him. Neither would dream of hurting the other. Everything simply got better as their wonderful relationship strengthened and deepened. Betrayal was never to be guessed at.
Until Megan Duffy.
Olivia sat very quietly on the plane resting her head against the cold oval of the window, staring out at the billowing white clouds and the great silver wing of the aircraft. The man beside her, thirtyish, attractive with snapping dark eyes had tried to start up a conversation but gradually got the message leaving her alone with her sad thoughts. She couldn’t escape them even in sleep.
Almost two hours later her plane had landed and she had collected her baggage loading it onto a trolley. Then she rang through to the house. To her surprise, no-one answered. She gave it five minutes, rang again. Same result. Grace didn’t come to the phone. She could be anywhere. It was a big house. There were a number of extensions but even then Grace might not have heard the phone ringing. She was sorry now she hadn’t rung Grace from Brisbane instead of leaving it until now. That was a mistake—Grace wouldn’t be expecting her for hours. She was probably making her old bedroom ready; or putting the homestead in top-top order. Many people would be attending Harry’s funeral. They would all want to come back to the house.
Harry’s funeral.
Olivia bit down hard on her lip. When she felt more composed she lifted her head. Outside the terminal building was the taxi rank. A taxi was pulling away. Five more were lined up. It was a long trip to Havilah. She might as well get started.
“Let me take that for you, Miss.” A porter appeared beside her taking charge of her laden trolley. “Are you being met or are you taking a taxi?”
“Taxi, thank you,” she smiled at him, grateful for his help.
They were driving up the avenue of towering palms. Cuban Royals. Twelve to each side like sentinels. From the moment she’d stepped onto the tarmac at the airport Olivia knew she was home. This was the tropics. North of Capricorn. Scent of flowers. Scent of salt. Scent of sea. Though the taxi was pleasantly air-conditioned she had wound down the window a little so she could feel the heat in her blood. Everywhere she looked was lush emerald green vegetation, vying with brilliant displays of colour. The great overhead curve of sky was a deep cobalt blue.
On the verge of the Wet the landscape was splendid. The golden cascara trees had broken out in bloom, as had the magnificent poincianas that adorned the grounds. Her eyes moved lovingly to the beautiful magnolias with their huge waxy flowers; the burnt orange cups of the tulip trees, the extraordinary displays of the ever present bougainvillea, the common purple, and the hybrids, gold, white, apricot, bronze, crimson, fuchsia, violet, pink. Bouganvillea was the plant for the tropics. It made an enormous impact. Towering, dazzling, drawing the butterflies as surely as the lantana.
“This is some place,” the driver commented, gazing from side to side in admiration. “First time I’ve ever brought anyone here. It’s a real experience. You’re a visitor, miss?”
“This is my home.”
“No kiddin’?” The driver was so surprised he almost brought the car to a stop. “I thought it belonged to Mr. Linfield?”
“I’m his niece. His great-niece.” Olivia was unable to bring herself to say Harry had died. The news would travel like wildfire anyway.
“Sounds about right,” the driver glanced over his shoulder at Olivia with bright, smiling eyes. “You and the house are of a piece.” Classy, he thought. A high-stepping thoroughbred. Super refined.
The taxi came to rest at the base of the broad flight of white marble steps that led up to the terrace. The driver attended to her luggage, placing it on the verandah, while Olivia stood in the brilliant sunshine staring up at the house. It was large. An imposing colonial mansion painted the classic white with midnight blue shutters she remembered as always having being green. The glossy dark blue looked good she considered. It made a nice change. The colonnaded two storey central section rose proudly, flanked by substantial one storey wings. The handsome white pillars of the central section were thickly woven by the same violet-blue trumpet vine of old with its shining dark green pinnate leaves. The leaves were almost as pretty as the prolific clusters of mauve flowers.
I’ve never been away, she thought. The myth of her being remote from her past life was exposed. Havilah had always been an enchanted place. The wonderful sense of peace was the same. It was Harry’s spirit presiding over the plantation. He had been a truly good man.
Olivia paid the driver adding a handsome tip. It had been a long trip but the driver had been pleasant and courteous, not bothering her with too much conversation. She waited a moment for the taxi to drive off, suddenly overcome by her grief.
No Harry to greet her. She was dimly aware of the heat of the sun on her bare head. She’d taken the precaution of wearing sunglasses to protect her eyes from the all pervading light. The air near the house smelled heavily of gardenias and frangipani. The extensive grounds appeared more beautiful to her than ever before, the great drifts of lawn perfectly manicured. It looked as though a team of gardeners was circling eight hours a day. Harry would have been very happy indeed at the way everything looked. She had never pressed him about business or staffing but it looked as though Harry had found himself a splendid overseer.
Go up, she told herself, move one foot after the other. This is your home. Your house now. These coming days— Harry’s funeral—a possible confrontation with Jason Corey—had to be got through. Her silk blouse was sticking faintly to her back in the heat. It occurred to her as it had so often in the past, the perfumed heat of the tropics was not only sensual but sexual. Unbidden came the memory of indigo nights on the beach with Jason. The call of the sea. The way the white sand always found its way onto the rug. The grooves their bodies made. His mouth on hers. His hand on her naked breast, her body stirring beneath his every touch.
The passion that had bloomed out of them! Was it the flush of youth? She had never experienced anything remotely approaching it ever since. The murmured endearments that had welled from their mouths, then rendered wordless when desire mounted so high it stopped all ability to speak. Her blood still carried the memory deep within its cells. She would never be free of it. Passion. Doomed or not, it had been hers for a little while.
Heart burning Olivia walked up the flight of steps to the shade of the lofty terrace. No one was around. She couldn’t quite understand why. There was movement in the grounds though she couldn’t see through the thick screening of shade trees to the lower levels and the secret garden rooms she had once so loved. She knew Grace would have been left near helpless by Harry’s death. Grace had worshipped Harry. She had been in his employ for close on thirty years and Harry had been the best employer in the world.
Olivia moved into the silent entrance hall where the white marble flooring continued. Everything reminded her of her loss especially the rich scent of the glorious crimson roses that drifted to her from the crystal bowl atop a console. Roses had been Harry’s favourite flower. Despite the difficulties of keeping them pest free in the tropics Havilah’s rose gardens flourished.
“Grace?” she called, remembering Grace was at retirement age and could even be a touch deaf.
She lifted her eyes to the upstairs gallery that gave off the graceful central staircase. She fully expected Grace to appear and was troubled when she didn’t. The entrance hall was as beautiful as ever, the perfect setting for the works of art that adorned the high walls above the double archways that led on the right to the formal drawing room, on the left to the library. Light was streaming into both rooms through the soaring French doors. Olivia didn’t bother calling again. She decided to go in search of Grace. Very
