so keen. She’d wanted the bath to herself. This morning she let the shower run refreshingly cold. It was going to be another hot day but she would soon acclimatize. Back in her room she pulled on some underwear, stepped into a pair of white linen shorts and topped them off with a blue and white striped singlet with a nautical motif. She pulled a leather belt around her waist and tied her hair back in a thick pigtail. The lightest touch of foundation for its high SPF, a slick of lipstick, trainers on her feet.
There, she was ready. All her items of dress were expensive but she’d have been just as happy in the sort of gear she used to wear. She remembered how she’d hated to wear dresses to school. Hated even more the uniforms she’d had to wear at boarding school. Some of the girls—they were all from rich families—had tried to torment her. “You’re such a primitive!” was an early taunt, until they found out when aroused she had a pretty caustic tongue. Gilly had always insisted she had to be articulate so she could defend herself in a tough world. Later, because she couldn’t stop herself wanting to learn, her fellow students discovered she was clever. Actually she’d sailed through her years at boarding school the smartest in her class. It was with human relationships she was such a dismal failure.
The morning was spent tidying up the homestead. Despite Gilly’s best efforts to keep order—she wasn’t at all domesticated—controlled chaos reigned. Gilly had always had a problem throwing anything out. Afterwards they careened around the plantation at breakneck speed in Gilly’s faithful old ute. It was a trip that evoked muttered prayers and many a shrieked, “Slow down!” from Bronte, not that Gilly took the slightest notice. Gilly considered herself to be an excellent driver. If anyone needed any proof, in over fifty years of driving she had never had an accident. This was something Bronte pointed out had more to do with having the rural roads mostly to herself than good driving practices. Gilly wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in the city without being waved down by a disbelieving traffic cop.
Much of the two hundred acres had gone back to an incredibly verdant jungle.
“I can imagine gorillas would be very happy here,” Bronte remarked, her feet quite jumpy from all the braking she’d been doing from the passenger seat.
“Are you serious, love?” Gilly swerved madly to ask.
“Of course I’m not!” Bronte laughed. “Listen, what about letting me drive?”
“No way, ducky. I know all the potholes and ditches. You don’t.”
“You must know them. You haven’t missed one.”
Gilly ignored that. “Once around sixty or seventy hectares were under sugar. A magnificent sight. And the burn offs! Spectacular! Great leaping orange flames against the night sky, the smell of molasses. These days a lot of cane growers have adopted green cane harvesting. That allows the trash to fall to the ground as organic mulch. It reduces soil erosion but in areas of high rainfall like here that method can contribute to water logging the fields. I miss all the drama of the old days.”
“Well, the kangaroos and the emus love it,” Bronte said, gazing out at a stretch of open savannah where the wild life was exhibiting mild curiosity at their noisy presence but mostly going on their serene way.
“You’re not really nervous, are you, Bronte?” Gilly had the grace to ask. “I can see your foot moving from time to time.”
“Pure reflex.” Bronte tossed back her plait.
“You’ll come to no harm with me,” Gilly said jovially, demonstrating her skills by ruthlessly sorting out the gears. “This is our world, Bronte.”
“Our lost world,” Bronte smiled. “I’d love to have seen Oriole in its prime.”
“Its prime could come again,” Gilly’s face wore an enigmatic smile. “World sugar prices peaked in the mid-seventies not all that long before you were born. I remember the Duke of Edinburgh—so handsome he was—attending a ceremony in Mackay in 1982 to mark twenty-five years of bulk handling. We led the world in the mechanical cultivation and handling of the crop. Oriole was right at the top in the 1970s, and it was a tropical Shangri-la years back when I was a girl. We lived like royalty in our own kingdom. Then came the war. You know the rest. McAllisters were among the first to enlist. Four of them. My father and his three brothers. Uncle Sholto was the only one to make it home. Such losses tore a great hole in our family.”
“They would have,” Bronte answered soberly, thinking how tragic it must have been for bereaved families all over the world.
“Uncle Sholto tried to do his best for us but he’d been badly wounded and suffered a lot of pain for the rest of his life. My brother, your grandfather, was so young when he took over. When we lost him in 1979 it was the end for Oriole. Your father had always wanted a different life. He was clever and ambitious, making his mark as an architect. I often think if he’d stayed at home he’d still be alive today.”
Bronte’s heart lurched. “Oh, Gilly, why do you say that?”
“Sorry, love, maybe I shouldn’t be saying it. I don’t want to hurt you but I’ll never forgive Miranda for what she did to my nephew.”
“What did she do?” Bronte asked quietly.
“She destroyed him.”
Bronte sucked in her breath. “You truly believe that?”
“No escaping the facts, lovey.” Sadly Gilly shook her head. “Miranda tried to pass off young Max as premature but you and I know differently. Not that I believe for a moment Ross threw away his life, he loved you far too much. It was an accident, tortured minds become careless. Your father never meant to leave you.”
“My
